[ there's so much alcohol coursing through his system that kaveh's delicate artist's fingers curling around his should just be a distant feeling, but it's real and so much more in focus than the rest of the world swimming around him right now. teal eyes rest on their joined hands in silence for perhaps longer than is comfortable, but time seemed to be both passing hideously quickly and sluggishly slow in this strange limbo they were in; feet half in an end and half in a beginning.
and yet here, even as far gone as alhaitham is, he'd be a fool to deny the heady sense of relief he was beginning to feel as the blonde's familiar grip tightens on his own, fingers that were stained in ink and chalks as often as they'd been threaded into the scribe's silver hair or mapping his skin. maybe that's why the finality of their parting had such a great effect on him - mm, if nahida were here, she'd share some insight into the samsara of their existence together as they orbited one another; the fact that they had become irreplaceable structures in each other's lives, that they gave and took in equal measures, that they were such distinct polar opposites yet maintained a fragile equilibrium that actually allowed them to realise themselves.
this hadn't been the first misunderstanding that had created a divide between them, and alhaitham is sure it wouldn't be the last, as much as he was loathe to admit. this was the dance they did, testing, pushing, challenging one another in ways that were well-meaning but often obtuse and misguided - but twice, twice was enough evidence that it was a cycle and not an exception.
that perhaps, as stupidly whimsical or fantastical as it might seem to say out loud, they would always gravitate back to each other again.
- and, since it would be stupidly whimsical to say such a thing out loud, the scribe gives his answer in physicality instead. for a man of words, they often failed him when kaveh was involved and given the current record of errors, alhaitham didn't trust his beleaguered mind to say the right thing; so instead, strong arms decisively, firmly reach around the architect's shoulders, enfolding him into an embrace that's perhaps a fraction tighter than he intends (but he's drunk, and moody, and would just really like to not have the other at a distance anymore.)
a deep exhale escapes the taller man at the warmth of kaveh's chest against his; at the impossibly soft locks of blonde hair that press against his cheek as the scribe buries his head in the crook of his shoulder; at the faint scent of padisarah and parchment that was inexplicably, indescribably kaveh.
it sounds like relief, but it also sounds like deep, irreplaceable fondness.
after what seems like an age, a muffled voice murmurs; ]
no subject
and yet here, even as far gone as alhaitham is, he'd be a fool to deny the heady sense of relief he was beginning to feel as the blonde's familiar grip tightens on his own, fingers that were stained in ink and chalks as often as they'd been threaded into the scribe's silver hair or mapping his skin. maybe that's why the finality of their parting had such a great effect on him - mm, if nahida were here, she'd share some insight into the samsara of their existence together as they orbited one another; the fact that they had become irreplaceable structures in each other's lives, that they gave and took in equal measures, that they were such distinct polar opposites yet maintained a fragile equilibrium that actually allowed them to realise themselves.
this hadn't been the first misunderstanding that had created a divide between them, and alhaitham is sure it wouldn't be the last, as much as he was loathe to admit. this was the dance they did, testing, pushing, challenging one another in ways that were well-meaning but often obtuse and misguided - but twice, twice was enough evidence that it was a cycle and not an exception.
that perhaps, as stupidly whimsical or fantastical as it might seem to say out loud, they would always gravitate back to each other again.
- and, since it would be stupidly whimsical to say such a thing out loud, the scribe gives his answer in physicality instead. for a man of words, they often failed him when kaveh was involved and given the current record of errors, alhaitham didn't trust his beleaguered mind to say the right thing; so instead, strong arms decisively, firmly reach around the architect's shoulders, enfolding him into an embrace that's perhaps a fraction tighter than he intends (but he's drunk, and moody, and would just really like to not have the other at a distance anymore.)
a deep exhale escapes the taller man at the warmth of kaveh's chest against his; at the impossibly soft locks of blonde hair that press against his cheek as the scribe buries his head in the crook of his shoulder; at the faint scent of padisarah and parchment that was inexplicably, indescribably kaveh.
it sounds like relief, but it also sounds like deep, irreplaceable fondness.
after what seems like an age, a muffled voice murmurs; ]
We can talk about it.