Work Text:
The Grand Bazaar walls buzzed with the echo of talking, glass tinkling – whether it be the tall glasses filled with wine or colourful trinkets sold on the markets – and cooling breeze from the underground stone, bringing ease from the intense warmth of the outside. In the upcoming late evening hour, everything slowed. The crowds of people marching through the bazaar, looking for everything, from groceries to jewellery, stopped their rush and moved in steady waves, coming and going, breaking in less and less.
Cyno couldn’t say that he liked places like this. Used to the large areas of nothing but sand and shadows of pyramids in the distance, surrounded by everything and nothing, he felt somewhat alien in such a gathering. But at the end of the day, and to his own surprise, he didn’t regret coming. He also thought it would be rude to regret – after all, it was for him to celebrate his success. Cyno hadn’t given it a deeper dive into the feeling, but a string or two moved in his heart. It felt nice. He felt thankful.
Everyone looked pleased; after their mission ended with a grand success, their meeting face-to-face with the Dendro Archon and hearing the praise, a stone had been lifted from them all, even if nobody were aware of it in the first place.
Sitting a bit at the back of the scene, Cyno saw Dehya, Dunyarzad, and Nilou engaged in fiery conversation with food in front of them, Dehya showing her mechanical arm to the delicate dancer while she observed it with great curiosity. Nearby, Traveller tried to pull the hungry Paimon away from the stocks of food; most probably afraid that their companion would eat it all with a single bite if she could. A faint smile appeared on Cyno’s face.
The atmosphere felt so much calmer compared to the last few days. And even if it wasn’t Cyno’s habit to let his guard down ever, the place now felt safe. Peaceful. His fingers carefully spun the glass he was holding, the red wine flowing around the crystalline walls from which the light beamed from every sharp cut edge.
But the cool air quickly thickened when one person sat beside him.
“Al Haitham.” Cyno’s voice was lower, and his ruby eyes observed the other man carefully.
“Sitting all alone at a feast prepared for you is rather lonely,” he said unbothered, bringing with him his own glass. “And it seems like only the two of us now have no one to talk to.”
“Since when you’re so talkative?”
Cyno had no intention of speaking with this man. True, they worked together for a while just because he was partaking in Al Haitham's plan. And that… meant nothing. As soon as their mission ended, all ties were cut. The Mahamarta felt no need to exchange any words with him, had no topic, and no desire to find one. Besides, something saddened instantly inside of him just by his close presence. Cyno felt it already during their stay in Aaru Village when they discussed the plan. The moment when Al Haitham was the first person to reassure him that despite the Akademiya's spying on him, Cyno was safe, the ground under his feet trembled dangerously. It wasn't strong enough to cause the earthquake but was concerning enough to make Cyno want to back off immediately. He couldn't let the feelings take the lead then, not at such a crucial moment, so he shut down.
Yet no walls can't stand forever.
Al Haitham hadn’t replied right off, which was unexpected and unusual. His sharp tongue could quickly turn up with something to put Cyno down and start the argument, but he didn't. The white-haired man thanked for that in silence.
The hustle and bustle of the Grand Bazaar was the only thing filling the uncomfortable silence in-between them. People were speaking for them, their conversation pretending to be theirs. Cyno wondered how the world sounded beneath Al Haitham's headphones. Was it completely shut off? Numbed?
“I wanted to personally congratulate you for the reinstatement,” said Al Haitham and then took a small sip of whatever was in his glass.
Cyno couldn't take it. “You don't have to pretend to be so friendly. Thank you.”
“Was I ever trying?”
“Hmph. No.”
And the silence sewed their lips again. Cyno slightly tensed his hands on the hard glass, mindful enough not to break it. He really wished he could just spend the rest of the feast alone. Then say goodbye, leave and go on a long walk across the desert. Spending the night grimacing because his heart turned up and down constantly because of some unresolved issues from the irrelevant past was not something he looked up to. He only wished not to cause any trouble for the people that planned all of this, but deep inside he knew that with every second, more quick questions came to his mind – poisoning him – and that at any minute, he could simply burst.
Al Haitham wasn’t looking at him as he peeked from the corner of his eye. His eyes were focused on something in front of them – not on the stage, not on the farthest wall of the Bazaar, but somewhere. Cyno then wondered what he wanted to achieve.
“Are you really such a believer in things like «luck», Scribe?” Was a thing that ripped the thread holding his lips shut. General Mahamatra was untrue to himself, he did find a topic to talk about, and it was all because of his interrogative nature and habit of asking questions to the ones he found suspicious. Al Haitham chuckled at that.
