[ There's a single moment where Kaveh doesn't know what Alhaitham is going to do... and something about that is unsettling to the point of fear. Usually, the scribe is predictable down to the very last detail; it's rare that he surprises the architect with anything that he says or does— in hindsight, even his showing up to the bar when Kaveh told him not to makes a certain kind of sense, as does locking the door overnight and trying to return to a sense of normalcy this morning.
But the anger writing itself over Alhaitham's face is new. The smooth scatter of Kaveh's papers over the floor is newer. ]
What the fuck, Alhaitham?
[ As carefree as he can be with certain things, these papers are important, and so Kaveh doesn't miss a beat, kneeling down amongst the mess and trying to gather them back into some semblance of order, making sure nothing has been damaged or misplaced by the sudden way they were flung to the floor. It's the sounds that follow, though— the scribe's cold voice, the slam the bare heel against the storage trunk, the thump of falling books— that make him look up from where he's working to see what the other is doing now—
Panic grips his heart like a vice, and for a moment Kaveh thinks he's going to be sick. He can't move out. He can't. He has nowhere else to go—
(and maybe he should have thought of that before provoking Alhaitham to the point of no return)
Unthinking, he shoves himself back onto his feet, quick strides taking him around the desk and in front of the storage trunk, arms out as if doing so will somehow stop the scribe from packing his life into a box and throwing him out onto the streets. When he speaks, it's in the pleading tone of someone desperate, the aloof cold chased immediately out of his voice by the panic. ]
Alhaitham, don't. Please. You know I don't have anywhere else to go.
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But the anger writing itself over Alhaitham's face is new. The smooth scatter of Kaveh's papers over the floor is newer. ]
What the fuck, Alhaitham?
[ As carefree as he can be with certain things, these papers are important, and so Kaveh doesn't miss a beat, kneeling down amongst the mess and trying to gather them back into some semblance of order, making sure nothing has been damaged or misplaced by the sudden way they were flung to the floor. It's the sounds that follow, though— the scribe's cold voice, the slam the bare heel against the storage trunk, the thump of falling books— that make him look up from where he's working to see what the other is doing now—
Panic grips his heart like a vice, and for a moment Kaveh thinks he's going to be sick. He can't move out. He can't. He has nowhere else to go—
(and maybe he should have thought of that before provoking Alhaitham to the point of no return)
Unthinking, he shoves himself back onto his feet, quick strides taking him around the desk and in front of the storage trunk, arms out as if doing so will somehow stop the scribe from packing his life into a box and throwing him out onto the streets. When he speaks, it's in the pleading tone of someone desperate, the aloof cold chased immediately out of his voice by the panic. ]
Alhaitham, don't. Please. You know I don't have anywhere else to go.