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The first time it happens, Alhaitham is listening to Kaveh point out his new projects. He’s never really cared for Kaveh’s work, nor has he ever paid attention to him, but when it hits him, it hits him hard.
Kaveh merges with what is a faraway thought in that moment, processed but never heard, and here is Alhaitham’s first thought: “What the hell is going on?”
The book pages underneath his fingers are blurred, undetectable, and the light illuminating Kaveh is no longer familiar. The whole world, far, far, away, and Alhaitham is the broken puzzle piece, unable to fit. When Kaveh turns to him, asks him, he answers, but the words that come out are impossible for Alhaitham to decipher, and he’s not sure how- why he’s talking, or simply, what he’s saying.
The first time it happens, Alhaitham stares at the letters and paper in his hands, and genuinely, physically does not know.
Later, Kaveh tells him that he was out of it. The former turns it into an argument, of course, but when Alhaitham digs his fingernails into his palms, he finds that the pain is very well his.
-
Lord Kusanali visits him the next day. Or, rather, he visits her. She is playing cat’s cradle with her hair ribbon when he arrives, barely glancing up to look at him.
When he bows, she does not acknowledge it, simply asks, “Are you okay?”
He hesitates, and that’s enough of an answer for her. She smiles, gently. “My apologies. I’m not sure how to help you with your issue.”
Alhaitham doesn’t know if he can correct her. It’s only happened once and caused a minor inconvenience, so it’s not quite considered an issue.
But by the dip of her eyebrows and the crease of her eyelids, she knows far more than he does.
-
The second time it happens, Alhaitham doesn’t realize until his hand is on the wall and the blaring heat doesn’t seem to be in him, on him.
That’s how he realizes it.
He should’ve noticed, with the foreign voices outside his head and the foreign limbs that hang by his side, and the foreign surroundings that he can’t think about.
He doesn’t process it, any of it.
He doesn’t know or recognize when he tells Cyno he’s okay. He’s not quite sure if the general even asked.
“I’m okay,” He says, again, with his foreign mouth, except he’s not really sure if he’s okay. “Let’s keep going. They’re looking for us.” Except he’s not really sure who they are, not really sure when they started to be chased. He’s so aware of everything inside his head, so unaware of everything out. So vulnerable.
Cyno knows, he’s sure.
But he keeps walking.
So Alhaitham’s piloted actions follow, a little bit dazed, and a little bit smitten.
-
The cool night air is strikingly bitter on Alhaitham’s skin, but the bite of it assures him that he’s here, present.
Cyno is next to him, matching his leisure pace.
If there’s at least one thing Alhaitham can tell, it’s that the late-night work does not faze them both. It’s a little pitiful, the two of them. A pair of worker ants.
They continue to work themselves into the dirt.
Cyno doesn’t talk when he’s alone with Alhaitham. He can insult him, step on him in public (Alhaitham can’t say that’s ever happened), but here, in the vast and lonely desert, he is silent. Alhaitham can’t determine whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
When Cyno lifts the torch, the light that illuminates him reflects a god, and faintly, Alhaitham wonders when they became so alike.
Then Cyno turns him, flame-kissed skin and all. “Get the tent out,” he says, in that alluring metallic voice. It rings in Alhaitham’s head and removes any thought of being detached from the world. “We’re staying here for the night.”
Alhaitham doesn’t ask why. He just does what he’s told. He’s not sure he would’ve done the same a week ago.
But with new missions come new ideals, and Alhaitham still remembers Lord Kusanali’s expression when she advised him to listen to the general. He’s disappointed in the fact she knows what he’d do.
Kusanali sees right through him.
In a way, he thinks Cyno does, too. If he does, though, he doesn’t show it.
When the tent is up, Cyno stays outside. “Go in,” he tells Alhaitham, not quite meeting his eyes. His lips are drawn in a tight line, and Alhaitham knows that he knows that something is wrong here.
They’re both cowards, Alhaitham realizes when he shuffles into the tent. Always knowing, never telling.
Oh, when did they start thinking the same?
-
The desert is golden in the early hours of the morning.
When Alhaitham wakes up, his throat is hoarse, sunlight filtering through the tent.
Cyno is washing his face, seen through a crack in the fabric. Alhaitham’s not sure how the fact they were near water slipped his mind the previous night.
Cyno’s hair is down, wet, headpiece by his side. The strands of grey cross his back, draping down a shoulder as he cups water in his hands.
Alhaitham forces himself to swallow.
Cyno doesn’t turn around when Alhaitham emerges, nor does he say anything. His eyes flicker to the side, momentarily.
“Good morning,” says Alhaitham, a gesture that would’ve ticked Kaveh off. Cyno nods.
Sometimes, Alhaitham wonders if they really hate each other. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re so alike that sparks hatred.
So here’s Alhaitham’s truth: he’s obsessed with Cyno.
So obsessed that he hates it.
Hates him.
