Work Text:
It’s a good thing Cyno has a reputation of a soulless demon with no sense of decorum. The longer he lives, the more useful it proves. He couldn’t imagine the thoughts going through people’s heads as he dashes through the city, boosted by Hermanubis’ power, otherwise. As it is, they get out of his way swiftly and with pitying expressions. No doubt towards whatever criminal they think has caught his ire.
But there is no evil-doer to pursue this time. Not unless Cyno wishes to take up arms against nature. And though he possesses a god’s power, that endeavor would prove as useless as it’d be stupid. If Tighnari lost in that domain, Cyno doesn’t stand a chance.
He makes it to Gandharva Ville in record time, not bothering to greet anyone but Collei—and even that’s mostly because she’s waiting for him at the hut’s entrance. Wringing her hands, trotting in place, hair plastered to her face. Like she forgot all of her outfits have a hood, though Cyno can’t blame her there. He certainly didn’t bother with rain-proofing himself.
Above him, a flash of red in the branches makes Cyno tense. He almost pulls out his spear before he recognizes the figure as Collei’s friend. Abby? Amber. That’s right, he’d known she’d be visiting. Tighnari’s safe.
Later, he’ll have to thank her for keeping watch. For now, he has Collei report all that she knows. Which isn’t much, Tighnari having been buried too deep in his research to update her about it.
Typical. All those scholarly types are the same, no matter how often Cyno reprimands them. It doesn’t leave them much to work with. No other Ranger has knowledge as extensive as Tighnari; Not even Shirin, and she’s the head medic.
But the lack of concrete information is not Collei’s fault. She did her best, and adults’ problems are adults’ to deal with. Speaking of which—
“Leave this to me,” he pats her head, rain cascading over both of them. “Go have fun with Amber.”
She tries to protest. Rattles off the ways she could be useful, how she wants to help. All it achieves is bringing a smile to his face. It was just a few years ago when he brought her here, traumatized and distrustful of people. Like a feral cat, really. She’s grown so much since then. Even Faruzan agrees that Collei’s shaping into a wonderful woman, and it’s harder to get her approval than his own. He couldn’t be more proud.
But she’s still just a kid. He will shelter her as long as he can.
“Tighnari’s gonna be fine,” he assures. “You know his rules.”
Of which there are three, self-imposed and unshakable. Tighnari is nothing if not self-aware.
One, Tighnari would never—willingly—poke, prod or ingest anything he knew to be harmful without a reason and notifying Shirin or Cyno of his plans, as well as making sure they had or could craft the antidotes. (Archons know, getting hurt could never dissuade Tighnari from research. Better him than a clueless passerby, he’d say. But he wasn’t stupid enough to put himself in harm’s way thoughtlessly. His own words.)
Two, any new specimens required an extensive observation period before any contact. Everything could be potentially dangerous, after all. Tighnari would try to pinpoint what family it belonged to, evaluate the risk. Check how animals react to it, and only approach after he was either deadly sure of his safety or followed Rule One.
Three, if he got in any sort of trouble, whether during his solitary patrol or (equally solitary) research, he’d get his ass home right that second. Again, his words. Or, in case he were unable to move, send a distress flare. Which he—yes, Cyno, who do you take me for?—would always have on himself.
According to Collei, Tighnari’s made it most of the way back before he had to request assistance. Thank the gods he wasn’t too proud to ask for help, like so many heedless adventures were. Subsequently, he was able to communicate the place of his peril before he lost consciousness. A good thing too; another patrol was scheduled for that area within a few hours.
“I remember,” Collei nods. Her shoulders drop some. She gives a shaky smile. “I’m just… worried. Every time something happens, I think…”
That this is it.
Cyno knows the feeling well. Both he and Tighnari dance with danger every day and poor Collei can do nothing but watch them stretch thinner and thinner until they snap. She says every goodbye like it’s going to be the last.
