you could be my destiny @semicosm - Tumblr Blog

May 2

RULE OF CLOSURE┊feat. KAVEH & ALHAITHAM

The gestalt rule of closure explains why incomplete figures are perceived as whole. Or: love is a confusing, complicated triad.

[wc: 4.8k] SUGGESTIVE (-17/AGELESS BLOGS DNI), referenced sex, however nothing explicit, gn!aroacespec!reader, fem kaveh and alhaitham, modern au with unspecified setting, real-world allusions though lol, smoking (reader), but you see it’s thematic, hurt/comfort, ambiguous relationships, but hey interpret it however you want, niche and selfship-coded, obv aspec themes

notes: hi i haven’t played genshin in forever LMAO and this may not make sense at all. if it doesn’t then don’t tell me thanks

The trilling of insects is all that precedes Kaveh’s arrival.

“You should come inside,” she suggests. “You’ll catch a chill out here.”

Now that’s a joke if you’ve ever heard one. She knows as well as you do that it remains sticky and humid all throughout the evening and night — the blonde’s just being polite and beating around the bush for your sake. You can always count on her to look out for you like that. Such familiarity is comforting; so much so that the hand shuttling your cigarette to your lips halts midair.

“What are you doing up?” you counter.

“Same as you, I figure.”

You don’t turn around, even when you can feel her eyes burning holes into the back of your head. Light spills out from the pigment-stained windows, illuminating the porch and elongating your shadow in a way that lends credibility to the witching hour’s magic.

Despite such romance, you don’t feel very whimsical. Not at all. Getting caught smoking by one of your roommates and not-girlfriends wasn’t on your agenda, and so you’re stuck here with your back to the architect, internally scrambling to formulate a response.

The balmy air smothers the bravado of your next words. “Another project, huh? Just us night owls, burning the midnight oil… tortured by our creative pursuits, endlessly agonizing… I get it, I do. Deadlines can be a pain in the ass. Michelangelo took four years to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He was straining his back the whole time. Probably fucked up his ancient body irreparably and stuff. Don’t end up like him, please. My poor heart couldn’t take it.”

Footsteps. One, two — three strides until Kaveh sidles up next to you. Her profile still somehow shocks you with its beauty, stealing the breath from your lungs in a way smoke could never hope to. You have to look away, because there’s a storm on the horizon; a torrent of concern cutting through everything in its wake. Your abandoned mug (now-turned makeshift ashtray) is suddenly the most captivating sight in the world. Yep.

“I don’t see a laptop in front of you,” she huffs dryly, trying to catch your eye, “or any chicken-scratch notes that put me to shame. Working, huh? Well, far be it from me to judge your methods, even if watching your process is like watching a car crash. Or a caged animal throwing out non sequiturs to distract me. I can’t believe waffling on about Michelangelo is your knee-jerk reaction to being checked on. Only you.”

She leans forward, transferring the brunt of her weight onto the wooden-beamed railing. Scuffed elbows connect to lithe arms supporting coarsened hands — those curling into fists to support her knowingly angled head.

“You’re not working. You’re smoking, and you only smoke when something’s wrong. I’m worried. Worried and not stupid, by the way. I heard you two earlier. So don’t insult me by playing dumb.”

Kaveh heard. Of course she did — it’s not like you and Alhaitham were exactly quiet, tangled up in the throes of passion (a sage green comforter and each other’s legs) while the world around you faded into meaningless noise. It shouldn’t bother you that you acted carnally or gave into your impulses, or that the blonde heard the noises bleeding through the walls in an unabashed show of firsts. But it does.

It does bother you that she’s checking on you after the fact, because there’s a lot Kaveh knows that Alhaitham does not. It bothers you that she knows you so well that she can discern when you’re acting out, when you’re putting forth a misguided cry for help.

(She knows better than anyone. When she and the scribe weren’t talking, when every attempted conversation led back to mangled scraps of paper, you were the first to comfort her. Ever the opportunist, you asserted your feelings outright, even if it was a move better saved for later. And because of your brave impulsivity, Kaveh saw what had been in front of her all along: spontaneous, scatterbrained, beautiful you. In realizing her love for the scribe, she also realized her love for you.

