a/n: i recently got into Magi and, even more recently, SinJa. this is my attempt at contributing to the fandom. i hope it entertains. ;v;
Sinbad finds Ja'far in the lab after school, just as football practice has finished and he realizes that he left his textbook.
Needless to say, he's surprised to find the lowerclassman in there, because usually one, no one is allowed here without a teacher, and two, Ja'far is surrounded by a bunch of beakers filled with stuff that certainly doesn't look safe.
"Oh," Sinbad says, halfway into the room with a hand still poised on the doorknob, and instead of asking what are you doing here, he finishes, "what are you making?"
Ja'far doesn't even look up from his mixing. "A love potion."
"Funny." After a quick glance down the hallway to make sure no one sees him entering, Sinbad closes the door behind him. If anyone else, he would have threatened to report them, then laugh as they high-tail it out of there, but this is Ja'far.
Ja'far, it seems, has always been an exception.
He leaves his backpack and gym bag by the door and makes his way to the back, where Ja'far is. "Seriously, what is it?" he repeats, hopping up on the lab table.
The action causes the table to shake, and Ja'far shoots him a scowl when a stirring rod almost rolls off. "Can you not," he says, not asking, but demanding.
"Did you miss the sign on the door? You're not supposed to be here without a teacher." Ah, there's his textbook. Apparently, Ja'far has decided to use it as a placemat for his beakers.
"I am making up the labs I missed," Ja'far says. He pours something into a graduated cylinder, then drops to his knees, records the measurement, and writes it down. "The teacher gave me a key. That's why I'm here."
Sinbad really does try not to stare. From this angle, Ja'far's freckles seem more prominent and he wants to count them.
"But that doesn't answer what you're doing here." Ja'far sets his pencil down and shifts his gaze to the older boy. "Aside from the obvious."
The obvious? Sinbad raises an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
"To stare at me."
"Ah, how'd you know?"
Ja'far's expression is unamused. "I did not."
Sinbad's mouth splits into a grin – Ja'far is fun to talk to, even though most of their conversations are rather onesided, and when Ja'far does care to actually reply, it's usually a scathing remark about his hair, clothes, reputation, or all three. "Sorry," he says – unapologetically – and gets off the table in favor of moving to the cabinets.
Bottles clink together as he rummages through the small, dusty space, and finally, he finds what he's looking for.
"You need to leave before you break something," Ja'far is saying, only to freeze in place when he feels Sinbad suddenly come very close to him.
"You're doing the acid-base titration lab, right?" Sinbad smiles amiably, offering him a small container. "I remember that one. I found your…" he squints at the label, "…phena- phenol-"
"Phenolphthalein," Ja'far supplies with a resigned, 'what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this' type of sigh. "Thanks, even though I could have gotten that myself. But you should leave now."
"I just got here!"
"And with each second you stay, the chances of this lab blowing up increases exponentially."
Ouch. Okay. That hurt. Sinbad's mood falls a little.
Ja'far seems to sense this – he sighs again and steps away from the other boy. "I'm sorry. That was unnecessarily harsh." He reaches out on a whim, dusting off an invisible spot of dust on Sinbad's shoulder. "But you do need to leave," he finishes, voice softened.
Sinbad can take shouting, smacking, and ruthless insults, but when Ja'far asks so nicely like that, he would give him the whole world on a platter if he could. So he smiles back and tells him: "I'll need my textbook back, though."
. .
He misses Ja'far.
They met in the January of Sinbad's sixth year of school and Ja'far's third.
There was a giant field just outside Sinbad's neighborhood, and when it snowed, he liked being the first to walk across it. There was something satisfying in seeing his footprints marked across the fresh powder.
When he arrived, he was dismayed to find that someone else had been there first: the snow was no longer smooth, instead marred by a combination of footprints and random spots of dug-out snow.
Sinbad frowned unhappily, but he wasn't about to let it deter him. He waded through the snow (which came up halfway his shins) until he found a particularly large mound, then flopped into it.
He anticipated the coldness that bit at exposed skin; he did not anticipate a thing to shove him off and pin him to the ground.
When Sinbad finally shook the snow out of his face, he realized that two things: there was a boy sitting on top of him, and said boy looked far too small to be able to pin him down like that.
