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Cyno was always… different.
He remembers very little of his own past before Hermanubis, but there are flashes. Bits and pieces of his own self shining through. But it's nothing compared to what being Hermanubis' vessel does to him.
Heightened senses, a keener sense of smell— though Cyno finds it is a double-edged blade, and has learned to keep it at approximate human levels for the continued well-being of his stomach. None of it really causes trouble. It's even a little helpful, sometimes.
His hearing is another story. It extends beyond normal range; the ability to discern between every small sound comes as easy as breathing. He can hear from distances that would sound unbelievable, were he to tell anyone.
He doesn't, because he doesn't know how to say he can hear heartbeats when he focuses hard enough without sounding mad, either.
But he's a hunter, a general. He would have relied on his senses even without the extra steps, he would have brought judgment to whoever deserved it even blind, deaf. Even if he could only rely on the feeling of sand under his feet. so it doesn't matter that Cyno is different.
Until it does.
So what if Cyno's curiosity gets the best of him around Haitham? He's simply intrigued. Haitham who always looks so unruffled, so calm. Cyno just wonders how his heartbeat sounds, what makes it race, if there's anything that makes Haitham tick.
And he knows better than to listen, in truth. His past experiences were always... unpleasant.
Back when he was no taller than the chair he could sit on, when he learned that he had something else sharing his body, the cacophony of sounds was deafening, unbearable. All he could do was curl up on his simple bed and wish for it to stop, hands pushing down on his ears until it hurt.
And then Hermanubis, with its awful grating voice and presence in Cyno's mind like a persistent itch, taught him how to filter sounds, how to pick what was important and what wasn't, what he should listen for at any given time. It was mocking him more than being useful but Cyno, with his small frame and his shaking fists, followed the spirit's words and learned. And it got better to the point where Cyno could finally.. feel normal.
He learned other things, too. How the temple of silence's staff reeked of fear, how he could always hear the frantic thumpthumpthump's anytime someone spoke to him, anytime cyno trained.
It was a confession louder than any words.
Then it was easy to piece it together. How despite their words everyone always sees Cyno as something rather than someone, as a thing to be feared. He learned how to tune in, just enough to know what to prepare for everytime he was approached, a fight or flight response.
Then he met Cyrus and learned— he learned that he liked listening to Cyrus’ heart. It was steady and strong, soothing. Cyno fell asleep countless times with his ear pressed to Cyrus’ chest even though he never had to be close to hear it. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
So when Haitham stares at him from across the table in the chief's house village, infuriatingly collected even after their fight and with a challenging glint in his eyes, Cyno huffs and stares him down, trying to pinpoint Haitham's-
thumpthumpthump.
Cyno's mouth slackens in surprise.
Haitham looks so– composed and almost bored, his arms crossed over his chest, and just the slightest quirk of his eyebrow at Cyno's wide stare. But Cyno is– He blinks, eyes flicking down towards where Haitham heart is, like he can see through skin and muscles and bones, like he can make sure it's Haitham's heart beating a tattoo against his ribcage and not anyone else's.
thumpthumpthump.
"Well, general. Is there something you'd like to share?" Haitham says and Cyno doesn't startle, no. He's too aware of Haitham for that, too aware of the damning drumming in his ears but it's a near thing.
Cyno tries to wrap his head around, tries to understand why Haitham is speaking like he isn't terrified of Cyno, an echo of how the staff felt, of how criminals feel at the mere mention of his name. Cyno tries, and fails to understand how Haitham can sit there and argue so calmly as if his heart isn't about to beat out of his chest.
The dichotomy of him is dizzying, confusing. Haitham maintains a perfect facade, even managing to look vaguely amused the longer Cyno stalls for an answer and yet—
"Not with you," Cyno rasps, the words tumbling out of his mouth in an effort to pretend he wasn’t listening to something only he could hear; act as though he wasn’t invading Haitham’s privacy. But Haitham's mouth tightens briefly, just for a split second.
thumpthumpthump .
Cyno takes it for the cue it is, pulls back until he can only hear his own racing heart. Then he turns and walks out, walks until the sun beats down on him and then until the cliffs of Aaru Village shield him from it, swallowed by the shadows.
He doesn't understand why it— hurts, that Haitham is afraid of him. Why of all people, Haitham's opinion of him, why his fear matters. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth to know even the unruffled scribe is not immune to it, terribly human after all.
Hermanubis huffs a laugh in his head, unnervingly sharp, and it does very little to drown the staccato rhythm still following him.
Ever since he first listened to Haitham’s heartbeat, it’s like something broke, a barrier Cyno wasn’t aware of crumbling. Everywhere he goes, he can hear it. Distance doesn’t affect it, and even shutting down all his senses until Cyno’s hearing is no different from any other person’s, he still hears it.
