𝓢𝒌𝒆𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚: The entire page displays a rough design of lines and curves that resemble Fontanian architecture. There are question marks scribbled all around it, captioned in Kaveh’s handwriting: Is she doing alright? I should visit. The letter is concerning me.
His sketchbook lives inside a cabinet by his beside. Everything is meticulously placed and tidy in his room, predictable to a fault. The letter from his mother is also stashed away. His rent records, all things of importance along with all the reminders of his misery. It should be an ongoing joke just how heavy papers really are on a person.
He leaves his room and shuts the door behind him. The sun is setting outside, so he turns on all the lights in the living room so Alhaitham doesn’t get greeted by a pit of darkness, if he even comes home at all! He’s taking his sweet time tonight, he better not be enjoying himself at the tavern all on his own if he doesn’t want to witness Kaveh’s wrath. Even though, in all fairness, Kaveh already took the situation to heart, it’s not anything new. Kaveh knows he shouldn’t have given him the grace of waiting for him to grab dinner.
Still, it’s not like Alhaitham to completely forget plans, either.
Today feels like a jolt. A sudden ambush shatters Alhaitham's tranquility, and his senses are awakened with a shock.
Sumeru was not without its issues, and he did not need to become more aware of them upon becoming Acting Grand Sage. As a Scribe, he knew how many problems lay within and rest on the city's outskirts.
But now, after resigning from his position, those issues seep into the dark of his sleeve. The trek toward the solace of his home is longer than he had calculated despite the steady rhythm of his footsteps.
When he arrives, turning back to ensure the door is locked behind him, there’s no ‘I’m home,’ no announcement that he’s there. He’s sure Kaveh will find out eventually.
He's still unable to peacefully shut his eyes into the hours of night. It's rare that he sleeps an appropriate amount, and specially tonight. He tosses and turns in his bed, leaving his bedroom door creaked open just so he can hear Alhaitham come in through the front door.
He sits up immediately, watching the light from the hallway seep into his room. At least he's alone. Of course he's alone. It aches still, just how silent everything is between the two. Sleep is a fleeting phenomena now, and he can't stop thinking so he slips out from his bed. "Seriously? I had to get dinner by myself. In hindsight, I think it's better that way from now on. Where were you?"
He will forever be impressed with the energy with which Kaveh can get out of bed and start his day, no matter how much he has slept (or not slept). The architect will always remind him of a zephyr in the golden hues of a late afternoon, lifting flurries of dry leaves from where they had been resting in mischievous pirouettes. Beautiful to look at, but a hassle to those who had spent the day sweeping those leaves into a neat little pile.
With a measured breath, Alhaitham focuses on the most important part of what Kaveh says, light-headed as he is. "You're right, I should eat."
"I mean, yes, but are you serious? I waited for you, but it appears you really don't care when someone is trying to be nice to you," and maybe this is another more abstruse way of communicating the concern he had for those long hours. Archons only know where Alhaitham often disappears to and why. Every day that passes feels like the trench between them only widens and no matter how much Kaveh yells from one side, his voice never seems to reach Alhaitham.
"I left a plate of fruit on the table," he snaps while putting up hairpins in place. The morning dew wraps around the city, but it's still too early for anybody to shuffle outside of their homes.
Alhaitham's eyebrows arch, though his voice is far too softened from his full and eventful day (and night). "You're sure you just didn't want me to pay for the meal?"
For all his genius, maybe Alhaitham prioritizes his preference for teasing the other rather than reading the room and thanking Kaveh outright. As one of those hairpins falls on the floor, he leans in to pick it up between two fingers, pausing for half a second when he notices one red drop falling onto the floor, from the fingers darkened by his glove.
Hm, he needs to take care of that. He'll get to it, later, after he has eaten. Instead, the scribe picks the hairpin with his other hand, hands it over to the architect. "How gracious of you," he says airily as he heads to said and goes get a knife. That's… a thank you, right?
Alhaitham's rebuttals never cease to make Kaveh's veins pulse like live wires. The subtle way in which he snarks makes Kaveh drop one of his hairpins. Others really underestimate the grave amount of sass this man unleashes in private quarters, and the worst part is that Kaveh is highly susceptible to it. How do other people not realize his worst personality traits? Are they blind?
"That's not what I said," he takes the pin briskly and snaps it on his freshly made braid. Kaveh can work up force behind his actions, delicate as he may seem. If Alhaitham can't understand his words, then surely he will realize why he's upset through body language. "You always pay for me, why would last night have been any different? I, ugh, whatever. I'm leaving. I have a client to meet up with," safe to say that Alhaitham didn't translate the thank you well enough to seep into the ears of an aggravated Kaveh. He hopes to find lodging somewhere else tonight, too, but he leaves that part out.
He always aims to leave the house before the sun rises too high. He makes sure to grab his key this time out of pure spite.
This would have been fine, Alhaitham would have just allowed Kaveh to leave, eaten the fruit that his roommate so kindly left for him, and taken care of the gash hidden by the high hem of his glove. He knows enough to stitch himself up, while Kaveh did meet yet another client that would eventually take him out to dinner instead, and then, who knows.
