Sweet Dreams are Made of These
Cyno x Bard!Reader x Kaveh
Previous part.... Bard!Reader Masterlist.....
Warnings: In game racism (?) of the Sages against the desert folk/eremites. Gaslighting, Job market polarization ('Bad jobs' the desert folk do to survive), MURDER, DISSOCIATION. These parts will be marked beginning and end by a RED BAR. if you want to skip look past those. Word count: 7.1K.
Oh Cyno. You’re such a fucking idiot.
He jolts awake at his desk, immediately alert. Who… Who called him? Was he dreaming? About what?
It's late. He fell asleep at his desk. How odd.
Do you want me to seduce you?
He shakes his head of the drowsiness, sighing hard. How annoying. He's just been sleeping over all this paperwork, work that he could've been working on? He thought he had an adequate amount of sleep, proportional to his workload. He needs to adjust it, if he's falling asleep like this.
He rubs the sleep from his eyes and looks at the report his cheek was plastered to. The written interrogation of a scholar, suspected of being an accomplice to one of his wayward classmates.
Said wayward classmate has been stealing and selling Akademiya knowledge. Essentially contraband. He's been writing down all the information he could and selling it to the eremites, to do Archons knows what with. Smart, since the Akasha could be tracked easier than paperwork.
The exact contents of said contraband was in a different report though. The accomplice's interrogation, carried out by another matra, simply noted the strange times he would arrive at the dorms and leave, the frantic way he wrote everything down.
The case landed on his desk, now that a matra had caught him meeting with another known associate of the eremites. It would be up to Cyno to track and interrogate him. Should he do anything incriminating, Cyno will have to arrest him, as well as the suspected accomplice. He probably already would.
Cyno sighs hard, again; He needs to have all this paperwork done by tonight if he wants to be on track. He couldn’t believe he fell asleep.
There's a knock on his door, and he barks out a quick, “Who is it?" Sharper than he meant it, but anyways, a young secretary pokes his head in.
"Um, General? So sorry for interrupting you at the late hour. The…The Grand Sage calls for an audience." He doesn't show any signs, but his heart sinks at the familiar words.
He stands from the desk without another word, and walks out the room, shutting it and paying no heed to the floundering secretary, sending him scuttling with a look. He makes way.
He walks the halls, his footsteps hardly a sound. His hand trails along the cool walls, tapping, counting.
Azar is a distinguished man, with many years at the Akademiya under his belt. He's seen generations of scholars pass and fail, and has been the judging hand in many of these fates.
A man like that doesn't survive being Grand Sage with clean hands.
The room is darkened, with only a lamp on either side of the man's desk, lighting up the documents there.
"The paperwork never seems to end, does it?" Azar has even more documents and articles on his desk than Cyno’s doubled, and Cyno wonders when this man ever sleeps.
"It's part of the job sir."
"Ah, yes, unfortunately. If I trusted anyone else competent enough I would gladly offload it all. Alas, only certain people are suitable for certain jobs. Right, General?"
Cyno isn't sure if he should answer, so he doesn't. He stands there and waits for the conversation to go the way he knows it always goes. But Azar seems content with this nothing-talk.
“You’re not wearing your Akasha, Cyno.” His hand flies to his ear, where the device would emit that green symbol.
“...How did you know I wasn’t wearing it sir?” He hasn't even looked up yet.
“Because I am the Grand Sage, Cyno boy. Tell me, how long did you have it off? Did you have any pleasant dreams?” Only children dream in Sumeru, and Cyno is not a child. He doesn't miss the implication though. And it doesn't escape him how, nonetheless, he still dreams.
Peach fuzz. Eyes flutter like dove wings. A mouth that sears across his like fire; the curve of a knee and the bend of the spine.
Do you want me to seduce you?
He shakes his head free of the fog.
“No, sir. Too tired to dream. I’ll put my Akasha back on when I return to my office.”
Azar nods his approval. "Good. Now, with all this work, it's important to rest, as well as to go outside and get some exercise. Have you been doing that, General?"
"I keep my body in top condition sir."
"Of course you do. Do you take any time off for yourself? You need time to rest, boy. You work hard enough as is, you should ‘party’ hard’ too, like the youth these days.”
Cyno gives a noncommittal shrug, and Azar sighs. “Well, you can relax after this job I have for you. Put yourself to use and get some fresh air. Here." He holds out an indiscrete envelope, which he knows is his next job.
