Work Text:
Cyno is used to pain. It is a familiar companion, one that weighs on his bones like lead. It wraps around his limbs and joints, injects venom into his veins until the world spins and light dances across his vision. It haunts his footsteps like the blood of his people spilled across the desert sands. He has long learned how to appease the anger of broken bones that never healed, how to push through the agony until it becomes background static to his life.
There is no point in dwelling on it. Cyno's body is a vessel, a ruin that houses an old ghost. To stop, to slow down and rest would allow others to fall to ruin, and Cyno cannot abide by that tragedy. So after every injury, he stands on limbs not ready to hold his weight and forces his uncooperating body to remember it is under his control. Sometimes, that's easier said than done.
On cold, damp mornings, Cyno wakes to old breaks that ache and fire that licks along his arms. It burns, skin boiling beneath the invisible pain of damaged nerves, hands that tremble and a grip that holds no strength. His breath is stolen by spasming lungs, ribs that scream beneath muscle torn and never fixed. He clenches his jaw until it creaks, his teeth grinding against each other in an attempt to silence the pitiful sounds scraped from his throat like dried honey.
It doesn't matter. He has a job to do, and pain will not stop him--not even when every motion sets off sparks of agony like fireworks, his room spinning until he can't tell left from right. It's fine; he's fine. He has dealt with worse than limbs that shake and nausea that curls deeper in his stomach with each passing moment.
He stands, stumbles, catches himself on his bedside table that overflows with letters from Tighnari that he hasn't had the energy to respond to. In the bathroom, he fills a cup with water so cold it feels like drowning and relief all at once, and rests it against his forehead. He didn't sleep well; he can feel it in the exhaustion that clouds his thoughts, in the slow blinks as his body begs for more rest. It won't get what it wants (it never does). Instead, he downs half the water, dumps the rest down the drain before his stomach can rebel, and pushes away from the sink.
It doesn't take long to get ready. He skips breakfast, picks up a cup of coffee to fight the fatigue that's somehow worse than usual, and pushes his way into the Akademiya while the sky is still dark. Researchers are already bustling about, too engrossed in their work to notice him, and Cyno is relieved. He feels scrapped out, hollow and vulnerable. It makes his skin itch, and the desire to hide away flares brightly.
Few of the matra are at work this early. Those that are greet him with restrained politeness and starry-eyed respect. Cyno nods back in greeting, sipping his coffee as he walks between desks to his own office, blessedly behind a closed door. It's quiet, calming, a space only his. Away from prying eyes, Cyno lets some of his pretense drop.
His shoulders sag, and Cyno reaches up to rub his temple, hoping to ease the pounding steadily growing behind his eyes. It's a token effort, nothing more than a way to trick himself into thinking he feels relief (it doesn't work.)
Already his desk is piled high with work, papers and folders needing his review and signature. He sits, puts his coffee within reach, and tries to ignore the way his pen trembles in his fingers. His signature is scrawled, nothing remincist of the formal loops self-drilled into him by hours of practice. Eventually, his vision wavers, blurs, and each word becomes a fight to read.
By lunch, Cyno's focus has waned. A headache beats against his skull with bloodied fists, agony settled deep within his aching bones. He feels too hot and too cold, sweat sticky along his hairline. His hands throb, the joints reminding him of hairline fractures and tying his shattered fingers to his staff.
It hurts to read, to breathe, to think beyond the sand and cotton filling his mind. Things feel hazy, disorientating, but he swallows the desperate frustration at his own agony and forces his lungs to expand, his ribs to raise even as his heart pounds in his chest, rabbit-quick.
Somebody knocks on his door; opens it after his delayed response. Right, Shohre. He agreed to spar with her today as she prepared for her annual review--combat was never her strong suit, and it would be remiss to lose her just because of that.
"Are you alright, General Cyno?" she asks as they walk to the sparring area.
He nods, his fingers tight around his staff. If she doesn't believe him, she doesn't show it.
