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It’s both ‘gentle’ and ‘all at once’, the way their paths intertwine, and stay firmly locked together.
Their own little bubbles collide and mesh, iridescent, into a bigger space they share.
♦
The Akademiya’s training grounds are a calm place. Little to no scholars get that the saying ‘healthy body, healthy mind’ is not only a cool-sounding assortment of words, but something to put into practice. A pity for them that Alhaitham doesn’t share, taking advantage of the deserted space to cultivate both fighting skill and balance of thought.
Beads of sweat roll down the Scribe’s temples. He’s focused on his movements and at peace, as in everything he does. His form with the double swords is good.
I could make it even better, Cyno thinks as he wanders there by a mere fit of chance and stops to observe him.
Seeing Alhaitham move gracefully, destroying the training dummies in precise strikes, reminds him of what feels like an eternity ago – but a few months in reality.
“Alhaitham.”
He turns towards Cyno, his focus unwavering. The natural calmness of the General Mahamatra doesn’t break it. Alhaitham discovers that allowing him into his personal bubble is effortless. Taking his nod and slow blink for the acceptance it is, Cyno steps forward to the taller. His oath is made of silence, and that’s the language his feet speak when he treads the padded ground. He looks up to the Scribe who paused to wait for him.
“Do you wish to spar ?”
Alhaitham gauges him for a mere second before a small smile graces his lips. He’d be an idiot to pass up a chance to train with the General Mahamatra himself. He’d be a fool to reject an offer Cyno made in good faith, a token of respect shared like a firm handshake ; a token of trust to guard each other’s backs.
Alhaitham is nothing if not intelligent.
He’s sincere as he assents and subtly changes his grip on the swords.
“Would be my pleasure.”
Maybe Cyno had never left his bubble since that time ; since their ‘fight’ like a dance in the desert, serpents aiming for the throat only to graze reluctantly. That’s how seamless it feels as he summons his spear and takes up his stance, all lean muscle and efficiency coiling to strike. But instead of killing intent, there’s a desire for shared improvement.
Cyno’s sharp gaze analyzes Alhaitham before he even moves. Many others would crumble under the undivided attention of the man, yet the Scribe only reciprocates it – thrives on it, even.
His posture is almost perfect, but the matra’s hands itch to correct those small errors, stray mistakes that could cost Alhaitham his life. His big frame makes for an easier target – he can’t afford the slightest of openings. Cyno suspects some of them are calculated. His first strike confirms the feint, and if the second makes Alhaitham step back ; the third sees him taking an advantage back. Feet and weapons shuffle and cling as they meet at last ; both limited by the restricted space of training grounds that do not match their styles. They’ve got too much inner drive to be contained by the flimsy walls of the Akademiya, not once they’d tasted what lies beyond.
But some of Alhaitham’s openings are indeed real, and he finds himself subjected to a barrage of attacks so fast one would think the Mahamatra used his Vision, despite it being clear that wasn’t the case. The charged, ionized crackle of thunder in the air is missing altogether.
Haitham’s deft evading is abruptly stopped by the wall behind his back. He knew it was coming, yet couldn’t find a way to turn the balance in his favor as Cyno overwhelmed him, taking advantage of each and every flaw. Alhaitham is too keen not to realize that – he noted each issue as Cyno’s attacks ruthlessly pointed them out. Thus placated, the Scribe remains impassible and watches the matra from behind their locked weapons. The immobility of a beast that knows it is too big to be eaten, despite its precarious position.
He could swear Cyno is savoring his victory, though there are many other things at play on his face. Many more emotions and thoughts than the Scribe could pick apart, not when agitation of his own vibrated under his usual facade. The world once again reduced to warm muscles and lungs heaving for breath, as the dust of battle settled and adrenaline faded. Here the distant hustle of Sumeru City can’t reach them, neither can their duties.
Anyone looking for them can wait – it’s not worth popping their bubble.
Alhaitham takes a deep breath. It fills his lungs with the faint scent of electricity that Cyno always carries with him. Alhaitham doesn’t get enough time to analyze it. He doesn’t need that time to know why it doesn’t scare him, why there’s no rightful pang of survival instinct pulling him away, or telling him to cover his throat lest he taste the beast’s bite.
