[ The last few days have been hard. So many hours Kaveh has spent lying awake and staring into the darkness, recounting the events of a week ago and trying to figure out where he went wrong. So many tears he has shed that for almost a whole day after it happened, he couldn't speak over the thickness clinging to his throat, leaving him hoarse and ragged. So many meals missed, the taste of even the sweetest fruits akin to desert sand on his tongue. Despite his best efforts this morning, he is disheveled, pale, thinner than he should be, with dark circles under his eyes and bitten fingernails.
Yet even without the benefit of a mirror, he's certain the scene before him looks a damn sight worse.
Stench of araq filling the house aside, everything else is laid out in front of him like a theater of misfortune, an exhibit of things gone wrong. The house, usually relatively clean from Kaveh's efforts, is a wreck; furniture that should be here is missing, books are strewn forgotten on the floor, a half-rolled blueprint lays discarded halfway down the hall. Alhaitham, usually so goddamn composed, is similarly wrecked; hair as mussed as if he's only just risen from bed, a faraway look on his face, a half-empty bottle of alcohol in one hand, his voice edged with emotion usually kept from it.
He looks as broken on the outside as Kaveh feels on the inside, and every muscle in the architect's body screams with the urge to rush forward, to take Alhaitham up in his arms and hold him, to tell him everything is going to be okayβ But he holds his ground, even as his legs waver in place, his desperate hopes for once silenced in the face of the weight he's carried since their fight.
(Because how stupid would he feel if this turned out to be something entirely unrelated to him?) ]
I... came to get my things. [ His voice feels distant, foggy, like he's outside of his body and listening to himself speak. Watching as his brows crease, his lips partβ then shut, then part once more. ] ...Are you alright?
[ What a stupid question when Alhaitham is clearly going to pieces in front of him. ]
no subject
Yet even without the benefit of a mirror, he's certain the scene before him looks a damn sight worse.
Stench of araq filling the house aside, everything else is laid out in front of him like a theater of misfortune, an exhibit of things gone wrong. The house, usually relatively clean from Kaveh's efforts, is a wreck; furniture that should be here is missing, books are strewn forgotten on the floor, a half-rolled blueprint lays discarded halfway down the hall. Alhaitham, usually so goddamn composed, is similarly wrecked; hair as mussed as if he's only just risen from bed, a faraway look on his face, a half-empty bottle of alcohol in one hand, his voice edged with emotion usually kept from it.
He looks as broken on the outside as Kaveh feels on the inside, and every muscle in the architect's body screams with the urge to rush forward, to take Alhaitham up in his arms and hold him, to tell him everything is going to be okayβ But he holds his ground, even as his legs waver in place, his desperate hopes for once silenced in the face of the weight he's carried since their fight.
(Because how stupid would he feel if this turned out to be something entirely unrelated to him?) ]
I... came to get my things. [ His voice feels distant, foggy, like he's outside of his body and listening to himself speak. Watching as his brows crease, his lips partβ then shut, then part once more. ] ...Are you alright?
[ What a stupid question when Alhaitham is clearly going to pieces in front of him. ]