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R’alma really did hate the cold.
It was no surprise, really. As a young Miqo’te kit, she’d grown up in the hot, arid climate of Thanalan. As an Auri woman, her scales and horns had been sensitive to temperature changes. Now…
Well, now he had these long, flopping ears that seemed to just leak body heat.
At least, for the moment they were flopping. Normally, they’d be standing up tall and proud, their red tips and sleek black fur on full display. But ever since he’d set foot in Coerthas, he’d had them pinned almost flat against his head in a poor attempt to keep them warm.
And to keep the snow out of them. It seemed like everything that fell from the sky managed to find its way straight down into his ears now.
Sometimes he really missed having horns instead.
He was trying his best not to complain about it, and all things considered, he felt he’d done a pretty good job so far. He’d made sure to dress as warmly as he could, and was thankful that Tataru had already finished the adjustments on the heavy coat she’d made him for the Garlemald trip.
After all, he knew present company wouldn’t have let him out in anything that still hid his tail – which was also cold now, by the way.
And besides, G’raha seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. What was a little discomfort in the face of that?
Downtime was something that had been hard to come by in recent years, and as such R’alma hardly knew what to do with himself when he had it. Even worse, his most recent bout had been forced upon him by his injuries, leaving him absolutely stir crazy for the last several days. Finally, though, Y’shtola had deemed him fit for travel, and with no catastrophes looming on their horizon, he had decided it was a good time to start working on the list of promises he had made to G’raha.
And to maybe work on getting up the courage to do what he and Thancred had discussed. The swordsman had given him no shortage of very pointed glances since that night. All of which he had very pointedly ignored, despite the fact that he had every intention of following the advice he’d been given.
As it was, he and G’raha had been in Ishgard since yesterday, and he still had yet to bring it up.
The fault was not… entirely his own, arguably. As he kept telling himself, he just hadn’t been able to find the right opportunity. After all, when they’d first arrived, it felt as though they had been immediately beset on all sides.
Downtime was most certainly difficult to come by, even without a looming catastrophe, it would seem.
First it was Artoirel, who just happened to be passing by the Aetheryte plaza when they arrived. He descended upon them immediately and with such great enthusiasm that R’alma was frankly stunned quite speechless. When the young Count heard that G’raha had yet to have a proper visit to the city – and that it was, in fact, their reason for being there – he insisted on accompanying them for a grand tour.
A grand tour which ended abruptly at the Lord Commander’s office, when some business or other was brought to his attention and deemed excessively urgent.
They had been left then in the company of Ser Aymeric, who lamented his work making him wholly unavailable to join them on their tour of the city, but still managed to take up a large portion of their day with reminiscences and exchanged tales.
Not that R’alma could rightly begrudge the poor man. In fact, had he not been trying to achieve a rather particular and delicate goal on this trip, he’d have jumped at the chance to attempt sneaking the Lord Commander out of his office for the day.
But he was determined not to intentionally make this more difficult for himself than absolutely necessary. And, based on how things had already begun, he’d had the feeling already that he would have far more difficulties ahead of him.
Unfortunately, that feeling had turned out to be exactly correct.
Retiring at last to the Forgotten Knight for the evening, they had been flagged down by Sidurgu, who was of a mind to do some catching up. It was at this point that R’alma could first feel the edges of his temper beginning to creep in. The swiftly fading daylight had instilled a heavy sense of urgency in the pit of his stomach, and this new interruption had caused it to gnaw at his insides, grating and scraping against the fragile thread of his patience.
He’d clamped down on it as hard as he could. As frustrated as he was, he was determined not to ruin G’raha’s trip just because he was having difficulty managing his time efficiently.
Or expressing his feelings.
No, it was definitely time that was against him, he’d decided, as he sipped quietly on a mug of cider and waited for Rielle to stop turning his companion’s ear with stories.
The gnawing sensation had become a warm smoldering, licking like flame against his ribs, when Gibrillont informed him that their room reservations had been canceled. Before he could utter so much as a word of protest – let alone the tirade that was waiting on the tip of his tongue – a man had come forward, introducing himself as a manservant of House Fortemps, and explained that the cancellation had been made at the request of the young Count himself.
