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i. “many far wiser than we”
There was a certain degree of immorality inherent to the human condition. Cyno, an eternal judge until his body failed to keep up with his duties, observed this with a certain degree of detachment. There was no real heat, no hatred or resentment.
Lying, petty theft, callous words uttered to twist a knife—no purpose but to laugh at someone. No person he had met in his lifetime was without the gray stain of it, the exception: the what if , the but . There was always a good reason. A single occasion that justified it all, a greater good or a lesser evil.
Cyno was born to—no, he was made to be above it all. There was no such thing as a white lie, there was no action or circumstances that washed a sin of its filth. He held others and himself to it, down to every comma: the written law, the unsaid rules of morality. It wasn't that Cyno truly believed he was perfectly removed from it all. At the end of this life, he would be judged just the same, heart on the scale (far heavier than his lofty ideals ever were). Surely he, too, would sink to the depths, forever forgotten.
Secretly, however, he had believed to be… impartial. Capable of upkeeping his sense of justice no matter whose life was on the line. Thanks to the detachment he so firmly believed he harbored, he had believed that when the time came, he would hold the tip of his spear to anyone’s throat. Even— especially —the ones who trusted and loved him. The greatest mercy, the greatest thought he could spare them was to bring them to judgement by his own two hands.
(Once, he had admitted this to his… guardian. His father. It had been a moment of weakness, an unnamed fear he couldn’t possibly understand. There was no need to justify himself; Cyno couldn’t, wasn’t allowed to falter. From the moment he thought he felt the need to prove himself correct, he had already misstepped along the way.
And yet, he had done it anyway. With a hand around his recently acquired vision, he had told Cyrus of his ideals, of his neverending mission. It had been quiet, and Cyrus hadn’t touched him, although he looked like he wanted to.
“Is thinking like that what brings you peace of mind?”
Cyno looked up, stricken. It had been a hidden blessing that Cyrus hadn’t approached, as Electro energy responded to his emotions. Cyno stammered and tried to explain: it wasn’t about peace, it wasn’t about himself at all. No words had made it past his clogged throat, however.
“So be it,” Cyrus sighed.)
Cyno hadn’t thought about it again. There was no need to, when he kept so few people close to his chest. And even, they were… Safe. Easy to love, easy to put aside his thoughts as a general and simply be a friend.
Loving Alhaitham, however, was Cyno’s greatest sin. It was a compulsion he was unable to be rid of.
While the average person dipped their fingers between the boundaries of morality, Alhaitham deliberately played with it with an apathy that Cyno seldom saw in others. It was the lack of malice that attracted and intrigued him; the explanations made perfectly reasonable, with not a shred of culpability to his demeanor. When he committed theft, when he made plans that pushed the limits of what was humane, when he schemed and machinated within his own brain like a god looking down through a window—there was nothing but simple resolve. I wanted my life to remain comfortable, he had explained with a shrug upon being asked. He hadn’t even looked at Cyno, his eyes somehow both crystalline and shrouded in shadows.
And Cyno was fascinated. No, he was obsessed. His skin no longer felt like his own, itching, spread too thin; until Alhaitham touched upon it. Be it in kindness, be it in violence—aggravation boiling over, a demand for a spar, too close to a real fight (it was the only excuse Cyno could find for their bodies to collide). Romantic love had eluded him for too long, and now he had to wonder if it was always supposed to be this hungry. If it was supposed to be destructive and dark, to grip gently at his throat and squeeze.
It was his one and only regret; it was salvation.
Therefore Cyno kissed him. Captured Alhaitham’s corruption between his lips and swallowed it like honey, sworn to contain it within the walls of his stomach. If I were to eat you , he thought feverishly, between teeth and tongue, beyond the point of sanity, I can keep you safe from your own madness.
It was foolish, it was unreasonable. As he kissed and kissed and kissed, Cyno was sure: he would ruin Alhaitham and sink himself into a bottomless pit. Oh he wasn’t made to love—what a horrible curse it was, his treacherous heart.
If he had been someone stronger, he would’ve stepped away. But his spirit rested somewhere among the speckles of sunlight reflected on Alhaitham’s pale eyelashes when he woke up in the mornings, rough and incoherent. His thoughts rested in the hollow between his ribs, caged like a bird.
