#i'd really cry about it

[flower-yi]

my entry for @staarri's YOU'RE MY LOVER ! event (❁´◡`❁)

With eyebrows meeting in a crease on his forehead, Kaveh stands in front of the easel holding up the canvas he’s been working on for an hour.

Is this even right? The drover yellow he’s used for the nilotpala lotus doesn’t seem… correct. The painting he’s making has a set colour palette that called for vibrancy but not so overwhelming to the eye, but the shade of yellow left some sort of bad taste on his tongue. The lotuses were not the subject of the painting; a figure in the background he elected to add in because it happened to fit, and blended well with the rest of the  composition.

He can’t quite shake it off.

Biting down on his thumb, he leans in close to scrutinise the colour. The nilotpala lotuses were sketched somewhere close to the waterfalls in the backdrop, so detail wasn’t important. However—it’s not some yellow blob. Kaveh made sure the beauty of the nilotpala lotus was displayed, for it to be noticed by a pair of eyes that’d know its magnificence if one had seen it in person.

It'll be some secret he shares with the viewer; some hidden gem only few would appreciate.

Still, he can’t quite shake it off. When he looks at the painting as a bigger whole, his eyes are slowly drawn by the intensity of the nilotpala lotuses. It’s not annoying, per se, but…

Turning to his wooden palette, the tip of his paintbrush dips into a darker shade of yellow, and Kaveh replaces the bright hue with it.

Though it’d be just something hanging on the wall, he requires it to be perfect. Perfection is required even in something you might not accept, because if the Palace of Alcazarzaray was his magnum opus, this painting shall be his tour de force, his everything, his…

…painting. His painting on the wall.

Kaveh steps back with a sigh. He heard, once, while you were speaking to Cyno, that your favourite flowers were nilotpala lotuses. At that moment, it didn’t strike him as much. He encounters them whenever his path crosses with a body of water, and though they weren’t in full bloom during the times he passes by, their beauty can be easily recognized to those with an undiscerning eye.

You said you liked the shade of yellow the lotuses had, ignoring the brilliant blue its petals centrally flaunt. You were far more focused on the seedpods, and if he had half the manners his roommate has, he would’ve chuckled. Truthfully, it was more endearing than it was amusing. Most would appreciate the flower, beautiful as it was, but the seed pods caught your eye first. The details seem to matter more than the bigger picture.

…It was a painting, however. The subject was the meadow, and the lotuses were mere details in the background.

The rotting ends of his chair drags across the floor as Kaveh brings it back close to the canvas; wood creaking when he takes a seat. Where the edge of the meadow is, the canvas peeks through. The tip of his brush quickly fills in the gaps using hues of green mixed with speckles of black, mixing in seamlessly with the rest of the scenery. Thin strokes of hunter green create stems of the flowers…and he goes back to that drover yellow again.

He manages to stop himself, this time. Kaveh places his paintbrush down and brings a palette knife, scraping it off.

Another colour he won’t use, and if he remembers, he’ll place them in a container to use for another time. He sets the knife somewhere close to the other discarded shades, turning back to the painting to continue placing the final touches.

Thud.

Thud. Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

His brows knit. Is he hearing things? For every streak he makes, a noise follows. Maybe the neighbours are fixing that beam of wood on their porch that juts out every now and then. However, the sounds are… arbitrary. Not concise in the way Taghi hammers down the plank.

Is someone… knocking?

With the painting set aside, Kaveh quickly stands and enters the foyer. It’s times like these he wishes, as beautiful as they are, the sidelites weren’t patterned stained glass because he can’t quite make out the figure outside, and he’s stuck with the decision to open the door.

“Kaveh, hey. I’m not disturbing, am I?”

You’re the figure outside.

“Oh, hey,” you smile when he says your name. “You’re here.”

He tries not to let his mind wander looking at your dopey, lopsided grin. You’re dressed casually, and look like you’re not in a hurry, so, perhaps… “Yep! I’m here. You doing alright?”

“Uh!” Kaveh takes a quick look at the living room. Drat, it’s messy. “Yeah, I am. Hold on, uh… it’s a bit of a mess here. I don’t think it’s—”

“I can always help tidy up,” you offer, but take no step inside. “As long as it’s okay with you, of course.”

