Chapter Text
Alhaitham blinks.
Lying amidst his veritable mountain of bureaucratic paperwork is a deceptively thin file, unearthed after hours of sifting through the stacks of documents that his latest attempt at a quiet weekend had garnered him. The smooth manila surface is disrupted only by the hasty scrawl of a lower receptionist, but the label is enough to make his brow twitch in annoyance.
Quarterly Performance Review Request Forms – Grand Sage Alhaitham
His first thought is: they got his job title wrong.
Secondly, with all the recent movement within the Akademiya, the idea that something so harmlessly trite could make it to his desk is a reality Alhaitham had previously thought impossible. One would think that overturning the current state of Sumeru's governing body and ousting over half of their primary leaders would leave people more eager to flounder over power vacuums than administrative nonsense, but Alhaitham finds himself unpleasantly disappointed by the reality of it all.
With a beleaguered sigh, he picks up the file. The date scrawled on the corner denotes that his reviews are due by the end of the week, and he massages his temple at the feeling of an impending migraine. A verbal reminder would have been appreciated, he grouses, making a mental note to berate his secretary when he clocks back in tomorrow.
In the meantime, Alhaitham flips the offending folder open as he sinks back against his chair, groaning at the collection of colleagues he's been assigned to review. Few in the Akademiya request to have their reviews personally conducted by the (Acting) Grand Sage, and his lip curls in preemptive disdain at the gall and overconfidence it must have taken for these people to write his name upon their damned review forms. Flipping lazily through the provided list of their recent work, Alhaitham wonders if it would be an abuse of power to just imply that the whole lot of them were due for demotion under the reconstructed Akademiya.
Right as he decides that the excessively self-celebratory collections are better suited for the trash than his time, a knock sounds at his door. Alhaitham is vaguely aware that it's quite late into the evening, but perhaps his secretary had decided to stay back a bit longer to complete a few of the extra tasks Alhaitham's weekend off had left them with, too. Humming a distracted, "Come in," he slides the files into his wastebin just as a familiar presence breezes in. The figure stops halfway into the room as scarlet eyes latch onto the materials Alhaitham had just disposed of, flickering up to the open folder in his hand as the discarded papers thud against the bottom of the empty bin.
Ah.
The General Mahamatra immediately crosses his arms.
"Hm," he begins astutely, arching an eyebrow at him.
Alhaitham snaps his folder shut, easily adopting the guise of a man who has absolutely not engaged in any workplace misconduct. He inclines his head amicably.
"General Cyno. To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?"
Cyno uncrosses his arms, and Alhaitham notices that he's holding a small sheaf of papers in his own hands, encased in a manila folder with something that looks suspiciously like the beginning of his name penned across the front.
"It's late," Cyno says in lieu of answering. "I understand these aren't your typical work hours, Alhaitham, but if you intend to cut corners in your work, perhaps it's better you went home."
"The last time I attempted to have some semblance of a peaceful weekend, half the Akademiya thought it'd be amusing to triple the number of documents I set aside for the following week," Alhaitham responds bitterly. "And besides, the individuals I've been tasked with reviewing have many of the removed sages' names on their recent work. Based on their recent attempts to entreat me for my time and opinions to gain my favour, marking them for demotion and re-review could hardly be called cutting corners."
Cyno inclines his head as he mulls his words over, and when he finds no fault in them, he nods.
"A sound judgment," he hums, strolling up to Alhaitham's desk. There's hardly room to discuss over the stacks of books and papers that litter it, so he walks around the side, extending the folder he holds with a crisp fwip. "While we are on the topic of colleague performance reviews, I am here to deliver yours. I am confident my reasonings leave no room for confusion, but I'm here for now to field any questions you might have."
Alhaitham replaces the empty folder in his hands with this new one, blinking in surprise at the considerable weight. Given its size, Alhaitham might have expected multiple people's written reviews of him to be included, but the phrasing of Cyno's last words implies that the contents of the folder are solely his. Intrigued, he flips the papers open, unable to keep the surprise from his voice as he begins to thumb through them.
"I wasn't aware that the General Mahamatra handled peer review for the Grand Sage," he comments.
"Previously, I didn't," Cyno shrugs. "But now that the matra answer directly to Lord Kusanali, that puts the two of us on equal footing, leaving me an ideal choice to judge your recent performance."
Alhaitham hums in acknowledgment, rifling through an annotated analysis of a reconstruction initiative from the earliest days of Alhaitham's time as Acting Grand Sage, one he'd all but forgotten that he'd drafted until a reprinted copy of it stared back at him now, covered in dark blue swathes of Cyno's neat handwriting. It's bookended by a summary of his handling of the initiative, cataloguing how Alhaitham's personal strengths eased the project and thoughtful comments on how he could possibly improve. Impressed, Alhaitham flips forward to the next set of documents, only to be greeted with a similar sight, then another. Dumbfounded, he flips all the way to the folder's end, only to discover that the entire file is filled with careful analyses of only the best of his recent work, all written in the same precise, ink-blue scrawl.