He opens it and looks it over as the Grand Sage speaks.
"We've been so focused on that Monstadt pest that it seems we've fallen behind in keeping order within the Akademiya. This one has been undermining us with this little ploy of his, you should have already read the reports. He annoys me. Take care of him, will you?"
Take care of him. He knows what that means. Normally, he doesn't speak, not anymore, and yet…
"This is the scholar suspected of selling information to the eremites."
"Yes, those brutes."
"...The report said that he's been selling general lesson plans, exams and answers for the past entrance exams. We change the tests every year, so that is general knowledge anyone with general permission can access.”
“Well, yes. We change the order of questions and topics and even the questions themselves lest a pattern be found, and the entrance exams lose their set purpose. Tell me. What is their set purpose?”
“To weed out the ones not knowledgeable nor capable enough to survive here.”
“Or worthy enough. Exactly.”
Cyno doesn't shuffle on his feet. “...Sir, the scholar can be charged with unlawful distribution of Akademiya knowledge, or even copyright infringement, if we push it perhaps. Akademiya knowledge such as official tests and dissertations are copyrighted. But his crimes don’t seem too…discriminatory. Severe." Azar doesn't speak.
“For lack of a better word, sir.”
Azar doesn't even look up from his paperwork.
“He's been selling it so that those desert folk could have a shot at passing the entrance exams,” he supplies, his voice going low.
“Like a sort of study plan. He's been working to create a sort of basic general education for the younger desert folk. Better than whatever education system they might have."
Cyno nods. "He should have proposed the idea to the Sages instead of selling off the information. But does this require my involvement, sir?"
"Oh? You would have one of your subordinates take the case? Giving one of them a chance to shine, hm?"
"No. Sir, I'm wondering why there is a case at all." Finally, Azar looks up. He looks at Cyno, puts down his pen and folds his hands.
"Cyno," he says his name. Says his name properly, the first syllable a long ‘EE’, rather than a hard ‘I’, like most others say it as. It's a common misconception. Cyno.
"From whom do the Corp of Thirty originate from?"
"They are a faction of the eremites."
"And what do they do?"
"Protect Sumeru."
"Yes. And tell me, who makes up the majority of the Corp of Thirty, and the eremites, and the merchants and store owners in Sumeru? Answer that and tell me why, as well."
"All of them are mainly…desert folk. Those trying to seek a better life."
Azar has his hands steepled over the desk, his eyes hard and level and flat.
“...I don't have to spell things out for you Cyno, you were an Akademiyian student. An exemplary one in fact. That's the only reason why I didn’t have you pressured out in fear of your…proclivity to violence, all those threats and fights—that, and respect for your adoptive father.”
“I was not a violent student. Those fights were usually instigated by the other party–”
"You did not grow up in the desert, but still, there is a savageness in you Cyno. It's in your blood. So imagine those who thrive there. Why there no shortage of eremites and mercenaries despite the high mortality rate. It's in the blood.”
Before he could even refute that (but wasn’t he right? He is violent), because he had to be wrong, if not misinformed, Azar went on.
“It’s why I have you take on the more…Unsavory jobs. You do what needs to be done. We just take the desert folk’s penchant for violence, and repurpose it to something more honorable, less harmful for everybody. Mostly Cyno, we need them as our soldiers, not our scholars. If we let them study and fill our halls, who will serve as our civil defenders? Our guards and protectors? Who would help us boost our economy?
“I will not let the Akademiya's great prestige and peace be marred. Especially not by someone so naively hopefully and with so little subtlety." He waves his hand, back to his papers.
"I want to make an example out of him. So I expect you to do a thorough job, sometime by the end of this week." That'll only give him a couple of days.
"Everything is in the folder. You should see where he's heading and ambush him there. Your other matra already did most of the tracking for you, so you just need to follow through." Cyno gives one last glance to the paper in his hand, before sliding it into the envelope.
“Cyno.” He looks up.
Azar levels him with a look, heavy and long, yet the apathy there is dull edged like a rusted knife. “This is for the better good of Sumeru, and her people. I enjoy this as much as you do. You understand that, right?”
"...Yes, sir." And he leaves.
There are still students in the library, briskly walking the halls back and forth. The bright stars in their eyes have been replaced by dark bags and desperation, and the gleam of spite for unfunded projects and encroaching deadlines.
