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We all have limits. When one reaches theirs, the body tends to force them into submission at last. Illness is an inevitable setback, and it’s a good thing that Tighnari isn’t one to throw caution to the wind.
His boyfriend is another story. Cyno is the sort of person to ride the wind with a giant leaf for a glider, regardless of whether his safety is guaranteed – and as if it isn’t obvious, it really isn’t.
Tighnari wakes to gray skies and muffled coughing.
He sits up. His covers, thin and light, fall off his body without a sound. He gathers them in his hands and pushes himself out of bed.
Collei’s already in the kitchen, a ladle in her hand. She glances back and waves, still stirring the pot in front of her. “Good morning, Master.”
“Did you… stay up all night?” Selfless child; in the truest spirit of the Forest Watchers.
“No, but I’ve been having a really early morning.” Collei shrugs. “I’ll bring this inside later.” The pot clangs lightly as she taps its edge. “You should visit him, Master. He’s been mumbling your name in his sleep.” She scrunches her nose. “Though he might be dreaming about the horrors of your medicine. I’m sorry, but I just can’t side with you when it tastes like that.”
Sassy child. Cyno’s doing.
Out of courtesy, Tighnari knocks. There’s a sneeze from the other side of the door, which he interprets as permission to enter.
Cyno lifts a weak hand in greeting, his fingers mere bones against the thin shafts of sun. The curtains flap against the buffeting gale; raven wings that brave the storm. Tighnari hurries to pull the windows closed. Flecks of rain batter his hand.
“Are you alright?” He throws the sheets he’s brought from his own room over Cyno’s shoulders. The Mahamatra looks like a ghost of himself, shrouded by a muted cloak of serenity and sin; his face is gaunt, eyes crystalline with fever.
His voice is hoarse, ragged of and weary by plague. “Cold.”
“Collei’s making herbal tea.” Tighnari strokes Cyno’s face, damp with sweat. “She’ll bring it in soon.” His hair is tousled, messy yet endearing, and he looks up with half-lidded eyes. Tired, hungry; vampiric. A delectable sight, one only for Tighnari’s eyes. The thought of it sparks a quiet thrill in his chest.
Cyno eyes him warily. “As long as you LEAF the tea alone without adding bitter ingredients.”
The thrill dies. “Insufferable fool.”
“Get it? Because of the tea leaves–”
“YES. ENOUGH.”
With a huff of laughter, Cyno leans in, his wiry body warm against Tighnari’s side. The sensation tingles, a lingering current that buzzes through Tighnari’s skin; like waves, like winds, like the familiar rumble and flash of thunder and lightning. His smile is tired, easy; yet there’s a desperation in his grasp.
“I don’t like this,” Cyno mutters, tucking his head just under Tighnari’s chin.
“It’s normal. It’s okay.” Tighnari knows. Cyno isn’t comfortable when he’s at a standstill. He may be a warrior of the desert, but his spear can’t slash down illness, and the heat of fever only confines him to bed. Tighnari runs a hand along his back, and he makes a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr of contentment.
“At least I get to look at your pretty face more often,” Tighnari adds. He’s only half-joking.
Cyno preens. “How else would I FACE off against Sumeru’s criminals?”
Never mind. “Know that if you don’t finish your herbal tea later, I will pour it over you.”
“You can’t do that. What if I TEA-ter off the edge of the bed trying to dodge?”
Tighnari should kill him.
A knock, and Collei slips inside, a steaming mug in her hands. “Are you feeling better, Cyno? Here, I’ll hold it for you, so drink this…” Her gaze drifts downward, seemingly taking note of Cyno’s state, his iron grip on Tighnari’s arm – even for her, close as family, it’s almost legendary to see the wolf lower its guard, relax its bared fangs without the need to duck behind the cover of shadows.
Her eyes widen a little. For a split second, she stands at the doorway, thinking.
Carefully Collei holds the cup out to Tighnari. Her smile is sunshine. “Make sure he drinks it all! I already added Zaytun Peach.”
What a considerate individual they’ve raised, he and Cyno, Tighnari realizes, only for the millionth time; with both sharp observation and kind intuition, few can hope to rival such a soul. He’s the one who took care of her, and it’s Cyno who brought her home – but only Collei can receive credit for the actions she takes, for the person she decides to be.
“Thank you, Collei,” he only says.
With a parting wave, Collei closes the door. The thump of her footsteps is swept away by a sudden roar of the wind.
“Drink,” Tighnari suggests.
Cyno looks at the mug with what might be more terror than he’s ever shown in his life, and Cyno literally arrests criminals for a living.