Except, if he's been ambushed, out of all people, his spine coiled with unease—
"Wait," it's an order, not a request, as he turns on his heels and walks past Kaveh towards the door. He opens it slightly, peering through the opening, glad that it was so early in the day that the only sounds around them were the beginning of birdsong, the rustling of the wind through the leaves above them.
Alhaitham waits for a second, scanning everything he can. It's quiet, for now. Perhaps too quiet? A part of his mind considers paranoia, but another claims he's just covering all bases, all possibilities. He stands there blocking the way as he ponders what to do in this situation.
Edited (sure would love that my phone did not autocorrect my punctuation) 2023-05-14 18:45 (UTC)
There will always be factions of Eremites that aggressively target those they perceive as wealthy at their first convenience. Kaveh always uses pre-established roads set by Forest Rangers when he travels far. He can handle himself better than people give him credit for, at least when it comes to fungi or slimes. It's unfortunate that Kaveh has an inherent weakness when it comes to people.
Alhaitham is the first example of this. Kaveh could very well just brush past him, but he doesn't. "What now?" Kaveh stands behind him, muttering under his breath in case there's anybody near. This close, he notices traces of mud over Alhaitham's shoulder, like it had been wiped off at some point. Kaveh crosses his arms and lets his eyes roam. Maybe he wasn't in a private nook drowned in book pages after all.
"You're acting weird and you're going to make me be late for my meeting. Don't you have Scribe things to do? Speaking of, I'm waiting until you resign your position as Acting Grand Sage so I can submit some paperwork for future city planning. Some designs just feel outdated, but that's not something someone like you would understand," he sighs, "anyway, I really have to go." Ah, Kaveh, always so blissfully in his world.
Almost unheard of. At least Kaveh is sensible enough to whisper, even if Alhaitham does take his sweet time to answer. He's in no mood to explain that he had already resigned, that even if he has, there's no guarantee Kaveh's paperwork will be approved, considering all the logistics involved with selecting a new Grand Sage meant a lot of delays. Instead, he stops leaning against the door and practically allows himself to drop and lean by the doorframe instead.
Alhaitham knows that the architect can handle himself just fine. He wields a weapon almost his own size and weight, after all.
Still, he jerks his head towards the exit, silently telling him he can go. "Take Mehrak with you."
It is unheard of, indeed. Kaveh is prompted to give him a double take just to ensure he heard correctly. Maybe it's the morning dew, but he seems like he's sweating, too. Ugh, he doesn't want to think about what he has been up to. "You do that," he snaps his fingers and Mehrak is quick by his side, "don't forget to finish eating the fruit, or it'll go to waste," his voice holds some weight to it. Alhaitham's health is far more important than whatever happens to the fruit, of course. "And go clean yourself, you look so dirty."
He keeps thinking about him long after he departs. Something wasn't right, and it could have been his own nerves acting up as he mentally prepared himself to deal with a client. He just didn't think Alhaitham was acting his usual self. He was less annoying than usual. Clearly he hadn't slept, though.
Old habits never die. He asks Mehrak to scan the area the farther he travels into the forest, just in case. Alhaitham wouldn't have brought it up without a reason. There has been talk about Eremites targeting the Akademiya now that it's remarkably weaker and without a true Grand Sage appointed. What could they do, anyway? He'll find out himself. His next project happens to be a charitable cause, and Kaveh wants to build a school in the desert. Perhaps if they had better access to education, there'd be less crime.
Alhaitham finds himself ensnared in an unusual restlessness. The house now empty, the tranquility that once brought him solace feels stifling, stirring an unsettling tension within his being. He often seeks refuge in the stillness and peacefulness of his surroundings, yet today it offers little respite.
He must be tired.
After sitting down and eating each morsel of delicious fruit, he swiftly retrieves a cloth, gently wiping away the evidence of his hidden battle on the floor. Unsanitary.
The Scribe’s mind grasps at the fragments of rationality that persist amidst the chaos. He considers scribbling a note and requesting a messenger to deliver it to the Akademya—he will not be in the office in the morning. He decides against it. If people ask, it’s no one’s business; he’s sure any urgent matters can wait until the afternoon.
Eschewing his boots and leaving them by his bedroom door, he decides to wash up first. Grimacing as he peels off his blood-soaked glove, he deposits it in a tub, allowing it to soak in and remove the crimson testament of his resilience. It’s interesting how black fabric releases red, oxidation in the blood darkening it to a muted color.
As he washes the cut, tsking when pressing the flesh on his arm makes him bleed even more, he stands at a crossroads between the respite of a shower and the longing for sleep. Rationality wrestles with fatigue as he contemplates his own limitations and needs. The warmth of the water could inflame the cut even further, but a cold shower does not feel adequate if he wishes to rest.
He merely does the bare minimum, takes off only his shirt to wash the grime off his body with a damp cloth, and wraps his wound halfheartedly to ensure no further bleeding. The demands of his battered body echo through his thoughts, reminding him of the necessity for rest while the rest remains on the architect out and about.
He’ll be fine; he keeps telling himself.
Grimacing at the lingering pain, deliberate and measured, he crawls over the bed, not even slipping underneath the covers, and falls asleep. Never mind taking the morning off, he’ll probably sleep through the day.