He trails his hand along the walls as he walks back to his office, for some reason not in a hurry. People avoid his path so it is clear, and moonlight follows his footsteps as he trudged back.
The boy is not even in his mid-twenties yet. And Cyno has to kill him. He's not that much older. A year or so.
He's not putting on his akasha, he’s going to sleep tonight, damn the paperwork. Hopefully he won't remember his nightmares tonight.
Maybe he’ll dream of you again.
There's so much blood.
Of course, he knows why there is so much blood but it doesn't really lessen the shock of how much of it there is. It always surprises him. For some reason. Why does it surprise him? It was worse in the beginning. He's learned to compartmentalize so it's simpler now.
Raise the staff. Strike. Avoid blows. Attack. Cut down the enemy.
Make sure they don't get back up.
He cuts them all down, wheedling out the group. The hideout they've been meeting has red splattered on the walls, on the children's pictures plastered there; red like their scarves, red like his blades.
The scholar falls to one knee as he makes eye contact with the ruddy smear of his eyes. Like the blood he spills, as the last eremite rushes to engage him. He gets up and starts running though.
When the last falls Cyno stands for a moment, listening to the ringing in his ears. He wonders… why exactly he doesn't like to wear shoes…? His feet are soaked in blood. It'll make the sand stick.
He turns and chases down the scholar boy. The threshold is so red he doesn't leave any footprints.
The sand is hot. The sun is hot. It'll only get hotter.
He finds the Scholar not too far off, and immediately pounces on him, pinning him to the sands. He scrambles, but there's nowhere for him to go.
Strangely enough, he starts laughing. His hands fisting in the sands, voice high and hysterical, his eyes bulging. He doesn’t meet Cyno's eyes though, eyes scrambling for purchase anywhere else. Cyno finds he does not mind this, but he’s confused.
"Why are you laughing–"
"You're going to kill me, right, right? Oh fuck, what did I do? What did I even do?!" His voice rises, higher and higher, panicking.
"It's an order from the Sages. You have been found guilty of treason against the Akademiya–"
"What did I even do?!” He answers himself before cyno could. “I'm handing out lesson plans for the desert kids and that's treason? Why? Scared you won't have enough soldiers to lick your heels?" He spits, harsh vitriol. Cyno's eyes squint at the jab. The boy sees this, and laughs again.
"So, so that's why? And you're just going to kill me because they said so?" His voice breaks down suddenly, betraying his terror and desperation. Irrationally– it's so irrational, it makes Cyno angry.
If the boy is going to put on some bravado he could at least make sure the act doesn’t slip.
"I tried to stop it," the words pull at him, bringing reality slightly back into focus.
The boy scoffs, but it's more of a splutter of tears and snot. “Looks like you didn't try hard enough.”
"You were too outspoken, too bold. They were already on edge, now they want to make an example out of you." The boy blinks furiously, and his lips tremble in their half snarl.
"You're from the desert, aren't you? Shouldn't you want a better life for those kids? More than anyone?"
"I didn't grow up in the desert." He scoffs, and indignation drains the fear from his face.
"Those kids don't have anything. Either they join the Eremites or Corp of Thirty after failing the entrance exam, or if they get in, they’re stressed and pressured to drop out after a year or two. There's nothing else."
"I’m plenty sure that their economy would be in shambles if that were the case."
"But of course!" He laughs again.
"There's other professions. They could be merchants, but really that's a nice word for smugglers. Store owners, if they want to live while paying the exorbitant fees for a license. Assassins, sorry, Eremites, are always in high demand, especially with the high death rate. Cartels are all the rage. The brothel industry always needs more workers to satiate the demand. Oh, and there's always those who want an extra spouse or two, someone less privileged so that they can feel benevolent, beholden to. Like they’re doing some good thing. It's all sick. I'm fucking sick of it!” And, again, he starts to weep.
"Is it so bad I wanted something more for these kids? Shouldn't we give them a chance?"
Cyno can't think, and he feels half frozen, which is strange for being in a desert. He shouldn't even be thinking, he shouldn't be talking either. Cyno should have already slit his throat and left him to bleed while he starts to take care of the bodies.
The scholar smirks as he raises his weapon, but it trembles, barely put together.
"And to think these kids look up to you. The great General Mahamatra. The Sages dog, trained to bite–" his weapon slams into the sands by his head, throwing up a little sand cloud.
