Work Text:
.one.
The first time they kiss it’s quick and unexpected and impulsive. Judal's dungeon was crumbling to ruins behind them, people were panicking, Sinbad was trying not to get stabbed by a fifteen-year-old shooting ice at him, and in a spur of the moment decision, Sin grabbed at his arm and yanked him down, pressing his lips against the other’s, something dry and chaste, leaving the magi wide-eyed and flustered and buying him just enough time to scramble away with his new djinn before the boy started throwing shit down at him with enough force to probably take his arm off.
.two.
The second time, it’s Judal’s doing. It was late, late enough that nighttime would turn to early morning soon, and the kid was just there, swinging his legs over the windowsill like he didn’t have a care in the world. Sinbad stomped over to the window to tell him to please get out of his country and let him sleep, thank you very much. He barely got half a word out before the kid had sat forwards and leaned into him with the focused enthusiasm of an excited child.
It was semi-sweet and and a bit too forceful—Judal tasted like peaches and incense and salt from flying over the ocean for so long. He was very inexperienced, too much teeth and not enough patience, and a voice in Sinbad’s head that sounded vaguely like Ja’far was saying that this was a Very Bad Idea.
But Judal had a shaking hand in his hair, shoulders tense, and really seemed to be trying, something young and vulnerable, and so Sinbad sighed deep into Judal’s open mouth and let himself take control.
.twenty-eight.
It wasn’t like Judal meant to count, or actually cared that much or anything sappy and stupid like that. It was just fun. To tally up their exchanges like points, evidence of attention, of attraction, a rush like something he won every time.
It was exciting, because it was something he wanted that Sinbad wanted, too, and something he wanted for himself that he almost always got—Sinbad was weak to light touches on the back of his neck or nails on his shoulders, the way Judal arched his back against his hands, and that was fun, too, learning what touch did this or that and picking the man apart like a puzzle.
It was like a game. It wasn’t as fun as fighting, but it was a close second. Sinbad was never very rough with him, for all the rumors about how wild he was in bed—not that he ever actually went to bed with him. The king would always get this look on his face when Judal hinted at it, when gropes went too far, and say he was too young for that.
Judal would always say I’m not a child, or if I'm too young why do you have your hands on my ass, but he never pushed any further than that.
The point is that he isn’t sappy, he doesn’t sigh over the king like a lovestruck girl, he isn’t Kougyoku. It’s just fun. It’s his.
.forty-one.
If Sinbad had a coin for every time he had to sneak that damn magi through his window, he would be the richest man alive—the richest in history.
He always had to do most of the work, too, because that damn magi didn’t care one bit about whether he was seen or not, what his generals would think if they saw, if he caused a ruckus or sent the whole damn palace into a panic.
“Hey! Stupid ki—“
He threw a hand over that damn magi’s mouth before he could yell any louder and pulled him inside, almost tripping over his own damn feet.
“Don’t be too loud, you idiot,” he said lowly.
Judal made a high, offended noise, prying his hand off.
“Who are you calling an idiot, idiot,” he hissed.
Sinbad cut him off quick enough, cupping his face and pulling him into a hard kiss, possessive and heavy, that left him breathless and blushing and, best of all, speechless.
He swatted at Sinbad’s shoulder, scowling, but leaned in for another one all the same.
.fifty-five.
Judal wasn’t supposed to be at this festival, and Sinbad definitely wasn’t supposed to throw a veil over the magi's head and tell him to blend in and not make a scene, but neither of them had ever been very good at following rules.
Vaguely, Sinbad wondered if someone would recognize them if they were caught right now, pressed up against the outside of the palace garden’s wall, but then Judal pressed a wet kiss to his jaw and laced his fingers together behind his neck, and he decided he didn’t really care.
.sixty-three.
“Be careful.”
“I am.”
“Stop pulling!”
“I’m not! You’re just too sensitive.”
“You’re tugging my hair out!”
Sinbad sighed, slowing his hands, “Just stop moving so much.”
“Then stop pulling so hard,” Judal mumbled, but crossed his arms and sat still. He wondered how quickly he could grow his hair back if the idiot managed to ruin it all.
He felt Sinbad keep going, running his fingers through thick strands of hair, a small brush in his other hand, stopping now and then to untangle a knot. He still wasn’t sure why the asshole wanted to brush his hair of all the things in the world. He had plenty of his own hair to brush! Vaguely, he wondered if the idiot had ever bushed his own hair in his life, because he was ruining Judal’s. Tearing it out. He would have to find a spell to help grow it all back. Maybe he’d ruin Sinbad’s hair and see how he liked it.
