The room definitely becomes a lot chillier with night sinking around them. Kaveh's legs shift even closer to Alhaitham, tangling them as much as he can under the covers. He will never admit it how much he missed all this, holding onto him throughout the night. Breathing and dreaming with him.
Lately all he gets are nightmares or no sleep at all.
Part of him nags on the back of his head that he's only doing this as an apology for when he actually moves out. What they have now, this moment, is something worth cherishing. Kaveh smiles and gives his foot a nudge. Normally he'd jab his side, but he's still afraid of hurting him.
"What I meant to say is that we're going outside tomorrow. You have to stretch your legs and breathe fresh air. It's part of healing, so you can't say no," he speaks lazily as if he's also drifting away to sleep, but he can't help getting in a bit of a playful argument.
Kaveh's legs shift even closer, intertwining with his own beneath the covers. It's a familiar and comforting sensation, it feels complete. The subtle nudge to his foot makes Alhaitham chuckle softly, and he can't help but be endeared by Kaveh's playful argument, the warmth of their shared space, of Kaveh's presence, pressed close, is enough to chase away the chill.
His fingers, devoid of the usual precision, tangle affectionately in Kaveh's tousled hair, often artistically so, but ever since his injury, not so much. It's a gesture that feels natural, an unspoken way of saying he's missed this. The way Kaveh curls up against him, the way they're entwined as if they were two pieces of a puzzle finding their perfect fit.
"I'll think about it," Alhaitham concedes with a playful sigh, his voice warm and affectionate. His gaze meets Kaveh's, and he's struck by the softness in the architect's eyes as fatigue finally weighs on his features, the vulnerability that peeks through in moments like these. "I might need some support, though. And some coffee at Puspa."
"I know what you're doing," he rebuttals matter-of-factly after hearing that familiar chuckle seep from his lips. It wouldn't be a conversation with Alhaitham without him egging him on in some way. Yet his humor is inviting and warm, welcoming feelings to being released from long years of bottling.
His arm folds over Alhaitham's chest, more relaxed than ever. His heart beats wildly the moment their gazes meet. "Obviously, you do. That's what I'm here for. What do you think I've been doing this entire time, even while you lay in bed all day?" He rests his cheek against his shoulder again, getting comfortable enough to shut his eyes again.
It is then, as he's drifting away that his plague of thoughts make it out of him again, "I'm sorry, I got you hurt."
The room cradles them within its velvet embrace, a cocoon of warmth and whispered words, familiar banter. Kaveh's words assume a somber note, and Alhaitham maintains an unbroken gaze on the architect. They exist in the soft flickering of candlelight, faces bathed in an ethereal, golden glow, as Alhaitham's fingers dance from the golden tendrils to skim along Kaveh's jawline, a caress akin to a melancholic sigh.
Kaveh's unsuspecting earlobe bears the brunt of an affectionate pinch, just a light squeeze. Alhaitham's voice lowers, ripples in his chest like the reflection of moonlight on a pond. "It is not your fault," he murmurs. The back of his thumb persists in tracing a stripe on Kaveh's cheek.
Guilt swims like an ever-present specter when Kaveh is concerned. It is in his nature to bear the burden of things he's not supposed to carry, to collect remorse like a rare and heavy gem. He wears this guilt like a shroud, like his own identity, regardless of the logic that insists otherwise. Alhaitham wishes not to add to that.
Perhaps the long-gone goddess of time appears to linger in the nocturnal interlude, the world suspended in intimacy, in these emotions that teeter on the edge of their own beings. Alhaitham draws near, tilting his head so he can rest his nose against the line of Kaveh's hair, his own eyes closing. His voice, as mellifluous as the night itself, whispers "Good night, Kaveh." There is no room for Kaveh to respond, no need for words within the language they have cultivated, one that the both of them still struggle to decipher entirely, and would probably need to write numerous books about.
The guilt bites into him, seeping into his bones like venom just to set him up with a plague of nightmares. He wakes up a few times throughout the night, clutching onto Alhaitham's body in cold sweat and palpitations. The candlelight has long burnt out and Alhaitham's room is so far back into their home that no light can enter this hour.
There are no manuals or books that could guide Kaveh out of his illness. He places blame in the wrong places not knowing the root cause. It's no wonder he runs in circles and gets lost among his thoughts.
