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.”
For all the reputation of Alhaitham being a difficult person to deal with, he surely follows well orders and does exactly as he's told. The motion isn't without its issues: it involves him twisting a little to pivot the axis of his hips, and then laying down in a different angle that maneuvers his ribs differently. He winces, a tsk of his tongue at just how silly it is for his body to warn him about the injury. He already knows, he doesn't need the extra reminders.
Kaveh cleans, Kaveh worries even as the days pass by. He spends more time at home taking care of Alhaitham, and is having to make meals entirely from scratch. Every night, he goes to bed thinking of the marring flesh forcing itself to heal and he somehow wears his pain as his fault. If he had just kept nagging him to stay or to have the matra accompany him, he wouldn’t have been laying in bed like he is now.
Housework feels twice as heavy knowing Alhaitham is out of commission. And if he lived alone, who would be here for him?
“Are you awake? I’m going to the Akademiya. It shouldn’t be long.”
"Do you have work?" his voice sounds a bit better, already able to at least argue with Kaveh in some instances, his shaking of irritation a sight that actually lights him up. Alhaitham gradually becomes more animated, and the prospects are good. Even Cyno had been impressed with how well he is recovering.
'I just have a really good nurse,' the Scribe had said. Cyno had snorted, told some sort of joke that granted him a smack upside the head by Tighnari, who claimed no one even in good health is supposed to endure that. Alhaitham had snorted, then, and it hurt his ribs.
It's getting easier to move. He reaches out to Kaveh's sleeve, slow enough that he wouldn't be able to startle him. Picks lint off the fabric and flicks it away.
“Kind of,” he says dryly as if the previous statement of him being assigned the role of a nurse still pinched a nerve or two. He’s relieved he’s coming back to his infuriating normalcy, at least. Even long after he leaves the house, he still feels the ghost of Alhaitham’s hand flicking away the lint off his shirt, feeling the immense gravitation of his heart swelling in his presence. He can’t stop thinking about his laugh, or his voice. Yet he’s seething for every other reason under the sun.
The matra never see what’s to come. At least Cyno isn’t here to witness Kaveh push open through Akademiya doors, and into the office. The real work is getting real answers, “you realize how much danger you put your own scholars without protection? We almost lost your precious scribe and I demand to know why you couldn’t have assigned him someone to him. I don’t even want to hear that he would have declined the treatment— put a leash on him for all I care. He could have — he could have died! You realize that?!”
“Mr. Kaveh— Sir—“ the young man looks around for help, fixing files to keep busy. There are times where Kaveh isn’t just the Light of Kshahrewar, but a lion. Some students try to peek into the office, murmuring behind their hands and books as Kaveh’s voice seeps out and into the echos of Akademiya walls. It’s not the first time his voice grabs people’s attention, though normally he’s fighting the Scribe himself— so this is a rare occurrence and the perfect opportunity to freshly squeeze gossip. “Fine. Don’t answer me. I’ll just talk to Cyno.”
Said gossip, of course, travels like the Withering. The matra talk to Cyno, who comes running to tell Tighnari, who in turn, throws a comment about how there are certain people readily throwing arms for the sake of Alhaitham's health once the Scribe shrugs (not without pain, but it's worth it to get the point and sentiment across) about how Kaveh seems to be taking his own injury.
He knows, of course. Kaveh's shoulders slope heavier with each brush of his fingers, as though he had been the one to slip the blade between his ribs. Alhaitham spends most of the time stopping himself from leaning into the touch, seeking a bit more of that warmth, but he suspects that would do more harm than good, that he would scare the Architect away by doing so.
Alhaitham had sighed, shaken his head. Respecting Kaveh means to let him be himself, not stifle him behind a gilded cage as he flaps his wings irritatingly, the thrum of it hitting the bars. Probably the same thrum in his ribcage whenever he nears, whenever he sees the care in his eyes before the guilt enshrouds it.
The room smells like him, he had realized when the medicinal herbs had faded. It's the most comforting he's ever felt.