“What are you looking at?” Kaveh wonders the extent of Mehrak’s understanding of its surroundings and the turbulent climate that is often experienced back home. Not that they’re always fighting, not that Kaveh particularly enjoys it, either. Spending time with Alhaitham is something he closely cherishes, still, even with that personality of his.
Kaveh’s yearning is a distant echo of times he only dreams of, a resonating ache that constantly knocks in his heart. He owes Alhaitham more than he cares to admit.
Mehrak’s gears give the impression that it’s deflating, and its gaze is down towards the ground as the two move along. “I’m his senior, I hope you know. And I feel that he always makes it an issue, as if he’s better than me. As if I don’t matter like I used to. So if he’s over it, and over what we had, then why can’t I get over it, too? Hm? You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? I wish you did.”
Mehrak scans the area in response to the sound of Kaveh’s voice, and Kaveh only sighs. He rubs his finger pads against his tired eyelids, they starve to rest in any way. Especially with the sun beginning to beat down on his scalp. Gone are the days of him tangling his and Alhaitham’s limbs late into the afternoon, or skipping a class or two together to investigate their thesis. Gone is the taste of his tongue in his mouth. Of the joy.
It’s impossible to make himself hate him.
When he finally arrives at his client’s place, there are also Eremites present. Kaveh doesn’t show any particular prejudice towards them— they’re just people trying to live, and a client is a client after all. Still, he can’t shake off the discomfort he has been carrying all morning. He blames Alhaitham.
His actual client seems wealthy, dressed in what Kaveh immediately recognizes as Fontanian garbs. “Thank you for coming, Kaveh. Please, follow me.”
And as they enter the small home, the Eremites stand in front of the door way to protect anyone else from disrupting their meeting. At least he’s finally out of the sun.
“Twenty-million Mora?!” He doesn’t think twice with how much he can do with it— he can send his mother the money, first of all. She needs it more than him, and he can use some of it to pay his debts. It’s a start, it’s better than whatever plagues him these days— a step forward to move out.
“All that we ask is that you sign an agreement to be affiliated with us.” — The Eremites.
He slowly rises from his bed, his movements sluggish as he makes his way to the kitchen. Alhaitham fills the small cezve with water with trembling hands and adds finely ground coffee. He places it on the stove, allowing the liquid to simmer over low heat.
Looking down, he almost sees two deceptively slender arms wrapping loosely around his waist. Feels tender nips on the spot where his spine juts, just below the back of his neck, the electric sensation they ignited within him.
Images of lazy mornings with Kaveh always play out vividly—especially when he’s not there. It aches, of course, though the Scribe has wanted to attribute the feeling as useless. He knows it has its purpose. All of it does, the bittersweetness of the memories so strong it lingers in the back of his throat, the emptiness that he feels whenever Kaveh does whatever he wants to do, living a freer life than when they had been together.
He almost lets the coffee burn.
Removing the cezve from the heat for a second, he lowers the flame and returns it. As the coffee begins to boil, a rich aroma permeates the kitchen, and it’s enough to keep him awake but not to lift the weight from his head. Alhaitham carefully pours the dark, concentrated liquid into a small demitasse cup, leaving the thick layer of sediment undisturbed at the bottom. He needs the potent brew.
He weighs his options when contemplating whether to go to work late. His body craves rest, and taking a few more hours to recuperate is tempting. Alhaitham's mind sways between rationality and self-care. He acknowledges his limitations and the necessity for rest, yet he also feels the weight of the unfinished work awaiting him.
But first, he needs to redress this archon-forsaken cut on his arm. He pads lazily to the bathroom again, tries not to look at himself in the mirror. He’d rather avoid his own assessment for now.
The stars must be casting their judgement, laughing and mocking him with every step of the way back to Sumeru City. Even they hide in plain sight, just like he does, shining through a blanket of clouds and high afternoon sun. At least he hopes his father isn't watching.
He keeps glancing back at the trail each time he hears a branch snap or the wind blow a certain way. Who would have done it, if not me? He convinces himself that this is his burden to bear, because he must.
It's not like he's obligated to tell anybody, not even Alhaitham. He can't imagine that conversation going well even if it's for a good cause. What was he supposed to have done when he was outnumbered? Of course he designed the cursed contract, and it'll be doomed to join the other pieces of paper casting him to this life of misery.
I better do all that I can now and start designing as soon as I arrive.
"I heard the Scribe was late today, everything was delayed for hours!" A voice from a passing pedestrian circles Kaveh's attention when he makes it past city gates.
Alhaitham is the only person who he could truly share his grievances with. Except today. He'll have to visit the Tavern and drown his voice in liquor if he expects Alhaitham to talk to him ever again. Even if they have no chance now, it's still better than negative chances.
He walks all the way up to the Akademiya and it's exhausting. He's panting by the time he actually arrives on polished floors and marble. Maybe he's already in his private table writing away, just how he had once seen him in the library. So far away in his thoughts even when he's within perfectly good reach. His usual spot is empty, to his surprise. His throat starts feeling dry. "Mehrak. Go home, see if he's there." I'll look for him in the House of Daena.
Lost in his thoughts, Alhaitham suddenly notices Mehrak approaching from the opposite direction. Kaveh rushed past their home right before Alhaitham left, the Scribe’s steps and movements measured. The paths have just been mismatched as if said stars have intervened.