Even sleeping with Alhaitham turns into his mind attacking itself: he's just using him now as means to anchor himself to better days. It's much easier than facing the reality of allowing himself the simple pleasure, the relief of sharing intimate spaces with him again.
It becomes unbearable after laying there for minutes, listening to him breathing. So Kaveh slips out of bed to get the day started. Sunrise should be near, anyway. He showers off the sweat of the night and gets dressed, turning back on his demons. He'll wake him up after he prepares their coffee, he decides. Best to beat the rush of people. As he's standing there grinding beans, he remembers Alhaitham requesting the Puspa Cafe coffee. It'll save more time if he goes and buys it now as opposed to waiting for Alhaitham. Walking all the way there would be difficult for him in his state. So he grabs his keys and some mora.
The walk helps him forget all about the night and by the time he returns the sun is already creeping up. He sets down the two cups of coffee on the table and sits at the edge of the bed. "Hey, I brought you the coffee you wanted." He reaches out to him to feel his forehead, pushing back his hair. "Do you want to shower first?"
Alhaitham stirs in his bed, frowning when the mattress is tilted a certain way that he's not expected, the sheets next to him are cold under his fingers as he folds his arm, and suddenly, a cool hand brushes across his forehead.
"Oh, good, you're still here," he grouses, his voice still laden with sleep, sand in his eyes, his eyelids fluttering open like they're weighty. He visibly relaxes when he spots Kaveh, slowly tensing when realizing that he was not where he was supposed to, and easing when noticing he had just—
—gone out? To get coffee? "What…?"
He clears his throat. "Coffee first," always coffee first. He can take a shower later. He needs to be awake.
"You must have been sleeping like a rock. Anyway, at least it doesn't feel like you have a fever," he reaches for the coffee cup from the night stand, staying perpendicular to Alhaitham and only shifting closer so he can hand over the coffee. The entire room grips them with the fresh scent of morning dew and fresh brew. Kaveh always insisted in adding a window to his room. Even during the day, it can be so dark here if it weren't for the light coming from the hallway.
Kaveh glances over at the wall full of books while sipping from his own coffee cup. It's Alhaitham's favorite blend, he's going to miss it whenever he moves. There are times he wishes he could unleash everything he thinks: What happened between us? He glances into his cup, still sitting in bed. "Do you feel any pain?"
He takes the cup with a nod of thanks, his fingers curling around the warmth it offers.
The familiar blend caresses his senses as he takes the first sip, and he can't help but relish the taste. It's a small indulgence, a simple pleasure. Yet he hadn't been able to drink it due to all the medicine being a shock to his body. He sighs, perhaps in a moment of vulnerability. But he's been vulnerable all this while and sees no purpose to try and deny it. "I've missed this."
His gaze follows Kaveh's to the wall of books, and he senses the unspoken questions that linger in the air. It's a topic they've skirted around for too long, a conversation that has remained buried beneath the weight of their shared history.
As Kaveh asks about his pain, Alhaitham takes a moment to assess his body. There's the familiar ache that comes with his injuries, but it's bearable. The physical pain, after all, pales in comparison to the emotional complexities that have woven their lives together.
"I'm fine," he finally responds, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance. But the unspoken words, the ones that have lingered in the shadows for far too long, still hang heavy in the room, waiting to be acknowledged. "I'll be out of your hair in no time."
The memories they own together even surpass the dust clinging to Alhaitham's book collection. Kaveh is halfway done with his drink, savoring the morning and the silence. They had many mornings like these, intertwined and satisfied. He glances at him, "I'm the one who's in your hair, you remind me any chance you get and I don't mind taking care of you a single bit. I'll go set up your shower," and just like that, he flees from the creeping conversation they're bound to rabbit hole into. Kaveh's afraid to ruin any semblance of peace they have now, even if it means shattering a moment of respite.
The water runs in the distance, filling up the buckets. One is slightly more soapy. He doesn't know if his scarring should still get wet or not. Last time he saw it, it seemed a lot less frightening.
He would have rather sat down and enjoyed the drink in their hands, the presence and warmth of them in the same room for a little while longer. There are moments when Kaveh will do what he will do, and Alhaitham can't really stop him because that would be changing who he is. Even if it does kill him bit by bit, Alhaitham can only work on easing the pain, note that there are little things that don't need Kaveh's own immeasured sense of responsibility.