He adored Alhaitham, with the intensity of a ravenous beast.
(If it ever came down to it, Cyno could not kill him. The thought came to him unbidden in the quiet of the night. He tried to will himself to grab for his spear, for his spare dagger. He reminded himself he was the sharp edge of a knife, a weapon.
His hands were gentle when it carrassed Alhaitham’s cheek.)
In his turmoil, he threw himself into his job with more severity than warranted. These were peaceful times, Cyno tried to remind himself, but only the feeling of his brain rattling inside his skull as he was thrown into a wall made him feel any resemblance of clarity. The blood loss eliminated everything else, turned the world to maddening spinning circles, focused his vision on the targets before his eyes rather than on the horizon in search of a man who couldn't possibly be there at the moment.
It was the only form of freedom Cyno knew.
It stood to reason that when Lesser Lord Kusanali pulled him aside, he assumed it was for the sole purpose of questioning his misdemeanors. Cyno had no argument against any punishment she saw fit for him.
Nahida, far too small for someone bearing her responsibilities, gazed up at him with her hands clasped together. The pose looked as if she was in prayer, and Cyno had to wonder who was there to listen to a god's plea.
"Cyno," she started. She didn't stutter or hesitate—the Dendro Archon never did—but the extra beat of silence was the closest she got to doing such a thing. "I've debated whether or not I should ask this of you."
She closed her mouth, a pregnant pause meant for him to fill. Cyno blinked, not sure what to do with all the tension built on every muscle of his body now that it was unnecessary. He swallowed and lowered his head slightly.
"You can ask anything of me. As long as I'm able to help, I won't deny you."
"That's exactly what I fear," she whispered. Nahida shook her head. "Unfortunately, I cannot trust this matter to anyone but you."
Cyno couldn't decipher what she wasn't saying. He frowned. "Do you doubt my capability to execute it?" No other possibility made sense of her concern.
"No, quite the opposite. In fact, I'm certain you'll dedicate your whole self to it." Nahida played with a string of light between her fingers, dendro energy forming complicated knots as her thoughts raced. "I do not want that. I don't want this mission—or any of them—to consume you until there's nothing left of the person behind the duty."
“I don’t know any other way of living.”
She shook her head. “There’s so much more to you than that. I’ve seen it before, Cyno: the kindness and the jokes, the easygoing way you interact with your loved ones. You know exactly what else is there for you, outside of these walls.” Nahida’s eyes were severe in a way Cyno was unused to; it sent shivers down his spine. “But you’re afraid to admit to yourself that you’re so much more than a wielded tool, you’re afraid you’ll lose your purpose otherwise.”
Cyno inhaled a careful breath, aware of the path it made inside his lungs. He held the air in place for long seconds, let the black spots in his vision ground him. It was no use lashing out—to begin with, he had killed the urge to do so still as a child, once he figured out that it only invited more pain. The God of Wisdom herself looked up at him with all too knowing eyes, what exactly could he say that would serve as a convincing enough argument? The fight left him as fast as it came. He exhaled.
“I need some time,” he murmured. “I just— need more time.”
Not even Cyno himself knew how to word it, the overwhelming dread that overtook him every morning he woke up in a warm bed, safe in someone’s arms. But Nahida nodded and padded forward to gently take ahold of his hands. When she smiled, her face sunny and round, she didn’t look any older than a toddler, and something in Cyno broke at that thought.
“This is not an excuse to run away,” she said firmly, “do you understand?”
“Of course, Lesser Lord Kusanali.”
They went over the details only after he made his promises. A mission in the desert, a careful operation, an investigation that would last one, maybe two months to execute well. A mission that would take him away from Alhaitham for a long time.
Longer, if he lied.
Cyno flinched as the possibility crossed his mind. Deceit had never been in his blood, but it came so easily to him, where Alhaitham was involved. This was an affliction more than it was affection. He must cut it off, like removing diseased skin to avoid further contamination. It made him feverish in the early hours. The humid heat stuck to his throat. Alhaitham stirred by his side, eyelids fluttering. As if he could hear Cyno’s thoughts, Alhaitham reached for his partner’s arm, keeping him rooted to the place. Cyno was the stronger one between the two of them, and yet the loose grip caged him in.