"Hi," he said, honestly at loss for what else to say.
The boy made a low noise in the back of his throat, something that sounded like a growl.
Sinbad swallowed. "Were you in there?"
Small hands tightened their clutches on his coat. Sinbad watched him, trying to convey that he meant no harm, until the boy finally released him, stood, and walked away without another word.
They didn't officially meet until two years later – that is, Sinbad doesn't learn Ja'far's name until two years later. But Sinbad likes to think that that day in January was the first moment of the chronicle of their beautiful friendship.
When he told Ja'far this, he was smacked on the shoulder and then shoved off the bed.
. .
Yeah, he really misses Ja'far, and some part of him hopes that Ja'far misses him too.
. .
A week after finding Ja'far in the lab, Sinbad finds him again, this time in his physics classroom and during the ungodly hour of six a.m..
"Ja'far?" If Sinbad was holding anything, he would have dropped it out of shock. Fortunately, he is not.
"It's you again," Ja'far murmurs, just loud enough for Sinbad to hear. He's in the middle of cleaning up, but Sinbad can tell that he had been mixing something again. The mysterious vials on the table can attest to that.
"The chemistry lab was locked, so I came here," Ja'far answers an unspoken question.
"I'm not surprised anymore," Sinbad tells him honestly. He grins. "Making more love potions?"
"No," Ja'far answers, swiping the rag one last time across the table, "this is cyanide."
"Hm. Who's it for?"
"You, originally, but now that you know about my plans, I suppose I'll have to give it to my fellow archers."
Curious – and deciding to digress from the threat – Sinbad moves closer to him. He thinks of the other students on the archery club and wonders which one of them was the most stupid enough to mess with Ja'far. "Did they do something?"
"They stole some of my arrows. They were the school's, so it's not a big deal, but." Ja'far shrugs nonchalantly, as if he's not implying he's about to poison someone. "You know how much I hate people taking my things."
Sinbad is tall enough that he can rest his chin comfortably on Ja'far's shoulder and put one arm around his waist. He reaches for one of the vials, only for Ja'far's smaller hand to stop him.
"Let go, Sin."
Sinbad hums. Oh, how he's missed hearing that nickname. "Of the vials?" He smirks. "Or…of you?"
"How about both?" Ja'far suggests. "It took me an hour to make those. Damn students are always wasting solution. This is actually hydrosulfuric acid, by the way."
An hour? Ja'far had been here since 5 a.m.? Did the school even let students in that early? Sinbad shakes his head. "You work too hard," he points out. "What do you do this stuff for, anyway? Extra credit?"
"I like doing work, and I happen to like chemistry even more. It's a happy coincidence that benefits me and my teachers."
"But not me," Sinbad mumbles sulkily. "You never spend time with me anymore."
Ja'far goes rigid in his arms. "I thought we've gone over this."
"Yeah, I know, I freaked you out with my little stunt two years ago and–"
"No, you don't know, because that's not why."
"That doesn't matter, does it? Because either way I still don't have you anymore." He relinquishes the vials and Ja'far. "And either way, I'm constantly missing you, to the point where I feel…lovesick or something."
"You're not lovesick," Ja'far mutters under his breath.
"So let's hang out more – or at least talk more, okay?" Sinbad ruffles his hair. "But preferably after school, because I have to retake a test I failed."
"You failed?" Ja'far sounds aghast – this is probably because they're days away from holiday break, and teachers have been notorious for handing out easier tests during this time of year.
Sinbad shoots him an accusing look. "Well, I don't have you helping me with my homework anymore! Have you even seen the physics notes? I feel like I'm trying to read a different language."
"I'll start helping you again, then."Ja'far shakes his head. "After school, in the library?"
Hiding a smile, Sinbad pauses and feigns thoughtfulness. He doesn't want to sound too eager, "Okay. How much should I pay you?"
"I don't want your money." Ja'far waves a hand at him. "Just…promise me that you'll stop thinking like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I stopped talking to you because… because you grossed me out or something. That's not how it is."
Sinbad's heart practically skips a beat, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to start grinning like a maniac. "Promise."