He stays in his place on the bed for a while. "I don't feel like getting up," he states. Fully awake, almost like a challenge.
It’s not that Kaveh wants to change Alhaitham for who he is either— he has known all the sides lost to their time in the Akademiya, and he wishes they would someday resurface.
There’s nothing he can do to suture their differences now, but he’s worried that he had been in bed for so long, getting weaker and weaker.
“Wow,” he climbs into bed with him again, sitting up against the back. “If you want me to carry you, it won’t happen. The water will get cold. Or…did you want some privacy… to… you know.”
The water could get cold, but he could always make it run some more. Thankfully in Sumeru they're not suffering a power crisis like Fontaine, and Alhaitham can afford the bills.
Instead, he sighs and leans his shoulder against Kaveh's arm, letting himself sink under the cover until he allows his head to rest against the architect's shoulder. He's warm and bears the scent of the outside. By all means Alhaitham should be looking forward to going out and enjoy the sunlight, get a new book. His eyes are closed and his voice is neutral, except:
It has been weeks of him camping on Alhaitham's floor, giving him medicine, helping him clean, and cleaning after everything. He wouldn't want to impose on his private matters. He's surprised he doesn't have any visitors from the Akademiya. Surely by now he'd have some type of fling, assuming people were brave enough to approach him.
Kaveh tries peering down at him, tensing the moment the endearment slips out of his mouth. "I...What? Anyone would have thought so. It's normal and healthy. You're lucky I can't hit you, tch." Not that he'd hit him hard anyway.
"You never do even when you can," not hard, anyway. Maybe a shove, a flick of his fingers. He figures Kaveh is thinking the same things. The only instance where they diverge in their lines of thought is that Alhaitham stirs himself towards practicality, towards the sense and sensibility of things, whereas Kaveh leans on the impact of even the most intimate of decibels, on the meaning of it all to himself, but mostly towards others. The Scribe knows where this stems from, he can't really change that.
But he can make the other forget others a bit and focus on the present a bit more. The quickest, and often easiest, way is to rile Kaveh up. He's entirely there when he's irked, surfing the crest of their discussions, the foam of his anger almost never a relentless wave, but so much better than the constant riptide of his own self-worth.
While Kaveh wonders why he barely has visitors save Cyno, Nilou, Dehya, Tighnari, and Kaveh himself (Candance has actually sent a letter of well wishes), Alhaitham is amazed that so many people have actually gone out of their way to check on him. Thankfully, a lot of it was to not talk about his state. Just giving him a once-over and catching up.
As for flings. Ugh. He doesn't even want to bother. Not that there weren't attempts, but they were immediately shut down when Alhaitham looked at them in silence to hear whatever they had to say. He's not innocent to not know what they wanted, but he'd rather not even engage.
"You're under the assumption that I'm interested because I asked about your work. I'm not. I merely asked because I have a report to deliver by 5 today."
He doesn't understand why that person suddenly called him a bastard, red to the face.
"It is also normal and healthy not feeling like it," he adds, feeling the tension in Kaveh's body against his temple. Not disagreeing.
"Just you wait, then," he retorts very lazily without meaning a single word of it. It feels warm being able to lean against him like this, after all these weeks of the uncomfortable mattress. He truly did miss out on taking advantage, because now he's bound to soon go back to his room and the emptiness of his bed.
"Tch. Whatever you say. Come on, I know you're just being lazy but you can't lay in bed forever," and just like that, he flees from his own comfort and Alhaitham's warmth. When he's down from the bed he pulls back the sheets from his body. He has to clean them anyway to ensure his environment is clear from anything that could potentially infect his scarring.
"I have to clean your back and see if you need more bandages, too."
Yes, Kaveh has had some flings here and there, lonely nights that remind him who he truly wants to be embraced by. If only he could turn back the clock enough to prevent all the ugly things that cut Alhaitham and their relationship to the core. Perhaps then, he would still be in bed with him, lathering him with kisses.
As Kaveh rises and begins to pull back the sheets, Alhaitham experiences the dreaded sensation of the cool air meeting his warm skin. It elicits a shiver, a protest against the intrusion of the cold. He watches Kaveh as he prepares to leave the bed, and a subtle pang of loss courses through him. Their shared warmth, the comforting intimacy of their closeness, is something he's missed during these weeks of recovery.