He sighed, eyes fluttering closed when Sin scratched at that spot just behind his ear, huffing a laugh at the thought of Sinbad with half his hair cut to the base of his neck.
Okay, he thought, maybe he wasn’t half bad—not half as good as Kougyoku, but on the right track. It was relaxing. Felt like years of tension were being softly worked off of his shoulders.
“Judal,”
“Hm?”
“I’m done,”
“No you’re not.”
Sinbad made a confused little noise, and Judal frowned. “It’s still all tangled up, hurry up and fixed it.”
There was a pause, and Judal cracked an eye open and glanced over his shoulder. Sinbad was smiling, something smug that made him frown deeper. He opened his mouth to say something rude, but was cut off with a brief peck on the lips, followed by one on his forehead, surprisingly sweet.
“Admit it,” the sweet was gone, “I’m great at this.”
“Shut up.”
.eighty-one.
Judal would come sometimes, late at night. Land light and silent as a breeze on the windowsill and just sit, or curl up on the bed. No complaints, no greeting, he wouldn’t say a thing; body all stiff and blank and still, he would barely even glance at him.
The kid had gotten dangerous over the years that he’d known him, more violent and destructive and unpredictable, all hard and rude and sharp around the edges, but he still came, popped up everywhere like a bad cough he could never get rid of. These nights, though, he was quiet enough that Sinbad sometimes wondered if he was dreaming, and so he didn’t ever dare to ask why he was here, and didn’t ever even think of asking him to leave.
Eventually, Judal would move, raise his head and just look at him. His eyes always said so goddamn much, he thought somewhere—dull and bright and weaving together stories that could make you cry if you looked too hard. He thought they could fill scrolls if the wanted to. Fill a whole goddamn library.
Of course he let him stay.
He would leave his paperwork for Ja’far to yell at him about in the morning and slide up next to him, and Judal would finally come alive, pushing and pulling against him like the tide, kisses desperate and wanting—eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four—and empty. He would grab at him and claw at him like a drowning man, a starving man; Sinbad would try to slow him down but he would just grab harder.
Sometimes his hands wold skirt under Judal’s pants, teasing the line, but he never did anything more than that—every time he hinted at it, Judal would freeze up real fast, jump like something burned him, and he would leave so quickly Sin could barely get an apology out. Sometimes he would press into it, knees falling open something practiced, movements mechanical and trained. He never knew which one scared him more.
Sinbad would lay out next to him, and he wouldn’t talk, and he wouldn’t sleep, and he would run his hands through his hair or trace the sharp line of his collarbone and hope for some cutting remark or that annoying laugh. It was so quiet. Judal wasn’t supposed to be quiet.
He was never surprised, but maybe a little disappointed, and maybe a little relieved, when he would blink awake the next morning and find the bed empty.
.one hundred.
Sinbad was very cold. At least he was to him, most of the time. He was made of gold, like a statue, and statues were cold, so he supposed that made sense. It was like—when he grew older, Sinbad grew colder, like he was keeping track of it. A scale. He always used to call Judal a kid and now that he was older maybe he’d just lost interest. It’s been years, by now.
He was warm, too, though, which was the weird part, because his rukh were all messy. Judal hated that—the asshole basking in the sunlight even though he was all twisted up. It was annoying. The sun never did anything for Judal except hurt his eyes.
Sinbad always smells vaguely like wine, like it had stained his clothes and never washed out. Judal isn’t sure if he’s drunk right now, breath hot on the back of his neck. Either way, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this, for how many times he’s ended up all curled up in the asshole’s arms. He never knows how to react to shit like this, all soft and sappy. He isn’t soft, and he is definitely not sappy; he feels out of place here.
“I can let go, if you want.”
He sounds sincere about it, which is the most embarrassing part. He almost shoves an elbow back into his stomach. But he’s tired, and doesn’t feel like moving right now and that’s the only reason he shifts further back against him, shoving his head into the pillow.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles.
He feels a stupid smile and a chaste kiss pressed against the back of his neck—one hundred and one—and squeaks a little as he’s pulled closer.
“Alright.”
The jerk still smells like wine, but Judal somehow falls asleep anyways.