sapio | open.

"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.

It’s impossible for Kaveh to disguise emotions. Whenever he tries to do so, it winds up an issue that must later be dragged out from the shadows. He’s overreacting because he cares, even if he steps on a few wrong branches.

It’s not easy living here. Always reminded that Alhaitham and him aren’t what they used to. “What?” He asks breathlessly, fully aware that a reaction like this is bound to garner a sarcastic remark. Of course he heard him right. “You’re saying you have to go back there after what happened?! Isn’t that supposed to be in the hands of the matra now?” More importantly, Alhaitham is actually willing to give himself a headache and take Kaveh along?

Alhaitham finishes tugging his shirt in place, tucking the hem neatly into his waistline, adjusting the sash to his preferred position, and ensuring that there's no hair nor stitch out of place. He glances up, the eyebrow uncovered by his grey hair raising slightly. "I haven't had a proper meal yet. Let's go get something to eat first."

“Alhaitham!” It is true that Kaveh is also starving for a meal but he detests it when Alhaitam blatantly ignores him like this. Part of him thinks he does it on purpose most of the time, knowing how much it grates his nerves. He observes him adjust his shirt back into place again with arms crossed, brows creased. “Will you talk to me after we eat?”

He checks he has everything (including both keys), and he shrugs. "Of course," very noncommital. He doesn't really understand what else there is to talk about. He has reported the issue to the authorities already, and of course, there's the subject that Kaveh is upset about that he'll delve into later. He cants his head towards the door. "Technically I haven't stopped."

“You changed the subject,” he clarifies as they both head out to the evening. He keeps on glancing at him and the fresh cloth wrapping his wound. “I— Ugh, what do you want to eat?” It’s not like he wants to discuss anything serious over a meal and in public. Enough people see them together regularly like this after all, and he wants to avoid any other rumors.

"Is there anything else about it we need to discuss?" He asks genuinely, as though the Scribe is wondering if they missed anything on a shopping list, like many times before. From his point of view, the issue of his delay, his injury, and his exhaustion, all had been taken care of by standard process, Kaveh's expert bandaging, and a day of sleep, respectively. But then again, he supposes that something like this has lingering somethings underlining the situation that Kaveh, with his sense and sensibility, taps onto. "I was thinking of a Shawarma Wrap, but I'm open to suggestions."

"Well, not right now, no. After we eat," that buys him enough time to debate himself whether he should open up about his own issues. In all fairness, he knows he should. Then part of him remembers that neither of them have a right to their private business anymore. "I don't mind a Shawarma wrap. We can share one, it'll be less expensive," and then Alhaitham has less to hang over his head. "What do you think of Fontaine?" Comes out seemingly out of the blue, but really, he keeps thinking about it lately; how it is excruciating living with him and how nothing has changed.

"Fontaine?" That's surprising, but it's not the first, nor he would assume it would be the last, time that Kaveh would bring something up that would stir under the surface of his thoughts like a Wenut on the prowl. Alhaitham makes no mention of splitting a wrap; he's assuming he's famished, but he'll see how much of it will be wanting to eat at the time. "I've heard some travelers mentioning how tense it's been there, lately," he opens the door to Lambad's tavern ahead of him to let Kaveh walk through first—done thoughtlessly, as though it's second nature. He knows that Kaveh's mother lives and works there, and that is often a worrying concept for him. "Did you hear news from your mother?"

It wouldn't be the first time he brings it up. Alhaitham is prone to listening about Kaveh's most intimate aspects of life, that being what's left of his family. Bound by blood but separated by fate. He clings to this idea that family will have meaning once again in the future.

He walks into Lambad and past Alhaitham's kindness which is also second nature. They might be like water and oil most of the time, but their bodies sometimes speak for themselves. Kaveh finds a table upstairs for the two and sits by the window. Their complimentary drinks are given right on cue and as if they were expected. So, Kaveh drinks. "I, well. Yes. Apparently, the housing system there is going through a reform so she is to either move farther away from the city and commute to work, or bunk with another family. I haven't written back," his twenty-million mora is pending and he doesn't believe he actually made that much money until he sees it. "I plan to send her some money for the time being." And if that doesn't work, then he'll have no choice but to move. He avoids eye contact with him when he thinks about it. In theory, this would be the best option for the two. His heart just can't stand the idea.

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