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Thancred rarely spoke of it, but those two years of solitude upon the First had taken a heavy toll on him. Of course, he had the Exarch as an acquaintance and ally, and those in the Crystarium were ever friendly toward him, but his stays there were always short-lived. He was barely able to take a week's worth of rest to recover after his abrupt summoning across the rift before he'd had enough sitting and waiting in a bed in Spagyrics. He needed to get out there and actually do something practical and productive. So it was without delay he'd stopped by the Mean to arm himself, and left through the gates to Lakeland, a gunblade on his back and swirling unrest in his breast.
The work he pursued in hunting down sin eaters rarely left him much time to socialise, if any at all. Most of the time the only other souls he'd converse with were the merchants he purchased supplies from, or locals who had information on nearby sin eater activity. It should've been something he was used to; after all, a large portion of his work with the Scions were excursions of similar solitude, and he didn't spend several months in the wilderness of Dravania to come out of it unable to handle that sort of thing.
But perhaps because of the nature of his separation from his allies — sudden, without warning, and with no way to contact them even by linkpearl — the sense of distance was so great that it slowly ate at him until it was all he could do not to drown it in ale. They were literally a universe apart, and nothing he could do would reunite them. So he kept to himself, kept himself busy so that he could attempt to outpace the overwhelming grief.
That was, at least, until the news of Y'shtola and Urianger's summoning.
He hadn't been at the Crystarium at the time, but he came as fast as his current hunt allowed. It had taken everything in him to not break down at seeing their faces again, and he welcomed Y'shtola's sharp tongue and Urianger's infuriating manner of speech with a smile thick with homesickness.
Unfortunately, their separate tasks kept them apart after that. But the knowledge that they were out there, at least, gave him much comfort and more. And more and more often, he found himself stopping by the Bookman's Shelves in particular, despite the hassle that always came hand in hand with entering Il Mheg. But it was well worth it, to open those thick wooden doors unto the place his dear friend now called home.
This day is one of those retreats into familiarity in the depths of the fae lands. Thancred's last hunt had led him into dangerous territories even for his liking, and his retreat had been a treacherous one. He'd gleaned some information of import for his troubles, but every part of him ached with exertion. So it was that he found himself outside the Shelves, bleeding from half a dozen places and praying that his friend hadn't taken an ill-timed trip to the Crystarium.
Luckily for him, the door had swung open, revealing Urianger, whose expression quickly ran the gauntlet of surprise, to joy, and finally concern as he scolded his recklessness. He barely had a foot in the door before the elezen was casting healing magicks on his wounds.
Now he rests on Urianger's bed, despite protests that a chair would have done him just fine, and listens to the kettle whistling from the kitchenette below as Urianger prepares a pot of tea. So simple a pleasure he almost can't imagine it. But Urianger smiles warmly as he brings him a tray with two teacups, and it reminds him of home — his real home — so much so that the ache of his muscles no longer matters.
It's as they're drinking that Urianger poses a rather unanticipated question. “Hast thou not ever considered addressing thine appearance since arriving unto this star?”
Thancred raises an eyebrow by way of response. “Are my roguish looks not satisfactory enough for you?”
He parries the question, clarifying himself. “I understand full well that thou didst not have the patience nor resources to pay it any heed amidst the chaos of our time on the Source, but mayhap the current situation might allow for some… small modicum of grooming.”
He isn't wrong. In fact, Thancred’s had plenty of opportunities to deal with the scraggly mess on his chin and the rat's tail hanging down his back, but he'd always just pressed on without caring. After all, there was no real reason for him to look his best. He certainly won't be flirting his way into any Ul'dahn bedchambers anymore.
But maybe a small amount of change would do him good. After all, even Urianger had taken a complete heel turn in terms of personal aesthetic. He'd nearly choked the first time he'd entered the Shelves and been greeted by exposed skin and glittering gold, so far was it from anything he'd ever seen the man wear in all the years he'd known him.
“Well, what would you suggest, Master Urianger?” he throws out.
Which leads to him perching on a stool in fresh breeches as Urianger hovers behind him, with Thancred's hair, still damp from the bath, in one and a pair of silver scissors in the other. Something in Thancred thrums on high alert in such a vulnerable state, an instinct that yet lingers even outside a mission into enemy lines, but it's soothed by Urianger's gentle muttering under his breath, discussing with himself the best angle of approach.
“Urianger, are you... entirely sure you know what you're doing?”
The elezen seems caught off guard by the comment. “W-Well, in theory, 'tis not a difficult task to execute. However, thy length is considerable compared to how thou once wore it, and so I am simply pondering how short would be satisfactory.”
Thancred shrugs. In all honesty, he doesn't care too much, as long as the end result isn’t utterly foolish. “Whatever floats your particular boat, then. I have no preference, and so I defer to the expert.”
“Expert,” Urianger laughs, a bit of nervousness to it. “Many a year hath it been since I last glanced over a tome on such things. In candour, I can scarcely recall the first thing about it.”
“Well, that's somewhat alarming, I'll admit. But as long as my ears remain attached to my head, I shan't complain.”
