Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are some scars that never truly fade.

Sinbad knows this. And so does Ja'far. After devastating Maader’s company, and tearing her slave empire down, Ja'far notices these little things about Sin that are distinctly different only to his eyes and no one else’s. The marks around his wrists and his neck fade a little, looking less nasty and vicious by the day. At first they were a dark purple, some parts cut from where the cuffs had dug into the young lord’s skin and chafed it. Over time they become dull and fade away, and everyone else seems to take it in passing. Sinbad is back, and that’s what matters, they think.

But the scars on Sinbad are still there, Ja'far thinks. No matter how much he smiles- even if those smiles are genuine because he’s just happy to be home- there’s still something in his eyes that the ex-assassin sees. It’s fear.

Sometimes Sinbad will jump in surprise when someone raises their voice, or their hand. Or when someone moves too quickly, he’ll act like a startled deer. Or he’ll quietly ask one of Rurumu’s children not to call her ‘mother’, instead call her 'momma’ or 'mom’. Anything but mother. And before their curiosity could come to fruition, he’d pat them on the head and say, “Mother’s too stiff. Rurumu deserves a better title.” And Rurumu doesn’t ask when her children start calling for her differently. Ja'far thinks it’s because she knows.

Then there are nights when Ja'far is asleep, surrounded by a dozen sleeping workers and the crickets outside are masked by their snores and yet he just knows something is wrong. So he’ll get up to investigate, because he’s always trusted his gut instincts. They’ve been the most accurate and reliable thing in his life. It’d be a mistake not to trust them now. The Sindria Trading Company Headquarters at night is a thousand times less lively than the day. There’s no scrambling of assistants hauling scrolls and boxes of cargo in and out. There’s no chatter of nearly fifty people calling out to each other and asking questions and giving orders. There are no children running around- the recently freed slaves along with Rurumu’s children, who Ja'far considers like his siblings, in a sense. It’s much more calm at night. And Ja'far, for all of his engraved instincts to love the darkness and relish the shadows, to meld into the silence at the drop of a hat- he isn’t sure whether or not he prefers this over the bustling headquarters during the day.

The ex-assassin creeps through the main floor, not finding anything amiss. It’s just still. Part of that bothers Ja'far, and he almost has the temptation to pick up some unfinished paperwork that he knows is lying around and finish it just to hear that scratch of quill on parchment that he loves so much when he does calculations. No, he can’t afford to get distracted now. There’s something wrong, and Ja'far is determined to get to the bottom of it. He slinks through the rest of the building, as quietly as he possibly can, and he’s surprised that his honed skills are still so vibrant in his being. His footsteps are silent because he walks with his heels and rolls his feet forward gradually. The floorboards underneath him don’t creak as he makes his way upstairs towards Sinbad’s room. Ordinarily, Ja'far wouldn’t even think about disturbing Sinbad in the middle of the night. He was always the one to stay up through the dark hours, keeping watch for far longer than he really had to, until the sun rose in the sky. But, tonight, there’s something different. A tension in the atmosphere that he can’t ignore, even if he wanted to.

Ja'far leans his ear against the door before anything else. His sharp hearing tells him that Sinbad is definitely in the room, but his breathing sounds ragged- like he can’t get enough air into his lungs- and without hesitation he rips the door open. “Sinbad, are y-” He pauses because he realizes that Sinbad isn’t even awake. The boy is tangled in his sheets, fingers clawing at something that only his nightmares allow him to see. His brows are furrowed, and his skin flushed with sweat and the muscles in his neck strained taut like cords as he desperately cranes his neck, tilting his head back in a silent scream. He looks awful. The ex-assassin has seen Sinbad in many states throughout their travels. Drunk, happy, sad, disappointed, proud, smug, determined, flirtatious, manipulative, etc., etc. But he's never really seen fear stick to Sinbad like this. Fear, for his young lord has always been a fleeting thing that passed quickly. Ja'far knows that he has fears like anyone else, but, he's just never seen it on Sinbad this badly before. It makes his heart ache for some indeterminable reason.

