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The evening rush in the market district of Constantinople is ever a formidable sight. Anyone who has lived in the city for longer than a week knows to be wary of the crushing crowds in its busy lanes at this time of the day. Basim has been here for almost three years, now.
And yet he finds himself here, not quite in the midst of the teeming populace, but above them. He crouches in the shadow of a minaret with the ease of habit. And watches. And waits.
He smiles when a shadow joins his beside the minaret. Basim had expected him to appear beneath his vantage point, hiding in plain sight. But Hytham is predictable in his unpredictability.
He turns to his apprentice, smiling under his drawn hood, feeling a hint of approval when he sees Hytham has his hood up too. "Good hunting?"
Hytham wordlessly pulls out a bundle wrapped in cloth from his utility pouch, unfolds the layers to reveal a large piece of freshly baked kopton. He gently breaks off a piece, careful not to squeeze out the succulent syrup between layers of nuts and delicate pastry, and hands it to Basim with a twinkle in his eye. “You tell me.”
Basim's smile widens as he accepts the piece of sweetmeat. "That good?" Hytham smiles, quick and fleeting, underneath his hood. It bodes well for Basim, who has been… thinking about how to direct the conversation that's about to follow.
He takes a bite, relishing in the sweetness of the figs as he chews. He has a feeling Hytham would not be pleased with what he has to say to him, but. There's the aforementioned unpredictability…
He rubs his hands clean and stands up. "Walk with me. I do not wish to return to the bureau yet." He lingers just long enough to watch Hytham rise to his feet gracefully, before he turns around.
Hytham tucks the remaining pastry away and follows close behind, watches the way Basim seems to chase the sun in yet another one of his enigmatic ploys. He’s spent enough time with the man to know when an idea has taken hold, when the spark has gone dangerously aflame, and when to let go of matters that are often beyond his control, but that won’t stop him from wondering.
This is one of those instances where he chooses to trust him instead, although he can feel something stir beyond the horizon from where he lurks in shadow.
Hytham follows. He always does, the voice in his head reminds him. The question is, really, if he will choose to do so in the days to come.
As to what Basim would do with that choice… he does not know. He wants him to come with him. He wants to him to let him go. The dilemma is maddening. He never intended, never expected to have someone so close to him. Always by his side. A welcome and frightening relief.
They have long since left the rooftops behind them, and are walking down well worn streets with wider and wider spaces between the buildings. Soon, they will reach their destination, a place they are both intimately familiar with.
Basim stops and turns around, and pauses. Hytham is barely a step behind him, and he has stopped, too. The final rays of the day's sun sneak under his hood, making his pale eyes shine like opals. He is limned in gold. He is beautiful.
Basim turns quickly away. "I trust you know where we are going."
Hytham only gives him a soft noise of assent, and he smiles.
It only takes them a minute, and as the sun finally sinks beneath the horizon, they are back in the shade of their olive grove.
There are few instances in which Hytham can think back on where their treasured olive grove has served them solace in times of affliction. If Basim has brought him here, then there is a storm brewing that he regrettably cannot see for himself. The gold in the man’s eyes have reduced to a dangerous smolder, itching to spit flame and bewitch any who would be foolish enough to come too close.
Perhaps in that way, Hytham is most foolish, as he drowns in that uncertainty with open arms, stepping into Basim’s shadow as the light casts a blinding silhouette behind him, imparting a most unearthly glow around the man.
Hytham tries not to think too hard about the obvious religious imagery, tethers himself to the earth by unsheathing his blade instead, calling to a language he is more fluent in than the riddles Basim seems to revel in.
“Let’s talk, then.”
Oh. Hytham is so good to him.
The doubts and uncertainties in Basim's mind are swept away like cobwebs. He unsheathes his own sword, and smiles.
Hytham is already ready and waiting, like any good assassin. His stance is firm, his eyes are steady, even as Basim circles him slowly. They have done this dance so many times by now, and yet his blood sings as if it was their first spar.
Smile widening, Basim twirls his sword, once, and attacks.
There it is.
That familiar playful gleam in Basim’s eye, often contagious enough to make Hytham feel otherworldly, and dangerous enough to instill a false sense of invulnerability.
Hytham parries his strike and takes a step back as Basim throws another one his way, just as deadly and powerful as the first, forcing him on the defensive.
But something feels off, almost… desperate?
Hytham parries again.
Basim seldom ever strikes head on unless he’s rattled by something indecipherable.
Basim throws another attack.
Very well, then. Hytham dodges, twirls away, moving along the edge of the blade to Basim’s side.
He will take all Basim has to give until the man is satisfied.