And who could blame her? Had something happened to him, she wouldn’t find out possibly for months depending on his location, left to fret and imagine every nightmarish scenario. With Tighnari, chances were she’d have to watch. She’d be the one to identify his body. Gods know she’d put it on herself to inform Cyno.
They all feel it. Cyno and Tighnari made their peace with it a long time ago, but Collei is still so young. It will take years still until she can crystallize her own views and values. And it’s not like she asked to be put in their care.
Though he likes to think she’s happy with them. Except for moments like these.
“I know,” he says, gentler still, turning her around. “Go, take your mind off of it. I’ve got ‘Nari.”
As the girls leave, Cyno catches sight of their linked hands. He doesn’t know much about Amber, but he’s glad she’s here when Collei needs comfort. As much as he tries, Cyno can’t be in two places at once, and Tighnari is his priority right now.
The silver lining is that whatever’s plaguing him is most likely nonlethal. Tighnari would say something if he had an inkling of suspicion that it could be the moment other Rangers collected him. Not only that, but the chances he was the first person to encounter whatever it was were low, what with reckless adventurers passing through the woods every day. The Rangers would have heard of any deaths or suspicious illnesses in the area.
Even if people affected didn’t know to report such things to the Outpost, any settlement they would’ve stopped in would. Collei would have heard something, and certainly pass that along to him.
That doesn’t mean Cyno doesn’t worry.
**
The hut smells vaguely of bile, toned down heavily by the rain and time. Cyno sheds his cloak, hanging it to drip away by an entrance. Any other day, he would’ve followed the specific care instructions Tighnari left him for it, but it doesn’t matter right now.
He steps in deeper. There’s a pile of books and tools strewn haphazardly across the desk, a pack hanging off the chair. Whoever brought Tighnari in didn’t care to put his equipment away properly. Cyno huffs under his breath. Hope they’re ready for the lecture once Tighnari is well. Lucky for them, no instrument looks broken.
In the bedroom, Tighnari seems to have assimilated into a pile of blankets. The jug of water left on his nightstand is already half-empty. The plate of crackers, however, remains untouched.
Tighnari is a person who’d push himself to eat no matter how nauseous he is, as long as he felt it wouldn’t worsen the situation. So either he knows he wouldn’t be able to keep it down or something about the illness prevented him from eating altogether. Either way, bad news.
All that’s visible of Tighnari is his tail hanging off the edge of the bed. His breathing is erratic from the fever, so Cyno can’t tell if the man is asleep. He tiptoes just in case.
No dice.
The blanket-monster shifts at his approach, though Tighnari’s eyes are too hazy to be comprehending. His nose twitches, once, twice, too many times given how quick Tighnari usually is at recognizing his scent. Congested, then. Not the worst, though it must feel weird to someone so reliant on their sense of smell as Tighnari is.
Cyno perches gently on the edge of the bed. Rests one of his hands on Tighnari’s forehead, blistering to the touch, the other on his hip. Scratches softly to rouse him more.
“You’re burning up,” he notes. Tighnari mumbles something that might’ve been no shit, his usually sharp tongue spiked by the illness. Cyno smiles fondly at the familiar bite. “How are you feeling?”
Tighnari’s eyes scrunch adorably in an exhausted edition of his typical what do you think. Cyno laughs under his breath, leaning down to press a kiss between his ears. He’s such a grump when he’s sick, heh.
“Well, I guess it’s not hopeless if you’ve got the energy to sass me still.”
All that gets him is half a second of a flat stare and Tighnari disappearing back under the covers. Cyno snorts, pulling the blankets away and out of the man’s reach. Tighnari’s tail thumbs against the bedding in irritation; much, much weaker than it usually would’ve. Cyno takes note of the grimy patches splattered across it, tacky and bristled like Tighnari wiped them away in a rush.
What’s worse, there are several spots close to the base where he’s clearly pulled the fur out. Not. enough to leave them bald, but for Tighnari, who takes high pride in his grooming, to have ripped it out speaks of terrible discomfort.