Without giving it any further thought, Ja'far walks forward and stares down at Sinbad, unsure of what to do. He’s had nightmares himself, but, it was always easy for him to wake up and realize that whatever hell he was in wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. And he would chant that to himself like it was a mantra. Waking up to his reality now is a much more pleasant thing than any heaven that dreams could reward him with. In the days of Sham Lash, Ja'far would wake from his nightmares only to be faced with a far more hellish reality that none of his nightmares could ever recreate so perfectly. Ja'far doesn’t quite know what to do. But he’d rather not have Sinbad hurt himself when he wakes if he can help it. The first moment after a nightmare is always the worst. The thrashing, the unconscious violence that accompanies the threats that lurk only in one’s mind, the recollection of what is real and what isn’t. Ja'far hates that. It’s only worse when someone gets hurt because of it.

To minimize the chance of that happening for Sinbad's sake, he straddles the other’s waist and pins his arms down. “Sin.” He calls, a flush rising to his cheeks because if anyone walked in now, it’d certainly be a hell of a story to explain. “Sin, wake up.” He barks, his voice a little louder as he jostles the other, trying to stir him. Sinbad simply whimpers at first, but then his eyes are wide open, and Ja'far gets to witness the absolute panic in those golden hues. Well, for a moment. Until Sinbad jolts upwards with the energy of a newborn colt and his forehead collides with Ja'far’s in a semi-loud crack. The ex-assassin jerks backward and a short shout escapes him for a moment before he grits his teeth to suppress it, but he manages to tone it down to a soft groan as he curls into a ball and clutches his forehead as if to ease the pain that blossoms there.

“What the hell was that for?!” He hisses in a low whisper, glaring at the other with those pretty green eyes that Sinbad adores. But he’s not actually angry. It just hurts. Ja'far clenches his jaw and thinks that he probably should've expected for Sinbad to have a skull of steel, with how bull-headed he is at times.

“Ja- Ja'far?” The pure confusion in his voice is priceless, Ja'far remarks. It'd almost be worth it if his forehead wasn't throbbing viciously. “Wha… what are you doing here?” It takes Sinbad a moment to really find his voice and to swallow through the fact that his throat has gone dry.

Ah. Crap. Now Ja'far had to explain himself. There's a pause. “You were… having a nightmare.” The boy explains, uncurling himself and sitting up. Sinbad opens his mouth to speak, but before he could ask, Ja'far is already answering for him, “No one else heard you. Just me.” Nevermind the fact that Ja'far sleeps on the bottom floor amongst a dozen other workers. And yet, somehow he knew. A year or two ago, Ja'far wouldn't have given a single damn if one of his comrades was having a nightmare. He'd tell them to suck it up and move on. A year later, and it’s surprising how tolerant he’s become of sleeping next to people, let alone openly care about them. He cares so much that he seems more like a fussing mother hen sometimes, much like Rurumu. “I came upstairs to check on you and figured I should wake you up.”

“I see… thank you, Ja'far.” Sinbad looks down at his lap and seems mesmerized by his twiddling thumbs. The subordinate sighs and wriggles his way over to the other on his knees and sits down beside him. He wonders what Sinbad could be thinking about, but it isn't that hard of a guess. They hadn't really spoken to each other since Ja'far had punched the absolute crap out of him in front of all those kids for being an idiot. Ja'far thinks that maybe it's time to say something. It's obvious that even if Sinbad had looked like he was back to his old self, his mind wasn't quite in the same place.

“I don’t see you any differently than the day I agreed to be yours, you know.” Ja'far says, breaking the silence. “Do you expect me to despise you for becoming a slave?” His sharp eyes pierce Sinbad calculatingly, like he's looking for the best place to strike. Like he’s tearing him apart to find that fatal weakness. But really, he's just watching the other for any hint of what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Some part of him probably does, Ja'far thinks. A subconscious part that’s been carved into him that won’t fade as easily as his wounds have. He takes the silence as his answer as the other just barely squirms under his gaze. “Well, I don’t really blame you. Sure, you were stupid for accepting a deal like that, but…” He huffs out a breath, his shoulders sagging. “You did it for this company. For us. And without your sacrifice, I doubt we would’ve gotten this far.” There’s a long silence, and Ja'far wonders if he said the right things. Sinbad has been noticeably more sensitive since his return, and Ja’far worries if he might have upset him. But, suddenly, Sinbad breaks into a smile, and the boy thinks that that’s the best thing he’s seen from the other in months. He feels a warmth settling in him, knowing he said the right things- they were honest, after all.