"....If I let you go, can you swear you'll stay undercover?"
His eyes fill with confusion, a little outrage. "....You killed all those men there, and you're going to let me go?"
“Who knows, maybe they’re still alive. I’m rather pressed for time, you know. I might have rushed the job.”
“I saw all that blood, those injuries— You couldn’t have–”
“Do you want me to slit your throat here? Leave you bleeding out in the sands, slowly, while I deal with this mess? The bodies? At least those already dead. While I cut them up and dispose of them, perhaps feed them to the desert foxes?" The boy's hair, its sweat-plastered to his forehead and his cheeks, crusted with sand and salt.
He trembles, hard, silent.
"I'll stage your death as they instructed me to do. You’ll be declared missing for a few weeks, or months, depending. Then we learn, you were conducting illegal, dangerous business with the eremites, finally they decided you weren't worth your keep, and decided to get rid of you. How horrible. How terrible. A tragedy. He was so young, so full of promise." A sort of whimper-shriek-sob leaves his clenched teeth when Cyno sets his palm flat against his belly, pressing down hard against the flinch.
"I admit, the Sages have been on edge lately, which is why they hard pressed me into this situation. They're upset with me too, but if I do this job, that'll ease their minds some.
"So why shouldn't I kill you? You're right, why should I leave you alive when the others aren't? What makes you so special? I don't even remember your name."
He doesn't. Or maybe he just never learned it. It slipped from his mind from the reports, and Cyno doesn't know if it's his guilt or his consciousness that's keeping it from the forefront of his mind.
His eye sight is looking a little blurry at the edges now, like a mirage, wavering and blurry.
"...Please don't kill me."
"Hm.” He nods. “I can't ensure that you won't try anything."
"I'll stay with the desert folk, I won't leave! I won't deal with the Eremites again, ever again, never, okay?!"
"And what would you even do?"
"What I've been doing. I'll…work as a teacher for the kids, I'll just stay low! Just…please don't kill me." Tears slip out his eyes and his hands fist themselves in the sands.
He's not even in his twenties. Cyno's not that much older.
He feels like it though.
It's a familiar feeling, and all too familiar motions; He's done this so many times he swears he could dream of it. But it always felt necessary, those times.
The way he pulls out a dagger and plunges the thing into the eye socket, past the soft squish of flesh and into the brain. Press down hard, dig it in deep. The body writhes, violent, half a groan slipping past the lips, a few spasms before it twitches still.
It's quick. Not painless, but quick. No time to despair. Perhaps one second of panic, and then stillness.
Just like that. There.
He piles the evidence, a bit too meticulously, makes sure he has the most important paperwork, a journal, (the rest will stay) and sets the base on fire. There are colored pencil drawings on the desk. Walls. Despite better judgment, he takes a couple, folds them and presses them into a pocket.
Is it done? A message pings through his akasha.
Yes. I'm burning the place down.
Have you collected the information from the Akasha?
Yes. I have the journal as well.
Good. Head back now. The fire will be dealt with and forensics will go to inspect the bodies. That is, if they find anything.
I did my job. You won't find anything.
…Meticulous as always, Cyno.
Will we go ahead with the plan and alert the boy's family?
No. They'll file a missing person's report eventually and it'll go cold in a couple months. You can head back now. You have the next three days off.
And like that Azar's line is cut off.
He stares at the flames, kicking up the sides of the base like a hungry beast. In his left hand he holds the journals. In his right, his weapon. The blood is dry, tight and sticky now, and is flaking off.
He starts the trek back.
There are soft hands on him, and he jolts awake from the sensation. He doesn't know where he is. What time is it? How did he get here? How long was he out?
Why are you kneeling there, at his feet?
You hold up your hands in a placating motion.
"You collapsed outside and I found you. I just brought you here before anyone else could see you. You're covered in blood and sand."
"Where are we?"
“At a nearby inn.” He swerves his head, and standing in the doorway is none other than the Grand Scribe, Alhaitham.
“And by nearby I mean In Sumeru city. You’re far from the desert, General.”
Immediately his brow furrows.
“And why would I be here?” In an inn?
“Because they found you slump in an alley, and insisted that we bring you inside before enough of a crowd came to witness your debacle,” he waves his hand dismissively, blase.
