Work Text:
“Still at it I see.”
Alphinaud doesn’t look up, hunched over his desk and pen working away furiously for a long moment. There’s a brief pause as he glances at a document that’s been pinned down with a tome and a closed ink pot before he goes back to writing.
Alvaar doesn’t bother to say anything more, simply ruffling Carbi’s fur as the carbuncle squeaks softly and purrs from where it’s draped over the Bard’s shoulders, letting himself into the room and leaning against the back of the desk chair patiently. It isn’t the first time he’s known those who are married to their work and it’s far from the first time he’s dated one.
He glances over what the Scholar is currently drafting, noting yet another appeal on behalf of the latest band of refugees to wash up on Eorzea’s shores, before fixing his attention to the colorful perpetual calendar on the corner of the desk. Frowning a moment as he notes the numbered blocks wedged between the two carbuncle figures are wrong and automatically moving to adjust it. The trailing ivy-like plant next to it has also seen better days, and he mentally takes a note to saturate the dried-out soil.
There still hasn’t been a word from the snowy haired Elezen still scratching away at the parchment, but Alvaar doesn’t mind. He simply pats gently at tensed shoulders and gives a firm, “Ten minutes,” before taking his leave at the delayed nod. Pausing for a moment, he grabs the potted plant in his retreat as well. He could take a little longer with making tea, Alphinaud wouldn’t notice anyway and the poor thing needed a proper soak.
There’s the firm press of a soft furred face against his jaw, the moonstone carbuncle making an annoyed chirp.
“I know,” he murmurs, ruffling thick fur. “I’ll come back and drag him away from his work I promise. Thank you for telling me.”
-
Alphinaud was still writing when Alvaar came back a quarter of a bell later. This time he doesn’t announce himself, simply sets the tall mug of tea down on the desk before moving to the window and opening it with one hand before setting the potted plant down on the sill.
“That’s a bit better yea?” he commented aloud, studying the still damp leaves a moment before draping them outside where they could dry in the midday sun. “I bet so. You could hardly breathe with all that dust. Dreadful.”
Pausing where he was leaned out the second story window, he watched the steady bustle of Mor Dhona below. The constant stream of adventurers through the aetheryte plaza to visit the Adventurers Guild or off to Rowena’s House of Splendors. The movement and murmur of the crowd carried up on warm winds.
It was a far cry from when they had first arrived those many years ago. The frontier settlement having rested firmer into its stones with the many contributions from its visitors. The beginnings of a more peaceful town in the brighter colors and fabrics to entice buyers at its market square and the easy gait of wandering tradesmen navigating the crowds.
Pulling himself back inside as something bumped against his leg, he blinked at the glowing white carbuncle that stared up at him expectantly with a soft chirp.
“What? You want a look too? Alright. Come on up,” Alvaar replied, stepping to the side and patting the sill before bracing the pot as the carbuncle leapt up and settled itself on its rear haunches, sniffing at the air and closing its eyes in the sun. “You’re like a signal mirror you pest. Don’t knock over that plant. It’s lived through three wars it’d be a damn shame if it ended in ‘Death from Healing Carbuncle,’” he chided, ruffling long ears gently after the answering chirp before turning and halting at Alphinaud’s stare.
“Bard nonsense,” the Scholar commented tiredly, but the touch of fondness and faint smile was still clear even behind the mug. He was finally leaned back from his work, hands wrapped around the cup for warmth and taking another grateful drink.
“Oh hush. I was neither waxing poetic nor singing. No Bard nonsense to be had,” Alvaar returned.
“You’re talking to inanimate nonmagical plants, and aetheric automatons again,” he murmured.
“Yea? Well, I talk to you too. Some days I’d swear you were inanimate,” Alvaar bitched before gesturing back at the carbuncle. “And don’t start. Carbi answers.”
A disbelieving hum answered as the Scholar finished drinking his tea.
“How is it,” Alvaar huffed, pausing as he stepped over and leaned his elbows against the back of the chair, settling his jaw against white strands, “That I seem to think more highly of your summons than you do?”
“Because you don’t study arcanima.”
“Well if that’s the case you’d think you would appreciate Bardsong more,” Alvaar joked, pressing a firm kiss to pale strands before shifting his stance and weight so he could loop arms around Alphinaud’s shoulders and neck for a hug.
“I do appreciate Bardsong,” he reminded gently, reaching up to grip one of the Bards arms and up further to grasp at a shoulder in a slight returned embrace. “I’ve always appreciated your outstanding capacity to force consistent results out of nonsense with sheer willpower alone.”
It got a single snort of amusement as Alvaar buried his face against soft hair, leaning into the contact. “Brat. You’re lucky you’re cute or I’d be more offended. Maybe even stop making those scones you like...”
“You know I jest. I’m willing to tolerate any amount of your nonsense for your baking.”
It earned a full out laugh and a brief tighter squeeze of the arms around him. “Good to know diligent overworking and lack of sleep hasn’t curbed your sass,” Alvaar murmured, pressing another kiss to the back of a long ear. “And nice to have you for five minutes.”
A soft sigh slipped from the Scholar, unconsciously sinking further into the Bard’s grasp and fingers flexing minutely. “Truthfully, it is good to be had for five minutes... I’m sorry to be ignoring you so much.”