If those are true, after all.
"Mehrak?" Alhaitham greets. "Is there something you need?"
Mehrak's flight catches Alhaitham off guard, and he pauses, curiosity piqued by the small automaton. It stops before him, its chirping almost reminiscent of Kaveh's diction and tone. A flurry of beeps and trills.
The automaton tilts itself slightly, scanning the area around them and swiveling from one side to the other like it was— “I see.”
Alhaitham finds it odd that Mehrak would be searching for him. After all, Kaveh had seemed unaffected when they parted ways earlier.
“Is he in the Akademya?” The little toolbox chirps decidedly, and the Scribe shakes his head. Would it hurt him to wait a little for once, he wonders as he resumes the climb to the building.
He ends up taking the elevator down. Perhaps this is the place Alhaitham always ends up wandering to when he disappears entirely. Well, that's also unlikely, who knows really? What he doesn't expect is for the place to be as trashed as it is. Sure, he'll try to get Alhaitham to socialize sometimes instead of burying his nose in books all the time. Perhaps knowing how much Alhaitham cares about lost text makes him feel a little hurt that Sages can't find a better place to keep them. Some of them have torn pages, too.
Ancient ruins. He dusts off one of them and casually browses through it. It's in a language he understands thanks to all the studying, and bittersweetness that came from his project with Alhaitham. Perhaps this is a place where all of the people's dreams and research come to die. A final resting place.
It sure begins to give his skin goosebumps.
He can't stand being in places like these, it reminds him of his old house. Full of remnants of what could have been something great, something more. He keeps holding onto that book he found, realizing Alhaitham isn't here. He knows Mehrak will scan its way right to him eventually. Did Alhaitham really miss so many hours of work?
As he stands in front of the elevator waiting for it to come back down, he hears Mehrak's ticks and gears coming from above. "Mehrak, any luck? Did you find him?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it luck," says a voice in the elevator.
Probably not Mehrak. The Scribe would further explain that it was only a matter of looking right where Kaveh had left him, and the short distance between the Akademya doors and their house. It was, really, a matter of probability.
Except instead, another question decides to prioritize itself when he steps out of the platform. "What are you doing here?"
"Alhaitham?! What...I should be the one asking you that! I was just," he turns around and begins walking across the shattered tiles so he can place the old book ontop of a thick log. "I thought you could be here. When people were saying how you hadn't shown up for work. It's not that I don't think you're strong but you were acting weird this morning," he asses his condition briefly once he's closer to him again; at least he's clean now. Clean and perfect, like always.
"Then I realized I hadn't been down here in so long. I don't remember it being like this," his gaze is somewhere distant as he glances off to the side at a fallen column. "What in the world happened here? Do you know?"
"I work here," is the noncommital answer that Alhaitham gives Kaveh. He doesn't even bother putting on a poker face, his lip twitches as he says it, eyes narrowing slightly.
"This has been like this for a while, Azar decided the maintenance of this place wasn't a priority." He had other things to do, he supposes. He spends some time looking at Kaveh, considering why he finds the architect to be here and looking so out of place, between destroyed shelves and plants growing through structures. Dampened papers and overgrown roots. Perhaps his penchant for orderliness, a contradiction to what you'd expect from an artist and an aesthete.
He shakes his head. "Well, now you've found me. Is there anything else you wanted to tell me? I doubt you came to see me just because 'I acted weird'." By Kaveh's standards, doesn't Alhaitham act weird all the time?
“I know you work here, I’m referring to down here! This instance— whatever,” he looks away, timid when he’s made too aware of the acoustics bouncing off of the walls. Not that there’s anyone else here that would be disturbed by the sound of his voice, except books… or Alhaitham.
“That’s a shame,” he replies, looking around at the old shelves and rotting wood. “This could be a wonderful area. I can’t help but see the potential. Don’t you? I would have thought you’d be more inclined to caring since you work here.”
It’s almost like Kaveh is trying to prolong a real conversation here. “No. It’s just unlike you to skip work. What were you doing last night? — Actually, forget it. I don’t want to know.”
Except he does. He’s dying to know, perhaps his mind is itching for any type of confirmation that they will never be as they used to. Anything that could settle this hope of his to be just as gone as the books in here. At least his eyes are incapable of lying, he had been worried. “I have a lot of work to do.”
"I think this could be a great place for younger students of your Darshan to experiment with," bring some new things into the Akademya, literally and physically so. Alhatiham does look up at the roots piercing through the walls and the flooring, and can't help but feel it slightly metaphoric. The brutality of nature, of things out of humanity's control, ripping apart what humankind so diligently tries to build and harness. Hm, he gets philosophical when he's tired. Regardless, after what had happened with Azar, that could probably just be what this government needs. "Perhaps the new sage of Kshahrewar can provide grounds for new experiments here."
With a sigh, the Scribe crosses his arms after he adjusts his new pair of gloves. It's not defensive, though people tend to think of it as such — Alhaitham's trousers just don't have pockets. "If you must ask, I was on an assignment on the outskirts of the city." If Kaveh wishes to hear Alhaitham say something about how he met someone else, and is moving on from their relationship, he's not going to. After that, after them, he wants to think very little of exploring new grounds. He needs the dust in the inner workings of his mind and heart to settle.
