[ It's probably the worst hangover Kaveh's had in a while, something that given the circumstances isn't entirely surprising. (The circumstances, of course, being: was already too drunk to walk straight, got into an argument that killed the buzz, and then went and drank more. A lot more. ...Honestly, it's probably a miracle he's still alive.) He feels like shit, and quite frankly if it weren't for the fact that he has work to do today, he'd have likely stayed on that friendly couch, resting and drinking water until the worst of the hammering stopped in his skull.
But alas, it is not to be.
There are a few stops that he makes before he returns to the house he reluctantly calls his home: he goes first to the tavern to pick up Alhaitham's stained cape and then— with mora borrowed from Tighnari— to have it properly laundered. As such, by the time he arrives at the scribe's front door, it's bundled up in his arms, folded and warm and smelling like soap and padisarah.
The door is locked. From the inside. Kaveh thinks about dropping the freshly-laundered cape in a puddle of mud.
Instead, he uses a hairpin to pick the lock after five minutes of banging and yelling gets him nowhere.
He should probably clean up before getting to work— the stench of alcohol is coming off him in waves even now, and a glance in the hall mirror has him do a slight double-take (he looks like he's been fucked senseless, he thinks)— but instead he walks straight into the shared study, dropping the bundled cape unceremoniously on Alhaitham's desk before moving to sit behind his own, reaching to pull the feather quill out of his hair so he continue working on the sketch laid out over its surface.
The feather frees the last few strands of his hair, leaving it to fall loose around his face without the pins, messy and yet a perfect match for the debauched state of the rest of him— even a cursory glance at his person will discover that his shirt is sitting a little wider open than usual, his pale skin marred with a number of dark hickeys.
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But alas, it is not to be.
There are a few stops that he makes before he returns to the house he reluctantly calls his home: he goes first to the tavern to pick up Alhaitham's stained cape and then— with mora borrowed from Tighnari— to have it properly laundered. As such, by the time he arrives at the scribe's front door, it's bundled up in his arms, folded and warm and smelling like soap and padisarah.
The door is locked. From the inside. Kaveh thinks about dropping the freshly-laundered cape in a puddle of mud.
Instead, he uses a hairpin to pick the lock after five minutes of banging and yelling gets him nowhere.
He should probably clean up before getting to work— the stench of alcohol is coming off him in waves even now, and a glance in the hall mirror has him do a slight double-take (he looks like he's been fucked senseless, he thinks)— but instead he walks straight into the shared study, dropping the bundled cape unceremoniously on Alhaitham's desk before moving to sit behind his own, reaching to pull the feather quill out of his hair so he continue working on the sketch laid out over its surface.
The feather frees the last few strands of his hair, leaving it to fall loose around his face without the pins, messy and yet a perfect match for the debauched state of the rest of him— even a cursory glance at his person will discover that his shirt is sitting a little wider open than usual, his pale skin marred with a number of dark hickeys.
And for now, he says nothing. ]