Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sleep never comes easy after a fight. Between your body's new array of aches and the lingering battle high that floods you with adrenaline even hours after you lay down your lance, it's a miracle you were even able to drift off in the first place. You don't know if it's your own restlessness or the slow drag of neatly trimmed fingernails in the scruff at the base of your neck that wakes you, but you're more than content to shoulder all the blame in exchange for this lazy bliss. G'raha's anesthetic touch soothes you like nothing ever has.

The repetitive motion both calms and stirs you, holding you on the edge of sleep but lucid enough to keep from falling under. You resist the sluggish urge. As tired as you are, you don't want to miss a moment of this. Savoring the sensation, you peel your heavy eyes open to the play of fireborn silhouettes on the canvas, undulating in the evening breeze.

This peace is the only prize you claim for the day's victory. The Ironworks will undoubtedly record your triumph with praise enough to make you cringe, lauding you as a hero. The Warrior of Light. The new title is an ill-fitting armor, but no one else has seemed to notice.

You much prefer this- the quiet sanctuary of your shared tent, the warm cocoon of furs you've bundled into a makeshift nest. Not that either of you have called it that. Beneath the crescent glow of the summer moon, there is no need for names. There is no need to overthink things like you do during the day. In this tent there is nothing but a young man and his most cherished friend. Thoughts of anything more or less you leave for the scrutiny of sunlight.

A yawn betrays you, your limbs shaking with a delicious stretch. A warm chuckle rumbles not far from your ear.

"Forgive me. I did not intend to wake you."

The unused gravel of his tired voice twists something inside you, a swirl of guilt and pleasure you leave untouched. You find his foot with yours, tracing toes along the soft skin of his ankle.

"I was already awake," you lie.

"So I am to understand that I was imagining the snoring, was I?"

You laugh, burrowing your smile into the pillow. The fabric is still damp from your hair after your earlier bath in the lake. Only a vigorous scrub could scrape away the sweat caked with the new stench of bile and hounds' breath. G'raha still had yet to return when you trudged back to camp and surrendered the day to the comfort of your bedroll. You had worried after him, but all things considered, he had a more eventful day than you did. He needed the clarity of solitude to cope with the enormity of receiving the missing piece of his history, the Allagan blood that brought forth the might and memory of his ancestors.

To wake and find G'raha beside you is a relief. To wake wrapped up in him is a finer dream than sleep ever brings.

"You're hearing things." Your voice is muffled by the pillow. "I don't snore."

"Ah, yes." Amusement rings in his weary, muted words. "Then maybe I was mistaken. A trick of the wind, perhaps."

"That must be it." You find his hand where it rests on the curve of your hip, brushing his knuckles with yours. "Why are you still awake? You were as tired as I was earlier."

G'raha exhales gently, not quite a sigh. "Sleep evades me. 'Tis no matter, though. I will undoubtedly catch up on my rest 'ere long."

You hum a note of understanding. "Did you want to read? The wind-up sun should be in one of your bags."

"No, but thank you." His voice dwindles to a whispered caress. "I am perfectly content where I am."

Your face warms at the possible implications, but you keep your hopes stifled within the screaming silence beneath your breast. This closeness is a regular occurrence, but that doesn't stop you from fearing to reach one fond word too far, of crossing a line you cannot see. There has never been a soul more in tune with yours, a person who even the thought of losing leaves you hollow.

The truth comes to you in a familiar catch of breath. Your bravery does indeed know it's bounds. It flees in cowardly surrender, leaving you at the mercy of the guarded heart beating behind yours. G'raha wears a mask of bravado for the world to see, ever eager to prove his worth where his upbringing had done it's best to convince him he had none. It took some time, but for you he removes the mask. Beneath the eccentric shell is a starry-eyed scholar with scars on his heart he need not hide- not from you.

The truth is terrifying but simple enough. You are his. If that is something G'raha wants, you are rarely more than a breath away. Maybe before the tower is sealed and he returns to his studies, you'll find the courage to reach out and ask.

Maybe.

For now, you erase your flustered expression with a cleansing breath. When you roll over, G'raha's arm slots neatly beneath your neck, his hand on your hip sliding to catch in the folds of your nightshirt. The towel you'd coiled around your tail becomes pinned beneath your thigh, its captured moisture seeping into the cotton of your trousers.

Two red eyes gaze back at you. The change is new and startling enough that you flinch.

The peaceful set of G'raha's mouth falters, but he recovers with a wry smile. "Is it truly that frightful?"

"No," you say. "Just different."

G'raha shifts on his shoulder, pulling the fur throw tighter around you both. "You can be honest with me. I will not fault you for it. "

"I am being honest." You dare to reach across the distance between you, sweeping the fall of his fringe back from his face. "I liked it when only one was red. Why should two change my mind?" G'raha laughs, squinting when you trace the shape of his arrow markings with your fingertip. "It's my favorite color."

He crinkles his nose and nuzzles his face into his shoulder to wipe away the phantom tickle your touch leaves behind. When he opens his eyes again - gods, they seem to nearly glow now - his joy is sincere. You would know the coy curve of those full lips anywhere.

"So my coloring helps you to endure my company, does it?"

