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As Cid busied himself preparing for bed, he basked in the clarity of his thought.
It was not often that he enjoyed the quiet. Some nagging task or bolt of inspiration would enable his famously busy hands and dangerous focus at his desk until the candle grew short enough to be snuffed by its own wax. There was always something to be done in every corner of the Hideaway and Cid considered nothing beneath him. On days he was not wrist-deep in machinery he might have been looking over the expansion plans for the bunks or sharing tea with Tomes to brainstorm the best manner to harness energy for his and Mid’s growing enterprise. Cid was a man who did not sit still and nor was his daughter.
Nor his lover, and yet Cid’s focus was commanded by the presence flooding the room.
Two pairs of boots were lined up at the door. An empty cup of tea had been forgotten upon the bookshelf. Cid padded from the exposed western wall of the bedroom to their dresser, noting the silence of the walkway. He stripped his belt from his trousers and untucked his oil-stained shirt. It was a chilly evening and still Cid hauled it gracelessly over his head. The cool air was pleasant until it sharpened, and Cid made quicker work of his trousers, skin prickling with the weight of Clive’s gaze.
Once the fabric was bundled in a way that he would regret when he overslept the next morning and found his clothes creased, he turned back and found Clive had emerged from the twisted sheets and furs. There was a nest of inky black hair and heavy-lidded eyes – enough to arrest him even without the length of his naked back, the muscles loose and inviting.
After all these years Cid’s mouth still ran dry. Never once had Cid considered the possibility of angels and yet one had fallen directly into his den. Even more remarkable was the angel’s own endless appetite for lesser beings, wed with satisfaction – his eyes devoured every inch of Cid’s bared skin.
“Hah,” Cid said thickly and dumped his clothes to be forgotten upon their breakfast table. “Enjoying yourself?”
Clive’s eyes made no effort to find his face. They rose no higher than his chest and no lower than his thighs. “Yes.”
The hour was late and his bones weary. Still, temptation was temptation, and Cid strode past his tools and papers to slide beneath the warm sheets and against Clive’s welcoming body.
It had been some time since Cid had last truly been at peace. Having his daughter safely home from Kanver was one less terror to visit him in the dead of night, the lord Rosfield’s generosity with their coffers a blessing - but having Clive whole and safe within his reach loosened the ache within his chest. It unburdened his lungs and permitted his heart to hope. It was remarkable what the steady rise and fall of Clive’s chest could inspire.
“A finer sight than all that Dalamil sand, I hope,” he said aimlessly as he adjusted to the plush mattress. It was newly brought. Cid’s back was not what it once was and Torgal’s scrabbling claws had done undue damage to the last.
Though his words were utter nonsense Clive remained forgiving. Cid would be sure to weave the requirement within their wedding vows when the time came. “A finer sight than any other,” he promised and inched closer, his wandering arms as unavoidable as a morbol’s tentacles. They slipped around Cid’s waist and tugged him in until Cid rest his unafflicted arm against that lovely back.
Clive’s skin still carried the heat of Dalamil and the scent of the river – fresh salt like sweat and Cid basked in the infatuation each of his senses had with Clive. Most insistent was taste and he leaned in to steal a kiss that told him that Clive had been rummaging through his tea bags. Clive’s rumble of contentment carried from his chest to Cid’s own and Cid lingered, ever in thrall. Their noses brushed as their foreheads met, breath intertwined.
Cid matched him beat for beat. A mind unobscured and a heart perfectly at peace. A decade ago, Cid would have doubted such a pleasure were possible. There had been too much lost. “It’s good to have you home,” he breathed. “Even better to have you in bed.”
Peering with heavy eyes, like that of a sunbathing wolf, Clive’s own delight was evident. Telling too was the gentle caress of his hand against Cid’s flank, one that left gooseflesh across his skin. “I missed you,” Clive admitted. “And all of the Hideaway, of course, but… it’s nice to see friendly faces and spend the night in a familiar bed.”
“Without your uncle’s snoring, too.”
Clive’s smile could have charmed Metia down from her lofty perch. “As if yours is an improvement.”
It was an easy thing to consider pinching his cheek, but the nights had been so very long without him that Cid permitted him one transgression. He pulled a face instead and kissed the curved corner of his mouth, beard scratching against his own. Clive’s jaw was heavy with shadow, and it suited him though it aged him by perhaps half a decade. Beautiful, nonetheless. A blessing to see him wear his years, and Cid succumbed to longing all to kiss him again.
