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Their sparring is often the same.
It’s a result of a pent-up work and life frustration, hours of stress and meeting and dealing with nagging scholars and criminals starting from petty thieves and ending at the actual heinous.
It’s time after time needing to endure people still refusing to listen to plain and simple words and using their bigotry to put themselves on a pedestal and having little maneuver to do anything about it.
So, they spar every week, pouring their frustration into their weapons and letting them do all the talking.
The first time it actually started in Aaru Village, during the planning of the coup.
Alhaitham knew Cyno was becoming a ball of nerves, his answers getting shorter and snappier and ruder every day.
He needed to act but he was forced to wait and despite being used to long hours of keeping watch or tracking criminals this time his nerves were put to extreme test.
So Alhaitham called out his swords and with a nod that he knew Cyno could easily decipher he led him behind the dunes so they could let out their frustration out on each other.
Ever since then it has become their thing, not shared even with their closest of friends.
Today though, is a little bit different.
"Discard your weapon." Cyno says immediately when he walks into the forest clearing which they unanimously and without speaking claimed as ‘their spot’.
Alhaitham raises one thin eyebrow at Cyno’s order but he obediently withdraws his hand before his sword can manifest.
“I assume the session is canceled?”
“What?” Cyno asks, a little distracted as he takes off his headpiece and shakes out his hair. “What makes you think that?”
Alhaitham hums and waits for Cyno to elaborate. He takes a moment to do so because he’s busy unhooking and taking off all his sashes and belts and the usual ornaments until he’s dressed down to just his sleeve top and shorts along with the arms and leg protectors.
“No weapons?” Alhaitham finally asks when Cyno gathers his hair and ties it up in a high ponytail.
“No weapons.” Cyno nods and turns fully to his sparring partner and braces his fists. “I need to punch something.”
Haitham lets out a huff of amusement.
Wordlessly he takes off his coat and long gloves, unhooks and takes off his headphones and his own sash. He gathers his belongings to the side, checking meticulously if everything is in order and safe and then stands up from his crouch and turns around.
He catches the fist with his hand.
“Hm. Isn’t this cheating General.”
Cyno withdraws his arm.
“You know it was coming.”
“I did.” Alhaitham agrees and moves away to put some distance between them. “What are we doing? Jiu Jitsu? Kung-fu? Krav Maga? Boxing?”
Cyno rolls his eyes and then his shoulders, making the bones crack.
“Whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Haitham has maybe a moment to adjust to position before Cyno lunges at him.
They deal blows and parry them before jumping backwards and circling each other.
“You’re good. For a Scribe.”
Haitham doesn’t react.
“Where did you learn hand to hand combat?” Cyno asks and attacks once more. He knows his movements are erratic and frustrated even if he doesn’t hold back in strength.
Haitham manages to parry and avoid all of them.
Cyno isn’t too bothered because he’s looking for an opening and getting a feel of Haitham’s fighting style. They sparred with weapons countless of times, even swapped them, Cyno wielding Haitham’s sword and Haitham his spear, or picked up completely new ones. Turns out Cyno is now fond of daggers while Haitham is pretty talented with dual shotel swords.
But they never fought with their bare hands before.
There’s something insanely intimate in sparring like this Cyno thinks as their skin brushes against each other. Hand against fist, foot against arm, forearm against ribcage.
“You said you needed to punch something.” Haitham comments, while ignoring Cyno’s question and avoiding his fists. “Am I your punching bag now Cyno?”
“Maybe.” Cyno pants feeling strangely out of breath already. The humid weather is making him sweat and his movements feel erratic and uncoordinated.
It has been a long day.
As usual he doesn’t confine in the Scribe. They just meet and spar, airing their frustrations out.
They don’t really talk. At least not about anything which could be considered meaningful.
Yet somehow Cyno has started to feel a strange kinship with Alhaitham. He knows they both led different lives and differ on certain principles yet he feels like Alhaitham is in a way like him. A kind of an outcast.
For some reason he can’t bring himself to tell him any of this.
So instead, they talk by fighting.