"Very well," he responds with a resigned sigh, finally pushing himself to sit up. The sleepiness and weakness still cling to him, reluctant to relinquish their hold. His feet touch the cold floor, and it's enough to jolt him into a more wakeful state.
With measured steps, Alhaitham makes his way to the bathroom, not entirely pleased about the interruption but understanding the necessity of it. The tiled floor feels cool against his feet, sending a shiver up his spine.
If only everything didn't feel so heavily complicated, or if his stubbornness cleared for just a few minutes. Kaveh is tying up a band over his head to keep his hair out of the way of moisture.
"About time. Let me see," part of him still subconsciously seeks to lather him with touch, and his fingers graze over his bare shoulders, tracing the large wound on his back until his finger tips end up on the area Tighnari performed surgery on. It's all vivid pink, with some peeling. Perhaps being a vision bearer helps with all this.
He's just glad he's still here.
"Do you still want me to help you scrub your back? You look pretty good." In all senses, but he just makes it sound like he's referring to his progress.
The bathroom's sterile atmosphere and the scent of soap and cleanliness surround him as he waits, his sleepiness waning
Kaveh is already preparing himself and Alhaitham watches him, the sight of his familiar movements, the gentle precision of his hands, riveting in its own right. His fingers graze over Alhaitham's shoulders and back and the touch is electrifying and familiar, a reminder of the countless times they've been there against Alhaitham's skin, and he knows how deft they are at drawing numerous drawings on his skin, and how tight they get when they clench and grapple hard against his flesh. Alhaitham's breath catches for a fleeting moment, but he forces himself to focus on the objective practicality of the situation, even if his previous claim of 'not feeling like it' has been proven absolutely wrong. His gaze briefly meets Kaveh's as he carries a veneer of casualness at the rare compliment.
He knows he wants. There are so many combinations of those three words he can weave together from this moment alone.
His eyes lock on Kaveh's for a while and then slip down to where the architect's collarbone is instead.
Nothing in life could have ever prepared his him for everything Alhaitham makes him feel. He's more than what he should consider family. He's someone who can actually build fruitful conversations with, and speak on his level. Alhaitham's gaze puts a wrench in him that nearly has him spilling all his guts and yet he fears coming to face the reality he very much rejects. Or Alhaitham's many: I told you so.
He can't comprehend how those words could equate to affection, even if they stem from it.
He has him sit on the stool in the shower: water is turned off of course and Kaveh decides on leaving his shirt outside by the sink in case it gets wet. He gently lets water rinse off the sweat of the night, soothing his healing wound and any dead skin.
The language of geniuses is the hardest language yet because definitions differ.
He squeezes water off of the small towel and starts dabbing away around his shoulders, careful to avoid the largest gash stretching across his back. His muscles are still there despite his inactivity. Kaveh longs to drape his arms around him, but for now this will do. "Going out will be good."
The towel is damp and has the faintest trace of warmth that teases gooseskin onto Alhaitham's shoulders. Still, he can't help but appreciate the touch, the gentleness and care from those fingers. Would that Kaveh treat himself the way he's treating Alhaitham right then, but he doesn't linger too much into that thought. He merely leans into it, his muscles relaxing with Kaveh's gentle ministrations. The touch is more than just physical, it sends Alhaitham's brain into overdrive of memories, of everything that transcends the mundane, and is wrapped in the domesticity that they once had, that still remains between them like a stain from rusted materials.
As Kaveh works, Alhaitham tilts his head slightly. Looking up and over his shoulder at the architect, watching him frown as he works. There's a momentary impulse to lean back against him, to seek the comfort and familiarity of their closeness. To ask for those arms to wrap around him. Still, he stops, caught in the whirlwind of his own emotions, the riptide of yearning that threatens to pull him under.
He must be exhausted. Alhaitham barely stops himself, but does so. Instead, he offers a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a subtle sign of his longing. "Will you go with me?"
The question is almost offensive in a way. Had Kaveh not been the one to practically beg him to get out of bed for a nice day out? He doesn't hold it against him, but it doesn't stop him from commenting: "The Scribe can be so idiotic sometimes. I'm obviously coming with you." What if there's someone waiting to ambush him in the city? They didn't finish off everyone back then.
