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indigently) wrote2023-01-23 02:27 pm
indigently) wrote2023-01-23 02:27 pm𝒪𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓉 🏛️
OPEN POST
action • text • canon • cross-canon • assumed cr
indigently) wrote2023-01-23 02:27 pm
no subject
alhaitham recalls a thought. kaveh, amongst the carved statues of masters lining the walls of the kshahrewar hall, each marbled body forever suspended in the dance of ordinary existence. alhaitham remembers thinking thus: that kaveh seems as if one with the petrified storytellers in eternal narration, that their bodies, carefully sanded of blemish and fault is that of the light that surrounds the heart of the kshahrewar. that looking at the display, one forgets that stone, too, can be shattered.
kintsugi. an artform from inazuma that involves shattering a piece of pottery, and then slowly, painstakingly piecing it back together. the fragmented pathways are filled in with gold. one forgets that the singular act of creation is a traumatic one. ]
Putting aside all reason and logic, if these choices you've made were the right ones to make, why do you sit and allow them to haunt you? [ alhaitham carefully brushes the flaxen aureate strands from kaveh's back. he pulls the bandaging just a little tighter. arrogant, and willful, and illogical - but kaveh. it has always been kaveh. the quiet of his voice seeps into the hush. ] Why is your head bent like some criminal, burdened and guilted by the presence of your own shadow?
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Of course, if he knew the other's thoughts had wandered to the topic of kintsugi, of all things, he'd be beyond surprised. Not least because he wouldn't have expected such a beautiful form of art to be present at all in his roommate's cognition, let alone at its forefront. Not most because more than twenty years later, Kaveh is so busy picking up the pieces of himself that he has not once stopped to consider how the gold has shaped and changed him, poured between his fragments as it has been over the years, both by himself and by others.
At the very least, in Alhaitham's eyes, the delicate gold threads that hold him together seem to be not something of beauty— but something to criticize. Kaveh sighs as fingers brush his hair aside, winces at the tighter pull on the bandaging, willfully lifts his head in response to the questioning.
But of course he doesn't understand it. Why would he, when he never has before now?
A diadem on the rainforest floor— ]
What I'm feeling right now has nothing to do with my actions. This isn't guilt— [ an addendum: ] not about breaking the diadem, at least. I made my choice for a reason. I'll stick by it. But...
[ But it all comes back to that one same thing: his father's smile as he walked out the door, the last one Kaveh ever remembers him wearing, a laugh and a promise on his lips. He would return victorious, and Kaveh would be king for a day. A promise swallowed in the end by a pit of sand.
—a smirk on the fading lips of a long-dead ghost. ]
I want to blame him. [ His voice is hoarse, his hand lifting to cover a mouth whose lips can't seem to stop trembling. ] But I can't. No matter what happened in the middle, it still started with me.
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the gauze continues. alhaitham's fingers continue. the final slip of gauze is tucked in. the medical tape seals the loop. alhaitham's hands clinical run over the white of the bandaging. he feels for gaps and looseness of gauze, and then, deeming his handiwork adequate, reaches around kaveh for bandaids. it takes him a moment to speak. when he does, it's with the deliberation of a man feeling the shape of words upon his tongue, phoneme by phoneme, as thought is etched into sound, sound takes on form and form becomes meaning. ]
I did not tell you what I did so that you can pass on your blame. [ alhaitham states this with the quiet conviction of a man who knows the sun and the stars and the measure of a man who has been compared, at some point in time or another, to both. ] No evidence in the world will shift the path chosen by your heart. We have argued for years. Every permutation of that argument has passed between us, through you. Little enough will convince you to do so. This, I have learned. It has little to do with who is right, or wrong. It has everything to do with who you are.
[ his words are punctuated by the crinkle of paper. the bandaid is carefully smoothed over a middling scratch along kaveh's side. the next finds its way to a minute cut on his arm. ]
If even I did not expect so, what gave you the expectation that you could? You blame yourself for being unable to blame him. [ a weary, ironic beat. ] I blame you for having me voice the absurd.
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Not because he's unfair, but because he sees. Impassive coppered emerald gems watch every step Kaveh takes in this world and see through the masks he wears, perceive without effort through walls he's so careful to place between himself and the others in his life. And then lips curve in a hint of an ironic smile, reading all those things and more like a laundry list of Kaveh's faults, those things that are true but shoved between the spaces of his world in the hope no one will see.
Alhaitham always sees, and Kaveh hates it— because it reminds him of how he hates himself.