“I’m going to run you a bath,” Cyno offers, leaving to do just that without waiting for a response. Once the tub is filled—slightly cooler than Tighnari’s scalding preference—he carries his fox into the bathroom, settling him gently in the water.
Tighnari hums gratefully, tail swaying slowly, though his nose scrunches at the temperature. He leans against the tub with a deep sigh. “Thank you. Sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Cyno counters. The washcloth leaves a trail of studs across Tighnari’s skin.
Leaning into his touch, Tighnari says nothing. His eyes are half-lidded , dark lashes, casting soft shadows upon pallid cheeks. Even sick like this, he makes Cyno’s breath catch. The stark contrast between his colors, the curve of his lips. The tiny scar in the corner of his eyelid that you’d never find unless you knew it was there, but that forever prevented him from applying make-up evenly.
All because of a cat.
Cyno has to half climb into the tub with him to clean his tail properly. His left cuff ends up wet, but that’s a small price. He rubs at the fur, working the clumps carefully between his fingers. Tighnari twists in the bath, clutching at Cyno’s shoulders for balance; his grip is infinitely weaker than usual. Even though the water, Tighnari’s skin his sweltering, roughened from the goosebumps spread across it. Though he seems not to notice; He chirps when fingers scratch at the base of his tail, making Cyno smile.
Once the tail is sufficiently combed, shampooed, oiled and conditioned—Tighnari would never forgive him for skipping a step because of a ‘simple fever’—Cyno wraps one arm around his waist, pressing them close until Tighnari’s head is tucked under his chin. Now for the hard part.
Tighnari squirms in his hold as Cyno checks his ears, his rough fingers unpleasant on the delicate skin. Tighnari hates it on the regular—right now, they must feel like sandpaper. Usually Tighnari would do this himself. As he’s in no state of mind, Cyno’s stiff hands will have to suffice. Tighnari’s ears are too prone to infection to wait until he’s well enough to take over.
Fangs flash as Tighnari attempts to wiggle away; Cyno pulls him back in with concerning ease.
“Shh, ‘Nari. I’ve got you.”
“I know,” he groans, “I know, but... ugh!”
Thankfully, they look fine to Cyno’s untrained eye. He soothes the discomfort with a kiss, flicking his tongue out to drag a lick to the tip of the ear. It serves the double purpose of reassuring Tighnari and calming his instincts. And while the sensation feels odd to Cyno’s human tongue, it’s nothing disagreeable enough to put him off from making Tighnari feel better.
He lets Tighnari rest in the bathtub for a few minutes longer, running the rag and the back of his knuckles across the feverish skin. It doesn’t seem like the temperature is dropping at all.
If he recalls correctly—and he does—Tighnari has a stash of readily available medicine for all common afflictions in the chest at the foot of his bed. The trick is finding one that won’t get into a reaction with whatever he consumed. If Cyno knew what it was, deducing the proper ingredients would pose no problem. But he doesn’t, and he’s not about to risk his husband’s well-being further.
I should check his journal.
“‘Nari,” he murmurs against a tuft of fur. “Come on, bed.”
“I ‘as just ‘ere,” Tighnari deadpans, wrapping his arms around Cyno’s neck regardless, claws digging into his own elbows. His wet body clings to Cyno’s clothes, soaking his shorts through. Cyno lifts him out of the bath and into a towel with quick movements, bundling him up like a burrito. Tremors turn Tighnari into a willow tree on the wind, his ears pulling back in discomfort.
Taking care to warm him up without being too rough, Cyno focuses most of his efforts on the dripping tail and hair. It’s getting rather long for Tighnari’s preference—no doubt he meant to take care of it before all this went down. That, or he was waiting for Cyno to stop by to enlist his ‘help’.
Cyno is utterly useless at any form of hairstyling, but he takes no less joy in the act because of it. Tighnari spoils him so, letting Cyno hack away at the strands, and fixing them up himself without a complaint.
“Wet kitten,” he chuckles, laying a kiss to that tiny scar. All it achieves is a fan of water coating the back wall as Tighnari’s tail trashes. Cyno bites back his grin.
