Unlike most whose lives are entangled with the Akademiya, the so-called Light of Kshahrewar believes in living his true self to the fullest. This means living not only by logic, but with emotion. Being honest and forthright about the things he feels, letting them guide him and shape the actions he takes in his life. Sometimes, though, the third pillar of his being— his pride— gets in the way of letting him live his full truth, though, sealing his lips on issues that might bring him shame, leaving him to feel like he's carrying around any number of dirty little secrets: his bankruptcy, the fact he's living in Alhaitham's house...
Overall, it's also why he's in this mess, with logic and fear combined keeping him from spilling the truth about the tangle of feelings he has for the scribe in question, feelings shoved stubbornly to the back of his mind in favor of choosing other partners; the bitter sting to his pride driving him in turn to make logically— and perhaps emotionally— stupid choices like singing falsified melodies of pleasure to the walls as a stranger works him over.
False.
In the tavern, sight colored with the rosy hue of alcohol, it was easy enough to pretend that the man talking to him was Alhaitham. He's tall and handsome, broad-shouldered and deep-voiced, blue eyes close enough to turquoise, the hair all wrong of course but Kaveh is creative, let his powerful imagination do the work for him at the time. It worked enough that the architect invited him back to the house, intent on showing off just a little
Now that they're in bed, though, it's another story. The man's touch is all wrong: he's too gentle, practically unsure in comparison to what Kaveh's had; he's lacking the confident commanding nature of everything Alhaitham does, the possessive passion with which the scribe ruined him that night. It feels good, but good is hardly enough anymore; it's all wrong, and Kaveh's swollen arousal, flushed and leaking against the pale skin of his abdomen, is more a matter of biology than anything else, a natural response to the slicked fingers working him open when the door slams inward, revealing the object of his fantasies on the other side.
(And perhaps Alhaitham will notice, looking at him, that for as loud as he's seemed, Kaveh seems remarkably put together. His hair is a mess, and there's the aforementioned arousal to speak of, but there's nothing about him that indicates he's unraveling the way he did under the scribe's mouth. His skin, even, is a blank canvas— apart from the nearly-faded bites from a week ago— with any attempts to mark the skin having been impatiently brushed off.)
Kaveh's partner all but tumbles off the bed in shock, gathering sheets to himself in a twisted echo of a week ago, but the architect's eyes are fixed on the slight glimmer of green remaining in the air around Alhaitham— the tell-tale traces of him having called on the power of his Vision— on the wild look in his emerald eyes, on the gloved hand gripping the door frame with a strength that makes the architect wonder if the wood will splinter under his hold.
And how messed up is he, he wonders desperately, that all of this is somehow what starts the first genuine cord of arousal to wind hungry and wanting in his belly? ]
I'm sorry, were we bothering you?
[ The words are spoken in an attempt at cold calmness, but there's something trembling unwanted beneath the surface, an anger and hurt echoed in Kaveh's eyes as he rises from the bed, crossing the room until he's standing just on the other side of the door, inches away from Alhaitham, his breath quick and heavy on his lips, stained with the scent of sweet wines and stronger liquors. ]
Because you know what bothers me, Alhaitham? When people don't fucking knock.
[ The anger leeching into his voice is genuine. The words too, but a truth told to cover up a much larger one, when what really bothers Kaveh is the fact that Alhaitham reeks of jealousy right now and yet didn't seem to want him when he was practically offered up on a silver platter, has avoided him since and made him feel like nothing, like less than nothing—
And it's a truth he means to hide, but Kaveh is drunk, and when he's drunk sometimes his pride takes a backseat to his feelings. ]
Or, or, when people completely ignore my fucking existence for a whole week!
no subject
Unlike most whose lives are entangled with the Akademiya, the so-called Light of Kshahrewar believes in living his true self to the fullest. This means living not only by logic, but with emotion. Being honest and forthright about the things he feels, letting them guide him and shape the actions he takes in his life. Sometimes, though, the third pillar of his being— his pride— gets in the way of letting him live his full truth, though, sealing his lips on issues that might bring him shame, leaving him to feel like he's carrying around any number of dirty little secrets: his bankruptcy, the fact he's living in Alhaitham's house...
Overall, it's also why he's in this mess, with logic and fear combined keeping him from spilling the truth about the tangle of feelings he has for the scribe in question, feelings shoved stubbornly to the back of his mind in favor of choosing other partners; the bitter sting to his pride driving him in turn to make logically— and perhaps emotionally— stupid choices like singing falsified melodies of pleasure to the walls as a stranger works him over.
False.
In the tavern, sight colored with the rosy hue of alcohol, it was easy enough to pretend that the man talking to him was Alhaitham. He's tall and handsome, broad-shouldered and deep-voiced, blue eyes close enough to turquoise, the hair all wrong of course but Kaveh is creative, let his powerful imagination do the work for him at the time. It worked enough that the architect invited him back to the house, intent on showing off just a little
Now that they're in bed, though, it's another story. The man's touch is all wrong: he's too gentle, practically unsure in comparison to what Kaveh's had; he's lacking the confident commanding nature of everything Alhaitham does, the possessive passion with which the scribe ruined him that night. It feels good, but good is hardly enough anymore; it's all wrong, and Kaveh's swollen arousal, flushed and leaking against the pale skin of his abdomen, is more a matter of biology than anything else, a natural response to the slicked fingers working him open when the door slams inward, revealing the object of his fantasies on the other side.
(And perhaps Alhaitham will notice, looking at him, that for as loud as he's seemed, Kaveh seems remarkably put together. His hair is a mess, and there's the aforementioned arousal to speak of, but there's nothing about him that indicates he's unraveling the way he did under the scribe's mouth. His skin, even, is a blank canvas— apart from the nearly-faded bites from a week ago— with any attempts to mark the skin having been impatiently brushed off.)
Kaveh's partner all but tumbles off the bed in shock, gathering sheets to himself in a twisted echo of a week ago, but the architect's eyes are fixed on the slight glimmer of green remaining in the air around Alhaitham— the tell-tale traces of him having called on the power of his Vision— on the wild look in his emerald eyes, on the gloved hand gripping the door frame with a strength that makes the architect wonder if the wood will splinter under his hold.
And how messed up is he, he wonders desperately, that all of this is somehow what starts the first genuine cord of arousal to wind hungry and wanting in his belly? ]
I'm sorry, were we bothering you?
[ The words are spoken in an attempt at cold calmness, but there's something trembling unwanted beneath the surface, an anger and hurt echoed in Kaveh's eyes as he rises from the bed, crossing the room until he's standing just on the other side of the door, inches away from Alhaitham, his breath quick and heavy on his lips, stained with the scent of sweet wines and stronger liquors. ]
Because you know what bothers me, Alhaitham? When people don't fucking knock.
[ The anger leeching into his voice is genuine. The words too, but a truth told to cover up a much larger one, when what really bothers Kaveh is the fact that Alhaitham reeks of jealousy right now and yet didn't seem to want him when he was practically offered up on a silver platter, has avoided him since and made him feel like nothing, like less than nothing—
And it's a truth he means to hide, but Kaveh is drunk, and when he's drunk sometimes his pride takes a backseat to his feelings. ]
Or, or, when people completely ignore my fucking existence for a whole week!