He pauses for a long moment while tending to the soapy residue on his shoulder-blades, cleaning it off of him and then his shoulders. He squeezes the towel from water over them to better let everything run down his back. "You look tense and all you've done is sleep. Are you sure you're okay? Do you need a massage?" Any excuse to touch him is good enough in his eyes, but long years of lectures haunt him. While some debates are great for the minds, others keep repelling him.
"Oh, obviously you haven't had enough of me, yet, hu—"
The water droplets from the cleaning cascade down his back, creating a contrast of heat and coolness that sends shivers through his body he groans, hunches, and tries his best not to tense the site of his injury and Alhaitham sees this as a touché. He sighs, still, admonished but not defeated.
The offer of a massage is too tempting to resist. Alhaitham has been cared for and handled plenty already, but now he feels petulant, willful. Perhaps it's selfish of him. "I may take you up on that."
"Hmph," I never get enough of you. He scolds himself about it and how it could all solve itself if he were to apologize. "Is that so," comes out dry, drastically contradicting the warmth on his hands as he pumps out the essence ointment. It has the double agent of treating his healing scar, too: safe and creamy against any skin surface. Kaveh inches closer on the bucket he's sitting on behind Alhaitham, running down his palms over his shoulders to begin and squeezing delicately down his biceps.
Touching him is always surreal to him. That the gods blessed this man in every possible way is a simple statistical miracle. Too bad his personality suffered along the way, yet Kaveh doesn't truly think of it as an imperfection. He welcomes the difference, he even protects it when it's strangers taking jabs at their Scribe. "Relax, will you?" He says while gliding fingers over to his nape, pushing his thumbs at either side of his spine and treading up to the base of his skull, "and you better not fall asleep on me."
Only each of them is allowed to talk about their grievances of the other. Alhaitham had realized this before when he was about to walk around the curve of the central pillar of the House of Daena to find Kaveh about to rip some other scholar's eyes out for referring to a rumour about something along the lines of Alhaitham's 'preferential treatment' amongst the Sages. Such a ludicrous thing has not even worth paying attention to, and yet, Kaveh, the Light of the Kshahrewar, not a penny to his name, making a ruckus about how Alhaitham, of all people, had no connections to anyone to place him at an advantageous position in the Akademiya. Even Alhaitham's own criticism of the Architect was not without its tone of fondness, of acceptance, in a way.
Acceptance which would be welcome now, when Kaveh's fingers dig into his muscles, and all he can think is how good they feel. His head cants low, down with a groan and a hiss at how they feel on the back of his neck, sending swirls of pleasurable ache to the back of his fluttering closed eyes and loosening his jaw. "Ah, so telling someone to relax—actually helps the other person do it, now?"
“Yes, it does,” he replied as a stern thumb glides down the crook of his neck. He uses both hands to gently squeeze it, hoping to reap the stress that has been accumulating in bed for ages now.
All the hammering and work comes in handy when it comes to this. Delicate as he seems, his grip and precision is surgical. His care is boundless. Listening to Alhaitham groan like this puts a smile on his face— good thing he can’t see it.
Fingertips steadily work around the large scar, tracing the vivid pinkness of it. He’s a lot more gentle now as he caresses down every bone on his spine and over every knotted muscle. “You have to consciously hear someone tell you. Then your brain clicks into action.”
After a few minutes of that and watching the back of his head hang in delight, he begins to wonder if it’s enough to stop here. His hands slide carefully down his sides and over his thighs. He rests his chin on his shoulder so he can look down.
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Lately all he gets are nightmares or no sleep at all.
Part of him nags on the back of his head that he's only doing this as an apology for when he actually moves out.
What they have now, this moment, is something worth cherishing. Kaveh smiles and gives his foot a nudge. Normally he'd jab his side, but he's still afraid of hurting him.
"What I meant to say is that we're going outside tomorrow. You have to stretch your legs and breathe fresh air. It's part of healing, so you can't say no," he speaks lazily as if he's also drifting away to sleep, but he can't help getting in a bit of a playful argument.
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His fingers, devoid of the usual precision, tangle affectionately in Kaveh's tousled hair, often artistically so, but ever since his injury, not so much. It's a gesture that feels natural, an unspoken way of saying he's missed this. The way Kaveh curls up against him, the way they're entwined as if they were two pieces of a puzzle finding their perfect fit.