A few of the others have come to watch. Usually, Cyno doesn't mind an audience, especially not his matra--they live and die by their combat, and if they can learn a trick from watching him, he's glad to let them--but right now, Cyno wants to tell them to leave. He doesn't.
He fights, dodges, thrusts, and parries. Dumps Shohre on her back and shows her where she went wrong before doing it again. His body screams, throbs in time with his heartbeat as he dances around her, always ready with another block, another strike.
It should be easy. Sparring like this usually is. He would be a terrible General Mahamatra if he couldn't take on several proficient warriors at once, and yet he finds himself tiring, his breath quickening into short gasps that barely fill his lungs. It isn't enough. He's dizzy and moving off instinct, a dangerous place for his opponent. It's too easy to slip up, to hit too hard or in the wrong place, to wound her in his carelessness, but Cyno can't make himself focus through the haze that fills his mind like smoke.
Eventually, he's forced to step back and end the bout. Across from him, Shohre pants. Her hair must have fallen from her ponytail sometime during the fight, but she did well even with it in her face.
He tells her as much, accepting a towel from Nabil to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. She stutters a thank you, her face flushing red, and all their fellow matra come to congratulate her. Cyno slips away unnoticed in the ensuing crowd.
It's late when he finishes his work, stars twinkling overhead, and Cyno trudges home with concrete-laden feet. Climbing the stairs to his apartment is a struggle. His knees remind him with each step of cracked bone, dislocated joints, and torn tendons. The rest of his body tells him stories of soft tissue injuries, lacerations, bruising so deep it looked black. He feels each one, the fights they represent.
By the time he unlocked his door, he's drained, nothing left but a hollowed-out husk. He's too tired to think, wants nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep. Instead, he cooks a dinner of plain rice, finishes a little over a quarter before the nausea he woke up with finally boils over, and spends the rest of the evening curled up on the bathroom floor. The cold of the tiles is a relief against his aching head.
He must sleep because, eventually, Cyno wakes. His eyes are crusted over, sticky, and he groans loudly. The sound hurts his own ears, reverberating off the bathroom walls. He pushes himself up on shaking limbs, forcing himself upright to rest his back against the wall. Outside, birds chirp and sing, but it's difficult to guess the time of day from how disorientated he feels.
It hurts. Everything twists and screams, every injury vying for his attention. He draws his knees to his chest and tucks his head between them, forces himself to breathe, to push away the pain. He isn't sure he can, not with how hard it is to think, his mind syrup slow in the damp chill of his bathroom.
When he tries to stand, Cyno is unable to stifle the cry that falls from his lips. His legs give out beneath his weight, and he collapses back, barely slowing his fall with a hand grasping the countertop. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, gritting his teeth as iron slicks his tongue. The next time he tries, he manages it.
Work is a blur. He doesn't remember what he does, what investigations he signs off on and what paperwork he reads. People speak to him, but he doesn't remember their words or his replies. His mind is fogged over like breath on cold glass, his memory muddy. He thinks he goes home early--at least before the sky turns sunset orange--but even that feels like a half-forgotten dream.
He thinks about stopping to eat, but Cyno didn't put away the rest of last night's rice, and he has no energy to cook. All he wants to do is rest, so he does. He drags himself to the bedroom, tosses his ornaments carelessly aside until he's stripped to the basics, and crawls between his thin sheets.
Sleep doesn't come easily. He tosses and turns, shifts, tries to find a position that doesn't hurt. His hips ache, his shoulders twinge. Muscles pulse and spasm. It feels like he's drowning--or maybe suffocating. The pressure on his chest is too much; he can't breathe, can't think beyond the pain. It's like somebody is snapping his ribs, twisting his vertebrae. He bites his arm to keep silent, to distract himself, his teeth sinking into skin until he draws blood.
Hours pass, crawling by slowly in the vague corners of Cyno's mind. He doesn't know whether he's conscious for all of it, but he hopes he isn't. Birds sing, but he can't move. Bile rises in his throat, choking him, and he vomits up a mix of water and coffee over his bed.
