[ His eyes are halfway drifted back to the blueprint on the floor, left foot lifting in a tentative step, when Alhaitham suddenly lifts himself from the floor, a groan in his voice and a near-stumble in his step. The books that spill to the floor do so with a sound that sounds painfully loud, and Kaveh's step stutters, redirecting instead to bring him to his knees, to start picking them up and stacking them back as the other man curses above him.

His things, Alhaitham moved his things, and Kaveh doesn't know that feels so awful but it does, and he finds himself swallowing against the renewed thickness in his throat, promising himself once more that he will not cry, not this time. This is what the other man wanted, so—

Is this what Alhaitham wanted, though? Alhaitham, who is standing on wavering legs in front of him, filling a glass with creamy white liquor, pouring the scents of grape and licorice anew into the already-soaked room? Alhaitham, who bit out the word "fine" so quickly and forcefully that it practically tasted like a lie?

For the first time since this whole mess started to unravel in Kaveh's hands, he finds himself unsure. And perhaps it's for that reason he's driven back to his feet, books forgotten— or perhaps it's the fact that he hates how unsteady the scribe is, how he's irrefutably not himself in this moment— either way, the architect stands, reaches out, fingers closing over Alhaitham's wrist in an effort to stop him from continuing to lift the glass to his lips. ]

Please— Alhaitham, this isn't you. You don't— you're so drunk, please stop drinking.

[ He shouldn't touch. It's not his place, not anymore. But he can't help it, not when worry has temporarily displaced the sickness of the hurt and heartbreak he's been feeling. He'll leave, but— ]

I know you don't want me here, and I'll leave as soon as I can pack my things up. I just. I need you to be okay first.