Which is difficult, considering that Kaveh is looking at him like that. "There was… an altercation of sorts, and things got delayed."
No means of contact where he was, no way to reach Kaveh to tell him to have dinner without him.
"I'll write up something when I have the time and submit it," is his way of agreeing without praising Alhaitham for suggesting a valid idea. Kaveh crosses his arms for vastly different reasons, such as how he's beginning to feel too cold being here for an extended period.
He longs for his moments with Alhaitham to stretch into timeless conversations. He wonders if there is another person who would be insane enough to handle him just as he had done. Kaveh swallows tightly, arms snug around himself. "Altercation?" He asks once he's mounted back onto the elevator that will take them up toward the warmth.
Without the nostalgia or cold seeping through his clothes, Kaveh reminds himself that he still doesn't forgive him. "You get assignments on the outskirts of the city as the Scribe? Well, that's news to me. I always thought you went off on your own, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong with all the time you have on your hands," he side-eyes him, lowering his voice as they step out onto shiny floors again. "Altercation of sorts. Did they send you somewhere dangerous?"
As they walk to the elevator, Alhaitham can't help but watch the line of Kaveh's shoulders as they hunch in what seems to be either nerves or cold. He's always been sensitive to temperature clashes, in opposition to Alhaitham's own sensitivity towards texture. Whenever they ventured into the desert together, both had each thing to complain about. He wonders for half a second if he should lend him the cape he wears, but decides against it when they come back to the warmer ground level.
"I was sent to check on logistics' ledgers and compare them to my own bookkeeping. Validating record books is also a Scribe's job," he shrugs. He doesn't enjoy that part of his job and sounds like he does find it a hassle. And, as if wanting to be proven right, this had to happen. "There was an ambush by who I believe were Azar's sympathizers. I've already sent word to the Matras, Cyno should meet me soon," he says matter-of-factly, as though there wasn't an attempt on his physical integrity.
He's more than adapted to Alhaitham's concise speeches and summaries. The last thing he needs is to cause a scene in front of students preparing for their exams. It is a rather common sight, Kaveh and Alhaitham walking side by side now and then. There's very little evidence that backs up the rumors about them. Mainly due to the fact their thesis was never finished, and the fact they're often found bickering.
The words are burning on his tongue. He holds back as much as he can until they're outside the doors again. "So, wait, Alhaitham," his gaze studies him from head to toe, "did you get hurt?" His throat is a lump of knots, like he's about to be sick just from the idea that something more could have happened. "You were out all night and you were ambushed?"
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𝓢𝒌𝒆𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒚: The entire page displays a rough design of lines and curves that resemble Fontanian architecture. There are question marks scribbled all around it, captioned in Kaveh’s handwriting: Is she doing alright? I should visit. The letter is concerning me.
His sketchbook lives inside a cabinet by his beside. Everything is meticulously placed and tidy in his room, predictable to a fault. The letter from his mother is also stashed away. His rent records, all things of importance along with all the reminders of his misery. It should be an ongoing joke just how heavy papers really are on a person.
He leaves his room and shuts the door behind him. The sun is setting outside, so he turns on all the lights in the living room so Alhaitham doesn’t get greeted by a pit of darkness, if he even comes home at all! He’s taking his sweet time tonight, he better not be enjoying himself at the tavern all on his own if he doesn’t want to witness Kaveh’s wrath. Even though, in all fairness, Kaveh already took the situation to heart, it’s not anything new. Kaveh knows he shouldn’t have given him the grace of waiting for him to grab dinner.
Still, it’s not like Alhaitham to completely forget plans, either.
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Sumeru was not without its issues, and he did not need to become more aware of them upon becoming Acting Grand Sage. As a Scribe, he knew how many problems lay within and rest on the city's outskirts.
But now, after resigning from his position, those issues seep into the dark of his sleeve.
The trek toward the solace of his home is longer than he had calculated despite the steady rhythm of his footsteps.
When he arrives, turning back to ensure the door is locked behind him, there’s no ‘I’m home,’ no announcement that he’s there. He’s sure Kaveh will find out eventually.
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He sits up immediately, watching the light from the hallway seep into his room. At least he's alone. Of course he's alone. It aches still, just how silent everything is between the two. Sleep is a fleeting phenomena now, and he can't stop thinking so he slips out from his bed. "Seriously? I had to get dinner by myself. In hindsight, I think it's better that way from now on. Where were you?"
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With a measured breath, Alhaitham focuses on the most important part of what Kaveh says, light-headed as he is. "You're right, I should eat."
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"I left a plate of fruit on the table," he snaps while putting up hairpins in place. The morning dew wraps around the city, but it's still too early for anybody to shuffle outside of their homes.
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For all his genius, maybe Alhaitham prioritizes his preference for teasing the other rather than reading the room and thanking Kaveh outright. As one of those hairpins falls on the floor, he leans in to pick it up between two fingers, pausing for half a second when he notices one red drop falling onto the floor, from the fingers darkened by his glove.
Hm, he needs to take care of that. He'll get to it, later, after he has eaten. Instead, the scribe picks the hairpin with his other hand, hands it over to the architect. "How gracious of you," he says airily as he heads to said and goes get a knife. That's… a thank you, right?