“I’m not mad at you anymore for disappointing me.” Ja'far adds, a smile of his own creeping onto his face because damn, his lord’s grin is infectious despite the fact that Ja’far has been trained to maintain a straight expression. “But don’t do anything stupid like that again.” He reaches upwards and flicks Sinbad’s forehead lightly. “Or I’ll kill you.” His words sound absolutely menacing, but his tone says otherwise. There’s a little gleam of mischief in his emerald hues.

“You couldn’t kill me.” Sinbad replies cheerfully, a smug grin on his face. “I’m too handsome to die.” I’m also too important to you now for you to even try.

Ja'far rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” As if this man’s ego couldn’t get any bigger. He shuffles off of the bed and brushes off his clothes. “I should go back to sleep.” Not that I was sleeping in the first place. “You gonna be okay?”

Sinbad looks like he’s going to say yes at first, but he falters. Instead, very softly, he asks, “Ja'far… can you stay with me tonight?” He sounds nervous. Ashamed, even, for having to ask. But most of all, it’s a moment of weakness- something extremely rare for someone like Sinbad. And because of that, Ja’far just stops for a moment, looking at Sinbad cautiously. He looks like a wounded puppy. The ex-assassin knows that tonight, Sinbad needs him- his subordinate- by his side. And his voice is so innocent- like that of a naive child’s. How is Ja'far supposed to say no to that?

Wordlessly, Ja'far walks back over to Sinbad and gives him a light shove. For a moment Sinbad looks worried, like he presented Ja’far with a preposterous notion that he’d refuse. “Move over. You’re taking up too much room, you big oaf.” The young lord smiles again, and Ja'far thinks that even if he couldn’t protect Sinbad back then- he’d do his best to protect him now. Just so he can keep seeing that smile. It’s been a long time since he’s had to share a bed with Sinbad. It’s a little stiff and awkward at first, because Ja'far lays flat on his back like a board, trying his best to keep that very small space between them if he can afford it. He’s glad Sinbad isn’t facing him as he lays there for awhile, staring up at the ceiling and its unchanging features before he gets bored of it and decides that he should try to shut his eyes and sleep.

“Just relax, Ja'far. You’re never going to get any sleep like that, you know.” Sinbad murmurs, turning so he can face the other, and suddenly, Ja'far feels both a mix of uncomfortable and at ease at the same time. His stomach churns. It’s a lot different when Sinbad’s eyes are peering right at him, and Ja’far feels all the more self-conscious. “How about we just talk until you’re too tired to stare at that ceiling?”

“…Sure.” Ja'far answers after a moment. It couldn’t hurt, and it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. “But, keep it down. I don’t want to wake the others.” And so they talk for awhile. Ja'far loses track of time, and stops caring about how many hours of sleep he’s going to get and how tired he’ll be in the morning, because none of that matters anymore in comparison to Sinbad’s smile. During their nightly conversation, Sinbad will end up guffawing loud enough to make Ja’far have to clap a hand over both of their mouths to keep from waking the other workers. Other times, Ja’far lands a quick punch on Sinbad’s shoulder for being so… well, like how Sinbad usually is. Eventually, at some point, Ja’far drifts off to sleep because he gets too tired answering the young lord’s stupid questions.

When he wakes, he has to peel his eyes open because they’re so dry and there’s rheum- or like some of Rurumu’s kids like to call it, 'sleep sand’. Ja'far rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, and he realizes with a start that he isn’t even in his own room. Blinking in surprise, Ja'far looks up and sees Sinbad sleeping soundly, his breathing even and his violet hair spilling over his shoulders. Right. He remembers last night very well now. He also then realizes that there’s no way he can escape with Sinbad wrapping his arms around him like he’s a teddy bear.