"Oh, stop it," you chide. He rewards you with a chuckle when you reach to dote upon his ear. "You know there is nothing to endure. Not for me." You bite your lip as you work up the nerve to add, "It makes no difference that you're beautiful."

A blush stains G'raha's cheeks, evident even in the dim tent lit only by the flickering firelight outside filtering through. "You are a man of questionable discernment."

"Are you going to include that assessment in your expedition logs?

"No." A wistful shine comes over G'raha's eyes that makes your heart stutter. "I write only of the Warrior. The man I have come to know these past moons is far more than valiant words on a page. He is dear to me. My thoughts of him are unwelcome to wandering eyes."

"Not even mine?"

The air grows thin as he studies you, a tight ache constricting your chest. It's confounding how these moments of almost manage to pain you as much as they threaten to pull you temptingly closer.

G'raha rises on his elbow. The blanket spills from his shoulder, his tired body offering a crack as he shrugs life back into his bones.

"I had thought to step out for some fresh air," he says. "You are welcome to join me, though I imagine you would prefer to resume your rest."

The sudden shift in conversation furrows your tired brow. He may have cast aside the topic at hand, but at least he doesn't intend to do the same with you. A summer spent basking in the glow of the crystal tower has made you so used to sleeping beside him that it is difficult to do so alone, especially now, knowing how troubled he is by the flood of inherited knowledge his new blood has brought.

You roll onto your back to look up at him. "Are you certain you won't mind the company?"

G'raha opens his mouth as if to speak, but quickly closes it. One of the corners shift, dimpling his cheek while he reconsiders his words. He curates the clamor of his thoughts to offer only what needs to be said.

"Not if it's you."

Your smile proves infectious. G'raha grins and combs your hair back between your ears. His fingers snag in a sleep-mussed tangle, pulling an undignified yelp from your throat. His apologies lack sincerity between bouts of laughter as you bat him away.

"I'll brush it for you, if you like," he offers.

"Not when it's this like this, you won't. I'll be bald by the time you're through with me."

It's telling that G'raha doesn't speak to the contrary. He's ruthless with the knots that manage to sneak into his own neatly bound hair, and you've endured enough physical torment for one day to let him tackle yours. You set to the task yourself, carefully brushing your unruly mop while G'raha tugs his warwolf boots on. The mundane struggle still amuses you, seeing him work his short limbs into the knee-high gear.

"I thought we might go down to the lakeshore," G'raha says as he smooths out the fur lining bunched up behind his knee. "We have been blessed with a warm breeze and clear skies. It seems a shame to waste it inside."

The pleasant thought makes you hum. The noise is warped as you fold your ear to comb behind it. "I'll wait until tomorrow to swim, though, if that's alright with you. I don't know if I have it in me right now."

G'raha's mouth twitches. He considers his hefty gloves before setting them aside by his aetherometer, unnecessary for a quiet evening under the stars. You've seen him in nothing but his Moonfire trunks, still draped over a storage chest to dry in the corner of the tent, but he somehow seems more bare like this. A soldier half removed of his armor, at ease and at peace in the company of the one he comes home to.

"You will hear no objection from me on the matter." G'raha shifts onto his knees, patting his hands once on his thighs with enthusiasm. "Shall we, then?"

You toss aside your hairbrush and hastily wriggle your toes into a pair of sandals. The cropped trousers you fell asleep in will suffice, but you swap your thin top for a more substantial cotton shirt from your makeshift wardrobe chest. It didn't take long into your stay in the Find for the lakechill to make itself known, for the winds of Mor Dhona to seep into you like the boy watching you with brilliant eyes.

"Are you quite ready yet?" G'raha teases as he holds open the tent flap expectantly. You scurry behind him, ducking in his wake as the animated curve of his tail glides against your leg. The downy soft sweep is too much to resist. Your loose grip encircles it, snaking down to the puffy tip as he slips ahead of you into the moonlight.

The crackling fire illuminates the unlucky hired hand stuck with guard duty. The arrows in her quiver clack as she whirls around at the abrupt sound of your footsteps. The routine 'oh, it's just you two', in her long-suffering gaze is louder than Cid's book hitting the dirt as he startles awake. He rights himself where he reclines against a log by the fire with a pile of journals and tomestones at his side.

"Burning the midnight oil, are we, Master Garlond?" G'raha's voice is hushed but still decidedly too animated for such an unholy hour.

"I thought I was," Cid mumbles, still disoriented. "Someone has to jot all this down while it's still fresh. Rammbroes and his lot hit the hay early and you two were 'weary to the bone', last I heard." He fixes you and G'raha with an arched eyebrow in turn, waving a journal in the air. "Come to join in the fun, have you?"

"Any words I put to paper now would be lost on us all, I fear." G'raha lifts his face to the shimmering veil of stars that gives way to the radiant halo emanating from the crystal tower. His eyes shine with distant thought, the answer to his hopes hanging from the hook of the moon, illuminated yet unreachable.

He looks stunning bathed in the muted glow, the cloudless night forming gentle shadows on that face you know so well. The stars are daring enough to kiss his cheeks where you hope to one day light him from within.

G'raha turns back to face you and your heart lodges in your throat. Did he catch you staring? His smile conveys no answer, only the contentment he finds in your company. His ungloved hand rests briefly on your arm as he says, "Wait here. I will see if I might persuade your chocobo to join us."