Ja'far gathers his vials, then pauses to give his best friend a long look. "All right," he says finally. "After school. Please don't be late."
It's not even shocking that Ja'far is capable of tutoring him in physics – if he knew how to handle throwing knives, could make about a hundred or so different dangerous chemical compounds, and buried himself in a pile of snow at the age of seven just to build up his pain tolerance, then he would certainly know about physics.
It doesn't even take Sinbad a second to reply: "I won't!"
He is far too caught up in joy to hear Ja'far mumble as he leaves: "I've missed you too, idiot."
. .
Sinbad used to invite Ja'far to his house practically every day. However, it was a rare instance for Ja'far to return the favor, thanks to his parents, who were less than welcoming of guests – especially Sinbad.
In fact, it was so rare that Sinbad remembers every single moment he has been in that house.
On his first visit, he accidentally (yes, accidentally!) opened Ja'far closet and revealed a shelf full of throwing knives. That was when he realized why Ja'far had a dartboard on his wall, but no darts.
On his second visit, he convinced Ja'far to show him how to use those knives. He may or may not have gone home with a few scratches.
On his third visit, he discovered that Ja'far was susceptible to burning more than tanning. Regardless, Ja'far looked endearing when his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright.
On his fourth visit, he accidentally knocked something off of Ja'far's dresser – Sinbad doesn't remember what it was – and he remembers turning to Ja'far with a look of horror, expecting a barrage of fists. He was wrong; that was when he discovered how cute Ja'far looked when he laughed.
On his fifth visit, he finally caved in and plucked the book from Ja'far's hands and kissed him, because somewhere along the timeline of six years, he started wanting less of other girls and more of fair skin and pale tresses and freckles and how they stood out whenever Ja'far was blushing–
. .
"So," Sinbad says conversationally over his completed physics homework, "why have you been avoiding me, if it's not because I kissed you?"
They were kicked out of the library within the first five minutes of their arrival, so they had resigned to doing work in the front lobby. Sinbad reckons it's for the best – the librarian is the grumpiest old woman he's ever met, and at least here they can talk freely.
Ja'far looks up sharply from his book. "Are you done with the page?" He ignores the question resolutely in favor of pulling the papers to his side of the table. He picks up a pen and starts going through the answers.
"Ja'far." Sinbad puts a hand over his wrist, effectively stopping him from scribbling any more red marks.
"What?" Ja'far hisses, snatching his hand away. "I came to help you with homework, not to talk about- this."
"You've been avoiding the question for years, don't you think it's about time you stopped?" Sinbad doesn't try to catch his hand again, only pushes aside the homework and leans forward. "And I know how people get when they keep things bottled up inside them, they go crazy!"
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it? I remember when you locked yourself in your room and didn't come to school for days, just because you had a few scars–"
Ja'far's eyes flash. "We're finished here," he says curtly and slams his book shut. "You did problems 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 11 wrong. Find someone else to help you, or you better pray that you even pass that class."
And then he ups and leaves – but not before throwing his pen at Sinbad's face.
. .
"Hey! Ja'far!"
Football practice has ended and Sinbad was en route to his car when he spotted a familiar head kneeling in the archery field. For a second, he thinks that Ja'far has been shot by an arrow or something – but upon finding no arrow protruding from his chest, he discovers that Ja'far had spilled his bag and was cleaning up.
He notices the way Ja'far's movements quicken at the sound of his voice. Sinbad tries not to feel too hurt. He can't blame Ja'far for not wanting to see him.
"Hey, you forgot your pen the other day…"
"Keep it," is the prompt reply. Sinbad catches a glimpse of more vials getting crammed into Ja'far's bag.
"More cyanide, huh?" he tries.
"No, this is chloroform."
"Really?"
Ja'far straightens and fixes him with a blank, cold stare, which is somehow worse than a scowl or a glare. "Why don't you take a sniff and find out," he says snidely, and Sinbad watches, helpless, as he turns and walks away.
. .
Holiday break arrives, and Sinbad is certain that he'll see Ja'far, and then he can apologize and Ja'far can forgive him and maybe they can go on a walk together on Chrismas Eve and then when they reach the field, Sinbad can hold some mistletoe above them and use it as an excuse to kiss him again.