“Sin.” He rasps out. His throat is dry. Probably from all that talking last night. “Sin, wake up. You’re crushing me.” Ja’far shoves hard against Sinbad’s chest, but the dungeon-conquerer doesn’t even budge in the slightest. He’s complete deadweight. “Sin, you fucking idiot…” He mutters, trying to wriggle from the young lord’s grasp, but seeing the bags under Sinbad’s eyes makes him stop. He probably needs the sleep… Ja’far thinks. He’s been so tired lately, even if he’s as lively as ever… And he can’t help but feel bad for the other. So, instead, Ja'far resigns himself to curling up against his young lord’s chest and dozing back off to the sleep that they very much need and he thinks that there are some wounds that can’t be healed with time alone. Sometimes they need a little more than that, and Ja'far with his infinite devotion decides that he’ll help Sinbad no matter what. Even if he has to sleep next to him every night.

Rurumu finds them later, Ja’far coddled against Sinbad’s chest, and she smiles softly at the two of them before she closes the door with a soft click.

Chapter Text

If there's one thing Ja'far is, it's fucking starved.

On top of that, not only is he starved- he’s sick. The uncontrollable shivers that wrack through his body and the constant fluctuation of hot and cold are more annoying than the fact that he hasn’t eaten. He's used to going days without food. Sham Lash wasn't the kind of organization to give their members any benefits. No, the only way to get through the day when you're a part of Sham Lash- when you're born into it- is to survive by the skin of your teeth and fight tooth and nail just to get through the day. There is no mercy for the weak and spineless. That's been drilled into him since day one of being on the planet.

But he's not used to people trying to coax him to eat.

Which is exactly what everyone that's a part of Sinbad's crew is trying to get him to do. The few times he’s dared to tread above deck has costed him his very little patience for these idiots. Hinahoho will clap him on the back and tell him that a growing boy needs to eat to get strong. Ja'far reminds him that he's plenty strong enough and threatens to wrap him up in wires again. Rurumu will gently chide him and present him with food, which he turns away like a snooty stray cat because while his body wants food, the mere thought of eating repulses him. He doesn't ever look her in the eye when she brings him something she's cooked with love, as Sinbad puts it. He simply leaves it out by his door. It's gotten bad enough to the point where even Vittel and Mahad are trying to convince their superior by telling him that he can't be the strongest if he doesn't eat.

It's not that he doesn't want to eat. Not at all. He wants to eat. He's wanted to eat his whole life because he's known since birth that his meals weren't guaranteed. Ja'far's known that he isn't like other kids for a long time, and has treated every meal like it was his last. He has to survive. And no one on this god-forsaken ship seems to understand that it's not because he doesn't want to eat.

It's that he doesn't trust them.

With how he is now, weak, shivering, and utterly pathetic, there’s no way that he can risk his pride by showing his face to them in this state. Weaknesses meant death, no matter how small. Even if he promised them that he'd be a part of their ragtag team of merchants, Ja'far hasn't spoken very much since that day in Valefor’s dungeon. Instead, he stays out of their way to avoid them making conversation, and curls up in the corner of his room because the smell of the ocean makes him nauseous and the rock of the boat makes him feel unsteady on his feet. He hates being weak. So much so that the ex-assassin is currently huddled up in his favorite corner, completely immersed in the darkness as the ship sways side to side, and the incessant grumbling of his stomach not making matters any easier for him.

Stupid goddamn traders. Stupid Sinbad. He hasn't eaten in days, and he can tell that he's starting to get delirious as the pit in his stomach grows, gnawing away at his insides. While Sinbad has proved that he's worthy of his time, he hasn't even begun to prove that he's worthy of Ja'far's trust. Sure, the young man is a dungeon capturer- the world's first- but that doesn't mean shit to someone like Ja'far. All the status and wealth in the world couldn't earn his trust. But Sinbad promised him something that he never really knew he wanted until he saw the possibility of it. Something unheard of. A country. A place where he can make his own rules and live the way he wants to. More than that, Sinbad has promised him something that he never thought was possible.

A home.

That’s more enticing than anything else that anyone else in the world has to offer.