“Seeing me, they insisted I help them."
"I didn't take you for the good samaritan type," Cyno drawls.
"I'm not. I refused, until they threatened to make a scene. You know I don’t particularly like you enough to help you.” His eyes slid to the side, towards you, not a glare but still irritated.
"But I hate a scene even more."
“...How do the two of you know each other?” Cyno moves to step off the bed and your hands flounder, trying to encourage him to lay back. He ignores you and focuses his eyes on the scribe, who remains nonplussed.
"We just met, actually. In person at least." You offer.
"Oh yes, the one man you call to aid you just happens to be the Grand Scribe. The same man who helped direct you in your process of acquiring your vision license." You pout, trying to look cute, but it just makes you look petulant.
"It was the secretaries I met up with, who passed on his word. The work was carried up the chain through them up to him, so I never even met him. I just picked him out because he looked strong. I didn't want to carry you up all those stairs."
“Do not try and play me for a fool,” he scowls. "You two know each other. I can tell."
"You're swaying on your feet General, forgive me if I don't trust your judgment." The Scribe rolls his eyes, and tosses a case to you. You catch it, and he notices the red cross on its front.
"Answer me. How long have you known him, and what have the two of you discussed?"
"I told you I just met him, and based on his snarky ass attitude, I don't want to know him." Your eyes flash, sharp and gleaming.
“Such kind words.”
You roll your eyes at the Scribe. "I said what I said. So? Is there any way you can prove that I'm lying, beyond your intuition of course? Or are you just going to take the both of us into custody?"
"He can't do that unless he wants to break protocol," Alhaitham says. "He needs probable cause to arrest us, which he doesn't have beyond suspicion, that is."
Cyno clenches his jaw, feeling his teeth grind together.
"But I'm sure Azar would understand if you simply skipped that. Of course, to the General, protocol must be just a formality. Surely the Grand Sage trusts you?"
"Enough." He cuts a hand through the air like a knife. The Scribe is too keen, and knows him too well.
"If that's all I'm going to check in with the Matron-I'll make sure she stays silent. Deal with him, why don't you." The Scribe leaves, and shuts the door with a decisive click.
Cyno doesn't untense, he stares at where Alhaitham left with a slow simmering, crackling anger in his chest.
“So… Can I take care of your mess now?" You sigh, near forgotten. Near. Because when he turns his gaze back onto you you flinch.
“....”
“...What is it?” You shy away.
He scoffs. “You deny it so vehemently, but I know. You think you have that man wrapped around your finger, like how you had him to sign the form for you. But that man is too conniving. He'll use you until you're an empty husk, and then toss you aside."
"...Okay then. You done?"
His brow digs further down. "Do not make light–"
“I told you I'm unaffiliated with that man. He's snarky and condescending and talks like a textbook. Why would I want to know someone like that?"
That…gives him pause. "...You're right about that. He is particularly frustrating." Always sneaking off and rubbing people the wrong way.
"Exactly."
"...You truly called him over, by chance to help you?"
"Yes. I understand what a crazy coincidence it is...but have you seen his biceps? That’s why I called him over. He's strong, although I don't know what a Scribe would need to be so strong for."
"Because he's always planning something. I've warned you, stay away from that man."
"Aw, are you worried about me Cyno?" You grin up at him, and Cyno forgets to breathe for a moment.
"...?" You tilt your head at his silence, and with a hard sigh he turns away, and sits back on the bed.
"No. I just don't want to deal with what the both of you could get up to together."
"Oh, and here I was getting my hopes up." You pout again, and this time, you do succeed in looking the slightest bit cute.
He still feels like his mind is drifting away. He watches in some mute interest as you bring a small basin and cloth over, and start to wash the crust off his feet. He doesn't know why he lets you. He notices the first aid kit to his side, and watches you as you work.
“You’re playing with fire, bard.”
“I’ve lovingly been called an arsonist before,” You grin. But it slides away.
“...The Akademiya is hellbent on beating me down, and you’re constantly on my tail. I have to use all the cards I have at my disposal.” You hold his ankle gingerly, and he can feel the pads of your fingers, under the cloth at his heel.
“....So you try seducing government officials?”
"Yeah, are you in love with me yet?" Cheeky fool.
"What kind of fool flirts with danger like you do?"
"Only the most romantic fools."
“But a fool nonetheless.” You give a noncommittal shrug, slipping into deeper thought.
