Work Text:
Luca Balsa’s work room is a mess.
He’d been warned of this fact ahead of time by the manor’s architect, but it still catches him off guard to discover the extent of. He has dirty dishes piled off to the side of his desk, old cups stained with coffee and plates that never quite made their way back to the kitchen. There are books stacked up by his feet, some left open on the floor amongst the scatterings of papers and trash, but others simply left to gather dust. Or, in one case, seeming to rather humorously act as a second table.
The light in the room is low. Alva finds himself wondering how Luca has not destroyed his eyes as well.
The thing is, Herman Balsa had a specific organizational system.
Perhaps its odd to remember, but he finds himself stuck on it nonetheless. It was something he’d imparted onto Alva, and even further, something he’d imparted onto Luca. When Luca had come to join him in the lab, he’d managed to work himself right into it’s odd set up. Books didn’t always go on shelves, but did always have a spot on the desk. Pens didn’t always find their way in the drawers, but one could always find one atop the cabinets. It was little similarities that had always made his heart turn oddly, and that Luca Balsa had fallen right back into.
It’s different, now. There’s no method to his madness. The room just is, existing in a state of chaos.
Luca mutters under his breath, and even from his spot in the doorway Alva can tell it reeks of frustration. He’s facing away from him- Shoulders hunched up and tensed in a way that will surely ruin his back, and hair standing at awkward looking angles. The reason for it becomes exceedingly clear- Luca mindlessly seems to run his fingers through it, grabbing at it in irritation of whatever problem he’s attempting to work himself through.
Alva is staring. How impolite. But Luca hardly seems to notice, just as Alva himself fails to notice the passage of time. It’s a moment of stasis, where-in they’re both left lingering there.
Luca curses, and rips a page out from the notebook he’s working in and balls it up one handed, letting it drop mindlessly behind him. He pauses his work to hide his face in his hands, almost as though mournful, and it breaks that stasis - Alva steps into the room to collect it, mindful of the other pages and paper balls scattered across the ground.
Alva remembers scolding him, once. Though his sketches had always been immaculate, Luca had always been in such a hurry with his notes. Alva had tried to impart the importance of keeping things as neat as they were organized, but it was undeniable. Luca had always preferred to keep his time with his hands and mind.
His writing now, Alva notes, is illegible. Though there's a sketch, the lines are shaky, and picture unclear. And if what he knows is true, his mind is no better.
He frowns, and glances back up to Luca.
He seems tired.
He places the page back onto the desk, doing well to smooth out some of the creases, and then rests his hand lightly to Luca’s back. It’s a motion familiar to both of them. He gets a startling sense of deja vu, and by the way Luca tenses at the feeling he does to. However, to Alva’s surprise, makes no motion to tell him off. Curious.
He tests the waters.
“Whats wrong with this one, dear boy?” Alva asks, sincerely curious to his thoughts. Luca sends a glance toward the paper, his brows furrowing a bit.
“Math’s not adding up right,” Luca mutters, mindless. He’s chewed up the back of his pencil, a nasty habit Alva wasn’t aware he had, and he motions to do the same now. He bites into the wood hard enough to live imprints in the paint, and mumbles around it, “Calculations are all wrong. Wouldn’t really function well, now would it?”
Alva hums as though he understands, but his brows furrow. He’d not noticed from a distance, but the text Luca is working out of has horrible dog-earring. The margins of it are penned and sketched in, half hearted thoughts he must have hurried down while reading through it originally. There are, however, entire passages nearly scribbles through in the little of a glance he’s getting at it, a stark contrast to the plain black text the book otherwise provides.
Luca looks tired. It’s not a vulnerability he often allows Alva to see these days. He remembers the nights Luca would waste at the lab, running tests Alva was too wary of to support but never quite bold enough to stop. He’d been like his father, in that regard. But this is different. It always is, these days. Luca has heavy bags under his eyes, a slight tremor to his hand, and there are a few smudges from where he’d fallen asleep holding the pencil.
"Walk me through it," Alva offers, keeping his tone neutral. Luca scoffs at him, and Alva's eyes narrow, "It's easy to allow ones thoughts to get caught up in their head, if they keep them there. Explain the problem to me."
Alva is not an affectionate man. He never has been. One of the many complaints his wife had of him, in the time they’d been together. But as his hand ghosts up to rest in Luca’s hair, he thinks he may at least pretend to be.
"No point," Luca mutters, and leans back. Alva swears he hears him huff as he says it. And Alva almost scolds him for that, but then Luca moves to rubs at the pressure points on his head. Alva is unable to help the way pity shifts in his stomach at the sight. Its an uncomfortable thing to come to terms with.
“When one thinks too hard, their mind begins to fog their talents,” Alva offers, in the same tone he’d taken years ago. “It is unwise, to work oneself past their limits. Did I not teach you that?”
Luca gives a thoughtless hum, closing his eyes as he leans back to the touch. Whatever past he’s gotten lost in, it's one that allows him to easily meld under Alva’s touch. And Alva, despite himself and his teachings, has always been a selfish man. He's always taken for more then he's given, indulging in his desires and vices. Perhaps it is telling of himself, that Luca remains a desire. That their history has only made Alva want him more. Alva cannot save, but he can fix. He cannot grow, but he can mend.
Luca jolts back, suddenly awake. There’s sudden clarity in his eyes where there was not before. And with that clarity comes a crash, his expression falling and gaze flickering back over to Alva. His eyes widen, and face pales, and he looks at Alva as though he’s seen a ghost.
Perhaps, in a way, he has.
“Get out,” Luca tells him, and it’s so firm and hurried and harsh that Alva finds himself straightening upright. Alva makes no attempt to move. He adjust the staff to his hand and looks upon Luca with a raised eye. Luca looks at him with nothing short of disbelief, "It's bad enough that we have to see eachother in matches. I don't need you to- your presence. You don't have to be here. I don't want you here. Get out."
Alva shifts to place his weight on his staff. Mindful of the space between them, he leans forward to take a look over Luca's most recent notes.