[ "It is merely you, and me," Alhaitham says, and Kaveh knows without asking what that means, knows that the scribe holds all those moments together in his mind as if they were one, builds an understanding from them the same way the architect builds physical structures. Alhaitham, who for better or for worse, catalogs and accepts every event between them as a part of the jigsaw that makes up the two of them as a single unit. He's so different to Kaveh, who takes awkwardness from their debates and ascribes it to their future interactions, who allows himself personal offence over statements never meant to offend, whose jigsaw is full of holes because he takes the bad and tries to hide it, tells himself that those moments have ruined what they used to have.
The act of asking is the same as taking one of those hidden pieces and considering it in its place.
He's relieved, then, when Alhaitham makes no issue of it, just hands him a towel to wipe his hands before helping him into a the comfort of a bathrobe, white and scented like the scribe himself, then instructs him to move so that he may draw Kaveh against him, reaching for a book as the blonde makes himself comfortable.
(There's always a book.)
If Kaveh hadn't already asked for so much, he might demand Alhaitham put the book down and actually just hold him. Both arms around his waist where one anchors him now. Lips in his hair, the soothing rumble of his voice against Kaveh's scalp. Instead, he grumbles, lying against the other man, his head eventually settling against Alhaitham's shoulder. ]
I always mind my elbows, you jerk.
[ "Always," Kaveh says, as if this is something they've done recently when they both know that's not true, when the blonde's pride has kept any such intimacy from them since that one horrific falling-out, when that same pride has kept Kaveh from seeking any such intimacy from anyone. For as much as he might hate how Alhaitham sees so readily through him, there's a comfort in it he can find with no other, an understanding he can't get anywhere else.
Fresh tears well in his eyesβ In reality, maybe they never really stopped. ]
You should be proud of me, Alhaitham, [ he mumbles. ] I said what I wanted.
no subject
The act of asking is the same as taking one of those hidden pieces and considering it in its place.
He's relieved, then, when Alhaitham makes no issue of it, just hands him a towel to wipe his hands before helping him into a the comfort of a bathrobe, white and scented like the scribe himself, then instructs him to move so that he may draw Kaveh against him, reaching for a book as the blonde makes himself comfortable.
(There's always a book.)
If Kaveh hadn't already asked for so much, he might demand Alhaitham put the book down and actually just hold him. Both arms around his waist where one anchors him now. Lips in his hair, the soothing rumble of his voice against Kaveh's scalp. Instead, he grumbles, lying against the other man, his head eventually settling against Alhaitham's shoulder. ]
I always mind my elbows, you jerk.
[ "Always," Kaveh says, as if this is something they've done recently when they both know that's not true, when the blonde's pride has kept any such intimacy from them since that one horrific falling-out, when that same pride has kept Kaveh from seeking any such intimacy from anyone. For as much as he might hate how Alhaitham sees so readily through him, there's a comfort in it he can find with no other, an understanding he can't get anywhere else.
Fresh tears well in his eyesβ In reality, maybe they never really stopped. ]
You should be proud of me, Alhaitham, [ he mumbles. ] I said what I wanted.