The Savior of Ishgard and his erstwhile companion would not be suffered to pay for lodging during their stay, and instead would be boarding at the manor.
R’alma had fumed quietly, but the glimmer of absolute enthusiasm in G’raha’s crimson eyes held his tongue in check.
Their arrival at the Fortemps estate had been met with an impressive amount of fanfare – for which R’alma was suitably embarrassed. The entirety of the household was in attendance to welcome them, and they were quickly shown to their guest quarters to stow their belongings and remove their coats before being whisked away to a generously laid supper table.
Ser Edmont had then kept them entertained well into the night with all manner of talk, from local gossip to retrospection on the recent Dragonsong War, all of which G’raha had listened to with great relish.
When the conversation eventually wound round to asking the Miqo’te about his experience in Ishgard, he had surprised them all with a brief but harrowing tale of venturing into the ruined city in the far-flung future with other companions. Of finding Ser Edmont’s memoirs, and of searching for other clues about the Warrior of Light’s journey since the closing of the Crystal Tower.
R’alma had found the embers of his ire dimmed in hearing the tale, as these were events he found difficult to get his friend to speak about under most other circumstances.
The following morning had found them, after a hearty breakfast at the manor, held up by some few students of Saint Endalim’s Scholasticate while browsing stalls in the Jeweled Crozier. R’alma’s temper had finally reached a point of beginning to boil over, exhibited by the use of a handful of barbed comments and passive-aggressive dismissals.
Though the others laughed off the remarks, he had noted a mildly reproachful look from G’raha that made him snap his mouth shut and grab his irritation in a stranglehold.
The remainder of their day was planned for a tour of the Firmament. However, right in the middle of a riveting conversation with Ehll Tou, a nasty storm had rolled in, bringing with it dark clouds and sharp winds, and so small amount of snowfall. As everyone else was driven to seek shelter from the icy gales, the pair had made a hasty retreat back to the estate, the torrential snowfall and quickly dropping temperatures obliging them to avoid any further distractions for once.
Now, finally sequestered back in their private room at the manor, R’alma had seated himself quietly in front of the ornate fireplace, still bundled in his heavy coat, warming his chilled extremities and generally trying not to sulk. He knew he was probably failing miserably, but the whirlwind events of the past two days had left him feeling rather like a sail that had all the wind blown out of it.
G’raha, by stark contrast, seemed to have been enjoying the trip immensely so far, sitting nearby on an indulgently plush sofa and chattering away pleasantly about the sights – and stories – he’d been treated to.
With a subtle flick and a shudder, R’alma attempted to dislodge the last remnants of snow and moisture from his ears, angling them up at last to catch some of the heat from the fire. The chatter in the room died away as the Miqo’te watched, entranced.
“I fear I must apologize for the state of your ears,” he intoned softly after a moment, his voice threading like silk into the fresh silence. “To have kept you out in the cold for so long… I truly was not thinking.”
“It’s fine,” R’alma replied shortly.
The timbre of the other man’s voice was changed somehow from the idle chatter from before, and it made his own breath want to stick in his throat uncomfortably. He shrugged and kept his eyes trained carefully on the fire. “I know Viera are still pretty rare to see in Eorzea, but I sure do wish someone would make something suitable for keeping longer ears warm. A hat or something, at least.”
A small sound of amusement vibrating in his chest, G’raha reached out and brushed the tips of his still-gloved hand against one long ear.
“Here, let me see if I can help.”
“N-no, I… I w-wouldn’t want to—” R’alma stuttered out in protest, before the thought was ripped from its meandering trail by the sensation of G’raha’s hands – gentle but firm – wrapped around the base of the leporine appendage.
In a slow, deliberate motion, they stroked up along the thick, fur-lined shell, pulling ever so gently to one side. He gave no resistance, going so far as to tilt it obediently in the Miqo’te’s direction. Mismatched eyes slid closed, jaw gone slack, as a shuddering breath slipped past his lips.
“—inconvenience you…” came the mumbled end of his previously unfinished statement.