A loud growl brings Ja'far out of his thoughts. The gnawing pit in his stomach has made him a little twitchy- or maybe that’s the chills that snake through him- but he's used to it. Instead he just rolls onto his side, knees drawn up tight to his chest and simply tries to will the hunger away so he can get some sleep because he knows that his body needs it. If he can't eat, then he'll conserve his energy by sleeping. That's what fever-induced logic is telling him.

Just as he's finally drifting off to the sweet, sweet bliss of sleep, a loud knock on his door startles him- a rare treat for Ja'far- and he growls, throwing his cloak aside as his sharp emerald eyes glare at the door.

"What?" Ja'far snaps irritably, not even bothering to pretend like he's in a good mood. His head is throbbing, and he’s pretty sure that it’s because he’s sick.

"Ja'far? You awake?" It's Sinbad. Of course it's fucking Sinbad. Ja'far thinks that the guy must have impeccable timing, because he always seems to find the perfect moment to grate on the ex-assassin's nerves.

"Of course I'm awake, who the fuck do you think just answered you?" Ja'far just wants to go back to sleep and let darkness take him. He's always liked it better than the sun anyway. Before Sinbad could interject with any of his annoying comments, Ja'far interrupts him. "What the hell do you want? It's late. I'm trying to sleep."

"I brought you food." Comes the muffled voice through the door, and Ja'far just groans. His stomach is crying out for something to eat, but his mind just keeps him from doing it. "I know you haven't eaten, Ja'far. You can't stay locked up in there forever." He doesn't say anything, because it's so hard to put what he's feeling into words that make sense. Even harder to admit what he's feeling because he doesn’t want to be weak. "I'll break your door down and force-feed you if I have to."

His tone sounds light-hearted and joking, but Ja'far knows Sinbad well enough to know that the dungeon-capturer means business.

"Fine! I'll open the fucking door. But just leave me alone after." He grumbles, getting to his feet and staggering a little as he sees the black creep into his vision. He feels faint and his legs aren't quite as reliable as he'd like them to be. Stupid illness. Stupid hunger. Of all the times to feel so human- so weak- instead of the monster he’s been trained to be.

"And if I leave and you end up not eating again? You're going to starve yourself to death like you're on some sort of hunger-strike. That's not acceptable for any subordinate of mine." Sinbad retorts. Ja'far sighs and makes his way over to the door because standing up is giving him a headache. He almost stumbles over the rags and potato sacks he calls a bed as he leans onto the wall. The ex-assassin has actually made a small room for himself in the storeroom of the ship. Moreso because he didn’t fancy the idea of having to sleep next to Vittel and Mahad. And he knows even better that those two don’t trust him as far as they could spit. He can tell Sinbad is leaned against the door, and part of him is tempted to wrench the thing open just to see the other fall on his ass and spill food all over himself.

His hand goes for the door knob.

"Ja'far." Sinbad's already reprimanding him, like he has eyes in the room or something and Ja'far quickly draws his hand back, like it was scalding hot. "You need to eat." He bristles a little, but soon relaxes when he realizes that Sinbad hadn’t caught onto his clever idea of opening the door while the other was leaning on it.

"I already said I would." Ja’far mutters defiantly, almost feeling a hint of a pout on his own features hidden underneath his bandages that he still hasn’t taken off just yet.

"No, you said that you'd do that if I left you alone. Not if I was here to watch you. It’s different.” Sinbad replies, and Ja’far can swear that he can hear the smug grin on his face. “So, are you going to open up still?”

Solomon above, Sinbad is annoying as hell when he wants to be. “If I do, will you leave me alone after?” He just wants some peace and quiet so he can get over this stupid sickness without anyone knowing that he was sick. Ja’far doesn’t want to be coddled and fussed over like he’s some sort of child- even if he is one by definition.

“Hmm…” There’s a moment of pause between them as Sinbad contemplates, though Ja’far is positive that he’s just pausing for some sort of dramatic effect that’s actually meant to grate on his already worn patience. “Yeah, sure. I’ll leave you alone after to ease your nerves.”

