Archive of Our Own ^beta

There is sand in his wounds.

Cyno's back burns as the grains plaster themselves to flesh seared raw by the explosion his electro had unintentionally set off. His mind buzzes, a tumultuous tumble of facts, fears, and debilitating pain.

There are the things Cyno knows for sure: the mercenaries he had been pursuing were a ruthless group. Given the number of explosive barrels they had hidden around the camp, they were more than ready to die before they were caught. Cyno had underestimated their drive. That was his first mistake. At the rate at which he is losing blood, it may also be his last.

It seems the mercenaries had been successful in their trade: their lives, for Cyno's.

Next, there are the things Cyno fears: more terrifying than his own death is the thought of everything he might leave undone. Fear is a drug, and it blends with the residual adrenaline in Cyno's veins to turn his heart into a deafening drum in his ears. The crackle of smouldering flames is white noise behind his pulse, but there is no other sound around him. 

He stares up at the sun overhead, eyes too sluggish to blink against its blinding beams. Oblivion was never something Cyno feared, but his looming list of loose ends unsettles him. He owes the sky and sands a debt for having housed him, and Cyno will take his fear of never having done enough for this world to the grave.

Lastly, there is pain. A chill begins to seize him; he's lost far too much blood. Cyno doesn't remember blinking, but the sky above him darkens.

His heart is still beating as his consciousness fades away.

.

.

.

Cyno awakens to the rhythm of his own pulse and another person's breathing.

There is the sound of shuffling and unintelligible murmurs, and when the source of the sound sighs, it occurs to Cyno that he ought to be doing the same. His chest aches when he first breathes in. His eyes flutter open at the abrupt pain, and when his vision adjusts to the influx of light, he sees Tighnari.

Green eyes widen as they meet his, and they're just as quickly obscured as Tighnari sighs out a strangled breath, rubbing at his temples as he leans back against the bedside table.

"Thank the Archons," he mutters. Another steadying breath, and he opens his eyes again. Cyno's mind is still sluggish with sleep, but he belatedly wonders if it was desperation that had briefly shined in his best friend's eyes. Whatever it was, Tighnari is all business now, quickly bustling about to grab Cyno some much-needed water. Cyno watches him vacantly, body aching at the mere sight of his movements.

His memories trickle back in as Tighnari does his standard checks, letting the man reassess the state of his bandaged wounds as he tries to recall how he made it here. He had been alone after clearing out that mercenary camp, the last body left to cool amidst the unforgiving desert sands. Despite that, he is still here, warm underneath the column of sunlight that trickles in from the Bimarstan's window.

Tighnari's hands are exceedingly gentle as they help him sit up against a pillow. The loose hospital shirt they had put him in shifts as he rises, linen brushing against his skin with a feathery-lightness that Cyno is almost shocked he can still feel. He isn't quite ready to move his arms yet, so he allows Tighnari to hold the bowl of water to his lips instead, taking in every precious drop with greedy lips. He hadn't realized how parched he was until the bowl runs dry and he sighs, a sound that finally begins to sound real.

"How long was I out?" he rasps. Tighnari presses his lips together, quick to fetch him another bowl. Cyno drains this one, too.

"Five days. You were in extremely bad condition, Cyno."

He can tell. There is not a part of him that doesn't ache, no patch of skin that doesn't sting whenever he shifts, like he's constantly being stretched the wrong way. Tighnari refills his water one last time, setting the bowl to the side with a heavy exhale as he sits back in his chair. Once seated, he levels Cyno with a tired look.

"I assume it was thanks to your care that I still breathe," Cyno posits aloud. "You have my thanks, Tighnari."

"I'm not the only one you owe thanks to," comes the flat retort. He doesn't elaborate in favour of rifling through his bag. Cyno watches with mild interest as he takes out two flasks, a knife, and a small bundle of fabric. Setting the flasks at Cyno's bedside table, he rests the remaining items on his lap and sheds his gloves.

"Are these some of yours?" Cyno asks idly. He studies the opaque vials, as if the added scrutiny could reveal the colour of the liquids within.

"One to be applied externally to help with the healing process, another to be taken with food for the pain and blood loss. I expect you to take these daily to help with your recovery, and I won't hear any griping."

There is a scowl on Tighnari's face. It isn't an expression he adopts often, and it hardens the lines of his normally soft features in a way that Cyno wishes he could be more of a stranger to. Tighnari makes this face every time he is forced to patch Cyno up after his injuries.

Gritting his teeth, Cyno sits himself up a little higher, reaching for the bowl of water with a shaky hand. Tighnari doesn't hesitate to help him balance the wooden bowl between their hands. When Cyno finishes drinking, the container is taken back with a gentleness that belies Tighnari's harsh expression, and Cyno has the presence of mind to feel somewhat abashed as the man sits back down.

Unfurling the fabric in his lap, Tighnari reveals a single, pristine sunsettia. He wastes no time taking the edge of his knife to the fruit, shaving off the peel with slow, careful turns of his wrist, even as his scowl sits stubbornly in place. Cyno watches the skin fall in one sinuous, long spiral from the edge of his knife, collecting neatly in his lap.

There has always been a deft elegance to the way in which Tighnari holds his blade, familiarity effused into every skillful flick of his wrist. These are the hands of someone who has known a knife far too intimately and for far too long. Only a doctor's hand can manipulate the sharp edge of a knife with the same exacting accuracy that Tighnari does, and Cyno feels inexplicably humbled by the thought of hands so skilled at stitching flesh back together wasting their mastery on something as simple as peeling fruit.

"You're upset," he says. For all Tighnari has done for him, he can at least spare him the burden of having to admit that fact first.

Tighnari sighs, knife stilling.

"Of course I'm upset, Cyno. You put yourself in danger! You could have died ." The unbroken spiral of peeled skin breaks prematurely, falling into Tighnari's lap with a lifeless flutter, and he glares at the fruit in his hands as he hastily cleaves off the remaining skin. Cyno watches patiently as Tighnari grits his teeth around his next words, mercilessly slicing the sunsettia into neat, even pieces. He plunges the tip of the knife into one slice as he speaks next, digging out the seeds as he cuts the rest into bite-sized chunks. "What you did was reckless."

"I know," Cyno admits. "I imagine you have quite the lecture prepared for me."