You're tired and distracted enough that your reply refuses to find it's voice, so you offer a nod instead. Cid's chuckle is so soft that hopefully G'raha doesn't hear it over the scratch of his boots on the dirt.

"What's so funny?" you ask, already knowing the answer is you.

Cid shrugs when you turn to him. He laughs again, shaking his head as he scoops up a bottle of mead from the mess of his things. "You're really not a morning person, are you?"

"Considering the time of day, I can't quite answer that, now can I?"

The fire crackles as a log splits in two. Cid waves away a stray ember, the bottle sloshing in his hand. "I guess not," he concedes. "G'raha woke you up?"

You press the heel of your palm into your eye. A kaleidoscope erupts behind your lids as you rub away the gritty sleep dust. The fire dances in a swirl of colorful hues when you blink open your eyes.

"Probably. I don't mind."

The cork pops when Cid pulls it from the bottle. "You don't mind a damn thing when it comes to that boy." His snicker is all in good fun as he takes a swig.

You have no means or mind to deny the accusation, so you answer only with a telling hint of a smile.

Cid's tone settles, his gaze growing serious. "Is he doing alright?"

You nod, toeing the barren dirt with the edge of your sandal. "All things considered, I think so. There's a good deal he isn't saying, but I don't blame him. If what happens with his eye is anything at all like my Echo-"

The meaning that falls away as you shake your head at the thought of such disorienting pain does not go unnoticed.

"It can't be much fun," Cid says. He empathises as much as he can for a man disconnected from such selective troubles.

"Not really," you say, forcing humor into your voice before smothering another yawn with the back of your hand. "We're going down to the lake."

"A startling development." Cid's fond sarcasm oozes from his smirk. He stretches his legs with a cathartic sigh. The fire spits a stream of sparks when he taps a log with the steel toe of his boot. "You have your linkpearl on you?"

You touch your finger to your ear just long enough to generate a soft din. "If anything explodes or the tower starts changing colors, you know where to find me."

"I think I'd rather have G'raha for that last one. Not that I'd have to look anywhere different."

Cid knows, and you've been friends long enough that you let the teasing remarks slide. It's not as if what you feel is some passing infatuation. G'raha has unscrambled the chaotic puzzle of your life and found the heart waiting at your core that you had been beginning to believe wasn't even there at all. It's his to keep. If anyone wants to speak on the subject, either in jest or in judgement, then let them. Your happiness isn't something you're inclined to keep in shadow.

The smack of taloned feet turns your ear. You follow it's lead to find G'raha rounding the cluster of crystal spires behind the tents on the back of your chocobo. The bird seems thrilled to be free of the chocobokeep's pen, even more so to be able to stretch his legs without the weight of battle barding. G'raha tugs on the reins and draws the bird to a halt at the top of the trail. He waits for you, a shock of red in an earthen sea of blue. He smiles when your eyes meet, and you cannot help but do the same.

"We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow," Cid reminds you as you fetch your lance from where it rests nestled against a jagged crystal near the fire. You bid him farewell with a salute, disregarding his warning not to stay out too late even as you offer a noncommittal nod.

Your chocobo trots eagerly in place and greets you with a kweh when you approach. G'raha chuckles and leans to pet the bird's neck.

"Someone is happy to see you," he says, ruffling yellow feathers as you strap your lance behind the saddle. The warmth of his laugh makes a home within you.

"Oh? And which of you would that be?"

The chocobo trills when you pat his flank. G'raha shifts in the saddle, giving you a look that is equal parts exasperated and affectionate.

"Whichever answer I chose to give, either would be true. He and I are kindred spirits, you could say."

You ignore the heat that rises to your cheeks, distracting yourself by scratching the spot on the bird's side that he can't quite reach when he has an itch. "I'll say. At this rate, I might as well sign my company whistle over to you. I think he likes you better than me."

G'raha lifts his shoulder, offering a half-answer to go with the half-hearted shrug. "Animals are easier to understand than people are." A depth of understanding flows between you, stories of loneliness and neglect shared in confidence. "He is your loyal steed. That bond cannot be broken, though I might suggest a venture to the Gold Saucer when time allows. The greens they sell are a good deal more tempting than the ones you purchase from Bentbranch."

"So that's your secret then. You spoil him when I'm not looking."

"Perhaps."

The cut of G'raha's mischievous smirk tears through the last of your frail resolve. You rest your hand on his boot as you step in closer, looking up at him.

For a moment he is the lost boy you met at the beginning of the summer. When he removes his foot from the stirrup and offers you his hand, he is a man who has found his rightful place. The Archon you met only months ago wasted no time becoming your knight in not-quite shining armor.

You take G'raha's hand and slip your foot into the stirrup. The intensity of his matching red eyes sends a thrill through you so swiftly you think he might feel you shiver as you settle into the saddle behind him.

Not a knight, you think, wrapping your arms around his waist. Those are the eyes of a newly crowned Prince of Allag.

While G'raha busies himself adjusting his seat, you let your aching body melt forward against his back. You summon the courage to bunt his head, an affectionate nudge between his ears that fills your senses with the scent of home. His delight is an audible, poorly disguised intake of breath. He pushes up into the touch with a happy hum, laughing as you nuzzle his ear. It bends beneath your cheek, and in that moment as your lips pass over soft fur and G'raha's hand tightens on your wrist where it rests above his hip, you do something you rarely do.