It’s maddening.
And after everything, after Lord Kusanali is freed, after Sumeru slowly settles, Haitham's fear doesn't disappear, Cyno thinks dimly. But it seems to have become manageable.
Haitham's heart trips over itself at Cyno's presence, at their proximity but it's quieter, almost controlled. A rapid thumpthumpthump until it quiets down.
It still bothers him. It doesn’t matter that they worked together, or that Cyno trusted Haitham, or that they only did what they could do because of it. Haitham is still afraid of Cyno and terribly good at concealing it, not a missed step in the dance.
But his words in the Grand Bazaar ring empty to Cyno, when he’s become so familiar with Haitham’s feelings towards him, and Cyno realizes that though Haitham is a straightforward man, he's smart enough to know how to keep his cards close to his chest.
Even now, as he bumps an arm against Cyno's, cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol and the festivities he's still maintaining his facade.
The worst part, Cyno thinks, is that it matters very little to his treacherous heart, beating a tattoo of its own against Cyno's ribs at the Haitham's touch, the heat of his body close to Cyno's own.
Unfortunately for Cyno, he has developed a new and terrifying habit of letting his eyes drift towards Haitham; towards the spot where his heart rests, like it matters somehow. Like Cyno has to keep an eye on it to hear it when he has been able to hear it from farther than this. When hearing it barely requires any effort on Cyno's part.
So it’s a little inevitable, when Cyno finally makes a mistake. He has gotten too sloppy, too– comfortable.
They are gathered at the tavern, two tables pushed together to fit all of them. The unnamed heroes of Sumeru making a ruckus louder than even the drunkest patrons, and yet Cyno is so warm and pleased he barely winces at the ear-piercing shriek Kaveh lets out when Dehya wipes the table with him. Her winning cards are thrown down like a gauntlet, and it’s a mix of cheering and yelling.
Instead he sips at his lukewarm drink, laughing quietly when Nilou stretches across the table and clumsily kisses Dehya, cheeks flushed. Cheers ring again, and Cyno lets himself sigh fondly at their antics.
thump-thump. Thump. thump-thump.
Here Cyno falters, not so drunk as to miss the unfamiliar and yet unmistakable rhythm. A skipped beat, new and foreign. It’s never– he’s never heard it before, not here with them. His cup almost slips from his grasp, and it’s sheer reflex that has him tightening his hold on it at the last second. His eyes snap to Haitham. It’s–
Haitham’s gaze is warm, soft, the orange of his pupil almost glowing in the light of the tavern. He looks completely relaxed, one arm thrown over the back of his chair and head cocked towards Tighnari, listening to him and nodding along. Cyno thinks he imagined it, that it was the one drink too many, except Haitham’s gaze flickers to him and away, lightning quick.
Even that split second is too much. Practiced, like Haitham’s done a hundred times before; like he’s used to stealing a glance or two when Cyno is not looking. But it doesn’t make any sense, because Haitham is afraid of Cyno. Cyno has heard his heart, hears it even now under the deafening roar of his own heartbeat, and if he isn’t then that would mean–
Cyno shakes his head, dislodging his bangs from behind his ears and stands. He needs to leave, he needs…
He needs some fresh air, some distance. He needs to stop hearing that damn sound.
Thankfully, no one notices him slipping away from the table except for Tighnari, who makes a small gesture in confusion. Cyno gives him a semblance of a smile hoping it’s satisfying enough, and very carefully doesn’t look at the seat next to Tighnari before he turns away. He hurries towards the entrance without looking quite like he’s running.
The night air is cool against his skin, but Cyno still feels flushed, a little unsteady. He picks a direction and starts walking, hoping the buzz of the alcohol will wear off soon. Hermanubis’ displeasure is palpable. Cyno hates that it’s so privy to his emotions.
thumpthumpthump.
“Cyno.”
Cyno jerks to a stop, sighing. He looks at Haitham over his shoulder, mouth set in a thin line.
“Haitham,” he says cautiously. And then, because Cyno is a bit of a fool when it comes to the infuriating scribe, “I see the noise has gotten to you.”
Haitham slowly walks towards Cyno, his cape folded over his arm. If Cyno were– normal, Hermanubis whispers with glee, he wouldn’t have been able to see Haitham’s expression, backlit by the tavern’s light as he is. But Cyno isn’t, and so he sees the placid expression on Haitham’s face, the stiffness of his jaw.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. My headphones are, surprisingly enough, not just for show,” Haitham replies dryly, coming to stand next to Cyno. Cyno starts walking and Haitham neatly falls into step with him. “No, it wasn’t the noise.”
It was you, Haitham doesn’t say, but Cyno hears it all the same.