There’s not another choice he’ll make other than letting you in. It’s only instinct that pushes him into the kitchen, busying himself with preparing coffee for the both of you. While surprising, your sudden visit is not unwelcome—it only makes Kaveh wonder why you’ve suddenly decided to come, his thoughts becoming wisps in the steam rising from the coffee boiling in the dallah.

“You’re not busy with commissions right now?” When he takes a glance, he sees you’re quietly arranging and capping the tubes of paint on the small table he uses as a workbench. Kaveh’s eyes widen, guilty about the fact you’re cleaning up for him, but there’s a mumble under your breath—one, two, three, four—and his trowels and palette knives are delicately moved to the desk from the ground.

You’re always picking up his messes and putting them back where they belong. Somehow… it’s become routine. He could count how many times he’s seen you like this, and because of it, his feet no longer move. Guilt remains, but takes in the sight of you treating his possessions with utmost care.

Kaveh can’t stop the rush of something, in the back of his brain, when he watches you like this.

How much longer can he take, stifling this fondness inside of him?

“I-I am,” The question is innocent, but manages to stumble him; a nervous laugh bubbling out. “But… just, uh—you know how inspiration goes! Sometimes, I lose steam, and have to let it all out on another project.”

You snort. “So that translates to, ‘I haven’t gotten enough sleep for the past few weeks’?”

Kaveh sees you inspecting the canvases he’s placed by the wall. Your fingers slot between them, as if counting each one. If you asked him, he wouldn’t be able to say how many he’s discarded just for one painting. “Well… not necessarily.”

It goes quiet.

Your huffing breaks the silence. By then, you enter the kitchen, and Kaveh takes note of the frown on your face. He’s standing on the counter, blinking, as you approach him with a furrow to your eyebrow.

A hand lifts, and your thumb swipes over his cheek, just below where those dark circles lie.

“You’re gonna drink coffee with me when you have eyebags under your eyes?”

The action is unexpected, yet expected all the same, because Kaveh can’t stop his stomach twisting in knots, and the heat in his cheeks he wills himself to bury.

“It’d… be rude to let you serve the coffee yourself.”

It’s more than what a friend would do. However, Kaveh convinces himself you’re looking out for him because you go and wipe that finger on some cloth used in the kitchen, streak of paint on your finger leaving a stain.

He convinces himself to stay, and not sprint away, because he reasons, more to himself, “You’re the guest. It’d be discourteous to let you on your own.”

“I can’t refuse that...”

Your sigh is too soft to be mistaken as irritation. Your reluctance in letting him serve coffee bleeds into the heat of your stare lingering on the side of his face as you’re taking a seat by the dining table, gazing.

Kaveh wants to tell you that you should be waiting in the living room, guest as you are, but his head turns in the angle that meets your eyes, and stops.

Your staring drapes over him like a warm blanket. It is all sorts of comforting, heart-soaring, fucking fond and just tender, but its heat suffocates him. Understanding why you’re looking at him like that escapes him like a petal coursing through the wind, leaving his fingertips before he can even catch it.

“Uh… so, what brings you here?”

He can’t dwell on such feelings. His control, though, is tested, because you’re prone to soft exhales and laughter more than anyone else he knows when you’re with him, but it is tempered by the fact Alhaitham sees you like this. Kaveh will just ignore how much it happens with himself.

“Well, someone forgot we were going to hang out today,” The smile in your voice is so obvious. “But seeing as you’re working on something, I can let it slide.”

Kaveh purses his lips. Right. You’d normally drop by with a heads up beforehand, but you’ve visited home too many times that he’d let you in even without prior notice—he can hear Alhaitham in his head complaining about such a thing, but he throws that voice away without any second thought—and he didn’t even question if something slipped his mind.

“You… I’m sorry. Weren’t we supposed to go to Puspa Café today?”

“Yeah.” You answer, but assure him, “But when I got there, Gata was outside.”

“Enteka’s cat?”

“Mm. Cat was meowing to me as if to say they were closed.”

You sound like you’re just making him feel better that he forgot. His scepticism must’ve gotten ahead of you because you’re huffing and puffing. “I checked the doors, okay? It was locked.”

“Right,” Kaveh rolls his eyes. Is that the best story you can make up? “I never knew Sareh had a twin flame.”

