Work Text:
Cyno finishes his last memo to the matra at sunrise.
He drops his pen onto the table with a sigh, stretching out his sore fingers, rolling away the burn in his arm. Six weeks worth of instructions lay in neat piles across his desk. Each realm in Sumeru has its own dedicated strategy, its own set of tasks and criminal watch outs. Cataloging his reach goals was an added step, something he wanted his team to have when they inevitably found their footing in Sumeru’s new administration.
It’s a precaution. The matra will need all the direction they can get while he’s in Snezhnaya.
Sunlight filters through Cyno’s stained glass windows, coloring his desk with streaks of light. Cyno yawns as he reaches up to unlatch the panels. Cool morning air sweeps into his room, as do the sounds of a city ramping up for the day. In the distance, dockworkers yell orders over the steady clang of Ahangar’s blacksmiths hammering away at steel.
Cyno moves to his next task as the noise fades into a comforting backdrop, all of it grounded by the periodic strike of metal against metal.
It’s like a heartbeat, Cyno thinks wearily, as he drafts his next letter. Like a metronome. Like a lullaby.
Cyno sweeps his bangs out of his face and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing himself to stay awake.
He’ll have the chance to sleep on the boat.
Zapolyarny Palace is a three day ride from Sumeru City. One evening can be dedicated to catching up on rest, then two must be spent reviewing the implications of this journey with Lesser Lord Kusanali and the Scribe – because there are certainly implications of a meeting like this.
Cyno abandons his letter and reclines in his chair. For the hundredth time, he glances over at the well-read file containing the details of their trip. The names of the other attendees stick out on the front page, as if highlighted, like the weight of their accomplishments have somehow transcended into the written world, illuminating them further.
The Qixing have sent the Tianquan and the General Secretary. Mondstadt dispatched their Order’s Acting Grand Master and Cavalry Captain. Inazuma’s Shogun shall be accompanied by the illustrious Guuji Yae. Focalors will have Justice Neuvillette in tow while Lady Murata will bring her newest Gran Campeona.
It’s a powerful group. There’s never been a summit that involved every nation’s Archon, or Archon equivalent, in recent history. Meanwhile Lesser Lord Kusanali will have two leaders that, while respected, are both desperately fleeing from the mantle of the Grand Sage.
It’s not ideal.
The doorbell rings, snapping Cyno out of his thoughts.
He gets up immediately, his mind racing through what potential emergency has landed on his doorstep, who was hurt, what was found. Cyno rubs the blurriness from his overtired eyes, then he quickly unbolts his lock, swings open his door, and–
It’s the Scribe, looking totally healthy, perfectly whole. The man cradles a cup of tea in his hand, blowing off a wisp of steam into the cool air.
“Good. You’re already awake,” says Alhaitham, in lieu of a greeting. “I need to talk to you.”
The Scribe pauses before taking a sip, frowning slightly, as if Cyno was supposed to be anything other than dismayed at the sight of him. As if Alhaitham paying him a house call were a normal occurrence.
Cyno squints at the brightening sky, wishing he had checked his clock before getting the door.
“Whatever this is, can it wait until later? I’m finishing up some tasks. I’ll be at the House of Daena this afternoon and we can certainly talk during… regular working hours.”
“If this conversation could wait, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
Cyno takes a deep, fortifying breath. For a moment, he considers shutting the door in the Scribe’s face. You’re too insufferable to deal with this early in the morning and I am very busy. Goodbye. See you in a few hours.
Perhaps Alhaitham senses Cyno’s indignation, because he adds, “Trust me, general, you’ll appreciate hearing this information sooner, rather than later. Do you really think I’d waste my time coming here if it weren’t urgent?”
Cyno sighs, swinging the door open further and standing aside.
“Fine. Come in.”
Cyno shuts the door soundly behind them, then nearly walks into Alhaitham when the other man stops short in his living room. Cyno makes an irritated noise, gesturing towards the breakfast nook in the kitchen - the only place he actually entertains visitors - before he recalls it’s the first time that Alhaitham has been in his house.
The Scribe looks around, his gaze lingering over the half-packed luggage dotting Cyno’s floor, the memos and files covering every flat surface in the living room. If Alhaitham has any thoughts, he graciously keeps them to himself.