You pray- to Azeyma, to Hydaelyn, to whoever feels inclined to listen to a farce of a hero like you. It's an impossible wish from a man who lost his faith along the broken path life has dragged him along, but you're desperate enough to try. Perhaps the bitter heap of selfless deeds that climbs ever higher will amount to enough for the gods to forgive the way you had forsaken them.

This is it. I have never had anything to call my own, but please, let me have this.

Your chest tightens, your lungs constricting from somehow feeling too much yet not enough. The exquisite ache only ebbs when G'raha's hand folds over yours, his thumb brushing the back of your palm. He sighs as you breathe him in.

The chocobo flaps, impatient wings beating the air. G'raha tugs on the reins to steady the beast. "By your leave?" he asks in playful deference, his vibrant voice soft yet certain.

Drawing back from his ear, you give two sharp clicks of your tongue. The bird darts off at brisk trot, nearly startling G'raha out of the saddle. You stay your own seat with your battle-hardened thighs and laugh as he scrambles to right himself, tightening your hold around his waist until he wrangles back control. You meet narrowed red eyes with a toothy grin.

Once the chocobo slows to a walk and you let yourself relax, G'raha whistles and smacks the heel of his boot against the bird's mighty flank. Kicking up a spray of dirt and crystal dust, your loyal mount defers to a different master. Your startled cry is probably loud enough to wake the campsite you leave behind in your glittering wake, but you don't care. All you care about is the sound of your unbridled laughter joined with G'raha's, and the way he feels in your arms as you cling to his back for dear life.

You bury your grin in the taut swell of G'raha's shoulder as he lets the chocobo have its fun, sprinting down toward the water with abandon, dodging the writhing cobras that block the winding road. The haste-made wind tosses your hair in a hopeless mess, each pounding step echoing your racing heart, the resounding beat crying out within you: this is what it means to be alive.

The chocobo lets out a warbled squawk as G'raha pulls up on the reins. He soothes the bird with comforting muttered praise until the unforgiving battlefield gives way to sand underfoot. Peeking up over the ridge of G'raha's vest, you see the still water echoing the light of the heavens. Your usual haven remains undisturbed, the branches from your fire two nights ago still stacked where you left them doused and spitting smoke.

G'raha is the first to dismount, swinging his leg over and dropping down from the saddle as though he was born for it. At times like this you think in another life he would have made a finer adventurer than you turned out to be, though perhaps the years have yet to see him set upon the path he truly longs for.

He offers you his hand once more, your irreverent historian a gentleman only for your eyes. You revel in the press of your palms, the simple joy the contact brings. The sand lessens the jolt when your soles hit the ground. G'raha releases your hand to thread fingers through your windswept hair, making a valiant attempt to tame it back into its rightful place.

"I appreciate the effort, but it's probably a lost cause at this point."

"I wouldn't say that," G'raha says, smoothing down the tuft that falls in front of your ear. The focus he shows is unfairly endearing. "You look properly disheveled."

"As long as you approve.”

G'raha's eyes narrow the slightest bit, the corner of his mouth lifting. Though he doesn't address your comment, it's obvious he has something to say, but chooses not to. "I'll gather more kindling," he says instead. "I think we used most of it last time."

His hand trails down your shoulder as he turns to walk away, strides muffled in the sand. You distract yourself from thoughts of that touch by removing the bit from the chocobo's beak and unfastening your lance from the back of the saddle. Once the beast is unburdened and as comfortable as you can manage, you whistle to capture his full attention. The bird flaps and turns to you with a kweh, all but pressing his feathered cheek into your palm when you reach to pet him.

"You stay out of trouble, alright boy?"

With a click of your tongue and a light smack to the chocobo's thigh, your mount scampers off, likely to torment the cobras he hasn't already menaced into hiding. You know he'll be fine. Although he's sweeter to G'raha, your steadfast companion is ever at your side when you need him.

Your eyes wander to the tree where G'raha reaches to snap withered twigs from dying branches. The flora of Mor Dhona is a lost cause if you've ever seen one, but if anything, it at least makes for fine firewood. Watching him work, you absently spin your lance between your hands, over and under, the mighty spear as graceful in your calloused fingers as a reveler with a parade baton. G'raha left his bow behind, you notice. To see him outside the camp without it is a novelty, but not one that sits well with you. You've never seen him so distracted, so consumed by whatever Allag has unearthed inside his mind.

Bow or no bow, any ill will to come would dare not touch him. Although the other members of NOAH are of a different mind, you know G'raha can fend for himself. But if there ever comes a time when he cannot, may the gods help whoever lifts a hand to harm the only thing that you hold dear.

You stab your lance into the sand, twisting it until it's deep enough to stand on its own. The gentle glow fades at the loss of your touch. Placing the weapon within your line of sight but far enough to forget, if only for now, how you are bound to it, you leave behind the world you know and embrace the one you wish was yours to keep.

G'raha meets you at the makeshift fire pit and gets to work setting twigs into place among the logs. You lower yourself to the sand and shake out your feet, recklessly kicking the sand from between your toes. G'raha blows air at you when some of the grains hit his cheek.