In the beginning, things were complicated like that. That’s why, when you pulled away during those first heated touches — in the house she had not yet sold for human debts and dreams — Kaveh didn’t question it. Of course you were hesitant. She was grappling and clashing with another. Any tryst with you would’ve felt like a rebound, even if Kaveh didn’t — and still doesn’t — see people that way. She would’ve accepted that explanation had it come out of your mouth.

But there was only a charged silence like this one before tears fell from your eyes and Kaveh thought she had scalded you. Hurt you. Destroyed yet another great thing in her life. But then you broke down and confessed, in such an uncharacteristic, branding show of vulnerability, that you didn’t want to go that far. You didn’t ever want to go that far. She remembers how your nails dug into the back of her sanguine t-shirt, your hairline pressed into her collarbone like she’d ever cast you aside for not wanting to.

You say so much yet so little. It rattles her, makes her mad. Mad for you.)

“Sorry,” you manage hoarsely. Another drag.

On a good day, you bring the world to its knees. On a bad day, some argue you achieve more. And on days like these, when your haze of sunshine is too easily penetrated and your chest is strangely empty, all you can do is distance yourself from the house and the wonderful people within it.

“Don’t,” Kaveh admonishes with that omnipresent spark of hers. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Her pose rigidly unfurls (such information is supplied by your peripherals because you still cannot bring yourself to face her head-on), allowing her to stalk a hair closer and yank you into her chest with a soft thwump.

“God,” she hisses, arms winding around your trembling form. Your shoulders tense but you don’t protest, which only fuels her fierce embrace. It hurts. You were already tachy, breaths coming out in uneven but subtle bursts for most of the day, but now? Now your heart thuds mercilessly at the reality of being held. You want it and you don’t want it; everything would be easier if you could just make up your mind. “You can’t—you can’t just do that—!”

Misery blurs your vision. Your palms are unbearably sweaty. She continues her tirade, her chin coming to rest atop your head while you struggle to make it through the next few moments.

“Harm yourself, I mean. You can’t just… quietly self-destruct, in bed or not, and expect me not to care. That’s so shitty,” her throat bobs with emotion. “I don’t know if you changed your mind about sex or what, and that’s your prerogative, but coming out here afterwards? Having that look in your eye like you’re gonna disappear on us again? Go wherever it is that you go and hide away? No.”

Her voice is so resolute. It’d be admirable if you weren’t falling apart and trying to force out reassurances at the same time. You usually don’t have to dig your heels in, because you’re so far removed from the concept of sadness that it’s become hard to recognize or even care about. But that’s the deal with your companions — they’ll care. The thought alone is horrifying when you can’t bring yourself to laugh it off.

“Sweetheart,” you murmur, attempting a breezy tone. It rings so hollow you might as well share blood with a chocolate Easter bunny. “I’m… I’m okay. Slow down.”

She bristles. “Don’t tell me to—”

“Just listen. Please.”

Kaveh reins herself in while you pull yourself together enough to respond. When was the last time you cried in front of someone? It had to be when you thought you lost your first-ever raw manuscript. That was easier than this. How do you convince a loved one that you’re okay? And more importantly, how do you do it without downplaying the entire vehicle of communication while still keeping yourself safe? How do you be a lovable hypocrite, in this moment?

“I could be smoking ‘cause that’s what people do after fooling around. It’s not all that strange,” you hush her, imbuing the words with enough wryness to smooth out your pinched brow. Her grip around you tightens, meaning business and dissuading your penchant for games. That’s a big problem of yours — you’re always jonesing for masquerade, or for a chance to wrap yourself up in other people so you don’t whittle down to nothing.

How much longer will you be able to surround yourself with the greatest fanfare until someone realizes how incomplete you are? How much longer can you trick sponsors and publishers, vendors and strangers? Detractors and lovers?

“It is strange,” she whispers. A loose braid tickles your ear. “It’s not you. Why’d you do it?”

She’s all taut like she wants to fix it. Like she wants to fix your mistake of not telling Alhaitham that you didn’t want to fuck or follow the “natural” progression of a relationship. And Kaveh’s simple question pulls at your vocal cords, plucking them only to yield a few flustered, unintelligible explanations. You fight to tame them into something serious, your previously ragdolled arms fumbling for purchase around her middle. It’s awkward when your side is pressed up against her, but you manage. Just barely.