Hytham is in good form today. His earlier mission seems to not have depleted his strength at all.
Basim is glad for it. He never holds back when he spars with Hytham, because he has never needed to. Hytham is capable and strong, and always gives as good as he gets. Neither of them are more honest than when they clash their swords together.
Another cherished aspect of their relationship that Basim will miss.
He shoves Hytham's strike back with a snarl, tries to go low which Hytham dodges easily. He is quicker than most, and has improved tremendously in their years of sparring together.
But Basim has always been quicker.
He swivels around Hytham and feints to his right, uses the advantage to knock him to his knees, and twist his sword out of his hand. But Hytham, as always, never gives up so easily.
He blocks Basim's following strike with his hidden blade, shoves him away with that hidden strength of his, then rolls out of the way of the next attack, coming up right next to his sword which he grabs again and leaps to his feet.
Basim grins wide at him. "Very good," he says softly.
Hytham only frowns, and lunges at him.
Not enough, not yet.
Hytham needs to push him harder still.
Basim dodges Hytham’s strike with a whirl, closing the gap between them in one fluid motion as he pulls behind him. He can hear Basim’s hidden blade spring free as he tries to trap him in a headlock, but Hytham doesn’t let him.
Instead, he quickly maneuvers out of his still loose grip, latches onto his blade arm and rips Basim’s sword from his hand with a twist of his wrist. Hytham judges the weight of the scimitar in his off hand, thankful for its slim, lighter design, and swings with both blades.
Basim chuckles a little disbelievingly. "You did not just do that."
Hytham shrugs, and twirls both swords once more. His breath is coming a little fast, his forehead prickled with sweat. No wonder he isn't talking, he's preserving every inch of his breath for the fight.
Basim's smile widens. Without warning, he grabs a blade, then another from his belt, and he flings them at Hytham, one after the other.
Hytham slaps the first away with Basim's own scimitar, and leans to avoid the next.
And that is the exact opening Basim was hoping for. Before Hytham can straighten he slams into him, his hidden blade nicking Hytham's neck, a strike that would have ended fatally were it not for Hytham's inelegant block with his sword.
And, just as before, Basim twists the sword out of his grip, but this time he grabs it for himself.
Hytham stumbles back to regain his footing, and they pause for a wary moment. Basim gestures to his scimitar, still in Hytham's hand, with Hytham's own sword.
"This should be interesting," Basim says, then attacks without waiting for Hytham's response.
Basim swiftly tosses two more throwing knives Hytham’s way and advances in quick succession, barely giving Hytham any room to breathe. And yet, he manages to parry and dodge both blades again, and prepares himself for the incoming blow.
The blade Hytham holds is not his own, and yet it feels second nature to wield it. Almost as if… as if Basim’s blood was running through his veins and extending into his strikes, leading with the very same swiftness and strength he uses to fight Hytham with in this very moment.
On the contrary, Basim seems to strike with a heftiness he has not known before, with something laden and stubborn in the weight of his arm, and when Hytham parries, he feels more like water then he ever has before.
Something mesmerizing takes hold of the battle suddenly, and they quickly fall into a rhythm after that. Strike after parry after strike after parry, it starts to feel more and more like a softly woven dance.
There is something oddly intimate about wielding Basim’s blade, about feeling the ridges in the handle and knowing where some of the calluses and bruises on his hands come from now. And suddenly, he mourns the idea of losing the blade.
There is something… intimate about fighting with another man's sword. Even more so for a Hidden One. They train with every weapon conceivable until using it becomes as easy as breathing, until it becomes an extension of themselves.
Hytham's sword is stockier than Basim is used to, and slightly heavier. He adjusts his moves accordingly, and watches Hytham do the same with his own blade.
It is like they have snatched up a piece of the other, and are now using it to understand each other better. The thought is exciting and painful at the same time.
Basim feels a sudden desperate urge to end this, and he does. He swings Hytham's sword hard, too hard— Hytham, as expected, tries to block with Basim's own blade, but it bends beneath the force of Basim's strike just enough for it to slip out of position. Hytham is left unbalanced and Basim snatches the advantage immediately. He disarms him with a flick of his sword, then tosses the sword away anyway and grabs him and shoves him roughly against a nearby tree.
Hytham's face is almost mashed against the rough bark, and Basim is leaning his entire body onto his to keep him pinned. They're both breathing so loudly a part of him is faintly surprised by how much they've exerted themselves for such a short fight.
He presses in closer.
"I have you," Basim rasps in Hytham's ear.
