sapio | open.

He's trapped between the false comfort of his vision and how much more damage it could cause Alhaitham if he used it to defend himself. Never in his life has he wanted to take Alhaitham into his arms as much as now. He catches a few fists to his face, and he feels his world rattle under his feet. He can taste his blood, that is until the cores blast once again. He kicks a man out of his way and lands on both knees once he makes it to Alhaitham. The reality is devastating to him. He has both hands hoovering over him, unsure where he's allowed to touch. He's decides he doesn't want to see how bad his wound truly is, even if it means ignoring the literal knife on his back. If he doesn't look, then it doesn't truly exist and he can keep his calm. Then Alhaitham can keep his blood.

The lunch they packed had been long lost back in the cave, they're far from home and the rain is beating down on them. It's freezing underneath soaked clothes. "It'll be alright," he takes his arm and sneaks beneath him, "I'll carry you back. Who knows when others will show up. Recite to me your latest reading, the last thing you should do is fall asleep on me," because that might as well be a nail on a coffin. They both know this. "Ready? I'm going to stand up now."

He can't help the pained sound that he releases when Kaveh lifts him, the edge of the blade shifting with the new position. Alhaitham tries to slip his cape fully onto his back as opposed to sideways to cover the blade stuck in him from any contaminant or dirt in the air, but also to steady it somehow. He buries his nose in Kaveh's hair, the sweat in his neck somehow more grounding than the petrichor around them.

He's comforting. He's warm. This is the closest he's been to Kaveh in an age. He'd like to rest here, his mind says, as he closes his eyes for a moment.

He opens them. "Follow the river," he rasps, his voice sounding like the gravel under Kaveh's shoes. "The Matra will be doing the same."

Clearing his throat, he starts to whisper. ""All art, regardless of shape or form, is inherently political." This is a simple fact," he mutters, unable to not leave commentary. ""Ishkur asserts in his research that art cannot exist within a vacuum of apolitically, for “the artist’s ability to create art is shaped by their political environment just as much as art itself is...”"

Exhaustion comes in many forms and carries many consequences. He could have never predicted that Alhaitham's life would someday depend on his notoriously lackluster stamina. Drenched as they are, his mouth is dry as a desert. Every breath feels like needles raking the insides of his lungs. He's not sick, yet he's holding back his coughs, the air is heated with humidity, yet he shivers. How is it that a rainforest could be so dehydrating?

He pauses each time Alhaitham's weight steadily starts sliding off of him, and he carefully adjusts him so his thighs are secure under his arms. "We're almost there," they're not. They're far from the city, but what else can he do but throw Alhaitham a string of hope? Something, anything his conscious can latch onto. Although deep inside, Kaveh is trying to comfort himself.

He follows the curves of the river. "It's not inherently political, even though I can't deny that it can in some instances," he can't help countering either, but his words are heavy. It takes twice the energy for him to think of anything else besides taking Alhaitham somewhere safe. Yet to hold onto their debates like this keeps Kaveh calm, even if he's on the verge of tears. His throat full of knots. "Keep talking to me. Where's your pain level at? Are you dizzy?" Translation: Should I start freaking out?

As Alhaitham clings to Kaveh's back, the rain pours down, and he can't help but wince with each breath. That he manages to speak between labored breaths is a surprise. "It hurts when I breathe, but I don't taste blood. I can still inhale and exhale." He pauses, wanting to assure Kaveh that he's holding on, that he's not giving up. "Keep going. We need to keep moving."

Through the haze of pain and fatigue, Alhaitham finds himself wondering if this was the end of it all - the end of their unspoken connection, the end of what they could have been together. "Kaveh," Alhaitham implores, his voice barely above a whisper against the architect's ear, "keep talking to me. Explain to me again, how art isn't inherently political."

