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ja'far gets this look in his eyes when he’s planning something. the sly twinkle of his eyes is all the warning one gets before some carefully-laid strategy begins to unfold and completely resolve the situation. sinbad counts it as a unique talent of ja’far’s to have crises handled with a smug sort of pride on his face before he even realizes what has happened: he’s never met anyone who can point out what’s right under his very nose and use it to their advantage quite like this assassin can.
it’s half of the reason sinbad is still breathing: ja’far is a master at exploiting every inch he can claw out from under his opponent and then spitting in their face when they fall.
ja’far is a master at chess. he is a master at strategy. hey– his eyes are twinkling now. sinbad gets the opportunity to think of every time he has saved his life while smiling at him with those same starry eyes before ja’far drives his dagger through his own heart and drops.
and sinbad stares.
and he stares.
and he screams.
he can’t hear anything else. he can barely feel the weight of it rip against his throat. his eyes have tunneled onto the blood on the ground and the body of his friend his best friend that’s his best friend that’s ja’far and his first follower and his first companion and the person who has believed in him unwaveringly since day one, even if it was a drive to want him dead come with me there's no need to be afraid anymore i will protect you i will lead you– and his throat hurts. his chest hurts. he's staring at the body of the boy who saved him from hell and could drag him there again, and suddenly it feels like his dream has crumbled with him.
i’ll leave the rest to you, he’d said. sinbad thinks of a thousand and one reasons why he couldn’t possibly do it without him.
drakon is moving and he can only follow. when ja’far’s body is picked up in hands and scales and talons he can’t help but marvel at how tiny he is, how tiny ja'far is beneath his spitfire and smarts and how can so much strength and resilience and power be contained in something so small? ja’far would hit him if he said that– he almost laughs at the thought. he stares down blankly instead. he’s powerless to do anything else. he’s never been so powerless in his life, not since his mother died. he can't breathe. he's not breathing. there is more blood on ja'far's cheeks than freckles. he likes his freckles. he can’t breathe and he stares and stares– and ja’far’s daggers are unraveled, he’d hate that, he always keeps them wrapped tight around his arms in case of danger, can’t anyone see that they’re too loose?– and he tries to listen to what drakon’s saying to him but all he can think of is how tiny that body wrapped in his claws is.
his hands are numb. if he were to look down he knows he’d find them trembling in what must be rage. its the kind of feeling that stops time: in this second, everything smells like ozone. there is lightning in his veins and he can feel baal’s grief right alongside his own– you’d always been baal’s favorite, didn’t you know, you’d always been my– and he's spitting threats at zepar he can’t even hear himself saying. he’s roaring more with thunder than with speech and it does nothing to soothe the fire in his chest. his eyes are knives and his words are poison and his teeth are gritting so hard he wonders if the enamel will turn into snow and he wonders if valefor’s ice would stop the bleeding he knows can’t be stopped. he is always so powerless when it matters most.
baal could not have saved him. valefor could not have stopped him. ja’far's daggers are as true as his stubborn pride and the depth of his unwavering loyalty. he sacrificed himself for sindria. no— for him. ja'far is– was– a master at chess. he played sham lash, played maader, played zepar, all for sinbad. he’d do anything for sinbad. it was a fact of life he knew to be as true as breathing air and even easier to believe in. he’d always trusted in his king, unwaveringly, always kept others from interfering where he knew sinbad would not fail, always stood as a pillar of support to lean on when sinbad needed it, always smiled at him with that twinkle in his eyes and the freckles on his nose and always watched his back and–
“geez, i said i’d leave things to you, and now what are you doing?”
–and always told him what he needed to hear.
“how troublesome, sin.”
he stares into nothing a few seconds longer than he needs to, and watches nothing become something as he tries to process what must be the product of his own hysteria whispering in his ears. and he turns anyways– because he will always look for him, for ja'far, he knows he will be there, he knows who will always be at his back– just in time to watch ja’far spit a mouthful of blood rather uncouthly onto the ground. what would rurumu think? oh, god, what would rurumu have thought? and he wavers only briefly on his feet before he rights himself fully, standing tall and proud like a man bigger than himself.
ja’far is standing.
and sinbad stares.
ja’far is talking and sinbad stares. he can't stop staring. he looks so proud of himself, and he’s glaring at zepar with eyes made of knives and challenging him with words made of poison and– sinbad feels thunder simmer to static in his veins as baal leaves his body like a sigh of relief. and he’s so proud. and all he can do is stare.
the world is a blur: he takes in the relief that is ja’far. it is like breathing in for the first time after almost drowning, like the feel of his heart pounding after it misses several beats. it's the kind of feeling that restarts time. the world is both crashing down on him as it is lifting itself up and zepar’s anger be damned if it meant being able to watch his best friend– his right-hand man– his better half– his very first follower, the one who believes in him and his foolish dream more than he thinks he does himself, sometimes– hypocritically fret over masrur’s health and smile at him with lips caked in blood as if nothing in the world is wrong.
ja’far is standing at his side by the time he has control of himself again. he looks down and feels his heart swell alongside the twinkle in those dark, dark eyes. it's like nothing has changed. the feeling in his hands isn’t quite back yet, and the blood isn’t gone from ja'far's face, but maybe nothing in the world is wrong. the queen is back on the chessboard; his shadow is at his back.
sinbad lets his hand brush against ja'far's, and feels it gripped for a heartbeat in return. a thousand and two reasons. i will lead you. i will never leave your side.
he lets go. it’s time to deal with zepar.