Work Text:
Sidurgu was a sore loser. When he won, he was graceful, if a bit smug; Fray reckoned he’d earned that, on account of how long he’d been at it. And he did not lose often. That was the puzzling thing. Fray would never say it—’twas too revealing by half—but he admired him. His confidence, his competence. The roughness of his form and his wild passion in battle suggested a savant, a man to whom the gift came so easily he had no need of study. But when he did lose—gods. He was suddenly a grim aggrieved sage with better ends to which to bend his wits. “I’ve no time for these pissing contests,” he’d say, from the grimy cobbles where Fray’d put him. Or, “Can we go back to training like men, now, instead of children?”
One spring afternoon, Sid trotted out this line. He was nineteen. Were they men, or children? To which Fray replied: Had he seen men in Ishgard? Men didn’t spend their days hefting great swords, or do thousands of push-ups, or commune with darkness, or murder people—however deserving of death they were. Men in Ishgard, he said, drank, and ate shit, and died—poorly trained, with a pike in their hands, beneath dragons’ claws.
“I’d shame you at drinking,” Sid said with a scowl, missing the point entirely.
A barrage of quite nasty responses jumped into his head, the most ill-advised of which were, You’re a lizard, not a man, and, Well, you’re a virgin. “What makes you think that?” he said, choosing diplomacy.
Sid took up his sword and used it to push himself up from the ground. He wouldn’t meet Fray’s eyes; his ego was too bruised. “Look at you,” he said.
Fray dutifully examined himself. He thought he knew where this was going, but it was best to give him the benefit of the doubt. “And?” he asked.
“I was taller than you when I was ten summers old—”
“You were not,” he said.
“I was!” he insisted. “Ask Master.”
“Is that how men solve arguments?” Fray said, losing his temper at last. “’Ask dad’—?”
Sid made a fist. He looked like he wanted to fight. Then he seemed to remember he’d just done that, and lost. He said, “That’s it. You. Me. The Forgotten Knight. Tomorrow at sundown. We’ll see who’s a man.”
Indeed we will, Fray thought. It was not, so to speak, his first chocobo race. There’d been no Xaela around to test his mettle on, but he’d drunk a fair few Elezen under the table, men and women alike—and Byregot’s beard, could the women drink. His secret was simply holding it together. A drinking contest was not merely a test of endurance, but of presentation. Back straight, eyes open, lips closed. Intimidation won out over taunts every time; many a veteran tippler had lost their nerve, faced with Fray’s cold and inscrutable stare.
He took his customary flagon of ale with tea that night. Sid had four, and glared at him the whole time. With a look of bemusement, Ompagne asked, “Thirsty, are you?”
“This bantling thinks he can out-drink me,” Sid said.
Ompagne said, “Easy, now. What’s happened this time?”
Fray smiled his sweetest, most sarcastic smile at Sidurgu from across the table. Go on, he thought. Ask dad.
Sidurgu would not. He ate in silence, like a moody bairn of four summers in a fit of ill humour, and vanished. Fray returned to his meal. “He’s a terrible sport,” he said.
“Did you out-spar him again?”
“Aye.”
“Oh, well done,” Ompagne said, with genuine pleasure. “I told you it’d come to you in time.”
He couldn’t admit how he’d done it. It had nothing to do with his strength, or technique, or the weight he’d put on since he started all this. It almost felt like cheating. But Sid was recovering from a heavy downward slash, and he was bent over, and his horns were right there. He’d always wanted to grab them—mostly because he figured Sid would hate it—and if the gods gave you a boon like that, you took it. You didn’t crow about it afterward, maybe, but you took it.
Nothing had ever stopped Sid so cold in his tracks as Fray’s hand around his horn. It could hardly be called a fight anymore after that. He just kicked Sid’s feet right out from under him, and that was that.
Three rooms at Cloud Nine was more than their meager finances could bear, and he and Sid had shared a bed every night since Fray’s induction. Each night was an awkward one when your bed-mate was seven fulms tall and scaly, and when they fought, it was worse; these evenings started out with sullen silence, and usually ended with Sid sitting bolt upright in a fury, whispering, “What I don’t understand is—” while Fray wrapped a pillow around his head and let Sid wear himself out.
Fray spent much of the day dreading this. By the time he retired that night he’d worked himself up into a quite respectable lather over Sidurgu and his stupid face, his stupid attitude, and most especially his stupid mouth. It was that which ruined it all. He was always talking. Always pouring ill-considered nonsense into the world, always grasping for the last word. So after they settled in, wrapping themselves in three layers of sheets, two threadbare duvets, one hideous castoff quilt, and an invisible yet somehow oily ambiance of simmering mutual loathing, Fray waited, and girded himself for what was to come.
It was Sid, of course, who first broke the holy silence of the night. He said, “You’re going to lose,” and Fray immediately reached out, grabbed his horn and savagely tugged.
Sid roared and pushed him out of the bed onto the floor. Fray pulled down his pillow and one blanket and slept there. He was a Brume bastard; he’d had worse.