“I didn’t even make it!”
Reluctantly Cyno reaches for the cup, but he hesitates. Tighnari glances at his hand – the tremble is subtle, but impossible to miss.
“Sit back a little,” Tighnari murmurs. “I’ll hold it.”
Cyno sips. Thunder rumbles. The storm creeps toward the forest; minute by minute, inching closer with every gust and gale.
“Can I tell you about my dream?” Cyno mumbles.
Tighnari withdraws the mug and sets it beside the bed. The tea, half-finished, ripples softly in rhythm with the curtains. “Of course.”
So Cyno narrates a story of desert and danger, of the hunt and the pressure. He talks of nerves. The tension that comes with a crucial job; a bounty that cannot afford to fail. The fear of failing, and the consequence that comes with it – and Tighnari’s heart aches for him, yet even a dedicated caretaker such as himself cannot soothe the troubled mind entirely.
Cyno’s tone is neutral, but Tighnari knows of the weight he truly carries as the General Mahamatra, as a hero of Sumeru. When he’s weak, the madness will riot, chaos birthed from neglected protection – he can’t afford it, to falter; to fall. It’s hardly fair for Cyno’s reality to seep through his rest in the form of vivid dreams.
So Tighnari listens. He holds Cyno’s hand. Sometimes it’s the only thing he can do.
“I miss the desert,” Cyno concludes, after he finally finishes his lengthy ramble. “I hope I can go there soon. Without a job to finish, that is.” He gestures faintly for the mug again, which Tighnari fetches for him. “I’ll hold it myself. Thanks.”
Always so insistent on handling things alone. Tighnari lets him this time, watching as Cyno takes a tentative sip. “I’ll always help you, you know,” he remarks. “With anything.”
A glance. “That’d be too TEA-dious.”
“I changed my mind. I’ll just drown you.”
A wry smile quirks up Cyno’s lip. They sit in silence as he finishes the rest of his herbal tea.
“Collei did well with this flavor.”
“I told you I didn’t brew it.”
“Did you mean it?” Cyno asks, a sudden intensity in his eyes. He meets Tighnari’s gaze; fearless, with the spirit of pursuit, and the desire to seek out the clearest truth. He’s not talking about the tea.
Tighnari reaches out. Cyno’s face fits perfectly in his palms. A brush of lips atop his forehead, another behind his ear – there’s a jolt in Cyno’s shoulders, a pleasured shudder in his spine – he leans closer, his breath warm and familiar on Tighnari’s cheek, but then he pulls back with a small shake of his head.
He taps his throat. An act of selfless consideration – but Tighnari is okay with his lover sometimes being a selfish man.
Their shared passion is a different kind of fever. Burning, soothing; like moths to flame, a lethal addiction. Cyno gives in, and his hands leave tingling burns on Tighnari’s skin, every touch a new landmark upon a molten map.
They pause for air just to drown again. Somehow it’s both pathogen and antigen, the poison and the cure. When Cyno’s fingers slide under his chin to tilt his head up, Tighnari lets him – a gentle bite on his lips, and the wolf lays its claim on him, the hunter finally hunting for his own sake.
Muted, distant from their enclosed world, the rain finally pours from the clouds in full. The thunder roars its defiance, and white flashes through the curtain gaps in brilliant light – but, archons forbid, if this goes on, it’ll be the two of them that set the forest on fire.
Cyno leaves one last kiss on Tighnari’s collarbone before he draws back. “I want to take a walk.”
“Are you sure? You could sleep for a little longer.”
Cyno nods once, firmly. Changing the Mahamatra’s final decision is impossible.
“Oh, alright, fine. But aren’t you cold?”
Cyno ruffles the blankets draped over his shoulders, the ones Tighnari gave him earlier. “I’ll be okay. I want to stretch my legs.”
He really does hate staying still. Tighnari hops off the bed and offers a hand. Cyno’s fingers intertwine with his. The Mahamatra struggles valiantly against the blankets and pillows before he can stand properly.
It’s hard not to snicker. “Sumeru’s greatest hunter, defeated by a fever and feather stuffing.”
Cyno proceeds to say something inappropriate and also about stuffing.
“Cyno!”
“Not sorry.”
He throws the bedroom door open and hobbles outside, greeted by warm lamplight and Collei’s surprised exclaim. Tighnari follows, and the door closes with a quiet clack, briefly locking out the sickness and storm. For now, all that matters is the comfort offered by the present moment, by a found family they all belong to without condition or worry.
And it’s so easy to be home this way – qualmless, carefree, loved.