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. Her breath hitches just a whisker. “It’s been a long day. I finished the draft and everything… so I had time to spare. I needed to blow off steam somehow, so why not give sex another shot? I was probably being dramatic that one time when you and I… yeah. Plus, the nerd was giving me bedroom eyes.”

“...It’s hard to second-guess yourself, so I understand. You finished the draft? You didn’t tell us! That’s pretty big. I hear that — but I’m also hearing that you’re now stuck in the house by yourself for most of the day. And that means you’re stuck in your head now, too.”

“Kaveh.”

She lowers her head, inhaling your scent apologetically. “Don’t take this as—as me telling you not to question things. ‘Cause that hamster wheel either pays off or it doesn’t, and sometimes the risk is worth it. But I don’t want you hurting yourself because you know you don’t like it, or because you feel empty and need a distraction. Sex is always optional. You always have a choice.”

“Kaveh.”

The blonde freezes in immediate regret, “I—”

“...Thank you.”

The architect gets a lot of credit for her Revit mastery, or for her ability to scrape together a meal from even the saddest of pantry scraps, but what she doesn’t get enough credit for is her uncanny ability to read between the lines. Call it anxiety, call it an eye for detail, call it whatever you want — but Kaveh can pick you apart like no one else. When she’s not being her own hypocrite and tamping down her feelings (that took ages), she discriminates your prose from your grains of truth; a standard literary analysis.

“You’re right,” you concede lowly. Snot sticks to your upper lip. Ew. “I should’ve stopped myself and told Alhaitham that I didn’t want to. I’m sorry. Thank you, I’ll be better.”

Owning up to your mistakes is a passive affair — that’s not to say you don’t mean your apologies. You’ll feel the shame at its fulcrum later, when you’re curled up under that same quilt, trying to sleep on the divan before coming to the realization that rest is a fool’s errand.

Your tears are drying. And you hear the blonde’s heart bleeding like she still, miraculously, has ichor to spare.

She huffs out a disbelieving sound, not quite at your solemn promise, but at you. You can almost detach yourself from your body and hear her thoughts. Maybe that’s your ego talking, or your preference for third person omniscience, but what matters is that she feels like she can’t reach you, despite having you. That must hurt. You’re hurting her—

A sharp, stinging pain blooms against your temple.

“Ow!”

“Come on,” she hauls you backwards, having pulled away slightly in your time spent catastrophizing. She must’ve flicked you! How rude! “We’re getting you cleaned up. It’s non-negotiable.”

Both of you cut through the den, the familiar mess of books almost drying your eyes completely. The lamps are on but the windows are dark — robbing the house of harsh light and leaving you at an impasse until new colors spill over the horizon. Alhaitham sleeps like a rock behind her door, and her ear defenders keep the aftermath of your mistakes sufficiently muffled. There’s no trouble as Kaveh corrals you down the hall and into the bathroom.

Life is a lot easier with someone by your side. The architect helps you wash your face, offering a steady presence. She braces a hand against your lower back as you prop up your own against the outcrop of the sink, sliding a washcloth over when she’s sure the act of kindness won’t break you completely. Only when she’s sure.

The tap stutters in its smooth rhythm.

“I’ll have to fix that,” she sighs.

“Just get overcharged by a plumber like the rest of us,” you quip, most of your signature energy defeated by the moment. Your voice is soft. So is hers. “Give yourself a break and all…”

“Too many times have I been scammed. I’m perfectly capable with my own tools, thank you very much.”

She removes your cleanser from the polyethylene basket under the sink. Most of your possessions follow the cleanser’s example; stored out of sight, like you don’t even live here at all.

Your clothes either hang in the broom closet or rest innocuously in Kaveh’s dresser, tucked away in a forgotten corner. All the memories of your past life are collecting dust within a cardboard box, the temporary vessel now taking up residence as a shelf for the communal key dish.

And your skincare shit is under the sink, because you’re so afraid of taking up space and encroaching on what is supposed to be — at least partially — yours.

(They’ve both noticed. But reassurance was agreed upon for Sunday morning.)