“Sareh and I are soulmates,” Faux offence causes a hand to fly to your chest. “Don’t try to say it’s not true.”

“Right, and Lesser Lord Kusanali has a mother. Try making up a story that’s more believable next time,” Kaveh says your name, dripping with incredulity, and you laugh, and laugh; the sound is loud, bright, and just so familiar, like he’s heard it all his life. If he could just get more moments like this, where he’s in the kitchen and you’re just watching, then he can be content. He can be content as it is.

(He won’t have to dream about a day where you and him are lying in bed together, discussing whatever pops up into your mind in hushed voices, because in that fantasy, it’s early in the morning, and the home you’re both in is his. Yours.

“Ours...”

He won’t have to dream to feel how soft you are by his side, how your warmth drums under fingertips tracing absentminded patterns on your skin; just admiring how you’re here with him.

“...Ours.”

He won’t have to dream about something that’s beyond him, because he’ll be content with being someone you can laugh and have coffee with, and the painting won’t haunt him, because then it won’t have to be perfect.)

Your laughter slowly dies down, a smile remaining, and he finds that the coffee is done. With two fenjals in hand, and a dallah in the other, Kaveh hears you following him into the living room.

The table is set, and both of you are sitting on the same divan.

“Smells good like always, Kaveh,” A tip of your tone submerges itself into something like mirth, and he can’t help but scoff, about to say something, but—

“Hold on,” Kaveh rises from the couch. “I forgot something, give me a second!”

He returns from the kitchen with a few items in hand, and takes a second to pour your coffee first. In the order you always make it in, the sugar comes in second, dissolving in the heat, then with the milk; left-over steam turning into wisps from condensation.

You’ve always liked it cold, with inordinate amounts of sweetness in it.

“Here,” Kaveh hands your cup over. “Your coffee, just how you like it.”

Moving to take it, your hand loosely hovers over his. You freeze and pause, looking down at the coffee—did he make it wrong? Did he forget anything? Drat. Maybe there’s a new addition to your recipe—

“You remembered,” Your voice drops from an octave, grip tightening; expression pinched.

He… doesn’t understand what you mean. “Of course I would. You’d think I forgot?”

You laugh, but the sound is strained. “Not really, but…”

Contemplative silence falls onto you. Kaveh thinks it’s about the coffee, and that he’s made it. Something in his gut feels like the issue is not with him remembering, but another thing that’s gotten you like… this.

Just what is it? Kaveh wracks his brain. Several possibilities pop up, ultimately disregarded of how outrageous and unrealistic they are, but one sticks like an annoying fly he can’t catch.

…It flutters away, ultimately, because it’s a possibility he can’t entertain.

The two of you are friends… that’s what you both are, he thinks.

“Are you alright?”

You startle, head snapping towards him. The edges of your smile are forced, another faked laugh leaving you like it’s some practised assurance. “Oh, I’m fine. Just got my thoughts on things. Don’t worry about me, Kaveh.”

“If there’s anything bothering you,” Kaveh says earnestly, “I’m always here for you.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose, Kaveh. You’re busy, aren’t you?” He sees you quirk up and it feels the same. “Don’t act like I didn’t see the painting. I think a few worries and burdens on me won’t kill me.”

Would it, really? As far as he knew, you’re not the secretive type. You tell things as they are, so if you tell him you’re alright…

Then you probably are.

Still, he’s compelled to offer something in return. “You know I don’t mind if you use my shoulder to cry on.”

“You’re not concerned I’ll mess that pretty shirt of yours?”

Kaveh rolls his eyes, “That’s not what I mean.”

The banter falls into place, and he finds you’re chuckling heartily. “I wouldn’t want to ruin that expensively tailored shirt of yours. Seems like a waste to use it for tissues on some measly tears.”

“You need to tell me your tears aren’t measly?”

“Of course not, Professor Kaveh.”

“Hey! Are you mocking me?!”

The banter falls into place with puzzle pieces you fit and connect together with his, and for a second, he can forget how he’s neglected to pour a cup for himself; too preoccupied with tossing light-hearted comments to you like he usually does.