"I'll think about it," Alhaitham concedes with a playful sigh, his voice warm and affectionate. His gaze meets Kaveh's, and he's struck by the softness in the architect's eyes as fatigue finally weighs on his features, the vulnerability that peeks through in moments like these. "I might need some support, though. And some coffee at Puspa."
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His arm folds over Alhaitham's chest, more relaxed than ever. His heart beats wildly the moment their gazes meet. "Obviously, you do. That's what I'm here for. What do you think I've been doing this entire time, even while you lay in bed all day?" He rests his cheek against his shoulder again, getting comfortable enough to shut his eyes again.
It is then, as he's drifting away that his plague of thoughts make it out of him again, "I'm sorry, I got you hurt."
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Kaveh's unsuspecting earlobe bears the brunt of an affectionate pinch, just a light squeeze. Alhaitham's voice lowers, ripples in his chest like the reflection of moonlight on a pond. "It is not your fault," he murmurs. The back of his thumb persists in tracing a stripe on Kaveh's cheek.
Guilt swims like an ever-present specter when Kaveh is concerned. It is in his nature to bear the burden of things he's not supposed to carry, to collect remorse like a rare and heavy gem. He wears this guilt like a shroud, like his own identity, regardless of the logic that insists otherwise. Alhaitham wishes not to add to that.
Perhaps the long-gone goddess of time appears to linger in the nocturnal interlude, the world suspended in intimacy, in these emotions that teeter on the edge of their own beings. Alhaitham draws near, tilting his head so he can rest his nose against the line of Kaveh's hair, his own eyes closing. His voice, as mellifluous as the night itself, whispers "Good night, Kaveh." There is no room for Kaveh to respond, no need for words within the language they have cultivated, one that the both of them still struggle to decipher entirely, and would probably need to write numerous books about.
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There are no manuals or books that could guide Kaveh out of his illness. He places blame in the wrong places not knowing the root cause. It's no wonder he runs in circles and gets lost among his thoughts.
Even sleeping with Alhaitham turns into his mind attacking itself: he's just using him now as means to anchor himself to better days. It's much easier than facing the reality of allowing himself the simple pleasure, the relief of sharing intimate spaces with him again.
It becomes unbearable after laying there for minutes, listening to him breathing. So Kaveh slips out of bed to get the day started. Sunrise should be near, anyway.
He showers off the sweat of the night and gets dressed, turning back on his demons. He'll wake him up after he prepares their coffee, he decides. Best to beat the rush of people. As he's standing there grinding beans, he remembers Alhaitham requesting the Puspa Cafe coffee. It'll save more time if he goes and buys it now as opposed to waiting for Alhaitham. Walking all the way there would be difficult for him in his state. So he grabs his keys and some mora.
The walk helps him forget all about the night and by the time he returns the sun is already creeping up. He sets down the two cups of coffee on the table and sits at the edge of the bed. "Hey, I brought you the coffee you wanted." He reaches out to him to feel his forehead, pushing back his hair. "Do you want to shower first?"
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"Oh, good, you're still here," he grouses, his voice still laden with sleep, sand in his eyes, his eyelids fluttering open like they're weighty. He visibly relaxes when he spots Kaveh, slowly tensing when realizing that he was not where he was supposed to, and easing when noticing he had just—
—gone out? To get coffee? "What…?"
He clears his throat. "Coffee first," always coffee first. He can take a shower later. He needs to be awake.
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Kaveh glances over at the wall full of books while sipping from his own coffee cup. It's Alhaitham's favorite blend, he's going to miss it whenever he moves.
There are times he wishes he could unleash everything he thinks: What happened between us?
He glances into his cup, still sitting in bed. "Do you feel any pain?"
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The familiar blend caresses his senses as he takes the first sip, and he can't help but relish the taste. It's a small indulgence, a simple pleasure. Yet he hadn't been able to drink it due to all the medicine being a shock to his body. He sighs, perhaps in a moment of vulnerability. But he's been vulnerable all this while and sees no purpose to try and deny it. "I've missed this."
His gaze follows Kaveh's to the wall of books, and he senses the unspoken questions that linger in the air. It's a topic they've skirted around for too long, a conversation that has remained buried beneath the weight of their shared history.
As Kaveh asks about his pain, Alhaitham takes a moment to assess his body. There's the familiar ache that comes with his injuries, but it's bearable. The physical pain, after all, pales in comparison to the emotional complexities that have woven their lives together.
