there has been studies on it, by scholars of all six darshans. the amurta are objective in their dissertations on how a heart is meant to work. the rtawahist pen books on how the alignment of stars affect one's birth, and the way their heart is shaped. the vahumana aim to understand its response to different stimulations. none, kaveh had once thought, would arrive to an accurate understanding, for the heart is, too, so utterly fickle.
the heart is not a communal construct. it is not, after, the heart, but so ever many of them, all so minutely different. they sing in different tones, beat in different rhythms. his will never be the same as his mother's, blood of his blood. kaveh had learned that at ten years of age, under a particularly warm sun.
alhaitham approaches. kaveh's heart jumps. it is as his mother had told him so. alhaitham's scent is maddening, and it feels, for a moment, like home. like it is here where he belongs, over these sheets, next to this person. lokapala feels like a distant past, a wavering dream. it might not ever have existed. kaveh might not be prince. does it matter, still? does his heart beg for remembrance, or does it purr in excitement, in want, giving itself whole for something so utterly carnal?
kaveh's hand meets alhaitham's waist, and then—
then there's rejection. and kaveh, known as the prince desired by the masses, has never been rejected. kaveh is beautiful, like his mother. he has her hair. he has his father's jewels for eyes. he is eloquent, intelligent. lokapalan haravatats have penned poetry books of their prince's smile, compared it to the midday sun. he has not grown narcissistic for it. he has never, either, held himself above others. but kaveh, who wears his heart on his sleeves, sleeves so impossibly thin; kaveh hurts, like men do. he is, after all, just a person.
red greets his lips as it did alhaitham's. teeth to skin, skin that rips, blood that flows. it hurts. the heart. his body. it is, he thinks, betrayal, too. it is the exception that grounds him to reality.
kaveh's hand pushes, or makes an attempt at such. his body has never been built to be physically fit. he kicks his legs, rejects that rejection. above all else, stripped down to the most raw nature of their beings, to not be wanted the same way he wants, for once, for the very first time in his life—
kaveh turns his head to the side, and rejects, too. it is, after all, almost second nature. ]
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Date: 2023-06-16 01:25 am (UTC)there has been studies on it, by scholars of all six darshans. the amurta are objective in their dissertations on how a heart is meant to work. the rtawahist pen books on how the alignment of stars affect one's birth, and the way their heart is shaped. the vahumana aim to understand its response to different stimulations. none, kaveh had once thought, would arrive to an accurate understanding, for the heart is, too, so utterly fickle.
the heart is not a communal construct. it is not, after, the heart, but so ever many of them, all so minutely different. they sing in different tones, beat in different rhythms. his will never be the same as his mother's, blood of his blood. kaveh had learned that at ten years of age, under a particularly warm sun.
alhaitham approaches. kaveh's heart jumps. it is as his mother had told him so. alhaitham's scent is maddening, and it feels, for a moment, like home. like it is here where he belongs, over these sheets, next to this person. lokapala feels like a distant past, a wavering dream. it might not ever have existed. kaveh might not be prince. does it matter, still? does his heart beg for remembrance, or does it purr in excitement, in want, giving itself whole for something so utterly carnal?
kaveh's hand meets alhaitham's waist, and then—
then there's rejection. and kaveh, known as the prince desired by the masses, has never been rejected. kaveh is beautiful, like his mother. he has her hair. he has his father's jewels for eyes. he is eloquent, intelligent. lokapalan haravatats have penned poetry books of their prince's smile, compared it to the midday sun. he has not grown narcissistic for it. he has never, either, held himself above others. but kaveh, who wears his heart on his sleeves, sleeves so impossibly thin; kaveh hurts, like men do. he is, after all, just a person.
red greets his lips as it did alhaitham's. teeth to skin, skin that rips, blood that flows. it hurts. the heart. his body. it is, he thinks, betrayal, too. it is the exception that grounds him to reality.
kaveh's hand pushes, or makes an attempt at such. his body has never been built to be physically fit. he kicks his legs, rejects that rejection. above all else, stripped down to the most raw nature of their beings, to not be wanted the same way he wants, for once, for the very first time in his life—
kaveh turns his head to the side, and rejects, too. it is, after all, almost second nature. ]