Hytham feels as though he is drowning in sensory overload as he comes down from his adrenaline high. It’s just too much… so much, so fast, all at once. He can feel Basim’s hot labored breath brush down behind his ear, sending a welcome chill down his spine. He fights the urge to relax into Basim’s hold as he feels the gentle rise and fall of his chest pressed against his back. Everything is warm, so delightfully warm and secure and safe where he stands, despite the fact that Basim, not moments ago, had held a blade to his throat.
He could lay here like this for as long as time would permit them.
What an unsettling thought.
“You have me...” Hytham breathes, withdrawing the hidden blade he’d planned to fight back with. Basim’s baritone voice has a way of bewitching him in a manner that nothing else can.
“You have me.” Hytham repeats, feeling the rush of the fight come to a close as Basim’s weight lifts from his back gradually. Hytham mourns the loss so viscerally, so suddenly, that he whirls around in seconds, grabs Basim by the collar of his hood, spins their position around and slams him up against the tree.
He kisses him with a desperation that he did not know he possessed.
Basim is helpless, hopeless against Hytham. He has been for a while now, and he finally faces that fact without reluctance, without forced denials or avoidance. Hytham is important. Hytham is needed. Hytham is the person closest to him than any other on the whole damn planet.
Hytham is… fucking delicious, and Basim pushes into his roving kiss, giving back as good as he gets, sparring with kisses now. He feels his hands on him, fingers tangling into his hair and crumpling them into disarray. His own hands are latched onto Hytham's delectable little waist, and god the feel of him, the sounds vibrating from one mouth to the next—
He could take him, he wants to take him, here and now, but he cannot. He cannot.
He shoves Hytham back and wrenches himself away.
"I cann— I must tell you. I mean to leave."
Hytham's beautiful mouth is still open, his breaths wet and heavy, his blue, blue eyes boring into him.
Basim barrels on. "With Sigurd. I have decided to accompany him. To Norway."
Hytham gingerly touches his lips where Basim’s were not moments ago, feels how tender and pliant they’ve become. He slowly lifts his eyes to Basim’s and notes how utterly delectable and plump they look now, like ripe cherries begging to be picked.
He’s hardly fazed anymore by Basim’s jump in conversations.
“Of course you are.” he says, unbothered.
Basim stares at him. "Of… course I am," he repeats. His hand goes unbidden to his cheek, fingers stroking down his scruffy jaw. "You are not surprised."
Hytham suppresses a laugh, tilts his head sideways and places a hand on his hip, endeared by Basim’s reaction. He seldom ever sees Basim flustered, at least not to this degree.
“Should I be?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.
A wry chuckle escapes him. "No." Basim shakes his head lightly. "You shouldn't be. I have…" He lets his hand drop, and doesn't miss the way Hytham twitches towards his escaping touch.
"I have been a fool, Hytham," he says quietly. "I have wondered and speculated and ran circles in my brain instead of just… asking."
Hytham looks to the ground where Basim’s blade still rests in the grass, and cannot help the kind smile that adorns his lips as he moves to grab it. Here Basim stood, disarmed of his own blade, fumbling with words that would otherwise come so easily to a man like him.
Yet another one of his many interesting facets freely gifted.
Hytham lifts the blade and gently places it in Basim’s free hand.
“I will follow you.”
The honey-edged relief of Hytham's words is lost in a sudden blaze of bitterness.
You will follow me to endings and disappointment, Basim thinks. You will follow me until you cannot, for I will not let you.
He can't, shouldn't want him to come. He knows that his mission, the very purpose of going so far west and north can never fully involve Hytham. He might even be a hindrance to achieve his goals, because Basim's goals are self-centred and Hytham is an incredibly selfless man.
He complicates things. Basim had thought so when he first met Hytham years ago, and he has never stopped thinking it. A complicated, complicating man.
"I will write to Rayhan," Basim says quietly. He sheathes the sword that Hytham gave him, letting the twin feelings of excitement and dread wash over him. "It is very likely we will have a target waiting for us there. Goes by the name of Kjotve."
He leans to pick up Hytham's discarded blade and gives it to him. They are ready to leave now.
“Basim.” Hytham stops him with a hand to his arm before he can fully walk away.
There’s already another storm brewing behind the glint of those golden eyes, he can feel it from where he stands.
He wants to warn him that he is still duty bound, that should Basim stray he’ll be forced to report to Rayhan, but then he remembers how often he’s seen the man battle with his demons to serve the light, and just how much of himself he’s already given to the world.
He wants so desperately to lift him of his burdens.
He lets go of his arm and gingerly swipes away a piece of grass that’s nestled in the folds of Basim’s cloak instead, adjusting the fabric back into place, then takes a step back.
Hytham returns to a more formal stance, tucks his hands behind his back, determination rushing through him.
“Where do we start?”