He passes out after that, dragged down to the ocean floor by exhaustion and agony. It boils in his blood; his flesh flayed from bone.
When he wakes, it's to a hand on his shoulder, to a voice loud with panic, and Cyno whimpers, curling further in on himself.
"No, no, no, do not go back to sleep." The voice is deep and familiar. Cyno peels his eyes open to see a blur of gold and red.
"Kaveh?" he rasps. His voice sounds wrecked, the words scraped out by dull claws. His mouth tastes like blood and vomit, bitter iron coating his stinging throat.
"Cyno, where are you hurt?" Kaveh says, half hysterical. His fingers brush Cyno's hair feeling his forehead, and Cyno leans into the touch, eyes fluttering. "Cyno," Kaveh says again, "I need you to focus. Where are you hurt? I can't see any injuries, and I need to know if it's safe to move you."
It's a fair assumption. Kaveh has found Cyno injured more than once, tucked into darkened corners to lick his wounds like a frightened animal. He doesn't know how to explain that it isn't the case this time; there is no new injury to be found, no reason for fear and panic. It would be a struggle to explain at the best of times, but Cyno's mind is half lost to the agony that pulses in time with his heartbeat. He must say something, though, because Kaveh is shushing him, is running fingers through his hair and telling him to breathe, to rest, and Cyno lets himself slip away from the pain.
He comes to, a little, at the sensation of being lifted. It feels like a gasp of air in the space between waves before they crash over him again. The pain is intense, and he curls closer to the sense of warmth holding him, letting out a wounded sound.
"Shhh, I know; I know," Kaveh says. He puts Cyno down somewhere else. The blankets are soft, warm, the kind Cyno keeps folded in the linen cupboard for the rare cold nights and even rarer guests.
It's comfortable enough. Agony still laces down his limbs, threads through his chest and back and joints, but it's enough to be somewhere soft. Kaveh's fingers find his hair again, and a quiet humming fills the room. He sleeps, closer to true rest than before.
The next time Cyno wakes, it's to voices. They're quiet but nearby. He can't quite make out the words through the haze that still hasn't left him, but he feels better. The pain is less, due in part to the heat radiating from several places around him. It soothes his angered limbs, slowly coaxing the old injuries back into something more tolerable. They aren't there just yet, but maybe soon.
"... been in and out," Kaveh says. He sounds worried. "... didn't... work... asked me to..."
He shifts, groans at the reawakened fire that dances along his limbs, and the voices go silent.
"Cyno?" Tighnari asks, his voice is soft and noticeably closer than Kaveh's, "are you awake?"
It takes a moment to force his eyes open. He's in his living room, laid out on the couch. It's nighttime, or at least he thinks it is. The orange glow of oil lamps illuminates the room.
Tighnari leans over him, concern evident in his features.
"Nari?" Cyno whispers, hoarse and confused. "What are you doing here?"
"Kaveh sent for me," Tighnari replies, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "Do you think you can stomach some water and medicine?"
He blinks, his slow thoughts trying to process the new information.
Tighnari sighs. "Kaveh, can you?" he calls over his shoulder before turning his attention back. "Come on," he tells Cyno, coming around the side of the couch, "I'll sit with you."
It takes some maneuvering, but Cyno melts against Tighnari's chest as soon as he's able. Some of the tension drains away, even if the pain doesn't ease. The blankets are tucked carefully around him as Tighnari readjusts the hot water bottles, and oh, that's where the heat is coming from.
Kaveh enters his field of view, his blonde hair thrown into a messy ponytail and his sleeves rolled up. He holds a cup of water and a glass bottle. His fingernails are bitten bloody, an anxious habit that never quite left after graduating.
"How are you feeling?" Kaveh asks as he hands the bottle to Tighnari. Something small rattles inside it. "You seem better. You were pretty out of it for a while there."
"Sorry," Cyno says, tensing unconsciously. It makes his muscles twinge, and he can't suppress the grimace that follows.
