[ kaveh sleeps. it will not be an easy one. alhaitham's vision swims as his lips part from his, just long enough to catch the last of his words as kaveh sways into the still-dreaming sea.
there are songs about how a first kiss ought to go. the songs exaggerate. to celebrate a first kiss is to celebrate the first of anything, and yet one does not celebrate the first eyelash plucked, or the first document signed. sentimentality is something that one creates; you exist in the world not to uncover meaning, but to assign meaning to the world. kaveh lays beneath alhaitham's shoulders, limbs pinned into knots, and alhaitham thinks - there is meaning to this save for the twine of a puppeteer's strings. it clenches between his teeth like the bit of a horse, furious, against the reins that hold it. kaveh is gold, and blood. alhaitham reaches down with imprecise motor control with the corner of a blanket to wipe at the blood that stains his cheeks. he stops when it proves to be a futile effort. ]
I cannot. [ is what alhaitham says in the face of darkness. ] How can I? Who in this world can throw away what they do not have?
[ time passes in an unrelenting blur. alhaitham has enough wherewithal to lock both doors and hobble into the bathroom before unnatural sleep takes him. he wakes up in intervals, adrenaline and blood and pain and the knowledge of what has been left undone tugging at limb and willpower. what kaveh will wake up to: a mountain of blankets, freshly washed. a light dinner of cold cuts and freshly prepared vegetables meant to last several days of relentless, impish snacking. and, in a gorgeously gold-gilded box, a set of heat-aids carved into creative, elongated shapes.
not pictured in the scene: alhaitham. also not pictured: the stoically shut door between bedroom and bathroom, and the man on the other side studiously bent over a stolen nightstand.
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there are songs about how a first kiss ought to go. the songs exaggerate. to celebrate a first kiss is to celebrate the first of anything, and yet one does not celebrate the first eyelash plucked, or the first document signed. sentimentality is something that one creates; you exist in the world not to uncover meaning, but to assign meaning to the world. kaveh lays beneath alhaitham's shoulders, limbs pinned into knots, and alhaitham thinks - there is meaning to this save for the twine of a puppeteer's strings. it clenches between his teeth like the bit of a horse, furious, against the reins that hold it. kaveh is gold, and blood. alhaitham reaches down with imprecise motor control with the corner of a blanket to wipe at the blood that stains his cheeks. he stops when it proves to be a futile effort. ]
I cannot. [ is what alhaitham says in the face of darkness. ] How can I? Who in this world can throw away what they do not have?
[ time passes in an unrelenting blur. alhaitham has enough wherewithal to lock both doors and hobble into the bathroom before unnatural sleep takes him. he wakes up in intervals, adrenaline and blood and pain and the knowledge of what has been left undone tugging at limb and willpower. what kaveh will wake up to: a mountain of blankets, freshly washed. a light dinner of cold cuts and freshly prepared vegetables meant to last several days of relentless, impish snacking. and, in a gorgeously gold-gilded box, a set of heat-aids carved into creative, elongated shapes.
not pictured in the scene: alhaitham. also not pictured: the stoically shut door between bedroom and bathroom, and the man on the other side studiously bent over a stolen nightstand.
he is, in fact, writing. ]