He swallows the guilt— he tries— and closes his eyes against the feeling of the other man papering over his wounds, doing physically what neither of them can hope to do emotionally. It has everything to do with who Kaveh is, Alhaitham says, and to that end the blonde finds himself wondering: if not for his peace of mind, then— ]
Then why tell me? [ he asks, and his teeth chew absently at a fingernail, ruining further the well-defined shapes in which he usually takes pride, though dented and broken from the physical work of the last few days. ] You can't lie to me, Alhaitham— you took on extra work for this, this opportunity to research Sachin's involvement in everything—
[ Thank you, he wants to say, but he doesn't. ]
—but if you knew before telling me that it would not change things, why tell me at all? Did you hope against your better judgement that I'd finally see the light somehow? [ There's a bitter, nearly sarcastic tone to his voice as he laughs. ] Or is it merely that you believe that, as a citizen of Sumeru, such knowledge is owed to me?
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the gauze rests. another bandaid finds its way against the curve of kaveh's neck where a shard of the diadem's ricochet has caught it. alhaitham's fingers are slow and sure. ]
For you to preface your statements like so implies that I have lied to you in the past. But Kaveh, when have ever I lied to you in ways that matter?
[ a mirror is a reflection of what one allows themselves to show. alhaitham, who has always looked to the mirror of kaveh's existence, knows - that perhaps, fundamentally, alhaitham does not know how. not when it comes to kaveh.
the nail file is an addition to alhaitham's pouch that he has never really used for himself. he slips it out from its case. his hand reaches around kaveh, gently, to take his wrist between his fingers. alhaitham's weight leans forward and settles against the slope of kaveh's back. his chin hooks over kaveh's good shoulder. in the night, they are a creature of matching veins and arteries, shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, bone to bone.
alhaitham speaks, low. ]
My intentions were clear, and continue to be so. [ his fingers slide up to kaveh's, where he disentangles nail from teeth. alhaitham begins to file. ] Sachin's research interested me. Objectively speaking, the quality and genius behind his theorems and construction of studies are worth learning from regardless of the conclusions that he has drawn for them. My interest was drawn also based on the coincidence between Sachin's circumstances and the circumstances of your father's disappearance. It seemed to me that there was much to learn from knowing the truth.
[ a second finger. the leveling of the file. alhaitham continues: ] Out of ignorance and a misplaced sense of guilt, you had no choice but to blame yourself. You cannot make choices if you do not know. I gave you the information so that you can now choose, knowingly, what you wish to believe, and what you wish to do with it.
[ the third, alhaitham carefully lifts to the wan glow from the stained glass of his window. the sliver of moonlight highlights a particularly nasty-looking jagged edge of a chewed nail. he presses the nail file to it. alhaitham's voice does not waver. ]
Just as you ask me of my thoughts, so do I ask you: Kaveh, do you regret having learned what you have?
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Or perhaps it's just wishful thinking, the hopeful reach of a man who desperately wants such actions to be taken out of care.
(Care like the last of the plasters laid onto his skin, slow and sure. Care like the chin hooking over his uninjured shoulder, bringing them together that coppered eyes might see him in the dim. Care like the fingers that pull his from his own teeth, smooth over their lengths to file away the jagged edges of Kaveh's fears.)
Care, perhaps, is wrong. What Kaveh wants is— ]
I don't regret it, no. [ His words are soft; they tremble in time with his heart and with his fears. He's barely managed to stop his tears, yet the gentle motion of Alhaitham's fingers working the file makes him want to start all over again. ] To the contrary, it— I know for sure now that I did the right thing today. With the diadem. [ And Kaveh sighs, because now they're talking in circles, and they still haven't met one another in the middle.
Perhaps they never will. ]
What do you want from me, Alhaitham? [ Kaveh's voice breaks over the words. The hand not being cared for reaches up to rub at his eyes, to pinch at the bridge of his nose as if it will stop the Archons-damned urge to sniffle, to flutter helpless in the air for a moment or two before a finger slips between his pouting lips to wreak havoc on its nail even as the scribe repairs the damage done to another.
He doesn't understand. Where Kaveh has never been outside of Alhaitham's reach, the architect feels as if the scribe is leagues away from his own. Alhaitham is always three to five moves ahead of everyone else, a master of the game calmly watching as others try to make sense of what he has done. Kaveh understands him better than anyone else— and yet he doesn't understand him, is left so often questioning or wondering or hoping—
Skin gives under the nip of his teeth, a bloom of red metal on his tongue. Kaveh winces, but says nothing. ]
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[ 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?