“Alhaitham,” he started, before his voice disappeared into the morning mist. “I think—”
Groggy, Alhaitham tugged him closer. He made to kiss Cyno's lips, but once he realized the effort that would take, he settled for the knuckles instead. His breath was warm on Cyno’s fingers, his lips soft when he wrapped them around a digit. Cyno shuddered at the hint of teeth. He reminded himself Alhaitham could burn the city down, with the right incentive. Could justify the worst of his actions, if it was for an end goal he agreed with. He was dangerous —
—He whispered "good night" to a portrait of his grandmother every night as he drifted off.
Cyno closed his eyes and hoped it would somehow blind him to the permanent ache in his chest.
“Pay attention,” he ordered, a bit harsher. “I’m leaving the city.”
The bluntness seemed to do the trick. Alhaitham slowly blinked his eyes open. He was much more expressive like this, when sleep dulled his rationale—the surprise was clear in his face.
“...Why?” The grumble held no similarity to the usual eloquence of the Haravatat graduate.
“I have important matters to sort out.”
“A mission?”
“Yes, among other things.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
The silence stretched. Alhaitham licked his lips, digesting Cyno’s words and his own thoughts. It was the wrong move to be taciturn. It would’ve worked on anyone not acquainted with Cyno, but Alhaitham knew the truth: he knew the senseless rambles, the debate just for the sake of debating, the elaborate opinions on nothing at all. In private, Cyno was a chronic overspeaker, something that Alhaitham had graciously taken into stride. The abrupt end to the conversation revealed far more than Cyno had meant to let on, and he could see, clear as day, that Alhaitham had some choice words for him. Cyno tensed, ready for an argument.
“Be safe."
There was no follow up. Cyno tried (and failed) not to show his disbelief.
“Is that it?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever held the power to stop you from doing anything, Cyno, not even when I was briefly your superior,” Alhaitham said. “Why would it be any different now?”
The bitterness in his words surprised Cyno the most. How could such an intelligent man not realize the extent of his influence on Cyno? If he had asked, if had turned sincere eyes on Cyno and said stay , Cyno would obey as naturally as the stars hung in the sky.
And because he did not tell lies, Cyno didn't reply.
The morning progressed like this, an unnatural silence weighing on his shoulders. Alhaitham watched his every move with half-lidded eyes, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Cyno was sure they were at the edge of something —a revelation, or the breaking point.
That unsettling feeling followed him all the way to the door, when Alhaitham told him: “Come back to me.”
(It was an order. Cyno already knew he’d obey.)
+
ii. “to still the beating of my heart”
Cyno did not remember his mother's face.
What little space she occupied in his heart and mind, it only carried her words, whispered one day during a particularly bad sandstorm. He remembered pain, and he remembered her hands, calloused and rough—loving but not gentle.
Don't ever show your tears, Cyno, she had said. Her voice was scratchy, wrecked with the lack of hydration. She had clutched his arm tight. Desert dwellers don't have the luxury of mourning. Do you understand?
He wouldn't truly understand until a few years later, until he was taken to the Akademiya's glittering halls and displayed like a pinned butterfly. He was simply far too young then, and the only thing he knew was this: as long as he followed the rules (his mother's rules, the Sage's rules, the universal law of justice), life was easy. Simple.
Maybe even enjoyable.
He didn't need anything else. And lost amongst the grains of sand of the Red Desert, Cyno could even fool himself into thinking it true. Nothing but the desert’s harsh weather hardened his emotions quite as well, reminded him that people like him didn’t survive by being soft. He had lived too long in the comforts of the green leaves, surrounded with far more love than any desert dweller should ever allow themselves.
He envisioned his mother—made up her features, a nebulous caricature frowning down at him. Once, Nilou had asked him if he would be happy with this life. But it was never about being happy, it was about surviving. His mother had made sure he understood that before he could barely speak. The Akademiya reminded him exactly why it was necessary to protect himself with tooth and nail.
Heartache was a poison, no matter how sweet. Cyno could feel it consuming him, seeping into his bones as the days away from the city grew into weeks. It threatened to be all he was, grieving and missing.