It feels right to be your friend, and just your friend only; it’s the only thing he feels familiar with. To toe the line between friend and lover is a delicate and risky choice, but it is so difficult to look away when he can’t help but bask in the fondness the sight of you brings. Kaveh can’t liken it to anything else but like watching the sun set and rise in a familiar motion, but this time, it is with the lens of knowing that there will be someone whom you will wait day and night for to appear. He can say he can watch people move mountains for others, but he’ll stick to what he knows: painting the sun rising and imagining it setting, because that’s what it feels with you.

It's as if anything he makes is for the purpose of attempting to grasp you in it.

.

.

.

Chatter between the both of you settles, eventually, and not one but three cups of coffee have been consumed. He eventually realised he forgot to pour himself one, and in some forward display, you offer to pour him his.

Kaveh didn’t have the heart to tell you it’s not really customary, because the eager look in your eye had him stuttering over his words, and now, more than five cups have been drunk.

“Think Alhaitham said it’s not proper to drink more than five,” you say, taking his fenjal away from him.

He baulks, mostly more from the fact Alhaitham’s told you about etiquette when he himself doesn’t practise it, and just watches you set aside the fenjals and dallah.

“Since when did Alhaitham even…?”

“Enough about him!” You laugh, patting his shoulder. “What’s that you’re painting?”

He follows the direction of your gaze that settles on the easel standing alone by the windows, most of the afternoon sunlight cascading through the glass panes. Suddenly, you rise from the couch, approaching the painting with childlike curiosity; it makes him gulp.

“Is this the painting you told me about yesterday?” Your fingertips graze the painting, but not so much to ruin it.

Kaveh can’t see your face like this when your back is to him. “Oh, I… uh, didn’t mean for you to see it.” Heat surges on his cheeks and takes a sip from the coffee to hide the flushing. Drat. You’re not facing him—why is he hiding when you can’t see it?

He takes a shaky breath, “I mean, it’s not yet finished—I-I’m planning to give it to you, of course! I wouldn’t hide things from you.”

“You made it? For me?”

“Yeah… I did.”

You fall silent for a moment.

All he can see is your hand still hovering over the canvas, and the little moments where your head tilts slightly to look up at the parts of the painting he normally can see with ease. Kaveh thinks you look nice staring at something he’s made.

He’s too busy admiring you to stifle the desire to take you to the lighthouse he’s helped restore in Port Ormos to take your breath away. The wind from the sea would course nicely through your air, and he can almost taste the excitement buzzing in the air when you lay eyes on it. If Port Ormos would take your breath away, then how would you react to the Palace of Alcazarzaray? He’s too busy staring at your wondrous figure in front of the canvas he’s preening like a peacock in attention to something that’s not even him, but some part of him.

“The nilotpalas lotuses are beautiful,” you murmur, “Is this the meadow you took me to that one time? You made it dreamier than it was.”

“…’Dreamier’?” your voice pulls him back to reality, a weary chuckle leaving him. “I thought it was already dreamy—the  sight, I mean.”

When your head turns, he can see the expression on your face and—

And his brain blanks.

“The nilotpalas,” The smile you’re wearing is bright, and if he looks too deeply, fond. “They’re my favourite part of the painting.”

Words feel heavy on his tongue. “Are they?”

You hum happily, “No matter how far or near you are looking at this painting, you can see them.”

What? That’s not… meant to be. “T-the meadow’s the subject of this painting. I might’ve failed in the composition—”

“It doesn’t take away from the painting, silly,” you cut him off. “You’d know more than me that it adds to it.”

Does he? He thought the lotuses were distracting. What did you mean by no matter the distance, you’d still see them? The purpose of changing the shade used for the lotuses was to hide them, fading it into the background. It wasn’t on purpose that it was supposed to be noticed. Should he just remove them all together? Should—

“You accept suggestions?”

Kaveh startles. He blinks. “What?”

You repeat with a laugh, “Do you accept suggestions? Touch-ups?”

“O-of course, yeah!” Kaveh leaves the fenjal on the table, going up to where you are in the living room. He’s already picking up his paint brush, “What should I change?”

“Hmm…” Your hand moves, looking for the spot you wanted to be touched up, and then you’re leaning in… absurdly close to the canvas?!

“Wait, is this some kind of joke?!” Kaveh reels you back and sees that stupid mischievous smile on your face. You erupt in laughter, “No, wait! I just forgot what spot I was talking about.”

