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Three hours have passed in the narrow cave that Alhaitham and Cyno have taken shelter in, and the storm shows no sign of abating. Alhaitham has measured the time in the burning out of his candles; in the pages of his book, read and re-read again; and in the silence that stretches out between himself and his companion, larger, it feels, than the space they both occupy.
Alhaitham has never been a fan of small talk, but he had packed lightly, and the book he had brought failed to entice him into a third close reading. Besides, with a limited number of candles, he doesn’t want to waste anymore - who knows, at this point, when they will be able to venture out again?
"Doesn't this feel familiar, General Mahamatra?" Alhaitham asks lightly. Cyno is sitting as close to the entrance of the cave as it is safe to, his wiry form hidden underneath the thick expanse of his hooded cape, and the only indication that he heard him is the slight twitch of his head, jostling the ornamental ears. "I think I prefer the other type of storm - although admittedly, sand sticks around for far longer than snow."
It feels like an age ago that he and Cyno had taken shelter from a different kind of storm - in the desert, far from the heights of Dragonspine, and with the weight of their nation on their shoulders. They have gotten no better at talking to one another since then, but at least now the silence is, if not comfortable, lacking hostility. Cyno's staff lies at his side within reach, but its blade points outwards towards the door, and it is far enough away that Alhaitham knows he's prepared to use it only on intruders, and not his present company.
"It's a shame Candace isn't here this time," Cyno replies finally. His voice is soft, and shouldn't carry above the roaring of the blizzard, but there is something about the acoustics of the cave that brings it straight to Alhaitham's receiver. "You know, to help us break the ice."
Alhaitham's lips part. He can see the breath that escapes him, a puff of condensation curling upwards. His shoulders shake.
"You laughed."
"I'm cold. "
Cyno stands abruptly. The dim light of the cave casts shadows from his cape, and Alhaitham can just about make out the silhouette of his hair, made wild by the wind and snow. He walks over to Alhaitham and crouches down, bracing one arm against the wall behind Alhaitham's back, so that he doesn't tumble into his lap. Before Alhaitham can question him, his other hand emerges from his cape, and he places pieces of crushed red stone in Alhaitham's palm. For one bizarre moment, addled by the cold, Alhaitham thinks that he is holding Cyno's eyes, until he feels the heat emanating from them, and looks up to see the General Mahamatra watching him, his gaze intense and entirely intact.
"Crimson agate," Alhaitham says, understanding. Cyno nods. "Thank you."
Cyno twitches at that, as if he hadn't expected Alhaitham to be capable of gratitude. He turns away at the quirk of Alhaitham’s eyebrow, offering only a soft grunt of acknowledgement, and distances himself from Alhaitham again - as much as he can in the narrow crevasse, anyway. It’s hardly practical: the best thing they could be doing is sharing body heat, and Alhaitham has been eyeing the thick canvas of Cyno’s cape and the wide expanse beneath it in which to distribute warm air with envy. Alhaitham is not one to take pleasure in tormenting those he respects, however, and if Cyno finds proximity to him difficult to bear, then Alhaitham will swallow the bitter taste the thought leaves in his mouth and keep his distance.
Through the narrow opening of the cave, Alhaitham watches the torrent of bright white, as if he has been caught amidst a mass of falling stars. He has never ventured this far north, and though parts of Sumeru once saw snow, before Irminsul was weakened by the sages’ callous acts, he had never travelled there at the right time. Reading about it had aroused no curiosity in him - how could any text have really captured what a storm of this nature felt like?
Cyno, if anything, seems bored and restless - troubled, perhaps, by the time the blizzard has taken out of his mission. Whatever that may be.
“You never did say why you were up here, General. Is it confidential?”