"I'm fine," he finally responds, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance. But the unspoken words, the ones that have lingered in the shadows for far too long, still hang heavy in the room, waiting to be acknowledged. "I'll be out of your hair in no time."
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He glances at him, "I'm the one who's in your hair, you remind me any chance you get and I don't mind taking care of you a single bit. I'll go set up your shower," and just like that, he flees from the creeping conversation they're bound to rabbit hole into. Kaveh's afraid to ruin any semblance of peace they have now, even if it means shattering a moment of respite.
The water runs in the distance, filling up the buckets. One is slightly more soapy. He doesn't know if his scarring should still get wet or not. Last time he saw it, it seemed a lot less frightening.
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He stays in his place on the bed for a while. "I don't feel like getting up," he states. Fully awake, almost like a challenge.
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There’s nothing he can do to suture their differences now, but he’s worried that he had been in bed for so long, getting weaker and weaker.
“Wow,” he climbs into bed with him again, sitting up against the back. “If you want me to carry you, it won’t happen. The water will get cold. Or…did you want some privacy… to… you know.”
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Instead, he sighs and leans his shoulder against Kaveh's arm, letting himself sink under the cover until he allows his head to rest against the architect's shoulder. He's warm and bears the scent of the outside. By all means Alhaitham should be looking forward to going out and enjoy the sunlight, get a new book. His eyes are closed and his voice is neutral, except:
"The Light of the Kshahrewar has a dirty mind."
beautiful
Kaveh tries peering down at him, tensing the moment the endearment slips out of his mouth. "I...What? Anyone would have thought so. It's normal and healthy. You're lucky I can't hit you, tch." Not that he'd hit him hard anyway.
LMAOOO i'm so sorry
But he can make the other forget others a bit and focus on the present a bit more. The quickest, and often easiest, way is to rile Kaveh up. He's entirely there when he's irked, surfing the crest of their discussions, the foam of his anger almost never a relentless wave, but so much better than the constant riptide of his own self-worth.
While Kaveh wonders why he barely has visitors save Cyno, Nilou, Dehya, Tighnari, and Kaveh himself (Candance has actually sent a letter of well wishes), Alhaitham is amazed that so many people have actually gone out of their way to check on him. Thankfully, a lot of it was to not talk about his state. Just giving him a once-over and catching up.
As for flings. Ugh. He doesn't even want to bother. Not that there weren't attempts, but they were immediately shut down when Alhaitham looked at them in silence to hear whatever they had to say. He's not innocent to not know what they wanted, but he'd rather not even engage.
"You're under the assumption that I'm interested because I asked about your work. I'm not. I merely asked because I have a report to deliver by 5 today."
He doesn't understand why that person suddenly called him a bastard, red to the face.
"It is also normal and healthy not feeling like it," he adds, feeling the tension in Kaveh's body against his temple. Not disagreeing.
"is this a flirt? sorry, i have to go" LMAOO
"Tch. Whatever you say. Come on, I know you're just being lazy but you can't lay in bed forever," and just like that, he flees from his own comfort and Alhaitham's warmth. When he's down from the bed he pulls back the sheets from his body. He has to clean them anyway to ensure his environment is clear from anything that could potentially infect his scarring.
"I have to clean your back and see if you need more bandages, too."
Yes, Kaveh has had some flings here and there, lonely nights that remind him who he truly wants to be embraced by. If only he could turn back the clock enough to prevent all the ugly things that cut Alhaitham and their relationship to the core. Perhaps then, he would still be in bed with him, lathering him with kisses.
"I'll wait in the bathroom."
JEEZ
"Very well," he responds with a resigned sigh, finally pushing himself to sit up. The sleepiness and weakness still cling to him, reluctant to relinquish their hold. His feet touch the cold floor, and it's enough to jolt him into a more wakeful state.
With measured steps, Alhaitham makes his way to the bathroom, not entirely pleased about the interruption but understanding the necessity of it. The tiled floor feels cool against his feet, sending a shiver up his spine.
"I'm here."
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"About time. Let me see," part of him still subconsciously seeks to lather him with touch, and his fingers graze over his bare shoulders, tracing the large wound on his back until his finger tips end up on the area Tighnari performed surgery on. It's all vivid pink, with some peeling. Perhaps being a vision bearer helps with all this.
