[ Admittedly, there's a small part of Kaveh— okay, a reasonably big part actually— that kind of sort of intended to flaunt the love bites visible over his chest and throat, that would be quite self-satisfied with the knowledge that Alhaitham is bothered by them; it's the same part that has his lips twisting into a nasty smirk in response to the irritated look on the scribe's face and the bitter tone in his voice, has him shrugging in the most nonchalant way he can muster, as if there isn't a single thing about it that matters.
Never mind that it does matter, that his stomach is twisting in guilt over the bruise he can see darkening Alhaitham's jaw, that his heart is still aching and angry over the scribe's insults— coward— that his brain is still stamped with the desire burned into it by that dream a few nights ago, a dream so vivid that not even throwing himself drunkenly at a stranger or two was enough to make it disappear. ]
I let myself in.
[ A much simpler way of explaining what actually happened, which was five minutes of expletive-ridden shouting and banging and staring from onlookers followed by several more minutes of fiddling with his hairpins— plural because he broke at least one in the process— while making sure to explain to anyone walking past that he's not actually breaking in, he lives here— a fact in his opinion, far too many people know now. But given the situation, there was no other option unless he wanted to find himself face to face with the matra. ]
I had work to do.
[ His tone is light— not friendly, that would be too much— but calm and measured, staying away from the acid timbres that currently lace the other's voice or the sharp emotion that would usually enrich his own. And it's tempting, admittedly, to follow his words with a question, such as how's your jaw, but he bites back the anger for now in favor of infuriating aloofness. A lesson taken straight from Alhaitham's book, as a matter of fact, echoed down to the way he indicates the paper in front of him as he talks, illustrating his words as if the other needs clarification on what his work is— like he's some kind of idiot— before returning to the work in front of him.
See how he likes it, Kaveh thinks, his stomach making another ugly twist in his abdomen. ]
no subject
Never mind that it does matter, that his stomach is twisting in guilt over the bruise he can see darkening Alhaitham's jaw, that his heart is still aching and angry over the scribe's insults— coward— that his brain is still stamped with the desire burned into it by that dream a few nights ago, a dream so vivid that not even throwing himself drunkenly at a stranger or two was enough to make it disappear. ]
I let myself in.
[ A much simpler way of explaining what actually happened, which was five minutes of expletive-ridden shouting and banging and staring from onlookers followed by several more minutes of fiddling with his hairpins— plural because he broke at least one in the process— while making sure to explain to anyone walking past that he's not actually breaking in, he lives here— a fact in his opinion, far too many people know now. But given the situation, there was no other option unless he wanted to find himself face to face with the matra. ]
I had work to do.
[ His tone is light— not friendly, that would be too much— but calm and measured, staying away from the acid timbres that currently lace the other's voice or the sharp emotion that would usually enrich his own. And it's tempting, admittedly, to follow his words with a question, such as how's your jaw, but he bites back the anger for now in favor of infuriating aloofness. A lesson taken straight from Alhaitham's book, as a matter of fact, echoed down to the way he indicates the paper in front of him as he talks, illustrating his words as if the other needs clarification on what his work is— like he's some kind of idiot— before returning to the work in front of him.
See how he likes it, Kaveh thinks, his stomach making another ugly twist in his abdomen. ]