Cyno must notice his surprise, because the man quietly clears his throat, snapping Alhaitham out of his stupor with a jolt. When he latches onto the expectant crimson of his gaze, he's caught off guard by the way his own heart flips over his chest, stuttering along at a strange, clumsy new rhythm.
With nothing to occupy his hands, Cyno crosses his arms again, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he awaits Alhaitham's answer. The General Mahamatra is not a nervous man by nature, but Alhaitham dully remembers reading that his restlessness is a full-bodied thing.
"Everything is in order?" Cyno asks quietly.
More than just in order, Alhaitham's mind supplies. A myriad dozen questions zip across his mind, each one more dizzyingly desperate to dig into the why of Cyno's efforts, but his heavy tongue settles on just one:
"I'm not expected to write a similar review for you, am I?"
The question catches Cyno as off-guard as it does Alhaitham, but where Alhaitham's heart becomes a rabbit-like thing in his chest, Cyno exhales a startled, half-aborted laugh.
"No," he mutters, eyes crinkled at the corners with something dangerously akin to amusement. It lights up the crimson of his eyes with the same slow-dawning intensity of a sunrise. "If I required a review from you, my name would have been in the list of names you had just disposed of," he tacks on wryly. "Your workload is heavy enough, Alhaitham. As it stands, I petitioned Lord Kusanali to approve my request to have my matra collectively pen my performance report instead."
It occurs to Alhaitham, quite suddenly, that Cyno had gone out of his way to reduce Alhaitham's workload. Setting his folder aside, he abruptly stands, drawing an inquisitive look from the other man.
"That's a shame," he says, unable to help a small smirk as Cyno's confusion grows. "I might have actually enjoyed the chance to review your recent accomplishments, Cyno."
Cyno coughs primly, averting his eyes for the briefest of seconds.
"Perhaps next time," he remarks, and Alhaitham can't help the way he leans forward, mesmerized by the beginnings of a light blush on the General's cheeks. "There's no need to add anything else to your current list of duties."
"I can't say I'm entirely opposed to the idea," he hums, playing at the loose fabric tail of Cyno's helm. When Cyno crosses his arms, arching a thin brow in question, Alhaitham smirks. "Have you considered the possibility that I am simply curious about you?"
Cyno purses his lips.
"Curiosity is a dangerous thing for scholars," he intones. "You should take care in how you wield it, Alhaitham."
While severity is hardly the only tone Cyno is capable of, it seems to be the only one that Alhaitham has heard his name spoken in. He wonders, quite selfishly, how many more he can get the man to divulge.
"Is that so?" Alhaitham asks, leaning his hip against the lip of his desk. "Am I supposed to worry that the General Mahamatra might come after me should I wield it unjustly?"
"Such is the fate of any scholar who oversteps the boundaries of knowledge," he answers simply. It is an oft-repeated sentiment — they are both well acquainted with the duty of the General Mahamatra — and Cyno seems to realize that as soon as the words leave his mouth. Sighing, he uncrosses his arms, leveling Alhaitham with a meaningful stare. "I am well aware of your curious nature, Alhaitham. I would not warn you if I didn't consider such ends a possibility."
"I would go so far as to venture that you wouldn't warn me unless you cared," Alhaitham quips, a self-satisfied curl to his lips as he tilts his head to the side, bangs falling further into his eyes as he shoots Cyno a teasing glance. The accusation eases an amused huff past Cyno's lips, the flicker of his smile as fleeting as a spring breeze. Alhaitham can't help the way the sight arrests him anyway, a sudden rapture surging up in his chest, straightening the lazy line of his posture as he hones in on delicate lips. Anticipation is a dangerous thing, and his veins thrum with the simmering hope of another secret smile.
"You are my friend, so I suppose I do," Cyno concedes. "But just because you have ventured correctly this time, does not mean you should let it get to your head."
"Perish the thought," Alhaitham says, like he isn't already delineating the ease with which Cyno admits to their closeness, picking apart the confirmation that he knows the General well enough to know what he cares about — that Alhaitham could be one of those things, too. "Besides, I hardly care about any loftier goal or purpose that drives most other scholars to extremes." A smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he meets Cyno's eye. "I intend to wield my curiosity solely to my own benefit."
"And that admission is supposed to comfort me?" Cyno drawls.