"If you dislike sand in your toes so much, I would suggest different footwear."

You flick more in his direction with the sole of your sandal. A grin splits your cheeks when G'raha yelps, ducking behind his shoulder. "I spend enough time in metal boots, thank you. My feet need a break sometimes."

"Archer boots are rather comfortable," he says, but any attempt at persuasion is lost to the laugh in his voice that mocks your poor marksmanship more than words ever could.

"You wound me," you accuse in jest. G'raha strikes flint and steel to scatter sparks.

"You got sand in my eye."

Guilt kicks within your chest, weighing your smile down with worry. "I did?"

"No, but you could have. Imagine how you would have felt then. Though I suppose my eyes would be more red than they already are, which would suit your unusual fancy. Perhaps that was your goal from the start, my friend."

"I would never hurt you," you say, the sandal you toss affectionately at his side notwithstanding.

The sparks catch on the twigs and G'raha leans towards the flame, holding the hair back from his face as he blows on the embers. The fire begins to crackle and spread, and the smile he gives you from amidst the burning light would bring you to your knees if you weren't already stretched out in the sand.

Your second sandal joins the first. G'raha surprises you by prying off his boots and adding them to the pile along with his socks. He sidles over to you beside the growing fire and lifts a pinch of sand between his toes, sprinkling it onto your bruised feet. You burrow your own toes into the sand in retreat and he laughs, trapping your feet beneath his. A sideways glare thwarts your thoughts of tickling the arch of his foot, and you declare a silent cease fire by flopping onto your back, tangling your feet with his. He follows without hesitation, molding against your side as his head comes to rest on your shoulder.

This is how it always goes, how you wish it always could. With your missing piece fitting perfectly in place, you do as you always do: you talk of everything and nothing, of the stars above and what might lie beyond. You speak of secrets never spoken, of whatever carefree nonsense comes to mind.

With your better half so close but yet so far, you do as you always do: you ignore the coming days, the doors that must be sealed. If you do not acknowledge the moments on the horizon, perhaps they will not come. Maybe time will stand still and he will stay, maybe Sharlayan won't hold sway over your scholar once he watches those gates close with you at his side.

You try to focus on the here and now, but the question keeps clawing at the edge of your mind: what will G'raha do once his destiny has been fulfilled?

The moon traces a path across the night sky as time marches ever onward. Lively conversation softens to whispers as the weight of the day finally begins to drag your eyelids shut. The warmth of the fire and the man you adore blanket you in bliss that you will carry with you always.

A soft utterance of your name pulls you back from the brink of sleep. It's a quiet question, a tremulous thing that doesn't suit the one who speaks it. You reach for his tail that rests draped over your thigh, petting him the way that usually turns him into putty in your arms. "Hm?"

A long moment passes with only the crackling fire to be heard. G'raha shifts against your side, cuddling closer.

"When the expedition is over, what will you do?"

The question makes your breath catch, your pulse skipping as surprise steals your sensible calm. "Oh, I don't know," you say lamely as you rush to collect your mess of thoughts that have been scattered to the ground. "I should like to rest awhile, but adventure has a way of finding me even when I'd prefer to stay hidden. I'm never in one place for long."

You aim for flippant but land somewhere between bitter and broken. It doesn't matter. If G'raha reads the truth in your tone, it would save you a great deal of frustration trying to find the right words that you know will never come.

He hums in acknowledgement. His tail slips from your grasp as it begins a silent beat, the tip brushing your shin with each restless rise and fall. "As exciting as your adventures are, when you say it like that it sounds… lonely, in a way."

You pinch your eyes tight. "It is. I try not to dwell on it." With a burdened sigh, you look up at the looming expanse of the crystal tower. "This mission has been a respite from all of that. I hate to think it's almost over."

G'raha presses his face deeper into your shoulder. Whether he's offering comfort or trying to hide, you cannot say. You feel him tense as his fingers tangle in the fabric of your shirt, twisting tight, dragging against your skin. The soft hiss of his hair when he turns to look at you makes you shiver.

"Well… if… if you might have any use for a marksman, or a scholar's mind… I could go with you, if you like."

You roll over to face him without even thinking, the suffocating surge of hope that swells within you the only coherent thought you're capable of. The soft noise G'raha makes as his head slips from your shoulder to rest in the crook of your elbow is lost to the shifting crackle of wood when your heel bumps one of the logs.

He looks back at you, unsure yet unyielding. There is something vulnerable in the fire of his royal gaze, a fettered flame begging permission to burn.

For the first time, you dare to wonder if the man beside you holds a reflection of your own fears. A strange, dissociative feeling comes over you- the sudden hyperawareness of another soul, of all the thoughts and wants and worries swimming within that mind of which you've only seen the surface.

It seems G'raha has left as much unsaid as you have.

"You would travel with me?" Your voice is fragile. There is no reason to disguise the way you unravel, the way your words cling shy to your tongue. "Is that what you want?"

The power he holds is without measure. Of all the monsters and misguided souls that have dared to think you weak, nothing has ever brought you so close to breaking as the seconds that slow to eons, the way G'raha parts his lips as he searches for what he means to say.

"I have never wished for anything more."