He can’t even summon the usual irritation he feels that appears when talking to Alhaitham.

“No, but, seriously…” Your laughter dwindles into giggles, but Kaveh busies himself in scanning your face for paint on the tip of your nose. Good that there’s none, he’s not sure if the paint’s body friendly… “I wanted you to touch something up.”

Kaveh finally meets your gaze, “Well. No more jokes, if you’re serious about it.”

“Psh, okay.” You roll your eyes. He’s… not seeing it, is he? The fondness in the gesture?

Kaveh looks away, chewing on his lip.

“Can you change the colour of the nilotpalas?”

“Oh,” Kaveh says intelligently, snapping back to you. “The… nilotpalas?”

“They already look nice, but…” You point to the palette knives. “I see some nice shades there. Varying degrees of yellow, but I think… hmm, this one would look nice for the overall colour scheme of the painting.”

The drover yellow enters his sights again. You’re pointing at it.

“Oh, all of that is for the kalpalata lotuses,” Kaveh explains quickly. “Not… for the nilotpalas.”

You look at him, surprised. “I thought you were all using the same colours in different ways? You said that to me, once.”

His eyes widen. Archons, he did. Now, how is he supposed to say No, it’ll look ugly with the rest of the painting, in the nicest possible way?

“Also…” You scan the painting with a confused look on your face. “There’s no kalpalata lotuses in this painting?”

Wait, there’s none? Kaveh quickly searches for them, but finds nothing. “Oh, uh. I—I… I’m gonna add them in once I get the chance.”

“Oh, where?”

“Here, I think…” He tries to find an appropriate spot—

You lower the hand holding his paintbrush, eyes narrowed.

“Kaveh, I upset you…” Your eyes search his face for something he doesn’t know what for. “…didn’t I?”

He licks his lips, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No… you—you didn’t.”

How could you? Yet, you’re looking at him like you don’t believe him. Kaveh is certain he is not, because it’s just some little detail that he shouldn’t be hung up on a painting you won’t probably accept. Why should he be upset? It’s a painting, something hung on the wall; meant to be passed by and ignored. It’s nothing. It’s absolutely nothing. It’s—

“I’m sorry, my suggestion probably didn’t—”

“The… the painting. It doesn’t look ugly, right?”

Kaveh doesn’t understand why you don’t agree with him when you say, “No, it doesn’t?”

He calmly places his paintbrush. “The painting. It… the nilotpalas. It looks good?”

The face you make causes him to think that his question is strange. It isn’t, right? The painting is for you. It has to be perfect. The nilotpala lotuses distract from the main subject, the meadows he’s supposed to capture in the same way you both saw it that day—

“It looks good,” Something warm wraps around his arm and he flinches. “I love it. Your attention to detail never ceases to amaze me.”

It’s your hand, Kaveh belatedly realizes. The palm of your hand is warm over his long sleeves, rubbing circles over his skin, and it causes him to choke on his spit.

“I love how, despite them being in the background, you can see it clearly.”

“You do?”

You grin, “Of course I do. It’s the way every part of the painting has been given utmost attention. I mean, if it was someone else, they wouldn’t have given the nilotpalas a second thought.”

That’s how he’s meant it to be—how it’s supposed to be. Though, he can’t really escape your sights, can he? You… you just disregard all pretense and get to the point. Focusing on all detail, and nothing else.

Unlike him, you choose to enjoy the details; not to stress over it.

“But I like the way they’re sort of hidden,” You continue, some sort of a trance overcoming you. The look in your eyes makes his heart stutter—Archons, he’s dreaming it, he is. “It’s like some hidden gem only people who really look at a painting would know.”

His throat seizes up; eyes stinging. Kaveh calls your name, but you don’t stop.

“And then,” Your hand ghosts over the Sumeru roses sparsely placed in the meadow, “You can clearly see each petal on this. Your brush strokes are so fine that the detail is insane, Kaveh.”

Whenever you speak, it’s as if there’s a million things running in your head. The absentminded slight caressing of the painting is proof of this, and the gentle sparkling of your eyes supports this. You are entranced, and he cannot do anything to stop it.

Why? Why the nilotpalas, and not the entire painting?

