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seleniasTitle: Curses
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Clive/Charon
Rating: gen
Word Count: 702
Notes: Prompt fill for this FF Kiss Battle prompt.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Clive/Charon
Rating: gen
Word Count: 702
Notes: Prompt fill for this FF Kiss Battle prompt.
-
“You’re not gettin’ attached now, are you? Can’t say I want more than this, nice to look at as you are.”
“No more than usual, Lady Charon,” Clive answers. “I don’t believe that would be good for business.”
Charon’s thumb traces along his shoulder, gliding along his skin with dull and wrinkled softness. Clive knows he’s leaned into her company perhaps more than he intended to when they’d first shared his bed. She did not require an explanation for his moods or inconsistent comings and goings from one terrible enemy to the next. Those bearers Clive remembers sharing bunks with in his years of servitude did not speak or hardly embody a living person; clinical and without meaning, pleasure was far from anyone’s mind.
And yet, he can remove himself just the same here while also partaking in a measure of relief. Charon feels good beside him, and her sober company keeps him focused on the task at hand.
“…If you start thinking this will be the last time you have me up here than it might as well be. I’m not interested in muddying the water.”
“I’m not thinking about much of anything when you’re keeping me company.”
“You’re wanting for something though.” Charon turns silent, hand stilling. “You scared?”
He doesn’t think hard about his answer. “Hard not to be.”
“Fair enough — means your head’s on straight, a’least. You dominants bear a nasty lot in this life,” she mutters. “Don’t envy you there.”
Clive cranes his head against the cradle of her arm to see her better. She’s not prone to reminiscing, always looking forward to tomorrow’s fortunes, anticipating every edge he might need in the fights to come. He hadn’t considered she might not be immune to the concerns that makes all of them in need of comfort and safety from another, too collected to allow herself beyond the formality of the agreement they privately kept.
“I don’t think it’s easy for our associates, either.”
She snorts. “I’m not asking for your pious thoughts, lad.”
“It’s who I was before, too.” Before — everything. A civil servant, a strong and steady shield, a good prince, son and brother. A man who could take responsibility and bear the world’s sorrows. “Burning runs in the family,” he says simply, but it rings hollow. Clive doesn’t think he can claim to be the same person anymore when Cid’s shadow is also more or less his own, blurring the boundary between the dead and the living. That spark makes him an anomaly among men, but it’s only another thread tying him to this new life he’s desperately fought to keep.
Charon clicks her tongue. “That doesn’t sound promising.”
“No.” Clive chuckles, low. “But I have no intention of dying. Not for a long time.”
“And I thought you’d be needin’ some extra incentive. Glad you can still surprise me.”
Clive smiles, but says nothing more.
Charon quiets. Her body emits a dull warmth against his own, grounding him against the self-made intensity of Ifrit just beneath his skin. Neither will say they’re fond of the other for the sake of peace, but it’s just as well; Clive imagines he will greet her tomorrow and treasure her complaints of his unjust purchases as much as she’ll appreciate the extra coin in her pocket. She’ll supply the Cursebreakers with contacts that will aid them in the uncertain future to come and no one will know insecurity by her hand. More or less, a future without magic that will see him made obsolete in all but these courteous foxhole exchanges. This might be all that will remain of him. It’s not worth thinking about.
Her dry mouth lingers against his own, and then his crown as she mutters about sleep. Her silver hair smells like incense and smoke and the iron of her shop when he stretches to card his fingers through it one last time, enjoying the way it slides away from him, and the critical, distinguished scowl that tells him everything will be alright when he pulls himself in close.
Eventually, Clive closes his eyes to follow suit. A world where there are no more sorrowful partings is only a crystal and a god away.
“You’re not gettin’ attached now, are you? Can’t say I want more than this, nice to look at as you are.”
“No more than usual, Lady Charon,” Clive answers. “I don’t believe that would be good for business.”
Charon’s thumb traces along his shoulder, gliding along his skin with dull and wrinkled softness. Clive knows he’s leaned into her company perhaps more than he intended to when they’d first shared his bed. She did not require an explanation for his moods or inconsistent comings and goings from one terrible enemy to the next. Those bearers Clive remembers sharing bunks with in his years of servitude did not speak or hardly embody a living person; clinical and without meaning, pleasure was far from anyone’s mind.
And yet, he can remove himself just the same here while also partaking in a measure of relief. Charon feels good beside him, and her sober company keeps him focused on the task at hand.
“…If you start thinking this will be the last time you have me up here than it might as well be. I’m not interested in muddying the water.”
“I’m not thinking about much of anything when you’re keeping me company.”
“You’re wanting for something though.” Charon turns silent, hand stilling. “You scared?”
He doesn’t think hard about his answer. “Hard not to be.”
“Fair enough — means your head’s on straight, a’least. You dominants bear a nasty lot in this life,” she mutters. “Don’t envy you there.”
Clive cranes his head against the cradle of her arm to see her better. She’s not prone to reminiscing, always looking forward to tomorrow’s fortunes, anticipating every edge he might need in the fights to come. He hadn’t considered she might not be immune to the concerns that makes all of them in need of comfort and safety from another, too collected to allow herself beyond the formality of the agreement they privately kept.
“I don’t think it’s easy for our associates, either.”
She snorts. “I’m not asking for your pious thoughts, lad.”
“It’s who I was before, too.” Before — everything. A civil servant, a strong and steady shield, a good prince, son and brother. A man who could take responsibility and bear the world’s sorrows. “Burning runs in the family,” he says simply, but it rings hollow. Clive doesn’t think he can claim to be the same person anymore when Cid’s shadow is also more or less his own, blurring the boundary between the dead and the living. That spark makes him an anomaly among men, but it’s only another thread tying him to this new life he’s desperately fought to keep.
Charon clicks her tongue. “That doesn’t sound promising.”
“No.” Clive chuckles, low. “But I have no intention of dying. Not for a long time.”
“And I thought you’d be needin’ some extra incentive. Glad you can still surprise me.”
Clive smiles, but says nothing more.
Charon quiets. Her body emits a dull warmth against his own, grounding him against the self-made intensity of Ifrit just beneath his skin. Neither will say they’re fond of the other for the sake of peace, but it’s just as well; Clive imagines he will greet her tomorrow and treasure her complaints of his unjust purchases as much as she’ll appreciate the extra coin in her pocket. She’ll supply the Cursebreakers with contacts that will aid them in the uncertain future to come and no one will know insecurity by her hand. More or less, a future without magic that will see him made obsolete in all but these courteous foxhole exchanges. This might be all that will remain of him. It’s not worth thinking about.
Her dry mouth lingers against his own, and then his crown as she mutters about sleep. Her silver hair smells like incense and smoke and the iron of her shop when he stretches to card his fingers through it one last time, enjoying the way it slides away from him, and the critical, distinguished scowl that tells him everything will be alright when he pulls himself in close.
Eventually, Clive closes his eyes to follow suit. A world where there are no more sorrowful partings is only a crystal and a god away.