A tired eye peeks open, leveling him with as dry of a look as Tighnari can manage. Nothing can ever escape him.
(Get it? Dry? Because—)
Heh.
Cyno lets his smile bloom now that he’s been caught. He scoops Tighnari up, leaving the towel bunched up on the floor to be cleaned up later. Tighnari feels too thin, too bony, even though Cyno has seen no evidence of weight loss on him.
Pulling the blanket up to his nose, Tighnari pokes him in the chest through the sheets, just a second of contact before he curls up into a ball. “Go ‘ange,” he slurs, eyes struggling against exhaustion. Even now, he’s trying to look out for others. Cyno loves him so much.
…he’s also tempted to never let him out of the hut, but alas.
“In a moment,” Cyno promises with another kiss to the sweaty forehead. Now that Tighnari’s brought his attention to it, the wet fabric suddenly becomes unbearable, too tight to his skin. He was always picky about his clothing, the electro buzzing over his skin easily sending him into oversensitivity if he wore the wrong fabrics.
But Tighnari is more important.
Tighnari’s nose scrunches, adorable like a baby fox, though he follows obediently when Cyno raises him up. His face is flushed, tongue slightly swollen as he licks his lips. He sips at the offered water almost too slowly, pausing every few swallows to breathe. His ears remain pinned back, tail thumping faintly under the covers.
“That’s good, petal,” he smiles. “Thank you.”
Delighting in the way Tighnari’s blush intensifies, Cyno switches the glass for a cracker. Keeps his hand on Tighnari’s nape to keep him grounded. It scalds his fingers.
“Just this one,” he promises. “Just to tide you over.”
He sincerely hopes Tighnari’s feeling well enough now to try. He wouldn’t force him, of course, but Cyno knows firsthand how much worse poisoning is on an empty stomach. Tighnari watches him through hazy eyes for a while; Cyno feels, more than sees, his nod, muscles shifting minutely under his touch. He digs his fingers reassurance, sigh ruffling Tighnari’s fringe.
Inching forward like the world’s most adorable caterpillar, Tighnari arcs his neck to nip at the cracker. He chews much longer than usual, brows knitted. Honey sticks to his lip; Cyno follows it with his eyes, unashamed now that Tighnari’s got no energy to tease him about it.
Tighnari makes his way through half of the cracker, slow and hazy, until his energy is all spent. His head plants down down onto the pillow; he’s asleep before Cyno puts the plate back. With one last kiss to the tip of his ear, Cyno goes about his duties.
First, he cleans up the wet towel from the bathroom, grabbing a few of Tighnari’s face towels while he’s there. His preferred one, the one for Cyno, the one for Collei. Then he cracks into the medicine box, carefully lighting the bottles to remaining light to check their labels. Just as he thought, most of them have ingredients that would not handle being mixed with unknown substances well. But even that, Tighnari is prepared for.
The carafe containing the cryo extract has a square base, simply but beautifully decorated. The liquid swirls inside it in thick, aerated foam. It slips easy past the wide neck of the decanter, soaking the first towel with an earthy smell. Not a pleasant one; Cyno’s nose scrunches as visions of decay fill his mind.
But sweet medicine never works as well as the bitter one, so he breathes through his mouth and lays the cloth over Tighnari’s forehead.
Rubbing slow, steady circles through the towel, he takes a long moment just to watch Tighnari breathe; the laborious but steady rise of his chest, the twitch of his muscles. Every micromovement proof that he’s alive, every new breath evidence that Tighnari will be alright.
If asked, Cyno would not admit how long he spends with his head pressed to Tighnari’s shoulder as the other drifts, letting his own heart settle and mind calm—but the only person who’d care for the answer is also the one who’d never judge what that answer was.
Once he feels steady enough, Cyno makes his way to Tighnari’s pack. The twine wound around the journal is the same as ever, smelling faintly of cedar. Tighnari’s notes are scribbled in his usual quick scratch, practical and simple. Tighnari writes like every letter is a stick or a rock, heh. One could say… it’s in his nature…
Heh.