"I'll talk to him," he promises the Ranger. Tighnari sighs, purses his lips in something that he wishes to say but doesn't. Alhaitham thanks him, squeezes the hand that he had placed on his shoulder, and tells him that he's injured, so he at least should let him pet his tail once.
"You're both incorrigible," says the Amurta alumni with a sigh when Alhaitham sinks his fingers into the soft fur. "That sounds like a compliment."
"With you, Alhaitham? Everything sounds the way you want it to sound."
Kaveh's actions are a fraction of the raw emotions still converging in his core. The ones that fuel his anger, his sadness. When he returns home later that day, he sits by himself in their study. It's best if Alhaitham doesn't witness him when he's on the verge of snapping, and being bedridden has proved to inspire more nonsensical and irritating talk on Alhaitham's part.
The last thing he wants is to fight and dampen his health, even if, in his opinion, is warranted against all his invalid points.
Instead of drawing, he ends up writing a letter to his mother in Fontaine. The ink feels heavy against the paper, soaking into the material and permeating each letter with his special touch of instability. There are probably a lot more clients in Fontaine, anyway. Then he wouldn't have to burden Alhaitham with his extended stay here. Maybe for once Alhaitham would have a positive thing to say if he packed up and left.
"I heard that," he tells them as he's entering Alhaitham's room again. He immediately goes to reposition the burning essence that is giving Alhaitham's room the same scent as his. Soothing, like eucalyptus and lavender. "I thought you were on my side, Tighnari," he becomes sidetracked almost immediately, "oh, looks like you ran out of tea. I'll go make some more."
"I don't need—"It's too late, and the Scribe sighs. He knows what Kaveh is doing. A rolling stone gathers no moss, and the same goes for the architect's own attempts at not sitting still for too long, for fear of guilt and any other weight to latch on to him further, to make himself useful because he can't, and Tighnari himself has been adamant about it, rush recovery. He knows that somehow, Kaveh's mind tends to make him feel like a burden even though Alhaitham is the one to end up burdening him.
Still, when Kaveh does come back with the drink, and Tighnari finishes getting things ready for the next couple of days, deeming another estimate for how long it would take for Alhaitham to get back on track, leaving a pointed note to the Haravatat alumnus to 'Talk' with a capital T and forcing a nod out of him, he cradles the cup with both his hands, enjoying the way it warms his oddly cold hands.
"Do you wish to tell me what happened at the Akademiya?"
"Thank you, Tighnari," Kaveh escorts him to the door whenever he leaves, making sure to lock after. He waits until his footsteps disappear and then turns to turn off the living room lights. It's odd walking into Alhaitham's room lately since he's still camping there to ensure his comfort. Well, he'll be comfortable as long as he doesn't talk.
He's shifting into his mattress and rolling up the sheets when Alhaitham asks the question. This prompts him to sit up again, throwing him a deadpanned stare across the candlelit room. "The Akademiya is not as sharp as it used to be. And no, I don't want to talk about it. Should I get you a silly book so you can read yourself a bedtime story?"
He doesn't reply. Alhaitham shakes his head only. His body stirs, a quiet discomfort tugging at his senses as he shifts. The remnants of pain weave through him like a faint thread, but it's a far cry from what he was once feeling. His gaze settles on the cup of tea by his side, its now coldness telling him how long it's been since he asked and respected Kaveh's unwillingness to give him his side of the story.
His mind wanders, tracing the intricate lines of his circumstances, and the concern for Kaveh's well-being. Alhaitham understands the depth of Kaveh's care, and he knows that if he suddenly showcases a lot of autonomy he may as well tell the architect he's useless to his face.
Still, he needs to move. That tea moves fast within his body. He eases himself upright, the movement accompanied by a murmur of discomfort that dances across his body especially as he moves his legs sideways and he finally touches the cold flooring with his feet as he sits up.
Not so bad. Still, his eyes narrow softly as he looks at Kaveh in his makeshift bed. "I'd appreciate a silly book. If you pick one for me."
Kaveh is unable to shake off the memory of Alhaitham’s bleeding body draped over his back. Or how lifeless he had felt at the moment, like a light that could go out any second.