And to his credit, he remains true to his word. He keeps his silence, even as he hears the first snip of severing hair and feels a weight drop to the floor behind him. It's something of a relief, and he finds himself sitting up a bit straighter as the heft of it leaves his shoulders. Although he does not manage to suppress the short, quiet gasp that rushes past his lips when the warm skin of Urianger's hand brushes against his neck, a spot just behind his ear as he gathers up more hair.
He's not sure if Urianger heard it, as he makes no indication if he did, but he becomes more aware of the movement of his hands as the silence stretches on. They are slow and careful, though not completely adverse to occasionally brushing against his scalp. The touches send a pleasant tingle down his spine and across his shoulders, so much so that he feels himself leaning backward ever so slightly, barely suppressing contented sighs at the strange comfort he finds in it.
When his friend finally steps back, brushing a few last shorn tufts from his neck, a sizable part of him aches at the loss of contact. Instead of thinking on that further, he stretches out, easing the stiffness in his legs, and accepts the hand mirror Urianger passes to him.
It's definitely shorter, maybe a bit shorter than it was even before his unfortunate trip through the lifestream, but it's not bad. It's not exactly salon quality, either, but he'd expected about as much. At least the bangs look alright.
“Mine apologies if the result is below thy standards.”
“No, it's…” He takes a better look at himself, and realises that it's the first time he's properly done so in several moons. He looks far too pale, with dry lips and more stubble than he'd realised lining his jaw. His eyes are tired, too — one a pale brown, the other startlingly silver, more so than he remembered it being. Both are ringed with pronounced bags that hang beneath them like shadows. Twelve above, he looks awful. Whatever 'roguish charm' he might once have claimed to have had been left alongwith his body on the Source. At least the bath had washed off the clinging dirt and grime from his face.
“Thancred?” Urianger asks. “Doth it truly offend thee beyond remark?”
With that he drifts back to the present, his eyes slipping from his reflection back up to his friend, standing before him with a nervous posture. “A-Ah, no, I was simply... lost in thought for a moment. No, you did well. Thank you, Urianger, I'm grateful for your patience.”
At that, the man gives him a smile tinged with relief. “Is that so… Then full glad am I to have provided mine services.”
Thancred returns the smile. The moment lasts for more than a few heartbeats, neither man speaking a word or looking away, content to let it linger. Thancred feels a wave of calm wash over him, a warmth that he had sorely lacked in his moons spent alone in this new world. Familiarity, comfort, and again, a certain sense of home that life under these blinding skies could ever afford to him. He feels that tingling again, and the ghost of those gentle touches against his skin. But above it all, he sees Urianger before him, tall and full of secrets and yet so open in this moment that he wants nothing more than to fall against him, to wrap his arms around him and feel secure in the embrace, to hear his steady heart when he closes his eyes.
Then all too soon it is over, and Thancred blinks himself out of his daydreaming, attempting to feign nonchalance. “So, do you have a razor to deal with the rest of this mess?” he asks, gesturing at the yet unkempt scruff on his chin.
“I do indeed.” Urianger picks one up from the counter, carefully pinched between two fingers. He looks at it, then back at Thancred. "Shall I…?"
Somehow the proposition is unexpected. By all rights he can do it himself. Should, even. But that part of him that revelled at the brush of contact and aches at its loss is deathly curious to know how such a touch might feel against his jaw.
He gives into it, and feigns a casual smile. "Sure," he says. “I don’t see why not.”
It takes much more restraint than he would’ve imagined, to sit still while Urianger brings another stool before him, razor in hand. He holds his breath as Urianger wets his face with the cloth, as though preparing to take a plunge into deep water. The first scrape of the razor is a shock; not painful, but the metal is cool and the breath he had been holding escapes ever so slightly. There’s a palpable tension in the air, especially as he realises he’s not quite sure where he’s supposed to be looking. It was easier when Urianger was behind him. Now, he has to fight to keep his gaze level, looking past him instead of at him. He wants to close his eyes, but part of him feels that would be deeply embarrassing, so he simply exists in the interim.
He needn’t have worried. The man is surprisingly focused on his task, and his gaze never strays even once, not seeming to have noticed Thancred’s wandering eye. Thancred takes the moment to indulge in his watching, to take in those golden eyes so sharp with intelligence. Hiding so many secrets. And watching him, he thinks to himself that despite the man’s infuriating tendency to hoard such secrets, his reclusivity and incomprehensible nature, there are moments in which he finds he can actually read him rather well. Urianger is focused, yes, but he carries an unmistakable aura of calm amidst the tension — or maybe that tension is something Thancred has imposed upon the situation out of his own fear of vulnerability. There’s even the hint of a smile playing upon his face, as though he’s enjoying this.
And, for not the first time, Thancred thinks to himself that when he smiles, Urianger is quite beautiful.
Urianger’s knuckles brush against his jaw, and he swallows the thought as best he can. He can’t remember the last time he was this innocently nervous. Most situations nowadays seem to put him in a place of peril, where he would have to worry for his life, or those of his charges, or any other number of disasters that might happen while his back was turned. Yet now his pulse flutters for entirely mundane reasons. It’s almost… pleasant, despite the gnawing guilt of feeling attraction to someone he calls a friend.