He's just glad he's still here.
"Do you still want me to help you scrub your back? You look pretty good." In all senses, but he just makes it sound like he's referring to his progress.
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Kaveh is already preparing himself and Alhaitham watches him, the sight of his familiar movements, the gentle precision of his hands, riveting in its own right. His fingers graze over Alhaitham's shoulders and back and the touch is electrifying and familiar, a reminder of the countless times they've been there against Alhaitham's skin, and he knows how deft they are at drawing numerous drawings on his skin, and how tight they get when they clench and grapple hard against his flesh. Alhaitham's breath catches for a fleeting moment, but he forces himself to focus on the objective practicality of the situation, even if his previous claim of 'not feeling like it' has been proven absolutely wrong. His gaze briefly meets Kaveh's as he carries a veneer of casualness at the rare compliment.
He knows he wants. There are so many combinations of those three words he can weave together from this moment alone.
His eyes lock on Kaveh's for a while and then slip down to where the architect's collarbone is instead.
"Please," he says softly.
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He can't comprehend how those words could equate to affection, even if they stem from it.
He has him sit on the stool in the shower: water is turned off of course and Kaveh decides on leaving his shirt outside by the sink in case it gets wet. He gently lets water rinse off the sweat of the night, soothing his healing wound and any dead skin.
The language of geniuses is the hardest language yet because definitions differ.
He squeezes water off of the small towel and starts dabbing away around his shoulders, careful to avoid the largest gash stretching across his back. His muscles are still there despite his inactivity. Kaveh longs to drape his arms around him, but for now this will do. "Going out will be good."
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As Kaveh works, Alhaitham tilts his head slightly. Looking up and over his shoulder at the architect, watching him frown as he works. There's a momentary impulse to lean back against him, to seek the comfort and familiarity of their closeness. To ask for those arms to wrap around him. Still, he stops, caught in the whirlwind of his own emotions, the riptide of yearning that threatens to pull him under.
He must be exhausted. Alhaitham barely stops himself, but does so. Instead, he offers a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a subtle sign of his longing. "Will you go with me?"
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He pauses for a long moment while tending to the soapy residue on his shoulder-blades, cleaning it off of him and then his shoulders. He squeezes the towel from water over them to better let everything run down his back. "You look tense and all you've done is sleep. Are you sure you're okay? Do you need a massage?" Any excuse to touch him is good enough in his eyes, but long years of lectures haunt him. While some debates are great for the minds, others keep repelling him.
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The water droplets from the cleaning cascade down his back, creating a contrast of heat and coolness that sends shivers through his body he groans, hunches, and tries his best not to tense the site of his injury and Alhaitham sees this as a touché. He sighs, still, admonished but not defeated.
The offer of a massage is too tempting to resist. Alhaitham has been cared for and handled plenty already, but now he feels petulant, willful. Perhaps it's selfish of him. "I may take you up on that."
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Touching him is always surreal to him. That the gods blessed this man in every possible way is a simple statistical miracle. Too bad his personality suffered along the way, yet Kaveh doesn't truly think of it as an imperfection. He welcomes the difference, he even protects it when it's strangers taking jabs at their Scribe. "Relax, will you?" He says while gliding fingers over to his nape, pushing his thumbs at either side of his spine and treading up to the base of his skull, "and you better not fall asleep on me."
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Acceptance which would be welcome now, when Kaveh's fingers dig into his muscles, and all he can think is how good they feel. His head cants low, down with a groan and a hiss at how they feel on the back of his neck, sending swirls of pleasurable ache to the back of his fluttering closed eyes and loosening his jaw. "Ah, so telling someone to relax—actually helps the other person do it, now?"
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All the hammering and work comes in handy when it comes to this. Delicate as he seems, his grip and precision is surgical. His care is boundless.
Listening to Alhaitham groan like this puts a smile on his face— good thing he can’t see it.
Fingertips steadily work around the large scar, tracing the vivid pinkness of it. He’s a lot more gentle now as he caresses down every bone on his spine and over every knotted muscle. “You have to consciously hear someone tell you. Then your brain clicks into action.”
After a few minutes of that and watching the back of his head hang in delight, he begins to wonder if it’s enough to stop here. His hands slide carefully down his sides and over his thighs. He rests his chin on his shoulder so he can look down.
“If you want me to stop just say so.”
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