[ If Alhaitham asked, Kaveh could calculate anything. He could find his brain again from amongst the nothingness that it has become and rebuild it the same way he would any structure, returning the ability he claims to have lost. If Alhaitham requested it of him, he could argue the significance of the connection between the form and function of a building, the necessity of contrast in design, the importance of the harmonic resonance between different elements of a build. He could even return to one of their old debates, retreading old ground and running in circles until they're both thoroughly exhausted with the other's point of view.
Such is the power of eased tension, of the fingers working to undo knots of stress and anxiety. Of the scent of soap and shampoo against his nose, and the soft, low-timbred voice murmuring in his ears. Kaveh sighs in content as that last tangle unwinds, his shoulders and neck feeling freer than they have in months.
Mm, perhaps Alhaitham is right after all, and the long nights hunched over a desk have done more damage than bitten-bloody lips and dozens of snapped pencils. His lips even part to say as much— because in this moment he could do anything, even admit his wrongs or thank the other man, if it meant more of this—
But he barely makes it past the first syllable before those lips ghost against his ear, the scribe's words bringing him back to himself with an abruptness that has those knots re-tightening in an instant, color flooding to his cheeks as the hand at Alhaitham's side flies to join that on his chest, a pressure on both to force separation, to push Kaveh out of the dreamlike state into which he's too easily allowed himself to slip.
For so long, he's wanted— needed— but he's always been so good at keeping the yearning at bay, telling himself again and again that there's too much between them for it to ever work, that they're too different, that Alhaitham is too good for him— he's been so good, and now in an instant of weakness he's allowed himself to cave, to believe—
His eyes close against the sudden sting. ]
I, uh— [ he clears his throat against the rising panic, and tries again ] —I should do the dishes. Right? Right. [ And his hands brace on Alhaitham's chest again to push himself free. If the other doesn't stop him, he'll flee to the kitchen. ]
no subject
Such is the power of eased tension, of the fingers working to undo knots of stress and anxiety. Of the scent of soap and shampoo against his nose, and the soft, low-timbred voice murmuring in his ears. Kaveh sighs in content as that last tangle unwinds, his shoulders and neck feeling freer than they have in months.
Mm, perhaps Alhaitham is right after all, and the long nights hunched over a desk have done more damage than bitten-bloody lips and dozens of snapped pencils. His lips even part to say as much— because in this moment he could do anything, even admit his wrongs or thank the other man, if it meant more of this—
But he barely makes it past the first syllable before those lips ghost against his ear, the scribe's words bringing him back to himself with an abruptness that has those knots re-tightening in an instant, color flooding to his cheeks as the hand at Alhaitham's side flies to join that on his chest, a pressure on both to force separation, to push Kaveh out of the dreamlike state into which he's too easily allowed himself to slip.
For so long, he's wanted— needed— but he's always been so good at keeping the yearning at bay, telling himself again and again that there's too much between them for it to ever work, that they're too different, that Alhaitham is too good for him— he's been so good, and now in an instant of weakness he's allowed himself to cave, to believe—
His eyes close against the sudden sting. ]
I, uh— [ he clears his throat against the rising panic, and tries again ] —I should do the dishes. Right? Right. [ And his hands brace on Alhaitham's chest again to push himself free. If the other doesn't stop him, he'll flee to the kitchen. ]