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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?
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it had always seemed to alhaitham that kaveh's problem is that he is not as kind as he wishes to be, but kinder than he thinks he is. he is also incapable of applying either traits to himself. it had been that way years ago, when kaveh, having stripped himself raw, had said to alhaitham this is what i need, when in reality he should have said this is what i want. therein lies the tragedy of it all, for in an universe where what was needed was said, alhaitham would have yielded. in no universe would have stood in the way of kaveh's singular pursuit for something his heart desired. but that universe never came to be, and so today cycles back along its tracks, to kaveh with his back to alhaitham, his fingers stained red with pomegranate, and alhaitham sitting there, watching, waiting.
kaveh, who cannot permit himself to want without guilt. alhaitham, who has never allowed him to need beyond reason.
tonight, alhaitham thinks- and says, into the brimming, waiting hush: ]
Is this what you want, Kaveh?
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His lips part. If the multiverse theory is true, the action is succeeded in nearly all of them by a shake of his head. A rejection of the suggestion. A "never mind, I'm fine". A downplaying. An (untrue) admission that it is a need and not a want, causing Alhaitham to reject him once more.
Kaveh does none of those things.
Perhaps it is the stinging pain of the juice in a shallow wound. Perhaps it is the aching tiredness of his bones and muscles and the sunburn marring his skin in red. Or perhaps it is the unceasing need to cry.
Perhaps the "why" doesn't matter.
What does is the way Kaveh's eyes close, long lashes soft against the burnt flush of his cheeks. The way another aril gives under his fingers, a barely audible pop of flesh between the digits. The way his head moves, nodding an affirmative rather than rejecting the question asked of him. ]
It is, [ he confirms— and for potentially being a multiversal anomaly, his voice is surprisingly steady, even as it remains broken from his tears. ] I'm sure it seems to you like a strange thing for me to ask of you, but— Yeah, it is.
[ And then, after barely a beat of silence, in true Kaveh fashion: ] If you don't want to, it's okay.
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Why would it be strange to ask it of me? [ alhaitham asks. ] It is merely you, and me.
[ it is merely midnights in alhaitham's much roomier akademiya dormitory after a grueling set of exams, two undergraduate men crammed face-to-face, chest-to-chest squeezed into a bed meant for one. it is merely long days side-by-side in the house of daena, heads bowed over ancient deshretian script and the foundations of sumeran desert housing structures, creating a blueprint that would change sumeru's understanding of that era forever. it is merely humid nights of passing a cheap bottle of wine between them back and forth, drinking each time from the lip as they debated idly the efficacy of self-determination all the way to the pigment mixing techniques of ancient liyuen craftsmen. it is merely, after all, kaveh and alhaitham. who could ever judge what passes between them save for them? who would dare?
in turn, alhaitham shifts. he wipes the seeds into a waiting dish, and passes over a towel so that they can wipe their hands. alhaitham's hand on kaveh's shoulder is warm and sure as he reaches behind him. the large bathrobe had been prepared ahead of time to replace kaveh's sweat-soaked shirt. he eases kaveh into it one arm at a time, before he motions for kaveh to get up. the divan is meant for two. it had always been so. alhaitham draws kaveh up with him onto it with a guiding arm around his waist. the cushions sink beneath their weight in tandem, alhaitham carving out just enough space in the curve of his body for kaveh to rest there against him, one silver spoon against one outlined in gold.
this is a household where there is always a book within reach. alhaitham flicks through one, and shifts just enough so that the shadow of it falls over kaveh's face, obscuring the silver slant of the moonlight. ]
Mind your elbows. I do not intend on rising later bruised like your back.
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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 eyes— In reality, maybe they never really stopped. ]
You should be proud of me, Alhaitham, [ he mumbles. ] I said what I wanted.
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this time, the smile makes it to the corner of his mouth, where it rests much in the way of water along a river's bend, liquid silver in its dance. alhaitham smiles, and if his lips were to skim the crown of kaveh's head - well, surely it is merely the trick of an obscure angle. ]
Was I unclear?
[ the question posed is rhetorical in nature. it refuses any alternative as alhaitham continues, in that self-same tone, punctuated only by the flip of a page from his book. ] You made a decision that those with lesser conviction could not have followed through on, a rarity in a day and age where idealism is merely spoken of rather than the foundation of a school of morality. I commended you for doing as you needed to do.