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"That's not what I said," he takes the pin briskly and snaps it on his freshly made braid. Kaveh can work up force behind his actions, delicate as he may seem. If Alhaitham can't understand his words, then surely he will realize why he's upset through body language. "You always pay for me, why would last night have been any different? I, ugh, whatever. I'm leaving. I have a client to meet up with," safe to say that Alhaitham didn't translate the thank you well enough to seep into the ears of an aggravated Kaveh. He hopes to find lodging somewhere else tonight, too, but he leaves that part out.
He always aims to leave the house before the sun rises too high. He makes sure to grab his key this time out of pure spite.
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Except, if he's been ambushed, out of all people, his spine coiled with unease—
"Wait," it's an order, not a request, as he turns on his heels and walks past Kaveh towards the door. He opens it slightly, peering through the opening, glad that it was so early in the day that the only sounds around them were the beginning of birdsong, the rustling of the wind through the leaves above them.
Alhaitham waits for a second, scanning everything he can. It's quiet, for now. Perhaps too quiet? A part of his mind considers paranoia, but another claims he's just covering all bases, all possibilities. He stands there blocking the way as he ponders what to do in this situation.
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Alhaitham is the first example of this. Kaveh could very well just brush past him, but he doesn't. "What now?" Kaveh stands behind him, muttering under his breath in case there's anybody near. This close, he notices traces of mud over Alhaitham's shoulder, like it had been wiped off at some point. Kaveh crosses his arms and lets his eyes roam. Maybe he wasn't in a private nook drowned in book pages after all.
"You're acting weird and you're going to make me be late for my meeting. Don't you have Scribe things to do? Speaking of, I'm waiting until you resign your position as Acting Grand Sage so I can submit some paperwork for future city planning. Some designs just feel outdated, but that's not something someone like you would understand," he sighs, "anyway, I really have to go." Ah, Kaveh, always so blissfully in his world.
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Almost unheard of. At least Kaveh is sensible enough to whisper, even if Alhaitham does take his sweet time to answer. He's in no mood to explain that he had already resigned, that even if he has, there's no guarantee Kaveh's paperwork will be approved, considering all the logistics involved with selecting a new Grand Sage meant a lot of delays. Instead, he stops leaning against the door and practically allows himself to drop and lean by the doorframe instead.
Alhaitham knows that the architect can handle himself just fine. He wields a weapon almost his own size and weight, after all.
Still, he jerks his head towards the exit, silently telling him he can go. "Take Mehrak with you."
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He keeps thinking about him long after he departs. Something wasn't right, and it could have been his own nerves acting up as he mentally prepared himself to deal with a client. He just didn't think Alhaitham was acting his usual self. He was less annoying than usual. Clearly he hadn't slept, though.
Old habits never die. He asks Mehrak to scan the area the farther he travels into the forest, just in case. Alhaitham wouldn't have brought it up without a reason. There has been talk about Eremites targeting the Akademiya now that it's remarkably weaker and without a true Grand Sage appointed. What could they do, anyway? He'll find out himself. His next project happens to be a charitable cause, and Kaveh wants to build a school in the desert. Perhaps if they had better access to education, there'd be less crime.
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He must be tired.
After sitting down and eating each morsel of delicious fruit, he swiftly retrieves a cloth, gently wiping away the evidence of his hidden battle on the floor. Unsanitary.
The Scribe’s mind grasps at the fragments of rationality that persist amidst the chaos. He considers scribbling a note and requesting a messenger to deliver it to the Akademya—he will not be in the office in the morning. He decides against it. If people ask, it’s no one’s business; he’s sure any urgent matters can wait until the afternoon.
Eschewing his boots and leaving them by his bedroom door, he decides to wash up first. Grimacing as he peels off his blood-soaked glove, he deposits it in a tub, allowing it to soak in and remove the crimson testament of his resilience. It’s interesting how black fabric releases red, oxidation in the blood darkening it to a muted color.
As he washes the cut, tsking when pressing the flesh on his arm makes him bleed even more, he stands at a crossroads between the respite of a shower and the longing for sleep. Rationality wrestles with fatigue as he contemplates his own limitations and needs. The warmth of the water could inflame the cut even further, but a cold shower does not feel adequate if he wishes to rest.
He merely does the bare minimum, takes off only his shirt to wash the grime off his body with a damp cloth, and wraps his wound halfheartedly to ensure no further bleeding. The demands of his battered body echo through his thoughts, reminding him of the necessity for rest while the rest remains on the architect out and about.
He’ll be fine; he keeps telling himself.
Grimacing at the lingering pain, deliberate and measured, he crawls over the bed, not even slipping underneath the covers, and falls asleep. Never mind taking the morning off, he’ll probably sleep through the day.
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“What are you looking at?” Kaveh wonders the extent of Mehrak’s understanding of its surroundings and the turbulent climate that is often experienced back home. Not that they’re always fighting, not that Kaveh particularly enjoys it, either. Spending time with Alhaitham is something he closely cherishes, still, even with that personality of his.
Kaveh’s yearning is a distant echo of times he only dreams of, a resonating ache that constantly knocks in his heart. He owes Alhaitham more than he cares to admit.