“You’re referring to what I’ve said previously?” He asked, with a tint of a smile. “Why are you so odd about it?”
“I don’t think anyone would say that the Akademiya’s Scribe is fond of putting his decisions on pure luck. It doesn’t suit you. So, I’m simply asking if you said anything or if something has changed.”
“Luck is not entirely based on randomness. Or at least – does not have to. You see, by using simple mathematical analyses, you’re able to predict the percentage of your chance to win. Everything can be supported by logic, only if you’re using the right formula – it is nothing new. Even something uncomplicated, like rolling the dice, is not invisible to this. By the way, the probability theory would be something that could help you with that game you like, General Mahamatra.”
Cyno frowned at these words and mulled them over his head before answering. “So, you used the calculation to predict our chance to win?”
“No,” Al Haitham shook his head. “I've said that luck doesn't have to be fundamental in an illogical way of the unknown Universe. Well, of course, to present the plan I had prepared, I had to count some percentages and compare many possibilities to one another to ultimately conclude the result. But that leads us to question that maybe there are different types of luck – ones that require more calculations and ones that don't.”
“If the chance to win wasn't the type of luck that needs the calculation, then the one that requires this is…” Cyno bit his lower lip, trying to figure it out, Haitham giving him a small peek from the side. “Scribe, this doesn't make any sense.”
“Well, take a look at that I have never said which luck I consider countable and which not.”
“Now you're just speaking in riddles to piss me off.”
“That can be another option,” the taller man suggested. After hearing the irritated sigh from the other, he continued, his eyes yet again focused on something in the distance. “In all seriousness, though. The team we had formed, undoubtedly was a type of luck. And here, I honestly had no intention of measuring the chance of a positive outcome. We were a good team with responsible and creative people. The outcome was certain.”
“You say you hate being the leader, yet this is the most diplomatic shit I have ever heard.”
“Surprised it came out of me?”
“To Abyss and back.”
The team we formed– screw you.
Cyno couldn't keep these words to himself when he spat out, “you would be the worst TCG player.”
“Hm?”
“Nothing.”
Countable luck– what a nuisance. This man would sooner run out of numbers than count any possible outcome of anything he's doing. Was he also something he could count on by mathematics? Did Al Haitham magically predict everything beforehand? Cyno squeezed his own arm and, again, maybe a bit nervously, spun the glass. Was the sudden cut between them just a result of the unpleasant score his stupid formulas gave him? What was he in this mess?
“What about forgiveness.”
That was not a question. It split from Cyno’s mouth without a thought, without even a second to put the question mark at the end, to make his voice a bit up at the end, to make it not a sentence, not a command to answer, but a question. He didn't want to.
Could he get the meaning? Was it already obvious why he asked about this? From how his fingers grasping the glass twitched or by how it took longer to answer, Cyno thought he knew. He was hoping for that. Maybe this question made him unsure, and Cyno was hoping for that so sincerely.
The Bazaar exhaled in different voices, and the walls seemed to become colder, taking more and more as the Sun was coming down. Yet their silence was louder than any screaming merchant selling the goods announcing another sale was – for sure it was more hurtful. Was it so hard to answer?
“What’s your opinion on that?” Al Haitham didn’t dare to look at Cyno when he asked him this question. If only he could read from them how well-aware Haitham was at this moment. He knew this question was made for him specifically, to drag him down with the answer even if it was correct in his senior’s mind. For once, he acted for the sake of pure instinct because he saw Cyno sitting all alone, and the first thing that came to him was to approach. To not let this chance go to waste. Was it already known to him? Probably, otherwise, the years of them knowing each other, and becoming close to each other, were wasteful. And none of them liked to waste anything.
The burning scar that had awakened in Cyno’s chest aches infinitely. It annoyed him when he wasn’t sure of the reason; because he missed somebody, because he hated someone so much he couldn’t express it. It seemed like it was both at the same time. Emotions flowed through him from the very first meeting when their hands drew the weapons immediately to put the sharp edges of the blades to each other’s necks. From now on, throughout every word and every action, something opened and bled once again. Cyno could only speak for himself, but Al Haitham was no different to this. They both would quicker gauge their eyes out than admit it.
Not everything was a closed book. For them, it could be merely a chapter.