[ another page. the slide of paper against paper in the hush of the night. ] Tonight, you sat there and had pomegranate, and allowed your nails to be filed. You spoke a desire and allowed it to come to fruition. I commend you for doing as you wanted to do.
[ and then, because he is alhaitham: ] Though I see you still cannot bring yourself to open your mouth to tell me to put down my book. Perhaps this is the limit you've drawn for your desires.
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A hope that, occasionally, Alhaitham kindles by saying or doing just the right thing. Like now, as he praises once more Kaveh's willingness to follow through on his intent, and then for doing what he wanted. Like now, as he allows Kaveh to rest against him having just patched him up, letting the blonde breathe in the mingled scents of skin and cologne and antiseptic. The sound of the pages turning, one after another, punctuates his words.
An embarrassed heat rises to his cheeks as the younger man's words continue, accusing him of something he already knows to be true. As ever, he sees through the stone bricks of Kaveh's walls without even trying, and the blonde is forced to wonder if he can see further still, to thoughts Kaveh tries to hide even from himself.
(His heart aches.)
Of course, his response comes in the form of additional grumbling, a defense mechanism against his embarrassment. ]
If you're so sure that's what I want, put your book down, then.
[ Later, he'll allow himself to be surprised at how easily Alhaitham has gotten under his skin, steered him into saying the things he knows he wants to say. It will be unjustified, his surprise, but he will feel it anyway, hand in hand with the embarrassment and the guilt. ]
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is it possible to glean what someone wants before they themselves realise it? alhaitham thinks - through careful pacing of a well-worn corridor of logic are you able to arrive at conclusions that others have not. that is the basis of scientific discovery. the problem at hand, then, is ethical in nature. can you attribute a want to someone before they realise it? and is it their want if they cannot claim it, or is it merely a well-meaning omen? tonight, moonlight slants through kaveh's hair. he rests his cheek against alhaitham's weight, and is warm for it. alhaitham thinks - the premise was made without taking into consideration that this is kaveh, and this is alhaitham. in what universe would alhaitham not understand? in what universe can he afford to be blind?
and so the book slips onto the divan. alhaitham's hand lingers, then rests, upon the gold of kaveh's hair. ]
Pleased?
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The distinction may seem great, but in practice it hardly matters— whatever the reason, the result is the same. In the deep dark of Kaveh's sea, he clings to what he allows himself to have, and dreams of wants that guilt and shame keep him from seeking. The realization that Alhaitham is there, waiting with outstretched hands, is far from a conscious one; yet it offers a reason for a comfort as natural as his frustration.
He doesn't realize it, but tonight he's allowed himself to take those hands, at least for a moment.
Kaveh smiles, a soft hum of content on his lips as the other's hand rests against his hair. Is he pleased? Alhaitham asks, and he nods into the younger's shoulder. At some point, he'll have to get up again, do the dishes that he's promised he'll do before sleeping, but at least for now... ]
Very— [ he mumbles. And then, because thank you is still too hard: ] You smell nice.
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has it not always been thus? alhaitham and kaveh.
tonight, alhaitham's hold on kaveh shifts just so, one arm around the thin cross of his waist and the other winding its way to the back of kaveh's neck. alhaitham's fingers are sure as he finds the gnarls of muscle there just where shoulder meets nape. he presses his fingers into where it seems most tense, and begins to tease out the knots one by one. ]
Do I? [ alhaitham breathes out in the way of a sigh. the eddy seems nearly amused for it. ] It is merely the same soap I have used for years.
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[ The admission is grumbled more than anything, and it's definitely not the comeback Kaveh wants it to be; if anything, it opens him to further comment, reveals a weakness he would much prefer to keep concealed. But what else is he to say in the face of Alhaitham's amused retort? The scribe is, as ever, several steps ahead of him, leaving him to flounder in his wake for an answer— for anything that might allow him to continue forth in the same way he always has.
But tonight, aching and tired, every ministration has stolen a layer of armor from his heart; every gentleness has sparked a flame long kept smoldering only as embers. Tonight, it is too easy for him to cave to the ardor he so carefully avoids in any other moments, to buy into a fantasy he normally forbids himself to entertain.
He should sleep, lest he endanger his heart—
But he is interrupted even in thought by fingers at the back of his neck, pressing into the skin in such a way that the knots of tension begin to unwind. A contented groan surfaces on his lips before he can stop it, long-drawn and graveled into the other's skin. ]
Oh, that's good— [ he mumbles, and later he'll be mortified at how he sounds, strung-out with pleasure, a near-wantonness in his voice that will color his cheeks a horrified red. ] Don't stop that.
