it is nothing exceptional. the story of weal and woe prints up its pages like so: that those caught within the viper's nest of a kingdom built solely on power consolidated upon the few shoulders of the living must, by its very nature, succumb to death. his mother and father must have known such a thing, though alhaitham can only question the print left behind in leather bound journals. his grandmother had known that the last breath she would draw would be the one relinquishing alhaitham to that very same world that had taken so much from her. in the end, the only thing that lasts is the wisdom pressed between pages of books, a library of everlasting memory. alhaitham remembers, still.
the word is like shards of betrayal. alhaitham's breath catches in his throat. the siren of honey and silk intermingles with artificial imprinting of biological desire, and something that finally, after all this time, resembles emotions cross hif ace. the flashpoint is like a match lit. it starts like this: the biting of a lip, the narrowing of his eyes, and for a brief moment, there is anger, and then anger at the showing of his own humanity, and then the frustration of a predator kept from his prey, the resentment of a creature having caught doing so, and the glinting knife-edged flash of something like hurt. for a moment, his body stills, caught between self-control and biological impetus. alhaitham's bloodied nails dig into the ends of his cloth package.
haitham, please - kaveh says. alhaitham thinks - he has not been merely haitham in such a long time.
the first step towards kaveh is pulled from the strain of muscle; the second is like the breaking of a deluge over a fall. but alhaitham fights it regardless, with the sullen resentment of a creature made to heel, the lash of his nails and the taste of iron like condemnation. he is at the edge of the bed in what seems like an eternity, the cant of his neck and the cast of his shadow over the shift of kaveh's legs as if umbra and penumbra were to find their zenith.
alhaitham looks. of course he does. the bed dips with the weight of his knee. the air chokes with the subtle spring of water tension, thick enough that one would need a knife to cleave it into form. but alhaitham leans, like the long, lean line of liquid mercury. his shadow slides over the pale, bare line of kaveh's shoulder. the glinting, wanton red of his eyes. alhaitham's breath ghosts over it like murmured song. ]
Kaveh. [ is what he says, low, and sure, and furious. ] I am saying 'no'.
[ the package is torn. alhaitham digs out the paper packet from it. his nail carves through the seal, and with sheer, frustrated precision, he pins kaveh down and presses the packet against his lips. the powder spills. ]
no subject
it is nothing exceptional. the story of weal and woe prints up its pages like so: that those caught within the viper's nest of a kingdom built solely on power consolidated upon the few shoulders of the living must, by its very nature, succumb to death. his mother and father must have known such a thing, though alhaitham can only question the print left behind in leather bound journals. his grandmother had known that the last breath she would draw would be the one relinquishing alhaitham to that very same world that had taken so much from her. in the end, the only thing that lasts is the wisdom pressed between pages of books, a library of everlasting memory. alhaitham remembers, still.
the word is like shards of betrayal. alhaitham's breath catches in his throat. the siren of honey and silk intermingles with artificial imprinting of biological desire, and something that finally, after all this time, resembles emotions cross hif ace. the flashpoint is like a match lit. it starts like this: the biting of a lip, the narrowing of his eyes, and for a brief moment, there is anger, and then anger at the showing of his own humanity, and then the frustration of a predator kept from his prey, the resentment of a creature having caught doing so, and the glinting knife-edged flash of something like hurt. for a moment, his body stills, caught between self-control and biological impetus. alhaitham's bloodied nails dig into the ends of his cloth package.
haitham, please - kaveh says. alhaitham thinks - he has not been merely haitham in such a long time.
the first step towards kaveh is pulled from the strain of muscle; the second is like the breaking of a deluge over a fall. but alhaitham fights it regardless, with the sullen resentment of a creature made to heel, the lash of his nails and the taste of iron like condemnation. he is at the edge of the bed in what seems like an eternity, the cant of his neck and the cast of his shadow over the shift of kaveh's legs as if umbra and penumbra were to find their zenith.
alhaitham looks. of course he does. the bed dips with the weight of his knee. the air chokes with the subtle spring of water tension, thick enough that one would need a knife to cleave it into form. but alhaitham leans, like the long, lean line of liquid mercury. his shadow slides over the pale, bare line of kaveh's shoulder. the glinting, wanton red of his eyes. alhaitham's breath ghosts over it like murmured song. ]
Kaveh. [ is what he says, low, and sure, and furious. ] I am saying 'no'.
[ the package is torn. alhaitham digs out the paper packet from it. his nail carves through the seal, and with sheer, frustrated precision, he pins kaveh down and presses the packet against his lips. the powder spills. ]
Swallow. [ alhaitham commands. it is unkind.
a sleeping powder. ]