Thank fuck, because Sinbad is incredibly irritating. Ja’far reaches a shaking hand towards the door, and curses himself because no matter how much he wills the trembling to stop, it doesn’t seem to want to. His hand curls around the doorknob and he pulls it open, looking up at the young lord who’s managed to earn his support. “Come in, sit down, and shut up.” His sharp eyes quickly glance at the tray of food that Sinbad is carrying, and he silently approves as he turns back to the darkness of the room.

“You know, I thought that I was supposed to be the one giving you orders.” Sinbad comments, but it’s quickly met with a fierce glare that gets him to shut his trap as he follows exactly as Ja’far had told him. “Isn’t there a lantern in here? It’s so dark I might end up tripping and falling on top of you.” And then you’d get crushed, because honestly you’re such a little thing that it’s definitely possible. Ja’far snorts as he makes his way to the other side of the room. He has a natural sense for the dark, and somehow seems to see better than most people. As he lights the only lantern in the room, Sinbad’s golden eyes rake over Ja’far’s form, concern in his observant gaze. “You look awful.”

“Thanks.” Ja’far sneers sarcastically. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear from you.” He says as he clambers on top of his pile of potato sacks and sits himself down, propping himself up against the wall. His breathing almost sounds labored, but Ja’far just dismisses it as being hot because of the bandages around his mouth and nose. Sinbad thinks about mentioning the obvious, but he’s sure that that’ll only get him turned away if he makes note of it. Ja’far’s putting up a tough act right now, and it’d be easier on the both of them if he went on seeming as if he believed it.

Sinbad settles himself across from Ja’far, sitting on the polished, hardwood floor and trying not to complain about it since he’s definitely been in worse conditions. Comfort was a luxury, a privilege, not guaranteed. Besides, Ja’far seems to be putting up with the floor just fine- though, the kid’s been through much tougher trials than anyone his age should be anyway. The former sailor sets the tray down with a sort of delicate ease, like he’s worried that Ja’far will scamper away if he makes any sudden movements or any loud noises.

He notes that the boy is peering at him constantly, like he’s continuously on edge. Sinbad lifts the lid from the steaming bowl of some sort of stew that Rurumu had whipped up and slides the tray a little closer to Ja’far, edging it over as if to entice or encourage Ja’far to eat. As the ex-assassin peers at the broth, he considers the fact that Sinbad will see his face if he eats. He mentally berates himself for not having thought of it any sooner. Now that he’s presented with two problems, Ja’far’s not sure which one he’d rather take his chances on. He knows that either choice will end up being humiliating.

There’s a long silence between them, their gazes sort of locked onto one another before Ja’far makes the tiniest of movements, lifting his hand to begin to undo the bandages that cover his face.

Sinbad holds his breath, eyes alight. He hasn’t really seen Ja’far’s face before- aside from that hazy, dreamlike memory he has of entering the boy’s mind and seeing his deepest fears and struggles back in Valefor’s dungeon. The woman- Falan- she’d said that Ja’far had almost fallen into depravity. Sinbad didn’t really know what that meant exactly, but it hadn’t sounded good. And it was clear to the dungeon-capturer in that moment that he needed to save Ja’far, even if the kid was a trained assassin and even if he was just another target to the boy, none of that mattered in comparison to what his gut instincts had told him.

Ja’far slowly unwraps the bandages, trying not to wriggle under Sinbad’s golden gaze as he does. A splash of freckles dusts his pale cheeks, plump with baby fat. Sinbad immediately feels his heart melt from the sight because Solomon above, he’s precious and adorable and how could anyone like that be a killer? Though, the unasked question is soon answered as Ja’far’s face twists into a scowl, his cute features barely able to challenge the ferocity of his nasty expression.

“What?” He snaps. “It’s just my face.”

Sinbad quickly darts his eyes elsewhere, pretending as if he hadn’t been fascinated, when he very obviously did. “Nothing! You’re right. It is just your face. Nothing to be interested about.” Although, you’re so very precious-looking, and Solomon above, how the hell am I supposed to keep myself from wanting to cuddle someone so cute?!