Mehrak’s gears give the impression that it’s deflating, and its gaze is down towards the ground as the two move along. “I’m his senior, I hope you know. And I feel that he always makes it an issue, as if he’s better than me. As if I don’t matter like I used to. So if he’s over it, and over what we had, then why can’t I get over it, too? Hm? You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? I wish you did.”
Mehrak scans the area in response to the sound of Kaveh’s voice, and Kaveh only sighs. He rubs his finger pads against his tired eyelids, they starve to rest in any way. Especially with the sun beginning to beat down on his scalp. Gone are the days of him tangling his and Alhaitham’s limbs late into the afternoon, or skipping a class or two together to investigate their thesis. Gone is the taste of his tongue in his mouth. Of the joy.
It’s impossible to make himself hate him.
When he finally arrives at his client’s place, there are also Eremites present. Kaveh doesn’t show any particular prejudice towards them— they’re just people trying to live, and a client is a client after all. Still, he can’t shake off the discomfort he has been carrying all morning. He blames Alhaitham.
His actual client seems wealthy, dressed in what Kaveh immediately recognizes as Fontanian garbs.
“Thank you for coming, Kaveh. Please, follow me.”
And as they enter the small home, the Eremites stand in front of the door way to protect anyone else from disrupting their meeting. At least he’s finally out of the sun.
“Twenty-million Mora?!” He doesn’t think twice with how much he can do with it— he can send his mother the money, first of all. She needs it more than him, and he can use some of it to pay his debts. It’s a start, it’s better than whatever plagues him these days— a step forward to move out.
“All that we ask is that you sign an agreement to be affiliated with us.” — The Eremites.
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Alhaitham fills the small cezve with water with trembling hands and adds finely ground coffee. He places it on the stove, allowing the liquid to simmer over low heat.
Looking down, he almost sees two deceptively slender arms wrapping loosely around his waist. Feels tender nips on the spot where his spine juts, just below the back of his neck, the electric sensation they ignited within him.
Images of lazy mornings with Kaveh always play out vividly—especially when he’s not there. It aches, of course, though the Scribe has wanted to attribute the feeling as useless. He knows it has its purpose. All of it does, the bittersweetness of the memories so strong it lingers in the back of his throat, the emptiness that he feels whenever Kaveh does whatever he wants to do, living a freer life than when they had been together.
He almost lets the coffee burn.
Removing the cezve from the heat for a second, he lowers the flame and returns it. As the coffee begins to boil, a rich aroma permeates the kitchen, and it’s enough to keep him awake but not to lift the weight from his head. Alhaitham carefully pours the dark, concentrated liquid into a small demitasse cup, leaving the thick layer of sediment undisturbed at the bottom. He needs the potent brew.
He weighs his options when contemplating whether to go to work late. His body craves rest, and taking a few more hours to recuperate is tempting. Alhaitham's mind sways between rationality and self-care. He acknowledges his limitations and the necessity for rest, yet he also feels the weight of the unfinished work awaiting him.
But first, he needs to redress this archon-forsaken cut on his arm. He pads lazily to the bathroom again, tries not to look at himself in the mirror. He’d rather avoid his own assessment for now.
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The stars must be casting their judgement, laughing and mocking him with every step of the way back to Sumeru City. Even they hide in plain sight, just like he does, shining through a blanket of clouds and high afternoon sun. At least he hopes his father isn't watching.
He keeps glancing back at the trail each time he hears a branch snap or the wind blow a certain way. Who would have done it, if not me? He convinces himself that this is his burden to bear, because he must.
It's not like he's obligated to tell anybody, not even Alhaitham. He can't imagine that conversation going well even if it's for a good cause. What was he supposed to have done when he was outnumbered? Of course he designed the cursed contract, and it'll be doomed to join the other pieces of paper casting him to this life of misery.
I better do all that I can now and start designing as soon as I arrive.
"I heard the Scribe was late today, everything was delayed for hours!" A voice from a passing pedestrian circles Kaveh's attention when he makes it past city gates.
Alhaitham is the only person who he could truly share his grievances with. Except today. He'll have to visit the Tavern and drown his voice in liquor if he expects Alhaitham to talk to him ever again. Even if they have no chance now, it's still better than negative chances.
He walks all the way up to the Akademiya and it's exhausting. He's panting by the time he actually arrives on polished floors and marble. Maybe he's already in his private table writing away, just how he had once seen him in the library. So far away in his thoughts even when he's within perfectly good reach. His usual spot is empty, to his surprise. His throat starts feeling dry.
"Mehrak. Go home, see if he's there." I'll look for him in the House of Daena.
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If those are true, after all.
"Mehrak?" Alhaitham greets. "Is there something you need?"
Mehrak's flight catches Alhaitham off guard, and he pauses, curiosity piqued by the small automaton. It stops before him, its chirping almost reminiscent of Kaveh's diction and tone. A flurry of beeps and trills.
The automaton tilts itself slightly, scanning the area around them and swiveling from one side to the other like it was— “I see.”
Alhaitham finds it odd that Mehrak would be searching for him. After all, Kaveh had seemed unaffected when they parted ways earlier.
