XIV Rarepair Week Day 1: Meet Cute
"It'd be easier with two, you know."
"...It's a deal then, sinner."
Getting around to uplading my Rarepair Week screenshots from twitter! Granson and Cerigg came to mind first, and for a pair of hunters, bonding over taking down a mark is probably a Meet Cute, right?
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Febuwhump Day 1 - Touchstarved
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV
Characters/Relationships: Warrior of Light & Granson of the Mournful Blade
Content/trigger warnings: None
Moro'a struggled to keep Granson from tumbling face first towards the floorboards, the hyur's larger body draped over his shoulders like a leaden rug. "Gods, you– steady now. We're almost there," he hissed through gritted teeth, inching along the corridor.
He prayed none of the Scions were awake or around to witness this latest mess. That Granson had neglected to bring up the absence of any sort of alcohol tolerance on his part had been irresponsible, reckless, and yet completely in line with how the man often behaved till now. Too busy grieving to have bothered. Likely tempted it, even, a quieter voice whispered in Moro’a’s mind.
Somehow he fitted the worn key to his room through the keyhole, and with one last, wild burst of determination he hauled and deposited Granson onto the bed. Sitting down beside his prone form with an exhausted huff, Moro’a focused on catching his breath, only for it to hitch a second later as fingertips brushed against his wrist, calloused and heated.
“Mm...Moro'a?" Granson slurred – he spoke with distance, his voice clouded by an inebriated haze, yet it was a voice that burned. "Stay with…" As the hyur's hand advanced a little further up his arm, Moro'a was rooted in place, staring at Granson’s hand like it would set him on fire. For all the conflicted emotions that ran through him now, it might as well have.
“Granson–
“Milly forgive me I…” Moro’a could barely parse the rest of Granson’s rambling, but without warning he was up on his elbows, dragging himself forward till he’d collapsed into the Keeper’s lap. Everything about him was too immediate and far too real – the warm breath on his thigh, the white and teal tips of hair that tickled his abdomen, the weight of him.
Granson tensed, then; Moro’a feared he would start heaving, or worse, break down even further. His answer was a choked sob that rattled through his entire frame, and before Moro’a could blink he found himself reaching out towards Granson, awkwardly patting the crown of his head. His other hand situated itself on the man’s back, smoothing over the creases in his coat.
What am I doing? “It’s alright,” he said softly, wondering if Granson could even hear him. A moment later the man sobbed again, curling up against Moro’a in an attempt to fit into his lap. I shouldn’t be doing this, should I? “It’s alright, Granson, I…I’m here.”
Granson seemed too wretched for talk, and so Moro’a wordlessly continued to stroke his back, fingers ruffling lightly through Granson’s hair as he whispered whatever words of comfort came to him. He was becoming increasingly aware of a vast emptiness in himself, surfacing from a primal place, and a twinge of anxiety ran through his spine as he recognised it for what it was. It grew from his chest, seeping outwards until it enveloped the whole of his body, threatening to unmake him. Touch without feeling. Feeling without touch.
Granson’s weight seemed to – no, it was anchoring him in place, holding the emptiness at bay. But the sensation was threadbare, and Moro’a was seized with a yearning for more: to draw Granson firmly into his arms and tuck his head under his chin, for the hyur to fold him tightly into his chest, the dip of his neck, the curves of his palms. Touch would melt all of Granson’s problems away, said the yearning, and it would melt away yours as well.
Just like…
Don’t. Don’t you dare. With a deep, shuddering breath, Moro’a forcibly shook off the feeling. It sloughed off of him painfully and reluctantly, leaving behind a dull ache. He couldn’t give Granson a promise he could not keep; there was far too much at stake for a broken heart only just beginning to mend.
For a mercy, the slow, heavy breaths emanating from Moro’a’s lap told him that Granson had finally exhausted himself into sleep, and so as gently as he could Moro’a hooked his arms underneath him, shifting and turning in place till he’d gotten him onto the bed proper. He couldn’t risk pulling out the blanket without waking him, so Moro’a pulled out a spare from one of the large cabinets, draping it over Granson and loosely tucking in the sides.
He could lie on the bench or the floor if he really wanted, but Moro’a carried over a chair from the dining table instead, seating himself by the bedside. The emptiness hadn’t completely left him, penance for his abandonment; the Keeper steeled himself for what was certain to be a long and onerous vigil.
Granson did not stir, not when the lanterns turned off to illuminate them in darkness, nor when the dawn crept in, keeping the Warrior of Darkness some small company.
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