“You’re gonna get it in my eye,” you complain, letting her massage the product into your damp cheeks. “Remember last time? I almost went blind!”

The blonde lathers delicately. “It’s tear-free. Although that didn’t stop you, if memory serves.”

“Whose memory? In mine, you get bit with wild abandon.”

There it is — that laugh. It’s not exactly a happy one, erring more on the side of catharsis. Come morning, everything will be fine. Even though Alhaitham likes to sleep in on weekends, she’ll be up at a reasonable hour and will join you and Kaveh at the breakfast table.

You’ll serve pistachio fudge with raspberry coulis like you didn’t woefully undermix the batter. Maybe there will be talk of your manuscript, if you feel up to it, and there will be no more emptiness in your chest at the prospect of idle hands. Your lives will continue.

“...I’m really sorry,” you tack on there at the end, “for shutting you both out like that.”

Kaveh stills in her ministrations. She remains concerned.

“Well,” she exhales, drying her hands while the treatment sits. “Apology accepted. But this doesn’t mean I’m gonna ignore what happened. Or you, for that matter. God knows we all need to talk — just how normal people do, in between work and everything else. Mostly work. We’ve been busy, haven’t we?”

“Where do people find the time?” There’s a click of your tongue as you imitate a wistful, pensive elder that’s seen better days in their youth. “Honestly.”

“There’s always time for you,” she insists. “For us.”

“For ‘normal people’, you mean.”

She hums in reluctant agreement; she spoke the sentiment first for a reason. The relationship you three share is anything but conventional beyond the whole “living together” shtick.

However, time will be made. You’ve always been welcoming of the unique dynamic — but now? When you’re rinsing off and your reflection breaches the mirror, only to find her gaze locked on nothing but you? You couldn’t be more grateful to be the opposite of normal.

A few minutes later, you’re dragged into the blonde’s bedroom-office, numerous more insistences spewing forth that you’re not going to sleep out there like it’s law, and you’re not about to object when she’s acting like she might lose you at any given second.

The wire-bent birdcage she’s been fashioning solely for the sake of stress management is coming along nicely. The organized chaos of protractors and compasses accompanied by an overheating tablet and PC is a breath of fresh air. Amigurumi dolls of her two not-lovers sit side by side on the edge of said desk, one with silver hair and a bored expression and the other with a bright smile and a prop straw pen. It almost hurts, how sweet it all is.

“Huh. Where did yours go?” you ask. Padding over to the desk, you begin to maneuver the miniature Alhaitham into a position of defeat (because your doll deserves to beat hers in a fight).

“I couldn’t get my features to translate correctly. Besides, I have all I need.”

A flash of sanguine tests your mettle — you’re only peeking because she’s changing into that same shirt. Not because it’s the ideal one for sleep, but because of the significance it holds from that night, all those years ago. Unless you’re reading too much into things, as authors are prone to do.

Nevertheless, it confirms she’s not mad. God help you for even questioning it. Your punishment comes in the form of a cobalt tracksuit being hurled at your head.

The set bounces off your person, both matching pieces landing in a pile at your feet. You scowl, swiveling around to face her tired grin. Loose gold tresses frame her face, much like a gilded halo; a domestic one that also houses bits of brown and gray.

“I hate you,” you grumble.

“It’s because I’m a Cancer,” the blonde informs you matter-of-factly. “Many are envious of my smile lines and sunspots and overall aesthetic appeal. Not to mention my emotional intelligence.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff?”

She bats her lashes demurely. “Taking a page out of your blustering book, I’ll quote your main character: ‘Simply claiming something doesn’t make it true, y’know. Anything for the sake of conversation.’ Chapter four.”

You deserved that one. However, the fact she even remembers that specific line of dialogue from your newly finished novel is… touching. The feeling doesn’t stop you from skewing your arms akimbo and glowering, though. It’s hard to hold your annoyed expression when she’s doing it again — picking you apart effortlessly, calling out the projection of your own qualities onto the narrator.

“Not the time for your crazed fan ramblings,” you fume with a playfully haughty harrumph, “or your pseudoscience drivel.”

She snaps her fingers towards the mound on the floor. “Hurry up and put your pajamas on. It’s been a long day… and blue complements you well.”