And just like that, it was back – the floaty, swimming feeling permeating his senses. An intoxication of the soul driven by nothing more than the intimacy of those deft fingers trailing against his physical being.
Every muscle in his body went instantly limp. His focus wavered and clouded, every ilm of his attention pulled toward the sensation. The exhilarating calm – which he had previously attributed to his injuries and sheer exhaustion, but instead seemed to be a result of the physical contact – swirled in his head, spreading warmth through his body like a strong wine.
And loosening his tongue in much the same fashion.
Oh.
This was going to be much easier than he’d been making it out to be.
Before he could let tumble all the thoughts in his head, however, the captivating ministrations came to a halt. Not suddenly, but thoughtfully, it seemed. He made to turn his head to see what had brought about the pause, but his ear was till trapped firmly between nimble fingers near the base.
Fingers that were now delicately lifting the sky-blue crystal earring that hung there from its gold setting.
“Alma, where did you get this?”
Of all the things to ask, he thought through the muddled fog in his brain. The other ear flicked in mild embarrassment as he swallowed thickly.
“Ultima Thule,” he answered at last. “I mean, uh… Tataru made it for me, but…”
In that moment, a sharp ray of clarity pierced through the addled stupor, and suddenly he knew what the words were that he had been chasing for the entire duration of their trip. He turned, pulling the hand down from his ear gently and forcing himself to meet the steady crimson gaze. As he clung to the gloved hand like a lifeline, he took a steadying breath and began again, his voice more sure this time.
“Tataru made it, from a shard of crystal I had in my pocket when we returned from Ultima Thule. I had found some loose shards on the… the walkway, and I… I took them. As a keepsake.”
He swallowed again, ignoring the heat starting to creep up his neck and instead chasing the dizzying intoxication from before. Focusing on the hand he held and the steady, encouraging gaze that was filling the entirety of his vision.
“I took them,” he went on, his voice slowly building in pace and intensity, “because I thought I’d never see you again. And… I couldn’t bear that. Raha, I couldn’t. Of all the things I lost that day, or thought I had lost, that was the one – you were the one – that nearly broke me. You are… the single most important person in my whole world, and… and…”
A surge of emotion in his chest pulled him up onto his knees, like a puppet being pulled on a string. He’d expected the Miqo’te to shift back in response, or at the very least to seem startled. But G’raha remained still in his seat, watching in rapt expectation and forcing R’alma to brace his free hand on the arm of the sofa to prevent their noses from bashing together.
His heart pounded, breath coming short and heavy, as his voice finally failed him. For a long, silent moment, he could do no more than stare into those bright, blood-red eyes shining in the firelight. Eyes gazing back with intensity and a glimmer of…
...amusement?
Cheeky little… he thought helplessly. He knows. He knows, and he’s going to make me say it anyway…
In that moment of hesitation, he felt G’raha’s knees tighten and lock around his waist, as if to keep him rooted there. He doesn’t want me to run… But running away – backing out – was the absolute farthest thing from his mind at this point.
No, the only thing occupying his thoughts was the subtle, almost smug grin tugging at the corners of those lips. Those lips that he never paid much attention to until it was all that could be seen of a featureless, shrouded face.
Those lips that now dragged his gaze down like a swift undercurrent, unexpected and irresistible in its pull. He felt himself swept away, the fog and the dizziness in his head causing his breathing to quicken even more.
In a swift motion, he freed his hand – the one that had been clutching at the other man’s like it was his only remaining tether to the world – and moved it up to cradle the furry base of one ruddy ear. The leverage it gave him caused a shock of confidence to bolt down his spine.
“Raha,” he gasped, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I love you.”
That grin widened, not in smugness this time but in joy. “And I am fairly confident that you know my heart on the matter,” G’raha answered softly. Then, “my love,” he added after the briefest pause, as if exploring the taste of it on his tongue.
Those two words severed the very last thread of R’alma’s restraint. With no further hesitation, he surged forward and captured those lips – those succulent, inviting lips – with his own at last.
It was inelegant and clumsy at first. Teeth clashing, noses in the way, the other man was so much smaller in almost every respect, which made the whole ordeal more awkward than he’d anticipated. But after the initial rush, G’raha’s arms came to settle around him, grounding him and holding him steady.
