Work Text:
The morning is as golden as any morning can be these days, the sunlight trembling, holding back the gloom and the terror for just another hour, just until the march begins. Elincia will lead the Crimean Army to Sienne, following Ike of the Greil Mercenaries and the Laguz Alliance, repaying a life debt to that taciturn man who asks for so very little. There is something nostalgic about this. There is something painful, too. Four years ago, she was as innocent as the morning sun. Today, she flies toward a red dawn, half of whole generations at her back, beneath her wings.
She thinks she dwells on the horror of this an appropriate amount; she thinks about it all the time.
A hand at her elbow draws her from her melancholic haze, prompting her to extend her arms out to her sides. Satisfied with this pose, Lucia threads her arm through one side of her surcoat. Her fingers linger pleasantly over the beige sleeve of her tunic, as if that light touch alone could support Elincia’s outstretched limb. Because it is Lucia, Elincia feels that it does.
When she first heard of war, she had been dead set on neutrality. Crimea had shed enough blood. Whatever happened with Daein should remain outside her borders, should spare her people and her bounty.
Then Lucia almost died.
Then Elincia was almost shot out of the sky.
Now, Crimea marches.
With both of Elincia’s arms through the appropriate holes in the surcoat, Lucia steps closer. Elincia’s hands rest atop her longer, more calloused ones where they wrap around her waist. Her fingers are feather-light and sure in their work as they begin the process of hooking the surcoat together at the front. Elincia leans back, such that Lucia’s elbows are secure at her waist, her bosom pressed against her back, her breathing steady in her ear. With her lover so close, smelling of last night’s sweat and orange soap, Elincia goes weak at the knees. Apparently, she leans back a little too much, because Lucia stands taller, jostling her upright in the process. “Are you fatigued, my lady?”
Only years of etiquette training stop Elincia from clicking her tongue. Lucia knows fair and well that neither of them slept much last night. What little sleep Elincia was permitted was delightfully deep, the kind where waking up is more difficult than swimming to the top of a pool, where the body ends up heavier and more dazed than before, waterlogged with momentary bliss. Such a thing is precious, especially during a war. Even before she donned the royal regalia for the first time as Queen of Crimea, rest had eluded Elincia for all the wrong reasons.
Sometimes, the reason is worthy. Sometimes, it is sure fingers and a secure embrace. So Elincia allows Lucia her little joke at her expense, because other things are much more costly and far less calming. She shakes her head. “Not any more than I have come to expect.” Lucia does not respond. “What about you? Are you tired?”
Those fingers are underneath her breasts now, working marvelously quick with the tiny, silver fasteners beneath the seam of the surcoat. They do not falter as Lucia presses a similarly quick kiss to Elincia’s bare neck, only lulling for the blink of an eye. “I am, as always, rejuvenated by your presence.”
“Oh,” Elincia hums. “My presence.”
This gets Lucia to huff out a laugh, silent except for the sound of her sharp exhale. In turn, Elincia giggles like a little girl, head tilting backward to land on Lucia’s shoulder, mouth open in an easy smile. “My lady,” her retainer greets with mock decency, like Elincia can’t see the stars in her eyes.
“My love,” she returns, wanting nothing more than to kiss her, than to pull her close, than to lead her back to bed. Duty calls them both to face the day. Elincia must ready the troops for another hard day of trekking through Begnion if they’re lucky, fighting their way through if they’re not. Lucia must fasten the final button on her surcoat and step away. Elincia’s wants are rarely worth their weight in gold: this is the life she chose as the leader of her country. She knows this. Lucia knows this, too. As she returns with Elincia’s coat, Elincia has a thought. “My love?”
“Yes?”
With her fingers pressed against her wrist, she holds her tunic sleeves in place while Lucia pulls the coat sleeves over them to prevent them from ruching up. It’s a trick learned from years of habit, years of Elincia and Lucia doing just this, over and over again. “Why don’t you ever let me dress you in this way?”
"Such a thing would hardly be proper,” Lucia answers, settling Elincia’s coat on her shoulders. Now, she must step around to her front to tie the coat shut. Before her fingers reach down, they brush against Elincia’s cheek, one bare, blue eye glancing over Elincia’s face.
Elincia grabs her chin, holding it like it is made of porcelain even though the body it belongs to has been forged of silver and steel. The rope burn has long since faded, but still, the pads of her fingers trace a path down to Lucia’s pulse. The whole while, Lucia ties the decorative lacing at the front of Elincia’s coat. “I don’t mind if it’s not proper. I want to. For you.”
With a gentle chuckle, Lucia’s hands fall to the other tie. One hand still at Lucia’s neck, Elincia brings the other up to match.
“Would you kiss me? Even if it’s not proper?” she breathes into the scant space between them.
Lucia, ever faithful, obliges. She’s warm and soft and as sweet as tangerines. Elincia chases her where she goes to return the favor, colors blossoming behind her closed eyelids, until the need for air outweighs the need for kisses.
“On the contrary, my lady,” Lucia whispers, her palms skimming across Elincia’s hips, “I couldn’t imagine anything else feeling so right.”