Maybe he wouldn’t mind tasting it. It’s neither fate nor a whim – they’re not men to leave anything to chance, much less their own behavior and choices. The line they walk is calculated. And they realize without doubt that it is one and the same.
Fleeting, they meet over their intertwined blades. A hum of agreement exchanged between parted lips, Cyno’s hand curled around his forearm. It feels right, inner balance perfected by the contact. Alhaitham’s swords vanish into sparks of green.
As if woken from a purposeful haze, Cyno relaxes back with a short blink of acknowledgement – of appreciation – in his single visible eye. He lowers his spear, lets it disappear ; freeing both the moment and the tingling coursing under Haitham’s skin.
Alhaitham is mentally shaking himself as if electrocuted, like a ruffled beast trying to get his fur to stand down. But despite his usual prudence towards the unknown, there’s no reluctance. Cyno’s fingers drum unconsciously against his arm, through his glove he feels the rhythm but not so much the warmth. A gentle enquiry, as if saying what’s next but also let’s go home.
♦
Kaveh either shatters the fragile space encapsulated within their walls with inadvertent fanfare, or splashes the inside with colors so bright it’s blinding. There’s nothing in between. It’s equal parts unnerving and charming. Alhaitham loves him for that, though the word love may be too plain, too easy for the complexity of what they reluctantly share.
He waltzes into the kitchen with the energy of a fresh flower bouquet that day, unbothered, not awake enough yet for life to weigh down his feet and dampen his leonine smile. Of course he isn’t, he was up way too late tinkering with the Lesser Lord knows what, despite Tighnari’s hushed recommendations for him to rest. Alhaitham blurrily remembers the bed dipping under the fox’s weight when he finally gave up on getting Kaveh to be reasonable.
Tighnari was proving more stubborn than the Scribe gave him credit for. You would’ve thought he learned by now that Kaveh can’t be swayed by reasonable arguments, at best convinced and coaxed to act a certain way for a time. Yet he kept trying, and sometimes even seemed to succeed.
Alhaitham is nursing his cup of coffee, a book momentarily cast aside on the counter, close to the idling hand that’s not holding his drink. He follows Kaveh’s inefficient gesticulations with mild interest, not entirely ready to face the day, but ready enough to indulge in watching the architect mull about.
Deft hands are perpetually ink-stained, lucky when there’s not a smear on his face too. Today is no such exception, for smudged spots of greenish-black adorn his nose and chin. Getting rid of those takes more than one scrub. Kaveh has not yet made his trip to the mirror and remains blissfully unaware, though he catches the jaded fondness in the Scribe’s features and wonders what’s causing such openness. He expected to be berated for his working noisily well into the night, for falling asleep in the study again. Not whatever this is.
Eliciting not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Kaveh ignores him and even dares to hum a song. Alhaitham’s earpieces reduce it to a bare murmur. Tolerable. Kaveh’s goings-on are equal parts tiring and fascinating. He prepares tea, throws together some snacks. Spares a glance to the gruff Scribe and adds some more atop the plate. Like a second thought. How the plate comes out so good-looking when he’s moving so haphazardly, Alhaitham has no idea. All of Kaveh is like that. He just makes it work – that’s the kind of genius he is.
Haitham is so unfazed that it’s starting to weird the architect out. But he reasons that early-morning Alhaitham is often acting strange when he’s awake at all, and his being fixated on Kaveh’s movements is more pleasant than any snide remarks he could be making. It is almost flattering to be looked at like this – for all their biting quarrels are made with blunt teeth, and at the end of the day Kaveh values Alhaitham’s regard.
The intensity of the stare makes the skin of his neck prickle in a mix of elation and reflexive defiance, yet a rare sort of content fills the blond’s chest. He’s smiling as he finishes his self-appointed breakfast mission.
The bliss lasts for the few more minutes Alhaitham needs to come up with a remark, in the form of :
“There’s ink on your nose.”
