it is not the first time, nor will it be the last. alhaitham rouses, and the house is empty. he knows it as well as he knows the beating of his own heart and the cadence of his own breathing. when the house is empty, it is still. even at the height of his illness, kaveh expends energy through motion and sound. the house resounds with it. the floorboards creak with it. the doors slam shut with it. the cutlery clinks with it. the house is alive. kaveh's nightmares are dealt with with the barest of bated breaths, ice-cold floors that alhaitham traverses to make his way to his bed. kaveh's pain is announced with the agitated creak of its lumber, the tormented groan of which draws alhaitham to kaveh's side. kaveh's absence is hollow. the house is filled with his silence. alhaitham breathes in, and out, and closes his eyes. seared into his eyelids is the purple of the padisarahs; seared into his eyelids is the red of kaveh's eyes.
within him, deshret murmurs. he ignores him. alhaitham has never needed the ghost of deshret to tell him what he needs to do.
it is still morning when alhaitham's sure steps take him up the pathway to the divine tree. he walks the well-worn corridor's of kaveh's mind, and comes to such a conclusion. the autumn leaves are like fire from heaven. the rambutans are jeweled and sweet. he would have seen the cockerels in their cages and thought of the sky. the divine tree could not possibly be closer to the vapid blue of today, barely hidden behind the faintest wisps of white clouds. a real sky. no sky is ever as ravishingly blue as the one in dreams. alhaitham, who has never had much of an opinion on colour, knows that this sky resonates. it's under the watchful eyes of reality that alhaitham makes his way to the carved out hollow of the sanctuary of surasthana, and then, following kaveh's instincts, looks for the one place where prying eyes would not.
there you are.
kaveh sits. his feet curl against the sallow pale of his skin. he is just beneath the overhanging arch of a resting palm leaf, cradled in perfect frame as if the very breath of surasthana herself seeks to hide but a single petal of a withered flower. alhaitham's feet take him there. he says nothing; there is nothing, after all, to say. his gaze flicks over the peel of the rambutans, the careful plait of kaveh's hands, the tone of his skin and the clarity of his eyes. and then, because he is alhaitham, he takes the cloak from his own shoulders, and slips it around kaveh's.
bodyheat lingers. he looks. of course alhaitham does.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
fanfic good... touches
Date: 2023-05-16 12:34 am (UTC)it is not the first time, nor will it be the last. alhaitham rouses, and the house is empty. he knows it as well as he knows the beating of his own heart and the cadence of his own breathing. when the house is empty, it is still. even at the height of his illness, kaveh expends energy through motion and sound. the house resounds with it. the floorboards creak with it. the doors slam shut with it. the cutlery clinks with it. the house is alive. kaveh's nightmares are dealt with with the barest of bated breaths, ice-cold floors that alhaitham traverses to make his way to his bed. kaveh's pain is announced with the agitated creak of its lumber, the tormented groan of which draws alhaitham to kaveh's side. kaveh's absence is hollow. the house is filled with his silence. alhaitham breathes in, and out, and closes his eyes. seared into his eyelids is the purple of the padisarahs; seared into his eyelids is the red of kaveh's eyes.
within him, deshret murmurs. he ignores him. alhaitham has never needed the ghost of deshret to tell him what he needs to do.
it is still morning when alhaitham's sure steps take him up the pathway to the divine tree. he walks the well-worn corridor's of kaveh's mind, and comes to such a conclusion. the autumn leaves are like fire from heaven. the rambutans are jeweled and sweet. he would have seen the cockerels in their cages and thought of the sky. the divine tree could not possibly be closer to the vapid blue of today, barely hidden behind the faintest wisps of white clouds. a real sky. no sky is ever as ravishingly blue as the one in dreams. alhaitham, who has never had much of an opinion on colour, knows that this sky resonates. it's under the watchful eyes of reality that alhaitham makes his way to the carved out hollow of the sanctuary of surasthana, and then, following kaveh's instincts, looks for the one place where prying eyes would not.
there you are.
kaveh sits. his feet curl against the sallow pale of his skin. he is just beneath the overhanging arch of a resting palm leaf, cradled in perfect frame as if the very breath of surasthana herself seeks to hide but a single petal of a withered flower. alhaitham's feet take him there. he says nothing; there is nothing, after all, to say. his gaze flicks over the peel of the rambutans, the careful plait of kaveh's hands, the tone of his skin and the clarity of his eyes. and then, because he is alhaitham, he takes the cloak from his own shoulders, and slips it around kaveh's.
bodyheat lingers. he looks. of course alhaitham does.
today, too, he has found him. ]