"Of course. Unlike your usual suspects, I have no intention of claiming that my curiosity serves any sort of grander scheme." Emboldened by their continued proximity, Alhaitham drags his fingers up the silk adornments of Cyno's helm, pausing when his fingers brush against the cool metal edge. "I'm being completely honest, dear Cyno, when I tell you that my interest is a far more... personal pursuit."
Cyno scoffs, but the venom behind it is sorely lacking.
"Were it anyone else trying to tell me this, I'd have an investigation on them opened before they could think twice about what information they made the mistake of divulging."
"So you think my admission is a mistake then," Alhaitham teases.
"Far from it," Cyno retorts. "Unless, of course, the Acting Grand Sage finds himself unready to face the consequences of his own words."
"Ah, so says the fearsome General Mahamatra," he quips. "Perhaps I should have thought twice. Many scholars like to whisper about the trail of blood left in your wake, after all," Alhaitham comments mildly.
Crimson eyes flicker at the remark.
Studying Cyno's reactions is akin to understanding the separate stages of a lightning strike, Alhaitham has learned. Emotions flicker across his features with dizzying speed, but there is a brilliance to them that sears afterimages into Alhaitham's eyes, stretched out in sprawling patterns he could spend the rest of his life learning the shape of. In the time it takes to hide that flicker behind the thunderous silence of pressed lips and a set brow, it's a simple thing to measure how far Alhaitham has landed from Cyno's perception of the truth.
That fact remains true even now. In how quickly Cyno schools his features, there's the smothered shock of being so plaintively read; in the scarlet afterimage of his eyes, there's something startlingly reminiscent of regret. Cyno doesn't meet Alhaitham's eyes as he mutters, helplessly, "A rumour that has long since preceded me."
It must be troubling, he thinks, to be viewed as a killer when his job was only ever to protect.
With the utmost care, Alhaitham lifts his other hand to Cyno's helmet. Something breathless and unfathomable settles in his chest when Cyno tilts his head to him, letting Alhaitham remove it. Without his helmet, Cyno is left with nothing but the wispy curtain of his own bangs to obscure his features, and Alhaitham is nothing against his own surging desire to stare.
"A rumour at best," he opines, "but a flagrant untruth at worst. Those who know you know that your path is lined with so much more."
Setting the helm aside, he lowers a hand toward Cyno's waist, tracing the top of his belt as it follows the bend of his hip. When his fingertips brush the stretch of skin just above his Vision, Cyno's eyes flash, a visible arc of electro sparking across them. He moves with the lightning-fast urgency of his element when he reacts, willowy fingers snatching Alhaitham's wandering hand by the wrist.
Alhaitham swallows.
"Are you claiming that you know me, Acting Grand Sage?"
"I've read quite the report on you in the past, General Mahamatra, and worked with you more and closer since. You've plenty of the same thirst for knowledge that a pettier scholar would accuse you of crushing; I see it in your eyes." Alhaitham uses the grip on his wrist to pull Cyno closer, lessening the space between them until they're nearly chest to chest. It would be easy for the smaller man to step away, but when Alhaitham pulls his wrist free, Cyno remains.
"Forget blood," mutters Alhaitham. "You leave a paper trail in your wake, Cyno: maps and theses, folders of evidence and cross-referenced reports, books upon books on law, language — anything, everything." He feels half-breathless from the simple truth of it. "Few understand that to judge a crime of curiosity, you need to understand it first. I'd never find myself at a loss of something to learn were I to simply stagger after you," he admits, "but I fear your sharp ears might catch me the second I try."
"And yet you traverse this path anyway," Cyno murmurs, "knowing full well what lies at the end."
"That I do," Alhaitham agrees. "Would you rather I feared you, General?"
Cyno takes a second to study him.
"Spare me the hypotheticals," he says, although not unkindly. There is a crippling fondness to it, like deciphering the hidden meaning of Alhaitham's words is an act of love in and of itself. Knowing that Cyno would do so willingly makes an open wound of Alhaitham's heart, rendered red and raw by the thunderous thrum of his own pulse. "You know nothing of fear. And in that, you are lucky."
"I would argue that I know just enough. I know that I'd sooner lose an eye than lose you. I fear the thought of losing you, but fear isn't what grips me whenever I see you."
A hand rises up to splay fingers across Alhaitham's chest, if only to measure how much of his caged heart Cyno could hold. If it's Cyno that's asking, Alhaitham would gladly give it all.
"What is it that grips you then, Alhaitham?"
"It's said that few know the wandering mind of a scholar more intimately than you, General Mahamatra. Why don't you tell me what it is that afflicts me?"