Kaveh groans and sets the plates on the table with more force than necessary, vexed. Alhaitham sits calmly, sets aside his empty cup with much less noise.
“Is that why you’ve been staring all that time. Without saying anything.”
“Not really, no. It still needed to be said at some point, so you do not make a fool of yourself outside.”
“Huh. What a delicate attention.”
Kaveh rolls his eyes, sighing. He supposed that longer peace would have been too much to ask.
“I’ll take care of this after eating.”
The scribe nods noncommittally, picking something on the plate. He only eats one or two biscuits before he’s off, leaving Kaveh to drown an annoyance that doesn’t last in his sweet pastries and coffee.
When he heads to the bathroom a bit later to clean the offending ink, he finds warm water already drawn for him. It might only be Alhaitham’s bid for efficiency, but Kaveh knows – or wants to believe – it isn’t the sole reason for his moments of thoughtfulness. He gives a fond, disbelieving chuckle and grabs Alhaitham’s soap out of useless spite, setting to freshen up for the day.
♦
Tighnari tends to stabilize that bubble. If only because useless noise ticks him off as much as Alhaitham sometimes, and they find harmony in shared quiet. They’re often in the study reading, discussing various topics in calm voices. Cyno and Kaveh know better than to disturb those moments, spied through the door left ajar. The open windows let in a little wind that ruffles their open books. It breathes fresh air throughout the silent house. Tighnari hates how the atmosphere of the city tends to get stuffier than in the forest, with too many human-made smells and less trees to offset them.
The draughts are a small price to pay for his company, if you ask the others.
As long as no rain nor humidity gets on his collection (or on the couches), Alhaitham doesn’t mind. He isn’t particularly sensitive to the cold. They might lose their page if they’re not careful, but they’re sharp of mind, and usually remember the exact word they stopped at.
Kaveh’s corner desk is the furthest from the window. Empty at the moment – he’s away on a business appointment. He gets mightily irritated if his precious drafts and prospects get messed up, but he keeps forgetting to place back the paperweights Tighnari crafted for him. He loves them, though. Made of solidified tree sap and slime condensate, they’re inlaid with colorful flowers and mushrooms. The architect looks at them sometimes when in need of inspiration, hands drumming in thought, but their actual use keeps slipping from his mind.
Tighnari looks up from his reading position nuzzled against Alhaitham’s side, sensitive ears tickled by the breeze. The bigger man makes for a comfy backrest, given his tendency to stay immobile for long periods of time when focused. It was to the point that Tighnari got worried, sometimes. The fox learned to recognize when to nudge him so he moved a bit, stretched his long legs. But for now it’s Tighnari who uncurls his limbs and gets up, shaking himself from the almost-slumber of a cloudy afternoon. Life in Sumeru City is not as energizing as patrols in the forest – he’ll go for a stroll, later. Maybe that night.
He playfully flicks his tail against Alhaitham’s shoulder in passing. Alhaitham reflexively raises a hand as if to stroke the soft fur out of habit, but it’s already out of reach. Tighnari gets a glance and a raised brow as all reply, a minute confusion in Haitham’s expression before he gives a thin-line smile and returns to his reading. Almost belatedly. They do not require more to state they care. Vital spaces tightly bound, yet unobtrusive of each other.
Tighnari makes his way to Kaveh’s desk. With hands careful not to damage anything, he briefly marvels at the designs sprawled over the surface – thin precise lines, elegant curves, mastery through and through. Tighnari sets the weights back onto the architect’s work for him. Out of respect – of affection. It’s none too soon. The wind picks up, whistling as a gust rushes through the window before all is calm again. Alhaitham remains unbothered, though he taps down on his book with a click of the tongue, lest the pages go on a quest for freedom that he cannot quite allow.
Satisfied with a minor disaster nearly avoided, Tighnari nods to himself and goes back to his still-warm spot. His book had closed on his own, but he left a bookmark in it for once. It’s but an old Genius Invokation card Cyno gave him after it fell out of meta. Alhaitham’s is a flattened, broken quill that Kaveh wouldn’t use to draw anymore. Sometimes they exchange them inadvertently. Sometimes Tighnari leaves a flower to dry between the pages of a book that isn’t his and Alhaitham finds it weeks later, not knowing what to make of it.