“Gee, thanks.” Ja’far retorts, hunching over a little to grab the bowl of piping hot soup. His first thought is to stick his hand into it and greedily shovel the food into his mouth, but as he cups it into his hands he almost winces with how hot the smooth ceramic is, but despite that Ja’far stubbornly pushes past the fact and drinks straight from the bowl anyway. He almost bites his tongue from how hot it is, but instead he jerks back, spilling a little onto his lap and causing some of it to dribble down his chin. The ex-assassin sets the bowl down with a small clatter and wipes his face with the back of his hand, the warmth of the soup traveling down his innards.

The sailor’s eyes have fallen back on him, and Ja’far’s almost tempted to whip out his knives and skewer Sinbad’s eyeballs for the hell of it.

“Did you even taste it?” Sinbad asks, head tilted like a curious creature. “There was a spoon to eat it with, you know…”

Ja’far just stares at him plainly, with the most blank expression on his face. “And?”

“You eat soup with a spoon.” Of course, Sinbad hadn’t expected for Ja’far to have any table manners, but still. He had to at least know how to use a spoon, right?

“Fuck that.” Ja’far spits, grabbing the bowl again. The taste- what he’d gotten of it- hadn’t been bad at all. In fact, it’d been delicious. But he hadn’t savored it in fear of his emotions getting to him. He hadn’t had a hot meal in years; couldn’t remember what it was like to eat something that was even warm unless it was the freshly killed carcass of some sort of animal. “It’s faster to eat it this way.” He grumbles, taking another long sip from his dish.

“You act like it’s going to run away from you. It’ll be fine. Just take it slow.” I don’t want you to end up choking or something. “I can even get you more if you want some.” Sinbad shifts a little, crossing his legs and hooking his hands onto his shins.

“But then you’ll stick around longer, and be even more of a pain in the ass.” Ja’far snarls, drinking down a bit of the soup and finding that there’s chunks of some sort of meat- most likely fish- and he chews down on it, unabashedly not closing his mouth as he does.

“Am I really that much of a pain to you?” Sinbad asks, actually looking a little wounded for a moment. Enough so that Ja’far has to pause his obnoxious chewing and slurping to think about that. Sure, Sinbad was annoying- just as annoying as the rest of the crew- but there’s something so alien about this that he’s never truly experienced before.

People actually cared about him.

Suddenly the soup has gone sour in his mouth, and Ja’far puts the bowl down. “...No, you’re not… I’m just-” Just what? Ja’far’s never had to explain what he was feeling. He’s never had to tell anyone that he was scared or that he was uncomfortable. All of those feelings that he’s always had had always been locked away because in his line of work, emotions were a weakness. Now, though. Now he has to say something, and it’s so foreign on his tongue. “...Forget it.” Ja’far used to consider being emotionless- no, pretending as if he were emotionless- to be a strength. Now he feels more a coward than ever before and Ja’far is even more aware of the emptiness in his stomach. But he has a feeling that it isn’t from being hungry.

“It’s okay. Take your time.” Sinbad says, scooting backwards a bit because he can tell that even as far as he is from Ja’far- which is definitely more than an arm’s length- he can tell that the boy is still a little anxious. Ja’far snaps his head up at the other’s comment.

He’d never thought about it before, but… now that he was with Sinbad, he has something else that he’d never had.

Time.

Every day in Sham Lash had left Ja’far wondering if it’d be his last. He knew that he couldn’t afford to make mistakes, and he never had until Sinbad had come along. He’d never missed a kill in his life out of fear of what his superiors would do to him if he did. And even if his situation was less than favorable and he was sure that he’d never be allowed to leave an organization like that, he still desperately clung to the chance of life. Surviving was one thing. Living was a whole different experience.

Ever since Sinbad had come along, it’d changed everything for Ja’far. Before, he was accustomed to thinking that he might not make it through the day. That he might be dead before the sun even rose in the morning, and no one would ever miss him. The whole situation was so surreal and now that Ja’far had realized it, he didn’t really quite know what to do. He couldn’t keep going the way he’d been going before, because now he wasn’t just surviving day-to-day. Now he was truly living. Like a hint of the freshest summer’s breeze had hit him, Ja’far suddenly felt life breathe into him. He was instantly acutely aware of his heartbeat.