He's studied, countless times now, how words could be elusive, how they change meaning, with a mere inflection of a tone, a mere context, a change in perspective. Just like life itself. The danger they face, the threat to his existence, and the fear of losing what they have without ever truly exploring it all paralyze him in a way he can't describe.

The pain is still there, gnawing at him like a relentless fire. In the midst of the struggle for survival, their intellectual strife, bond, connection, is what keeps him anchored to the present, to the hope of making it through this together.

How ironic, that what drives them apart becomes suddenly his lifeline. How ironic, that entangled in a life-threatening situation, all Alhaitham can think about is the prospect of burdening Kaveh with his emotions. He doesn't want his possible demise to be another weight on Kaveh's shoulders. The man has already carried so much. Alhaitham will be damned by himself if he becomes yet another thing for Kaveh to carry.

"I am moving," albeit painfully slow. Their combined weight keeps sinking Kaveh's shoes into the soaked soil and it takes every elemental fiber of dendro and humanity not to slip when the terrain changes on him. He keeps his hands clawed against his thighs, working every muscle to keep Alhaitham's limp body secure. "You're heavy."

I held you back in the cave, didn't I. His mind begins to slip away from him, feeding him flawed logic and guilt so torrential it could bring Inazuma thunder to its knees. Rain keeps getting into his eyes, and the salt in his tears keep his vision blurred. It's not debt that truly drowns him, or his reckless spending, or all the blame he wears. Whatever keeps him up at night, what makes him easily irritable or spiral is a chronic monster that simply feeds off of his miseries.

I have to move out.

You'll die because of me.

I can't lose you.

He forgets his mission to debate him and instead, he repeats: "don't fall asleep."

Kaveh is sinking deeper everyday and just when he’s able to barely break the surface and allow himself to breathe, that something drags him back down. He can function in the eyes of the public except his life is still a mess. "Matra. I see the matra. You'll be okay," he repeats, "you'll be okay."

"You just stopped practicing once you got Mehrak," he tries to chuckle, but it only hurts to laugh, no matter how sweet fondness feels under his skin. Alhaitham winces, foregoing a hiss through his teeth to bury his mouth on his roommate's shoulder, and he realizes that Kaveh feels warm, perhaps even more so than usual, and it's because Alhaitham is the one that tends to run warm, enough to rarely be cold.

He shivers, as if on cue. "Thank you. Senior." He whispers, a tongue looser, more feverish. "I knew you'd do it."

He'd simply gotten busier with work. Not that it's an excuse to put aside a daily regimen. His eyes shift with concern when Alhaitham's voice rumbles on his shoulder. He won't make it much longer if they prolong his treatment. They're both running fevers.

The stress of panic keeps Kaveh silent for the most part. Every ounce of his strength is left solely for the moment they reach the matra and it is only then that he unleashes it all. His cries, the cracking in his voice when he yells at them to alert Tighnari. He reluctantly surrenders Alhaitham to someone else more fit to carry him, and he can't remember very much after that.

They're both carried to the city.

Tighnari suggests they're taken to Alhaitham's house where they can be treated in the comfort of their privacy. The lacerations across his back are worse than any tiger attack Tighnari has ever seen. With herbal anesthetics, he's able to rid Alhaitham of his shirt and clean the wounds, but there isn't anything at his immediate expense that would render him entirely free of pain, especially when there's a knife lodged on his back. He injects numbing agents surrounding the blade. It's a good sign that he's not bleeding from his mouth, it means his stomach is intact. He presses gently along his sides to feel for bloating or swelling. There's no indication of severe internal bleeding, but he can't tell which blood vessels have been punctured and this narrows down his choices.
"Alhaitham, it's me, Tighnari. If you can hear me, tap one finger. The less you talk, the better. Don't strain yourself."

He hears Kaveh shouting, and something in his heart wrenches, draining it free. It gives way to relief, but also an emptiness that comes with listening to the person saving him feeling so much about him. It's not as though he isn't aware of it, but materializing in the divots of his voice, ripping out of his throat.