Cyno hums thoughtfully, eyes trailing down to the hand on Alhaitham's chest, tanned skin standing stark against the gold details of Alhaitham's top. The rapid flutter of his pulse is hardly a hidden thing, and the thought of being so seen makes his blood run hot. With a nudge, Cyno pushes him toward the edge of his desk, crimson eyes attuned to the way Alhaitham's breath catches when his back thuds against the solid wood. With his free hand, Cyno circles calloused fingers around the thin width of his wrist, thumb pushing underneath the hem of his glove to press skin to skin against Alhaitham's pulse.
"Clammy hands, rapid pulse," he notes lowly. The hand on his chest glides further up, glossing over the place where collar blends into skin with a feathery reverence that makes Alhaitham's breath catch. Cyno's fingers brush against the swell of his bottom lip, and Alhaitham gasps out something breathless and abrupt, torn from his lungs in the crumbling shape of Cyno's name.
"Shortened breath, dilated pupils." Cyno smirks, the barest twitch of his lips, but the movement is enough to immediately arrest Alhaitham's attention, eyes drawn toward the delicate curve of Cyno's lips like a compass toward polar north — there is no part of Alhaitham that doesn't fall into place at Cyno's touch. "Was it curiosity you called it, Alhaitham?"
This surpasses curiosity, Alhaitham thinks. The devastating draw of Cyno's gravity is something else entirely. His mind echoes with his own breathless confession, but he's robbed of the chance to say it by his own selfish hands, wrapped firm around Cyno's waist as he drags him forward into a desperate kiss.
The first brush of their lips is electric, the soft shock of skin-to-skin contact arcing down the length of Alhaitham's spine. As with many things, Cyno does not hesitate before kissing him soundly back, calloused fingers winding into the fabric of Alhaitham's cape to wrench him closer, back bending to meet Cyno where he surges up into him. The movement startles an aborted gasp out of Alhaitham, opening his lips for Cyno to lick greedily into them.
Alhaitham's gasp melts into a full body shudder as Cyno's fingers find their way into his hair, dragging blunt fingernails over his scalp. The friction is debilitating, leaving him weak in the knees as Cyno repeats the motion, over and over until Alhaitham is forced to break from their kiss with a strangled gasp, fingers digging hard into the flesh of Cyno's side.
"Cyno," he groans, and he receives nothing but a rumbling hum in reply, bookended by a closed-mouth kiss. His eyes flutter shut at the tender motion, diving in for another kiss like a man starved. Alhaitham eases his way past the pliant part of Cyno's lips with a newfound vigour, swallowing the feathery sigh that Cyno breathes into him.
Their kiss is a hungry thing, spoken in the slide of slick lips and a hammering heartbeat, punctuated with wandering hands and clumsy teeth. It's a language that Alhaitham has only ever dreamed of, but nothing could have prepared him for the way it feels to put it into practice, discovering the grammar of Cyno's quiet breaths as he trails teeth and tongue down the exposed column of his neck. When Alhaitham reaches the hollow of his throat, he fits his lips against the graceful curve of it, a lazy semblance of a kiss that makes Cyno shake.
"Alhaitham," he pants, the tail end of it bitten off by the audible hitch in his breath when teeth nip at the thin flesh over his collarbone. It's a deviation from Cyno's normally steady timbre, and Alhaitham tucks away this new intonation like a secret, kept flush against his hammering heart. Dizzily, Cyno tugs him up for another kiss, sliding his hands to cradle Alhaitham's jaw with careful fingers, reverence stitched into every electric point where they meet.
When they finally pull apart, Cyno does so with a drawn out sigh against the spit-glossed seam of Alhaitham's lips — a haggard, hazy breath that sinks heavy into the heated pit of Alhaitham's stomach.
"Mere curiosity was never enough to define it," Alhaitham mutters, brushing the feathery tumble of Cyno's bangs out of his eyes. If the bold scarlet of one eye was enough to arrest him, then being faced with the full brunt of Cyno's gaze stops time itself in its tracks. His thumb brushes against the swell of Cyno's cheek, entranced by the contrast of his own skin against the rich earthy-bronze of Cyno's own. "If there's a word to describe what I feel for you, I haven't found it yet, but it would be remiss of me not to try."
"Ever the scholar," Cyno drawls, words feathering off into a gentle laugh at their ends. Fondness is a resplendent look on him, lightening the rich crimson of his eyes into something gentle and bright — if sunrise could be translated into a single look, it would be the way Cyno gazes at Alhaitham now, with the overwhelming warmth of a star waiting to gift its inhabitants with a dawning new day. Lips curling into a mirthful smile, Cyno adds, "Do not think that this will have any effect on your next performance review, Acting Grand Sage."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Alhaitham says.
He pulls Cyno in for another kiss, drunk on the shuddering sigh that he breathes into him, and Alhaitham knows that he will dream of far more.