And he thanked the Twelve for that, for if touches from the Miqo’te’s gloved hands had set his head spinning before, the kiss had sent it careening. No longer a pleasant, subtle swirl, but a violently raging maelstrom, such that he was no longer sure he knew which way was up. The feel of that soft, gently smiling mouth beneath his was like a shot of levin to his entire body.
His mind was rendered useless, all thought entirely incomprehensible save the vague, half-formed wish that it would never end.
After a moment, however, he had to break for air. He fought for breath in the exertion of resisting the urge to simply throw himself bodily on top of the smaller man – an instinct that would require some examination later, when he was of sounder mind.
He pressed their foreheads together in a gesture that he knew G’raha would recognize as a Seeker show of affection – and one which they had frequently shared in the past – one hand still resting heavily on the back of G’raha’s neck. Try as he might, he found he could neither halt nor hide the shaking in his limbs.
They spent a long moment in still, quiet reverie, heads pressed together, both basking in the afterglow of the simple confession. No sound broke the silence around them save for the gentle crackling of the fire and the racing of their own heartbeats.
R’alma had the distinct, dizzying impression of teetering on the brink of a sheer cliff. Of anticipating the inevitable plunge.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting on the edge, he heard G’raha’s soft, pensive intake of breath. “At the risk of sounding impertinent,” he intoned, almost hesitantly, “I was under the impression that you had made your stance on our… arrangement very clear. So, I hope you will forgive me, my star, but I cannot help but wonder… what was it that made you change your mind?”
R’alma pulled away then at last, sitting back on his heels as he considered the question. As he did so, G’raha caught his departing hands with his own, as if to keep him from pulling away entirely. The memory rose to the surface in his mind – of ardent declarations whispered under a newly-born twilight, of fervent refusal, of the swirl of confusion and the twinging of fear and doubt gripping at his heart. The apprehension and dread that had begun that night, planted by those whispered words, and which he had not been able to name or identify until it was too late…
“I… I didn’t want to lose you,” he replied at last, keeping his gaze locked on their joined hands as he reached out and grasped at the fear to name it. Giving voice to his thoughts was difficult enough in most circumstances, but he felt now as if he might break if he met the other man’s eyes.
As it was, the more he spoke, the more the words seemed to tumble out of him like a river through a broken dam.
“That was… Really, I think that was the whole point of it. But… at some point, I realized that I was going to lose you anyway by pushing you away. And I just… I couldn’t stand the thought of trying to live my life without you in it. I guess it’s as simple as that.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable and fighting the blush he could feel creeping up his neck. “Besides, Thancred made some… compelling points about leaving things unsaid, and… Well, you would know better than me, but having a near-death experience adds some interesting perspective—”
A gloved finger settled under his chin, tilting his head up gently and forcing him to confront the crimson gaze he had been avoiding. “My apologies, love,” G’raha interrupted, with no small amount of amusement dancing in his eyes. “It was not my intention to question your resolve. Though, I must admit, I find your digression to be incredibly endearing.”
The sudden low timbre of the Miqo’te’s voice caused R’alma’s entire train of thought to instantly derail again. His throat went dry, his tongue darting out instinctively to wet his lips, as his gaze began to drift down once more.
“Are you… Are you trying to say you think I’m cute when I ramble?”
“Exceedingly,” came the husky, whispered reply.
The blush was entirely beyond suppression at this point. His ears fell back as he felt what little restraint he’d recovered quickly crumbling.
“Then why… did you stop me?”
As if he didn’t already know the answer. But G’raha still dignified the question with a response.
“Would you believe me if I said that I felt there were better uses for that lovely mouth of yours at present?”
R’alma found that he didn’t need any further encouragement. In another – though arguably more graceful – rush, he leaned in to claim those teasing lips with his own. The subtle, sensual warmth went straight to his head. Their limbs entwined, lips dancing together as if there was nothing more natural or right in all the world.
He couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped him from the serenity of it, and he felt another answering smile beneath him at the sound.
R’alma really did hate the cold. But he had never been so grateful for a snowstorm in all his life...