As much as it annoys him when Alhaitham pries into his business, Kaveh can’t help gravitating willingly to his aid. He kicks off the sheets and rises again— he’s still wearing his wrist brace.
“You probably read everything here anyway,” he mumbles to himself while grazing fingers across titles, squinting. “Agh, don’t move so much, you could irritate the scarring,” he comes back to him book in hand, leaving it at his lap. It’s about a study in cultural architecture and how it defines different groups of people. Kaveh’s name is among the authors.
His gaze is intent on him and every shadow cast by the candlelight. It’s expected that there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but Kaveh brushes hair out of the way so he can properly press the back of his hand to it, “no fever. That’s a good sign.”
The weight of Kaveh's concern brushes against Alhaitham's skin like a ghostly caress, and he does his best not to lean into it. Still, he looks up from the book sitting in Alhaitham's lap like a fragment of their own story, and he thinks he does feel warm, a gentle flame flickering through Alhaitham's being. In that fleeting contact, it's as though Kaveh decided to place a white canvas upon which Alhaitham feels transparent, painting his emotions, colouring both the yearning and the restraint.
His lip twitches. The candlelight bathes Kaveh's features in a golden glow, casting shadows that dance across his face.
"I appreciate this," Alhaitham murmurs. His fingers trace the cover of the book, a tactile connection to the world Kaveh has offered him, but he doesn't just mean the fetching of a book, it's not just the care.
It's everything.
Before Alhaitham allows himself to be carried away by the currents of this moment's intimacy, to surrender to the enigma of Kaveh's presence, and to lose himself in the silent symphony of their shared space, he does look down, shifts his weight and braces his feet and hands to get ready to get up after he sets the book on his bedside table. "I do need to go, though."
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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.
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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?"
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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?"
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Has Kaveh been taking care of himself? He looks terrible, Alhaitham knows the signs of exhaustion on him, has seen them plenty of times.
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“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.
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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."
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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?"
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"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?"
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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.”
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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.
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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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Housework feels twice as heavy knowing Alhaitham is out of commission. And if he lived alone, who would be here for him?
“Are you awake? I’m going to the Akademiya. It shouldn’t be long.”
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'I just have a really good nurse,' the Scribe had said. Cyno had snorted, told some sort of joke that granted him a smack upside the head by Tighnari, who claimed no one even in good health is supposed to endure that. Alhaitham had snorted, then, and it hurt his ribs.
It's getting easier to move. He reaches out to Kaveh's sleeve, slow enough that he wouldn't be able to startle him. Picks lint off the fabric and flicks it away.
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The matra never see what’s to come. At least Cyno isn’t here to witness Kaveh push open through Akademiya doors, and into the office. The real work is getting real answers, “you realize how much danger you put your own scholars without protection? We almost lost your precious scribe and I demand to know why you couldn’t have assigned him someone to him. I don’t even want to hear that he would have declined the treatment— put a leash on him for all I care. He could have — he could have died! You realize that?!”
“Mr. Kaveh— Sir—“ the young man looks around for help, fixing files to keep busy. There are times where Kaveh isn’t just the Light of Kshahrewar, but a lion. Some students try to peek into the office, murmuring behind their hands and books as Kaveh’s voice seeps out and into the echos of Akademiya walls. It’s not the first time his voice grabs people’s attention, though normally he’s fighting the Scribe himself— so this is a rare occurrence and the perfect opportunity to freshly squeeze gossip.
“Fine. Don’t answer me. I’ll just talk to Cyno.”
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He knows, of course. Kaveh's shoulders slope heavier with each brush of his fingers, as though he had been the one to slip the blade between his ribs. Alhaitham spends most of the time stopping himself from leaning into the touch, seeking a bit more of that warmth, but he suspects that would do more harm than good, that he would scare the Architect away by doing so.
Alhaitham had sighed, shaken his head. Respecting Kaveh means to let him be himself, not stifle him behind a gilded cage as he flaps his wings irritatingly, the thrum of it hitting the bars. Probably the same thrum in his ribcage whenever he nears, whenever he sees the care in his eyes before the guilt enshrouds it.
