[ You may not be concerned, the architect wants to say, but I am. Alhaitham might not be the most career-driven person on Teyvat, but a job is still a job, and the last thing Kaveh wants is to cost the scribe his. But he also knows better than to fight the other man on it. Besides, he probably couldn't even if he wanted to, because he's reeling like he's been slapped, his mind ringing with the slurs that fall off the Vahumana scholar's lips.
Slut.
It's hardly the first time such words have been aimed at him, but they sting, make his gut twist itself in ugly knots at the knowledge that he's worth that little to someone— even if that someone is an asshole like this guy, who isn't worth the thoughts Kaveh's wasting on him.
He nods mutely in response to Alhaitham's command, and it's not until his partner storms back through the arch with the scholar in his grip— the scholar whose cold blue eyes are fixed on Kaveh's face, an expression glinting behind the irises that for once in his life the architect is entirely unable to read.
And it's only once he's watching the pair move across the room— watching the figures parting for the scribe's stalking figure, watching the way heads turn and then bow together, hearing the drone of concerned murmurs starting to overtake the warmer buzz of conversation that had previously been filling the air— that he remembers vaguely he should have wiped the bloody spit off his partner's face.
Archons, he's going to be sick—
Part of him feels like he should watch what's going on, try to keep eyes on the party, make sure Alhaitham's okay, but he almost can't bear it, instead finds himself scuffing the gob of bloody spit into the stone floor, drinking too deep from his wine glass and wishing he had another.
Whore. Needy, clingy, desperate whore.
What a surprise then, the insidious little voice reminds him, that he's been so frustrated about Alhaitham not taking him to bed. Even an actual stranger knows it's all he's good for. How is he meant to keep the other man around otherwise? ]
Shut up.
[ He whispers it to himself, the fingers of both hands curling into fists as he scuffs his shoes over the floor again, feet falling into a pacing, back-and-forth rhythm over the width of the hallway. ]
no subject
Slut.
It's hardly the first time such words have been aimed at him, but they sting, make his gut twist itself in ugly knots at the knowledge that he's worth that little to someone— even if that someone is an asshole like this guy, who isn't worth the thoughts Kaveh's wasting on him.
He nods mutely in response to Alhaitham's command, and it's not until his partner storms back through the arch with the scholar in his grip— the scholar whose cold blue eyes are fixed on Kaveh's face, an expression glinting behind the irises that for once in his life the architect is entirely unable to read.
And it's only once he's watching the pair move across the room— watching the figures parting for the scribe's stalking figure, watching the way heads turn and then bow together, hearing the drone of concerned murmurs starting to overtake the warmer buzz of conversation that had previously been filling the air— that he remembers vaguely he should have wiped the bloody spit off his partner's face.
Archons, he's going to be sick—
Part of him feels like he should watch what's going on, try to keep eyes on the party, make sure Alhaitham's okay, but he almost can't bear it, instead finds himself scuffing the gob of bloody spit into the stone floor, drinking too deep from his wine glass and wishing he had another.
Whore. Needy, clingy, desperate whore.
What a surprise then, the insidious little voice reminds him, that he's been so frustrated about Alhaitham not taking him to bed. Even an actual stranger knows it's all he's good for. How is he meant to keep the other man around otherwise? ]
Shut up.
[ He whispers it to himself, the fingers of both hands curling into fists as he scuffs his shoes over the floor again, feet falling into a pacing, back-and-forth rhythm over the width of the hallway. ]