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It was matronly, Sanson decided once and for all as a thick globule of ink dripped from the tip of his quill and splattered on the upper right corner of his report. Like a grandmother might bid farewell to a favored grandchild before heading to the markets. He carefully dragged his thumb through the smudge, wiping the excess on the edge of the pot and creating an even larger mess in the process. Matronly and, foremost, platonic. Certainly platonic. Utterly platonic, surely.
Sanson had been a mess for nearly a day now.
He poured some water on a handkerchief and wiped the dark mess from his thumb, eyes glazing over as he considered the previous evening in detail once again. Guydelot had coaxed him out for drinks at Caroline Canopy, as ever, though neither of them had much at all: even Guydelot drank sparingly that evening, so it could hardly be blamed on alcohol. Honestly, he’d listened to Sanson prattle on with a level of rapture he well and truly hadn’t expected, engaged and focused in a way he so often wasn’t. He’d even ordered them a meal and paid for it. It’d been nice, really, and maybe that’d caused Sanson to smile a lot more than usual, and maybe Guydelot smiling back had given him butterflies a time or two, but it certainly didn’t qualify as a precursor to anything.
A knock at his door captured his attention, snapping him rather violently out of his reverie. He spilled a bit of the water from his still-open flask on his pants and sighed, then capped it and called out, “Yes?”
High Commander Heuloix stepped in and Sanson immediately shot up from his seat, performing the Serpent salute and standing at attention. “S-sir! What can I do for you?”
His flask slipped off the desk and clattered to the floor loud as an explosion. Sanson flinched.
“At ease, Captain,” Heuloix said, shaking his head. “I overheard a number of Adders whispering that you’re in a state today and came to make certain you weren’t working with the flu again. Is everything alright?”
“Yes, Sir!” Sanson clarified, face definitely, certainly flooded with color. People had noticed? They were talking about him? Gods. “No illness here, just a bit distracted. I apologize for any undue concern, Sir.”
Heuloix looked him up and down with a discerning eye, then shrugged. “Whatever it is, pull it together, alright? Wouldn’t do to miss your deadline on those regiments. We need them by the end of the day.”
Sanson nodded, stone-faced. “Aye, Sir! I won’t be kissing--” Gods! “I won’t be missing the deadline. They’re nearly complete.”
Heiloux’s expression remained unimpressed, but he stepped back out into the hall, seemingly satisfied. “I’ll be going, then.”
“Yes, Sir!” Sanson agreed. “Thank you.”
Heiloux closed the door and Sanson deflated, shrinking back into his chair and covering his face with his hands. I won’t be kissing the deadline. When he was done working for the day, he was going to track Guydelot down and throttle him proper for putting him into this mess in the first place. He hadn’t realized he’d been so obvious about his level of distraction, but it seemed as though everyone and their chocobo had picked up on his misery.
Sanson sat forward and shook his head, dipping his quill into the ink and continuing his report. He could agonize over this situation more when the report was finished, he decided. He had responsibilities and he’d be damned if some handsome, smiling elezen was going to distract him from them.
Within five minutes, his attention had once again strayed. It’d been that moment on the steps to Sanson’s apartment that was the real source of his confusion. Guydelot had insisted on walking him home that evening, which had been kind, if a bit out of character, and when they’d reached the doors they stood together on the steps for a moment and prattled about the day ahead.
“Remember to report in with Lieutenant Adelaide tomorrow,” he remembered saying, “she’s been waiting for your confirmation.”
“Mm,” Guydelot hummed.
“I mean it!” Sanson insisted, “She’s been knocking my door down for the past two days--”
“Aye, aye,” Guydelot flapped a hand, “I will.”
Sanson leveled a scrutinizing glare at him, but Guydelot seemed serious enough. “Alright, well. I’m heading in, then. Have a good night.”