A humourless laugh tumbles past Tighnari's lips as he rifles through his bag for another napkin, sweeping away the discarded scraps of skin and seeds before depositing the bundled pile of fruit into Cyno's lap.

"I'm not going to lecture you." Tighnari clicks his tongue. There's a helpless tilt to the slope of his brows as he shakes his head. "I'm quite certain you have my usual one memorized by now."

Cyno hums as he lifts a piece of fruit to his lips. The juice has a pleasant sweetness that helps clear the musty tang of five days of unconsciousness from his tongue.

"That I do."

Cyno eats his sunsettia slowly, watching as Tighnari starts shuffling about again, throwing his wrapped knife back into his bag and washing his hands of the sticky fruit juice. He pushes the flasks of medication closer to Cyno's water bowl as a reminder.

"You'd think that having it memorized would mean you actually take it to heart then," Tighnari drawls. Cyno pauses with a piece of fruit halfway to his mouth. Tighnari's expression is unreadable as he stands, tugging his gloves back on. "You weigh words every day, Cyno. If you keep disregarding my warnings, what am I supposed to think about the weight of mine?"

When Cyno remains silent, Tighnari simply sighs, readjusting the strap on his shoulder bag.

"Just try not to be so reckless anymore. Take a tablespoon of the flask on the right when you're done eating and have the healer apply the other to your wounds when they rebandage you. I'll have Collei bring you some refills in a few days."

When he turns around, Cyno feels his stomach swoop.

"Tighnari—" Cyno swallows, tongue heavy and sweet. "I'm sorry."

Tighnari turns halfway to face him. Angled toward the window like this, his forest green eyes glow like late spring in the falling sunlight. There's a helpless smile on his face. For all that he can be at odds with Cyno's recklessness, Tighnari knows him too well not to recognize his sincerity.

"Yeah, I know. You always are, Cyno. Next time, just make sure you're sorry enough to be more careful, alright?"

Cyno curls his fingers into the napkin laid atop his lap, fingers sticky with the juice of the sunsettia he's only half done eating. He hadn't noticed until now, how the sweet scent of it had filled the entire room.

"I will," he promises.

With a wave, Tighnari departs. Cyno finishes his fruit in silence.

Cyno is forced to remain at the Bimarstan for a week to be monitored, followed by mandatory work leave for another month to recover. He is not particularly happy at the news. Collei bursts into his room immediately after the doctor departs, and Cyno barely has the time to erase his scowl. When she finally registers the condition he is in, she stops halfway through the door, eyes wide.

"Collei. Tighnari mentioned you would be visiting."

At the steady sound of his voice, Collei immediately straightens, giving him a furious nod. She is quick to scurry in, dragging the chair at his bedside to face him. In the crook of her arm, she balances an oversized basket, its contents tucked away beneath a pale lilac cloth. As soon as she is seated, she quickly begins to rifle through it, pushing the fabric aside to reveal a vibrant stash of tangerines. Cyno greedily inhales the sharp, citrusy scent of them.

"He wanted me to make sure you were taking the medicines he gave you and to give you some fresh ones."

She fishes them out with a triumphant aha!, setting them atop Cyno's bedside table. Eye contact has never been her strongest suit, but she seems to struggle with it more than usual today, violet eyes never managing to trail much higher than the bandages peeking up from above his neckline before flickering away. Her smile is a stiff thing, needlessly practiced and overly performed. Cyno wouldn't be surprised if Tighnari had warned her about his condition, if she had insisted on visiting anyway. Small hands fiddle restlessly with the wicker basket on her lap. Cyno draws her attention with a quiet cough.

"The medicines have been indispensable. Thank you, Collei."

"It was mostly Master Tighnari, really! All I did was help prepare the ingredients. I haven't got the hang of some of the more complicated brews yet, especially your recipes."

"Without ingredients, there is nothing to brew. My gratitude extends to the both of you."

She meets his gaze for just a second, eyes wide, before quickly averting them, a pleased flush lighting up her cheeks. Cyno doesn't bother biting back his smile.

"Now tell me, is that basket only for you, or do you intend to share?"

Collei perks up, as if suddenly remembering the basket she brought with her. Setting it on the ground, she tugs away the pale fabric that covers it, spreading it neatly atop her lap. The fresh scent of the tangerines billows as she does so, filling the room with a warmth entirely separate from the incoming beams of afternoon sunlight.

"Master Tighnari said you could probably use the nutrients, so I brought a bunch. We can share them!"

She digs two tangerines out of the basket, and Cyno notices how water still clings to the outside of them, wetting the tips of Collei's fingers. When she digs her dulled fingernails into the fruit, a light mist of juice is exhumed from the vibrant flesh, dissipating into the warm air. Cyno's stomach audibly growls at the scent, and the sound causes both of them to still. A second passes, and then Collei ducks her chin into the fabric of her scarf, shoulders shaking as she tries and fails to stifle a vicious barrage of giggles.

"Oh", he notes dumbly, and a full snort tumbles past Collei's lips, one that startles her into dropping the fruit in her hands to cover her lips with wide violet eyes. When their gazes align, Collei freezes.

A beat passes, harrowingly silent, and then they rediscover their voices in tandem — a clumsy overlap of "S-sorry!" and "My apologies," tumbling messily against each other. Collei worries at her bottom lip, brows drawn, and Cyno brings a bandaged hand to the back of his neck.

"I hadn't realized I was hungry," he admits. "The scent of the tangerines you brought is much more a- peel -ing than I anticipated." He pauses for a second, waiting for Collei's startled expression to fade. "Because you are peeling them?"

Another beat passes, but when she continues to remain stock still, he sighs.

"Ah, never mind. Please, allow me to help you, Collei."

"...hehe."

Cyno blinks.

Collei has a hand pressed tightly over her lips, but the spooked look on her face has softened, eyes creased at the corners as bottled laughter dances merrily across them. She reins in giggles behind sealed lips until they grow larger than her hands can hold back, the room spilling over with the sound of her laughter. Collei laughs with her full body, so giddy that she doesn't even notice how the tangerines resting neatly atop her lap shift until they thud to the floor, a damp thunk causes her eyes to widen, a half-startled expression that looks especially comical when lit with the force of her laughter.

