indigently | 𝒪𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓉 🏛️

𝒪𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓉 🏛️

OPEN POST

action • text • canon • cross-canon • assumed cr

[ For a long moment, he is silent— and so the hush, broken briefly by Alhaitham's words, continues. For Kaveh, there's an enormity to his request that is only exacerbated by Alhaitham's confirmation that it's what he wants. The natural response is one of hesitation as his mind works to prove the other man right, to guilt him in silence, to shame him for daring to ask for something more than simply what he needs.

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.

[ in all the possible permutations, of break-ups and falling-ins, of coming togethers and partings, of them being kaveh and alhaitham and then kaveh and alhaitham, two creatures made of the same sinew and bone, chest-to-chest, shoulder-to-shoulder, heart-to-heart, of a thousand unnamed and unvoiced marriages and divorces, as it were, only alhaitham is the position to understand just what that admission takes from kaveh. if you don't want to, kaveh says, carving out immediately the openings of an exit wound in its aftermath. alhaitham, who has never done anything he didn't want to do, merely looks. ]

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.

[ "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 eyes— In reality, maybe they never really stopped. ]

You should be proud of me, Alhaitham, [ he mumbles. ] I said what I wanted.

[ kaveh grumbles. in the slant of the moonlight, half-hidden by the shadow cast by his book, alhaitham smiles. it starts, as always, with the curve of his eyes, the gentle lines of which softens the contours of his cheeks, the line of his jaw.

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.

[ From where he is, Kaveh fails to see the slight smile curving Alhaitham's lips and eyes alike. When Alhaitham smiles, Kaveh rarely catches it. Such expressions are already rare; in such a way the blonde has convinced himself over the years that the other man simply doesn't smile. So too does he force himself to believe that the unmistakable feeling of lips against his crown is merely a trick borne of his combined tiredness and his unshakeable hope.

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. ]

[ if alhaitham is sure that's what kaveh wants, kaveh says. alhaitham thinks of the sea. one could obscure quite a bit beneath the waves. if you stood atop a cliff and threw away everything which plagues you into it, the murk of the churning waves makes short work of the weight you shed. but here is the thing - if a man throws away his sorrows into the sea, he is still left with the sea. kaveh drowns in it. kaveh does not so much hide his sorrows as he hides himself within them. and the sea is deep, and it is dark, and it becomes you.

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?

[ For a phrase that set off such thoughts in Alhaitham, in honesty Kaveh was speaking only in self-defense, pulling the truth closer toward him as if he can hide it in the face of eyes that see all. If it is true that he hides within the shield of his sorrows, then he in turn hides within him his desires— although at this point in his life, it's impossible to know for sure if he imprisons them, or if they imprison him.

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.

[ kaveh nods. the motion is that of spider's silk and mulberry petals. the flyaway hairs along kaveh's temple settle along the exposed length of alhaitham's neck. in the slant of the moonlight, the colour seems to dissolve into the spun embroidered floss of a weaver's canvas, a single portmanteau meant to last. alhaitham allows it, the settling of kaveh's weight as his breathing evens. the hum of kaveh's lips begin somewhere in the caverns of kaveh's chest and ends somewhere resonating between the ribcage of alhaitham's - and has that not always been the case? in a dialectic, the two of them persistently fail to achieve synthesis; perhaps once, one of them may have considered that to be flaw more than strength. but alhaitham has always seen it as thus: the stolid orbit of two binary stars, the perpetual moving of a racing benchmark, and above all else, a final end at the denouement of a long, winding road.

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.

Maybe you always smell nice.

[ 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.

[ i'll remember this, for when the next time you complain about the lack of variety in my soaps and shampoos, alhaitham nearly says. the thought comes fully-formed. it dies in his throat. alhaitham's fingers find purchase in a particularly difficult knot, and kaveh groans. the sound is torn from him in raw strips. it fills the room with a headiness that leaves its reverberations in minute marks. observe: the curve of alhaitham's brow as he digs his thumb in just so, so that he can leverage apart another knot of muscle there. the brimming heat of kaveh's skin is like that of a burning brand's. it is the heat of a little sun; it is the warmth of a curled cat.

