[ It is without a word that the scribe stands, walks, and for the barest of moments the old fear lines the bottom of Kaveh's gut. A question on his lips he dare not speak, trembling there in spite of the knowledge sitting yet deeper: he will not leave. Alhaitham is a constant, a fixed point in the jumbled messes of his life. He is the pull to Kaveh's push, the black to his white, the logic to his emotion. He drives Kaveh crazy. The feeling is mutual. But he will not leave.
Kaveh's heart almost believes the truth that his gut already knows, but he finds himself holding his breath, hands sitting and twisting in his lap, smudging the blood from a jagged nail into the skin. This he does until Alhaitham returns, cracking a pomegranate open between his hands and holding one half out for him before he sits down to resume his work. The juice stains Kaveh's fingers anew as an aril pops under one too-forceful press, the sting causing a grimace as scarlet liquid joins that which beads at the site of a distracted bite.
The next aril goes between his lips, the sharp sweetness spilling onto his tongue as his eyes close. Another is quick to follow; despite the earlier dinner sitting filling in his stomach, he feels empty and raw.
Alhaitham's reply comes as a monologue, a soft-spoken series of words that flow like water into his ears. Kaveh listens, and he breathes; for as much as he likes to complain to others over the scribe's endless source of phrases, in this moment they serve as a comfort, a reminder that he is home and not lost in some nightmare that began with his father and continued with a shattered diadem. He begins a mental checklist— one that he will no doubt forget in part later on, but that serves as an answer and a distraction both, something to cling to in the sea of feelings and fears.
The whole while, the scribe files away the damage Kaveh's anxiety has done.
New inkwells, Alhaitham says. Kaveh thinks distantly that he already agreed to that. Saffron and rice, he says, and the blonde's nose wrinkles at the thought of dragging home the heavier bags. Dishes — tonight, is his insistence, and Kaveh's hurting muscles groan in silent protest; he does not complain, though, only blows the small brown-red seeds into the other's palm. After all that Alhaitham is doing for him in this very moment, cleaning up the dishes is the very least he can do, regardless of the ache in his bones.
Perhaps he can convince Alhaitham to read to him as he does it; the art of poetry seems to his ears to be a much nicer distraction for his mind, the soothing gentle of the scribe's voice a balm for his hurts.
But what does Kaveh want for himself? The blonde's eyes open once more, brows creasing over the crimson of his gaze, matching now as it does with the stain of his lips. There are many things he wants, none of which he dares to ask, or believes even that anyone can give him. But what wouldn't he give for a single, dreamless night of sleep— a smile long gone— the warmth of an embrace?
Kaveh won a championship; why is someone considered "victor" left feeling so afraid? ]
I'll do the dishes tonight. [ His voice is still raw. He hates it. ] I'll listen to the poetry. I'll buy the rice and the saffron and the inkwells tomorrow. [ But right now— ] Will you hold me for a while first?
no subject
Kaveh's heart almost believes the truth that his gut already knows, but he finds himself holding his breath, hands sitting and twisting in his lap, smudging the blood from a jagged nail into the skin. This he does until Alhaitham returns, cracking a pomegranate open between his hands and holding one half out for him before he sits down to resume his work. The juice stains Kaveh's fingers anew as an aril pops under one too-forceful press, the sting causing a grimace as scarlet liquid joins that which beads at the site of a distracted bite.
The next aril goes between his lips, the sharp sweetness spilling onto his tongue as his eyes close. Another is quick to follow; despite the earlier dinner sitting filling in his stomach, he feels empty and raw.
Alhaitham's reply comes as a monologue, a soft-spoken series of words that flow like water into his ears. Kaveh listens, and he breathes; for as much as he likes to complain to others over the scribe's endless source of phrases, in this moment they serve as a comfort, a reminder that he is home and not lost in some nightmare that began with his father and continued with a shattered diadem. He begins a mental checklist— one that he will no doubt forget in part later on, but that serves as an answer and a distraction both, something to cling to in the sea of feelings and fears.
The whole while, the scribe files away the damage Kaveh's anxiety has done.
New inkwells, Alhaitham says. Kaveh thinks distantly that he already agreed to that. Saffron and rice, he says, and the blonde's nose wrinkles at the thought of dragging home the heavier bags. Dishes — tonight, is his insistence, and Kaveh's hurting muscles groan in silent protest; he does not complain, though, only blows the small brown-red seeds into the other's palm. After all that Alhaitham is doing for him in this very moment, cleaning up the dishes is the very least he can do, regardless of the ache in his bones.
Perhaps he can convince Alhaitham to read to him as he does it; the art of poetry seems to his ears to be a much nicer distraction for his mind, the soothing gentle of the scribe's voice a balm for his hurts.
But what does Kaveh want for himself? The blonde's eyes open once more, brows creasing over the crimson of his gaze, matching now as it does with the stain of his lips. There are many things he wants, none of which he dares to ask, or believes even that anyone can give him. But what wouldn't he give for a single, dreamless night of sleep— a smile long gone— the warmth of an embrace?
Kaveh won a championship; why is someone considered "victor" left feeling so afraid? ]
I'll do the dishes tonight. [ His voice is still raw. He hates it. ] I'll listen to the poetry. I'll buy the rice and the saffron and the inkwells tomorrow. [ But right now— ] Will you hold me for a while first?