Chapter Text
“Sorry I’m not any good at healing magic,” Alvaar murmured, a long ear flicking as a soft note of discomfort left the Scholar under him. “That would make this a whole lot more pleasant for you.”
“It’s fine,” Alphinaud whispered back tightly, sucking in a quick breath and gritting his teeth against the pain. “I’m fine. Just keep going, it gets better.”
“It does, but it would be a lot easier on you if you would let me get the oil out of my room you know. Their aren’t awards for being pointlessly stubborn in the pursuit of gratification,” the Bard chided offhandedly, frowning as the slim Elezen shook his head even as he winced and gripped against the sheets.
“Afraid I don’t have the luxury of time, there’s a meeting I need to get to after this. I’ll be fine Alvaar, I asked you remember?” Alphinaud reminded him, managing a weak smile in some attempt to reassure him.
It just made the Bard scowl at him. “You’re still under the impression you’re going anywhere after this? Honestly… I’ll cancel for you, stubborn brat.”
The annoyed huff that escaped the Scholar’s lips was nothing new at the offhanded insult. He never did take well to anything that implied he was acting childish, especially the rare moments he was. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s taken me weeks to get this meeting arranged with the delegates of Sharlayan I’m not about to cancel last minute or show up smelling like-“ he broke off with a hiss of pain, making the Bard still as Alphinaud tensed under him on reflex.
“Don’t tense up, you’ll make it worse. Breathe out with me okay? I’m going to try and get this over quick,” Alvaar reminded, voice low and gentler in sympathy than it was a moment ago. “One… two…”
A strangled and reedy cry of pain sounded in the small room before finally rasping into a weak relieved sigh. “Twelve be praised… you’re really good at that…” Alphinaud breathed, relaxing further into the sheets as Alvaar continued massaging at his back firmly.
“Mmm… growing pains are a bitch. Put your white magic into here,” Alvaar answered, pressing his fingers firmer into the steadily releasing knot of muscles he’d been working at and unphased at the glow and feel of magic dancing against his skin. Cool and gentle as always. “Stubborn. Sure you don’t want to take anything with you for it?” Alvaar asked pointedly.
“Just you,” the Scholar sighed before jerking faintly at the Bard’s questioning noise. “Ah, I thought you were asking if you needed to bring anything for the trip later. And you don’t!” he answered, trying not to fluster and only making the man still perched on his back raise a brow.
Feeling lean muscle shift under his fingers, the Bard dug them in further in careful warning. “Don’t tense.”
“Ow… right, right of course. Sorry.”
“…. and really? No dueling swords? Maybe my favorite war bow? Because I’m just smitten with the idea of another duel with those delegates,” Alvaar remarked drily.
“Don’t you dare…”