Unbidden, Cyno snickers at the sight. When Collei hurriedly ducks to retrieve the fallen fruit, frantic apologies colliding against one another atop her tongue, his quiet laughter only continues, falling from his lips until she sits back up to witness him, a chuckle half caught on the smooth curve of his grin. He's worried, for a second, that she will clamp back up, but at the sight of him giggling beside her, her face splits with a relieved grin, and the awkward quiet of earlier is all but forgotten.

With her fallen fruit recovered, Collei digs right back into her earlier task.

"Don't worry, Master Cyno," she reassures him, "I'm more than able to peel all these, so just sit back and don't even think about exerting yourself!"

"Well, who am I to go against the doctor's orders?" he chuckles. "You have my thanks, Healer Collei."

She giggles at his easy agreement and quickly gets to work, spreading out another cloth on Cyno's bedside table to place all her freshly peeled fruit. Collei chats amiably as she works, talking about her latest milestones within her reading studies and the Forest Rangers, and Cyno lets himself bask in the billowing scent of freshly peeled tangerines. 

As the pile of peeled fruit grows in proportion to the shrinking number of tangerines in her basket, Collei's calloused fingertips turn a brighter orange with each subsequent fruit. Cyno watches with a fond gaze as she painstakingly plucks away the strings that still cling to every slice, treated with a restless precision that is half nerves but wholly caring. By the time she's nearly finished, she notices that Cyno has yet to eat a single one.

"Hey, I thought you said you were hungry!"

"It's hardly fair of me to have any while you're still working," he points out, an argument that causes Collei to purse her lips in petulant disagreement. "Waiting is no trouble. After all, you brought these to share, didn't you?"

Collei's pout wanes. "I did, but... At least have a piece before I finish. You can let me know how they taste!"

As if on cue, Cyno's stomach growls again. At the sound, Collei returns to peeling the last fruit with a pleased grin.

"I suppose there's little room for argument," he muses, reaching out to take a slice from their veritable mountain of fruit.

The piece is cool to the touch, and he's briefly taken back to the sight of the beaded water that had clung to the skin of each tangerine. The river that runs through Gandharva Ville is probably still on the colder side at this time of year. He can't help but wonder if Collei had deigned to wash her stash of fruits there before taking off, letting them chill alongside the rest of the day's produce in the early morning waters. It's been too long since he's seen the sight for himself.

Cyno eats his fruit dutifully, a sense of contentment washing over him as the soft skin over the slice breaks between his teeth, mouth bursting with the perfect tartness of a ripe tangerine. Knowing that Collei would sooner rejoice than rebuke him, he grabs another one from the pile.

"You're in luck," he tells her, four slices in. "The tangerines are top notch."

She perks up at the confirmation, setting the last of the slices aside. With a renewed vigour, she bundles up the heaping mound of peels atop her lap, stuffing them into her basket and diving toward their shared stash.

When Collei pops a slice into her mouth, she notably brightens, a soft hum drifting past her lips.

"Wow, you're right, Master Cyno— these really are amazing."

Polishing off another slice, he allows himself to savour it, eyes closed as the cool sweetness envelops his tongue. By the time he exits his reverie, Collei is already munching on another slice. "Orange you glad you brought enough to share?"

This time, she doesn't bother to smother her laughter, a grin splitting her face as violet eyes catch on his self-satisfied smile. And then, just like when she had first entered, her gaze falls down to the bandages wrapped around the column of his neck, tracing the ones that peek out from the wide collar of his hospital gown. Collei looks at his hands, swaddled in gauze from wrist to fingertip, and her laughter withers away. In the space between them: silence.

Cyno shifts, pulling his blanket further up his lap and folding his hands beneath it.

"Collei?"

She opens her mouth, lips trembling. No sound comes out at first, but Cyno waits. The silence blankets them, muted and cold as fresh fallen snow, and just as Cyno worries Collei will give up, she speaks.

"Earlier... When I first came in, I was actually really worried," she blurts, hands falling to her lap. "All the bandages looked pretty bad." Collei's gaze falls down to her clenched hands, stained orange by the fruits she so dutifully peeled. She looks, for a brief second, unbearably small. "That's why... It's good," she sniffles, voice weakening. She raises a fruit-stained hand to her face, fingers parting the curtain of her bangs to palm at hidden eyes.

"Collei..."

"It's good," she hiccups, palming away another wave of tears, "that you're feeling well enough t-to make jokes again. It's good. I'm happy, r-really."

Cyno is struck, again, with a familiar feeling. It's the same pull he felt as Tighnari had left the other day, the one that dragged him by the tongue to call out to his dearest friend. The same feeling coats his tongue again, sweet as the tangerines that Collei had so caringly peeled for him, and outruns him as the words tumble from his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Collei." It's a sentiment he's beginning to understand more and more these days. "It wasn't my intention to worry you."

She sniffles again, clumsily wiping her nose with her sleeve.

"I know," she garbles tearily. "I know you're sorry, I know, but— But if it wasn't your intention, then you wouldn't do it!"

She lifts her head abruptly, and though her hands have dried any traces of tears from her cheeks, her violet eyes still glimmer with the wet sheen of them, nearly as bright as the late afternoon sunlight that rains down upon them. For once, Cyno doesn't know what to say. Collei seems to feel the same, because her eyes widen almost immediately afterward, shoulders hunching inward as she shrinks into her seat.

"I didn't— I don't mean to yell, I just..." She stares at her lap, gnawing at her bottom lip in search of the right words to say. "You're really good at what you do, Master Cyno. There's no way you'd end up..." With a groan, Collei lifts her head, a helpless slant to the sad set of her brows. "If you wanted to, I think you'd still be able to do all this important stuff, but without getting hurt. I hate seeing it, and so does Master Tighnari!"

Taking a steadying breath, she grips the fabric of her scarf, leaning on the scent of home and lavender to give her strength.

"You're important to us," Collei intones, and the intense look in her eyes reminds him of the day he and Tighnari took her on her first hunt. No one knows better how a cornered animal runs than someone who has fled the cage herself. In the face of Collei, Cyno is a rabbit that thought simply outrunning the hunter was sufficient. 

