Work Text:
There was a rumor being spread through the Hideaway that Cid’s team had been killed on their latest attempt to free Bearers.
Something roiled uncomfortably in Clive’s stomach, and he refused to think about the way his chest felt caved in at the mere thought of Cid’s death.
But days went by, and no other word came. Clive had taken to sitting in the dark in the Solar on that awful green couch, curled around Cid’s pillow, trying to breathe the man in. It felt… wrong, since it wasn’t like they were like that.
(He wanted to be. He wanted to be.)
But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to be close, he wanted to remind himself that Cid was still in the world. Clive could, and would, apologize when Cid returned to find his pillow strangely placed on his bed because Clive never seemed to be able to put it at the head. In his embarrassment, he’d toss it down as he escaped, cheeks red as he beat a hasty retreat.
It was another one of those nights, and this time Clive had given into the tears. The smell of Cid was gone from the thin pillow he’d been hugging to his chest in a poor attempt at comfort, and reality was starting to set in.
Cid was really– he really–
There’s a loud sound down outside, in the great hall, and he’s on his feet and to the door before he can really think about it. The pillow had been discarded, left on the green couch that had become his bed, despite his body’s protests, in the rush to find out what was wrong. Tears were blinked from his eyes and quickly wiped away, trying to get rid of them and the evidence of them as he all but ran. If something was happening, he couldn’t well fight with tears blurring his vision. They’d been nearly discovered by Kupka once; the chance that it might happen again loomed heavily over them.
Tarja was right behind him as they rushed down the stairs. The only reason he didn’t jump the railing to beat her down to the floor was because she was right behind him, and if he landed wrong, she’d never let him hear the end of it. That didn’t mean he didn’t get down the stairs at nearly breakneck speed, though.
What he came upon in the dim light of the few torches that always remained lit was a large group. They all looked haggard and dirty, blood and smears of dirt on some of their faces. It took far too long for Clive to recognize the faces of Cursebreakers among the group, since some of them were no longer wearing their armor.
They were the faces of the Cursebreakers, specifically, who’d gone out with Cid.
Feeling dizzy, feeling sick, he darted around the milling crowd and bleary-eyed denizens of the Hideaway that appeared from deeper in to help care for the group that had arrived. All his focus, all his being, was focused on looking for one person, and one person only.
It seemed like its own kind of magic, the way there was a brief parting of people to give him a clear shot of Otto, talking to a man whose hair was an absolute mess, who seemed to be barely keeping from swaying into the other man, and whose beard had grown out in the month that had passed since he’d left. And there was mud caked and cracking all over the familiar behemoth leather jacket and pants. The milling group closed the gap, and the man was once again hidden from view.
The relief nearly had Clive go to his knees right where he stood, but instead he danced out of the way of Rodrigue, who’d rushed to help look over the newcomers and those freshly returned. Clive, meanwhile, darted around the group anxiously, until he found an opening. He shoved through, ignoring the grunt, and the elbow he got in his side to finally stumble into the open space just before the stairs that led up and into the long passage that was the entryway to the Hideaway.
He watched as Otto walked away, and his heart was tearing itself to pieces as he rushed to take Otto’s place. Cid had started to turn, but he stopped when Clive approached, and it seemed to take a moment for the man’s normally sharp green eyes to focus properly on him. But when they did, they lit up. A genuine, warm smile broke over a mud-streaked face, and Clive just–
“Ah, Clive. Otto was just– oof!” Whatever Cid might’ve said was cut off by Clive darting in and wrapping his arms tight around the man.
An indescribable feeling washed over Clive as he hugged Cid tight. It was a feeling he hadn’t ever felt before, at least not quite. It was as though his chest wanted to explode, and his heart was light and beating out of his chest, but everything felt suddenly heavy and like he might collapse. It wasn’t relief, it was something else, something unnameable.
Slowly, Cid’s arms rose and wound around him in return. The hold, at first, was tentative, before it got stronger, before he was holding Clive just as tight as he was being held. A shuddering breath was exhaled against the side of Clive’s neck, and he squeezed the other man tighter with one arm, while his other hand buried itself in dirty hair, holding Cid close.
“Welcome home,” Clive whispered roughly, trying his best to keep the overwhelming need to break down in tears of relief and that odd feeling at bay.
“It’s good to be home.” Cid’s voice was rough and low and right in Clive’s ear. It cracked, and broke at the end, and he was the only one to hear it. Despite the way they were both close to breaking down in relief, or perhaps because of it, their arms wound tight around each other, like they never intended on letting each other go.