Cyno gestures to the couch, but Alhaitham remains standing. Cyno doesn’t bother insisting.
“You wanted to talk,” says Cyno, when the silence drags.
Alhaitham takes a long sip of his tea. Cyno almost thinks he imagines it, but he catches the Scribe’s hand shaking as he drops his cup atop an empty spot on the table. For a moment, Alhaitham presses his lips together as he stares at the table with downcast, narrowed eyes.
Then Alhaitham meets Cyno’s gaze, and he’s back to his typical impassive expression.
“I had a chat with Lessor Lord Kusanali last night,” Alhaitham starts. He pauses, taking a breath. “She kindly reminded me that there was a crucial piece of information I forgot to fill you in on.”
Unease twists in Cyno’s gut. If the news is coming from their Archon, there’s only one thing it could be about.
Cyno sighs. “Let me guess: whatever this is, it’s essential to the summit.”
“Yes,” says Alhaitham, smiling ruefully. “We’re overbooked.”
“Overbooked,” echoes Cyno.
“One of the Tsaritsa’s requests,” Alhaitham says. “Was symmetry in attendance. Twelve leaders on Szneznaya’s side, and twelve leaders on ours. Have you noticed that no other nation is bringing a third representative to the summit?”
“I suppose,” says Cyno, crossing his arms. “But I didn’t know it was a request.”
“I didn’t bring it up because I thought it was a formality at first. The language used in invitations to these types of negotiations is often meaningless.”
Cyno snorts. “And thanks to you, here we are.”
Alhaitham shrugs. “These events always recommend limiting the number of diplomats. It seems the other nations are taking this stipulation literally this time.” Alhaitham’s gaze sharpens. “I have no intention of remaining in Sumeru City without Lord Kusanali, so I think you should stay.”
“Me? This summit is an issue of national security,” Cyno snaps. “A foreign power has been caught influencing key members of the Akademiya while promoting forbidden research. As the General Mahamatra, I need to go.”
“There’s that sense of duty,” says Alhaitham, and from the lilt in his voice, he almost sounds fond. Then he sighs. “So predictable. Lucky for us, I thought of a quick solution.”
Alhaitham makes an overhand toss.
Something small sails through the air. Cyno catches it easily, feeling soft felt, hearing metal rattle against padded fabric. A wave of apprehension washes over him, and somehow, Cyno knows what it is before he flicks open the box and spots the silver wedding band.
For a long moment, neither of them speak. Cyno stares at the ring, feeling a flash of awe-bewilderment-disbelief, then finally, dread. It takes Cyno a moment to find his voice.
“Scribe, if this is a joke, you’re supposed to follow it up with a punchline.”
“This isn’t a joke. It makes perfect sense that we should be married.”
Cyno laughs in disbelief. He shuts the box and holds it out for Alhaitham, but the other man stands where he is, making no attempt to come closer.
“You see General, no other nation is bringing a third representative, but some leaders are bringing their spouses. Since we’re both leaders and apt to share everything with each other as a married couple, they may as well allow both of us to attend the summit.”
“So this is your… your workaround? This is insane.” Cyno glances down at the box, willing for it to disappear. “Does Lord Kusanali even know about this scheme?”
“Of course. She was originally in favor of one of us staying, but I convinced her that this solution allows both of us to attend the summit. In her eyes, it’s a low risk solution. If the Tsaritsa declines our logic, one of us will skip the major meetings, or worst case, simply cut our trip four days early. It’s simple.”
Cyno’s legs feel weak, and so he sinks onto his couch. He holds the box up in the air, his attention darting between the dark felt and Alhaitham’s expectant expression. The man seems to be holding his breath. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest. He’s tense.
He’s waiting for an answer, Cyno realizes. Archons, this is real. The Scribe is serious.
“This- this is never going to work,” says Cyno. “Scribe, I’ve done undercover operations. I know you consider yourself a genius, but the biggest risk is in failing to give your mark enough credit, and this group is more perceptive than most. Besides… ” he trails off.
Cyno wonders who would even believe he was married. He thinks of his own ambitions, his goals, his dreams for Sumeru. He thinks of his reputation as the arbiter of justice, the famed and feared General Mahamatra.
