sapio | open.

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?"

So Kaveh hadn't noticed. Alhaitham had assumed it had been either that or noticing but figured that it was just something that wasn't at the forefront of his worries. The Scribe groans, not wanting to cause a scene in front of everyone, so he takes his time with a jerk of his head until they're going down the slope that leads to their home.

He unfolds the hem of his glove, at his bicep. "Only this, but I've taken care of it," he says, a scholar in the humanities. Which, granted, is not so bad, but it's still not the greatest bandage wrapping of all time. Alhaitham decided one layer would be enough. "Nothing of significance happened."

“Taken care of it?!” The torn flesh appears everything except taken care of. Kaveh doesn’t care anymore whether anybody is watching them bicker down the path to his house. Alhaitham’s safety is at the forefront of his mind.

He can’t stand the idea of losing him.

“Stop playing things down. This is serious,” maybe he’s too used to shoulder other’s pain— even if it is nonexistent.

“Sit down,” he commands once they enter the home again and Kaveh goes off to find proper cleaning tools in his room. He had plenty of wounds in the desert in the past.
When was the last time he took care of him like this? Or the last time he was this close?

“Go on— take your shirt off. You’re not hiding anything else, are you?”

Alhaitham does follow the order, sitting down, eyes open in a manner that conveys he doesn't really understand what the big deal is, whilst thinking that it does make sense that Kaveh, of all people, would think of it in such a way. A slash in the arm is nothing.

Though he doesn't really protest while he takes his shirt and his gloves off, his eyebrows do slant when he considers something, even if he looks down at himself — no other injuries. "I haven't been hiding anything, you just seemed to have too much on your mind this morning."

He had everything in his mind earlier. A conundrum he has been carrying through his sleepless night. Not only that, Alhaitham’s ambush had stolen him from their plans— Kaveh should have paid more attention.

He’s frowning now, eaten by his own guilt in leaving the house so haphazardly. He shouldn’t have had him take his shirt off, not that it matters. He’s just another man now.

Even if he isn’t.

Kaveh wipes the surrounding wound using a cloth dipped in antibacterial oil, wiping the hints of blood staining his flesh. He traces the lining of thick muscle, making sure he leaves the area spotless. “I was distracted, that’s all. Does it hurt anywhere else? You should have gone see Tighnari. It looks kind of deep.”

He himself had removed his shirt to reassure Kaveh that that alone was the full extent of his injuries. Aside from a bruise on his side from a well-placed kick he was unable to defend from, the gash was the only thing of note.

If of note at all. He looks down around his shoulder, curious at the way the architect's hands moved. Dexterous fingers and steady wrists, stronger than they looked. Alhaitham doesn't remember a time when he hadn't been mesmerized to watch them work.

He shakes his head. "I've dealt with worse," on anyone, this could be a statement of bravado. On Alhaitham, it's just fact. "I'm impressed," is how he thanks Kaveh softly. "Maybe you should have studied in Amurta instead."

At least his bandaged bicep is snug and clean now, rather than the haphazard way in which Alhaitham supposedly took care of it. "Don't move it so much," he scolds softly as he puts back the tools used to tend to him back into a wooden box. He'll use any excuse to glance over at his exposed skin. They're so close and yet worlds away.

"I, well. I wouldn't say that," he always takes what he says to heart, doesn't he? Alhaitham definitely knows it. "I've gotten pretty badly hurt in the desert, so I always bring first aid tools just in case." He has acquired plenty of scars in those types of outings. Especially his legs and arms. "Tighnari is the one who gave me this ointment, actually. He said that it numbs the skin on contact, is it true? How do you feel?"

Does it numb the skin? The Scribe is rolling his shirt around his wrists as he is preparing to put it back on and stops in his tracks to look at the (expert) work Kaveh left him on his arm. Truthfully, Alhaitham has a threshold that's quite wide. It allowed him to progress in his own abilities outside of the office if he were to look at it objectively—fatigue only hits him after a long while of reading or a short while of interacting with people, he is able to stretch further than most tight-muscled desk-bound scholars, and he barely feels any soreness in the days like this one, post a surprise aggressive occurrence.
(Or a long session.)

"Huh. I hadn't noticed," he presses his fingers where Kaveh had placed the ointment gently. "It didn't really hurt much in the first place, but I hadn't paid much mind to it."

"I saw you this morning," he counters, implying that the ordeal shook him in ways Kaveh noticed earlier but didn't think to comment. The sweating, his physical fatigue, all signs of a body that had been pushed to its limits.

He gets up to put away the box as well as to hide his expression from him. His newly formed contract with Eremites and their plan positively terrify him. He just wanted to help these people. "You don't have to act around me, you know." Well, that's mighty coming from Kaveh now, but it holds true.

He first wants to say that he was tired, not hurting, when he arrived home that morning. A correction, something to clear what had happened in his perspective. The second thing he considers speaking is about how Alhaitham did not and is not acting anything around Kaveh, a clarification as much as an assuagement. While he prefers a more direct approach, Alhaitham has learned, thanks to his roommate, about the importance of tact. Most of the time, he doesn't bother with it.

Neither of those come forth. Instead, Alhaitham gets up, eyes skimming up and down on the architect's form, and narrowing slightly. "You're upset."

Leave it to Kaveh to inject himself with excessive mental ordeals that could be avoided. The blatancy of his observation irritates him. There's no follow-up, hardly ever is. It's not even Alhaitham's faults or flaws that drive Kaveh's emotions to this degree. He has learned to suffer in silence, deep in all the what ifs. He turns to glance at him, his eyes scan him from head to toe just to be sure he's intact. "You think?"

"Now I know," is what he replies, he just needed the confirmation. A knot forms between his brows as he tries to figure Kaveh out as to why he's upset.

"I couldn't send a message telling you about my situation, there was no means nor time to do so." The largest, most likely probability has to do with the fact that he couldn't really warn his roommate that he was unable to attend their dinner and cancel their plans. Though it is somewhat too cold for Kaveh to think that way—especially considering Alhaitham is injured. The architect was too kind to overlook someone injured.

Although, there's an outlier in that vast number of possibilities, and it is something that he once read in a book recommended by their archon. There's what he knows, the hefty things that Alhaitham knows he doesn't know, and the neverending concept of what he doesn't know he doesn't know. "It's something else, though."

Kaveh is capable of unintended harshness just as Alhaitham is. One could even argue that Kaveh is overbearing, seemingly tipped by the air itself. Yet in reality, he's an iceberg of issues with a vast majority that have yet to find settlement in his heart.

Some of them are ones that are entirely out of Kaveh's control. He already lost Alhaitham to some degree. He doesn't want to lose him entirely. "It has nothing to do with you," he replies, and well, it's not entirely a lie. Plenty of stress is accumulating on his shoulders, but he can't just swallow the words and let them sink into his chest either. He wouldn't be able to sleep. "I'm glad you're safe."

"Alright," he concedes. He'll take it, if Kaveh says so, he sees no reason to believe he'd lie. Sure, they have skirted around subjects and resorted to small omissions and diversions at times, but they both knew that the other was somewhat aware of it and allowed the omission to roll in, or themselves to be distracted.

Alhaitham is about to ask if it's still something that he can help solve, be it by direct action or just becoming a sanity check for whatever is troubling Kaveh, but he then says that he's glad and—

What was he going to ask again?

He sighs, nods. The Scribe grabs his shirt again and makes to pull the fabric down through his arms and he tsks, doing it with some difficulty because he doesn't want to ruin Kaveh's handiwork.

"Come with me, then," he says as he maneuvers himself carefully back into it.

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