And Cyno hopes fervently that this will be the end of it. That Haitham, despite his stubbornness and habit of picking things apart until they can yield nothing new, will let Cyno get away with it just this once.
He doesn’t. “But you don’t have the luxury of choice, do you, Cyno ?”
For a small, earth-shattering moment it’s completely silent. Then Haitham’s words register and Cyno’s bland expression breaks, just a little.
“You knew.” And it’s not an accusation, not really. After all, if anyone could piece it together it would be Haitham but the thought is still distressing. It’s more than Cyno ever wanted him to know.
Haitham hums, but he doesn’t say anything.
“You weren’t supposed to find out,” Cyno says, very quietly. He slows down to a stop, eyes fixed on the sliver of sky he can see through the branches. “I can see how it might have been wishful thinking, knowing you. But for what it’s worth, I apologize.”
Cyno huffs a wry laugh. “I never meant to– to pry,” he says, turning to look at Haitham only to find his eyes already on him.
His gaze is oddly intent, teal eyes fixed on Cyno’s face like they are trying to piece something together. “It’s just, do you have any idea how loud your heart is ?”
Haitham’s expression doesn’t change, but Cyno doesn’t need it to.
thumpthumpthump.
“Everywhere I go it’s there, like an incessant, inescapable drumming. You could be on the other side of the city and still I would hear it. And it doesn’t help that you’re–”
“That I am what, Cyno ?” Haitham prompts, his voice oddly subdued, resigned.
Cyno looks away, taking a steadying breath. “Afraid.”
“Afraid,” Haitham repeats, sounding a little strangled. Cyno nods, looking back at him. “You think I’m afraid.”
Cyno quirks an eyebrow. “Of you,” Haitham continues. “You think I’m afraid of you.”
And Cyno almost wants to ask, aren’t you, just to make sure, as if it could change anything, as if it would make Haitham’s heart any–
Haitham slowly takes a step forward, right into Cyno’s space.
thumpthumpthump .
“Haitham,” Cyno says, stepping back. “What are you doing ?”
“It’s quite the feat for you to be physically superior to a regular person,” Haitham starts conversationally. He takes another step forward. “And yet so inept at using any bit of it properly.”
Cyno huffs, torn between panic at Haitham's proximity and irritation.. “Is there a point to your berating or are you just fond of the sound of your own voice ?”
Haitham ignores him, still advancing on Cyno. Cyno takes another step back, putting a little more distance between them, but it’s pointless. For every step Cyno takes, Haitham takes another until Cyno’s back collides against wood, the sharp edge of what he assumes is a crate digging into his back. Haitham’s face is expressionless save for the small furrow of his brow.
“You, general,” Haitham continues, still very much ignoring any of Cyno's protests. “Are beyond infuriating.”
This man.
He slides his cape from over his arm, the swish of fabric and clinks of ornaments almost deafening in the small space until he puts it down over the top of a crate. Cyno wishes he could hear anything beyond his own thunderous heartbeat and Haitham’s. But Haitham’s presence has always been like a whirlpool; like quicksand, taking hold of all of Cyno’s attention and dragging him in until all he can feel is him, all he can hear is Haitham, his breath, his–
thumpthumpthump.
Haitham cages him in, hands coming to rest a hair's breadth away from Cyno’s hips. “I am attracted to you to the point of idiocy,” he says almost in disbelief. “And yet you misunderstand even this ?”
“Haitham,” Cyno says, breathless and overwhelmed, and maybe he’s shaking a little but he doesn’t know what to do with himself, Haitham’s confession ringing like a shot in his ears.
Haitham smiles, lips curling at the corners. His hand tentatively cups Cyno’s cheek and Cyno— suddenly understands, and it's a little bit like the sun rising, like seeing the moving shadows for what they are. Haitham waits patiently, a single eyebrow daring Cyno to listen and he does, hearing it for what it is. The touch is barely there, unbelievably gentle and the tenderness goes through him like a bolt of lightning. His skin prickles where Haitham’s bare palm touches it.
thumpthumpthump. Not fear, never fear. Cyno feels almost delirious with his relief. His heart matches Haitham's beat for beat.
“Let me make it clear to you then, general,” Haitham touches his forehead to Cyno’s with a soft thunk, voice exasperated and unbearably fond. “I am not afraid of you. I have never been, and I never will be. Believe it or not, I am more interested in kissing you than finding out how fast you can kill a man.”
“Haitham,” Cyno repeats weakly, almost pleading. “You’ve used enough words for now, haven’t you ?”
“I can think of a lot of things I still have to say. Just in case you decide to misunderstand me furth—"
And Cyno is still a little warm from the alcohol, a little flustered and giddy from Haitham’s gaze on him, so he does the only thing he has been wanting to for a long while and sneaks a hand around Haitham’s neck before kissing him.