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. ]

[ Of all the many configurations in which they have found themselves over the years, this one is new enough that Kaveh is left without any possible idea of how to handle it. Not that conscious thought is much of a concern at this juncture anyway; he feels like softened clay, practically melting into the warmth of Alhaitham's touch, allowing the other to position him as he sees fit.

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?

Edited 2023-07-08 13:59 (UTC)

[ kaveh melts. alhaitham looks. it reminds him, alhaitham thinks, a little of the gray-furred cat that their next-door neighbour raises as if it were her own child. the spoiled little gray thing was well-known in the neighbourhood for having the penchant for getting stuck up trees and down gullies and whatnot. it is a creature without a single shred of self-preservation. a riboshland tiger could look at it and wonder upon the downfall of its species. but the next-door neighbour adores it. the cat can often be found sunning itself along the invisible boundaries that divide their properties. on balmy nights, it will sit deign to sit in the lap of its owner as she rests in her chair on the patio, her hand moving ceaselessly across the long line of its pale body. kaveh is a little like that cat now: a little worn, a little melted, a little spoiled.

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.

[ All good tunes should be answered with song. As such, Kaveh is as vocal in content as he is in frustration. This is a fact true of him whether he is enjoying some particularly appetizing dish, or indulging in something carnal— or, apparently, in the feel of strong fingers unwinding stress from his neck. Any obscenity is accidental, to be agonized over later, to be examined and picked apart the way he picks everything apart, staring in mournful discomfort at the pieces as he asks himself what he could have done differently.

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.

[ kaveh settles his weight along alhaitham's chest. his touch exists simultaneously in two disparate states. the weight of it is tangible. the intent of it is insubstantial. within alhaitham along the surface of his heart is the pinprick sensation of melting ice. kaveh's hand skims along the line of alhaitham's waist like an unasked question. this is a test, although kaveh does not know it. this is a test for alhaitham, and to this very day, alhaitham does not know if he passes it or fails it. the determinate for its benchmark is the result wanted, but alhaitham is not certain of that, either. the lack of certainty does not bother him. it has been some time since being right or wrong has mattered to alhaitham. not in this, never in this, where the inherent expectation of a label merely attributes a definition to something for whom the word to describe it has yet to be invented.

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.

[ 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. ]

[ there is a common liyuen saying with an illustrative story behind it. once upon a time, a merchant boasted of the wares he sold. 'this is the spear that can pierce all shields!' he proclaims, 'and this is the shield that can block all spears!' a child looked at him, and asked 'what happens when your spear meets your shield?' the merchant had no answer. the saying, then, illustrates: two contradictory principles, unable to coexist in this world. in this scenario, kaveh is like a creature trapped in the sliver of distance between contradictions, a walking paradox yet to be resolved. he stills beneath alhaitham's hands. it is not the stillness of a watching creature; it is the stillness of a creature considering fight or flight.

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.

[ There is no need for Alhaitham to be disappointed; Kaveh is disappointed enough for the both of them. He was finally relaxing, finally starting to calm down, and now— Now, he is made of panic and embarrassment. For him to have lost himself to sensation so much that he might let fall all his defenses...

In the light of the moon as it filters through the window, his ruby eyes are wide as they stare down at Alhaitham. From where the scribe's hand sits at the nape of Kaveh's neck, he can likely feel his pulse dancing to the rhythm of anxiety. In counterpoint, the soft quick of his breath as he caves to his flight response; as he tries, because with a word, Alhaitham stops him in his tracks once more. Alhaitham says his name, and Kaveh falls momentarily silent, eyes fixed on his face.

A mistake, perhaps; like this, for the first time in this whole night, Kaveh can truly see Alhaitham.