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the sound becomes him, though alhaitham does not say so.
instead, his grip on kaveh has nary a shift. the press of his hands continue, stolid and patient - ]
So you concede. [ and, perhaps, just a little bit smug. ] That your posture over your drafts is horrendous, and would have even a shrimp feel visible pain should they behold it.
[ because that is, in fact, the argument he's going to drag up over this. ]
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The sound is followed by another, and still one more, a litany of sounds in varying volumes and tones sung into the scribe's skin in tune with the loosening knots, the relaxation of muscles he didn't know were even tensed. ]
I do not, [ is the answer given between those sounds, an argument returned with the single shred of awareness he has available to him. Gone though is the usual haughtiness in his response, replaced with a drowsy contentedness that takes all the bite from his words. ] This has— mm— nothing to do with any of that.
[ It's far from a good argument, but it's all Kaveh has available to him right at this moment. ]
Archons... how did you get so good at this?
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and perhaps a little obscene. though, alhaitham thinks, that is an observation to make for a different moment in time, within a different context. kaveh is molded beneath alhaitham's fingers; alhaitham considers masters of clay and stone. the act of creation has never been this easy, though it is likely equally worthwhile. ]
I took a few Amurta courses on human anatomy. The diagrams are simple enough to follow. [ the next knot, alhaitham finds purchase with a knuckle he worries away at it with just the bone-jut edge of his finger, slowly tracing a line to the nape of kaveh's neck, then up, where ear meets hair. ] Though it is my position that it has less to do with my skill, and more to do with the sorry state of your shoulders.
[ in that self-same tone: ] Don't wriggle. You will hurt yourself.
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But that is later. Right now, he is every part the spoiled cat Alhaitham imagines him to be, humming in response to the admonishment, sighing in answer to the finger tracing up the nape of his neck and to his hairline. Sense and self-preservation have departed in favor of comfort. His own arms stretch and circle, fingers flexing like paws in search of something to which he can anchor himself.
One hand finds Alhaitham's waist. The other, his chest.
If Kaveh were truly feline, he would purr in his content. Instead, he hums his acquiescence, refraining for now from any wriggling or further movement. It is this easy, it seems, to depower his brain, to move him from overthinking every last thing to thinking about nothing at all.
At the very least, this he realizes, and he chuckles, the sound husky with content and torpor. ]
I think my brain has gone to mush, [ he mumbles. ] If I'm permanently broken, it's your fault.
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kaveh claims that his brain has turned to mush. if alhaitham asks, kaveh could likely calculate the exact chances of structure failure of any two composite materials that alhaitham names down to five decimal places. instead, alhaitham's free hand skims the long line of kaveh's back. kaveh's contentment is a warm thing. it seeps in with you, that sort of warmth. there had been a time where alhaitham's three divans had been the de-facto landing space for veritable towers of books, a household that was designed for books to exist with a little bit of space left over for people. kaveh fills the space with sound; the house has changed for it.
alhaitham thinks - ]
If this is all it took to break you, [ is what he says, ] you would not have made it this far.
[ and then, because kaveh is a warm weight of a thing curled up against him, alhaitham digs his finger into the final knot. he holds it there as he leans in, alhaitham's lips ghosting the shell of kaveh's ears: ] In any case, the noises you make are your own. Take care to keep your voice down, unless you would like the neighbour to have the wrong idea.
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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. ]
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it is not unexpected. alhaitham is not disappointed. disappointment means having expectations. it means having a preconceived notion for the way events play out based on uncertain prediction. nothing about kaveh is easy to predict, but nothing about him is uncertain. kaveh had looked at the members of the research project, and reached out with both hands for an understanding that wasn't there. kaveh had been the one to hear his soul rendered bare and to turn away from it. kaveh had been the one to leave. you use reality for the basis of your predictions. you can use nothing else.
the chasm between want, and need.
in turn, alhaitham looks. kaveh pushes himself up from alhaitham's chest. in the moment, the third person in the room casts their shadow. but the third person in the room had always been there. it is a misnomer to think that the night is but one congruent darkness. individual shadows take form beneath a roaming mind; it is kinder to choose the now, rather than later.
alhaitham's hand rests along the nape of kaveh's neck. phonemes and phonetics form sound and meaning. alhaitham says his name: ]
Kaveh.
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