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amaurotine-daydreaming · 1 year ago

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XXV. Call It A Day

Sanson glanced up. The knocking came again, squarely on his door, and he begrudgingly got up and opened it.

Heavens help him, it was Guydelot.

As beautiful as the open skies of The Sea of Clouds were, Sanson was thoroughly relieved when at last the airship touched down in the embrace of the Twelveswood. He was well and truly exhausted since the encounter with the siren–to say nothing of the emotional adrenaline of having Guydelot suddenly reappear as if they had never parted on bad terms, an easy smirk on his face and the heavens in his voice.

Sanson was looking forward to dragging himself home–the full report, he decided, could wait until tomorrow when both himself and the hour were more presentable–but no sooner had they set foot in Gridania when Guydelot suggested a celebratory drink. Mogta beside him clamored for the same, and the Warrior wasn’t opposed. And so it was that their little fellowship sat down at a table at the Carline Canopy and ordered a round.

They stayed there for a time, recalling the length and breadth of their adventure. Mogta ultimately folded first, saying he would find a nice tree to slumber in and then visit his fellow moogles in the Twelveswood the following morning. The Warrior bid them good night not long after.

With his audience apparently now lacking, Guydelot had then migrated a few tables away to where a large group of adventurers sat carousing. He was now several songs into embellishing their tales, and earning toasts and cheers of approval after every one.

Which left Sanson alone at their table.

Bloody bards and their constant need to be at the center of things, Sanson thought. Twelve forbid he had started to enjoy Guydelot’s company, and that he had been looking forward to sitting alone with him for a time until sleep had forced him to say good night. There had been a few things he had hoped they would say to one another….

At first Sanson thought he might wait it out, and made his next order a cup of tea instead of another mead. He sat there for a time, reviewing his journal entries and nursing his drink as well as his pride, glancing over at Guydelot’s table every now and again.

Unfortunately, it seemed the adventurers were in no hurry to call it a night, and Guydelot was still deep in conversation and verse and the attentions of his newest admirers. Over the chatter, the occasional chord from his harp threaded its way over to Sanson. Sanson oft felt swept up in Guydelot’s skill with song, even when he wove lyrics designed to aggravate him, but right now it was just plain distracting. For some reason, each and every note needled him.

Sanson stood abruptly. Sod it. He was calling it a day. He settled the tab–some of which was Guydelot’s, but to hells with it–and trudged upstairs.

It was only when he was midway through unlocking the door to his room that he thought, What in the Matron’s name am I doing?

He had residency in Gridania, for gods’ sake! He didn’t need to be staying at The Roost. He groaned at his own idiocy. All that traveling had habituated him to seeking temporary lodgings, and he was so exhausted and irritated at Guydelot that he had arranged for himself a room without bloody thinking.

Sanson stood there for a minute, head bowed, hand on the doorknob. He could go back downstairs and make a fool of himself–admit that he didn’t need a room, get his gil back, and head for his actual residence. But it would be embarrassing, and Guydelot would be sure to take notice and have a jab at his expense—

Sod it twice over. He would stay here for the night, and Guydelot could do whatever he damn well pleased with the rest of the evening.

Sanson hung up his lance, pulled out a chair by the small desk, and began to unlace his boots. A coeurl couldn’t change their spots, he thought with some resignation. Yet a part of him wasn’t ready to believe that the battle with the siren was just an intermission in his and Guydelot’s otherwise fraught relationship, rather than a true turning point.

Sanson had just finished pulling off his thighboots when he heard three sharp, rhythmic taps. He glanced up at the door and tilted his head, unsure of whether he had misplaced the sound. But then the knocking came again, squarely on his door, and he begrudgingly got up and opened it.

Heavens help him, it was Guydelot.

“Yes, Guydelot?” Sanson grated. “I thought you were busy basking in the attentions of the fairer sex.”

Guydelot tsked and leaned against the door frame. “Back to being stiff as a board already, are you?”

Sanson pinched the bridge of his nose. Gods, and he had already been on the verge of a headache.

Guydelot cocked his head lazily. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Sanson looked up at him sharply. But Guydelot just stood there, making slow, catlike blinks, until Sanson wordlessly opened the door wider and stepped aside, gesturing him through.

“I was about to retire for the evening,” he told Guydelot pointedly, closing the door behind him.

Guydelot smoothly sat down in the chair Sanson had vacated, harp in hand. Sanson sighed. If Guydelot had suddenly been captured by his muse, Twelve only knew how long he’d be here for. Maybe he could head him off before he got too comfortable.

“What do you want, Guydelot.”

Guydelot held up a finger for silence. His hand then lowered to the strings. One, two, three heartbeats of silence, then his fingers began to dance, the tune they conjured airy and soft. An instrumental, soothing enough to lull a listener into relaxation or even sleep.