A dismissive grunt left Alvaar’s throat. “You know I’ll never fault you for it. Scion work was always part of the agreement. Besides, I’m into hard working men. Makes taking them to pieces in bed later more fun.” He pauses for a moment then, an audible smirk in his words. “You get the loveliest shade of red too...”
“Pest,” the Scholar grumbled, swatting at Alvaar’s arms even as he flushed deeper.
A bright chuckle left the Bard, patting a shoulder comfortingly. “I know. But someone has to make sure you take care of yourself. And a little motivation keeps it interesting, no? But yes, I understand. No frisky interruptions. I have things in the oven anyway. So come on, sit up, I’ve got work to do keeping you in one happy piece so the world might know better tomorrows.”
Despite still being a bit flustered, the Scholar complied and even removed his coat as Alvaar rose to his full height. A low quick tune hummed in that clear tenor before aether shifted and his hands warmed noticeably, putting them against the tense slope of his lover’s shoulders. The blissful sigh that escaped was light but didn’t miss Alvaar’s notice, digging strong fingers into worn muscle and ears perked to each sound as he worked. Listening for what spots hurt the most and adjusting his technique accordingly. It didn’t take long to have a very relaxed Elezen on his hands making quiet contented noises.
He could comment, but then Alphinaud usually got self-conscious and stopped. Instead he slipped his hands along the smooth curve of his jaw, thumbs working in at the base of his skull and trying not to chuckle at the sighing happy huffs that followed.
It was endearing in a way Alvaar didn’t think he’d ever get bored with. The complete faith and trust as Alphinaud leaned further into him and rested more of his weight in calloused and worn hands as he relaxed. For the Bard, it was a simple pleasure, to be able to provide comfort and support in ways that didn’t hinge on life and death but were still important and meaningful. Such small but impactful tasks had always been what grounded his endeavors after all, the dose of reality that curbed the heady heights of heroism.
All the Scions worked hard in their own given fields and talents. And while the Warrior of Light’s burden was heavy indeed, dramatic, and often a change of the tides, the diplomatic work and arrangements made in pen were no less great nor taxing on their de facto leader. The many late nights spent researching and drafting, the constant meetings and councils, social events and networking, consulting and mediating peaceable relations...
It was all work Alvaar was woefully unprepared for but always crucial in the wake of his campaigns and efforts. There could be nothing gained from his impressive feats on the battlefield if there was no home nor safety for the living to return to. As inspiring of a motif he might be, the standard raised to rally unity and purpose, it was the details and social relations that kept continued peace on course. Surely he had grown more adept at assistance that didn’t rely on killing, but the resources needed in the minutiae, the moving and building and reconstruction efforts, those had to come from somewhere. Supplies and the routes that brought them had always been orchestrated with diplomacy and a pen to strengthen ties a sword would only sever.
Pulling Alphinaud’s writing hand into his own, he massaged carefully over joints and tendons. This time he couldn’t help but grin at the unconscious purr it earned. In its own way it was poetic and always would be to him. The scarred hands of a skilled archer, that knew the feel of warbow and string more than anything else, holding the ink-stained hands that orchestrated and pushed for diplomacy and peace with equal amounts of the fervor and heroism as Alvaar brought to the frontlines.
A crucial component he’d respected long before they had earned their names in the Dragonsong War. When a haughty and naive noble had wielded Alvaar’s strength as his own, and he had sworn to do his best to protect him regardless. Because Alvaar had always known there would be no lasting peace wrought from violence no matter how necessary. And however selfish Alphinaud’s reasons may have been at the time, the heart behind them had spoken true in its aims. Where others had been baffled at his patience, the Bard had always known the truth.
Titles and legacy didn’t mean anything to him. He’d always stood firm at Alphinaud’s side because he’d seen what few else had shining in those eyes. The fierce drive of an idealist, the honest truth and hope for a better future.
If he could claim no other good choice in his life, it was staying loyal at this man’s side.
“What’s on your mind my friend?” Alphinaud asks softly, making the Bard finally notice the quiet depths of blue studying him.
Tightening his fingers over his lover’s, he stays quiet a moment. It was too much to say, too many embarrassing things for someone that had work to yet attend. Later perhaps, but not right now.
“A song,” Alvaar says instead. Not because it’s a lie, but because he can already hear the lilting notes in his periphery. A melody yet unwritten but waiting patiently for him to claim.
“Something new?”
“Yes and no. A new composition, but not something new. Something years in the making, I think. Steady and patient. Something quiet and kind. Loyal and passionate and altruistic to a fault. Hopeful and bright,” Alvaar mused aloud.
“That’s too many ideas for one song,” the Scholar remarked with amusement.
“Maybe. It might have to be something long. It might take years to pen,” he replied lightly, hands cupping along the stronger line of his lover’s jaw, leaning down to press a brief kiss to his nose affectionately.
“You’ll have to let me know when it’s finished,” Alphinaud murmured. “I’d like to hear it.”
It made the depths of the Bard’s scarred heart warm, a quiet smile slipping to his face before he pressed another soft kiss to the Scholar’s brow.
“You’ll be the first to know. I think it will be one of my masterpieces.”
He had, after all, promised he’d write songs of the Leveilleur’s legacy to outlast even the Warrior of Light’s.