A flood of relief bursts within you, a breathy, wonderous laugh stretching your face into an ecstatic grin. G'raha's eyes widen, his own lips parting in a tentative smile. Untangling his hand from your shirt, you press your palm to his, each calloused from lance and bow in turn but still soft enough to feel his nervous quivering.

"I would like that very much."

You stretch your fingers and let them fall into place where they belong, laced between G'raha's.

His joy is blinding. You have never seen anything more beautiful.

"Really?" He squeezes your hand, swallowing the disbelief in his throat. "You would let me join you?"

"Of course. Nothing would make me happier. How could I not?"

"You never asked."

The fractured whisper falls short in the sand between you. You release his fingers to follow the bottom curve of his Archon tattoo. Normally hidden beneath the ridge of his gorget, the stretch of painted skin is a perfect distraction. The sentiments you pull from your private shadows are too frail for the radiance of his stare, only ilms from yours.

"I wanted to. I was afraid of what you would say."

"I would have said yes," G'raha counters. It's barely audible, but you're grateful for the note of levity he offers.

"I didn't know that," you say to the arch of his collarbone, paler than the rest of him from hours beneath armor in the sunlit camp. "Besides, I didn't want it to feel like an obligation. Your research is more important."

"My research led me to this place. All that I once sought, I have found, and now I…" G'raha says your name once more, drawing your eyes back to his. "There will never come a day when I would not wish to stand at your side."

Where words fail you, instinct speaks volumes. You gather him close, bunting his forehead. G'raha nestles into the affectionate touch, laughing as your tails collide in their contented sway. It is all you can do to breathe, to let your eyes fall closed as you soak up the scent of him. He is smoke and clean sweat, a sweet hint of newfound home that you are powerless to resist.

Your fingers dig into the powerful swell of his shoulder where you hold him. Clinging to him, to the thought that he wants to stay-

G'raha's nails find their way to the scruff of your neck. The scratch dissolves your inexplicable tension, coaxing you to come back down from the roiling stormclouds in your mind.

There is something innately terrifying in being given what you want most. It is dreamlike, another longing reverie you'll lose to the nightmare of your waking hours.

When you open your eyes, G'raha is still there. The fire has faded to smoldering embers, it's light receding. The tower bathes him in blue, the stars admiring every sunkissed freckle.

This is real. He is real.

"You're smiling," he says, a barely audible whisper.

Though the observation doesn't demand response, you are one to give credit where it is due. "I'm happy.” You are unable to remember the last time you said the words. "You make me happy."

G'raha's mouth curls into a quiet smile, his eyes thinning to an adorable squint. "As do you, my dearest friend."

His touch falls from your neck, gliding along the hem of your shirt until his fingers twine with yours once more. This time, he is the one who yawns. You chuckle at the way his ears swivel before springing back into shape.

"Do you want to head back?"

"Not yet," he says, and neither do you.

The fire dies as the moon travels further across the heavens. At the mercy of the twilight breeze, you hold him closer to make up for lost warmth. It's the excuse you choose, though you're starting to think you no longer need one.

Further you fall, deep in his embrace and deeper in what you know now must be love. What felt foreign to your flustered heart at the onset of the expedition is now the only thing you hold faith in, the rock you cling to when nothing else makes sense. The blessed, reverent thing you know only from storybooks is the only name you can give to what has become of you.

If such is your fate, you welcome it with open arms. You're falling, and maybe- just maybe- he might one day reach out to catch you.

A sleep twitch jerks your leg, knocking the knob of your bony knee into his. It would probably leave a bruise if you didn't already have one, blooming black and blue from being swiped to the ground by Cerberus. "Sorry," you mumble. G'raha's only response is the feather-light pass of his thumb over your forearm.

You open your tired eyes to find him watching you. All traces of his earlier yawn have vanished- you would even think him fully rested if it weren't for the bloodshot inner corners that always tell you when his books took precedence over joining you in your tent.

There is weight in his gaze- a look more serious than you've ever seen from him. Whatever is on his mind, the vehemence of those thoughts is enough to pinch his brow. It gives you pause and stirs your worry, but though you think better of it, you reach out. He would do the same for you.

"What's wrong?" you ask, scratching behind the thick shell of his ear. It usually soothes him, but if anything, tonight it makes it worse. He draws in a thin breath through his nose as though your touch has stung him, but he doesn't pull away. That alone quells the hot wave of panicked fear that washes over you, keeps the unbidden tears from welling behind your eyes.

"Talk to me." Your whispered plea is answered only by the shifting sand as G'raha pushes up on his elbow. He hovers over your side, his curious touch following the markings along your jaw. The piercing intensity in his red eyes and the silken hair that graces your cheek hold you captive. You are so entranced, you fail to even notice the pass of his thumb along the curve of your mouth.

His lips find yours, and your world goes white. It is a soft yet adamant question, his hand cupping your cheek as though you are something fragile that he dare not touch. Perhaps you are, but the one that leaves you weak would never break you.

The realization comes to you slowly, then in a blinding burst: G'raha is kissing you. He is kissing you and he means to walk beside you when you leave this place behind, and the breath you thought had fled you is suddenly too much bear. A ragged gasp escapes you. He pulls away, leaving you instinctively chasing his mouth, but you find nothing. Dragging open your dazed eyes, you find him wide-eyed and watching, a mix of wonder and shock mirroring your own.