He broke his fast with a Bateleur omelette and then repaired to the Crozier, where he bought a bottle of strong Lominsan bourbon that he rather liked when he could get it. He drank half of it himself; the rest he passed ‘round with a few friends he ran into beneath the Fury’s Mercy. Feeling that he was not drunk enough just yet, he prevailed upon Bamponcet at Cloud Nine to pour him a glass from the store of Coerthan whisky he kept behind the bar. He did not advertise it, for it was the rudest of any bathtub vintage in Aldenard and could lay a Roegadyn flat with ease, but Fray knew everyone, and drank everything, and he knew it was there.
As he was enjoying this rare wonder of the low stills of Ishgard, which went down as smooth as broken glass and tasted like suffering, Bamponcet watched him very intently. He said, “Fray.”
“I’ll do you the same someday, Bampsie, you know I will.”
“Fray,” he said, and laughed. “It’s not even noon.”
Fray lowered the tumbler to the bar with the command of an emperor. With the irresistible slowness of erosion. His hands were as steady as a cairn in a meadow. He was going to put Sidurgu in his grave.
Noon came, and went, though it took its bloody time. The bells crawled by. True drunkenness struck him later than he’d expected, and at first he worried. But by fourteenth bell he’d sobered up as planned. He went shopping one last time, then invaded the kitchens at the Knight, buying the cooperation of the maids there with many compliments and a serving each of the late lunch he prepared for himself: a spin on La Noscean toast, soaked through with egg until it nearly fell apart, and pan fried in a generous pool of suet. The syrup, once poured on the toast, grew cloudy with grease.
“You go on like this and you’ll meet your end looking like my husband,” said the older of the three maids.
He carried his plate heaped with fried toast out above his head like a trophy and said, “If I eat well and die young, I’m ahead of most folk in Ishgard.”
Fray took his meal at the same table he shared with Sid and Ompagne every day. This was a power play; for Sid, all roads led there. Sure enough, he came in by and by, shining with sweat, his chest still heaving from his daily exertions, and out of habit almost joined him. Then he saw the toast. His eyes flashed with a covetous gleam, then narrowed in betrayal. It was only a matter of time.
Night fell upon Ishgard like a dead dragon into a ravine. Sidurgu swaggered into the Knight alone, half a bell late. Fray never left, and his friends had joined him in the meantime. They had sworn an oath upon the Lominsan bourbon to come and watch Sid take his thrashing. Gibrillont said, “What am I pouring, lads?”
“What’re you comfortable with, m’lud?” Fray asked of Sidurgu, simpering, emboldened by his entourage.
“Someone call this infant a wet nurse,” Sid said. The spectators howled with delight. “As for me: ale.”
Fray drank the first pint in one go, tilting his head back, savoring the cheers of his friends. But he set the flagon down, and Sid’s was empty, too. His arms were folded over his chest. Gibrillont sent in more.
Somewhere between five and six pints Fray began to feel guilty. Around his side of the table stood Bamponcet, Adaillie, the maids from the kitchen, and ten more, three of whom he only knew through other friends, and whose names he couldn’t recall just now. Sidurgu had no one. It was easy to think of him as a bully when he was so massive and so loud and so angry, and some days all Fray wanted was to bloody well put him in his place. But this wasn’t a friendly match, anymore; Fray’d summoned all his mates, which were easy for him to make on account of being free with his drink and his food, and his not being a great big dragon-looking bastard in Isghard. If Sid had been any less loud and angry and fearsome these people would have put him in his place, which to them was the blessed Lifestream. And then who would keep Fray’s bed warm at night?
Fray lost count of the pints—not because there were that many of them after all, but because he was by then utterly divested of his senses. Still his hands carefully lowered the empty glass to the table. His vision buzzed. Sid was drooping, one arm on the table to prop himself up, but he looked as fierce as ever, and as determined. Under the chair his tail swayed, then halted, as if it’d lost track of what it was doing. Swayed, halted. The scales shone in the lamplight. Weren’t all these fascinating protuberances a liability on the field of battle? Had no one ever taken him by the horns before? Why hadn’t they pulled on his tail? If he won this contest, he decided, he’d do it, when Sid was passed out like a fool and couldn’t stop him.
“What are you smiling at?” Sid said, with an admirable slur.
He’d let the mask slip. Damn! “A poor loser,” he said.
“This isn’t over,” Sid said. He tried to drink. He missed. His shirt got a mouthful, instead.
“I think it is,” Gibrillont said.
“Think less,” Sidurgu commanded. “Pour more.”
“When you’re a man, lad, you can decide for yourself,” Gibrillont said. “Right now, I’m the judge.”
Nothing could’ve been more cutting. Sid looked like he’d just been told one of his kidneys would have to do to clear the tab.
“In light of the difference in size between our contestants, approximate parity of consumption, and the current straightness of their respective postures, I’m afraid I’ve got to name our Fray the winner this evening,” Gibrillont said.
The Knight erupted into cheers. Sid let himself fall to the table, all hope of victory lost, all pretense of sobriety gone. Fray did not move. If he tried to move, they’d see how shit-faced he really was.