Back when he often took someone to bed, it was never someone he knew beforehand, or ever saw again for that matter. He knows full well that he cannot deal with this attraction in his usual fashion; perhaps he’ll have to begin keeping some secrets of his own. That is, if the feeling of Urianger’s delicate fingers wiping off stray hairs from his chin doesn’t cause him to regurgitate his feelings then and there, as it feels so dangerously close to doing. A man of his stature has no right being so gentle, treating Thancred as though he were a glass sculpture and not a thorough mess of a grizzled thirty-something.
Then Urianger pulls away, apparently done with his work, his smile more sure when he meets Thancred’s eye, and gods , how is he going to manage to hide anything with this warmth clawing its way through his chest.
“It is done. Thou now appearth as thyself once again, restored to thy former glory.” The jape doesn’t pass him, and Thancred laughs lightly.
“Whatever glory that might’ve been.”
His friend chuckles. “There must surely hath been one reason or another that maidens flocked to thee.”
He waves him aside. “Well, it’s certainly not something I’m inclined to put any stock in now.” He doesn’t like the way the conversation has steered, so he does his best to grab the reins and move it somewhere safer, where he’ll be less likely to let something slip. “Besides, there are far more pressing things at hand than dwelling on my foolish past.”
Urianger frowns slightly, and he remains quiet as he sets the razor down on the counter. He speaks after a thoughtful pause. “To say thy youth was filled with naught but folly would be to do thee a disservice.”
Well. That wasn’t the reply he’d expected. “I am generalising, perhaps. But it is hard to look at who I once was and find anything that I did right.”
“Aye,” Urianger says softly. “We owe many of our mistakes to our former selves. Regret is a plague, and all of us its humble hosts.”
And there it is. The other unspoken thing between them, this time with a firmer form. The gap in space in the shape of a woman. The shape of a friend.
The topic had been one both men seemed reluctant to broach. Even before their spiriting away to this world of Light, it had been difficult to navigate, the weight of it hanging heavy in the air they breathed, catching in their lungs. Here, where the consequences of what had been done paint every stroke of the world’s history, it seems nearly impossible. And so they hadn’t, and had instead devoted themselves to their own pursuits, sharing information with each other in the overlap. But with each passing day, it had grown larger and larger, taking up most of the space in the room whenever they lapsed into silence. And with the nature of Thancred’s current mission… he fears in time that his ribs might crack from the strain of so much left unsaid.
He jolts, slightly, when he feels a weight on his shoulder. Urianger is in front of him once again, standing before him. Thancred hadn’t noticed his approach, so lost was he in his own thoughts. But Urianger’s hand is warm and familiar, and he finds himself coming back into the world, piece by piece. He looks up at the man, and is met once more with a fond smile, framed by the pale light from the window.
“Thou art not alone in this world any longer, Thancred.” he says, his tone one of gentle sincerity. “The fae do not maketh the kindest of companions, and truth be told, I have come to look forward to thy visits most fervently. So do not hesitate to darken my doorstep, should the need arise for safety and security… or even the company of a friend.”
For a long moment, Thancred simply holds his gaze, allowing his words to sink in, until the darkness caging his heart begins to melt away, little by little. And then he smiles back, reaching up to cover Urianger’s hand with his own, and he holds it there.
“Careful, now. If you say things like that, you might never be rid of me.” he says with a small laugh.
Urianger’s smile turns mirthful. “‘Tis a risk I am more than willing to take. Thou shalt ever have a home at the Bookman’s Shelves.”
He takes Thancred’s hand and leads him to his feet, and Thancred feels his heart race a little faster when he wipes a stray hair from his chin. The ache returns, having never truly left.
“Shall I prepare this evening’s supper?” he asks.
Thancred’s hand is still held in Urianger’s loose grasp. He wants to lace their fingers together, to press his lips to the back of his hand. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and exhales until his heart has steadied itself.
“Yes, I think that would be a good idea. But I’m helping, too, and you cannot expect me to do otherwise.” Urianger attempts to protest this, but Thancred holds up a hand to silence him. “If this is to be my home for the next — however many moons ‘til our return to the Source, you will at least allow me to pull my own weight.”
The elezen sighs, but he relents nonetheless. “I suppose I shall abide thy demands, on this singular occasion. Wait here, and I shall fetch us some fresh water.”
He steps away to retrieve a pail from a crate nearby, leaving Thancred feeling distinctly colder without his comforting presence. He makes to leave, his hand on the front door pulling wide the hinge.
“Urianger.” It tumbles forth from him without thought.
He turns back toward him, and the light spilling from the half-open doorway illuminates him entirely, sparkling off the gold of his robes. “Yes?”
Thancred manages to give what he hopes is the most sincere look he can. “Thank you.”
After a moment, Urianger shrugs, humourous in his feigned ignorance. “What for? ‘Twas only a haircut.”
The door swings shut, darkening the room once more. And, at least for now, Thancred is at peace. He is home.