“We shouldn't be forced to forgive every time. Some people tend to say that the kindest of hearts will forgive everything, but everything depends on every situation on its own. Sacrificing our own good for the sake of others isn't always the best idea, right?” Al Haitham finally stated, yet his voice was quieter, mixing with the shadows and echoes, the tint of roughness in his throat showing with a pleasant scratch. “You should know best. One of the matra's responsibilities is not to forgive and always provide justice, is it not?”
The tone was hard to understand. Al Haitham wanted to sound sure he was sure of the things he said, he truly believed in them, but saying it out loud now— brought suspense.
“Do you criticise those who forgive?”
“I'm not indulging myself too much in other people's decisions. Not my business anyway.”
“But what do you think when you see this happening?” Cyno insisted, not satisfied enough to let go. Almost as if he wanted to drag the answer he desired out of him, waiting for him to say these words. “For sure you think something.”
Cyno's eyes were always saying much more than any other feature on his face. His smile was always more visible in them than on his lips, in the curve of the corners, his anger was fire red, the burning ruby red you only see when buildings are burning down, the same colour he hid inside his eyes – in the frown of the light eyebrows, the flash of scarlet behind the white eyelashes. Al Haitham had the opportunity to experience all of them – the smile, the anger, the frown.
The tears.
A crimson gemstone drowning in the clear sea.
Sometimes he wondered if he could see it again.
When he stared at him – at the eye that followed him so attentively, he searched for all the shades he once saw. And he couldn't find it. Instead, he felt like he discovered a new one; dimmed red gloss, like someone had turned off the lights, killed all the stars in the sky. The colour speaking with blue – thin memories, aching melancholy, silent plea for forgiveness. As if there were some words unspoken pushing themselves on lips, shut. Al Haitham couldn't be sure if it was true or all a dream. Maybe he was a lunatic, after all.
“For sure I think something,” was all he was able to say at this point.
Only weak hearts forgive. Only the weak ones can turn a blind eye to all the hurt they endured. Cyno would never consider himself helpless – both physically and mentally. The body he had, the soul dancing around the vessel, was never soft. Would he ignore the needle that picked at his eye? No. But maybe he would accept the apology? Could he also say sorry? His heart was a bowstring and all of this was making it weaken.
But Cyno wasn't heartless. He was cold-blooded, but the heart pumping the blood was hot and very much alive. It felt, and so every other part of his body felt. His position was earned because Cyno was the ideal example of a highly positioned matra. Other people either looked up to him or tried to avoid him for any cost – which was also something these two shared in the experience.
When he looked into his eyes, never before had Cyno thought that crimson and teal could mix together so well. He could tell the blending edges of colours melting inside his eye; was it Al Haitham sitting so close, or was Cyno getting closer? Either way, soon enough, there was more red than teal – when he saw the reflection of his own eye in his, that was the moment when he decided to look away. He could swear he heard a soft sigh from the other.
Was there a way?
The scent of wood was stronger, the warmth slipping beneath the boards, the stage almost burning to the skin – underneath his feet. At one second he was afraid that a fire would start soon, devouring the both of them first. When none of them said anything, the wave of voices raised again ringing in his ears. Sometimes he wished he could turn it down, just a little bit. He took a small peak at Al Haitham's earpieces with slight jealousy; that thing had to be so comfortable in use and as a garnet in itself since he was wearing it all the time. Except sometimes.
It was hard to think. Maybe there was a change inside both of them. At first, Cyno thought it was tiring sharing any words with this man again, but… The edges soften with every breath. It gave him a headache – what if he missed it? Al Haitham couldn't tell either. Intrigued by the man as always – no matter what, he appreciated his person, he admired the way he worked, and how he dealt with things. It always felt like Cyno was one of the few that could understand without words. He could, he knew it. How many times have they just laid in silence; the only sound was of their heartbeats and paper folding.
An escape.
Al Haitham took a sip of his wine, peeking to the side, looking discreetly at the side profile of Cyno. His white hair covered by gold lighting, illuminating with delicate shine despite its probably relatively poor condition, hid one side of his face. He left the beloved headpiece close to himself on the wooden floor. He still could see the hook of his nose, soft plump on the upper lip connected with a line with the bottom one – dark and sweetly red, both in colour and the gloss of wine. Tempting.
He moved closer. Just a bit; more like he was just fixing his posture, but Cyno saw the movement – he didn't do anything. Al Haitham understood it. There was music going from somewhere, both of them unaware of the direction. The sound embraced them, meek and not distracting but still emphasising something they tried to avoid for once – the silence. As lovely as it was per usual (except for the exception of one of them, who was more careful in the silence as he could hear everything in it), now it was painful at the same. A reminder.