In those moments he walks to the fox, patting his shoulder so he gets it back to whatever encyclopedia it belongs in. And Tighnari is fascinated, always, with the gentle way Alhaitham handles the dried leaves and petals. Fingers so keen on incisive words and calloused from the sword and quill, yet oh so softly cradling the withered greenery. As if it held as many of the universe’s mysteries as an old tome plucked from the House of Daena.
Alhaitham says nothing as Tighnari settles back down and resumes his reading, though the dark haired man notices his work has slowed. He doesn’t turn the pages as often as before. Even the sharpest of minds tires after a while, and since he retired from the Grand Sage’s position at last, it appears Alhaitham is only human after all. Tighnari once ventured it was a backlash for doing work he didn’t fancy for longer than expected, but Haitham didn’t really react to the hypothesis. Neither accepting nor refuting it. Scribe is a comfortable job for him – he’s assured he’d go back to his own normal given time.
For now Alhaitham huffs, meaning he knows he’s not operating as well as he likes. Can’t be helped. He methodically snaps the book shut, sets the note-taking supplies aside neatly, taps his knees and gets up. All smooth, fluid motions. How he doesn’t jostle Tighnari given that the fox was leaning against him is beyond him. He follows Alhaitham out, but heads to the kitchen while the Scribe disappears into their bedroom for a nap.
Tighnari knows better than to advise Alhaitham on anything. It has never been his job nor position towards him. Having known Cyno for longer, he’s got a fair share of stubborness to deal with, and Alhaitham can reasonably be left to his own devices. Tighnari would even deem his presence relaxing. He can trust that he won’t eat a poisonous mushroom or try to build something in a Withering Zone, and this evenness allows him to let go of some of the anxiety he rarely realizes he harbors, caring about everyone so much. Applying salve to people’s unreasonable decisions and to the meanderings of their lives alike is a thankless job – aggravating, after a while. But in their home Tighnari gets no more burdens, and he can breathe.
He can breathe even as he makes a round closing the windows so they do not catch a fever. He can breathe even as he shuts the bedroom’s door with a small clicking sound, even as Alhaitham’s arm comes to rest over his waist as he joins his impromptu nap.
Despite the weight of it and the stuffy air of Sumeru promising thunder and rain, he can breathe in and out, and the bubble remains.
♦
A peal of laughter greets Alhaitham when he goes home after a too-long meeting. It’s Kaveh, in deep hilarity at some joke Cyno attempted, so much that his beautiful eyes glisten with tears. And he doesn’t even appear to be drunk, though his cheeks are blotched with red. Tighnari throws Haitham a pitiful look as soon as he steps into the living room. They must have been making debatable puns for a while if he was already at the end of his patience and desperate for someone to save him.
His salvation comes in the form of the dinner that Alhaitham made a detour to grab at Lambad’s, but it only lasts for the time Kaveh needs to shovel down his meal like he’d been starving. Which might be the case if no one checked that he ate today. The complimentary wine will surely not make the upcoming evening much calmer. As soon as Cyno is also done and finds another brilliant pun to make with the name of the dish they just had, Kaveh is snorting again.
And Cyno, for once, laughs at his own jokes. When someone accompanies him and spares him the little pangs of disappointment his far-fetched puns create when met with silence, he lets himself be glad. It’s a sound to behold, a low chuckle that Alhaitham would be eager to listen to anytime. Tighnari starts bickering, trying to make them stop for the love of the Lesser Lord. A plea that Alhaitham refutes in a deadpan, as if he wasn’t dropping an informational bomb that Cyno would cherish for the upcoming months.
“The Rani Kusanali actually finds Cyno’s jokes ‘witty’ and ‘amusing’. She’ll provide no help.”
They gawk at him for the whole few seconds they need to remember their Scribe interacted extensively with the Archon during his employ as the acting Grand Sage. Therefore becoming strangely familiar with their deity’s singularities and quirks.