There’s not much to do but relent, or in other words — blissfully surrender.

She drags you into bed shortly, nothing eager, like she doesn’t want to startle you with unreadable intentions. Even though you’re the one spooning her most of the time (she complains about the lack of creative control), she’s earned the privilege to keep holding you during this gloamly escapade of mistakes and misadventures. Kaveh hums little nothings into your ear, ignoring your gooseflesh in favor of switching off the bedside lamp.

And then, for the second time tonight, one of your companions is upon you.

“The main character is my favorite, by the way,” she murmurs, resuming her earlier position and coveting you so closely you’re almost brought to madness. Breath against skin, ichor kissing blood. “You wouldn’t believe how much soul they have. I hope you gave them the happy ending they deserve.”

It hurts. It hurts so good and so bad and so wildly much.

The hush of darkness blankets your next words. “You know me. Of course I ended it on a good note.”

“I can’t wait to read it.”

There’s a yawn against your crown, and suddenly you leave most of your due regret behind. Red-rimmed eyes have lost their irritated color, and the inky blackness does not seem so daunting as it did when you first exiled yourself from company (your own unique brand of penance).

If death is isolation, then Kaveh just saved your life. It’s bewildering. The blonde falls asleep within minutes, leaving you awake but content.

…Mostly.

The feeling is still there, just barely. The last vestiges of your foray with the scribe settle poorly in your stomach, becoming an itch you can’t quite scratch. Especially now, when you’re stationary and left without a vice in your hand. You aren’t tired anymore; this is not uncommon.

Now that the architect is sleeping soundly, you give her a few minutes to settle deeper until you detangle yourself from her embrace and the fleeting peace that comes with it. Poky-limbs-gorgeous-idiot.

“Hey,” you whisper-hiss at her bedside. It’s not enough to wake her — nothing is. Both of your not-girlfriends sleep like the dead once they’re out. “I forgot my disgusting ashes outside. I’ll be right back.”

“Uh-huh, ‘kay,” she responds easily, brow creased and speech slurred. “Go, disgusting.”

Real supportive, Kaveh. You roll your eyes before leaving the room.

To your credit, you actually do venture out to retrieve said ashes at first. But as you’re strolling down the hall with bated breath, you unwittingly find yourself in front of Alhaitham’s door.

Are you really gonna wake her up to set the record straight? Probably. And at this hour, is there a small chance you’ll get thrown out on your ass? Well, it’s more of a “getting snarked to death” type of risk. Is it worth it? Yes, you decide. Her voice will be deep from sleep and she’ll hear what you have to say.

The scribe won’t hear if you knock. So, slowly, and with all the intent of a cat burglar, you twist the knob and cross the threshold when granted entry. It feels wrong, but you’re also feeling too stubborn to hold off until morning. It’s dark, but there she is — supine and out like a light. You joke to yourself that earlier must’ve worn her out, but she always retires early regardless of circumstance. The crankiness you and Kaveh face when she’s deprived of less than eight hours is subtle but undeniably real.

“...Um,” you maintain normal volume while creeping over just enough, trying to gently rouse her. “Haitham, I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Nothing. Rocks don’t speak, you suppose.

Another attempt. You gently take hold of her wrist after nudging the covers askew, resisting the urge to trace a reverent path from her forearm all the way down to her bicep — now’s not the time. Given, she still doesn’t wake up. So you take initiative once again and give her a shake.

Alhaitham stirs, square jaw setting in place. Her head tips just enough towards you, and then you’re greeted by the startling hue of her eyes. Lashes rise and lids part to reveal teal-green and unamused terracotta. The split second you’re given to ogle and straighten out your prepared script is quickly overtaken by the former urge to stare like a gawping, awestruck fish.

Acute idiocy time. You panic, “What’s twelve times eleven?”

She dismisses your floundering by yanking off her headphones (gingerly placing them on the nightstand after), and then turning over on her side, away from you — welcoming the wall instead of your irksome presence. To be fair, you wouldn’t deign to answer yourself either.