Regretfully, whenever Clive returned home from an extensive trip Cid would have a hell of a job on his hands shepherding. Torgal was his accomplice and the long victorious howl calling across Bennumere would inform him of the coming struggle. All tasks would be swiftly forgotten and Cid would wait with their daughter at the boarding dock, unable to contain their exhilaration. It was the only way to ensure Clive would not immediately scurry for the mess to take stock of the Hideaway’s need, from persistent beasts back upon the mainland or Gaute’s clumsy numbers. Such was his worst habit. It was remarkably easy for the man to avoid those who simply wanted to care for him, and so they had learned to bring the fight to where he alighted, cutting him off at the pass before he could hide under the shadow of the balcony.
This afternoon gave them the pleasure. Though his shoulders were slumped and his face whipped half raw by sand, Clive wore a brilliant smile for them. With one step onto the boards he had almost been knocked back into the skiff by Mid’s embrace – Cid had fisted her shirt and his cloak to haul them safely aboard, permitted them a loving moment, and then dragged Clive promptly up to Tarja for inspection.
Almost entirely untouched, she was pleased to report, and Cid was satisfied with Clive downing a meal of fish and bread alongside an ale pressed into his hand by Gav. Most of the Hideaway was content to leave Clive in peace as he ate, flanked by family as Jill arrived, and would only greet him proper after Cid had ensured Clive had slept well.
Their routine was well-kept and respected. While Clive looked after them all, they ensured there was space for his family to care for him, in turn, and Cid would not let him leave this bed until dawn at earliest.
Such was his duty and Cid delighted in Clive’s hastily softening expression. A good meal and sweet kiss could be more persuasive than any god’s favour. Cid knew the allure well.
Unfortunately, Clive waged war against his body and proved himself ever single-minded. He rubbed at his eyes to fend off the call of slumber. “How have things been here?”
Exasperated, Cid blew hot air in Clive’s face. His hair billowed and his nose furrowed but he breathed no word of complaint. “Go to sleep,” Cid commanded.
“It’s early yet.”
The stars shifting in the deep velvet sky beyond their walls named him liar. “Ah, sweetheart. You’d been so well behaved, sitting through Tarja’s questions and eating your dinner without a fuss.”
Clive’s eyes rivalled the stars still. “Am I not due a reward, then?”
As loathe as he might have been to admit it there was some logic in the cheek. Cid eyed him as he weighed up both risk and reward, and no doubt that was his undoing. Clive smiled, and the sight tugged on Cid’s tender heartstrings.
“Aye, alright,” he grunted and did his best to ignore the smug glimmer of victory in Clive’s gaze. Instead he wracked his brain as he resisted the call of Clive’s sweet mouth. “Not much to speak of, to be honest. Helena’s name day, as you knew before you left. Tett had a chesty cough which hung about but all’s clear now. Mid’s schemes haven’t burnt anything down - yet at least. Vivian’s keeping the classes busy, Tomes holding us all together, as usual… naught much else,” he murmured, sweeping through the events of the past week. Busy days, as were they all, but to carry the burden of potential was no burden at all. “Your uncle made short work of Otto’s financial woes, though. Gaute’s sticking his neb in trying to undo the blessing, of course.”
Curious, Clive peered at him. His palm flattened against the bountiful scarring upon Cid’s chest. Though he could not feel the warmth, Cid took comfort in the unflinching touch. “You speak often of my uncle,” he mused. “Perhaps older men are more your type, after all?
The thought was laughable, and Cid did indeed, a few throaty chuckles that made Clive smile. “Suppose you’d know all about that.”
There was a wryness to Clive’s grin. There was enough blue remaining to twinkle with mischief. “Changing the subject, I see.”
Cid settled his hand over Clive’s and held his fingers closer. Every scar across his knuckles was intimately familiar. It was remarkable how Cid could miss the smaller things with such intensity. “You’re the only Rosfield for me, love.”
Newly pleased, Clive let himself lounge further, free as any wild creature and fluid as water, soaking up the devotion well deserved. “Good,” he said. “Now mind how your thoughts wander.”
Cid could not recall a time his thoughts were so faithful. Focused on the dip of Clive’s throat and the rich sound of his groan as he rolled to lay upon his back, spread wide against the mattress. It would be a blessing to see him dream tonight. It would be a pleasure to hear his snores. Clive scratched lazily at his cheek and looked sparingly towards the stars through the exposed wall, sating a passing curiosity – they had time enough, Cid thought to say. Whatever it was that Clive desired, they had time enough.
Though Clive’s hand had not parted from his chest Cid longed for more. He surged forward like an insistent child looking for favour. Beneath his hands Clive’s body was a hearth and, enthralled by it, Cid was half a mind to offer a thousand things – a fresh cup of tea to wet his throat or perhaps a lengthy massage to ease the aches of travel. Whatever Cid’s steady hands could provide, he would give without hesitation.
A hand found itself in Cid’s hair. It was cropped a little shorter than he usually liked as the summer became early autumn and he hummed as his nails massaged his scalp. Gentle pleasure radiated from his head to his shoulders, light pulses of warmth. In turn, Cid stroked along the defining lines of Clive’s abdomen, muscles cushioned with a light layer of fat.
An impulse asked for him to lay his head upon Clive’s chest. At some point through the night Cid would certainly indulge it. For now, he rest upon his pillow as if he was a man in full control of his longing, all to watch Clive’s expression soften with sleep.
It would be a while longer. There was the softest pull to his mouth as the distractions faded. A hook of a thought still snagged, and Clive allowed himself be dragged along, the slightest suggestion of a frown deepening into something more dire. All the while his hand within Cid’s hair never faltered.
Curious, Cid sought the rhythm of Clive’s heartbeat with his other, wandering hand. It proved itself a steady, firm thump. With each beat Cid knew deeper peace. “What is it, love?”
Beneath his hand Clive’s chest rose with his inhale and sank slowly with his exhale. Dark brows knit close. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Cid replied firmly. “There something wrong?”
Rubbing at his temple, Clive sought to school his expression. “Nothing within my control,” he admitted. A point of pride – they had made good progress together in identifying what concerns were beyond their grasp and laying them aside. Cid would be happier when Clive managed to push them out and keep them there. “I may as well put it out of my head, but…”
There was no sense in denying himself any longer. Cid ambled closer, mattress sinking as he came to lay his head upon Clive’s shoulder. “A problem shared is a problem halved.”
Beneath his cheek Clive’s body shook. His laughter was hoarse. “You know that’s not true, Cid. Half the things you admit to Otto get worse.”
“Has it ever not been true for us?”
It gave Clive pause. His mouth twisted with a little mirth, and he sighed. “I’m just wondering if my uncle made it to his destination safely.”
Now who’s bringing up your uncle, he thought, and yet skilfully resisted the impulse. “Sure he’s fine, lad. Quite an axe he had on him.” Cid remembered the implicit threat of it at their first introduction, lain across his breakfast table. You’re the one who waylaid my boy. “And his endless charm, of course.”
No doubt Clive recalled the same memory. Clive’s laughter came a little softer, sweeter. “Yes, but… Dalamil was thick with Men of the Rock, and I worry for him.”
“O’ course you do, because you love the old sod,” Cid said firmly, and reluctant as he may have been to compliment a man who looked at him with little more than contempt, he knew that he loved his nephew just as fiercely as all within the Hideaway. For Cid that would be enough. “And I’m sure he’s just as worried for you. Listen – take the stolas tomorrow. Write him. It’ll do you both the world of good.”
Beneath his hand a little of Clive’s tension began to melt away. “Yes, yes,” he said, and touched his own temple as if to banish his headache. “You’re right. Thank you.”
As Mid had long ago taught her father, promises and thank you’s were sealed with a kiss. Tilting upward, he laid something messy against the corner of Clive’s mouth. It softened with reassurance and the scruff of Cid’s beard.
If the scruff bothered him when Cid returned to lay upon Clive’s chest, he said nothing. The curls of his own light chest hair tickled Cid’s temple. Still, he sighed with satisfaction – the comforting drumbeat of Clive’s heart would see him safely to sleep. The lapping of the lake could not console him the way the sound of Clive’s life could. A reassurance as steady as the rays of the summer sun.
Nights like these were rare. The Hideaway slumbered well. Not a raised voice nor stirring hound, and Cid soaked up these precious minutes. Closing his eyes, he exhaled the last of his anxiety and focused on the thump thump thump that lie so sweetly within his own.
“You know, he tried to call me west,” Clive murmured into the calm night air. “To reclaim Rosilith for our family.”
A calamitous feeling wracked his chest in a cruel rush.
Somehow his heart both rose to his throat and plunged into the depths of his belly. It skipped a handful of beats, falling out of tandem, and left Cid breathless. He looked up and Clive stared at the ceiling, expression thoughtful. Gazing, perhaps, into a dream that appeared to Cid as a nightmare.
For some time, he was incapable of speech. All his life he had been so clever with words – quick to charm, to inspire laughter, and tonight every wit died before they could fall from his tongue. “Quite the proposal,” he barely managed and too late at that, only just able to scrape himself together. “I imagine you said aye. You’d be a fool not to.”
Clive’s laughter remained sweet through the dread. “You’ve seen me act the fool countless times, have you not?”
A precious fool. A diamond swept up from the murky depths, and Cid had long loved him. Certainly longer than he cared to admit and the thought of seeing his cloak turned in the wind was enough to gut him. It may have been greed that filled his hands with love, but Cid privately knew that he had grown complacent. Years of kisses goodnight and breaking warm bread together had lulled him. Forever, he had told himself, despite knowing full well there was no such thing in life. When their work was done every dawn and dusk would be forgotten. Clive’s gaze would rightfully turn elsewhere. Better, more beautiful things.
Though he may have been mindful of armies and borders Cid had almost forgotten the mechanics of politics. Of course, Byron would want the Rosfield line restored. Of course, he would need young blood to ensure their dynasty. Clive may have thrown his lot in with outlaws in his hour of greatest need, but his heart was true. Though his people turned away from him, he loved Rosaria still. Should he be given a chance to steady her course he would surely take it. A finer Archduke there would never be.
There was no room for an old outlaw in such a grand renewal. Cid did not suit finer things and perhaps never had. That much has been made clear when they had stayed the night at Byron’s manor some weeks past - Rutherford’s eyes had lingered as dinner had been served with Cid and Clive side by side, and his brow furrowed when Clive bade Jill a good night and sequestered himself with Cid instead. The picture did not suit the frame. It wasn’t the stories of chivalry and destiny.
It was Cid’s fault, to be true. Heartsickness would claim him in the very end. Cid had forgotten himself and grown too fond of that smile.
Swallowing his misery, he turned his head and took one long, deep inhale of Clive’s hair. It carried his travels well. He would miss this as surely as the use of his arm. “You’ll be with us a while yet, I hope,” he croaked.
It earned him a sharp look. “Really, Cidolfus?”
“What?”
“Don’t you think this is childish?”
Perhaps so, though Cid would not carry that impulse alone. Clive was tempted by fits of pique as any other man. “Isn’t it like the stories,” he tried, and knew he ought to return to his pillow. The thought was too dour to consider any further. “A lost son and heir welcomed home as a hero. A beloved ruler. A long and happy reign. Something for the bards to croon.”
“I was never the rightful heir,” Clive parried. “And in the eyes of the public I would be no hero – you know that well. There is only ash in Rosilith, and too much time past. We live in a different world.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, flat – sobered, and Clive’s eyes narrowed.
“Do I,” he said, and it was quiet for a long while. Far beneath them was the lull of water.
Clive’s chest was wondrously warm. It was wrong to sit up, but Cid did, studied by dark eyes all the while. He exhaled with all his charm and endless words gutted. The water was surely pitch black. His evening’s ale was no longer comforting upon his tongue.
Clive spoke first in the silence. “This has been bothering you for quite some time.”
It had been a series of thorns deep within the skin for longer than Cid cared to confess. Rutherford’s eyes were so heavy. Cid had not slept well that night – he had left Clive in bed and sat upon the balcony, watching the sea glow in the moonlight. In the morning he had busied himself with preparing their chocobos rather than sit for breakfast, and he barely touched what Jill had kindly brought him for their journey. It was easy to push it all aside when they were home – plenty to do, always – but occasionally in the dead of night the thorns dug deeper.
All these years of thinking he had bettered himself, of handing his loved ones the tools to decide their own fates, and here he was – distracting Clive from a happy, fulfilling life in comfort.
“My staining your good name has been bothering me, aye,” he murmured.
Clive’s laughter carried a sour note. “What name,” he asked, almost exasperated. “To all Valisthea my story ended in the cinders of Phoenix Gate – and my life is here. My heart, and my soul – they are in these very boards, Cid. I won’t leave. Even should you send me away, I would love you still, and return, in time. Through any storm.”
