midnightdiddle

Written ~~to terrorize~~ for

mariagoner.

Al-Cid/Gabranth. Sorta. Set during Bur-Omisace. A look at why, er, Al-Cid might've been knocked out. Spoilers.

Lover or Fighter

Al-Cid's not a fool, no matter what others think of him. He thinks of things other than women and short skirts. He thinks of Rozarria, Archadia, and all the countries in between, the thin line between peace and war. He thinks of his father, his brothers, the line of succession that ends on him.

But, for all his thinking, he's certainly not a man to let certain things go by. Things like poking fun at the littlest emperor-to-be, or flirting with Dalmasca's long-lost princess.

Or, as it might be, sharing most inappropriate touches with an Archadian Judge.

Though, of course, not everyone was participating in the touches. Pity.

"Do you," the Judge asks again, "know where Lord Larsa is?" His voice sounds long-suffering from the helm, and Al-Cid lets his arm drape heavier.

"The little lord? My bird, she was with him last. I think--" He flips his free hand, inspects his fingernails, lets his head lean against armor. "Where was it, that I saw him?"

He can nearly hear the Judge's frustration, and he smiles, wide and empty, like a fool or buffoon. "Perhaps," Al-Cid says, "I could remember better, if someone, what is it, jogged my memory?"

"How, exactly, do you want your memory jogged?" the Judge asks, but he's already walking down the hallway away from Al-Cid, armor clanking loudly in the temple. Al-Cid hurries a little faster, slouches a little longer, so his arms can still brush, heavy, against the Judge's side.

"My bird, she whispers things to me." Al-Cid pauses, waits for the Judge to look at him, then continues. "In my mouth."

The man beneath the helm can't be much older than Al-Cid. His face looks surprisingly much like the man who'd followed so close behind the princess, and Al-Cid thinks, ah, ah, so this is the great secret. Then Al-Cid thinks, ah, ah, so this is how Archadians kiss.

The Judge's kiss is quick, neat, without the flourishes Al-Cid tries to set into every motion. It is, Al-Cid thinks, an entirely military-like kiss. This, Al-Cid thinks, might be why Archadia grows, and Rozarria dies. Fighters, not lovers, and perhaps there is something to be said about strength outside the bed. But, for now, Al-Cid thinks he should teach the Archadians a bit about Rozarrian courtesy.

To be exact, courtesy of lovers. Or fighters, whichever the Archadians prefer.

"Where, then?" the Judge asks, and his mouth is swollen, cheeks a little flushed. Al-Cid frowns, touches his own lips. He's sure he might be bleeding, and damn those clumsy soldiers. A promise is a promise, though, and a kiss is a kiss.

"Lord Larsa's taking a moment of peace for his father in the Gran Kiltias's chambers. You should find it further down the left hallway."

"Of course," the Judge says, as though he feels very stupid, and Al-Cid thinks, yes, this Judge is very stupid. Then this Judge is swinging, and Al-Cid's head feels as though it's cracking open, and Al-Cid thinks, ah, ah, perhaps I'm the fool they think I am.

Perhaps, after all, there is something to be said of lovers and fighters both.