[ a silence dragging on for so long would be uncomfortable in almost any other circumstance - but here, it's comforting, comfortable, interrupted only by an admission kaveh has made to him at several other junctures over the past couple of weeks. a curious phrase, really.
breath is finally caught after their exertion and it becomes somewhat safer to disengage after a few minutes pass (though in the dopamine-addled recesses of alhaitham's mind, he's well aware he'd have the energy to repeat this at least several times over as he catches a glimpse of the blonde in the shadows). it's not the most elegant motion, shifting (carefully) off kaveh and sinking into the mattress alongside him, a hand grasping for a towel he knows is beside his bed and passing it along. functional, practical, but thoughtful in his own entirely logical way - and thoughtful the scribe remains as he props himself up against the bed on an elbow.
ochre-turquoise irises are just barely visible in the relative dimness of the room, alhaitham's gaze focused on kaveh's form - the barely visible flush on his cheeks, the endless, lithe muscle that dipped and arched to construct his body - and although his normally sharp mind is sluggish as it complains at being made to think in what should be a simple afterglow, words keep turning over in his head.
"i love you," the blonde keeps managing to say as if it's the simplest answer in the world to a question alhaitham doesn't quite understand - and the scribe wonders, what reply does he give?
love as a concept to him isn't a foreign one, not for someone who built their life around letters and literature. from folk epics to bawdy poetry, no stories are rarely complete without the sentiment of 'love' and the journeys surrounding them - but there's only three people who have ever prompted such a declaration from him in his life. all familial. never... romantic.
and as for everyone else, well - alhaitham doesn't exactly grow close to people. the situation simply does not arise because he makes sure it doesn't, but kaveh has always, somehow, been here. snuck in, before he finished building his walls. interrupted, before he could shut himself off and send him away.
his tone has returned to its measured, even state when the scribe asks a simple question both of kaveh and the wider world around them; ]
no subject
breath is finally caught after their exertion and it becomes somewhat safer to disengage after a few minutes pass (though in the dopamine-addled recesses of alhaitham's mind, he's well aware he'd have the energy to repeat this at least several times over as he catches a glimpse of the blonde in the shadows). it's not the most elegant motion, shifting (carefully) off kaveh and sinking into the mattress alongside him, a hand grasping for a towel he knows is beside his bed and passing it along. functional, practical, but thoughtful in his own entirely logical way - and thoughtful the scribe remains as he props himself up against the bed on an elbow.
ochre-turquoise irises are just barely visible in the relative dimness of the room, alhaitham's gaze focused on kaveh's form - the barely visible flush on his cheeks, the endless, lithe muscle that dipped and arched to construct his body - and although his normally sharp mind is sluggish as it complains at being made to think in what should be a simple afterglow, words keep turning over in his head.
"i love you," the blonde keeps managing to say as if it's the simplest answer in the world to a question alhaitham doesn't quite understand - and the scribe wonders, what reply does he give?
love as a concept to him isn't a foreign one, not for someone who built their life around letters and literature. from folk epics to bawdy poetry, no stories are rarely complete without the sentiment of 'love' and the journeys surrounding them - but there's only three people who have ever prompted such a declaration from him in his life. all familial. never... romantic.
and as for everyone else, well - alhaitham doesn't exactly grow close to people. the situation simply does not arise because he makes sure it doesn't, but kaveh has always, somehow, been here. snuck in, before he finished building his walls. interrupted, before he could shut himself off and send him away.
his tone has returned to its measured, even state when the scribe asks a simple question both of kaveh and the wider world around them; ]
How do you know?