In the moonlight, emerald eyes hold his with an expression as complex as it is indecipherable; without knowing what they are, he can see the thoughts behind them as the scribe works through them, one after another. Under the glow, the sharp jut of Alhaitham's jaw is sharper still, accentuated by the shadows that press against it like kisses against the skin. Those same shadows are guilty too of obscuring the pink of his mouth, masking an expression Kaveh usually understands until it is unreadable, until he can't decide if the other is smiling, or frowning, or laughing— ]

What? [ he asks, and his voice is sharp, edged like annoyance, the last line of defense he has left. ]

[ kaveh looks. alhaitham allows it. it had always seemed to alhaitham that kaveh's eyes were like droplets of blood upon pale cotton. they stood out stark. there are those who associate red with aggression, with temper and the joyous passion of creation and the deep malice of rage. kaveh is, in fact, all of these things. the gregariousness of his nature does very little to obscure the fierce bite of his countenance. but neither does it obscure the gentle bruise of his soul. kaveh's eyes carry sorrow. they carry awe. they carry the softness that easily bleeds. maybe that's why his eyes are so red - all that blood from his heart with nowhere to go, showing itself in the windows to his soul.

what kaveh sees, alhaitham thinks - perhaps the shadows of the night cannot unveil. the gentle slope of alhaitham's brows, the silver fall of his fringe, the stolid contours of his cheeks and the flat line of his lips. there is blood between kaveh's teeth as he asks, a blade poised to point both at others and at himself, slipped so quickly that alhaitham can feel its bite. but that is kaveh. there are those who have not yet realised, that when kaveh is cornered, he does not flee - he fights.

in turn, alhaitham looks. his hand slides from the nape of kaveh's neck up along the contour of his cheek. it cards itself through the freefall of kaveh's hair. unbound from his clips, kaveh's hair winds down his shoulders. alhaitham pushes it back from his face, and observes the fall of the flyaways there along his temple. there are dishes to wash, and a countertop to clean. alhaitham's clothes are still soaked in the heat of kaveh's body. the premise that alhaitham only ever shows the world exactly what he means to show is false, because it assumes that there is no difference between the rest of the world and kaveh. it comes out unbidden, a single sliver of something that settles in equal parts frustration and amusement, fondness and weariness, all wrapped away into the singular tuck of alhaitham's unimpressed lips. for a moment, alhaitham looks tired. ]

Make tea. [ is what alhaitham says.

the palm of his hand skims the crown of kaveh's head, before it falls away. ]

[ As always, Alhaitham is waiting with an answer for the blade Kaveh pulls in his own defense; this time, it comes in the form of a gentle hand over his cheek, brushing back loose strands of his hair. It comes in an expression that Kaveh catches on his face even in the dim of the moon's light, a brief twist of his lips

But what Alhaitham offers, when his lips part, is not an answer. It's not what Kaveh is so sure he wants to say— despite having no idea what that might actually be. "Make tea," he says, and his hand falls. Kaveh's disappointment is unmeasurable in the same way that his want is. He bites his lip, and he nods, and his forearms stretch once more, pushing him up. Away.

He stands. He manages to smile, even if his eyes don't quite meet the scribe's. ] Okay, [ he says. ] Come out when you're ready. [ He leaves the room. Normality is restored.

Only it's not; Kaveh makes it barely three steps out of the living room before he turns on his heel and stalks back in, eyes wide and searching as they lift back to Alhaitham's face. The questions of earlier are pressing in on his mind, insisting on answers he's forever been too afraid to seek; the questions spill now unbidden from his lips, whether from his emotional or physical exhaustion or perhaps a mix of both. ]

Why are you being so nice to me? You don't— you're built on reciprocity, you don't give if you can't get back. You'd let someone drown if you thought it was their fate to do so. You tell me I give too much of myself without expecting anything back, that I shouldn't seek to help those who can offer me nothing, but— but— [ he takes a breath, swallows against the lump in his throat. ] —But you let me live here. You cover my tab, you patch me up when I get hurt, you listen to me and look out for me and— and don't tell me you didn't involve yourself with the championship for my benefit, because I know you're downplaying it by focusing on your interest in his research!

[ His voice has sharpened again, pitched with anger and frustration coming so suddenly from somewhere Kaveh can't even place, fingers clenching into fists at his sides. His eyes are wet, but he doesn't look away. Instead, he asks once more the question he asked earlier, the same question that allowed Alhaitham so easily to fold him into his arms and comfort him in ways he has never deserved: ]

What do you want from me?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

𝒪𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓉 🏛️

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject