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If Cid were being honest with himself – and for the most part, he was unfailingly so – he would’ve already acknowledged that something was brewing between him and Clive. Something syrupy and slow like honey, stretching between the two of them during late nights in his solar together, poring over letters and maps, discussing next steps. He saw the lingering looks in those brilliant blue eyes. How Clive never seemed to shy away from leaning into Cid’s space, whether to point out a particular landmark on whatever map they were looking at, or to refill Cid’s goblet with a second or third helping of wine.
But Cid was old and wise, or at least wiser than he once was, at any rate – and he was proving surprisingly capable of keeping his hands – and thoughts – to himself. The lad ought to be mooning after a pretty girl his own age, and soon he would be, as soon as Clive had a little more time to get his head on straight, Cid believed. He’d learned long ago he was the sort who was sometimes better off simply wanting what he couldn’t have.
Which is all to say that Cid really isn’t thinking about the simmering heat between him and his protege when, after a successful battle against a particularly large and nasty contingent of Black Shields, he reaches out to give Clive a solid, genial slap on the back.
“Gave the bastards what they deserved, eh,” Cid says, hitting Clive’s back with a harmless thump . His voice is light even while he catches his breath. A bit of static still tingles in his boots, leftover from the fight.
The gesture – just a back slap – isn’t intended to be anything more than a soldierly show of pride and camaraderie. Cid’s barely paying attention as he does it, mostly occupied with scanning the treeline for potential enemy reinforcements. Stillness – now there’s a relief.
He’s about to open his mouth to say as much when suddenly Cid hears a growl from beside him and feels a hard shove at his chest. Clive’s gauntleted forearm slams into his breastbone and pushes him backwards until the man has him bodily pinned against the wall of a Fallen ruin jutting up from the ground and into the sky, in whose shadow they’d butchered their enemies.
The surprise of it more than anything else is what knocks the air right out of him. In a flash, Cid pools lightning in the palms of his hands, preparing to strike back if he has to because Titan tits, Clive, what the fuck are you doing ?
Clive’s chest is heaving and Cid can feel it against him. His breath smells like smoke, warm on Cid’s face. This close up, Clive looks even prettier, even with his teeth bared like a wild thing and face and hair splattered with what must have been a fine spray of their foes’ blood amidst the slaughter. Cid figures he too must look much the same. Nothing they’re not used to.
Clive’s eyes, however, are unusually dark, pupils dilated and alight with only the thinnest ring of blue flame.
For a terrifying moment, Cid thinks Clive has gone feral on him. Recognizing the beast that lay inside of him, Ifrit, had wounded the boy, wounds that had yet to fully scar, and all it took was Cid to fuck it all up, push Clive too hard and too fast –
But Clive isn’t going feral, Cid realizes. He’s not even semi-primed. And that’s when Cid notices something pressing at his hip. An undeniable hardness in Clive’s trousers.
Clive is made of fire and heat, and he’s looking at Cid like he wants to devour him. And then Cid gets it.
He laughs aloud before he can stop himself. The sound of it must shake something inside of other man, as Clive blinks and lets his hold on Cid loosen, though for now Cid is content to remain right where Clive put him.
Clive’s ears turn bright red. “Fuck, I – fucking hell, Cid.” His voice is like the scraping of stone.
Because Cid is Cid, Clive’s obvious embarrassment only makes him laugh harder. He pats Clive on the arm. “Ah, don’t worry about it, mate. I was young once, and a soldier too. Sometimes you just get so caught up in stickin’ your sword in things, and then all of a sudden you’re wanting to stick your sword into somethin’ else.” Blood rushing in the heat of battle. One’s body as naught but a finely tuned weapon, and for Bearers and especially Dominants, the added power thrumming through their veins.
All that adrenaline needs to go somewhere once you run out of things to kill, and nothing hit the spot quite like a spirited fuck. Comrades were cheaper than whores, and more immediately available besides.
Oh yeah, Cid remembers the feeling.
“I can only say I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner,” Cid continues, smirking. “I know I must be difficult to resist at the best of times. Shoulda known you’d stoop to humping my leg in the field like a randy dog.”
He means it as a joke! At least he thinks he does, but then again, Cid can hear what he sounds like, the low rasp of his voice tinged with a filthy combination of flirtation and disdain. It makes Clive groan and take a few abrupt steps backward, away from Cid. His cheeks are as red as his ears now. From here, Cid can no longer feel the bulge in Clive’s trousers, but he can see it. “Cid, I’m so sorry – “ he starts to stammer, before Cid interrupts him.
“Aw, I’m flattered.” As always, Cid carries on with humor and an air of arrogance. “It’s about time you learn what to do with what’s between your legs. Come on, you’re my protege. Of course you come to me for guidance.”
Clive scowls. It seems like he can barely bring himself to look Cid in the eye, but all things considered, the boy has maintained an admirable composure. “I’ve been on battlefields since I was fifteen. And I’m not a child.” Impressively he manages not to come across as petulant. Leave it Clive to bear this with little more than his typical stoic heroism. “Everything just feels so much – feels more – than it used to, now that I can feel Ifrit in here.” He gestures to his own chest. “I’m sorry for my body’s reaction, and I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
This is where Cid is supposed to crack one last joke and drop the subject so they can make their way back to the Hideaway. An awkward situation never to be repeated. And yet, Cid just can’t help himself. He licks his lips and notes Clive tracking that slight movement, making Cid’s smirk widen. “Now I didn’t say I minded it, did I? I do have eyes, Clive, and since I’m sure you were wondering about it, a functioning prick, too.” Cid makes a show of dragging his gaze from the toes of Clive’s boots to the top of his head. He’s never really tried to hide his appreciation before, but it still feels different, actively wanting Clive to see it.
Clive is still blushing, but some of the heat has returned to his eyes. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he takes a step forward, and Cid –
Cid meets him halfway. If Clive is an unstoppable force, then Cid is an unbreakable object, and they’re both but hurling themselves together. They’re grappling with one another as much as it’s an embrace. Cid grips one of Clive’s belts and uses it to yank the man right back up against him so their hips are aligned and Cid can grind his thigh into the outline of Clive’s hard cock. Clive, meanwhile, as sweet as he is fierce, goes in for a kiss. Cid feels lips and teeth move along his jaw, doesn’t hesitate to turn his head and allow Clive to capture his mouth in a bruising kiss.
Fuck, of course the boy runs hot. Cid feels almost burned by it, but he can give as good as he gets. His hands slide down to cup Clive’s leather-clad ass, and fuck, Cid will admit he’s thought about this before, the firm muscles in his grasp. He squeezes. “Fucking lovely,” he purrs against Clive’s mouth before the other man abruptly uses it to shut him up, this time with more teeth.
Cid can taste blood. It probably doesn’t belong to either of them, and Founder , that should not be as much of a turn-on as it is. But it’s all just part of it, isn’t it? Fighting and fucking and killing all running together in a white-hot lightning bolt shooting up his spine.
Clive’s stubble scrapes against Cid’s beard. It’s nothing Cid’s a stranger to, even if his usual fare tends toward women and twinks. The last time he bedded someone who could match his strength was over a decade ago, and no, no, no, Cid’s not letting his mind stray to Benedikta now, not when Clive’s tongue is in his mouth and hands tug at his collar. From there, Clive’s hands move to his shoulders, give Cid another push. But without the benefit of surprise, Clive can’t pin Cid again, not unless Cid lets him, and he won’t, at least not this time.
Wily little bastard that he is, Clive tries a new strategy. A pull instead of a push, until they’re both sprawled in the dirt, Clive on his arse and Cid kneeling above him, eyes hooded and foreheads pressed together.
A pause, then, during which they do little more than pant into each other’s bloodstained faces. Cid is waiting for Clive to stop him. Say something noble and rise sinuously to his feet. But he doesn’t – instead, Clive strips himself of his gauntlets and brings one hand up to grip the nape of Cid’s neck. His touch is near scalding like this, skin on skin. In the same breath, Clive spreads his legs and Cid feels a sturdy leg hooking around his hip, bringing him closer until their groins meet.
Well, that answers that then.
“Feel what you’ve started, lad?” Cid takes a fistful of dark hair and breathes the words into Clive’s ear before biting down on the pale shell of it. He’s not sure when he started getting hard, only that he is, and he rolls his hips against the other man and listens to Clive’s answering moan.
They could spend minutes or hours like this, rutting against one another. Cid isn’t exactly keeping track of time, too occupied with making little violet bruises bloom just beneath Clive’s collar. He’s as beautifully responsive as in Cid’s filthiest fantasies, making the sweetest punched-out noises every time his hips buck up to meet Cid’s. If this is what Clive wants, to be manhandled into the ground until he comes in his pants like a green boy after his first battle, Cid is more than happy to oblige him.
But Clive has other plans, apparently, and luckily Cid is adaptable. When he feels Clive’s hands moving between them and hears him huff in frustration, Cid sits back on his heels to give his companion room to maneuver. He watches Clive fling his swordbelt to the ground and deftly undo the fastenings of his own trousers. He looks wrecked already, splayed out on the forest floor like this, parted lips kiss-swollen and Cid’s beard burn turning the handsome cut of his jaw pink. And that’s before he raises his hips to tug his trousers down a scant few inches, just below his balls and the pale beginnings of those lovely, brawny thighs. It’s the best he can do with his legs spread like a whore and Cid right there between them.
Cid looks down at him admiringly and whistles. “Cock’s as pretty as the rest of you,” he says, and means it. Flushed and hard, curving against the red laces in Clive’s shirt, already leaking, too. “Wetter than a woman, look at you.” Big, too, as big as the rest of him, and framed by hair as dark as on the top of his head. Cid’s not about to get into a literal dick measuring contest, but Clive is probably longer than he is, though not nearly as thick around. He’s already thinking about how it’ll feel in the back of his throat when Clive just continues to surprise.
“Come on old man, want you in me,” he says. Clive hitches his elbows behind his knees, grunting as he raises them. Layers of clothes and armor in the way, but he finds a way to bare his hole for Cid, even on his back in the dirt.
“Fuck,” Cid swears with feeling and gives into the temptation to rub the bulge in his trousers. How sweet it would feel to sink into that spectacular arse. The corner of Clive’s mouth twitches up. “You greedy, greedy thing.” Yet Cid still gives in to a rare moment of hesitation and slides back into his mentor tone of voice. “Now Clive, sweetheart, there’s nothing wrong with wanting it a little rough, mind, but unless you planned on jumping my old bones out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, I don’t think either of us has any slick on us for that particular activity.”
Clive shakes his head. He’s got that stubborn look on his face that he only gets when Cid is telling him a truth he doesn’t want to hear, and it’s so much more endearing than it has any right to be. “I’m not some blushing virgin, Cid, and I’m tired of waiting on you. Fuck me.”
I’m tired of waiting on you. There it is, what they’ve been dancing around. What they’ve both been wanting, clearly, and Cid has been the one avoiding. He thinks about what Clive would look like in Cid’s bed, his body a naked expanse of scars and curving muscle and coiled desire. Cid could take him apart bit by bit, make him writhe and beg to be filled until Cid finally took pity on him. Fucking him slow and languid like they have all the time in the world. It’s a nice little fantasy and nothing more than that, for all that Clive deserves better than an old man buggering him with nothing but spit in the middle of the forest.
And Clive’s pretty blue eyes are staring up at Cid like he thinks Cid hung the damn moon, and the vee of his chest is sweat-shiny and heaving. Cid is a very weak man.
With a business-like air, he rolls up his sleeves, brings one hand to his mouth to take his glove off using his teeth. He lets it fall to the ground. Fuck it. “All right, all right, you’ve convinced me.”
Clive scoffs and opens his mouth – Cid takes the opportunity to stick two fingers in his mouth before he undoubtedly says something bratty. He doesn’t need to be told what to do from there, tongue immediately going to work on Cid’s fingers.
“Good boy,” Cid says, voice low and deep. The words make Clive toss his head back against the ground and moan around his fingers. Cid runs his fingertips along the edges of his canines and molars, pets the back of his tongue. “There you go. Get them nice and wet. You want to fuck with spit, we can fuck with spit.”
Cid nudges the back of his throat, watching Clive’s face carefully for any sign of reluctance, but the boy even gags enthusiastically. “Greagor’s gash,” Cid mutters. On his knees, he shuffles forward, crowding Clive further against the ground and letting him rest his raised-up legs on Cid’s biceps. Cid glances down – he can’t quite see his hole at this precise angle, but he can imagine it well enough, hidden behind Clive’s balls and between those perky arsecheeks. Cid aims, then spits. That makes Clive’s thighs jerk. The spit might not hit his entrance, but it’ll trickle down well enough.
Not too long after Cid’s fingers are nice and slobbery, he slips his hand from Clive’s mouth to cop another feel of his ass. Feels almost like the flesh in his palm sears his skin clean off. Dominant of fire, of course. But he can’t waste the spit on exploration. His fingers find Clive’s pucker, already slightly damp with Cid’s spit, and there’s no preamble after that. One finger down to the knuckle. “You were made for this, weren’t you?”
Clive’s back arches and a high-pitched whine leaves the back of his throat. Cid is rougher with the first finger, and gentler with the second. He pauses for additional spit more than once and he’s generous with it. Gentle as Cid tries to be when he goes to add the second finger, his middle, Clive winces at the same time the splay of his legs stretches wider, relishing the burn of it. Meanwhile, Cid’s crooning nonsense at him in his baritone, telling him how beautiful and desperate he looks.
He stretches him as well he can on two fingers, pulling at his rim and scissoring deeper with them in turns. More saliva drips from Cid’s mouth, too. Eventually, Clive starts to squirm and try to push himself back on Cid’s hand, greedy for more.
“There we go.” It’s only as Cid pulls his fingers from Clive that it finally hits him that he’ll be getting to stick his cock in there, too, and the realization nearly dizzies him. Fucking Founder , he must be losing his touch, going soft. “Up with you, hands and knees,” he tells Clive.
Working together, they maneuver Clive into the position. It makes the most sense given the situation, still all but fully dressed and with less-than-ideal physical preparation. The view isn’t bad either, Cid thinks. He takes Clive’s cheeks in his palms and spreads them, making Clive groan and look at Cid over his shoulder.
“Any day now,” Clive says, trying to sound unimpressed. The twitch of his cock where it hangs down between his legs says otherwise.
Well, Cid will teach him to respect his elders. Keeping Clive’s cheeks spread open wide, Cid ducks his head and gives Clive’s entrance a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Clive jolts as though he’s been struck by Ramuh himself – “ Cid, what the fuck,” he moans – and Cid lets out a deep laugh into his hole. He tastes like sweat but more earth than salt, and like just a hint of tobacco from Cid’s own spit. He doesn’t tarry too long, and as he straightens he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he sets to work on his own trousers. It’s a relief when his cock springs free, and Cid watches Clive for his reaction. Cid had to give the lad credit – he didn’t have a hint of nervousness about him; once Clive Rosfield set his sights on something, it was impossible to deter him.
Cid still has to tease. “Do I pass your inspection, Lord Marquess?” He bats his eyelashes at Clive, spits into his own hand, and strokes himself twice in a blatant display of vulgar smugness.
Clive growls. “Will you get in me already? You’re drawing this out like I’ve never done it before.” He rocks backwards a little and lets his head hang down between his shoulders, arching his back as if to look enticing.
Thinking of Clive ass up and begging for it from some faceless Imperial merc makes Cid’s jaw tic. He’s never been the possessive sort – far from it, really – but his grip on Clive’s hips tightens hard enough to bruise as he finally notches his cock at the boy’s hole. Slowly he presses forward, and once the tip of it has been wedged inside him, Clive drops to his elbows.
“Shit, Cid,” he breathes.
Cid continues to push inward. “Now who’s in charge of this operation?” He fights to keep his voice from sounding like his soul is being squeezed out of his prick.
“You are.” Clive forces the words through gritted teeth.
“That’s right, and you’ll take what I give you, slow as I like.” The words are punctuated with a small thrust forward, at odds with what he’s saying. “That’s half,” he tells Clive, who only responds with a grunt of acknowledgement. Cid can’t see his face right now, but he can well imagine it, Clive biting his lower lip and furrowing his brows. Adorable. For his part, Cid’s breathing is finally starting to come harder. He starts to seesaw his hips forward and back, pushing in further and further as he goes until he’s fully sheathed inside the other man.
Without any oil to ease the friction between Clive’s guts and the heavy drag of Cid’s cock, Cid keeps his pace stubbornly slow. It’s difficult to tell how exactly how Clive feels – he’s obviously enjoying himself, what with how he rocks backwards for more – but he’s snarling like a feral thing, too, like he’s in as much pain as pleasure. With his ungloved hand, Cid seeks the other man’s cock, and, well, even if the initial penetration would have likely made Clive’s arousal wane, it sure isn’t waning now. When Cid wraps his fingers around him, hot and hard and big, Clive’s back bows and he chokes on a sudden cry.
“Been wanting to touch yourself, have you?” Cid chuckles, dirty and mean. Clive tilts his head and nods. “Good boy, waiting for me to do it for you.” Clive whines, and fuck if it isn’t the hottest sound Cid’s ever heard in his damn life. It encourages him to thrust a little harder, and Clive, bless him, rewards him with a litany of fuck and yes and please and more .
It’s like stuffing his cock into a fire-hot vice, over and over again, and maybe that shouldn’t feel as good as it does but Cid can’t get enough. He leans down and wraps his bad arm around Clive’s shoulders to pull him off the ground and half-upright, while with the other he stays focused on Clive’s cock. From this position, Clive’s back an elegant curve against black-clad torso, Cid has less leverage for fucking in and out – he reverts to mostly just rolling his hips and grinding inside of him at a filthy and relentless pace. More than once he shifts slightly to experiment with angles, and Cid knows he’s found his target when Clive wails and Cid feels a dribble of spend leak into his palm.
“Yeah, there we are,” Cid says in his ear. Clive moans on every ragged exhale, his noises keeping imperfect rhythm with the stroking of Cid’s hand around him. He’s made enough of a mess of himself already that friction isn’t an issue. “You’re going to look so fucking pretty when I make you come on my cock.” Clive turns his head toward him, and Cid takes the opportunity to capture his lips in another brutal kiss as his hand speeds up, starting to jerk him off in earnest. Yeah , he’s just about done teasing.
Clive’s mouth hangs open, too cockdumb to return Cid’s kiss – not that Cid minds, of course. His face is scrunched and eyes are black and slitted with unadulterated pleasure. He’s close, Cid can tell, and Cid bites down on Clive’s to muffle his own satisfied growl. When Clive was chained up in the dungeon, Cid couldn’t help but think about him like this – helpless, incapable of anything but taking what Cid gives him. The desire had filled him with both lust and shame, given all of the lad’s trauma and his tangled emotions, but fuck if it doesn’t feel right now, with one of Clive’s arms curling around the back of Cid’s neck, clinging to him.
Just like that, Clive comes, in a wordless shout studded with gravel. His cock pulses, and Cid can feel the rest of Clive’s muscles clench, too, his hole included, forcing Cid to spit a series of curses through his teeth. He’s not ready to be finished just yet, but his willpower frays more with every squeeze of Clive’s insides, with the lad panting and moaning through his climax while Cid strokes him through it, only stopping after Clive stops humping his fist, hips twitching away from the stimulation instead of toward it.
When Clive is left all but sagging in Cid’s arms and they’ve both mostly stilled, Cid takes a moment to feel Clive’s heart beating just underneath Cid’s wrist. The other man is still trembling, and Cid pets a rough hand over his flank in a piss poor imitation of tenderness. Then Clive turns his head and rasps against Cid’s bearded cheek.
“I know I shouldn’t presume to instruct a man of your advanced years in the art of fucking, but I don’t think we’re quite finished, are we?”
That pulls a noise between a laugh and a roar from deep within Cid’s chest. With one hand between Clive’s shoulder blades, Cid pushes him back to the ground. Clive is back on his elbows again, and Cid’s nails dig into the vulnerable nape of Clive’s neck for a moment before his fingers crawl further forward to latch themselves into his mess of sweat-damp black hair. The other hand stays where it’s landed, keeping Clive’s hips steady with a firm grip on his sleek waist.
After that, Cid fucks him like a thunderstorm.
Clive has shown what he can take, what he wants Cid to give him, and Founder knows Clive deserves to get something he’s asked for from the world that’s seemed to give him nothing but burdens. Cid’s given him plenty of burdens, too, but at least Clive seems inclined to let him make up for those with this. Cid sets a punishing rhythm and takes satisfaction in the raw sound of flesh slapping flesh. Clive’s peak eased some of the tension from his hole, the all-consuming pressure around Cid’s cock, making it easier for Cid to fuck in and out of him, harder and faster, using Clive like a cocksleeve and chasing his own pleasure, grunting like a beast in rut.
A better man would be polite about it, pull himself out and spill on the ground. But Cid is not a better man, he’s a selfish one, letting himself have this to begin with at all. Though Clive doesn’t seem to mind, all but spent and still shoving his hips back against Cid like he’ll die if Cid pulls out, despite the endless hitching of his breath that’s halfway to sobbing. So Cid allows himself the indulgence of coming inside that tight heat, filling and claiming the other beneath him.
Time loses meaning for awhile after that. Cid struggles to catch his breath, and as the rush of his climax ebbs, his grip on the other man loosens and he sits back on his heels, sliding from the clutch of Clive’s body with a slight squelch. For a few seconds, he lets himself look his fill of Clive’s hole – puffy and red-rimmed and shiny with the hint of spend. It’s then that Clive’s knees finally give out. He’s not been rendered entirely useless, however – he manages to roll onto his back and starts to pull his leathers back up with a grunt. He’ll be tending to his own laundry later, unless Clive wants to let the entire Hideaway know that Cid has had him.
Deprived of his lovely view, Cid craves a smoke. It’s only the promise of a sweet cigar between his lips encouraging him to clamber his feet and tuck his cock away. He can feel the weight of Clive’s eyes on him. The aftermath is one part of fucking that has never been Cid’s specialty. For years now, he’s stuck with nothing weightier than a charming goodbye. But he’s not entirely incapable of manners, either, so he reaches down and offers Clive a hand. “All right then, let’s get a move on before Otto sends someone out to collect us.” No, there won’t be any goodbyes here. When Clive takes Cid’s hand, Cid can see fresh dirt under the other man’s fingernails.
Clive winces as he lets Cid heave him to his feet, but once standing and walking appear to be doable, they let go of each other to gather the few items of gear they’d removed in their frenzy – swordbelts and weapons and gauntlets, a single black leather glove.
Cid’s heartbeat is almost back to normal. He plucks a cigar from his pack and gestures at Clive. Why bother fussing with that finicky crystal when he can ruffle Clive’s pretty feathers instead. “Mind if I get a light, sweetheart?”
Clive’s jaw clenches, though Cid can’t quite tell if he’s holding back a laugh or a grimace. Then his expression shifts to something even harder for Cid to read, and he reaches out and grabs Cid’s forearm, where he’d left his sleeves rolled up. His grip on Cid’s skin is iron straight from the forge as he pulls Cid’s limb closer for scrutiny.
For all that Cid insists the curse isn’t a sign of weakness, he doesn’t exactly go flaunting it around either. There are appearances to keep up, after all, and no one wants to think of their leader with one stone foot in the grave, metaphorically speaking. But if Cid wants Clive to wear the mantle one day, then well, he supposes he can allow him this.
Piercing blue eyes flick up to Cid’s face like Clive’s looking for something in it – though whatever it is and whether he finds it, Cid hasn’t a clue. The feeling of Clive’s skin on his, hot to the touch, goes dead when the other man traces his fingers along encroaching planes of gray.
“Now don’t go getting sappy on me now after a good fuck, Clive,” Cid says. He pitches his voice low and soft, aiming for an air of understanding and patience. Ever the kindly mentor. After all, he’s doing the lad a kindness by refusing to indulge this sort of sentiment. Gently, he tugs against Clive’s hold on him, and Clive lets his arm go.
To Cid’s immense relief, he finally relents and lights the end of his cigar, too, with a brush of his index and middle fingers. Cid inhales and feels suffused with warmth that has his shoulders relaxing, though he hadn’t even realized they were tense to begin with. When he exhales, he turns his head to avoid blowing smoke in Clive’s face, and when he turns back and looks at him, Clive inclines his head.
“You’ve got blood on your face,” he says to Cid.
“Do I? So do you.” In the fever of their fucking, the blood they’d been covered in had smeared and streaked across skin and clothes and began to dry like that. Just from looking at them, an outsider might assume the pair had ravaged each other.
“I’ll draw an actual hot bath for us when we get back to the Hideaway.” As the words leave his mouth, somehow the lad gets the jump on Cid. Out of what feels like nowhere, Clive is leaning his head in and pressing a kiss to the corner of Cid’s mouth.
Cid does not blush.
“I know what you’re doing, Cid,” Clive says. “You can’t pull the wool over my eyes like I’m some stripling boy, no matter what you think of me. You think you’ll put me at arms length after this, that we shouldn’t go getting attached like this for whatever tragic narrative you’ve already assigned yourself in your own head.” This time it’s a kiss pressed to his cheek. “And I already know it’s not worth arguing with you about it.”
With that, Clive strides along past him. Cid keeps pace as he begins to follow Clive back through the long, roundabout path back to the crystal that will take them back home to the Hideaway. Looks like he’s following Clive’s lead for now, whether he likes it or not.