"You don't have to hurt yourself to prove that you're enough," she says. "We already know," and just like that first hunt, Collei doesn't need to move a step to hit directly through the heart. He doesn't notice the sharp burn behind his eyes until Collei gasps, every bit the wide-eyed, startled prey that she has effortlessly made of him.

"M-Master Cyno, I— I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you—"

His hand reaches up of its own volition, bandaged hands flinching when they meet the warm wetness that has gathered atop his lower lashes.

"Ah," he says.

Cyno doesn't feel in control of his body as he dries teardrops with the soft gauze that wraps his burnt fingers, and when his world finally deems to shift itself back into focus, he stares numbly at his damp fingertips.

"Collei, I..."

apologize, his mind finishes for him. But as Collei gawks at him with a naked fear that he thought he had long since saved her from, the repeated apology doesn't feel like enough. His fingers curl into fists, still-healing skin groaning in sharp protest, and Cyno finds it in him to speak.

"You're right."

Collei blinks at him, brows furrowed.

"What do you mean, I'm right?"

"It is... difficult," he grounds out, "to assign value to one's deeds. To ordain certain tasks as worth the cost of your own life and others as not. I have begun to realize that I weighed my own life unduly. Many things can outweigh a single life, but you and Tighnari have reminded me that I carry far more than just my own. Perhaps these precious lives are enough to tip even the grandest scale."

"Master Cyno..."

"Protecting others is no trifling burden," he muses, "but I carry it proudly for those who are important to me. Their weight grounds me, and through them, I will remember to take care. I promise."

He hears another sniffle, rounding his head so abruptly towards Collei that it makes his vision swim. On her cheeks, tears bead like water droplets on the tangerines she had so lovingly peeled apart for him, wetting the shaking tips of her fingers as she swipes them away.

"Thank you. We couldn't ask for anything more."

Collei sniffles again, but her lips still manage to fit themselves around the tenuous shape of a smile — watery and weak, but genuine. Cyno feels the weight of it in his chest, shimmering and solid, and smiles back.

Kaveh arrives in a whirlwind of colour, so early in the day that Cyno almost expects to see the doctor at his door instead of the wide ruby eyes that greet him. Like Collei, he stops halfway into the room, eyes flickering across the myriad bandages and bruises that peek out from the light linen of his top.

"You're in even worse shape than they warned me," he blurts. A wince follows immediately after, an apologetic grimace adorning the man's fair features as he rubs the back of his neck. "Er— I mean! Good... good morning."

Cyno tilts his head, allowing himself a fond huff at Kaveh's exuberance.

"A good morning to you too, Kaveh." Gesturing to the chair set up beside him, he offers a small smile. "Are you going to come in?"

Kaveh seems to perk up at the invitation, and upon noting Cyno's expression, a matching grin begins to take root on his own features, melting the tension that stiffens his shoulders. As he makes himself comfortable, he rifles through Mehrak, digging out a bizarre assortment of items to arrange atop Cyno's bedside table. Crimson eyes watch curiously as he pulls out a disc-shaped object bundled in cloth, an unfamiliar violet fruit, and a knife.

"I figured it's early enough that you haven't had breakfast," Kaveh explains, "so I took the liberty of bringing this along for the both of us!" The room's only window doesn't have the privilege of facing east, but Kaveh's grin is as good as sunrise when he hefts the fruit up, almost comically large in his slender hands.

"I'm unfamiliar with this fruit," hums Cyno, scrutinizing it with fingers to his chin. The combination of its oblong shape and rich purple colouring gives him pause. "With such a deep colour, I hope it's as gourd as it looks."

Kaveh snorts, unraveling his bundled cloth to reveal a plate. He spreads the fabric over his lap before launching into an explanation, swiping the knife from the tableside to punctuate his tale.

"Not quite a gourd, but a gift from an especially well-traveled client of mine," he preens. "It's a lavender melon, native to Inazuma. I've never been able to get my hands on one — import taxes, you know — so I'm looking forward to this."

Setting knife to skin, he begins the methodical process of peeling, mouth moving thrice as fast as the blade in his hands. Kaveh has never needed an invitation to speak in the past, and Cyno finds himself glad that this remains true even now. He lets himself recline against the headboard as Kaveh speaks, rattling off the tale of his latest dinner with Tighnari — the main reason that he'd heard of Cyno's plight to begin with.

"Come to think of it," hums Kaveh, "things have been hectic across the board with you guys! First Alhaitham being weird, then Tighnari coming late to our dinner due to some treasure hoarders at the Liyue border, and then you? Archons, Cyno, it never seems to end with you guys, you know?"

Cyno tilts his head. It's not uncommon for Kaveh to air his grievances about his roommate, but to file his behaviour as weird rather than simply irritating gives Cyno pause.

"Alhaitham?"

"Yeah, Alhaitham. It was around a week or two ago — I've lost track by now. Disappeared for some work thing without a single word of warning, leaving me to worry over nothing!" Kaveh rolls his eyes. "In hindsight, I should've known something was going on earlier. The house had been suspiciously quiet back then. He's usually there being an eyesore over the dining table by the time I come home, but..." He trails off thoughtfully, staring at the melon as he continues to work. Cyno lets the silence linger, watching Kaveh as he ruminates.

His fingers are normally so deft around a paper and quill, but it's evident that a paring knife is a different beast. Kaveh shaves off the purple skin of the melon in clumsy strips and pieces, cleaving off a fair portion of the fruit with each slide of the knife. The scent of lavender melon that billows from him is foreign, but not unpleasant.

Cyno breathes deeply, awash in the sweetness of the melon and the intense floral note that follows it. If he closes his eyes, he's transported to Tighnari's cabin in Gandharva Ville. Lavender is hardly the only medicinal herb the Forest Ranger keeps around, but Collei is especially partial to the delicate shade of purple, so both of their abodes are wreathed with dried bundles of it, instilling the space with a pleasant sense of calm.

"Come to think of it, I noticed that he brought some folders home with him one night... Him. Taking work home. And on top of that, he left for some work trip or whatever — taking my waterskein instead of his own! I assumed he could've been going to the desert with it, but that just makes this feel even more out of character, especially for him! Every time Alhaitham was forced to head out into the desert, I've seen him drag his feet the likes of which you wouldn't believe, not the opposite."

Kaveh's mention of the desert pulls Cyno from his reverie; the mental image of fresh lavender hung to dry above Tighnari's desk quickly fizzles.