“Oh, whatever.” Tighnari finally gives up.
The humorous streak abates after another while – enough time for Alhaitham to clear the table, and Tighnari to do the dishes. Cyno has used up all his inspiration when they come back, instead looking down at Kaveh caringly. He’s sprawled on the couch with his head on the matra’s lap, still catching his breath from his last bout of laughing. His wine glass is discarded on the table, empty and not due for a refill.
Alhaitham drops a book on the armrest, just in reach, and settles in the empty space on Cyno’s left, their bodies touching. They both relax into each other’s warmth ; muscles uncoiling in safety earned through their own hands, at the cost of sweat and blood spilled. The proximity an always-rediscovered blessing.
Leaning against the Scribe who sinks into his side in turn, Cyno runs a hand through Kaveh’s hair. Agile fingers distractedly remove the pins that do more harm than good with how Kaveh is lying on them, though he seems uncaring of the metal digging into his scalp. Tighnari maneuvers Kaveh’s legs out of the remaining spot so he could sit beside him, ignoring his unhappy groan. Kaveh throws him an inquisitive look as if asking for permission before resting his calves back over Tighnari’s thighs once he’s settled, unwilling to sit back upright to free more space. He can do as he pleases. Kaveh’s slender limbs aren’t particularly heavy and do not disturb the resilient fox. He should eat more, they often tell him. To no avail.
Tighnari takes advantage of the comfortable lull to stir the topic to anecdotes of Gandharva Ville and the Avidya Forest. There’s no shortage of fascinating events in the ancient woods. Paranormal manifestations, bits and pieces of gentle songs heard passed by the leaves and carried through nascent dreams ; adventurers sick from poisonous roots, or with a broken wrist from slipping in the sudden downpours. However mundane, all news of the surrounding areas immediately catch Cyno’s attention. He would never miss anything that could be useful later if only by chance. He asks some questions, always on point and observant, as sharp as his spear or Hermanubis’ claws.
Kaveh chimes in sometimes with some remark, errant curiosity. Tighnari and Cyno are the only ones Alhaitham will gladly zone out listening to – as opposed to zoning out because he’s bored or uninterested. He cannot do so when Kaveh speaks because the blonde takes too great a care to keep his eyes on him, and is easy to anger if Haitham doesn’t listen. His attention is also needed to prevent the architect from really landing himself in a pit he wouldn’t be able to get out of. Spare Kaveh from himself if nothing else, as he’d been doing for years with neither of them wanting to admit to it. It was no small feat.
And when Alhaitham finally decides to say something, to pursue and expand the topic at hand, his and Tighnari’s conversation veers technical in a snap of fingers. Their own version of an animated debate, all in smart words with nothing unbalanced, that knows better than to wound. Facts are an unfeeling music to dance to, whose steps they know by heart. Kaveh’s been silent for a while – drifting off. He wouldn’t admit to that either, but Alhaitham’s voice soothes him. Always equal, true to himself, tone never raising. A paragon of tranquil decisiveness that seems to absorb and negate all agitation he touches. It turns itself back against Kaveh like a weapon. Like a soothing balm.
Cyno listens, still glued against Alhaitham’s solid side. His hands absentmindedly card through Kaveh’s hair now that it’s free from any confines. He’d become annoyed or itchy if it were anyone else doing this so repeatedly, but Cyno’s caress is a light thing, and Kaveh is aware that the matra finds solace indulging in those simple touches ; strands of gold soft against calloused palms. He closes his eyes, and Cyno is tempted to do the same, but cannot really bring himself to. Instead he watches the other two, tracks the minute changes in their expressions. He doesn’t need to intervene. Kaveh is really dozing off, he notes as his features relax and his breathing evens out. Cyno keeps petting his head nonetheless, wishing peace into his dreams.
Not that matra and architect couldn’t technically follow their partners’ exchange with complete success if they so desired. They’re all scholars of their own rights, bright minds finding solace in each other’s company, in the comings and goings of their busy lives. In turn, they make the little world cradling them shine brighter with all of their colors.