When Alhaitham had made his way to Dragonspine, drawn by boredom at work and talk of stone tablets carved in ancient languages, he did not expect to find anyone from his own nation here, least of all the General Mahamatra himself. It was a subject even the most desperate of scholars avoided, too cowardly to face the sub-zero temperatures in the quest for knowledge. They must have taken separate routes, as Alhaitham had not heard anything of Cyno on his journey through Liyue, either, and only discovered his presence when the blizzard had caught him off guard in the outskirts of the Entombed City. The supplies Kaveh had sourced him from Dori were abysmal - no doubt a deliberate attempt on his life - and his shelter had caved in immediately. If it wasn't for Cyno appearing, the jackal ears above his cape unmistakeable even in the most surprising of environments, Alhaitham is loath to think what his fate might have been.
Foolish , he thinks to himself, and then dismisses the thought. It is no use berating himself when he is here now, alive and well, as long as he stays on the good side of the General.
"Someone fleeing their judgement must have thought that a desert dwarf wouldn't follow him into Dragonspine," Cyno tells him; his tone is dull, but Alhaitham can detect a hint of smugness.
"Have they not heard of your reputation? As far as I'm concerned, you'd go to Celestia itself if that's where your target was."
"Hm," Cyno says in agreement. "Even if that wasn't the case, I have passed through here several times. Once to go to Mondstadt, and he is not the first to have tried this tactic, so I have pursued scholars here before. Time is of the essence, though - it's a foolish endeavour to flee up here if you have no clue how to navigate the climate, and usually by the time I find them, the fugitives are close to death."
Alhaitham bristles; it's not hard to hear the judgement of Alhaitham's own actions in the words. Truthfully he had intended to hire a guide - but the base of the mountain had been crawling with Fatui, and he had no way of ensuring that anyone he gave coin to would be trustworthy.
"I hope they have found a way to shelter from this storm, then," Alhaitham says, in lieu of picking a fight when Cyno could easily exile him to the elements. He can't resist adding, "Though perhaps that might be preferable to facing your judgement."
Cyno's back is to Alhaitham, so he can't tell if the sound Cyno makes in response is one of laughter or offence. So much of him is hidden beneath the cape - Alhaitham can’t see the amount of tension in his back, or the way he draws his shoulder blades. It’s strange, to miss the sight of someone else’s bare torso. He doesn’t reply, and Alhaitham lets silence fall, rubbing the crimson agate between his palms.
“There was once an adventurer who was making his way to the highest point of Dragonspine. During the night, when he had set up camp, a large explosion shook the mountain, causing a terrible landslide. The adventurer’s tent was swept into a great snowball with him still inside, and he was pulled down the mountain. As he rolled, catching flashes of the night sky again and again, he closed his eyes and prayed to the Archons that he might survive to see his family again.” Cyno speaks evenly, and Alhaitham looks up to watch his hood. Halfway through the story, he turns his gaze to meet Alhaitham’s, looking serious in the eerie light cast by the storm. “The Archons decided to grant his wish. Centuries later, the mountain shifted, and what had once been a tiny, endless crevasse was revealed. The crevasse was filled with ice, and as spring began to thaw it, the adventurer was discovered by his great, great granddaughter, who used a pyro vision to set him free.”
Alhaitham sighs; Cyno’s brow draws together, his lips turning downwards.
“You didn’t like it. You see, the irony -”
“On the contrary,” Alhaitham cuts him off, “I laughed.”
“No, you didn’t. You breathed.”
“That’s how I laugh.”
Cyno’s frown deepens. “I’ve seen you laugh before - at the celebration, with the traveller, and with Nilou. It looked different.”
Cyno is not wrong; Alhaitham can recall the day with ease, as well as the conversations that he had had with both parties. He had not known that Cyno had been watching him, which is to be expected of someone with the General Mahamatra’s skill, but unsettling nonetheless. He considers his response carefully, opening his palm to look at the crimson agate fragments when he speaks.
“That… I would not call it a false laugh, but nor was it completely authentic. I learned from a young age that the expressions I am inclined to display aren’t adequate to demonstrate my intentions to others. My laughter, as you have just seen, is not ‘enough’ to satisfy in conversation, and so in order to put people at ease, I make the effort to convey myself using more conventional means. Only when it's worth it, of course - generally speaking I am quite content when people find me difficult to approach.”