"He left for the desert? It's uncommon for the Scribe to have business there," observes Cyno.

A thought occurs to him without preamble, a brief wondering if he could have spotted that unmistakable splash of emerald green somewhere amidst the vast sands. It's odd, says a voice, that we never crossed paths. The strange thought causes him to frown. His mind, in response, simply reasons: how could we? The desert is far too vast to chance upon one man, and Cyno knows that far better than most.

A sudden ha! takes him away from his thoughts, eyes lifting to see Kaveh brandishing his knife around victoriously. The lavender melon sits successfully peeled in his other hand, oddly pale without its skin. With a satisfied nod, he holds the knife perpendicular to the fruit, digging into the soft flesh with little resistance.

"Well, he never actually told me anything — as usual," Kaveh drawls, rolling his eyes. "Maybe he wasn't headed to the desert at all. Ugh, then that means... Was taking my waterskein just some cruel prank?!"

Kaveh's methodical dissection of the fruit gets put on pause as he grips his paring knife with a suddenly stormy expression.

"The nerve of that guy." With a frustrated click of the tongue, Kaveh returns to his cutting, slicing away at the fruit with a renewed vigour. He grumbles to himself as he does so — more complaints about Alhaitham's poor communication skills (to his own roommate, of all people! does he even have any manners!) — and Cyno, as is often the case with Kaveh, finds himself swept away in the tide.

A dozen questions come to mind — Alhaitham wasn't home during the time of Cyno's mission? Was he really in the desert as Kaveh had claimed? But what could he have been doing there? Did he know about Cyno's mission? For a man as precious with his boundaries as Kaveh claims him to be, Cyno finds himself at a loss trying to imagine what could possibly breach those.

Unbidden, his thoughts coalesce into a single question within his throat.

"And you haven't heard from him since he left?"

Kaveh blinks, his vengeful process of slicing the melon stayed by the sudden question. Setting his knife down, he scratches the back of his head.

"No, he came back not too long ago, actually. Finally decided to burst in while I was having dinner last week — scared the living hell out of me, too — looking more upset and exhausted than when he was still forced to manage all those Acting Grand Sage duties. No greeting, not even any eye contact! Just straight to his room. He looked wrecked enough that even I felt bad for him."

Cyno remains silent, letting the information sink in. The room resounds with nothing but the gentle whisper of a knife gliding through soft fruit, near rhythmic as Kaveh piles the sliced melon on his plate.

"Add in the news of your hospitalization, and, well. I'd say have mercy on a man's health, scaring me like that, but walking in this morning... It feels wrong to joke about it, Cyno, with the state you're in now." Sighing, Kaveh bundles up the mountain of peels and the knife, wiping his sticky fingers on the corners of his cloth.

"All this to say, you just... You really had us worried, Cyno. Not everyone can come out of something like that alive."

Looking down, Cyno traces the overlapping lines of gauze on his bandaged hands.

"I... have been hearing that a lot lately," he admits. "Worrying you was never my intention, Kaveh. As I was to Tighnari and Collei, I am sorry to you, as well."

Ruby eyes fly up, blinking at him in shock.

"Huh, why are you apologizing?"

"I caused you undue stress. It's only right."

"That's not— gah, nevermind. You know, not everything needs to be an apology," huffs Kaveh. Before Cyno has the chance to react, pale hands dive into his field of vision, digging beneath his curled fists to unfurl them. When Kaveh places the plate of sliced melons on his lap, Cyno looks up to see soft sunlight from the west, streaming from a small smile instead of his window. "Here. Eat this, and we can call it even."

For a second, Cyno considers him.

"Didn't you want to have some too?"

Kaveh crosses his arms, sniffing as he gives his head a firm shake.

"Nope, changed my mind! You're going to finish this, and then you're going to owe me for it, Cyno, so don't—" Swallowing thickly, Kaveh's faked petulance fades, evening out into something far smaller. " Don't scare us like that again, okay?"

Ah.

Nodding wordlessly, Cyno complies, weighing responses and a bite of lavender melon over his tongue. It's just as sweet as it had smelled, tender and soft against the hardened edge of his teeth. When he swallows, the words come out.

"You were scared?"

"That's putting it lightly," Kaveh laughs hollowly. "Cyno, what if we lost you? You're a part of our lives. Losing you would be like— like losing a hand!"

Cyno starts on another slice, gaze shifting between the pile of fruit and his friend. It's a lot — sweeter and less overwhelmingly fragrant the more he allows himself to eat. He wonders if Kaveh knows he can't finish it on his own.

"I had no idea you thought so highly of me, Kaveh. I am honoured to be considered your right-hand man."

"Augh, you know that's not what I meant! Listen, you've got a whole lot of people who care for you, yeah? When you put yourself in danger — when you nearly die, Cyno — that's a knife in all of their shoulders, ready to cut off the entire arm. It hurts seeing you like this. It would hurt even more if you were gone."

Cyno sighs, moving the plate of fruit to his bedside table.

"I have been hearing that sentiment a lot these past few days," he confesses. "Many things in our lives pass, death included. I once counted mine among those.

"Just because they pass doesn't mean we come out unscathed, Cyno. When it comes down to it, you're more than a hand, or an arm or a leg." Giving his shoulder a gentle punch, Kaveh draws his attention, greeting him with a gentle smile. "You're our friend. So be careful out there, alright?"

"... Heh."

"Huh, what's so funny?"

"This isn't the first time I've made the same promise since I've been injured. I'm beginning to notice a pattern."

"What, that people care for you?" Kaveh drawls. Flashing him a wide grin, he ends up snatching a slice of lavender melon anyway, beaming when the sweetness meets his standards. "That's not a pattern. That's called friendship, you dolt."

Biting back a smirk, Cyno lifts the plate back up, returning it to his lap.

"It's not very friendly of you to call me a dolt, Kaveh. Perhaps I'll keep this to myself after all."

"Wh— Like hell you will! Hand that over!"

Kaveh makes a fumbling dive for the fruit, and Cyno doesn't stop him. He doesn't stop Kaveh from taking another slice, and another, until all that remains is the scent of sugary melon and lavender, and an empty plate gathering sunlight as the day winds on.