Everything is a blur, but there's the scent of herbs, of incense that's oh so familiar to Tighnari's presence. He taps a finger, but he's stubborn, bull-headed. "Where's Kaveh?" he croaks out, closing his eyes at the feeling of the anesthesia making him a bit bolder and instantly regretting it.

A side table is directly beside Alhaitham's bed with all the necessary tools. Tighnari glances around the room somewhat disapproving. Some of the books are collecting dust and normally he wouldn't be one to dictate how others should live. However, considering Alhaitham's septic condition, any pollution in the air would put him in grave danger.

He closes his eyes briefly as though containing his patience. He sighs, "Really, what did I just say? Don't talk. He's in the other room. You'll find other doctors from Amurta check up on you in shifts after I finish the work here," a flame flickers inside a porcelain bowl, it burns over a sterilized blade. Depending on how much he bleeds once he removes the knife, it's only his last resort to prevent excessive bleeding or infection. "It'll be a good day if it's just your liver pierced instead of your kidney. Take a deep breath. I'm not sure the anesthetic we have at hand will be enough to ease the pain when I remove the knife. I'll count to three, lift your finger when you're ready."

Alhaitham does as instructed, his eyes closing as he focuses and tries to visualize himself breathing into the spot with the knife, relaxing the muscles, the fibers, and the inflamed flesh. The scribe isn't nervous, he shouldn't be. He has the most efficient caretaker in all of Sumeru ailing him.

A raised finger, after taking the deepest breath he could to his ability.

He hopes his roommate is okay.

Tighnari countdowns, pressing a cloth around the gash the moment he slides the blade from his body. "It's going to burn," he warns him. No indication in Tighnari's voice signals panic despite the amount of gushing blood pouring from his wound. He brought plenty of towels to absorb the mess pooling at his sides, and raw alcohol to sanitize.

He uses electro charged tools to cauterize small vessels connecting to inflicted organs, but he can't save everything.
After an hour, Alhaitham is left without his spleen, but he's not bleeding and his wound is sealed. He dabs antibacterial creams made from his herbal medicines over his stitches, across the diagonal slash on his back before wrapping gauze around him.
His condition is too frail to leave in Kaveh's hands alone.

Tighnari leaves no sign of Alhaitham's blood ever spilling, bagging all the dirty towels and packing his tools back. "You did good. If you develop a fever at any time, let someone know immediately. Is it worth mentioning that you're not allowed to go anywhere? Moving around too much will make the stitches come undone," it's not Tighnari's business to pry how this could have happened in the first place. He grumbles, "you're lucky the knife didn't get your stomach. It went between two of your ribs, and that will take a considerable amount of time to heal again. Don't push yourself too hard. Let me know when you run of out of pain medicine and I'll make you some more. Understand? When Kaveh wakes up, I'll let him know that someone will come change your bandages twice a day."

He can only but nod, and everything feels like a fugue. Alhaitham is drained, numb from the medicine and the adrenaline subduing everything along with the pain of his insides being worked on, his head heavy but his mind too free, unlatched, floating and untethered. It's terrible, he doesn't know what to do, and he finds himself doing nothing but surrendering to it.

It's terrifying, but thankfully sleep comes. Later, his fever breaks. He comes to with a pained wince, suddenly very aware, for the first time in these days since the first ambush, that he has a body, and that body has been battered all to hell. His stomach aches, his back hurts, and the pain radiates somewhere over his leg. He is sweaty and sticky, and buried under blankets that he can't even discern the scent of to ground him home.

He looks around, searching for the medicine. Reaching for it at his bedside is a monumental task.

He awakens to Tighnari tending to his minor injuries and preparing medicine for the two. Kaveh springs up despite the heaviness of his exhaustion and his first words are breathless and frantic, "Where's Alhaitham? Is he okay?" Is he alive?