“…Can I ask you why you like the nilotpalas?” His question is said in a whisper, teeth gritting against each other. Kaveh feels the question is out of his reach, and there’s someone dangling the answer right in front of him. All he can muster is a stupid, little question that might have a reply that’ll tell him he’s idiotic.

Your head slowly turns, eyes meeting with this, and there’s that soft look again.

Undeniable, yet unattainable.

Something like madness surges right through him because, Archons. Has this painting consumed him, to some point of insanity? He feels like tearing up over this. And for his object… object of affection to say they like a part of it he loathes—

He needs an answer. He has to ask.

“I don’t know who told you, but I like nilotpalas.”

A wry grin lifts the corners of your lips, and your hand slowly slides down to his fingers that’re calloused; nails that’re chipped and have paint underneath them. Your hold on them is so gentle the feeling of helplessness engulfs him.

“I love them, even.” You squeeze his hand. “I don’t know how many times I’ve travelled to Sumeru just to see them. It’s so hard to grow them back home, so to notice one in a painting is like… a blessing. And it’s in a painting made by someone who notices the little things.”

Yet, you’re answering his question with such kindness.

Your gaze flits to his, pausing.

Are you…?

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “It’s okay.”

Kaveh feels his throat drying up, and Archons, the tender lift of his hand to your lips is what does him in.

Celestia, your lips are so soft on his knuckles it drives him up the wall.

He blanks in real time. The subsequent warmth rushing from his fingers to his whole body is all he can focus on, and you.

You shouldn’t hesitate, the wisp of something in him ugly whispers. It festers in him; desperately hoping for something more. Do more, I’d let you. Heck, there’s nothing I won’t let you do. 

What’s gotten into him?

“I think nobody else would’ve kept in mind how much I love nilotpalas, and tried to squeeze them into a painting anyways.”

“It’s not squeezing them in,” Kaveh defends, a touch a bit exasperated, “It’s adding something you– you… you love in.”

Only then when those words stumble out of him, he understands what you mean. Oh, how he wishes he could laugh it out right now–because what he’s realised is that the meadow needed no nilotpalas. It was perfect as it was, and the entire painting was based on the sight he took you to once—there was no nilotpala in sight, and yet, in knowing that the painting was for you, he had, without giving too much thought, added nilotpalas in because you loved them. The painting was made for you, in mind, and in his desire for it to be the perfect painting, he added a thing you love.

Nilotpalas.

There’s a knowing look in your eye. Had you known of his feelings, before, and indulged in them to say as if, I like you too?

You know he’s made such a realization, because the soft curl of your lips is one he knows to be happy.

Then, soft palms make their way up to his face; cupping his cheeks with a gentle hold. The happy smile on you turns a touch bit tender, and your voice turns into something warmer.

“I think nobody else would’ve noticed the way I like my coffee—cold, with milk, and sugar on top.” You laugh, but he doesn’t find the topic amusing.

 “It’s only normal I should remember it.” He says seriously, eyebrows furrowing. “You come by so often I can’t help but remember it.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I also remember you told me, once, how much you like organizing things; cleaning them up—you said it was… therapeutic.”

But despite the revelation, despite all he knows, despite the love he knows is mutual, it nags at him persistently. The answer why is in his grasp, but remains evading reason, and he chooses to ask for an answer, in all of his confusion—“But I could never understand why you’d never clean up after Alhaitham.”

Your answer is a reasonable one, accompanied with a scoff so fondly exasperated, “It’s because he can clean up after himself like an adult.”

“Then, why’d you do it with me?” Kaveh questions, voice above a whisper.

No surprise washes over you this time. Just a simple little chuckle, and a smile.

“It feels as if I’m tracing your path, as if I’m following the footsteps you’ve left behind and witnessing another path I’ve never even thought of discovering.” your voice goes so soft, “I had so much fun imagining what you did with those paints and why you’ve set those trowels and palette knives aside. It felt as if I was there with you, painting.”

“…and if I was painting you?”

It leaves him before he could stop it.

“Then, I’d be able to see what colours you associated with me. I’d be able to know how… you see me.”

It’s simple, the answer. He sees you as if you’ve hung the stars, made the sun set and rise, and controlled the winds and the breeze.