Cyno wakes to the sound of flipping pages. It is another late afternoon, sunlight finally beginning to spill in from his west-facing window as he blinks the grogginess out of his eyes. The light isn't so angled that it hits his bed yet, but it illuminates the figure reclining beside him in brilliant shades of gold.

Alhaitham sits with his body half-turned toward Cyno, a sunbeam perfectly positioned to light up the pages of the book he's currently reading. When he hears Cyno begin to move, his attention shifts, immediately catching his eye.

"Ah, good. You're awake." Snapping his book shut, Alhaitham immediately turns to the bedside table, handing Cyno a considerably sized folder. The healing muscles in his arm protest at the weight of it, but it feels far too long since anyone has trusted him with anything lighter than a bowl of water.

Flipping open to the first page, Cyno immediately recognizes the emerald green handwriting, curled around the equally familiar details of his latest mission. Alhaitham leaves him alone to delve into the report, and delve he does. It's shockingly detailed, and Cyno's mind quickly begins to formulate a list of first-hand details that Alhaitham couldn't have known, growing longer with each page. His attention is briefly diverted by a quiet pop, and crimson eyes lift to see Alhaitham uncorking a small bottle of ink atop the bedside table, willowy fingers fishing a ruffled quill out of his satchel to accompany it.

Meeting Cyno's curious gaze, Alhaitham shrugs, offering him the quill.

"I imagine there are a considerable amount of details missing. Note what you will, and I can finalize the report afterward."

"Technically," Cyno begins, "I'm to be put on forced leave for a month after I'm released. I can come up with quite the list of people who would be unhappy to see me working so soon."

He takes the quill anyway.

"I'm sure you can," Alhaitham comments mildly. He pulls out his book once more, effortlessly opening it to the same, unmarked page he was reading before. "Luckily for you, your particularity about reports is hardly a secret, and I couldn't care less about bending a few rules."

Cyno merely grunts in response. His dominant hand is still weak from the severe burns it had suffered earlier, but that ache is easily overpowered by his relief at finally having something meaningful to do. He clutters the wide spaces and empty margins with every detail he remembers, jumping off of Alhaitham's clinical recollection of his mission as his own memories grow sharper.

As he draws closer to the end of the report, there's less and less for him to say; the detail of Alhaitham's recollections becomes inversely proportional to his pain-addled memory of his mission's final moments. Cyno still can't remember how he had gotten from the smouldering sands of the Eremite camp to the Bimarstan, but the closer he draws to the report's end, the more obvious the truth becomes. Kaveh's errant rambling from the other day comes back to mind, and a question Cyno thought he'd forgotten returns to him like a circling comet, this time too tempted by gravity to stay away.

It's odd, his falling star ponders, that Alhaitham had been in the desert, yet Cyno never found him amidst the shifting sands. By the time he reaches the report's last page, a parallel truth stares up at him in emerald green ink:

General Mahamatra Cyno was found in critical condition among the burning remains of the Eremite camp. The Corp of Thirty remained to gather evidence, but my main concern was the General's safe delivery and immediate medical attention in Sumeru's Bimarstan. As of this report's date, he remains unconscious, but alive.

Cyno draws in a slow breath, turning the quill around in his fingers. Lifting his gaze up, he finds Alhaitham watching him from over the top of his book, curious teal eyes waiting for some form of reaction. Something about Alhaitham's patience flays him open all over again, pinned like a butterfly against a board. In between waist-high stacks of paperwork and the poorly hidden scowl he always leaves meetings with, it's easy to forget how patient Alhaitham could be. Cyno doesn't feel in control of his tongue when he speaks, voice low.

"Thank you, Alhaitham."

With a huff and the barest twitch of his lips, Alhaitham sets his book aside.

"Whatever for?" he replies conversationally, pitched around the perfect mockery of innocence. He begins digging through the satchel at his waist again, and Cyno is momentarily stunned when he pulls out a garnet-red apple, his free hand lowering to tug a knife out of his boot. Teal eyes meet his again, and then Alhaitham raises his brow, waiting for an answer.

"The report." Cyno presses his lips together, then swallows. "And... It was you who found me in the dessert, correct? Had I known you were following the case so closely, I would've—"

"With all due respect," Alhaitham interrupts, "I hardly imagine your plan would have changed if you'd known about my involvement, Cyno." He cuts into the apple with the same abruptness, blade audibly cracking against the tough skin as it sinks into the core. Alhaitham repeats the motion, impaling the slice to pry it free. His expression is flat as he holds it out to Cyno. "You're a bit single-minded in that way."

Cyno frowns, plucking the apple from Alhaitham's knife and giving it a petulant bite. His jaw is still sore from the bruises of a few well-aimed punches, and bright pinpoint bursts of pain pop behind his eyes as his teeth gnash against the solidness of a seed. He finishes the rest of the piece in one bite, watches with a grimace as Alhaitham begins to cut him another. 

"The band's willingness to forfeit their lives in the event they were caught was... unexpected," he admits. "It's an oversight I will take due care to consider in the future."

"I take that to mean you won't be considering the fact that you entered an enemy camp alone, without any expectation of backup?"

Cyno's eyes flash.

"Is there a problem with that, Scribe?"

Alhaitham lowers his knife, brows creased around a glare.

"I am not here to bicker with you, Cyno. Your actions were reckless, and they nearly cost you your life." They're words that Cyno has had repeated to him more times than he cares to count these past few days, by people who hold far more sway over his heart than Alhaitham ever has. It makes sense then, that the logic in his icy tone aims to sway Cyno in his head instead. Alhaitham aims high, hoping to knock him off balance. "Look me in the eye and tell me that these injuries couldn't have been avoided if you'd had the foresight to wait before jumping in."

"So you're here to lecture me," mutters Cyno. "If this is about your hand in penning the report, I was planning to write it myself as soon as I was discharged. Your intervention was unnecessary, Alhaitham."

"You know as well as I do that this isn't about the report, Cyno."

Alhaitham scoffs, tearing his gaze away from Cyno to resume his previous task. He digs the knife into the apple again; the skin cracks against the pressure, the flesh hisses as the blade burrows in.

"If you are here out of a misplaced sense of duty, I would rather you leave. Recuperating is hard enough without the added noise of another body."

