#Pumps him with ginger tea for no more ble!!

[vohunara]

it's nothing new that the scribe may, sometimes, drop unannounced at the door of his housemate. in fact, most of the times when it happens, it's to deposit a neat bag of freshly cut fruit after a knock, or simply to crack the door open in a chance that the blond may be bothered with Al-Haitham's nonsense.

it usually doesn't happen at around an ungodly hour in the morning, where people should be sleeping. Al-Haitham doesn't even announce himself with a knock, barely prying the door open before it slips out of his grasp.

' kaveh? '

a quiet call of his friend's name as he steps into the light barely dimming the room. from the little crack of the door, what can be seen is matted, sweaty hair, and a sliver of pale skin where healthy color should be on the young man's face. fire-ringed eyes blearily blink away sleep and a wetness that isn't present.

he reveals his problem almost bashfully, but matter-of-factly regardless:

' ...i puked. '

     Deep into the night is where Kaveh musters enough of himself to do anything he deems worth. Ideas ebb and flow when the pressure of living through the day eases off his shoulders, when it's simple and there's no expectations. In the end, it's just him, his tools and his books.

     He toes out of his room every now and then, careful not to exceed in volume, exist too loudly and disturb another. He rummages around the bookshelves in the main room and even those by the door to Haitham's space, intent on finding notes relevant to his current work. When he's back to his chair, one hand immediately keeps the right pages from closing in on themselves, and the other puts ink to paper.

     Kaveh, the calling is almost too meek to hear amidst the architect's intense focus, but it also reverberates with a timbre he wouldn't, at all, pin to such descriptor. ‘ Haitham? ʼ It's only after returning the call that Kaveh realizes he's reflected it.

     The upper half of his body turns in his seat, an arm supported against the backrest as Kaveh observes and waits. It doesn't require much to notice something is wrong and, thusly, does his stance not last as it is. The desk is abandoned in favor of the other, everything left behind as if no deadline had been looming over the blond — when al Haitham, of all people, seeks out help for his sickness, everything else diminishes in importance until they're but a detail too small to care.

     ‘ Oh, my... how are you feeling now? Was it something you ate? ʼ Fingers, still smudged with graphite, feel all over the Scribe's forehead and side of neck. They study his condition, and, as Kaveh wipes beads of sweat threatening to roll down the other's temple, he concludes. ‘ God, you have a fever! ʼ

     Any and all rights to protest are revoked. The tools once scattered on the mattress are pushed to the floor haphazardly and al Haitham is, soon, carefully ushered onto the bed, among Kaveh's covers and pillows. ‘ Stay here, ginger tea may help with your nausea. ʼ