“Come out with us, Fray,” said a friend-of-his-friends’. “That night air’ll get you right.”
“Go on,” Fray said. “I’ll catch up.”
He found himself at the bottom of a fishbowl. The voices in the tavern swirled around him, indistinguishable, a roaring current whose course he must decipher or drown. The youngest of the kitchen maids said something to him that might as well’ve been dragonspeak. He smiled at her politely until she left. He absolutely could not vomit. Not until Sid did, first.
He swiveled his head down to look at him. He hadn’t moved either.
“You know you’re my best friend,” Fray said.
“No,” Sid said.
“Are.”
“Was, maybe.”
“Mate,” Fray began, and could not continue. He reached out and patted Sid’s head where it lay on the table.
Sid lurched into a sitting position. He ran his fingers through his hair as if to make certain Fray hadn’t put something in it. “You dint give me any bournbon, and you dint give me any toast,” he said, in a mournful tone.
“Mate.”
“Ohh, go mate with a spike-end of a flail.”
“I’m sorry I grabbed your horn.”
“You diddit twice.”
“I am sorry I twice grabbed your horns,” Fray said, slowly, trying to ensure the words were in the right order. “Did it hurt?”
“They’re sensitive,” he whined. He wallowed for a moment in his bad fortune, then went on, “Rotten way to winna fight. Like… grabbing a Hyur by the stones.”
Fray thought about how he’d feel if Sid had come anywhere near grabbing his stones. His brow furrowed. When he realized he was thinking about it rather a lot, and that ‘a lot’ was far too much, he said, “It is not like grabbing a Hyur by the stones.”
“Issa metaphor!” Sid shouted, standing up to emphasize the gravity of it all. He had to steady himself with the table to keep to his feet. He jabbed his finger at Fray. “You’re the smart one, with your books and your… your magery. You should know.”
Fray rubbed his forehead, wondering if he’d misheard. Nobody had ever called him smart in the whole of his life.
Sid leaned over him, then said, “I’ve got this one thing, Fray. Issall I’m good at. You beat me, and it’s… wretched.”
There was something about a vulnerable man. If he’d been sober, he might’ve been touched. But Fray could see Sid’s tail hanging lank between his legs. He remembered his victory plan. He was about to make a very bad decision.
“Look over there,” he said. “It’s Master Ompagne.”
“Oh, Fury’s tits,” Sid said, miserable. But he turned around, obediently.
Time slowed to a glacial crawl as he reached for his prize. This entire escapade, which he’d gotten himself into by violating Sidurgu’s bodily autonomy, had somehow failed to make a fool of him; he did not see the point in getting so stupendously, obscenely potted if he woke on the morrow with no regrets. He closed his fingers around the glittering black scales at the base of Sid’s tail and squeezed.
Fray did not even see Sidurgu in the act of turning back around. It was as if Althyk had torn a page from the book of his life and cast it into the Hell of Fire. One moment Sid was searching the Knight for his Master, his pose contrite, as if he feared Ompagne’s retribution. Fray had achieved his highest aim, and held the cool scales tightly in his grasp. The next, Fray was on the floor, his temple throbbing, with sparkles dancing before his eyes.
There were voices he couldn’t understand. Shouts—laughter—a few men who sounded like they hoped it was the start of a fistfight. But Fray could no more have fought back than he could’ve brought peace between man and dragon. Sid was next to him, with a firm hand on his shoulder and horror upon his face. “Fray?” he said, over and over, with increasing concern. But then Gibrillont was there, and he was laughing.
“Looks like I might’ve misjudged the winner,” he said.
“Gods strike me down, I’ve killed him.”
An ocean had washed over his limbs. His body seemed to split into three and four of itself when he tried to move it. Now he had regrets; the night was done. Gibrillont said, “He’s a better actor than he is a drinker, is what he is. He’s ruined.”
“What should I do?” Sid asked.
“Well, you put him there! Get him up from the floor and put him to bed,” he said.
The world spun. He crushed his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he was in the stairwell on the way up to their room. The lamps on the wall were filthy, the glass discolored from age, but the light from them was warm. It was beautiful, that light in the darkness—like a child’s laughter, or the smile of a person in love. He realized Sid was carrying him, very slowly, up the stairs.
Sid held him tight in one arm while he opened the door. He was right. He was small. Stupid, too—and no match for him at drinking. He leaned hard against Sidurgu’s chest. He expected to be dumped into the bed like garbage, which he was. But Sid set him gently on one side, drew back the sheets on the other, picked him up again and tucked him in, and Fray wondered at this tenderness. As if hoping to change Sid’s mind, he said, “Mnot sorry, y’know.”
“Reckon laying you out’s punishment enough,” Sid said. “Would’ve never punched you if I’d known it was you.”
Who’d you think it was? he thought. But instead he said, “Why not?”
Sid frowned. He didn’t bother to undress. He fell into bed, turning away from Fray, and said into his pillow, “You’re my best friend, too.”