"I don't make noise," Alhaitham retorts. "And, as you are well aware, my demotion means that you and I no longer work together in an official capacity. If there's any sense of obligation, it is wholly self-motivated." He stabs his latest slice, and the sharp sound serves doubly to punctuate him. "I am here, Cyno, because I'm apparently foolish enough to care about your well-being more than you do."

Despite the severe expression on his features, he still pulls the next slice of the apple free, holding it out to Cyno by knife point. Cyno glowers at him. When Alhaitham doesn't back down, he takes the slice and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. It's leagues more sour than the melon Kaveh had shared with him yesterday, but each bite is a bright burst of tartness that makes the sweetness that follows it all the smoother. It occurs to Cyno, completely unbidden, that talking to Alhaitham often feels the exact same way.

"It is unlike you to play the fool, Alhaitham."

"Just as much as it's unlike you to skirt so close to the boundary of death."

"I do not fear death."

"I'm not asking that you do," he shrugs. "I'm merely pointing out that the few who choose not to, often do it for the wrong reasons. Do you really think throwing your life around so recklessly is an act of selflessness?"

"You are calling my dedication to my work selfish?"

"No. I'm calling you selfish."

Cyno's temper flares.

"You mean to lecture me on selfishness?" he growls, juice-sticky fingertips digging into aching palms. "You, who admitted that your efforts in saving our Archon came from a place of self-interest? I don't have time for your sophistry. Just because you are intelligent, Alhaitham, does not mean you know everything about the minds of others."

"I never claimed I did. Contrary to what you believe, I'd wager that I'm the best person to speak about selfishness." He punctuates his words with another flick of his knife, digging into the flesh of the apple like a death sentence. "I'm a selfish man, after all. I tend to know what it looks like, even under the guise of duty."

Cyno scoffs, crossing his arms. "Enlighten me then, if you're so knowledgeable."

"You're well-versed in dedicating your life to others, are you not? There are a great many people who hold your well-being close to their hearts. You have no shortage of those who consider you their friend, Cyno." There's a startling softness to his remark, words spoken with a carefulness that turns simple truth into something dizzyingly close to a spilled secret, a quiet confession. It aches to know that Alhaitham is capable of that, too. "Knowing this, do you really think your life belongs solely to you?"

Cyno narrows his eyes, jaw clenched. For the past week, Cyno was made to sit here, accompanied by a revolving retinue of his dearest friends and direst thoughts. He's been forced to contend with the very same sentiment more times than he ever had before.

It has never been easy to refute Alhaitham — not just because he is capable of making clear, concise points, but because he knows how to use the bladed edge of those points to strike at where his opponent is weakest. Cyno has learned well what it means to shoulder the concern of others, and that makes it hurt all the worse that Alhaitham, too, understands it well enough to know that Cyno's weakest points will always be the ones he leaves open for others.

In the ensuing silence, Alhaitham huffs, tearing his gaze away from Cyno to cleave another slice from the fruit in his hands. It is offered to Cyno the same way as the previous, hanging on the pointed end of Alhaitham's blade. Cyno feels well enough that he could easily slice his own fruit, but the thought of asking Alhaitham for the knife sits sour on his tongue, washed away only when he takes another crisp, juicy bite.

"Typically," he grumbles, "people don't eat the seeds."

"You're more than welcome to spit them out."

Cyno doesn't, stubbornly finishing the slice of apple in his hands. 

"I accept what I am given," he replies. Alhaitham stares at him for a moment too long before reacting, setting the fruit and blade down on the bedside table. Crossing his arms, he leans back in his chair.

"You could try asking for more. The answer might surprise you, Cyno."

Cyno considers the statement. He takes his time licking the sticky juice from his fingertips, acutely aware of the sharp eyes that study each lazy swipe of his tongue. He half expects Alhaitham to return to his book, but when he finishes cleaning his fingers in steady silence, the man hasn't budged. Catching his gaze, Cyno meets him blink for blink, extending his palm in wordless askance for another piece.

The request prompts the ghost of a laugh past Alhaitham's lips, a half-living thing that is only as real as Cyno allows himself to believe it is. Without so much as a protest, Alhaitham takes up his knife once more. Another slice is pulled free from the rest of the fruit, speared against the knife's tip, but before extending it to Cyno, Alhaitham plucks out the exposed seed with the manicured tip of his nail.

"Satisfied?"

"If removing seeds from fruit is the extent of your caretaking abilities, you will find that I am a difficult man to satisfy, Alhaitham."

Teal clashes against crimson — a gaze held for a half second longer than it needed to be. The apple slice snaps neatly in half between his teeth as Cyno bites down, and he is acutely aware of the way Alhaitham's gaze flickers down to watch him swallow, lingering long enough to be noticed, but gone before Cyno can decide how he wants to react. Cyno's lips taste sweet when he licks them, watching the deft flick of Alhaitham's hands as he returns to his task of cutting Cyno another seedless slice.

By the time he has polished off half of the apple, the absurdity of their situation begins to sink in. The sweetness that lingers on his teeth and tongue is the same one that coats the tips of Alhaitham's fingers, glinting along the sharp edge of the knife held firm against his palm. Like Tighnari, there is a kind of caring in his actions that belies the severe expression he wears. Unlike Tighnari, whose concern has always been a constant between them, Cyno hardly has such a history with Alhaitham.

He does not question Tighnari's concern, nor does he doubt Collei's worry or Kaveh's disquiet. Something about Alhaitham's is different, and that detail begins to bother him more with every new slice. When the fruit dwindles down to no more than a quarter of what it once was, juice glistening against the open flat of Alhaitham's palm, Cyno's mouth outruns him.

"Why are you even here, Alhaitham?"

The man pauses, knife angled against the exposed inside of the remaining slice. Teal eyes lift upward.

"What were the words you used to describe it? I'm... playing the fool, I believe it was."

"I am asking for your reason, not mine."

"Is it that difficult to believe I'm here of my own volition?" Alhaitham replies, clicking his tongue. Instead of slicing the last quarter of the apple down the middle, he angles his blade diagonally, shearing off the small section that holds the last of its seeds. There is a harsh curve to his brows, the beginnings of a scowl standing at odds with his conversational tone. "It's a disservice to merely call you faithless, General. You really are cruel."

