Sinbad thinks he might be sick.
He can only ever remember feeling this ill twice in his life before now: the first time he found his mother, passed away in sickness in her own bed, and the subsequent night after, filled with liquor and heavy perfume. However, watching Ja'far meticulously wash the blood from his hands, he thinks he might be shaking. He tries to compose himself to some semblance of normal - Sinbad of the Seven Seas - but instead can't stop staring at his hands.
Ja'far doesn't seem to mind (Sinbad likes to think maybe he hasn't noticed but knows better) and continues scrubbing, digging deep under his fingernails.
"Please stop looking at me while you're going to start crying," he says after a moment, letting out a small sigh and reaching over to grab a towel. Sinbad nods, letting his eyes slide away from the stained sink and stare outside the hotel room. The street looks bright even midnight, lights strung up across the streets and the weight of humidity pressing down on his already damp clothing. He doesn't know the name of this city and doesn't plan on asking; happy to wash away the bad memories for another day.
"How did it go?"
Normal.
"Too easy," Ja'far shrugs, slipping out of his tunic and trousers, modesty lost after so many years of sharing the same quarters. Sinbad didn't even have the energy to look up and observe. "I thought it'd actually present a challenge, what with how much security he always boasted about."
"How many?"
"They won't remember anything in the morning and anyone who saw me isn't around to talk about important thing is that he's not a problem anymore; we'll be sailing by morning." Sinbad could almost forget they were talking about people with the say Ja'far sounded; cool and quiet. And yet, people were dead because his hand gave the signal. Ja'far wipes off his daggers and gently places them into a wooden box; keeping his wires wrapped around his arms.
"I'm sorry."
Ja'far looks up, eyes wide. "What'd you do?"
Those words make him panic all the more, reaching for Ja'far and yanking him close to his chest. The warmth is suffocating but it feels normal. Ja'far still feels soft and smooth under his fingertips and with his back turned, Sinbad can't see the cold look in his eyes when he spoke of his success, the lilt in his voice sounding detached and foreign.
"I shouldn't have sent you to kill him."
"Well, that's a stupid thing to say." Ja'far seems genuinely confused, furrowing his eyebrows. Despite Ja'far being nearly seventeen, Sinbad has always thought the boy small. Now, he looks old; aged and far, far from Sinbad's reach. "I'm an assassin; I was clearly the best person for the job."
"But I pulled you out of that life; you're not an assassin—"
"I don't think I can exactly stop," Ja'far says, sounding annoyed. Sinbad knows better than to keep latching on once Ja'far starts squirming, releasing his arms. The younger boy adjusts himself on the bed, frowning. "After all, I am happy to be of use, really. I feel restless just sitting around, eating and drinking."
Sinbad stays silent after that, the noise from the downstairs tavern punctuating the air with laughter. The coil in his stomach grows with each passing thought: was he really any better than Ja'far's previous masters? Spending a child to do his dirty work; stain his hands so Sinbad can smile the next day and have a sound alibi against his enemies. Because no one would suspect the quiet boy by his side, who faded into the shadows like smoke, of killing six men and returning unscathed.
"The fact that you're worried just proves you're nothing like them," his voice suddenly rings out, forcing Sinbad out of his thoughts with a shove. "I know that's what you're worried about; that's what you're always scared of. But I'm skilled, we all know it."
"You're my friend." Maybe Hinahoho was right; maybe he should've dropped Ja'far off at a school when he was younger. Allowed him to lead a simple but safe life instead of keeping him tied to a life he only followed for Sinbad (because Sinbad knew it; as much as Ja'far would grow to love his country, he would always be following Sinbad, not the island).
"I know that," Ja'far huffs, pushing the older boy away when he tries to come closer. "You're not making any sense. I wouldn't have agreed to it if I didn't want to do it."
"I just…want you to know you always have the choice to leave. Whenever you'd like." Sinbad isn't 100% sure he'd let Ja'far walk away.
"Well I knew that; I could easily flip you by your stupid pony tail if I wanted to go," Ja'far sniffs, pulling himself up. "Can we sleep now? I'm exhausted."
Sinbad watches him, lips quirked up in a grin, before taking Ja'far by the hair and kissing him. The boy makes a small noise of irritation but concedes, allowing hands to roam and tongues to slip past his bruised lips. Sinbad needs this, Ja'far tells himself, but he knows by his shaking fingers he needs it just as much. The feeling of slick blood on his fingertips lingers, reminding him of long days with hooded men tracing loyalty into his thighs. He had forgotten just how much he reveled in the efficiency; the short, sweet feeling of success before the weight of death sinks his shoulders. He remembers crying, the bile rising up as countless victims let out muffled gurgles, interrupted by his blade hacking away at skin, that pleaded "my family, my wife, my children". Then, it didn't matter to him at all. Some called him gifted; some called him cursed.
Sinbad calls him neither and that is enough.