Except he finds out that during Christmas Eve, Ja'far isn't even home. The look of disapproval on his parents' face had been evident when Sinbad inquired – politely – where their son was. Ja'far's mother had said a simple, "He's not home" before shutting the door in his face.
Sinbad walks to the field by himself, morose. His mood worsens even more when he realizes that someone has, once again, touched the snow before he could. The field is ransacked.
He's about to collapse into one of the piles when he sees Ja'far, eyes closed and seemingly asleep.
Isn't this a trip down memory lane, he thinks. After debating his choices for a few seconds, he decides it can't hurt if Ja'far is docile like this, and crouches down next to him.
Very, very hesitantly, Sinbad touches his cheek with a finger. As he expected, the skin is cold, and he surmises that Ja'far must have been out here for a while. He looks down and takes note of his clothing. It's definitely possible for someone to die of hypothermia if they slept in the snow without even a jacket, right?
Sinbad is ready to pick him up and carry him home – scorning parents be damned – but Ja'far chooses that moment to open his eyes.
"Are you," he says, looking down at where Sinbad's hand is still cupping his cheek, "touching me?"
Sinbad feels that he should probably take his hand back now, but Ja'far is watching him as if he's lunge forward and tackle him if he so much as moved. "It would seem so," he settles on saying.
Ja'far frowns at him. "I expected you to be more…angry."
"Should I be?" Sinbad cocks his head, thoughtful. "I mean, I thought you'd be the angry one here, since I'm touching you, and as I remember, you're not too fond of physical contact."
"You've been an exception to a lot of things," Ja'far says, very quietly. "I'm sorry for saying those things to you the other day. I was under stress and I took it out on you."
"I don't blame you for the way you reacted, so it's fine." Sinbad settles himself into the snow, watching Ja'far carefully. "I'm sorry for bringing up your scars…and for bothering you in the first place."
"I forgive you."
Sinbad lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. That was certainly a relief to hear.
"You don't bother me, though," Ja'far continues, in that quiet tone of his. "It's more of me trying to deal with my problems. It's not your fault that I'm a little…warped."
"But that's what I like about you." Sinbad smiles despite himself. "I like that you know about the different pressure points on the human body. I like that if I asked you to make me a bottle of poison, you'd be able to make me five different ones. I like that you're not afraid to be honest with me. I like your freckles."
Ja'far's eyebrows knit downwards in a slight frown. "My freckles are not part of the reason why I'm warped."
"I know. I just wanted to say it."
"Unbelievable," Ja'far sighs, but doesn't push Sinbad away when he moves in next to him. "When you kissed me that day…what were you thinking?" It's a genuine question.
"Well, I was thinking about how cute you look when you're really into a book, and then things just kind of happened." Sinbad feels his cheeks grow hot a little.
"And then things just kind of happened," Ja'far echoes, sounding somewhat amused.
"Don't make fun of me," Sinbad warns. "That was two years ago. I thought a lot of weird things."
"Mhm."
"If you get to know that, do I get to know why you started avoiding me?"
A silence ensues, and Sinbad prepares for the inevitable rejection.
And then Ja'far actually answers: "Some of it was because of my parents. But most of it was my fault. I was…I don't know, scared. You'd always tease me before, and I figured that was just part of who you are, but then you kissed me and- I was scared."
Ja'far had been scared? Of Sinbad? Of Sinbad, whom he could easily throw and pin down?
Ja'far, scared?
"You were…always different for me. I've met people like you before, and I've never bothered wasting my time with them, but you were so persistent. Said that I looked lonely, so we should be friends." Ja'far shakes his head, laughing a little. "If it was anyone else, I would have threatened them with my knives, but…it was you. And you were always an exception. I guess that meant I did like you back in some way, but by the time I realized that, I'd already been avoiding you for a year, and I heard you were going out with a new girl every week." His fingers come up to toy with the edge of Sinbad's scarf, as if to keep himself distracted. "I figured you must have hated me by then, so I just didn't bother."
"Ja'far," Sinbad says disbelievingly, "I waited for you every day at the end of your Latin class so I could walk you to the cafeteria. I was always trying to talk to you. I even called you out during one of my games! How the hell did you think I hated you?"