“Is he in the Akademya?” The little toolbox chirps decidedly, and the Scribe shakes his head. Would it hurt him to wait a little for once, he wonders as he resumes the climb to the building.
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What he doesn't expect is for the place to be as trashed as it is. Sure, he'll try to get Alhaitham to socialize sometimes instead of burying his nose in books all the time. Perhaps knowing how much Alhaitham cares about lost text makes him feel a little hurt that Sages can't find a better place to keep them. Some of them have torn pages, too.
Ancient ruins. He dusts off one of them and casually browses through it. It's in a language he understands thanks to all the studying, and bittersweetness that came from his project with Alhaitham. Perhaps this is a place where all of the people's dreams and research come to die. A final resting place.
It sure begins to give his skin goosebumps.
He can't stand being in places like these, it reminds him of his old house. Full of remnants of what could have been something great, something more. He keeps holding onto that book he found, realizing Alhaitham isn't here. He knows Mehrak will scan its way right to him eventually. Did Alhaitham really miss so many hours of work?
As he stands in front of the elevator waiting for it to come back down, he hears Mehrak's ticks and gears coming from above. "Mehrak, any luck? Did you find him?"
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Probably not Mehrak. The Scribe would further explain that it was only a matter of looking right where Kaveh had left him, and the short distance between the Akademya doors and their house. It was, really, a matter of probability.
Except instead, another question decides to prioritize itself when he steps out of the platform. "What are you doing here?"
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"Then I realized I hadn't been down here in so long. I don't remember it being like this," his gaze is somewhere distant as he glances off to the side at a fallen column. "What in the world happened here? Do you know?"
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"This has been like this for a while, Azar decided the maintenance of this place wasn't a priority." He had other things to do, he supposes. He spends some time looking at Kaveh, considering why he finds the architect to be here and looking so out of place, between destroyed shelves and plants growing through structures. Dampened papers and overgrown roots. Perhaps his penchant for orderliness, a contradiction to what you'd expect from an artist and an aesthete.
He shakes his head. "Well, now you've found me. Is there anything else you wanted to tell me? I doubt you came to see me just because 'I acted weird'." By Kaveh's standards, doesn't Alhaitham act weird all the time?
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“That’s a shame,” he replies, looking around at the old shelves and rotting wood. “This could be a wonderful area. I can’t help but see the potential. Don’t you? I would have thought you’d be more inclined to caring since you work here.”
It’s almost like Kaveh is trying to prolong a real conversation here.
“No. It’s just unlike you to skip work. What were you doing last night? — Actually, forget it. I don’t want to know.”
Except he does. He’s dying to know, perhaps his mind is itching for any type of confirmation that they will never be as they used to. Anything that could settle this hope of his to be just as gone as the books in here.
At least his eyes are incapable of lying, he had been worried. “I have a lot of work to do.”
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With a sigh, the Scribe crosses his arms after he adjusts his new pair of gloves. It's not defensive, though people tend to think of it as such — Alhaitham's trousers just don't have pockets. "If you must ask, I was on an assignment on the outskirts of the city." If Kaveh wishes to hear Alhaitham say something about how he met someone else, and is moving on from their relationship, he's not going to. After that, after them, he wants to think very little of exploring new grounds. He needs the dust in the inner workings of his mind and heart to settle.
Which is difficult, considering that Kaveh is looking at him like that. "There was… an altercation of sorts, and things got delayed."
No means of contact where he was, no way to reach Kaveh to tell him to have dinner without him.
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He longs for his moments with Alhaitham to stretch into timeless conversations. He wonders if there is another person who would be insane enough to handle him just as he had done. Kaveh swallows tightly, arms snug around himself. "Altercation?" He asks once he's mounted back onto the elevator that will take them up toward the warmth.
Without the nostalgia or cold seeping through his clothes, Kaveh reminds himself that he still doesn't forgive him.
"You get assignments on the outskirts of the city as the Scribe? Well, that's news to me. I always thought you went off on your own, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong with all the time you have on your hands," he side-eyes him, lowering his voice as they step out onto shiny floors again. "Altercation of sorts. Did they send you somewhere dangerous?"
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"I was sent to check on logistics' ledgers and compare them to my own bookkeeping. Validating record books is also a Scribe's job," he shrugs. He doesn't enjoy that part of his job and sounds like he does find it a hassle. And, as if wanting to be proven right, this had to happen. "There was an ambush by who I believe were Azar's sympathizers. I've already sent word to the Matras, Cyno should meet me soon," he says matter-of-factly, as though there wasn't an attempt on his physical integrity.
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The words are burning on his tongue. He holds back as much as he can until they're outside the doors again. "So, wait, Alhaitham," his gaze studies him from head to toe, "did you get hurt?" His throat is a lump of knots, like he's about to be sick just from the idea that something more could have happened. "You were out all night and you were ambushed?"
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those new icons 😳
heh, thank you!
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Tabern. Goodbye
i'm so sorry
we love cyno here
he's lovely when he keeps his mouth shut
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clutches chest, that's such a good last line <3
:’) thank you <3 they kill me
so frustrating and yet.
kaveh so dumb :(
smh
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beautiful
LMAOOO i'm so sorry
"is this a flirt? sorry, i have to go" LMAOO
JEEZ
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