Beneath the stars you are a supernova, a faded wreck of a man given the hope to burn bright once more.

Beneath the moonlight, you are changed.

G'raha's hand settles more firmly on your cheek, sweeping the hair back from your forehead as he studies you for some sort of reaction, the raw trepidation in his eyes a transparent tell you never wish to see again.

You turn your cheek and press into his touch, then crane up from the sand to brush your nose against his. He smiles, lashes fluttering closed as he returns the playful gesture. Seeing it wipes away the last of your gnawing worry. He lowers his hand to cradle your head before you let it fall back, and you feel the sweet, familiar press of his forehead against yours.

This time when he looks at you, all you find is searing adoration. The scorching weight of what that means blisters through you, melting the sand beneath your back until the solid, earthen certainty of your life has morphed into nothing more than cracking glass. G'raha brings his hand to your chest, fingers spread, his palm coming to rest above your pounding heart. He is trembling, just as you are. You place your hand over his and let your pulse convey what you cannot. Fortune finds you wanting for words, but not for meaning.

Red eyes soften to the shine of hearthfire, the light of a home you never realized just how much you needed.

"Raha," you call him for the first time.

The weight of one word can be enough to shatter glass.

The question is gone from his kiss, leaving nothing but relieved joy, an unabridged confession. The line you were both afraid to cross is stricken from the sand as he crawls closer, resting long on your chest as your mouths move slowly together, languid enough to leave you lightheaded as you learn one another in this new, impossible way.

Of all the times you've imagined your first kiss, of all the times you've dreamed of him after becoming such inseparable friends, you never once thought it could be like this. Fairytales cannot do justice to the way your soul alights, how your very aether yearns to be closer to the one that makes it sing.

Growing braver, you let your touch travel. You linger over places you've sought excuses to steal the slightest caress. The arms that hold you together when you feel yourself coming apart at the seams, the back that helps to carry the burdens that no one else can even see. He drinks you in, and though there is reverence in his worshipping touch, the quiet laughter and elation that flows between you keeps you grounded. It reminds you that this is real, this is him, and in an instant you are soaring.

Your hands glide over the small of G'raha's back, petting the soft place where his tail begins. He lifts eagerly into the touch, chasing the feel of your fingers in his fur. The purely instinctual response makes you laugh, but his vengeance is swift.

G'raha seizes your arm and pins it in the sand beside your head with unexpected ardor. His knees slot with yours as he wraps himself further up in you, ruby eyes glinting with such tenderness that it takes your breath away. The solid weight of him above you and the assertive strength holding you down pull a gasp from your lips. You arch up against him to banish any space that dares to come between you. Ever the opportunistic thief, he steals another kiss, this one firmer, fiercer, the heat of his tongue honey-sweet from his evening tea as he discovers new ways to make you come undone.

A shimmering high-pitched ring startles you. Though logical thoughts are probably well beyond your reach, you know that sound. Right now, you hate that sound. If your hands weren't otherwise occupied, you'd be tempted to rip out your linkpearl and cast it into the lake.

"Ignore it," you mutter into G'raha's mouth. The whine that follows would be mortifying if it weren't for the way he tightens his grip in your hair, his hand snaking down your thigh like he will never be close enough.

"Gladly," he says, the soft nip of his teeth the last attention he pays to your lips.

Cid's voice is the last thing you would ever want to hear with G'raha mouthing along your jaw, but the fates have different plans for their hero. G'raha's laugh tickles your skin as you groan in distress instead of something more delectable.

Bringing your hand to your ear, you channel your aether to complete the nagging connection. Anything to stop hearing your name in Cid's voice while G'raha licks the hollow of your throat.

"What is it?" you ask more brusquely than you intend. G'raha snickers, but he doesn't stop.

"Well, hello to you too," Cid responds with drunk indignation. "What took you so long?"

"G'raha needed help putting out the fire. Is everything alright back there?"

"Eh, for the most part, I guess you could say that. We've got a bit of a situation we could use a hand with. Sounds like you boys are on your way back, is that right?"

A rumbling growl of protest makes you shiver as G'raha's teeth scrape along your ear. You thank Hydaelyn that Cid is in his cups, because there's no way a sober man would miss the hitch in your voice.

"Not necessarily."

Cid's tone falls to a hush. "Well, it's necessary that we do something about the hippogryphs staring at camp like they're looking for a midnight snack. It's too much for the guard and everyone else is asleep except for you two."

Although it takes every ounce of willpower you can muster, you say, "We're on our way," then promptly rip the pearl from your ear. You tuck it in the folds of your waistband as you grab G'raha by the shoulders and roll him onto his back.

You mean to reprimand him in the most wonderful of ways, but the peculiar sadness in his eyes stills you.

"Such is the life of a hero," G'raha says with woeful amusement. "Constant interruptions."

"You have no idea,” you lament. “Though that is something that you’ll just have to get used to, I’m afraid."

He reaches to cradle your face as your smile grazes his lips, a touch more gentle than a butterfly’s wings. “We shall see,” he says in a whisper, and when you kiss him, it feels like coming home.

The pressing thought of monsters menacing your campmates is the only thing keeping your head on straight, otherwise it would take an army to make you sit back on your haunches and offer your hand as you do. "It's late. We should be getting back anyway."