No matter how he tries, some feelings will never die.
Still, he wasn't sure how Cyno looked at him today. Was he still just a poison from the scorpion, was he just a memory, was he a missing piece that got lost by itself.
For once, Al Haitham cared.
“Cyno.” Oh, how good it was to spread the name on his tongue. His head was slightly tilted to the side, lips close enough to him that Cyno could feel the remains of hot breath on his ear. He shivered. “I can't stand this small talk anymore.”
His voice was still so pleasant for all his senses. So pleasant. He hated it for that.
“Then what do you want to do?” Cyno gave him the side eye. He waited for Al Haitham to say what he wanted, what he had planned. Had he already calculated how great the possibility of, whatever he wanted to achieve, was? Was Cyno just a simple number?
“I don't know,” escaped from behind his teeth like a warning. “I don't know.”
The white-haired man tried to avert his eyes from him. The longer he looked at him, the longer he saw his own reflection in his eyes and the weaker he felt. But the words he just said pushed him to stand against his own provisions.
The bubble Al Haitham kept himself in wasn't working anymore – not when it came to Cyno. Was he alright with the friendly act, or was the heart aching for more, for the comfort and peace from times ago, when things were different? To call him a coworker, a friend, an ally – was it all enough? To name him someone that was once close, closer than he was today, despite now sitting right next to him. The Scribe perfected the art of keeping your feelings down, cool and collected. The environment he created was for him and him only, to not be disturbed, interrupted, or annoyed. But inside him was a desire not only to explore the personality of the other but to study them under an orange light with ink covering his fingers from all of the notes he would write down; there now, and was, a desire burning up in the man's chest. To share the quietness and hold the powerful body in his own arms, imagining that they only have themselves.
He wished he could say it like any other thing, but a knot wrapped around his throat, and with every look from Cyno, it was like a pull – clenching the rope.
“Could we figure it all out?” He asked in the still silence that built around him. “I have so much to talk with you about.”
“You always had.” Cyno's eyes finally gained some light – the ruby shining with a shy glow.
They hadn't noticed when they became so close to each other. With both of their hands on the ground, they barely touched their fingertips. Even the slightest touch was electrifying as if the energy from their Visions suddenly jumped on. With breaths on each other's lips, it was hard to focus, and mainly, it was hard to talk about anything when surrounded by people. Cyno made the first step as he slowly stood up, taking the headpiece from the floor and leaving the wine glass.
He had forgiveness on his mind, Al Haitham’s words. Cyno wished he could just end the conversation and move on his own like before this meeting. But then he remembered – he was the first that jumped on the man when he saw him in the desert, the first to take out his weapon on him. It was impossible to forget the rush of adrenaline in his blood when their blades collided, tearing at the sharp edges, the harsh sound still ringing in his ears. No matter how long it was, he would never forget Scribe’s moves, how he wielded his sword and he twisted his wrist fully operating it; that was something that kept his eyes on him and still does.
“If you want to talk,” he started slowly, as he was making the decision as he was speaking, “we could go somewhere… more private.”
A hand clenched around his heart, squeezing it painfully. Was it the right thing to do? His friend would likely give him the biggest slap on the head for this.
It’s such a simple thing to want. To desire something simple like another person. To ignite the flame you thought you had lost or at least trying because the match has broken. Maybe it wasn’t wrong, after all, if he wanted to straighten up the past, to talk about things they never had time for before the fire between them took it all. There still were some remains and fragments scattered around like puzzle pieces. Maybe the picture will never be the same as before, but as time passed, they changed, and so did the illustration. Asking for the same would end up the same, in misery.
Al Haitham looked at him, and Cyno knew he was thinking – intensively to that – as he saw the tiny scrunch between his eyebrows. “Any suggestions?”
“Your house.” He replied, shrugging.
“I can’t promise you we’ll be alone, though.”
“You’re a big boy. Can have a key to lock his doors, right?” And Haitham huffed at that while getting up, which was a lot for Cyno’s satisfaction.
✧
Their sudden flee left a lot of questions. Cyno had to reassure everyone that he only needs to drop the “dead-drunk” Al Haitham, supported on his shoulders, to his house, and he’ll come back. To make it more believable, the Scribe mumbled something under his nose, like he was trying to communicate through his tangled tongue, and it seemed it worked. Dehya couldn’t hold the laugh and for sure, Al Haitham will have to face the consequences of his great acting later. This time, it was Cyno’s idea and the taller one simply had no way to disagree.
