[ There's no denying that when Kaveh is sober again, he'll regret every word that he's spoken tonight— if he even remembers them— from the words he's yelled at Alhaitham just now, to the loud complaints he's made prior to the other's entry about his aggressively arrogant landlord and his insistence on sticking his nose into Kaveh's business.
(There were other complaints, too, grumbled into his cups between drinks, about the Akademiya scribe's unfair bodily proportions and the bronzed turquoise of his eyes, but those went mostly unheard— except of course by the bartender, who very much remains as "staying out of it" as he possibly can.)
For now, though, the architect regrets nothing, apart from perhaps the damage he's done to his shirt; his eyes drift to the wine-stained cuff as an agonized cry escapes his lips, and where Alhaitham had considered dumping the water over Kaveh's head, the blonde in his drunken wisdom takes the nearest cup and dumps it over his own arm, doing little of use and instead making an almighty mess on the top of the bar.
He blinks.
The bartender sighs. ]
SORRY. [ It's yelled, a red flush staining his cheeks— although who's to say if that's embarrassment or just the alcohol?— and Kaveh reaches for the nearest cloth he can think of to mop up the spill: Alhaitham's cape. The action pulls the garment right off his roommate's shoulder, and it's not exactly a substitute for a towel, and his drunk actions do little but spread the water around... but at least he's trying. He apologizes again as he works, not to the man whose outfit he's stolen but to the bartender.
It's a mess, he's a mess, but at least while he's focused on correcting the hell he's just made for himself, he can ignore the far worse hell of the question Alhaitham has asked him, because quite frankly, he doesn't want to answer that. ]
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(There were other complaints, too, grumbled into his cups between drinks, about the Akademiya scribe's unfair bodily proportions and the bronzed turquoise of his eyes, but those went mostly unheard— except of course by the bartender, who very much remains as "staying out of it" as he possibly can.)
For now, though, the architect regrets nothing, apart from perhaps the damage he's done to his shirt; his eyes drift to the wine-stained cuff as an agonized cry escapes his lips, and where Alhaitham had considered dumping the water over Kaveh's head, the blonde in his drunken wisdom takes the nearest cup and dumps it over his own arm, doing little of use and instead making an almighty mess on the top of the bar.
He blinks.
The bartender sighs. ]
SORRY. [ It's yelled, a red flush staining his cheeks— although who's to say if that's embarrassment or just the alcohol?— and Kaveh reaches for the nearest cloth he can think of to mop up the spill: Alhaitham's cape. The action pulls the garment right off his roommate's shoulder, and it's not exactly a substitute for a towel, and his drunk actions do little but spread the water around... but at least he's trying. He apologizes again as he works, not to the man whose outfit he's stolen but to the bartender.
It's a mess, he's a mess, but at least while he's focused on correcting the hell he's just made for himself, he can ignore the far worse hell of the question Alhaitham has asked him, because quite frankly, he doesn't want to answer that. ]