Cyno bites back a flinch, stomach churning with guilt at the accusation. It rings doubly true knowing that, of all Cyno's visitors, Alhaitham is the only one he had deigned to question. For all that Cyno prides himself on fairness, Alhaitham somehow manages to be his only exception, time and time again.

Gritting his teeth, Cyno draws in a slow, steadying breath.

"It wasn't... I didn't intend for it to be a slight against your character," he responds stiffly. Alhaitham seems wholly unmoved, studying him with the same even intensity as he would a book.

"You hardly hesitated to slight me before. Why the sudden change?"

Cyno's gaze drops into his lap. Their lone pillar of sunlight has moved over the course of their conversation, spilling gold over Cyno's blanketed legs. He takes a quick moment to gather his thoughts, observing how the juice on his fingers catches errant beams of light.

"It has... recently been made known to me that there are more people who care about my safety than I had originally thought," Cyno admits. "You are here," he mutters, "and... I apologize. For doubting that, and for doubting you, as well."

Alhaitham looks at him for too long. He does that a lot, and Cyno, for the life of him, hasn't learned how to decipher the runic shape of his features whenever he does. He knows there is meaning in the pinched lips and slight crease of his brows; the path his teal eyes trace spells out messages in a language Cyno hasn't quite grasped. He is always astute enough to catch the fleeting flickers of emotion that flutter across Alhaitham's face, but he is still too slow to put a word to them before they fade away.

Slicing the last remaining portion of the apple in half, Alhaitham sets aside his knife, holding the last two pieces out to Cyno on the flat of his palm. As soon as Cyno takes one, pale fingers curl around the remainder, snapping it in half without missing a beat. He pops one half in his mouth as Cyno polishes off his portion, and when he finally swallows, Alhaitham holds the last half up to him.

Just as Cyno takes it, Alhaitham curls slender fingers around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Their eyes meet, a clash of teal and questioning crimson, and when Cyno tries to pull away, Alhaitham's grip tightens. His gaze flickers down to their connected hands, a slight frown pulling at his lips as if the motion itself was entirely involuntary.

"Alhaitham."

Alhaitham swallows, gaze lifting so abruptly that Cyno swears he feels something in his chest jump.

"You're a stubborn man, Cyno," comments Alhaitham.

Leaning forward, Alhaitham snatches the last bite of fruit from between Cyno's fingers with his teeth. When lips brush the sticky tips of his fingers, Cyno tries and fails not to flinch, a motion that melts into a shudder as willowy fingers loosen their grip just enough to slide down his forearm, warm even through the layered bandages that cover it.

"An apology from you could rival diamond in terms of rarity, but even then, there's little more to it than mere words." Alhaitham's voice is a low murmur as he studies the wrapped lines of Cyno's bandages, fingers tracing each overlapping seam. "And words alone aren't capable of fixing the damage you insist on inflicting upon yourself."

"As a student of language," Cyno begins, overwhelmingly breathless, "I would think that words are more than enough for you, Alhaitham."

"Not here," he mutters. "Not now. Not from you, Cyno."

"Then what would be enough for you?"

"I told you I was selfish, didn't I? It shouldn't come as a surprise if I were to ask you for everything. Not just your promise of a safe return, but the man who returns safely as well."

Cyno swallows, eyes falling to the clenched curl of his fingers.

"And if that man isn't mine to give you?"

Alhaitham's hand stills against his fraying bandages, slender fingers nearly long enough to circle neatly around his forearm. Through the cloth, it's hard to tell how much of this feeble scholar's hands are mottled with callouses. Cyno is familiar with the grip of a sword and quill. It's easy to imagine the supposed cartography of Alhaitham's hands, to map out every curve of roughened skin that might stretch taut over his willowy bones. The pads of a swordsman's fingers are often softer than the rest, kept safely away from the palmed grip of a blade, and Cyno swallows when Alhaitham's press into the meat of his arm.

"Are you saying you'd give him to me if he were?"

Their eyes meet. Alhaitham's smirk isn't quite imperceptible purely by virtue of Cyno being able to perceive it, but Cyno knows himself well enough to admit that his eyes are keener than most. Somehow, that fact rings doubly true when it comes to Alhaitham.

Cyno swallows, searching for his voice. Alhaitham, in all his patience, waits for him to find it. They often end up like this: Cyno always at odds with where he thinks Alhaitham's patience wanes and how much further the reality stretches. It disarms him every time, and yet he lets his curiosity chase every new horizon in the hopes of seeing that end.

"You're not one to chase trouble," he comments.

"Generally speaking, no. I'm not," Alhaitham agrees.

"If that is true," muses Cyno, "then I can't imagine why you would go through the trouble of chasing me."

Alhaitham leans back in his chair, undeterred. There's an amused tilt to the set of his lips, eyes tracing what must be the golden knife-cut of sunset beaming light and shadow across Cyno's face.

"Selfishness is strange that way, isn't it? There's little I wouldn't sacrifice in pursuit of what I want, regardless of who it belongs to. I'd argue that that makes us similar. You lay down a life that you say belongs to Sumeru to do your job, and I sit here, putting a heart on the line to ask you not to."

"And who does this heart belong to, Alhaitham?"

"It would be mine if not for you," sighs Alhaitham. He runs a hand through his hair, and the look he levels Cyno with is nearly enough to bowl him over. "If you could forgo your recklessness in favour of staying alive, perhaps we could even call it yours."

"Mine," Cyno mutters, if only to taste the word on his tongue. He doesn't pause to consider that Alhaitham can hear him, nor is he prepared for something akin to wonder to spark in those teal eyes at the sound.

"I've recently made many promises to others that I care about," Cyno tells him. "I would count you among them, as well. Let me make you a promise, Alhaitham."

He holds out a hand, fully expecting Alhaitham to take it. Instead, he finds fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, a hand pulling him forward until his palm rests over a warm chest, the faint staccato of a heartbeat strong enough to bleed through the wrapped layers of his gauze.

"I accept."

"You would accept without hearing my terms?"

Alhaitham flashes him a small smirk as he asks, "Do I have reason to be concerned, my General?"

The way his chest tightens is undeniable, and Cyno can't stifle the quiet laugh that escapes him, tugging his lips up in a helpless half-smile.

"My safe return," Cyno promises. "And perhaps, in time, the man who returns as well."