Kaveh doesn’t know what possesses him to step forward, nearly nose-to-nose with you. Your head tilts up to meet his eyes so sweetly, he feels himself melt. Now, like this, he can see how gently you look at him–how the usually bright, wide eyed disposition melts into the fondness he’s mistaken for something else.

“Can I–” his voice breaks, slightly. Kaveh takes a moment to settle his voice, breathing in and exhaling deeply, before he properly asks, “Can I show you how I see you?”

There’s no hesitation.

“Please,” you say–no, ask. “Feel free to show me, Painter Kaveh.”

The press of your lips against him is soft. Eyes fluttering close, the rhythm between the both of you is tentatively explored–you’re trying to see what he feels through this kiss, aren’t you? 

But Kaveh confirms what you’re thinking, anyway; other hand snaking up to cup the back of your neck, holding you closer to him. 

Faintly, he tastes the coffee he’s made for you. The sweetness of the sugar and milk combined is intoxicating, and yet, it feels like bliss. Is that what would life be like with you? Just sweetness, and saccharine? 

Then, slowly, as if not wanting to break away, you pull back and watch him with a clear look in your eyes; somehow firm and resolute, as if that kiss proved everything to you. Did it? Did it prove how miserably he pines for you?

“I like you, Kaveh,” you breathe, a laugh bubbling out of you. Archons, he wants to hear that sound every day. “I like you very much.”

With a hand gently caressing the pulse of your neck, he says, in reply, “I’ve liked you, too, for a long time.”

“Me too, then,” you admit easily, leaning into his touch.

His cheeks heat, and this time, he doesn’t suppress the urge to hide in the crook of your neck. You welcome this with a loud, warm laugh that he can feel shakes your shoulders–and you welcome this change so readily with your arms wrapping around him, abundant laughter turning into giggles.

Kaveh does agree with you, but he thinks he doesn’t need to say it. You know, in the way you begin embracing him, and all he feels is you.

[ipusingularitae]

also, i think it's very interesting how that friend of vi who she met on the streets of piltover immediately gets out when he sees caitlyn is accepting what ambessa is proposing. he gets that it's not about saving people, that what ambessa wants (and caitlyn is going to do) is targeted violence, on top of a structural system that created this mess in the first place. she's now only seeking revenge.

and can we talk about how Vi and Caitlyn on the lore were always Vi punching and asking later, and Caitlyn being the most "careful" one, and now in Arcane we're seeing the absolute opposite? i think that's so fascinating to watch because, especially with the little lore we have, when making headcanons, a lot of ppl put vi in this position of carelessness and caitlyn reasoning her. but right now we're seeing the complete opposite because Vi had years to put her anger out in prison (bc of very unfortunate situations), but caitlyn not only is a person that is out in world while in her anger phase of grief, but also is on an authority position and has free access to weapons and is being manipulated by someone who is exploiting her anger to the extent of using outside army

[arttsuka]

Based on somewhat real events

I spent way too much time drawing this...

But yeah, Ford finally saying thank you

A continuation (kinda)

[yo-yo-yoshiko]

I want to carry this scene with me a little while...

[barghest-land]

a beautiful sight 🌟 concavenator 

gonna be the last art of this year. it was a tough one, but with a glimpse of hope for the future, for which i'm really grateful. i've done a lot of art this year, personal and for the studio too. manifesting next year to be a dream come true (please let me be happy and free) happy new year everyone! 💙

[m-a-r-i--c-h-a-t]

so was this the neurodivergent friendship problems episode or what

[sakuraspoke]

31 days of ghost // day 2 - the song that made you a fan ⸸ for @dolceterzo ♡

He is He's the shining and the light Without whom I cannot see And He is insurrection, He is spite He's the force that made me be He is Nostro Dis Pater Nostr' Alma Mater He is

[vickyvicarious]

The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened two letters:— "The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"—he must have looked at it—"one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"—here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly—"the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. Then he went on:— "The letter to Hawkins—that I shall, of course, send on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?" He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence.

This is Dracula at peak cruelty. He's got his smoothest voice, his best manners, his finest words about the friendship between them. He opens Jonathan's messages right in front of him, burns the letter right in front of him.