Cyno closes his eyes, eyelashes brushing the side of his cheeks, hands tangling through his hair. He kneels, then, and blinks up at the sky. A silent prayer.
Alhaitham opens his mouth, then closes it when Cyno lifts himself up. He throws a glance over his shoulder before fitting his headpiece back on.
Alhaitham’s mouth wets itself again in relief. Now, right here, this is the Cyno he knows. No vulnerability, just keen edges and ice-cold glances, blood-orange eyes and a sharp tongue. It’s beautiful.
It makes Alhaitham feel more like himself.
“Let’s take down the tent,” Cyno says, after a pause. “Our next stop is a while away.”
Alhaitham bites his lip. The sand beneath him shifts, and the general in front of him materializes his staff.
“Don’t just stand there,” Cyno turns to face him this time, “we’ve got a criminal to catch.”
-
Cyno was right.
The blaring heat tans Alhaitham’s skin, and he’s suddenly very aware of Cyno’s decision to wear such revealing clothing.
Alhaitham had stood still when Cyno had moved to unbutton the former’s shirt. “Open it up,” Cyno had said, which sounded a lot more suggestive than it should’ve, “you’re going to get heatstroke.”
Even with his shirt unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up, though, he’s sweating, has been for the past hour. The desert sun is bright and unforgiving, hot on his hands and a pain in his head. God, why’d he agree to this?
Cyno holds up a hand to shield the sun. He doesn’t show any signs of tire, and had barely eaten anything when they’d stopped for a lunch break. “Don’t eat all our rations,” He’d told Alhaitham, watching the Scribe unwrap the meal, smile tugging on his lips.
He supposes it’s only natural for the General Mahamatra to be unfazed. But with the burning sand under his now bare feet, he can’t quite wrap his head around it.
A feeble scribe does not thrive in this weather.
Alhaitham doesn’t know what happened yesterday, but clearly, it’s had some effect on Cyno. He gives long side glances before he speaks, attitude still cold and fair distances kept. But he speaks. Perhaps, Alhaitham considers, it’s a good thing.
-
The third time it happens is upon the arrival of a loud-mouthed black-haired mercenary and the sun a quarter across the sky.
When a woman waves as a dot amongst the desert sands, Alhaitham’s eyes blink and blink and, vaguely, he can’t remember when he had missed the part where the sumpter beasts had appeared. The nails that dig into his palms don’t feel like his anymore, the pain a little bit indistinguishable.
Cyno narrows his eyes when Dehya meets them in the sole oasis, even when she herself is grinning.
Her voice is loud, booming, but it doesn’t hit Alhaitham like it usually does. Graces off his skin like he’s not here.
Well. That’s one way of knowing.
He swivels his vision to Cyno, who holds his staff sharply as Dehya approaches. He’s never done that around Alhaitham. Has he?
He stills when Dehya claps them both on the shoulder with a keen laugh. “Two Akadeymia giants, huh?” She says, hazy through Alhaitham’s ears. “Just don’t kill each other here, yeah? It’d be a mess to clean up.” She booms out laughter at her own joke, then lets them go. Cyno clears his throat, dissipating his staff. (Has he always done that? Held his staff at every newcomer, even for well-known acquaintances? Just how devoted is he? Even friends are not spared.)
“We’ll just be staying here for the night,” Cyno says. He glances at Alhaitham, though it doesn’t go to his head.
“Stop acting like I own the place. Makes yourselves at home, okay?”
Alhaitham pauses upon her words. They’re almost ignored, until Cyno digs his nails into Alhaitham’s arm (when did his hand get there?).
“Yeah,” Alhaitham says, and swallows. Slowly, surely, getting the unowned words out. “Yeah. We will.”
-
Cyno studies his face closely when they leave. Alhaitham watches him, but he continues to stare unabashedly, never letting go of his arm. Then he releases him, turning away.
“You’re not so discreet,” He tells Alhaitham.
Alhaitham’s lips curve into a smile, cold seeping into the place where Cyno touched.
The General Mahamatra. As perceptive as ever.
(Alhaitham lets his fingers hover over his arm. The pain of Cyno’s touch is pleasant, a harsh mark that slices through the haziness of his mind.)
-
“The desert is beautiful,” He says, mostly to himself, when the rising sun illuminates the golden sand. He hadn’t slept at all last night. From the ever-sharp movement of the general next to him, he concludes that they share the same situation.
Cyno lets out a small breath, eyebrows furrowed despite only a slight heat filling the empty environment. Then Alhaitham follows his sight and finds the shadow of Aaru VIllage.
“We’ve lost them,” says Cyno, and Alhaitham’s thoughts trail back to the people after them. Cyno turns around to meet his eyes. “But let's not let down our guards.”
Whether that’s a warning or a command, Alhaitham can’t tell.
A person after a person after a person.
