[ Fair's fair, Alhaitham says, and then proceeds to do to Kaveh exactly what the architect did to him, listing off defect after defect, words that cut deeper than the blonde is prepared for, and he gets it, should probably just be grateful that the other man hasn't walked off like he thought he would, but there's still a sting of hurt in response, a bitter expression that crosses his face as the other talks.
(And what doesn't help is the way the scribe somehow sees through the defenses he's put up for himself, understands that the work at least sometimes is something to hide behind, a protective barrier of time and distance between Kaveh and the things he doesn't want to have to face.
In many ways, it's the same as the alcohol.)
He's somehow convinced himself that it will stop at insults, but then there's a surprisingly gentle grip on his chin, and Alhaitham is continuing, filling the space now not with words that cut, but those that soothe and warm and comfort, and Kaveh feels his stomach doing something that seems to be a mixture of tying itself in knots and making itself home to an entire colony of butterflies. And he tries to tell himself not to get his hopes up, because compliments and love are two very different things— but Alhaitham, ever the semiotic scholar, has reused the pattern Kaveh himself designed right after confessing his own feelings for the scribe, and the anticipation simmers a little too readily as a natural response.
And then Alhaitham says it again, says he's beautiful, and the architect knows that there's no point in even trying to tamp down his hopes anymore. ]
I meant what I said too. Before that, I mean... that I kissed you because I wanted to. [ Somehow, despite the anxiety and the embarrassment and the distant uncomfortable feeling of standing on drunkenly tottering legs, he keeps his gaze steady on the other man's. ] But it wasn't just something I felt like doing at that moment. I wanted to kiss you because I think about it all the time. Even— [ and here, his eyes do drop, a hollow shame creeping into his words ] —even that girl, the night before that, I was just... I was trying not to think about you.
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(And what doesn't help is the way the scribe somehow sees through the defenses he's put up for himself, understands that the work at least sometimes is something to hide behind, a protective barrier of time and distance between Kaveh and the things he doesn't want to have to face.
In many ways, it's the same as the alcohol.)
He's somehow convinced himself that it will stop at insults, but then there's a surprisingly gentle grip on his chin, and Alhaitham is continuing, filling the space now not with words that cut, but those that soothe and warm and comfort, and Kaveh feels his stomach doing something that seems to be a mixture of tying itself in knots and making itself home to an entire colony of butterflies. And he tries to tell himself not to get his hopes up, because compliments and love are two very different things— but Alhaitham, ever the semiotic scholar, has reused the pattern Kaveh himself designed right after confessing his own feelings for the scribe, and the anticipation simmers a little too readily as a natural response.
And then Alhaitham says it again, says he's beautiful, and the architect knows that there's no point in even trying to tamp down his hopes anymore. ]
I meant what I said too. Before that, I mean... that I kissed you because I wanted to. [ Somehow, despite the anxiety and the embarrassment and the distant uncomfortable feeling of standing on drunkenly tottering legs, he keeps his gaze steady on the other man's. ] But it wasn't just something I felt like doing at that moment. I wanted to kiss you because I think about it all the time. Even— [ and here, his eyes do drop, a hollow shame creeping into his words ] —even that girl, the night before that, I was just... I was trying not to think about you.