Cyno aims a kick into Haitham’s solar plexus but the Scribe catches his foot and twists.
Cyno follows the movement and presses his leg harder into Haitham’s chest, forcing him backwards and releasing his limb.
They continue like this; hit, kick, swing, parry, block, turn, block, hit, swing, both of them not knowing for how long they have been sparring, ignoring the passage of time and letting themselves be swept by the rhythm of their duel.
The ache of their muscles, the sweat making their clothes cling uncomfortably in places and dripping from their faces, the brief sounds of nature around them, all forgotten in a haze of a fight, instincts narrowed only to their opponent, his moves, his breathing, the slightest twitch of his body.
Cyno knows he’s better at this but he has to reluctantly admit that Alhaitham is basically his even match.
He strikes first, as always when sparring with the Scribe. The biggest advantage the man has is not his bigger frame but his quick and brilliant mind.
The best way to take that away from him is to overwhelm him with attacks so he has no time to think.
And normally that would be enough.
Normally Cyno would be able to knock Haitham’s weapon out of his hand and using a proven combination of moves for a bigger opponent slam him down to the ground.
Normally he’d lord over Haitham while standing, the tip of his spear under his chin or the hilt pressed to his chest and he’d simply ask him the same as always.
Yield?
The Scribe would look up at him but not with fear or with anger but with something akin to contemplation as if Cyno was King Deshret’s most fascinating puzzle and Haitham was just taking is slow and enjoyed unraveling his mysteries.
He wouldn’t answer for a moment which would stretch too long until Cyno would nudge him to do so.
Yes. Yes, I yield.
And that would always irritate Cyno for some reason, because it was as of Alhaitham was talking about something different than sparring, and Cyno couldn’t figure it out.
Not today though for today was a little bit different.
Today they have no weapons and today Cyno is even more frustrated, the pinpricks of irritation buzzing under his skin like the electro which fills his veins when he calls upon it.
He doesn’t really need to hit a person. It could have been a dummy. Or he could go into the den of the pyramids and fight four Khaenri'ahn robots.
Even another matra would do. Aarav is a skilled fighter even if he doesn’t come anywhere near Cyno’s level.
But Alhaitham is special.
Special in that way that makes Cyno’s blood sing and his pulse spike, makes his skin tingle with pinpricks of irritation when Alhaitham looks at him.
He wants to wipe that smug smirk or the strange unreadable gaze off his face for good and he has to ball his hands into fists to stop himself.
He doesn’t need to when they’re sparring though.
They’ve come a long way from being at each other's throats with weapons and sharp, piercing words. Trying to hit where it hurts or subdue and apprehend.
Long way since that initial lack of trust.
But they still have a long way to go to be something more than cordial even though Cyno can feel that weird thread of understanding between them pulled taunt whenever their gazes meet.
Cyno briefly wonders if they can even be friends if Alhaitham makes me feel so…irritable.
He wonders if Alhaitham feels the same. If he’s also as irritated by Cyno, does he also not know what to do with his hands when Cyno counters his remarks, when he shoots him a look or simply when he walks into the room.
When Cyno attacks Haitham is ready, already having predicted his moves and Cyno knows it’s over.
He jumps and Haitham avoids. A few blows later he has Cyno in a headlock, his bigger frame pressed to his smaller back.
“Yield?”
Cyno snorts and elbows Alhaitham in the side before flipping him over.
Both of them tumble to the ground and Cyno lets his body roll to avoid any serious injuries.
They come to a halt, stirring up dust around them and making the dusk birds and squirrels which have been watching their performance scatter in alarm.
Cyno opens his eyes and he almost gasps at the proximity of that teal gaze.
He can feel the powerful chest expanding with each exhale against his own body, its warmth permeating his smaller frame.
They both pant, their breath mixing in the small space between their faces.
They have never been this close to each other.
Usually there's a safe distance between them during sparring provided by the length of Cyno’s polearm.
Alhaitham has never once ‘won’ their little sparring session. He has come close quite a few times but never truly managed to outdo Cyno when it came to weapons.
Cyno closes his panting and parched mouth and runs his tongue over his top lip, tasting salt.