To mourn someone who wasn’t gone, to be broken by a bond severed by his own hands… He let that thought trail off into nothing, unable to voice the primal fear that settled in the pit of his stomach.
He looked over the monochromatic view at the top of the watchtower in Aaru Village. How he loathed it: the humanity of his own heart, which was supposed to be buried under the sand from the moment he was born.
"Cyno," a soft voice called. Candace ascended the staircase to join him by his side. "The villagers told me you were here. Why didn't you come over to say hello?"
He turned to take in her form. There was a fresh set of bandages on her calf, and scratches marring her face. Her shield, strapped to her shoulders, weighed her down, but Candace made it look effortless. There was a wariness to her Cyno often forgot about, when he heard her speak with so much kindness. By all means, she should be resting, but she found the time to greet him, teasing and playful.
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. He was well aware that she deserved far better than his indifference. "I have a lot of things to think over, and it escaped my mind. Still, it's no excuse."
She cocked her head, a chuckle escaping her. Candace moved forward until she could rest her body against the walls of the watchtower. Cyno was caught by the casualness of her posture, so open as she observed him with mismatched eyes.
"You don't have to sound so formal, I did not come here to condemn you," she reassured.
"Even after Alhaitham and I caused problems to the village, you were courteous to me. Offending you is a matter of great importance to me."
"I'm not that easily offended, Cyno." She shook her head gently then paused, as if considering her words. "And how is Alhaitham? Although he sends the occasional letter—mostly for official business, mind you—I haven't really seen him in a long time. He's not the easiest person to make friends with, is he?"
Cyno thought of barbed words exchanged with Kaveh, of a flippant attitude that pushed others away. I don't require anyone's company, Alhaitham had once said, sparking a whole new argument in the middle of an already heated conversation.
"No, I suppose not," he whispered.
Candace studied him, a look of realization crossing her eyes.
"Did something happen between the two of you?"
Cyno frowned. "What do you mean?"
“You seem upset, of course. Conflicted. It’s so rare to see you with your head in the clouds, so I have to assume there’s a new factor in your life that would have you spacing out.” She touched their shoulders together with just enough force to jostle him, but not push. “Besides, it feels like lately everything is about Alhaitham, when it comes to you.”
It was against his training to be transparent, to be so easily read to the point any common thief could spot his weakness. Candace wasn’t just anyone , she was a friend. She had enough knowledge of the two of them to make educated guesses, and she was more perceptive than even Cyno himself, when it came to human emotions. Despite knowing all that, Cyno couldn’t help but feel exposed. With kind words, Candace had poked at his bleeding wounds and left him to deal with the damage.
He could tell his face shuttered from the sudden tension in Candace’s shoulders.
“I need to go.”
“Cyno,” she started, frowning, “if you don’t want to have this conversation, that’s okay. But—”
“I have a mission to take care of, I don’t have the time to waste on idle talk.”
The hurt on Candace’s face almost knocked him off his feet. Cyno squared his shoulders and stood against the sudden bout of vertigo, forcing himself not to watch as Candance’s smile fell and she stared at him with hard eyes. He could understand why Dehya was afraid of her, at times, but Cyno didn’t have the luxury of allowing himself a moment of hesitation. Before she could think of stopping him, Cyno jumped away towards the village exit.
There was a sandstorm brewing in the distance; coupled with the dry heat, the grains clung to his throat in a chokehold. Cyno didn’t look behind him, but he knew Candace watched him leave, her gaze burning the back of his neck.
It was easy to focus on his task from then on. Sleeping on cavern floors and waking up with the sun, huddling tightly inside his cloak at night and eating a dry ration bar. All of it, the simple necessity of keeping himself alive, staved off any unnecessary worries. It was easy to forget something as mundane as romance when his first thought upon opening his eyes was to reach for his spear and defend himself against an upcoming attack.
Except some days his bones ached far more than usual. His body was a prison to an ancient spirit, and on occasion, it tried to claw its way out of his body with a cry that deafened him to the rest of the world. His body was far too small a container for something of such magnitude. Anyone else would've been torn apart, but Cyno could and had to be far more resilient than that.