"Yes. Though I suppose it is better than the alternative." You stop, a thought striking you. He just watches as you gather yourself and start drying his feet, patting firmly.
"Which is?"
"Holding myself up in some corner, shivering in fear and trepidation."
"..."
Cyno sighs, relenting, and lets his elbow fall on his knee, resting his chin on his palm. It provides him a better angle to stare down at you. "You’re scared?"
"Yes, I am."
"Of me?"
"Of course I'm scared of you. You represent everything that can or has gone wrong so far. I can hardly find work because people are too scared of coming across you. There are establishments and restaurants that refuse to let me enter. You can only imagine the amount of people eager to sell me out for some mora. Some already tried.
“Did you know the Zubayr theater almost shut down during all the interrogations you held for its members?"
"Of course I know." He mumbles, rubbing at the sand crusted in his lashes. "They shouldn't have entertained the idea of keeping you."
"Ooh, you sound like a jealous lover–"
"Do not jest." You chuckle, shoulders shaking.
"Well, don't worry. They let me go."
"...I know.” Zubayr told him himself, during his interrogation. So much for his impassioned speech about talent and hard work.
The smile remains on your face, but there is a somberness that pulls at his edges, and your eyes are sad. You wear your expressions openly, and Cyno doesn't like the way his chest tugs down with your mood. It angers him. It confuses him.
“Why do you pursue me?" You start applying a salve to his feet, bitter smelling and thick. You grab bandages next.
"I could ruin everything for you. I'm trying to."
"...Well, just because!" Just like that your pep is back.
"Doesn't it sound lovelier if I best you in love rather than combat? I think it does."
"You don't care for me." Cyno lifts his head, lets his hand smack down to his open lap. He looks down with all the spiteful righteousness he can muster, and he wishes you would shy away or fidget, instead of meeting his eyes.
"You don't even care for me but you play around like this. Do you truly think me so young and unseasoned? Are you truly so flippant?”
“What?” Now it's your turn to be confused, because your face twists like you ate something sour.
"Of course I like you, Cyno. I wouldn't 'play around like this' if I didn't. But that doesn't change the fact that you're…you."
"Yes. And you are scared of me."
"I’m scared of what you can do, I’m not scared of you, Cyno.” Finally finished, you stand, brushing the sand off your thighs.
“I’m a very stringent man.”
“And a very handsome and awkward one too.”
“I’m stubborn, and told I’m often the wet blanket at social functions.”
You giggle. “So?”
“Not a good metaphor when my element is Electro.”
“No, I guess not. But I happen to like your dour attitude, so I don't mind.”
“...I’m a very violent man. It's in the blood. My blood.” Like how it's still crusted in his nails, the lines of his palms. He raises his hand up to the light to show you.
“Disease of the blood is hard to cure, especially if you were born with it.”
And you, strangely, don't react as you should. Though you both know the blood isn’t his. Maybe it would be more strange if you did react as you should’ve. You just take the cloth you put aside, and start cleaning his hands, using your nails to dig under the grime of his own.
“We exist in the world in two planes,” you say. “Mental and physical. Just as we are our mind and emotions and thoughts and morals, we are our actions too, or inactions. Nothing is predetermined, everything is just a result of consequence, a huge unfathomable cycle of cause and effect. The only way to predict it is to evaluate ourselves, and our effect on the world.”
You’re not getting much blood out, but still you try.
“So you could be all those things, that we both said, because we’re people, and people are large, we contain multitudes. Sometimes, being perceived by someone else lends ourselves to more authenticity. But, Cyno...Don’t let someone else's words dictate who you are; Just be whoever you want to be. Follow your head, but follow your heart too.”
“...” And what does he say to that? Could he say he’s felt split in half for as long as he could remember, like two puzzle pieces that only fit together sometimes? And not easily, even now he feels disconnected, like a socket pulled out of place.
But your words make sense, and land somewhere Cyno though he had long sealed away.
You have a habit of doing that.
"Who are you?" Cyno asks. "Tell me Bard, or criminal. Knight? Who are you, you confuse me." It comes out unbidden, but Cyno finds that he cares more about your answer. You hum a note under your breath, light and soft.
"I'm all those and more. I really hope I'm more. But I’m… just me. Just me. What about you?"
"Me?"
Your face takes on a commiserating look.
