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Night had already settled on Limsa Lominsa, but city was still alive. The street lamps were lit, and a crowd could be seen in the Octant. The Bismarck was busy as usual at this time of night, with the clattering of silverware against porcelain plates and the murmurs of the patrons drowning out the crashing waves below. Nero's fingers drummed on the table, eyes darting as he looked about. Men and women, traders and officers were wearing fine dresses and stylish jackets.
And here he was. He was aware of the loose thread on his cuff, the worn elbows, and even the scuffs on his shoes. He drummed his fingers on the table, almost looking from one place to the next between beats. He tugged as his collar, missing one button, and took a drink from his wine. He'd long since passed the point he'd consider spitting it back out.
He finally looked at D'rena. She wasn't looking back at him, but staring across the water. He didn't need to see her eyes to know that they've lost focus by now. He scanned over her; her hair was tied into a tight bun rather than a loose ponytail. A sandy shawl was draped over her shoulders to keep back the breeze as a deep blue dress hugged her form. He drank deep of her, if only to remind himself of why he was here. Why he was among his betters.
Nero stood up, her ears perked in his direction. "Nero?"
"Just a stretch," he said. "I think this sea air is making an old wound ache." He caught her looking at him as he walked towards the large tower- the Mizzenmast, she called it earlier. He walked straight across the bridge and stopped at a rail on the next column. He braced himself against the rail and let his head drop.
It was a mistake to come here. Not a single bloody patron was a fisherman. Or a smith. A laborer. Or even a damned soldier. His grip tightened against the rail. They were all traders, accountants, officers. Not like him. The Ironworks paid well enough, but compared to Highwind Skyways, it was a meager wage. Perhaps he had mistaken his calling in life; instead, he should've wiped the-
"Nero!?" He twisted back, hands still on the rail, and saw no one before looking down. D'rena's pale eyes staring into his own. "Is aught amiss?" Her hand was clasped to her chest.
"No. Nothing." He put on a smile. "Is dinner served? I need a minute more before-"
Her eyes narrowed for a moment, but it was enough to stop him cold. "Was there nothing to your liking?"
"I've eaten grilled raptor before, I'm sure they can prepare something a touch above that," he said with more venom than he intended.
She frowned. "If it's about the money, you needn't worry." She took his hand in hers. Her small, soft hand. She could have any man she wanted. And she settled for him. Why him? "I know," she said cheerfully, "you'd rather have borscht. Is that it?"
His smile relaxed, taking off the mask he put on. "Even if I were to special-order it, I doubt these savage cooks could serve any better than the XIVth's."
A sly grin wormed its way across her face. "So you'd rather have my borscht. Don't you worry," she stepped closer and stood on her tiptoes, "I'll make something extra-special in a couple days. How's that sound?"
"Good." Nero stepped away from the railing. "I like the sound of that."
"But only-" she tugged his arm and stepped back toward the Bismarck- "if you stop sulking and eat your savage-cooked dinner. Okay?" He said nothing, but followed her as she dragged him along. If he'd dug in his heels, he wasn't sure what would yield first: his shoes or his arm.
He doesn't deserve her. The brightest star in the night sky, and she fell into his arms. He took longer strides until they were shoulder to shoulder. He felt her let go. They arrived back at their seats not a moment before they were served.