Tighnari briefs him on his condition. It's a tragedy having to witness these two on the sidelines, spotting the obvious while they choose to ignore it. Still, that's none of his business. He hopes they can at least come to mutual happiness regardless of where they end up. Alhaitham might be the one patched with literal threads, but the way Kaveh self-destructs is a topic Tighnari often thinks about.

The doctors advise Kaveh not to bother him during his recovery. It doesn't stop him from moving a mattress off of the living room couches so he can sleep in the same room as him. Not that sleeping is an easy task with Alhaitham constantly living in his head.
Kaveh wakes up to the slightest sounds. "Alhaitham?" He stands up and goes to his bedside, rubbing his eyes. "Hey, hey, watch out. I got it," he takes the small bottle and pops the lid, sitting next to him. "Are you feeling hot? Cold? Do you need to sit up?"

His voice chokes, cuts itself off with a hiss as his hands fumble about and oh, that hurts, doesn’t it? Feeling is returning, his blood starting to flow again through his frigid skin, a burning, itching sensation that blossoms across his arms and legs, and he can feel his pulse pounding in his stomach, his shoulder, his back. He feels the beginning tendrils of pain, and Alhaitham needs to swallow hard. "Cold," he croaks, his voice unused to this, and he frowns. "How long was I out?"

Kaveh seems reluctant to do anything else other than press his palm across his forehead, feeling his temperature. Tighnari mentioned to immediately alert him if he became feverish again. "You were out two days. Here, have some water and medicine," Kaveh frowns. The dormant guilt is becoming restless again, especially now that he sees just how weak Alhaitham is. He brushes his hair out of his eyes and carefully helps him sit up. "A doctor will come soon to change your bandages," because apparently his wounds are so severe that it needs expert hands to tend them. He glances down at his lap and whispers, "I'm sorry."

It hurts to swallow, and when he tilts his head back to drink, his back hurts something annoyingly gentle, but overwhelmingly encompassing. Alhaitham still leans towards the brush of fingers away from his eyes, craving the touch more than the water and only realizing it when there's contact. He focuses, instead, on keeping the empty glass upright on his lap before handing it to Kaveh, to give him a distraction.

He hasn't used his voice in two days. It's odd to speak. "Don't—" he clears his throat and winces, frowning at how he can't do anything without the complaints of his nerve endings. Frustrated at it, more than anything else. More than Kaveh's own apology. "Why are you apologizing?"

It's unfortunate that he's not allowed to get his wounds wet. He would at least have Kaveh to help him rinse his body from sweat. Instead, he gets damp cloths. Kaveh stands up again and carefully puts aside the medicine bottle after Alhaitham drinks it. He, too, aches each time he moves. His legs have specially never felt as heavy as they are now. Their weapons rest side by side against the wall next to the door at peace. "I should have done more," it's difficult glancing at him in the candlelight and not thinking about what would have happened had he lost him. "Are you hungry?"

"You've done even more than you could, Kaveh," he leans his head back, his eyes fluttering closed with a groan as he shakes his head in a minute motion. He's not hungry, the medicine makes him queasy and he'd rather not force himself to eat if only to retch and tense every muscle of his torso with it. "Are you?"

Has Kaveh been taking care of himself? He looks terrible, Alhaitham knows the signs of exhaustion on him, has seen them plenty of times.

Exhaustion is another factor of his life he can never shake off. Whether he’s up all night working on designs or making sure Alhaitham is healing properly, it makes no difference to him.
“It’s too early to eat,” he tidies the portable table at Alhaitham’s side, rearranging the medicines and the extra gauze. “I’ll go warm up some water,” he glances at him with a strained look before he turns around to leave. He takes with him a few towels to soak in the hot water. The thoughts are scraping the back of his head each time he faces himself in the mirror. How Alhaitham is better off if he moved out, or how he almost lost him back there. Part of him is angry with the matra, too, and he intends on paying them a visit.