It is difficult not to cringe as he speaks - he is describing himself as if he is a machine, confessing to the manipulation of people that he considers friends, and that he knows Cyno cares deeply for. Cyno watches him, and Alhaitham feels the weight of his judgement in his crimson eye, grateful that the only thing at stake is his regard.
“So you did laugh earlier,” Cyno says eventually. Alhaitham doesn’t bother to respond, and is caught entirely off guard when Cyno continues. "...Is that a skill that can be taught? You're aware of my reputation. It is useful, but there are many times when I wish that I could more easily be understood."
Alhaitham scoffs.
"You are simple enough to read, General. One only has to put a modicum of effort in; I wouldn't bother with anyone who can't do that."
"Not everyone has had the benefit of reading a thorough dissection of my life and routines," Cyno counters. The chill in his voice penetrates deeper than the snow ever could. It's a fair rebuttal, if somewhat petty. Alhaitham isn't the one that composed the document, after all, and his reading it had led to an understanding that had benefited all of them in their goals.
"A document which has been destroyed, thanks to myself," Alhaitham defends. "Besides, that's not what I meant. It was used to create an algorithm predicting your actions, but not your emotions. The motivations behind your work remained open to interpretation. It's only by observing you that I realised, as anyone else could if they bothered to look - everything is written on your face."
"It is?" Cyno asks.
"Most of the time, at least. You are not someone who uses disguises and trickery. There is no mask to uncover. Quite the opposite - you are straightforward and unguarded in your expressions, even when you are withholding information."
"I've been told that my expressions are flat and minimal, which contributes to my stern reputation. Apparently that’s why no one can tell when I’m joking - even when the jokes are very good. You disagree?”
There’s a challenge to his voice, one that makes Alhaitham believe Cyno has been told this more than once. He shakes his head.
“Like I said - if one bothers to look, you’re easier to read than some of the funding applications I’ve had to reject. If someone wants to discern your feelings without actually paying attention to you, then I’d wager they aren’t worth your time.”
A blast of wind weaves its way through the crevasse, howling above their heads and delivering a chill that penetrates Alhaitham’s rib cage, making him clutch the agate in his hands tighter, until it begins to pierce the skin. Cyno creeps across the rocky surface, re-entering his orbit, and opens his cloak.
“It traps the air,” Cyno replies dully to Alhaitham’s silently raised eyebrow. “Quickly, or we’ll both get cold.”
Alhaitham accepts the offer, quietly adjusting himself so that Cyno can wrap them both in the fabric, chest to chest. He is abruptly grateful that it is Cyno here, and not Kaveh, so that he is spared the flustering and meaningless embarrassment. Cyno accepts the situation for what it is - practical, and unavoidable. His cheeks do not darken, and his heartbeat, which Alhaitham can feel through the fabric of his own clothes, remains steady.
"I should have bought one of these before I came. I didn't realise desert attire would be so transferable," he comments. His breath paints clouds over Cyno's hair, and in return, Alhaitham feels Cyno's exhalation caress his jawline.
"In hot climates, the air it traps is cool," Cyno explains. "And the colour deflects the sunlight; it can protect you from heat and sandstorms during the day, and during the night, it protects you from the cold."
Alhaitham hums, listening to Cyno's even timbre. All of a sudden, he feels exhausted, as if the heat within Cyno's cloak has sapped the energy he had been expending to shiver. He closes his eyes.
“You shouldn’t sleep,” Cyno says. The only way he could have noticed is through the pattern of his breathing. “It’s dangerous.”
“Then I’m lucky I have the General Mahamatra to protect me, aren’t I…?” Alhaitham murmurs in response. He does not bother to open his eyes, instead leaning the full weight of his head against Cyno’s shoulder. In spite of his stature, it is broad and supportive; Alhaitham will have no trouble sleeping here.