Ja’far didn’t even realize it until Sinbad said something, but he was trembling violently.

“Ja’far? Are you okay? You’re not allergic to fish or anything are you?” Sinbad had shuffled over to him, eyeing him carefully. He was tempted to reach out a hand to touch it to the boy’s forehead to make sure he wasn’t suffering from a high fever, but instead he was surprised by Ja’far’s beautiful emerald eyes looking at him directly, glistening with what looked like tears.

“...Thank you.” He murmured, his voice cracking a little.

As much of a mystery as Ja’far was to Sinbad, for once since their partnership, Sinbad felt like he understood the other. Wordlessly, Sinbad reached out to Ja’far, his hand in a fist. He wasn’t quite sure if Ja’far was ready for hugs yet, even though the sight of the ex-assassin crying was enough to make his heart lurch.

“It’s a, uh… gesture of friendship. You’re supposed to touch your knuckles to mine, if you want. Or if you’re okay with it.” Ja’far wiped the unshed tears with the back of his hand and sniffled a little. Sinbad smiled. “We’re friends now. Which means that I’ve got you and you’ve got me.”

“I know what a fucking fistbump is, you moron.” Ja’far snorted, and suddenly Sinbad felt the tips of his ears go red. He hadn’t meant to imply anything insulting, but he was lucky that the ex-assassin hadn’t taken any offense to it. “...But, yeah… friends.” Ja’far said as he bumped his knuckles against Sinbad’s.

“Friends.” Sinbad nodded.

Though, the sweet moment between them didn’t last long before Ja’far said, “Now, make yourself useful and get me some more soup, you oaf.” Sinbad groaned exasperatedly, and something like a small whine escaped his throat.

“I thought I was supposed to be giving the orders here!”

“Yeah, well, you made a mistake by calling me your friend. Friends do favors for their friends, don’t they? So… I’ll pay you back somehow.” Ja’far muttered, crossing his arms and turning away from Sinbad.

“I’m already giving you a country! What more could you ask for?” Sinbad pouted, and yet as soon as Ja'far looked away he grinned a little to himself as he saw the corners of boy’s mouth twitch in amusement.

“You're not giving me a country, we're working towards it together. And besides, it’s your fucking fault I got sick anyway. You were being so annoying that my body shut down and got sick.” Ja'far retorts. "Plus, if you get me some soup, I promise I'll try to eat it with a spoon or something so I can 'taste it' or whatever."

“Fine, you're right." Sinbad's shoulder's slump a little, but he instantly snaps back up. "Hey, that’s not how sicknesses work!” Sinbad griped as he lazily got to his feet, swiftly grabbing the bowl from Ja’far’s tray. “Just eat the rest of the stuff on there before I get back so I have a better excuse to sneak some snacks for myself.” Though, secretly, he's glad that he got Ja'far to eat- let alone trust him enough to show him his true face. "But if you're sick, I can always feed you your soup if you're that bed-ridden." A sly grin creeps onto Sinbad's face.

“Are you ever not hungry?” Ja’far blinked in surprise. Sometimes the other’s stomach was like an endless pit that could somehow handle how Sinbad shoveled food down his gullet- especially after a dungeon, as Ja’far had seen once they’d gotten back to Imuchakk before their departure. "And fuck no, you're not feeding me anything! You'll probably end up shoving the spoon down my throat on accident!"

He laughed and let out a cheeky grin. “Nope! I wouldn't do that to you. And I've gotta eat enough to satisfy my djinns.” He joked, practically galloping to the door and wrenching it open. Just as he was shutting it, he caught Ja’far’s words to him.

“I really meant it when I said thank you… I’d never said that to anyone before.” Sinbad didn’t have to look to know that the boy had a blush on his cheeks from embarrassment.

Daring to look anyway, because Sinbad was just the type who couldn’t avoid poking something with a stick when it was clearly dangerous, he said, “No problem. We’re friends, yeah? Don't forget that.” He granted himself a few more seconds of indulging himself in the look of surprise on Ja’far’s face before he turned his back and shut the door.

"...Friends, huh?" Ja'far murmurs aloud, allowing himself a small grin.

That fucking moron...