He stumbled on his “weak” legs, sometimes out of spite dragging his feet between Cyno’s and making them both struggle to come down from the stage. “Make it believable,” said General Mahamatra, and Haitham only abided by the order. He definitely did a good job as everyone looked surprised that the Akademiya’s Scribe really could have such a weak head.
When they went a good distance away, making sure no one would see them, Al Haitham let go of Cyno’s shoulders.
“Couldn’t we just say we want to go on a walk?” The man suggested and raised an eyebrow at the matra.
“No,” he replied simply. “That would make them suspicious. And I wanted to witness how good your acting skills are, supposedly you did quite a scene at the Grand Sage’s office?” Cyno added, looking from the side eye and giving a miniature smirk.
“A part of my plan, that’s all.”
“Sure.”
The late scenery of the open maze of Sumeru stairs leading up or down bathed in blue lights. Streetlights made it mix with warm orange, making the concoction sweet and easy on the senses, like a never-ending summer drink. Sky with smudges of clouds across the palette of murky navies and lazy traces of disappearing shadows of burning reds from the Sun accompanied them throughout the walk. Good thing Al Haitham’s house wasn’t that far away – most of the time going there, the two kept their mouths shut. From time to time, Cyno would look up at the pale face, taking all surrounding colours easily on his skin, only his eyes still somewhere in the shadow. From this light, he won't be able to grasp all the little stains deep under the pupil.
Sometimes, Al Haitham would accidentally brush his arm.
By the time the two of them arrived under the front door, the taller man had to stare at his keys a bit longer with furrowed brows. Cyno noticed that and also noticed the second key hooked around the first.
“Something’s wrong?”
“No, but now I know for sure that we’ll be alone.” He smirked and opened the door.
Inside was quiet – free from all the buzzing sounds, the people talking and the glasses tinkling. The lights turned off; Al Haitham only switched the one in the living room and then he turned around.
Cyno had his back turned to him, as he looked around the room. His dark figure, adorned in purples contrasted with greens, still looked so… belonging. His white, long hair is a centre dot on the picture before Al Haitham’s eyes, and he sees how they flow from his shoulders down his spine when Cyno takes off his headpiece. The window that Cyno was facing gave the last light of the night before the lamps were not enough to cover the streets with a glow. It embraced him – a delicate halo around his silhouette made the other one shiver, mostly felt in his heart. At this moment, the Scribe was only a shadow, towering behind his back, nothing more and nothing less.
He didn’t know the name of the emotion he felt so abruptly. He never thought having a guest would be so strangely intimate, to see Cyno just standing in the centre of the living room – but that was the point. Missed, from the bottom of his heart, surrounded by simple things. By privacy and by silence, now belonging only to them. If he’ll be able to hear Cyno’s calm voice softly cutting the quietness, he wouldn’t be more grateful.
“You took me all this way because you wanted to talk, yet now you’re silent.” The cut was deep, going straight to the point like he always did with him. “What's on your mind?”
“I was happy when I saw you.” He said, careful words softly escaping his lips, said with the gentlest voice he could pull. “In the desert.”
Cyno huffed a small laugh. “I know. It was hard to miss.”
The afterglow outlined his side profile when he slightly turned his head. Pretty, was all Al Haitham could think of at the view.
“So I was that obvious?” A small step forward. The wooden floor creaked under his heel. He felt the shiver in his hands, to move and to embrace him. Too fast.
“I guess I just know you a bit too well. Hadn't changed that much.”
Cyno was either tired or he wanted to whisper, so the words could stay only between them, not getting to the eavesdropping walls. The delicate smoky voice masked well in the quietness. Al Haitham always liked his voice, the tone, and the sweetness in it despite how hoarse it could be at times.
He finally turned and the Scribe wished he switched on more light. In the dusk he wasn't able to see his face, only now the details he remembered could help him imagine the whole picture. Yet no matter how dark it was, he felt the red eye staring at him. He took another step towards him.
There was so much to say and not enough time. Cyno stepped closer. No one but the jackal headpiece looked at them, while it sat on the coffee table. The match sparkled with the first flame. Quick, yet intense – Al Haitham felt it all up to his throat with a beat of his heart.
“Cyno,” now he was the one that whispered. A finger stopped him, gently hovering above his lips, the skin-to-skin contact so close yet still too distant. Al Haitham gulped.