Sanson turned on his heel to head inside, but Guydelot caught him by the wrist and then. Well. Then that happened. The kiss, though it could hardly be classified as one. There was no romance to it, really. No passion or hands or tongues or… Well, anything, really, that Sanson had pictured in the deepest recesses of his mind when imagining how a first kiss with Guydelot might go. Just a flicker of lips upon lips, for the briefest moment, chaste and stolen, then Guydelot smirked that damnable smirk and trotted away, humming to himself as he disappeared into the night. Leaving Sanson to sit down, right there on the steps, and have a godsdamned crisis.
It was well past midday now, more than a half-day since it’d happened, and Sanson still hadn’t managed to gather his faculties. There’d been no preamble. No build-up. Just a kiss, strange and chaste and simple as it was, and Sanson was more confused than he’d ever been.
It couldn’t be matronly, he decided. There were many ways he could describe his relationship with Guydelot, but matronly wasn’t one of them. Fraternal, then? But no, that didn’t feel right either. Certainly not romantic, though. They hadn’t so much as discussed having feelings for each other, so certainly Guydelot wouldn’t just kiss him without any warning.
Except that was precisely the sort of thing Guydelot would do, wasn’t it? Sanson sighed, resigned to returning to square one once again. The day dragged on. Sanson spilled his tea and dribbled ink on his shirt and spent far more time lying with his head on his desk than actually writing, but by day’s end he was able to turn in what he considered to be some of his worst work ever and headed directly for the spot where he typically met with Guydelot after they’d finished working for the day. His footsteps fell heavy enough to put Titan to shame and he kept his arms folded across his chest. He would have answers, he decided. Guydelot couldn’t keep getting away with this.
Sanson took a seat on the fence outside the Gold Bulls’ headquarters and wrapped his fingers tight around the railing beneath him. His eyebrows furrowed as he scrutinized the grass at his feet. He continued to stare, unthinking, until a familiar pair of boots appeared in front of him, and when he looked up, Guydelot reached out with one big, warm hand and leaned in to press their lips together again, chaste and gentle and just a little more lingering. Sanson nearly fell off the fence.
“Again!” Sanson shouted when they parted, knowing it was utterly out of character but driven nigh to the brink of insanity. “You did it again!”
Guydelot cocked his head, expression turning confused. “What do you mean?”
“That!” Sanson insisted, gesturing vaguely between them. “Kissing me! What is that?!”
“I thought our date went well last night,” Guydelot explained, just an onze of hurt creeping into his expression. “Didn’t you?”
Baffled, Sanson sat back and gawped. The pieces fell together. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter and more level. “...That was a date?”
Guydelot rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. “Sanson you’re going to be the death of me.”
Sanson rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling deeply and horribly embarrassed. “You never called it a date, so I thought it was--”
“What about me paying for our meal, hanging onto your every word, walking you home, and giving you a kiss at the door didn’t register as a date?” Guydelot asked, beyond baffled.
Well, when he put it that way--! Sanson shrank even further, burying his face in his hands. Gods, it’d been a date and he hadn’t even realized. A proper date, a real date, just like he’d been dreaming about for moons now, and he’d missed it all in favor of what? Prattling about work and bossing Guydelot around? Gods, what did the elezen see in him, truly?
He peeked up at him and summoned his courage. “So what, then? You like me?”
Guydelot laughed, resting a hand on Sanson’s cheek. “Aye, against all odds I reckon I do.”
Sanson settled. He could work with that. He could file that information away and make sense of that and contextualize kisses with that. For the first time all day, he felt like he could breathe. He laughed, mostly at himself. “Good. That’s good.”
Guydelot traced his thumb across Sanson’s cheek, stepping a little closer. “Then I’m allowed to keep kissing you?”
Sanson nodded, a bit sheepish, and Guydelot leaned in and kissed him properly. A flutter of excitement ran through Sanson’s body and he felt his cheeks flood with color as the elezen pulled away and smiled down at him, before his expression shifted to something else.
“How’d you get ink all over your shirt?”