But Sanson could certainly not relax, let alone sleep, until he had managed to usher Guydelot back out of his room. And so he sank back against the door and gazed toward the ceiling, battling equally his exasperation and the mesmerizing tug of the melody.

Guydelot began to sing.

“An Adder’s eyes of ocean blue ♪ With songs sung in their depths ♪ And yet - a pity - he cannot tell ♪ When love has come at love’s behest. ♪”

Sanson started. His gaze dropped down to stare at Guydelot, who for the moment seemed wholly focused on his playing.

“His boon companion sought his gaze ♪ No stirring in his breast ♪ As when those eyes of ocean-hue ♪ On him did chance to rest. ♪”

Sanson could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “Guydelot,” he finally managed, “what in the seven hells are you on about.”

“No contest to be had by maidens fair ♪ No contest to be had by any there…. ♪”

Guydelot simply looked at him then, his eyes hooded as his fingers glided along the strings. Sanson’s heart crawled into his throat.

“For since the end of siren’s song ♪ A desire mutual, all along. ♪”

The verse ended and the melody drifted to a close. Sanson felt like he was trying to catch his breath. His hands curled. “You…then–”

Guydelot’s lips curled into a smirk.

Sanson strode over and grabbed Guydelot by the collar, standing astride his chair and leaning down so they were practically nose to nose.

“All along?” Sanson’s thoughts were buzzing so frantically in his head that he could hardly make sense of them. “Then stop teasing me, you arse!”

The eagerness with which Guydelot set aside his harp was all Sanson needed.

The messy, glorious collision of their lips and tongues was, like everything else that Guydelot caught him up in, exhilarating and breathtaking and all too easily spun out of Sanson’s control. He inhaled raggedly through his nose and sank into Guydelot’s lap, burying a hand in Guydelot’s hair to anchor himself.

“Gods,” Sanson said when they parted, his breath hitching as Guydelot began kissing up his neck. “Gods, Guydelot. I thought–...And, Matron preserve, you scared me when you didn’t come back after Tailfeather. I thought I had ruined things between us for good–”

“You thought you had ruined things,” Guydelot muttered against his throat, and it bobbed as Sanson swallowed down his emotion. “I was the bloody fool, misjudging you the way I did, turning my back on you–I couldn’t well face you afterward–” He pulled back and tugged on a handful of the strands of hair framing Sanson’s face, bringing him back in and slanting their lips together once more.

“I waited for you,” Sanson said against his mouth, one hand still fisting his collar. “At Tailfeather, at Sohm Al, Moghome–”

Guydelot’s hands moved to curl around Sanson’s hips. “Aye, I know.”

Sanson pulled back and stared at him, surprised. Guydelot shrugged loosely.

“I wasn’t far behind. I said I couldn’t face you, not that I couldn’t stand to be near you, even if you can be bloody obnoxious sometimes–”

“Hah, speak for yourself,” replied Sanson, breathlessly. “You can be a right pain in the arse, Guydelot, but gods know there was no hope for me since that noble act you did with the nameday present—” he kissed Guydelot again, “—and doubly so when your heavens-sent voice and song came out of nowhere to save us from the siren.”

“Hmph,” Guydelot said, smiling. He drew a hand to Sanson’s nape and pressed deep against the muscle and tissue, massaging there. Sanson melted against him with a relieved sigh.

“Finally, Sanson the Stiff relaxes,” Guydelot said. “Well,” he shifted his hips pointedly, “most of him, anyway.”

Sanson lightly thumped his shoulder. “Bastard,” he mumbled. Guydelot snickered, but Sanson couldn’t be bothered, not when the last coils of tension between them were finally unraveling.

“Well, it seems it was for the best that I ended up getting a room,” he mused.

Guydelot arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

“Exhaustion. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Ah.”

Something in Guydelot’s voice rang oddly. When Sanson pulled back to look at him, Guydelot was suddenly very keen on looking just about anywhere else.

“Just a moment,” Sanson said, a suspicion nagging at him. “Why did you think I chose to rent a room?”

Guydelot didn’t quite succeed in making his answering shrug nonchalant.

A wave of heat crawled up Sanson’s neck and rolled across his cheeks. “Now hold on–me, of all people–”

“Why else would you have?” Guydelot finally snapped, his pale cheeks also reddening. “You made yourself bloody obvious about coming up here.”

“Gods!” Sanson laughed, pressing a palm against his forehead. It was a small consolation that Guydelot was clearly feeling mortification as well. “No, that was not the intent…but I don’t dislike the outcome.”

“Aye, well,” Guydelot’s fingers gentled on Sanson’s nape, shifting from massaging to thumbing gently across his skin, “that makes two of us.”

#ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv writing #guydelot thildonnet #sanson smyth #guydesan #this was originally written for #ffxivwrite2023

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