Tighnari taps his shoulder gently. "None of that," he scolds. One of his arms loops around Cyno's front, and he holds out two handmade pills. "Take these; they'll help."
Usually, Cyno would complain. This is his burden to bear, the penance on his soul, but he hurts. He wants it to stop, wants to breathe without the agony that infects his lungs and bones, and besides, it's Tighnari.
He accepts the pills and the water. Tighnari reaches forward to steady his trembling hands.
"Drink it all," Tighnari tells him. "You're dehydrated as it is."
Only when he finishes the cup does Tighnari let him pull it away and hand it to Kaveh.
"Rest now, love," Tighnari says, wrapping his arms around Cyno and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.
Kaveh puts the cup aside and sits on the floor next to them. "It's okay to sleep, Cyno," he says, "you don't have to push yourself anymore. We're here."
Cyno nods, hurting and drained, and relaxes into Tighnari's embrace. The hot water bottles give off a steady heat against the worst of his hurts, and he wonders, vaguely, how Tighnari knows where they are.
Hot water sloshes against his skin as Cyno is slowly lowered into it, and he hisses.
"I know," Tighnari replies softly, stepping into the water behind him. "But it will help, I promise. You'll feel better once you're clean."
He already does, or maybe that's a mix of Tighnari's presence and the painkillers he brought. Something unknots in his chest, making it easier to breathe as Tighnari pulls his back against him.
Guilt still eats at him, though. Cyno doesn't know how long it's been since this flare-up started, how long passed before Kaveh found him or Tighnari came from Gandharva Ville. Even now, he doesn't know how long he was asleep, only that Kaveh was gone when he woke. Time slips away like water; slithering through his fingertips. His perception is skewed, fuzzy, like lucid dreaming, but Cyno knows he's taking up Tighnari's time, that he has his own work waiting for him.
But then Tighnari brushes his hair to one side and kisses the back of his neck.
"Relax," he mutters into Cyno's skin, soft as butterfly wings. It leaves Cyno breathless in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
Tighnari's movements are slow, precise. He keeps a careful rhyme as he scoops hot water in his hands and pours it over Cyno's hair, dampening the strands knotted with sweat. The soap smells like nilotpala lotuses, and Tighnari is gentle as he runs a washcloth over the scarred plains of Cyno's skin, caressing like Cyno is something fragile or precious--like he is anything other than a blight.
He can't bring himself to care, not when Tighnari touches him in a way that makes him shiver.
When the water is more lukewarm than hot, Tighnari helps him out of the bath, an arm around his waist to keep him steady. He sits on his bed in oversized clothes, the sheets clean and fresh, while Tighnari towel dries his hair. His mind is half there and half not, floating away on a cloud of medication-induced fog, but that's better than before, better than agony and vomit and feeling like his body is falling apart.
And then Tighnari gathers him up, all limbs and skin that don't feel like his. He's wrapped in a blanket as they lay down, tucked close to Tighnari's side. He can hear the beat of his partner's heart from the ear against Tighnari's chest. The arms around him keep him steady, secure, and Cyno lets himself sleep.
When Cyno wakes next, it's to clarity. His thoughts are still slow but no longer cloudy with pain. His body only aches like he pushed too hard the day before.
The bed is empty, but he can hear movement from the next room. Tighnari must already be awake. A look outside explains why-- it's past noon.
He stands, tentative, fearful that the movement will cause agony to flood back in like a wave. It doesn't; he's only tender, overwrought, but nothing he can't handle, unlike before. The room spins a little, and his vision fades for half a moment, but it passes. Hunger, probably. Cyno doesn't remember when he last ate. The rice he threw up? Whenever that was. He has a half-formed memory of somebody-- Kaveh or Tighnari-- trying to coax broth past his lips, but Cyno doesn't know how successful they were.
His footsteps are silent as he moves, but Tighnari still hears when he reaches the bedroom's threshold. Brown-green eyes meet him from where Tighnari stands in the kitchen, and surprise melts into concern.
