Work Text:
Friend To The Spirit
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The young king of Figaro doesn’t bear much resemblance to the twin brother of Sabin’s memory. They haven’t spoken much yet - what could a lowly monk from Mt. Kolts even say to this proud young nobleman with the flowing mane?
Sabin watches in silence as Edgar offers his arm to the reserved young woman in their party - Terra, he recalls - to help her down an especially steep slope. Locke, who is walking behind them, silently rolls his eyes.
“Let’s make camp here,” he says, nodding towards a couple of pendent rocks. “No sense in stumbling down the mountain in the dark.”
“I’ll get us firewood,” Sabin offers, pointing into the nearby forest. “We’ve been here for training on occasion, I know my way around.”
There is a dull thud when Edgar drops his bag to the ground. “I’ll come with you,” he says. “Two men can carry more than one. And I’m really not good at making beds.” He winks at Terra, who seems more befuddled by the flirting than flattered.
Locke looks up from untying his bag, and for a split second, his eyes flicker back and forth between Sabin and Edgar before he grins. “Yeah, just one more thing you suck at,” he states blithely.
Sabin feels his jaw drop, but Edgar simply laughs and makes a beeline for the forest. “Let’s go,” he says cheerfully, and Sabin is perplexed enough that it takes him three steps to realize his feet have moved.
They walk in silence for a few minutes, with Edgar in the lead as if he knew the way. Sabin has the distinct impression that a rabbit is trying to claw its way out of his innards. Should he say something? How do you talk to a king whose runaway brother you are?
He swallows hard around his pulse beat hammering in his throat. He doesn’t even know if Edgar still cares about being his brother.
Edgar stops all of a sudden, turning on his heel. Sabin thanks the Gods - and Master Duncan - for his sharp reflexes, since they’re the only thing that prevents them from crashing into each other. He has a split second to take note of the glint in the king’s eyes before a hand clasps his shoulder and draws him into an embrace that knocks his already bated breath out of his lungs.
“Rene,” Edgar says, his voice rough and full of laughter. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”
Sabin’s valiant attempts at breathing are somewhat thwarted by the blue collar of a shirt in his mouth. His arms have moved, he notices, they have wrapped around Edgar’s waist in a gesture vaguely reminiscent of a wrestling hold.
“Here, let me look at you.” Edgar somehow manages to push Sabin back and look him over from head to toe without breaking their embrace. His smile is blinding. “Good gracious, you’ve grown. And grown up, it seems!” He drags his thumb over the stubble on Sabin’s cheeks, which - after almost two weeks without a shaving - has started to form something akin to an actual beard.
For the second time today, Sabin finds himself doing a fairly good imitation of a fish on dry land. The guy’s got some nerve, you have to give him that. “I’m gonna show you grown-up,” he growls.
Edgar laughs. “Ah, finally. I wasn’t sure if my little brother was still in there, under all that muscle.”
Sabin takes a step back. “So... we are still brothers, then?”
Oh, great. Ten years of practicing self-discipline, and he still hasn’t learned to rein in that stupid tongue of his. Well done, Sabin. Spell it out for him, will you?
For the first time, a hint of uncertainty creeps across Edgar’s features. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Of course we are.”
Not a word about their long separation, not a word about Sabin’s failure to do more than send a few cursory lines every now and then. Sabin’s thoughts, in the exact order of appearance, are: You jerk, why can’t you be angry with me? followed by Damn, I love my idiot brother. He tries to blink away the moisture in his eyes as Edgar grabs his wrists, holding tight.
“You’ve always been my brother, Sabin. And those last few days, after Father died... those don’t count. That wasn’t us.”
Something tells Sabin that Edgar has spent the last ten years pondering exactly those few days, and he feels heavily inclined to treat his brother to a hearty knock on the head. He decides to put the impulse to better use and instead pulls Edgar close again so fiercely they have to fight for balance. His laughter burns in his chest, and the feeling of the royal armor’s rough edges pressing into his flesh is uncomfortable as all hell, and yet it feels perfect, exhilarating and relieving at the same time, like being caught after a fall. Sabin wonders briefly which of them is trembling so badly, but the sensation dissolves like sugar in hot, strong tea.
Then, for no apparent reason, a thought crosses his mind that makes him laugh so hard he almost falls over.
“What?” Edgar says, sounding a bit indignant. Sabin grins at him.
“So, what am I supposed to call you now, huh?” He puts his hands together in the traditional kenpō salutation and gives a teasing little bow. “‘Your Majesty’?”
Edgar’s hand moves lightning-fast, grabbing him by the neck and trying to push him down and away, like they used to do during their boyhood tussles. Sabin breaks free without any effort. “Oh man,” he says. “Seems I have to teach you some decent moves before we tackle the Empire.”
Edgar’s eyes sparkle like Figaro’s crown jewels. “Wait ‘till I teach you how to use a crossbow,” he says.
*Fin*