-
Alhaitham feels like a stranger when he steps into Aaru Village. The kids, the adults, they all know the General Mahamatra, know Cyno by heart. They know the Acting Grand Sage, too, but perhaps not in the way Alhaitham had hoped.
He retreats to his room far earlier than he had prepared to, leaving Cyno to chat with Candace in what he hopes seems like a nonchalant manner. A letter is waiting for him on his desk.
The stamp suggests Lord Kusanali, but the letter contains only a greeting from the Archon, and instead a body from Kaveh, who spits nonsense this and nonsense that as he usually does. He’s not quite sure what to make of it, settling on a penned response before he spots the last message.
Tighnari misses you guys, Kaveh writes, we have drinks with each other now, alone. Being drunk isn’t half as fun without a giggling Cyno to watch.
Alhaitham folds the letter and puts his quill away, opting to sleep away uneasiness.
-
Everything is strangely quiet the next morning.
Alhaitham touches his ear- once, twice, and withdraws his fingers unbloodied.
Well, okay then.
It’s a little strange, but then he stares at the unfamiliar bedsheets and takes a moment to recognize that he’s not in Kaveh’s presence.
Cyno is quiet, always, with silent breathing and silent footsteps and what seems to be silent notions.
Again, Alhaitham can’t place that into any category.
He wants Cyno to be what he is when they’re with Kaveh. Lord Kusanali. Tighnari. The matra. The Cyno he knows.
He wants Cyno to be the Cyno he sees when it’s the two of them amidst the swirling desert sands, where the biting grains blur his eyes and soften that tone, wet those lips and push his hair aside. The Cyno he wants to know.
The bed is cold next to him.
Alhaitham swallows, thickly, and then starts the ringing, and so he places one hand on his ear as he rises from the bed.
Cyno is nowhere to be seen when he emerges from the room, but Candace is seated at the table, watching him closely. She turns away when he grapes his coat from the chair.
“I heard you met Dehya on the way here.” She says, slowly, as if she doesn’t expect him to respond. “Is she doing well?”
Alhaitham studies her soft expression, lips pressed in a silent smile, light on her cheeks and a glint in her eyes.
If it had been anyone else, Alhaitham would’ve turned away and recalled her petty remarks.
But he clears his throat and says to her, fully, honestly, “She is. She asked us to give you her regards.”
And when Candace lifts her hand up in an attempt to conceal the upturn of her lips, Alhaitham leaves.
-
Alhaitham’s headphones stay off the whole day. He doesn’t know where Cyno is, feels like a stray dog amongst the crowds of children and adults alike, wandering aimlessly. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, or why they haven’t left, but his ear rings loudly, blindingly, and so he scrambles out of the crowd, where a silent corner of market stalls lie.
The desert village is too noisy, too popular, but above that, it’s quieter than the halls of scholars that buzz with gossip.
Then he sees the stall, bright and drawing multiple individuals’ attention, but, however so, quiet.
He approaches it cautiously, like he expects there to be a crime for an Acting Grand Sage to be studying TCG cards, but nobody stops him, and nobody notices him. His fingers over the Staff of Homa, glittering in its pearly case.
A hand catches onto his arm. Cyno appears behind him.
“Scribe.” He says, almost like a warning. His blood-orange eyes are narrowed at Alhaitham’s hand upon the card. But Alhaitham keeps it there.
“General,” Alhaitham replies, feeling a rush of pride at the sight of his hand burning under Cyno’s gaze. Nails dig into his arm. Another warning.
Then Cyno drags Alhaitham’s arm down, forcing him to stoop to his level.
“What are you doing here?”
“Why do you care?”
They’re whispering now, secrets passed from one to another.
Cyno glances down, one more time. Then he lets go, crossing his arms pointedly. “I don’t.”
Alhaitham wishes he could’ve kept him in that uncomfortable position longer, wishes nails could’ve broken skin. But he straightens, removes his hand just to see Cyno’s eyes flicker to the card once again. Alhaitham waits for Cyno to speak the next words.
“I was unaware you played TCG,” says Cyno, with perfectly chosen words.
“I don’t,” Alhaitham repeats Cyno’s phrase. Cyno catches on immediately, but only scoffs at the mockery.
“Don’t kid, Scribe,” he says, raising his arm as if proposing a point, “so what are you doing here, if not for your own deck?”
What is Alhaitham doing here?
The shopkeeper is by them, now, waiting.
ALhaitham reaches into his pocket and drops a generous amount of Mora on the table, reveling in the surprise in both Cyno and the keeper’s expressions.
“Keep the change,” he tells the latter with a wry grin, picking up the case.
Cyno splutters when Alhaitham turns to him. “You’re- you- is this your way of ridiculing me?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Alhaitham says, slowly. He stares at the card, feels the empty weight of his pocket, and with no sense of remorse, places it in Cyno’s outstretched hand.
He can’t tell whether the glint in his eyes is of admiration or murderous intent, but he supposes he’d be fine with either.