He’ll have to remember to say that one to Tighnari later; it’s no fun coming up with puns when his husband’s not there to judge him.
Curling up at the floor by Tighnari’s side, Cyno takes his time leafing through the journal. He starts from the end, hoping to find any information on his ailment, then makes his way back further to check what did he miss. Tighnari loves few things as much as his research, and since he never minded him checking his notes, Cyno likes to educate himself when he can so that he might actually be a good conversation partner.
The genus is surely Dahri’ah—a flowering plant thriving on rust that Khaenri’ah machines brought in from underground. They adapted well to Sumeru’s ore and the minerals present in some of the Ashavan trees. Many of them cause mild flu-like symptoms when burned. This one seems to be a new crossbreed, though. Whether purposeful or natural, I don’t yet know.
(…)
…presence of dendro impacting the plant. My vision’s getting blurry—didn’t inhale much. Secure the area. Catch the—
Cyno presses his tongue against his teeth, the pain grounding him away from the prey drive rearing its head. His own sense of justice is pushing him to hunt down the criminal—Hermanubis’ spirit turns that need into something primal, vengeful. A bloodlust strong enough to make his teeth ache. The energies in him want nothing more than to prowl.
But Cyno has lived with this feeling for as long as he can remember living at all—and though it’s gotten stronger since he absorbed the other Ba fragment, controlling the urge is an art he master just like his polearm and gauntlets. Not quite as easy as breathing, but nothing in the face of his care for Tighnari.
So Cyno sits, his head propped against the bed frame, and reads until it’s time to change the cold pack. Then he switches one towel for another, reapplies the ointment and rinses the previous towel before tucking into his spot again. When Tighnari rouses, Cyno refills his water and feeds him tiny bites of crackers, and tucks him back in with another kiss. Watches his skin slowly regain color as Cyno reads by a lone candle.
The notes speak of Tighnari’s discoveries , of Collei’s lessons and on occasion—of Cyno’s letters. There’s flowers tucked between the pages, scraps of paper glued to the corners. He doesn’t know when he drifts off, but when he wakes, sunlight is streaming in through the window, soft and golden like heaven’s star. Something soft is resting atop his head, and Cyno arcs into the touch with a stretch.
“Morning, sleepyhead. You’ve been resting for a while.”
He turns, laying a kiss to the palm that rises to cup his cheek. “Morning, my sweet viparyas. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
**
Tighnari drifts. His memory is hazy. He was writing a report on the new specimen one of the local villagers informed him of. According to the survey he’d conducted, it appeared out of nowhere soon after the last Fatui squad left, and then—and then Tighnari finds himself in bed.
Pain pulsates from his sinuses to his very bone marrow, though the moldy scent covering his forehead and eyes makes it a bit more bearable. Tighnari recognizes his newest cryo concoction—pressing a hand to his skin and taking stock of himself, he’s glad to note its effectiveness.
He takes the compress off, folding the towel next to his pillow. It’s damp still; whomever was taking care of him kept a fine vigil.
Hmph, whomever, as if he doesn’t feel the familiar divinity on his tongue. His senses are muted, but he would never mistake Cyno’s aura for another.
Tighnari shifts, sweaty skin rubbing unpleasantly against the covers. He needs to shower, then change the sheets. Has Cyno checked his notes? Shirin will need to have that—
The journal lies atop his nightstand, Shirin’s usual lavender envelope peeking from within the pages. Tighnari huffs out a smile, eyes drifting to the mess of white hair resting by his chest. Cyno is out cold, dark circles under his eyes and Collei’s towel draped over his shoulders like a shawl.
He buries his hand in the brittle hair, breathing in the love permeating the air. It’s not long before Cyno rouses, shifting towards him like sunflowers follow the sun. Tighnari’s heart seizes in the sweetest pain of his life. He opens his mouth, intent on teasing his husband, but...