Alhaitham’s eyes narrow at the movement. Cyno’s gaze zeroes on a drop of sweat rolling lazily at the side of his face.
“What-” He starts and then stops when he realized Haitham’s hands are holding both of his wrist up in a tight hold. His eyes widen suddenly and he feels his body…go slack.
It’s a strange sensation because his instincts should be screaming at him to free himself immediately. Alarm sirens should be blaring in his head, but all he hears is the pounding of his heart, the rush of his blood and the panting of his breath.
Cyno wriggles his hands in Alhaitham’s hold as a test. It's strong, bruising even but he definitely can slip easily from it and overpower the man in a matter of seconds. All he needs is an opening, a distraction and a few quick moves later he could have Haitham in his own leglock
But…
But he doesn't want to.
It’s a mortifying realization.
The silence stretches to uncomfortable lengths and Cyno realizes he should be pushing Alhaitham away, breaking free from his hold and perhaps continuing their session.
“So, are you going to do anything?” He finds himself asking suddenly and then feels his cheeks grow warmer at his own words.
“Do what?” Alhaitham asks, cocking his head to the side as if Cyno was a curiosity he encountered on a walk in the woods.
Cyno frowns, lips pursing at the Scribe’s seeming lack of comprehension. For some reason Alhaitham can’t or refuses to follow his lead and train of thought. At the same time, he knows he has problems articulating his own thoughts today.
It must be the rainforest heat and humidity, Cyno concludes. It’s making him feel sluggish, like he’s in a daze.
He squirms, arches his body, clearly searching for something.
“I…don’t know.” He admits, voice catching a slightly whiny note at the end.
“A-anything you feel like…” He manages to get out
The Scribe raises an eyebrow. He stays silent, watching Cyno curiously and to Cyno’s shock, instead of withdrawing, getting to his feet and gloating because of his ‘win’ he feels the bigger body press down onto him harder.
Suddenly Cyno understands what’s the source of that irritation and he feels foolish. He’s the General Mahamatra.
He’s the top investigator of his organization, yet he managed to not figure out his own heart.
Alhaitham leans in close, so close he could cut Cyno’s throat with a knife if he’d wanted to.
He doesn’t.
Their mouths touch gently at first, almost shyly before both abandon any pretense of coyness.
Cyno can’t help but chase Alhaitham’s retreating mouth when they part.
“Is that what you wanted, General?” Alhaitham asks and there it is. That infuriating smirk. “Was that a ploy? You could have just asked nicely.”
Cyno lifts his head and bites his bottom lip, making the Scribe’s mouth fall open in a groan and shoves his tongue into that smart mouth and intertwines it eagerly with Haitham’s.
Alhaitham finally let’s go of Cyno’s wrist in favor of cradling the back of his head.
“Shut up Alhaitham.” Cyno growls before whimpering when now he is the one to be shut up with a kiss.
“Alright.” Haitham agrees, kissing Cyno’s jaw and making his toes curl. “Then what would you have me do?”
Cyno fists a hand in his hair and tugs.
“I thought you were smarter than that.” He says before his mouth is once again occupied for a long moment.
Vaguely he is aware that the dusk birds and foxes and other forest critters have come back as an audience of a brand-new performance.
“Apologies. It seems I'm not on top of my game when it comes to these kinds of activities.” Haitham murmurs between heated kisses to his skin.
Cyno groans and Alhaitham can’t help but smirk once again.
“Archos, do you ever shut up?”
“When I have a good reason for it.” He says, nosing along Cyno’s jaw. His other hand has found a place on Cyno’s hip and he has to bite his lip at the absent-minded circles Alhaitham rubs into his skin.
Cyno is tired of this position and with a sigh and legs wrapped around the taller man’s waist he flips them over. Haitham grunts and when Cyno looks down on him he looks a little bit dazed.
His hands haven’t left his waist though.
“I’ll give you a reason.”
Alhaitham’s lips curl into a smile while his fingers dig into his skin.
“It’s what I was hoping for.”
Cyno is sure now. They can never be friends.