But reason doesn’t stop your heart from sinking. Because this truly was a stupid idea, wasn’t it? Waltzing in here and waking her up to apologize? Maybe it was your conversation with the blonde that made you feel like you needed, more than anything, to tell her how much you want to keep things as they are — sans sex. That what happened earlier was merely a fluke, a communicative error on your part.

(Is she going to be disappointed in me?)

You can’t bear such a dreadful thought right now; it’d be too painful to see it actualized. So you pivot on your heel for the final time, ready to head back to Kaveh’s room like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Until something stops you, that is.

Alhaitham seizes your wrist from behind, an homage to your earlier attempt at rousing her. She must’ve rolled back over towards the door — again, in your catastrophizing. Ignoring your yelp, she flings the comforter away and pulls you into the maw of the mattress, dragging you right up against her broad chest.

“One hundred thirty-two,” she says. You can hear her upper lip tick.

All you’ve done today is mess up and get manhandled like a box of cargo. Usually, enforcing skinship falls under your hand, not theirs, and you’re rattled so good from her little joke that you’re left speechless. The smugness radiating from her right now is palpable, which shouldn’t even be possible, considering she should be tired, and tired only.

“Sounds right,” you breathe awkwardly. “Um, sorry to wake you.”

“It’d be in your best interest to get to the point.”

Despite how disgruntled she sounds, part of you wonders how literally you should take that reply. Maybe it’d be in your best interest because she wants to catch a few more hours before dealing with your bullshit, so you should just go ahead and spit out the problem now. But maybe, just maybe, it’d be in your best interest because your wellbeing is important. At this hour, it’s simply hard to tell which one you should believe.

“It’s about earlier.” The threat of bile coming up is a serious one, so you prattle on with all the gravitas of a seasoned judge. “I don’t wanna do that again… and I never really wanted to in the first place. It’s my fault for not speaking up. Sorry. Is that okay?”

There’s silence for a good while. You can hear your humanity in your ears, rabbiting away.

“To be frank, I hadn’t planned on it either,” says Alhaitham. “I just wasn’t complaining.”

What?

You strain to face her. There’s not a hint of judgment on her face, just an impassivity that would kill any soul audacious enough to venture into her office outside of work hours.

The scribe continues, “I was under the impression that letting you mark up my back would please you. You initiated, as you had not yet done up until that point. I inferred sex was something you wanted; I consented in return because I didn’t mind the facilitation. Despite what happened, and despite how you regret it, I still don’t mind. You are an exception to my general disinterest in matters of the flesh.”

“...‘Matters of the flesh’?”

“Physical or sexual attraction,” she clarifies.

Her candid elaboration makes you want to cry. Not because it offends you like it would most — but because it’s so unashamed in the way you could never be. Not to mention, you’ve never had this conversation with her. You just unrightfully assumed that she did have needs, and that you weren’t fulfilling them until you decided to start for the wrong reasons. She doesn’t mind bedding you, or Kaveh for that matter, but you initiated just to feel something — and what you felt overall was discomfort.

“I’m really sorry,” you rasp, stroking her thumb and forefinger.

She blinks at you, slow and restrained like she’s trying hard to suppress a brow-quirk. She succeeds, only letting out a long-suffering exhale that’s at least partially reassurance and entirely saved for people she’s fond of.

“Go to sleep,” she mutters, cadence less poised. “It’s all right.”

And so you do. There’s a comfortable gap between you and the scribe as you seek reprieve against the pillows. Kaveh’ll be pretty confused as to where you’ve snuck off to, probably disconcerted at the prospect of withdrawal when you’ve only just recovered from it, but that’s an issue for later.

You slide Alhaitham her headphones back, both of you preferring distance now that the air’s been cleared. No clinging. Just two solid presences meant as gifts to one another.

It doesn’t hurt as much. It’s not all better, but it’s better, and such is the foundation of hope.

You sniffle once. “I care for you two. A lot.”

“...Likewise.”

“Can’t you say it?”

“I can.”

And she does — by reaching over briefly to thumb away the singular tear rolling down your cheek. The calloused digit reels back after it does its job; a hard-won victory.

You are complete. Two people just needed to show you what was there all along.

It is not fundamental law, but instead conscious choice: by the metric of threes, sleep is peaceful.

semicosm

tagging: @maplewood-valley

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