"That was two years ago! I thought a lot of weird things!" Ja'far defends, mirroring Sinbad's earlier words. "Anyway, what was I supposed to think, when you showed up every week with a different girl clinging to your arm?"
"That was because I had a hard time saying no to them. But none of them were…you."
It seems that he's caught Ja'far off-guard. The other boy is staring at him, wide-eyed, lips parted as if trying to say something but failing. He can imagine the retort that's waiting to roll off his tongue: "That's so cheesy, even for you."
But Ja'far just keeps staring at him like that and suddenly, Sinbad really, really wants to kiss him.
"Earlier you said that you liked me back in some way," he says, barely refraining from the urge to just lean forward and take. "Therefore, would you be entirely adverse to me kissing you?"
This catches Ja'far even more defenseless. His cheeks, normally pale, are flushing a darker red with each second. "I would probably flip you," he manages, and his eyes are darting back and forth Sinbad's face, as if trying to detect some semblance of a lie.
Sinbad grins. "Would that be a sign of affection?"
"Only with you," Ja'far says, and his blush worsens even more.
"Well, I threw out my mistletoe on the way here, but–"
– Ja'far leans forward and shuts him up with a kiss, and Sinbad smiles into it, because it looks like they don't need any mistletoe after all.
. .
That next January marks the sixth year of their friendship.
Sinbad tells this to Ja'far as they're walking home from school and happen to pass by the field.
"You're keeping track?" Ja'far asks, incredulous (and he'll never admit it, but he keeps track, too).
"Of course I am." Sinbad's attention is fully on him, though. Instead, he's looking at the field rather intently.
"You want to walk across, don't you?" Ja'far speaks up.
"Do you know how long it's been since I've had the first steps across? You were always there before me."
"You can do it this time, then."
"Let's both do it. Come on." Sinbad reaches a hand towards him.
Ja'far stares at the outstretched hand. "What?"
"This is called holding hands, Ja'far." Without further ado, Sinbad laces their fingers together. He tugs them towards the field. "Now, this is called walking through a field of snow together."
"It sounds awfully cliché."
"Just walk with me."
And, because Ja'far thinks that they eventually have to start making up for all that lost time, he decides to humor Sinbad. (He also likes seeing the smile on the older boy's face; it's almost like the littlest things can make Sinbad happy.)
About half an hour later, Sinbad finally starts sniffling from the cold and lets Ja'far coax him away from the snow. "I'm so thirsty already," Sinbad complains. "How do you walk home every day when it's this cold?"
"Usually I don't take detours to walk five laps around a field," Ja'far quips pointedly.
"We should have taken my car."
"And risk my parents seeing me with you? I think not."
Yeah, they're still working on that. But for now, Sinbad has Ja'far, and knowing that, he's willing to wait a millennium if necessary.
Ja'far passes him a water bottle, which Sinbad takes gratefully. "What is this?" he asks when he's recovered. He shakes the bottle around experimentally. "You didn't just give me some love potion, did you?"
"No."
Not that it would have been necessary. "Cyanide?"
"No."
"Chloroform?"
"It's dihydrogen monoxide," Ja'far says, and Sinbad turns to the road and promptly spits out the liquid.
"I just drank what?" he demands.
"Dihydrogen monoxide," Ja'far repeats. He sounds…mirthful. Then again, Sinbad rations, Ja'far has always had some sort of sadistic streak.
"I'm your boyfriend, Ja'far!" Sinbad cries out, perhaps a little too dramatically, but given the situation, he thinks it's appropriate. He's swiping his arm multiple times across his mouth. "Not your guinea pig for your chemicals!"
Ja'far pushes himself up to his toes, moves Sinbad's arm away, and kisses him.
"What was that for?" Sinbad mumbles when he draws away. "Now you've got some of it on your mouth."
Ja'far unwinds the scarf from his neck, then places it around Sinbad's. It's his scarf, anyway. "We'll be all right," he promises, smiling.
He decides to refrain from mentioning that dihydrogen monoxide is actually just the chemical name for water, because there are other things that his mouth could be doing, like kissing Sinbad back when he pulls Ja'far closer and presses their lips together again.
Yeah, they were going to be all right.