The room smells like him, he had realized when the medicinal herbs had faded. It's the most comforting he's ever felt.
"I'll talk to him," he promises the Ranger. Tighnari sighs, purses his lips in something that he wishes to say but doesn't. Alhaitham thanks him, squeezes the hand that he had placed on his shoulder, and tells him that he's injured, so he at least should let him pet his tail once.
"You're both incorrigible," says the Amurta alumni with a sigh when Alhaitham sinks his fingers into the soft fur. "That sounds like a compliment."
"With you, Alhaitham? Everything sounds the way you want it to sound."
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The last thing he wants is to fight and dampen his health, even if, in his opinion, is warranted against all his invalid points.
Instead of drawing, he ends up writing a letter to his mother in Fontaine. The ink feels heavy against the paper, soaking into the material and permeating each letter with his special touch of instability. There are probably a lot more clients in Fontaine, anyway. Then he wouldn't have to burden Alhaitham with his extended stay here. Maybe for once Alhaitham would have a positive thing to say if he packed up and left.
"I heard that," he tells them as he's entering Alhaitham's room again. He immediately goes to reposition the burning essence that is giving Alhaitham's room the same scent as his. Soothing, like eucalyptus and lavender. "I thought you were on my side, Tighnari," he becomes sidetracked almost immediately, "oh, looks like you ran out of tea. I'll go make some more."
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Still, when Kaveh does come back with the drink, and Tighnari finishes getting things ready for the next couple of days, deeming another estimate for how long it would take for Alhaitham to get back on track, leaving a pointed note to the Haravatat alumnus to 'Talk' with a capital T and forcing a nod out of him, he cradles the cup with both his hands, enjoying the way it warms his oddly cold hands.
"Do you wish to tell me what happened at the Akademiya?"
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He's shifting into his mattress and rolling up the sheets when Alhaitham asks the question. This prompts him to sit up again, throwing him a deadpanned stare across the candlelit room. "The Akademiya is not as sharp as it used to be. And no, I don't want to talk about it. Should I get you a silly book so you can read yourself a bedtime story?"
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His mind wanders, tracing the intricate lines of his circumstances, and the concern for Kaveh's well-being. Alhaitham understands the depth of Kaveh's care, and he knows that if he suddenly showcases a lot of autonomy he may as well tell the architect he's useless to his face.
Still, he needs to move. That tea moves fast within his body. He eases himself upright, the movement accompanied by a murmur of discomfort that dances across his body especially as he moves his legs sideways and he finally touches the cold flooring with his feet as he sits up.
Not so bad. Still, his eyes narrow softly as he looks at Kaveh in his makeshift bed. "I'd appreciate a silly book. If you pick one for me."
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As much as it annoys him when Alhaitham pries into his business, Kaveh can’t help gravitating willingly to his aid. He kicks off the sheets and rises again— he’s still wearing his wrist brace.
“You probably read everything here anyway,” he mumbles to himself while grazing fingers across titles, squinting. “Agh, don’t move so much, you could irritate the scarring,” he comes back to him book in hand, leaving it at his lap. It’s about a study in cultural architecture and how it defines different groups of people. Kaveh’s name is among the authors.
His gaze is intent on him and every shadow cast by the candlelight. It’s expected that there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but Kaveh brushes hair out of the way so he can properly press the back of his hand to it, “no fever. That’s a good sign.”
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His lip twitches. The candlelight bathes Kaveh's features in a golden glow, casting shadows that dance across his face.
"I appreciate this," Alhaitham murmurs. His fingers trace the cover of the book, a tactile connection to the world Kaveh has offered him, but he doesn't just mean the fetching of a book, it's not just the care.
It's everything.
Before Alhaitham allows himself to be carried away by the currents of this moment's intimacy, to surrender to the enigma of Kaveh's presence, and to lose himself in the silent symphony of their shared space, he does look down, shifts his weight and braces his feet and hands to get ready to get up after he sets the book on his bedside table. "I do need to go, though."
To the bathroom, he means.
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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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