[ The seconds of silence stretch long, too long, and Kaveh's on edge enough that he swears he hears the part of the scribe's lips, the slight catch of his breath before he starts speaking. Every part of him tenses in readiness, prepared to be kicked out with as little fanfare as what's-his-name before him, the trembling visible not just in his lips but in his whole body as Alhaitham finally speaks—
—and the words make his eyes open again, wide in surprise and glossed over with tears, expression taken over by something that's a mix of consternation and confusion, and for the first time since the scribe kicked the door down he feels starkly naked, vulnerable in the way he's standing in front of the other, arousal starting to flag from the mess into which he's thrown himself this time.
Drunkenly shaky steps take him back from Alhaitham, sitting heavily on the bed when the back of his legs collide with it, and there's a timidness in the way he pulls the covers toward him, over his lap, covering him from that wide-eyed turquoise stare. ]
You're right. It doesn't make sense. [ His voice is hollow, as if he's somehow emptied himself of all possible emotion, having used too much of it in the moments leading up to this. ] But... but feelings rarely do.
[ That's why so many scholars tend to dislike them so much. Like art and creativity, there's nothing quantifiable about emotions, no simple formula that one can plug into a situation to figure it out. He knows himself that feeling the way he does about Alhaitham is practically inconceivable from a logical standpoint when, as the scribe said, all they do is fight and fight some more— but none of that describes the dreams, the sick twisted feelings in his gut when he looks at the other, the pining and longing underlying every interaction they've had since he realized it for himself...
And somehow he's gone in his mind from being terrified of being kicked out to needing to prove it to the other, because he knows that the scribe— a man of logic— doesn't believe, doesn't hear the truth in what he's saying. ]
I figured it out the day after I punched you. [ He doesn't look up at Alhaitham, and the words are spoken low in both volume and tone, lithe fingers twisting in his lap. ] You know yourself I've been different since then.
no subject
—and the words make his eyes open again, wide in surprise and glossed over with tears, expression taken over by something that's a mix of consternation and confusion, and for the first time since the scribe kicked the door down he feels starkly naked, vulnerable in the way he's standing in front of the other, arousal starting to flag from the mess into which he's thrown himself this time.
Drunkenly shaky steps take him back from Alhaitham, sitting heavily on the bed when the back of his legs collide with it, and there's a timidness in the way he pulls the covers toward him, over his lap, covering him from that wide-eyed turquoise stare. ]
You're right. It doesn't make sense. [ His voice is hollow, as if he's somehow emptied himself of all possible emotion, having used too much of it in the moments leading up to this. ] But... but feelings rarely do.
[ That's why so many scholars tend to dislike them so much. Like art and creativity, there's nothing quantifiable about emotions, no simple formula that one can plug into a situation to figure it out. He knows himself that feeling the way he does about Alhaitham is practically inconceivable from a logical standpoint when, as the scribe said, all they do is fight and fight some more— but none of that describes the dreams, the sick twisted feelings in his gut when he looks at the other, the pining and longing underlying every interaction they've had since he realized it for himself...
And somehow he's gone in his mind from being terrified of being kicked out to needing to prove it to the other, because he knows that the scribe— a man of logic— doesn't believe, doesn't hear the truth in what he's saying. ]
I figured it out the day after I punched you. [ He doesn't look up at Alhaitham, and the words are spoken low in both volume and tone, lithe fingers twisting in his lap. ] You know yourself I've been different since then.