G’raha takes your palm and you pull him to his feet as you rise, your heels unsteady in the valleys you’ve left in the sand. He stumbles into you, and you savor the way you can now hug him close instead of letting go after he regains his balance.

He noses the curve of your throat. Part of you wonders if he is scenting you. “I’m of half a mind to tell Master Garlond to manage the beasts himself, though from the sound of your exchange, I would not encourage the man to handle any sort of weaponry in his present condition.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Rubbing his ear with your cheek, you drop a kiss on the crown of his head before you force yourselves to separate.

You whistle for your chocobo and secure your lance behind the saddle while G’raha works his way back into his boots. Slipping back into your sandals is a much easier chore, so you use the time to scoop sand onto the stray embers that still burn in the dying fire. The last hints of hot orange fizzle out, leaving crystalline blue and celestial gold the only light that remains.

The chocobo chirps when G’raha approaches, but the bird’s excitement does nothing to erase the sense of tired melancholy that has overtaken him. You gather him close and press your lips to his forehead. If there is anything you can do about it, you will ensure that this man will never want for affection again.

“We can come back tomorrow,” you say. “We’ll make a day of it. I’ll put together some of those sandwiches you like and we can have a picnic after we get tired from swimming. The expedition might be winding down soon, but we can come back here whenever we want. This will be our place.”

G’raha hums. “That would be nice.”

“It will be.” Tilting his chin with your fingertips, you bring his eyes to meet yours. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

The whites of his eyes redden, but he nods, breathing shakily. It has been a long night following a longer day, and you cannot fault him for feeling overwhelmed. Even without what the Allagan eye has wrought, you are frayed.

“You asked earlier what my thoughts of you were. I know not how to properly express such a sentiment in words, but please, if I can say nothing else, know this: Wherever you go, you carry my heart with you. In this, I will be with you always.”

You are his, and he is yours. The reborn light within you shines, free and blinding bright.

Beneath the glow of the crystal tower, you fall in love.

-----

The clang of iron pots greets you rudely when you wake. The smell of a hearty breakfast seeping through the seams of the tent does little to make amends. By the way your eyes burn before you even open them and your skull is buzzing, you know you barely slept a wink. You feel like you went shot for shot with Thancred at The Drowning Wench, but when you turn your face in frail hopes of smothering yourself back to sleep, the scent of G’raha on your pillow reminds you just what kept your weary eyes from resting.

You roll onto your side, but all you find are rumpled blankets in his place. It’s strange for him to get out of bed before you, being the night owl that he is, but you don't overthink it. It would have been bliss to wake together and linger in each other's arms, but there will be time enough for that.

The looming goodbye you've dreaded will never be more than goodnight. Knowing that, it is easier to peel yourself from your furs. Your steps aren't heavy as they once were as you part the flaps of your tent to the assault of sun and grating sound.

Rammbroes lifts a hand in greeting, his mouth stuffed with what smells like Biggs' usual peppered popotoes and sausage links. There's a chorus of similar muffled greetings as the crew stuffs their faces for the hard day ahead. Wedge rises on his toes at the pot over the fire, trying to spoon out a second helping. You grab the ladle from him and scoop out a full bowl for your small friend before seeing to your own meal.

Wedge offers a nod of thanks and bids you good morning. "Good to see you on your feet after the fight. How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine. A bit worse for wear, but I’ll manage." You join him at one of the empty logs circling the fire. Minus a few guards and a certain someone, everyone is present and accounted for.

Cid offers you a tired wave from a seat away. "Nice of you to make an appearance," he teases from over his coffee.

"Forgive me for wanting to sleep after you put me to work at the crack of dawn."

He shrugs off the accusation, setting his empty mug down in the dirt. "I wish I could say we saved you some coffee, but I don't think that burnt sludge is deserving of the title."

You lift an eyebrow at Cid as you shovel popotoes into your mouth.

"We killed the usual pot right on schedule, but G'raha tried his hand at making another batch so there'd be some left whenever you decided to show. I gotta warn you, though. It smells awful."

G'raha made you coffee. Even though the tea drinker probably butchered the brew, you don't care. The simple kindness is more touching than it has any right to be.

You set your bowl aside and make your way to the weathered coffee pot. Lifting the lid releases an aroma that is unarguably burnt, but not completely unappetizing. You pour yourself a generous helping and add a splash of cream from the bottle freshly fetched from Revenant's Toll. Caffeine is not an option at this point- it's a necessity.

"Where is he, anyway?"

Your nose twitches as you take a sip, but it isn't as rough as you expected.

"He ran on ahead to the tower," Biggs says. "He wanted to have a look at some things before we get to work."

It's not surprising. G'raha's insatiable curiosity has new eyes, a new lens of context to view the world that awaits him. It only makes sense that he would waste no time in exploring his birthright before he seals the doors to leave it behind.

You drain your cup and fill a flask with another helping for the walk over.

Today is the turning of a page, the end of a chapter in the eternal legacy of Allag. The doors will close and the tower will slumber, it's secrets safe from those that would misuse them. At the end of it all, you will walk away from Syrcus Tower with it's master on your arm.

The Warrior of Light and the last son of Allag. It has a nice ring to it, you think.

"Well," you say, gazing up at the crystal spire piercing the sky. "Let's not keep him waiting, shall we?"