So when he used his power and it crackled down his legs with the same sensation of a bone being broken clean off, he didn't writhe. He didn't retreat. Cyno finished his mission, apprehended the criminals, then found a corner where he could curl into himself and bite into his palm so hard it bled.
Candace would later find him in that state, would put him in bed and drug him with enough medicine to sleep through the worst of the pain aside from the occasional, fever induced nightmare.
When he next opened his eyes, Cyno attempted to leave. His legs wobbled, but nothing hurt too bad aside from the phantom ache that made his body feel hollow. Hermanubis was quiet, as it often was after one such episode. Cyno took it for the apology it was and moved to find his spear.
"Don't," Candace's voice was cutting, and she blocked his way with the bulk of her body. Her hand hovered on the edge of her shield, as if she was ready for battle if it came down to it. "Settle back down, Cyno. It's an order."
He glared at her.
"You don't hold any power to order me—"
"For as long as you're in my village, you're under my protection and my guidance. I will not let you go back out there to fight Gods know what so that you can prove a point to yourself." Their height difference wasn't that great, but when Candace stood stiff before him, he felt far smaller in comparison. "You may want to make yourself less of a human because you're terrified by the simple thought that Alhaitham loves you with all his heart, but I will not watch you make this into a suicide mission while expecting everyone else to let you do that. You have a father, Cyno. A family. If you're not willing to take care of yourself for Alhaitham's sake, at least try and remember there are others who also care for you."
It was a disservice to her, that Cyno had forgotten she was as much of a warrior as he was. Maybe even more so, as Candace had spent a lifetime fighting for a village left to the mercies of the elements and the Akademiya's whims. He could fight her, yes, but neither of them would come out of it unscathed.
In truth, he did not want to hurt her.
He stumbled back to bed, unstable and ashamed. He caused nothing but trouble for Candace, gave her unnecessary worries. Part of him had been looking for answers, some sort of revelation. The other part, however, had been waiting for his body to be buried by the sand next to his mother. And that that would've justified the way he lived to the end.
As if death was the entire goal.
He sent a prayer up to the gods, and hoped his father would forgive him for endangering the life he had so arduously protected. He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under yet again.
Candace sat next to him on the mattress and pushed his bangs away from his sweating forehead.
"Go home, Cyno," she whispered. "Go home."
+
iii. “all the heavens seem to twinkle”
By the time he reached Alhaitham’s house, it was the last minutes of the twilight, some stars blanketing the violet sky. He saw no signs of life inside, no lights on. Cyno frowned as he considered knocking, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline as the door creaked back without as much as a push. He entered in quiet, cautious steps. If Kaveh was the only one home, it was possible he forgot to close the door yet again. He couldn’t completely eliminate the option that there was a break in, however.
He used the dark in his favor, staying away from the light streaming inside through the windows. There was an almost imperceptible shuffle coming from the direction of the bedrooms, so Cyno followed the sound to its source.
To his surprise, it wasn’t a stranger hovering in front of Alhaitham’s bedroom door but Kaveh himself. The blonde was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, head pillowed on the door. He was drawing unseeing patterns on the rug, his eyes downcast, a frown at the corner of his mouth. His first thought was that the two roommates had gotten into another fight, but Kaveh’s countenance was far too somber for something minor.
“Kaveh,” Cyno called, when it was clear that just observing wouldn’t yield any results. “Is something wrong?”
Kaveh jumped a few feet into the air, and just barely managed to muffle his startled scream with both hands over his mouth. He blinked owlishly at Cyno.
“Oh, thank Archons you’re here,” he muttered. There was a red mark on his cheek where he had slapped himself far too hard. “I didn’t think he’d want me around right now, but I didn’t want to leave him alone, so I just…”
He gestured to the door. The silent vigil made no sense to Cyno. Had Alhaitham fallen ill, and being close to him risked contamination? Or was he so mentally indisposed to the point even Kaveh would worry about him? Cyno couldn’t imagine what would put Alhaitham in such a mood, and for a moment, he feared it might have been his fault.
“He gets like this every year, which I really should be used to by now, but I never am. I don’t know what to do when he gets all sad like that and I’m not such an asshole I’d be disrespectful at a time like this so— Listen, just get inside, okay?” Kaveh ran a hand through his hair. “You’re his boyfriend or his partner or whatever you guys call each other, so I’m sure he would appreciate having you around, at least.”