Relationships are reserved for those who don’t have the weight of a country’s moral code and judicial system on their shoulders. And marriage is a laughably distant fantasy.
It’s never been in the cards for him.
“...I would never marry you,” Cyno finishes.
Alhaitham glances away, his jaw clenching. “Propose an alternative, then,” he says shortly.
“I…I can’t. Not in two days.” Cyno flips the box open. The ring is still there, the silver catching brilliantly in the light.
Scratches litter the sides of the band. It’s worn, but otherwise, a well-maintained and well-loved ring. The Scribe probably plucked it from a pawn shop last night.
The reality of the situation hits him like a kick to the ribs. He’s holding a real wedding band, one that Alhaitham, of all people, had picked for him.
Cyno drops his palm to his lap. “No one would ever believe we were married.”
“They have to,” says Alhaitham sharply. “Either that, or you and I choose who goes to Snezhnaya. Whoever stays would look incredibly capable of running the country in our Archon’s absence. Dare I say it, they would practically have the title of Grand Sage before Lord Kusanali returns.”
Cyno strikes the back of his head against the couch cushions. He feels the onset of a tension headache coming along.
“For the love of Celestia, just take the job, Scribe.”
“Follow your own advice, General. Your way of life is clearly better suited for the role.”
Cyno pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not going to even attempt unpacking that comment. Instead, he lifts the box between them
“You would do all this,” Cyno waves the ring box in the air. “This. Instead of getting a promotion?”
“Obviously. A few weeks of trouble is a minimal trade off to stave off years of work. I would prefer to keep my current lifestyle. Besides, it’s no hardship,” says Alhaitham mildly. “I can easily convince others that I’m in love with you.”
“You’re unbelievable,” mutters Cyno, because only Alhaitham could make those words sound so condescending.
“It’s a simple arrangement, General. At most, it's a few weeks of acting on your part. I don’t see the issue.”
Cyno flattens his palm over his face, and he must be delirious in his exhaustion, because he finds himself agreeing. It is simple. It is quick. His mind races ahead, trying to think of ways to get this to work. Leave it to the Scribe to show up at his doorstep with more tasks to do.
“If we’re seriously doing this,” Cyno starts. “And I’m not saying we are… We’ll need to align on a story.”
Alhaitham shrugs. “We simply tell everyone that we eloped shortly after Lord Kusanali’s reinstatement.”
Cyno shuts his eyes. “Spouses typically know more about each other than when they got married,” he says wryly.
"Like what? Would you want to know my favorite color, General? I highly doubt anyone is going to quiz us on these pointless details. Knowing these trivial facts isn’t indicative of affection or familiarity. We simply have to discuss our arrangement and act as if we get along.”
Cyno glares at him, unimpressed. “Didn’t you read that file the Akademiya had on me? You should know plenty of… ‘trivial facts’. Unless your memory is failing you?” Cyno adds silkily. The jab is beneath him, but it's worth it for the way the Scribe’s jaw drops, slightly.
“When’s my birthday?” Cyno rests his head against the couch cushions, smirking at the other man through half-lidded eyes. “You don’t remember. It's okay. You can admit it.”
"Your birthday is on June 23rd," Alhaitham says sharply. He tilts his chin towards the box. “If it gives you peace of mind, I shall pass along the file the Akademiya had on me. That should give you sufficient information, but you’ll soon realize that I was correct and literally no one is going to question our marriage. I assume you accept?”
Cyno snorts and lifts the ring box between them. Such a romantic proposal.
“I do.”
“You’ll need to wear it going forward. We’ll have a Snezhnayan emissary with us on our journey and they’re arriving in Sumeru City this afternoon.”
Alhaitham walks over and snatches the box from Cyno. He pinches the wedding ring between his fingers, and gently lifts Cyno’s hand. Alhaitham’s palm is soft without his gloves, but Cyno can feel the few rough calluses he earned from his swordsmanship, his writing.
This entire situation is a farce, a joke, but somehow the gesture – Alhaitham fitting a wedding ring over his finger – feels overfamiliar. The intimacy makes Cyno’s heart twist in his chest, and he quickly pulls away.
“Leave the box. I’ll put it on later.”
The Scribe drops his hand to his side with a sigh.