"Who are you? Sometimes I wonder if there's any of you beyond what the Akademiya needs. Cyno, the General Mahamatra. But what about Cyno the man?”
A rush of heat makes his skin prickle, and all of a sudden he’s acutely aware of how small the room is, how close you are.
He bristles. “Did I not tell you to stop this? Do not try to endear yourself to me–”
“I'm not. I sympathize with you. Pity you, a little. You remind me of myself in some odd way. The way you are, it's why I left home.” A bitter note, sour and unagreeable paints your face.
“We both give too much of ourselves to the things we devote ourselves to, huh?”
“You’re a civilian now, whoever you were before. You're not like me. You’re–”
“I’m what? A ‘good person’? Is that what you were going to say? I know you’ve done horrible things,” your eyes flick down to his hands, where he could still feel the leftover blood under his nails, sticky and grimy. Your mouth presses into a flat line, and you gesture halfheartedly towards him.
"And that...you will continue to. I…I already know that Cyno."
He looks at your hands, your arms; your sleeves are rolled up and you have tan lines. Your skin looks smooth, but tiny pock marks dot you, little scars and wispy hairs. Beads of sweat. It's hot here. In Sumeru. Your shoulders and your hair and your neck and your face.
Cyno knows that he dreams of this.
Never mind the fact that none but children ever do dream in Sumeru. He does, just knows it. He can feel it. This moment might be a dream too, this moment too still and heavy to be anything else.
You said people exist on two planes, mental and physical. So which plane does he exist on when he dreams of you, neither mind nor body, just pure longing?
For once, he doesn't shove down the thought, he doesn't stop to think. His mind is wandering anyways, he can't seem to hold on to his thoughts anymore than he could hold smoke. He reaches a hand and holds your chin. Your mouth is soft under his thumb.
"....You did something really bad today, didn't you." You don't say it like a question. The blood isn't his, you know this.
"Yes." But he doesn't want to think about that. Tonight he'll take off his akasha and let the nightmares rampage. He'll see the bloody Eremites, feel the suction of flesh as he pulls the knife out while the boy, he laughs and weeps and rages at him, and all the faces from before come back to haunt him.
"...You're actually a really bad person, aren't you?" You breathe.
"Didn't you say I remind you of yourself?”
“Yeah. That's how I know." And he kisses you.
It's your turn to be shocked now. You release a muffled squeak when he pulls you up to his mouth, a hand on his arm steadying yourself. He doesn't think about how he's never actually kissed anyone before, except that time you kissed him in the alleyway, something dark and heavy, just awakened.
He snakes his other hand to the small of your back, fists his hand in the cloth there, holds on, holds on. He's never done this before.
But he thinks this is the way it's supposed to be. He likes the way your mouths mold together, the taste, how close you are. You're warm, but in a good way. You can get closer. You can get a lot closer.
He dreams of this. The peach fuzz of your cheeks, the sweep of your eyes like dove wings, the arch of your eyebrow like bridges, tugging at his thoughts. Your mouth. Your damn mouth.
You break away with a gasp, breath stuttering. Your eyes wide.
"What was that for?"
"Do you want me to stop?" He waits, and the moment is heavy, you don't reply. So slowly, he draws you back, and kisses you again.
This time he tilts his head at an angle, and you're more responsive to this. He didn't really notice it before, but you're close; You stand between his knees, and the dying sunlight gilds you in blood and amber like a temptation he’s all too keen to take. You’re close enough he can almost feel your lashes flutter against his skin.
He'll carry this to sleep as well. He hopes he does.
Your hand is still on his arm and the other creeps to his cheek, fingers damp. You mumble against his mouth.
"You could've asked me."
"Asked…what?" He clicks his tongue when you retreat just out of reach.
"To kiss me. I want you to ask me." You pull your face away, but you're still smiling. If he presses forward, he could reclaim your lips easily. You'd probably let him. No, if he asked, you would say yes.
But does he deserve it? Does he deserve having his hands on you? Being able to touch you?
Do you?
Of course I’m scared of you.
It's in the blood.
"...What did you mean before?" You suddenly ask.
"Before…?"
"You asked if I really think of you as ‘young and unseasoned’. Are you…not?"
He is, in practise. In theory, he’s long grown used to longing. He’s had enough practice denying himself the things he yearns for.
So before he could loses his nerve, and sense he stands, brushing against and past you, and out the door.