It was Cyno’s turn to stare at the other. He put the pieces of Kaveh’s ramblings together, but failed to gather the whole picture.
“Is he—” He trailed off. He couldn’t say what was the ending of that question—whatever it was, it became tangled in the lump in his throat.
Kaveh got to his feet and lightly dusted his pants before he moved forward to clap Cyno on the shoulder. His expression was a little awkward, like he didn’t know whether to grimace or smile.
“Take care of him, okay? I… I can’t do this for him, our friendship being what it is. If it can even be called that at all.” Kaveh grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Tears shone in his warm eyes. “I’m going to get some air, so the two of you can take your time. D-Don’t worry about me.”
Kaveh brushed past him in a hurry. Cyno considered telling him, that Alhaitham cared—that they were simply such fundamentally different people, they were never able to meet in the middle or comprehend each other’s affection. But it wasn’t his place to say such a thing, and the front door swung shut before he could make up his mind.
He turned and gave the doorknob a try; it gave away without a fight. He had to squint to see inside the room, a single candle casting dramatic shadows along the walls. Alhaitham was at his desk, writing on parchment with a quill. Cyno wondered if there was a misunderstanding on Kaveh’s part, and there was nothing to worry about. But then Cyno took a step forward, Alhaitham turned and—
There were tears streaming down his face, an endless cascade of them. Alhaitham didn’t flinch, he didn’t sob. There was an impassive look on his face that felt unnatural, like his features had been frozen that way and he didn’t know how to go about moving them. Cyno took in a breath.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you hurt—”
“It’s nothing.”
Cyno cast a look across the desk, unable to stop his instincts to investigate. There were sheets upon sheets littering every little space of the tabletop, some half written, some still blank, as well as a few bearing nothing but crossed out words. The candlestick was down to its lower half, indicating it had been at use for quite a few hours already. Along with the parchment, there were pictures of people Cyno didn’t recognize, but that he could only deduct were Alhaitham’s parents, if the pudgy, gray-haired toddler between them was anything to go by. The other person in those pictures took Cyno a bit to recognize, her face much younger than what he had come to expect. The woman with the kind smile and the wise eyes glanced down at a tiny Alhaitham like he was her entire world.
It all came together in a rush.
“Is it an anniversary?” Cyno asked, unable to help the soft quality to his voice.
Alhaitham shook his head. “It's grandma's birthday, actually. She always said she wanted her life to be celebrated over her death. I try to… Tell her about my life, every year. So she knows I’m well, since that’s what she fought for from the moment I was born.” He went quieter as he lowered the quill to the parchment, more out of a nervous habit than to really write anything.
It was hard not to pay attention to the motion, not to see the inkblot staining the end curve of the word happy. Cyno snapped his head back up towards Alhaitham before he could read any further.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I couldn’t be certain when you would be back,” Alhaitham argued. “I didn’t want to interfere with your duties.”
“You should’ve asked me to stay, Alhaitham.”
“I wouldn’t— I could never ask that of you. You once said your happiness was of little relevance. From the moment I realized my feelings for you, I knew any relationship between us would be secondary to your mission. I accepted it a long time ago.”
And there lied the truth to Cyno’s conundrum. He could run himself into circles, think of what ifs until his head spinned. But no amount of could or would meant anything, when faced with that fact that Alhaitham, for all his scheming and his questionable plans, had no reason nor the desire to cause another human being any harm, much less Cyno. He was logical, yes; he was willing to risk it all in a plan to save the nation, but he took no pleasure in the misfortune of others.
He was no more dangerous than any normal human being had the potential of being.
“...You were paying attention, back then,” he said, unable to voice any other of his thoughts.
“Of course I was. It was about you.”
In the candlelight, the teartracks (now drying, the conversation staving off Alhaitham’s emotions, at least for now) shone like the burning trail of a shooting star. In his absence, Alhaitham had sat inside his dark room and written pages upon pages of letters to his grandmother, no doubt telling her every major event that happened to him in the course of a year. The entire time, Kaveh had sat outside his door, worried sick. And Cyno—
He hadn’t been here. He had left Alhaitham to deal with his own grief because Cyno couldn’t make up his mind about their relationship.