He could have let him think they got out, but he doesn't want Jonathan to keep harboring any hope. He also doesn't want him to think he can ask the people outside for help (which actually makes me believe they are more likely to try and help, which is why Dracula wants to prevent Jonathan seeking it from them). So he crushes both the hope for rescue from afar and help from nearby at once, by telling Jonathan that these letters were given to him, and of course by controlling what gets sent out.

He seems to have already opened and read the letter to Hawkins. But he waited to read the second letter until he is in front of Jonathan. The one to Hawkins has no important information, but it hints that the one to Mina does. If that letter was not in shorthand, Jonathan's life would almost certainly depend on how openly he had asked for help. Because that might have broken the facade of friendship. And by waiting until he was in front of him to read Jonathan's own words, Dracula ensured that it would be Jonathan who was 'responsible' for doing so. He engineered what he probably expected to be a high-stakes game, wherein he read the letter and depending on the contents either allowed Jonathan to try and come up with an excuse he could pretend to accept, or let everything end and attacked him.

The shorthand changes everything. It's infuriating, because Dracula cannot read or understand it. And he refuses to admit that or to allow Jonathan to lie to him about what it contains. So he threatens whoever would write such a thing, but seizes on the excuse of it not being signed to dispose of it without having to call off the game. And he is able to quickly pivot back to hurting Jonathan even more, by forcing him to watch the letter containing all his hopes burn away. (This could be another test as well. If he broke, if he lunged to save it...)

Then Dracula forces Jonathan to play along. It seems clear that he has been sitting in silence throughout this scene. Dracula makes him, if not talk, at least act. He has to be the one to redirect the new envelope. He has to physically hand it over to Dracula. His effort to get a message out was turned into a useless mockery in which he must participate.

And then Dracula locks him in the library and leaves him alone to stew for a while.

I do think that Dracula went off and burned the letter to Mr. Hawkins as well. If that went out it would potentially raise questions, at the very least about a letter to Mina that went missing, and also might screw up his carefully scheduled false timeline (as established in the dictated letters). There's no reason for him to actually send this letter. But by pretending he was going to, he was able to twist the knife a little harder, and get Jonathan to 'participate' again.

[dazais-guardian-angel]

this torture we're going through with the anime must be divine karma for slandering Bones all this time...... they said "oh, you don't like how we adapt things? you say the manga does it better?? okay then, well now there is no more manga. it's Bones or bust, bitches."

[harbingerofwhump]

Listening to Compound Fracture and I was prepared for the [insert spiderman-pointing meme] at autism traits and the gut wrenching, painfully relatable depictions of transness and being raised/perceived as a woman

But I was NOT prepared to be smacked right in the face by that Autism Feeling around typical mundane adult responsibilities

[blazeturbo102]

Oh, I was wrong, my parents still think Crowley and Aziraphale are just buddies🙃(they've just started S2)

I'm literally dying to see them get to the last episode, I'll just be there watching their reactions like

[stargirl230]

First (official) day of college!

super nervous haha, wish me luck

(no reposts!)

[hydrachea]

Oh the polycule is so real to me.

[massiveladycat]

me watching another aroace character gets erased and forced into dating

[skunkes]

the bad: i have been raised without much warmth from my parents in childhood, but also pressured to conform to familial authority, doubt myself always, and value familial connections above all else (<- failed at this, and feel guilt about it.)

but also in experiencing this i have been so isolated from the entire rest of the world and others, that it will be nearly impossible to create my own "family" -> find safety and comfort in anybody else once my family is Gone. despite dis i find it really difficult to break away from the familiar, disobey and disappoint, because, well, why are my wishes more important than anybody else's. why would I cause upset and distress in anybody, and exert so much effort into my doubt filled half decisions, for my meaningless little Wishes. being away would also mean less time with these people who I'll never see again once they're gone. being raised this way is definitely paying off for those who did so.

the good: yaaaay adjacent inspiration for writing talon lore

[bonsai-maze]

Literally sobbing in the shower rn since I was bored and decided to watch Technoblade's goodbye for my friends who are dsmp fans. Since I myself am not a dsmp fan this was my first time seeing it. But goddamnit it I was crying 2 minutes in.

I know this might not mean much from a person whose never watched any dsmp vids (except Fundy a long time ago) and still knows nothing about it, but I just wanted to say rest in peace, Alex.

Technoblade never fucking dies 🕊️🗡️