“I trust you’ll improve your acting before we depart,” says Alhaitham, staring down at Cyno from where he stands. Something flashes over his features, too quick for Cyno to pick up. “Do try to relax. We’re both supposed to be madly in love. See you later. Dear .”
Just like that, Alhaitham pivots, snatches his tea off the table, and steps out of the house. He doesn’t bother pulling Cyno’s front door fully closed, and it slowly creeps back until it rests in a half-closed limbo.
Alhaitham retreats into the distance, and a feeling akin to laughter bubbles in Cyno’s chest. He doesn’t know what’s the bigger joke: the Scribe lecturing him about love, or this marriage situation. They’re really doing this.
Cyno observes the other man – my husband , he thinks, faintly – fade into the backdrop of the slowly-waking city and wonders how they must look.
Sumeru’s capital is the City of Wisdom, but that doesn’t mean its citizens are above gossip.
If this is the plan, Cyno’s not going to let it blow up in their faces because of their half-hearted attempts, nor is going to let Alhaitham steer the ruse.
Cyno knows how to pull off a sting. He knows how to interrogate, how to negotiate, and how to pull off an undercover operation. The Scribe has his talents, but for all his fondness for obfuscation, Alhaitham could learn a few things about perception.
One of the first steps in setting up a successful operation, Cyno knows, is building out your players. Alhaitham should appreciate this: the easiest way to create a backstory is to let others do the work for you.
Cyno slips on the ring. It feels cool and heavy on his finger, but not unpleasant. He tousles his hair and pulls his shirt to one side, exposing his shoulder. When he feels significantly disheveled, he steps out of his front door, barefoot.
“Wait, Alhaitham,” Cyno calls out, walking into the soft morning light.
In his periphery, he spots a shopkeep peek up from his stand. A group of Akademiya students amble through the street, silent in their early commute to class.
Perfect , Cyno thinks.
A breeze pushes in from the bay, carrying the smell of Sumerian coffee and fresh moss. Cyno strolls up to the Scribe. The smooth, cool cobblestones feel almost soothing under his tired feet.
“Alhaitham,” Cyno repeats.
“Yes? What do you–”
Alhaitham’s gaze lingers on Cyno’s bare shoulder, before traveling up and following the stray strands of hair flowing in the wind. Surprisingly, that quick mouth of his is still. Cyno crosses the distance between them and wraps his hand in Alhaitham’s cloak.
The Scribe drapes his hand over Cyno’s, not pulling him away, but holding. Keeping Cyno from running his fingers into his lapel. Alhaitham’s hand shakes over his.
“What are you doing?” Alhaitham breathes.
“Taking advantage of our audience,” Cyno whispers, leaning in. “We’re madly in love, remember?”
Alhaitham’s gaze sharpens. The familiar expression returns, that flash of emotion Cyno can’t quite recognize.
“I see.”
“Just this once,” Cyno breathes between them. “And then we can forget this ever happened.”
He tugs Alhaitham down, gently, giving the other man the chance to pull away. He hears Alhaitham’s breath catch, watches his throat work as he swallows, and then–
Alhaitham gives into it easily.
His lips are soft. The moment is supposed to be a quick brush, something small to say goodbye, but Alhaitham’s palm cradles Cyno’s jaw to deepen the kiss.
He tastes like the mint tea he’s so fond of drinking. Cyno gasps into it, surprised, and doubles down, nibbling on Alhaitham’s bottom lip to tease.
Alhaitham reaches up, his fingers grazing Cyno’s cheek as Cyno steps out of reach.
“I’ll see you later, my dear Scribe,” says Cyno, a touch louder than necessary. He licks his lips as he stumbles backward, playing the lovestruck fool, and flashes the Scribe a soft smile before slowly walking away.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cyno catches the shocked expression of the storekeeper. A group of students whisper amongst themselves, frozen at the sight of the General Mahamatra and the Scribe in each other’s arms.
Cyno feels a flash of satisfaction.
The scene they painted is quite convincing; news of their relationship will be on everyone’s tongue, and in the ears of the Szneznayan emissary by this afternoon.
He’ll have to give Alhaitham credit when they meet later; the Scribe is a surprisingly good actor. Cyno doesn't turn around, but he can feel the other man's gaze follow him all the way back home.