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Summary
“I can feel you,” Kaveh murmurs into the little space left between them. He’s drunk and has taken two pills for the pain in his arm. The injury has gotten worse because he keeps drawing, keeps pushing himself.
“No,” Alhaitham whispers back and brushes his fingertips over Kaveh’s cheekbone down to his jaw. “It’s me who can feel you. And I don’t know why.”
As if this mortal here is the knife turning inside him, prying open a heart long faded.
And perhaps, Alhaitham would trade a thousand lives to keep this one. Perhaps.
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In which Kaveh is an artist struggling with depression and Alhaitham Death himself, falling for a mortal.