"You shouldn't be up yet," Tighnari says, but Cyno shakes his head.
"I'm fine now," he replies, walking closer to see what Tighnari is cooking.
Tighnari hums, disbelieving, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he lets Cyno investigate the soup boiling on the stove. It's almost finished, so Cyno allows Tighnari to banish him to the table.
He sits, his legs pulled up onto the seat and his chin resting on his knees as he watches. Tighnari is domestic in his kitchen, fitting in like a puzzle piece always meant to be there. It can't last, but Cyno will enjoy it while he can.
The soup is bland, but that's probably for the best. Cyno stirs it aimlessly, trying to work up an appetite he doesn't feel, but he knows the weakness in his limbs is from a lack of food, and Tighnari will worry if he doesn't eat. He manages a little over half the bowl before pushing it away. Across from him, Tighnari finishes his at about the same time.
"We should talk," Tighnari says, and although Cyno expects it, a cold dread washes over him all the same.
He nods, eyes downcast, and Tighnari takes his hand and tugs him toward the couch. Cyno goes willingly, pliant, anxiety coiling in his stomach. The soup sits heavily, nausea once again making itself known.
"Are you still in pain?" Tighnari asks as they arrange themselves, Cyno on one end supported by an arrangement of pillows, Tighnari on the opposite.
"Not much," Cyno says, which is in itself an answer.
Tighnari takes a deep breath, his eyes closing as something pained flashes across his features, there and gone. Cyno can't bring himself to look. Instead, he stares down at his hands, at the bones just barely visible beneath his skin. They ache a little, like they always do, the joints worn by injury.
He never told Tighnari. There was no point, not when nothing could be done. The pain is a result of his own actions, the choices he made, and Cyno cannot bring himself to regret them, but he knows how it hurts Tighnari to see him injured. Better not to tell him, better to suffer in silence.
Tighnari doesn't seem like he agrees. His breathing is measured, a mix of upset and anger. When he opens his eyes, he looks frustrated.
"How long has it been like this?" he asks, and Cyno doesn't have an answer.
Always, he wants to say. Ever since he was a child earning broken fingers when he blocked wrong, bruises and lacerations from spars he lost. Pain is a constant, the only one he has always carried. It is a memory of the ancestors whose blood stained the sand, cursed and forgotten.
"I don't know," he says instead. It's a safer response, one that doesn't leave his chest a gaping wound for Tighnari to peer inside of. Usually, he would allow it, would let Tighnari see the darkest parts of his soul and trust to still be loved after, but Cyno feels too vulnerable after having the decision taken from him. "It's gotten worse," he admits, the words a quiet truth he does not want to accept. Tighnari will appreciate it, though, and will want to know that, at least.
"That isn't surprising," Tighnari replies. His voice is soft but clinical. "You're getting older. You don't bounce back from injuries like you did a decade ago, and they're starting to compound."
Cyno knows that. He doesn't like it, but he knows. How long can he keep this up? The more injuries he takes, the harder it is to keep going. By Tighnari's expression, he seems to be thinking the same thing.
"How long was I out?" Cyno asks, realizing that he doesn't know.
Tighnari frowns. "I got here in the evening the day before yesterday. Kaveh came to check on you the day before that. You weren't very lucid."
Three days at least. Cyno only remembers them in snapshots, in half-forgotten memories. He mostly recalls sensations, anything that broke up the monotony of pain.
"You worried us," Tighnari continues. "Kaveh found you unconscious and covered in vomit. He couldn't get a response out of you."
"I'm sorry," Cyno says, guilt choking him. He shouldn't be such a burden on his friends.
Tighnari shakes his head and reaches across the space, his hand wrapping around one of Cyno's.
"You need to take better care of yourself," Tighnari pleads. "Kaveh says you were sparring a couple of days ago. You were already in pain then, weren't you?"