“I know. I missed you, too.” The partially glowed hands moved like careful snakes around his neck, the touch of warm skin to the burning, like pouring out gasoline to an already collapsing house on fire. Al Haitham allowed them. Fingertips sank into the short hair at the back of his head.
Touching the skin you believed was poisonous. Cyno's scar bled out more, his heart opened to the feeling of how Haitham's eyes closed under his touch. He felt the wire connected to his earpieces and gently wrapped it around one finger, just looking at his face. In the late light, shadows grew heavy on his profile.
To forget. To forgive.
Was it possible?
When Al Haitham opened his eyes again, they shined intensively, little diamonds in the corners. Cyno's breath got caught up in his chest. The world has never been so quiet.
He slowly let go of his hair and cupped his cheeks, the other man hiding in them, soon embracing his wrists. Now his own fingers traced over the tanned skin, the material of his gloves. Hid and hid, until his hair fell over his eyes. For now, there were no words needed. Only the touch was enough, breaking the glass wall between them and it was more telling than anything they could speak out. One shattered piece landed in Cyno's heart.
“I'm lucky to have you there,” Al Haitham said, with a voice trembling gently against Cyno's hand.
“Is that the type of luck you tried to count?”
“Numerous times.” He stole the shy glance, blues and yellows and reds dancing beneath the dilated pupils, under the curtain of ashy hair. “I always got anxious when I was near the result. Thinking that maybe…”
“Don't think right now.” Cyno sighed deeply. His thumb was caressing the pale cheek. “When I look at you I'm not sure if I want to… cut off your head or kiss you.”
Now he just had to laugh. “Amazingly romantic, as always.” But he took his hands carefully enough not to harm them, and placed them lower, on his neck again. They stepped closer to each other, Al Haitham bent down to the Mahamatra's ear. “I'd let you do both.”
All the dreams from the past were disfigured, but there was a new one forming. Trying to get the smoke to disappear, the remains of an old fire, the smell of burned pictures and memories, the taste of something you can't remember anymore. This old pyre wasn't warm enough, as only charred pieces of wood had been left, leaving after not only darkness but the clenching scent that both of them always thought they still had on their fingers. On their bodies and inside. It wasn't sure which one tried to flame up the bonfire first – that night it felt like they both threw the match. Consciously or not.
Cyno knew that the scar was taken care of. Maybe the hands trying to do that were a bit clumsy and shaking, but he knew now – in the vessel built on two souls, there was now peace.
Al Haitham wanted to share the quietness, and the safety and wanted to let him know that no matter where he will go, there was always a home for him, always.
A tiny smile brightened up Cyno's face when he looked at Al Haitham's lips. “I prefer the second one, for now.”
The gap between them finally closed. They tasted each other's lips and it was all wine and summer wind. The Scribe went with his hands all the way down to Mahamatra's waist – embraced it with longing. A sweet voice came out from one of them.
It was like signing under a crossed-out line, under a sentence you thought shouldn't belong here. The ink spilt and covered their hands a long time ago, sinking into the fingertips, leaving little traces everywhere – an invisible path leading them to this again. To a new beginning, to a new way to get to know each other. Like coming back to addiction, the fruit of the sin is always sweet, sweeter than anything.
They sank into the mirror, the opposite sides. Broken into three pieces, they illuminated the glow of the fire.
Al Haitham picked Cyno up when the kiss deepened, the smaller man's legs quickly getting their way around his firm waist. There were hands in hair, shy gasps and sighs. There was the part where both of them were certain – how lonely it was. It wasn't a good moment to fully drop their armour, but they knew they wanted to see each other bare, to come back to the times when there wasn't much to hide.
Cyno bit his lip, and Al Haitham scratched his skin.
“When you asked me about forgiveness–”
“–I forgive.”
He looked at him with big eyes, and the window-side white sparkle got into them. Cyno's thumb touched the redder bottom lip, plush under it.
“I forgive. And you…”
“I forgive.” He breathed out, kissing the finger. “And promise to answer your every question.”
Cyno nodded, hypnotised.
“Good.” And then continued, “do you wish not to say goodbye for tonight?”
The slightly cold wall felt nice against his back, and he held to the other more tightly. Took his face into his hands and gasped into his mouth, and Al Haitham made them even closer than before. The heat coming through the clothes, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“Yes,” he whispered into the soft lips, familiar and loved like years ago.
“I want to greet the morning with you.”