Such stubbornness was almost unparalleled. A thick head had never been so handsome. “Sometimes I wonder if you even know what’s good for you.”
“And I wonder the same for yourself,” he shot back. “I come home tired from Kupka’s arrogance and wanting nothing more than the other half of me, which I thought you would want, too - and you imply I would be better off a hundred miles away.”
Heat prickled high on Cid’s cheeks. “You know I don’t imply anything.”
“Then tell me plain. Tell me I should leave. Tell me to go and never return.”
It didn’t bear imagining. Had he been strong enough, the words would surely stick and erode on his disloyal tongue. Such a cruel man he could be – Clive had been half asleep already and Cid had kept him from all manner of peace. Clive gazed at him, expression firm in a way that Cid knew would be deliberate. If not firm, it would falter, and Clive was not a man who bowed with ease.
Cid burnt all the hotter from shame. “Clive…”
For a second that firm expression slipped – equal part hope and dread deep set in the blue, and Clive reached for him. Cid’s cheek fit so perfectly within his palm. It took all his strength not to lean in and close his eyes. In that instant he could almost convince himself that they were meant to be. “Cease this madness,” he said softly. “You are mine, as I am yours. There’s no changing that. Unless…” the hope flickered out as soon as it had come. “You mean more with all this talk of going home. Are you unhappy?”
Outrage flared inside of him. The very notion was offensive. “Of course I’m happy,” he said and crowded forward, hand coming to rest upon Clive’s. “Never doubt that!”
Clive’s expression did not change. “I want honesty, Cid.”
If Cid could have plunged into his chest and presented his tired old heart as truth, he would have. It strained to be free from his chest. “I love you,” he urged, “I do. I just want what’s best for you, sweetheart. This… we both know this is a hard life. If you have a chance to be happy – and truly happy, at that - I want you to take it.”
“I am happiest here,” he said bluntly. “If you truly want me to be, you’d allow me to stay.”
A remarkable thing. “I don’t think a man alive has ever allowed you to do a damn thing,” Cid wheezed.
When Clive smiled, some of the dread died. There were little crinkles of crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes and smile lines that had not been there when they had first met. Hard earned signs of age made him beautiful beyond words. “Now that is the truth,” he said, and his thumb rubbed along the hollow of Cid’s eye.
Cid loved these hands. Capable of unspeakable wrath and aching tenderness. Warmer than any hearth. He tilted into them, eyes heavy. They breathed together a long while – just two men safely abed, the matter of birth and inheritance forgotten. Cid exhaled all fear until he was pliant. Clive would do what he willed, and Cid could never be forgotten.
Surrender earned him a kiss between his brows. “No more talk,” he whispered. “Stay close to me.”
“Aye,” Cid scarcely managed, and Clive took swift advantage of his parted lips. A firm kiss sealed their promise. “I’m sorry, Clive – I hadn’t meant to… I just don’t want you to be unhappy.”
Their noses nudged. Salt filled Cid’s senses. It came in the tide of the river, the exertion of Clive’s sweat. Cid’s tongue wanted more. “Trust in me to know what I want.”
He nodded, close to feverish. “Aye,” he said again and his arms reached out. In heritance and expectation lie forgotten at their feet. There was only Clive’s unkempt hair and the comfort of his mouth. “I swear to you, I will. I love you.”
Ever euphoric to be touched, to be held, Clive shifted to settle in Cid’s arms. The lad was no shrinking violet but Cid made certain he lay comfortable. Clive tilted his head against his chest, crown against his chin. A satisfied sigh billowed against Cid’s collarbones.
Promises and thank you’s sealed with a kiss, and Cid’s mouth lingered against his hair. Clive smelt like beautiful sunshine. “There’s always a place for you here. In my arms. In my heart.”
Clive smiled against his skin. His own arm made itself comfortable around Cid’s waist, flat against his flank. His skin carried sunshine, too – it embedded itself where Clive’s heart lazily beat, as natural as anything. Unable to bear it, Cid held him closer.
Their hearts nestled. They sought one another, as they always would. As Clive sank into pure peace of mind and his breath slowed Cid let his hand stroke along his hair, the nape of his neck. It rest there, thumb against his pulse. It was carefree once more.
“Love you,” Clive mumbled, barely awake still, and Cid kissed him again and again until dawn.