As Kaveh departs to warm some water, Alhaitham is left with his own thoughts and the haunting spectres of near-loss and exhaustion. The subtlest emotions flicker through his consciousness, fragments of existence and longing, intertwined like the strands of a delicate tapestry. The touch of Kaveh's fingers on his skin, the sound of his voice, the unspoken between them.

When the warm water comes in, swirling around the air and dampening it, Alhaitham feels his own skin roll up with goosebumps. Sensitive to everything.

As though thinking of what Kaveh is, he clears his throat. "I think Cyno will visit soon. I heard Tighnari say so."

He comes back with two bowls of warmed water. One of which consists of soapy elements and eucalyptus essence. The other is neutral and for cleaning. Kaveh prepares the damp towels at Alhaitham's beside and he's mostly silent and scrutinizing various options. "Maybe he can tell us why the Akademiya would let you go out on a mission like that by yourself in the first place," Kaveh's imagination is always running wild, but there is merit to his paranoia this time.

He sits beside him again. Kaveh might have sharp words of his own sometimes, he knows how they have gutted Alhaitham deeply and he regrets them. His hands are another story, they contradict every argument with pure tenderness as he wipes the cloth from clavicle to clavicle and around his neck. He's careful not to let any substance reach his wounds. "Is the medicine working?"

As Kaveh sits beside him again, the warmth of his touch contrasting with the coolness of the damp cloth, Alhaitham shivers, though he can't help but relax into his care. The tender caress of the cloth soothes him, and he leans slightly into Kaveh's touch, his eyes slowly closing as he assesses the fuzziness in his mind, his whole body starting to feel not quite like his own. "I think so," he clears his throat again, his voice not sounding like usual.

"I think you're underestimating how complex their plans were," he cautions, unable to. It must mean he's on the mend, to start arguing, right?

He shivers again, and finds himself pressing the back of his fingers against Kaveh's cheek, heat-seeking. "Are you alright?"

He grabs him by his hand so he can also lather every finger, tendon, and gently scrubs his way up to his shoulder. Motions are silent and his features furrowed, “stop talking, it’s clearly not good for you. It’s not like it’s my fault that they tricked us. If you knew how complex their plans were then why would you have thought it a good idea going to their hideout? And silly me for letting you.”

He turns away to squeeze off the towel, taking the fresher one to wipe off the essence off his skin. “Honestly, what was I thinking,” he’s still wearing a brace on his wrist, he must have punched someone at a wrong angle but for the most part he came out unscathed. He avoids eye contact while pushing back his hair to wipe his forehead. “I’m fine.”

"You weren't," is what Alhaitham says, Kaveh's admonishment about him speaking ricocheting off, apparently, and scattered somewhere across the bedroom floor. Alhaitham groans at the soreness of the muscles on his arms, the underside along his ribs, but aside from that, though, he does close his eyes, tilts his head towards the architect as his hair is brushed back like he was being petted and not cared for his injuries.

He does, however, open them to admit something. "Neither was I." He was unaware that this would get to this extent, and he'll be honest with himself: there was that spectre of fear that filled his lungs with something terrible when he was draped over his back. The idea that he'd never berate Kaveh, would never be bitten back, even through the warmth of his gestures, his presence. He had plenty of times wondered what it would feel like, for Kaveh to leave their home, and how cold and empty and dark everything would feel.

Worse than him feeling it, he didn't want Kaveh to feel the same.

Neither was I. A miscalculation that could have cost them their life. Kaveh carefully traces the clean cloth over the stunning lines of his features. The silence is gripping when Alhaitham actually quiets down, a taste of what his life would have been had he truly lost him.

Kaveh dips the cloth in water and squeezes off the excess. “That much is clear,” he responds softly and bitter, but he’s not angry with him. There’s more to this than just their own carelessness.

It’s the Akademiya.

“Can you turn on your side, I have to clean your back. Tighnari said you shouldn’t put your weight on your wound otherwise it won’t breathe.”

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