#illlly

“you need to take care of yourself to do your best work. i’ll help you.”

you already have onions and garlic sliced for a meal.

kaveh sighs, fidgeting. uncomfortable. “i don’t need you to coddle me.”

“i’m well-aware of that.” you placate him. “reminders don’t hurt, do they?”

“when you speak to me as if i’m not aware of my own overworking, they do.” kaveh’s voice goes sharp. “i’m perfectly self-sufficient and don’t need you to hover when i’m attempting to work.”

kaveh gets harsher with this words, the more vulnerable he feels. you know the rhythm of it well and your frustration with it varies, depending on the day. today, you understand. he can be as barbed as you want, and you will not allow it to hurt you.

“i don’t mean to hover.” you tell him, dragging your lips up to his cheek and kiss the words against the soft skin there. “i just worry.”

“well, you don’t need to.”

“… you saying that won’t stop me from doing so.” you squeeze him. “at least step away to eat something. i’ll make that ginger tea you like— i have candied lemons too.”

kaveh chews his cheek. appealing to his stomach, and is love of sweets, is perhaps a bit dastardly, but you forgive yourself. when kaveh’s warm and fed and has slept more than a cumulative six hours, you can muse on better ways to goad him into accepting a break.

“in a few minutes. if i can finish this sketch, i can start doing conversions—“ he rattles off the steps of his process, winding and complex, entirely his. genius burns a candle fast and low, and kaveh has always been a prodigy.

“fine. then let me sit with you.”

kaveh concedes to that much. a victory, however pyrrhic.

you slip to the ground near his feet and rest your back against the legs of his chair. you smother your face into his leg, and his hand instantly presses over the top of your head. kaveh mindlessly plays with your hair as he continues working. easily absorbed back into his work, chasing whatever inspiration and subsequent design that he’s crafted. kaveh has grand visions and the skills and talent to actualize them. his biggest enemy is his own festering self-deprecation.

you don’t blame him. you never could.

kaveh mumbles to himself, stroking over your forehead, and worrying the little wrinkle between your brows. you know he’ll take more than a few minutes before remembering you’re at his feet, patiently waiting for him to relent just enough that you’re able to shove him full of whatever care you can. you like to imagine you’re whittling away at him through keeping his belly full and his bed warm. he enjoys having you on his arm— you know this well. he likes you. (he just hates himself, and there’s nothing you can do about it.)

you don’t dwell on it. you’ll give him what he takes and prod him until he takes more. you take his hand by the wrist and drag it to your lips, pressing kiss after kiss to his fingers tips.

when he shudders with it, tenses all through his body, you feel nothing but smitten.