Cyno nods. He has no words in his defense-- none that Tighnari hasn't already heard. It is an old argument. Their priorities put them at odds. Tighnari cares about his well-being, and Cyno cares about his own abilities, his results.
"I wish you would have told me," Tighnari says. There's hurt buried there, a hint of another conversation they need to have, but not now. Triage. He sighs and squeezes Cyno's hand. "There's things we can try," he continues. "Heat helps, so I want you to use it whenever you hurt, no matter how minor. It could keep a flare like this from settling in. Medicine too. I know you dislike it, but stoicism won't help here."
Cyno is always in pain. It is an integral part of him now, like the blood that flows through his veins or the colour of his eyes. He doesn't know how to tell Tighnari that, how to admit that even the good days are agony.
Tighnari strokes the back of Cyno's hand with a thumb, small circles that seem to calm Cyno's racing heart. His throat is dry.
"I'll try," he says quietly, as close to agreement as he can give. Tighnari squeezes his hand in understanding.
"Thank you," he replies and then sighs. "But Cyno, all of this is bandages. It doesn't fix the problem. You need rest," he says, expression grim. "You shouldn't have gone to work, and you definitely shouldn't have been sparring. Pain is your body's natural way of saying it's had enough; you need to listen to it."
He knows that, but Cyno has spent so long training himself to do the opposite. It is long ingrained within him to ignore pain, to push beyond it. He doesn't know how to stop, how to slow down. If he doesn't keep moving, he'll drown.
"If it's bad enough that you can't take care of yourself, lean on other people," Tighnari says. "Call for Kaveh if you don't feel comfortable sending for me, He worries, and you know he'll help."
He does. Kaveh hovers like a mother hen, fussing and worrying. Cyno had seen it firsthand back in their mutual Akademiya years when Kaveh's eyes were perpetually dark circled as spirally anxiety kept him awake. On Cyno's worst days, back when sadness hung off him like a cloak, Kaveh used to bring him tachin from the Grand Bazaar. There is a reason Kaveh is one of the few people with a key to his apartment.
Asking for help is difficult to swallow, a pill more bitter than the medicine Tighnari coaxed him into taking throughout the day before. Cyno was taught to only rely on himself, to pick up his own broken pieces and glue them together in solitude. It is a difficult thing to unlearn.
They shift positions after that. Tighnari must sense his spiralling thoughts because he maneuvers them until Cyno is leaning against his chest, safe if his partner's arms. It is one of the few places he feels secure, where he allows himself to be vulnerable.
He curls up, tucks his legs to his chest and leans against Tighnari to hear the soothing beat of his partner's heart, just like he did the day before, half-conscious and in pain. It's a comfort he rarely allows, but Tighnari indulges him with a gentleness reserved for sickly plants and injured children.
"I'm sorry," Cyno says again, and Tighnari kisses the crown of his head.
"I know," Tighnari replies. "You're forgiven. We'll figure this out, love."
There is no 'there's nothing to be sorry for' exchanged between them. Tighnari has learned that there is no point. Cyno's guilt is pervasive, toxic. It eats him alive, but he relaxes at Tighnari's forgiveness.
He still hurts. Tighnari's love cannot cure the poison-like pain, but Cyno soaks in the warmth anyway. He is sure, later, they will have several difficult conversations. Tighnari will push for the whole truth, and Cyno will give it to him, will crack open his chest and hand Tighnari his heart, fragile and made of sharp pieces that could cut skin if mishandled. It isn't the first time Tighnari has seen it, nor will it be the last, but Cyno will do it all the same. They'll devise a plan, ways to cope, and it will be revisited over and over for months.
For now, he breathes. When his knee starts to ache, he whispers it to Tighnari, who extracts himself long enough to fill a hot water bottle before returning. The heat soothes it, and Cyno lets Tighnari ramble about Gandharva Ville, about Collei and the fungi he's studying.
The pain settles into the background, and he hums in response to a question he didn't hear. Tighnari huffs, half a laugh and half a sigh, and runs his fingers through Cyno's hair.
Like this, he rests.