[ kaveh's voice breaks like a fault. alhaitham sits there as kaveh goes through all five stages of grief in a single heartbeat. he has, he thinks, made suffering into an artform, agony in motion performed for a single, intimate audience of one. the observation is made with the full knowledge that kaveh's grief is not imagined. it is simply that parts of what kaveh is and what kaveh wants to be had begun to fuse sometime during their akademiya years, and alhaitham has been watching that slow collision of worlds the way seismologists watch the incremental collide of two tectonic plates. kaveh cannot express himself without motion. it is impossible. kaveh trembles like something left out in the rain. it is an imprecise analogy to make. kaveh has never been so delicate. he is both the light of the kshahrewar and the lion of it, and in this moment, he is more lion than light, a curled up, cornered creature brimming with claw and teeth. especially in guilt and grief, kaveh knows to go for the throat, even if it is his own.
what does alhaitham want from kaveh.
alhaitham unspools from where he had anchored himself along kaveh's shoulder. he leaves him there to pad across the room. alhaitham wends through the animal path carved out between divans and piles of books to the kitchen. kaveh keeps whatever fruits that are in season stocked neatly in nets hanging in the kitchen. alhaitham needs only memory to guide him to the one hanging by the sink. he pulls out a pomegranate.
in truth, alhaitham is not partial to the fruit itself. it's too much work for too little gain. the fruit itself tends to be sharp; the seeds even more so. but the aunties in the market always slip one or two into their baskets during shopping trips, and alhaitham makes certain to keep one in the house for times like these whenever they are in season. alhaitham returns to slip himself behind kaveh once more. he cracks the pomegranate in half with his bare hands. one half he sets down next to him on the divan; the other, waxy and gleaming, he gestures for kaveh to hold out his bitten hand. ]
Right now, I want you to pick apart the pomegranate if you have to bother your hands with something to do.
[ alhaitham slots his chin back over kaveh's shoulder. he breathes out in the way of a sigh. ]
Tomorrow, I want from you your assurance that you will buy new inkwells. [ alhaitham picks up the nail file again. he takes the hand kaveh isn't using to hold the pomegranate back into his own. he continues to file, as if his absence had only been a punctuation mark in a long, meandering sentence. alhaitham continues, his voice low: ] The saffron needs refilling, and the rice runs dry. I want from you the knowledge that you will buy rice in a larger portion than the smaller bags that they have on sale, as we run out of rice too quickly, even if it is more troublesome for you to carry. [ index, middle, fourth, pinky, thumb. alhaitham holds kaveh's hand away from the pomegranate to blow the nail dust away. then, he motions for kaveh to switch hands, and then holds out his own so kaveh can spit out pomegranate seeds if he chose to consume some. ] I want from you the promise that you will do the dishes that pile in the sink. It is your turn. I will not have them wait until tomorrow, when it will be my turn. I want from you the clarity of your thoughts when I read aloud the newest book of poetry from Mondstadt's publishing houses, to voice your opinion on couplets that will either be pleasing to the ear, as poetry from Mondstadt usually tends to be, or to be utterly laughable, which poetry from Mondstadt only sometimes is.
[ finally - finally, in the way of a long-foregone conclusion, alhaitham allows the silence to steep. his next words are measured, choosing rumination over censure. there is never that. never with kaveh. ]
Everything else is what you want for yourself. I turn the question back to you, Kaveh. What do you want for yourself?
no subject
[ kaveh's voice breaks like a fault. alhaitham sits there as kaveh goes through all five stages of grief in a single heartbeat. he has, he thinks, made suffering into an artform, agony in motion performed for a single, intimate audience of one. the observation is made with the full knowledge that kaveh's grief is not imagined. it is simply that parts of what kaveh is and what kaveh wants to be had begun to fuse sometime during their akademiya years, and alhaitham has been watching that slow collision of worlds the way seismologists watch the incremental collide of two tectonic plates. kaveh cannot express himself without motion. it is impossible. kaveh trembles like something left out in the rain. it is an imprecise analogy to make. kaveh has never been so delicate. he is both the light of the kshahrewar and the lion of it, and in this moment, he is more lion than light, a curled up, cornered creature brimming with claw and teeth. especially in guilt and grief, kaveh knows to go for the throat, even if it is his own.
what does alhaitham want from kaveh.
alhaitham unspools from where he had anchored himself along kaveh's shoulder. he leaves him there to pad across the room. alhaitham wends through the animal path carved out between divans and piles of books to the kitchen. kaveh keeps whatever fruits that are in season stocked neatly in nets hanging in the kitchen. alhaitham needs only memory to guide him to the one hanging by the sink. he pulls out a pomegranate.
in truth, alhaitham is not partial to the fruit itself. it's too much work for too little gain. the fruit itself tends to be sharp; the seeds even more so. but the aunties in the market always slip one or two into their baskets during shopping trips, and alhaitham makes certain to keep one in the house for times like these whenever they are in season. alhaitham returns to slip himself behind kaveh once more. he cracks the pomegranate in half with his bare hands. one half he sets down next to him on the divan; the other, waxy and gleaming, he gestures for kaveh to hold out his bitten hand. ]
Right now, I want you to pick apart the pomegranate if you have to bother your hands with something to do.
[ alhaitham slots his chin back over kaveh's shoulder. he breathes out in the way of a sigh. ]
Tomorrow, I want from you your assurance that you will buy new inkwells. [ alhaitham picks up the nail file again. he takes the hand kaveh isn't using to hold the pomegranate back into his own. he continues to file, as if his absence had only been a punctuation mark in a long, meandering sentence. alhaitham continues, his voice low: ] The saffron needs refilling, and the rice runs dry. I want from you the knowledge that you will buy rice in a larger portion than the smaller bags that they have on sale, as we run out of rice too quickly, even if it is more troublesome for you to carry. [ index, middle, fourth, pinky, thumb. alhaitham holds kaveh's hand away from the pomegranate to blow the nail dust away. then, he motions for kaveh to switch hands, and then holds out his own so kaveh can spit out pomegranate seeds if he chose to consume some. ] I want from you the promise that you will do the dishes that pile in the sink. It is your turn. I will not have them wait until tomorrow, when it will be my turn. I want from you the clarity of your thoughts when I read aloud the newest book of poetry from Mondstadt's publishing houses, to voice your opinion on couplets that will either be pleasing to the ear, as poetry from Mondstadt usually tends to be, or to be utterly laughable, which poetry from Mondstadt only sometimes is.
[ finally - finally, in the way of a long-foregone conclusion, alhaitham allows the silence to steep. his next words are measured, choosing rumination over censure. there is never that. never with kaveh. ]
Everything else is what you want for yourself. I turn the question back to you, Kaveh. What do you want for yourself?