You don't follow him, and he immediately steps down the stairs, not bothering to make his footsteps featherlight like he usually does.
His eyes lock with the Scribe as descends. He can't discern the look there, and the woman he's speaking to wrings her hands but doesn't even lift her gaze from the pouch in his hands, mora obviously. The inn suspiciously doesn't have many customers, who also avoid looking at him.
The air outside is only slightly cooler, cooling the sweat at his brow and the nape of his neck. He lets go of a breath, before walking away from the inn.
It's not long before he hears footsteps following him, and heads to an alley to wait there.
“I knew you were impertinent, Scribe, but not foolish. Do you want to be charged with aiding and abetting criminals?”
"What, am I not allowed to have acquaintances?" The Scribes form blocks out the open light of the street, and he approaches Cyno, looking no worse for wear.
"....I'm not fooled. Even if you two are acquaintances, you only want them for your own schemes."
"Then why do you want them?" The words falter in his throat, and the Scribe draws closer.
“Why didn’t you arrest the Bard at the Zubayr theater? Why not when you caught them behind the Architects Guild? Why do you waste your time chasing them through alleyways and markets, to put on a spectacle for the good people?
“We both know if you put effort in, you could put them down flat.”
Cyno…doesn’t have an answer, and he burns, angered and sullen.
And the Scribe, bastard, scoffs a laugh, wiping a hand over his mouth. His eyes don’t widen, but sharpen.
“Well, how ‘bout it… Looks like the bard has secured another admirer.”
He snaps. “And what about you? I know what you do with people–and I know how conniving you are. What I don't understand though is why you would potentially put yourself under the Sage's suspicion by leaving a papertrail. Paying for their bails, signing their license; Even staying until I woke–you normally would have left long before.”
“I have my reasons, and only I am privy to them. Nothing I do is careless, or without thought, General.” He leans against the cool wall and crosses his arms.
…You were right, he does have big biceps.
“Exactly that. Makes me wonder what you’re planning.” They face off, with the ambient sounds fading away in lieu of this standoff.
The Scribe backs down first. He looks back towards the open mouth of the street, fiddling with the wire to his headphones. Tactical retreat.
“I won't resist If you decide to take me in for questioning General, if you find my behavior suspicious.”
“You would wriggle your way out somehow even if I did. I know you also work under Azar.” Which is the only reason he’s not dragging this man towards the Akademiya.
As for you….
“If Azar found you disloyal he would have done you in ages ago.”
“Which is why you killed Bahar, huh?” Alhaitham scoffs.
Bahar?
So that’s his name.
Cyno almost sways, his head suddenly swimming, but he stays upright by sheer force of will and pride. “...I do as I'm told. It’s part of the job; For the better good of this nation.”
Alhaitham just sighs and readjusts the headphone over his ears.
“So you believe. Yet General, whether it be academics or knowledge, law or society, everything has its boundaries. Everything has a limit. A metaphorical line in the sand. If those lines are crossed, the rules and order that govern everything in the world will be destroyed. That's a simple fact of the world.”
“Your point being?”
“...What boundaries have you crossed, General? Beyond just your own.” And while the shock at his audacity is still fresh in his veins, he leaves.
He stands there for a moment, before stumbling his way back to the Akademiya, undignified. He follows the back alleys to avoid being seen. He has paperwork to do.
His head is too clouded for him to think straight. He shouldn't have spoken to the Scribe; Words are his forte after all, excelling in a subject that Cyno so often fumbles in.
He should have just taken the both of you under custody, damn the fogginess in his brain. If he couldn't trust his mind, he could trust the strength in his body–he’s sure he could take the both of you on. If the Scribe was stupid enough to try and protect you. It's what Azar would have told him to do.
Archons, why did he try kissing you? He shouldn’t have enjoyed it–You’re too…enticing. You’re like a seducer from his worst nightmares, come to life. And he’s too tired to resist you. It gets harder and harder every time he sees you.
Just follow orders, and the law. The law exists to exact justice and promote peace; that is a fact of life. The Sages are meant to embody the law, their word is law.
Unless they decided to push their personal agendas forth, forsaking their duties as government officials. Unless they purposely took his ideals, his morals–and exploited them. For power, prestige, mora, greed.
And Azar is an incredibly greedy man.
…He’s tired. He needs to rest.
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