Unbidden, Cyno’s eyes found inkblot again, the line he had been so adamant on not reading. I’m in love with someone. I’m happy.
“I don’t want to be someone who isn’t there when his partner needs him,” he choked out. Cyno so dearly wanted to cast his eyes to the ground in shame. “What kind of life is that, Alhaitham? One where you aren’t even allowed to tell me you want me by your side on your hardest days?”
“One that I chose,” Alhaitham rebutted. There was a note of anger and frustration in his tone. “One I’ll live with, as long as it means that I have you.”
“You don’t,” Cyno confessed, heart breaking anew. “You don’t have me. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, I don’t mind.”
The worst part of it all was that Alhaitham meant it. In his mind’s eyes, Cyno could almost envision it: the Grand Scribe sat at his desk almost four months ago weighing the pros and cons of entering a relationship with the General Mahamatra. And somewhere along the way, he had thought Cyno would be an absent lover, that he would choose his duty over Alhaitham, and still chose to be with him.
Cyno felt sick.
“Please, don’t say that. Please.” He swayed forward. Although the rest of him was in turmoil, his body knew well what to do. His fingers found the back of Alhaitham’s neck and clung to his short hair. Cyno pushed Alhaitham’s face into his stomach and curled around him, protecting him from the rest of the world. “Tell me what you want. I don’t know myself anymore, I don’t know what path to follow, so just tell me what I should do. I’ll give you anything.”
It took a second longer than usual, but Alhaitham hugged him back and rubbed his head against Cyno like an over affectionate cat. Oh, Archons, Cyno had missed him with every fiber of his being, missed his touch, the texture of his soft hair on Cyno’s calloused fingers.
“I just don’t want to lose you,” Alhaitham admitted. “I’ve lost enough already. Just don’t leave me, Cyno, no matter how horrible things may get. No matter how much you think you no longer love me.”
What did it say about him, that it took so long to realize that Alhaitham was a creature made of grief? It was far easier to keep away and never lose anything; it made sense why Alhaitham kept others at arm’s length. From early life, he had learned to be alone, to not rely on anyone. Or he thought he had known, until his grandmother was gone and there was nothing for him in this life but to live a life of comfort the way she had wished for him. Until he was well and truly alone in a house far too quiet, devoid of laughter, devoid of any person who waited for him to come home safely.
(Part of him wondered if it had been a relief that, for all of Kaveh’s faults, his presence was undeniable. If his voice ever kept the walls from closing in on Alhaitham. Cyno didn’t have it in him to ask, not yet.)
Cyno tapped Alhaitham’s neck, a silent request for him to look up.
“I’d never stop loving you, don’t be absurd,” he said, as hard as steel. Cyno moved his hand to clutch Alhaitham’s cheeks. “Every day, every waking hour, even in my dreams, I’m overwhelmed by the magnitude of my desire for you. How could it ever fizzle out just like that?”
Alhaitham searched his face—looking for signs of a lie, no doubt. “Then you’ve given me enough.”
His smile was the most brilliant thing, pulling up his cheeks against his puffed up eyes. The roundness of his face made him look far younger, far more innocent. Cyno wanted to protect him, wanted to nest him inside deep in between his organs, he wanted to kiss all his problems away. He wanted, and he wanted, and he wanted —
With all the intensity of a human being in love.
“You’re a far better person than I’ll ever be,” Cyno sighed. He hunched over to kiss Alhaitham’s cheekbone. The flutter of his eyelashes made his handsome face all the more delicate.
“Nonsense. You’re with me, aren’t you?”
Cyno didn’t have the energy to address that particular issue—and from the bags under Alhaitham’s eyes, neither did he. He massaged Alhaitham’s head and closed his eyes as their foreheads touched.
“Ask me again,” Cyno murmured.
Without missing a beat, Alhaitham replied, “Stay, Cyno.”
“Always. Forever.” He pressed his hand to Alhaitham’s chest, felt the beating of his heart—knew he could have it in his hands, if he demanded it. “I’ll follow you into the afterlife, even if we were both to fall into hell.”