#i forgot when the rsa/nrc spelldrive game is

[distant-velleity]

Magnetism

Summary: The moment everyone's been waiting for, a non-memey first kiss for Chrysos and Santiago. Word count: 800+ A/N: I stayed up a little too late writing this last night because it was only supposed to be a 30-minute drabble before bed... then I had the idea to add imagery and metaphors and similes and some tension and--you get it. Anyway, enjoy! <3

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When they finally escape the hustle and bustle of the post-victory party, the waxing moon is hanging high in the sky. The air has settled to be deliciously cool for a near-summer evening, soothing the heat they still radiate after emerging from the crowded cafeteria. 

“Well,” says Santiago, gently nudging Chrysos’ shoulder with his as they walk, “here’s to the merman right next to me, who contributed to Night Raven’s first Spelldrive win against Royal Sword in a century.” 

He raises his distinctly non-alcoholic plastic cup of fruit punch, its translucent red contents lightly sloshing about in an imitation of wine. The sight causes Chrysos to snort.

“I didn’t do that much,” he argues, objectively. “Draconia got the final hit in, in the end.”

“Yeah, but who had the sense to use the flashy spells I taught him? Who took the initiative when the Ignihyde and Heartslabyul reps started arguing? Who helped Jamil give Malleus the perfect opening for a coup de grâce?” Santiago barely has to reach over to tap Chrysos on the chest. “I say it’s the guy right in front of me.”

“That’s… You’re…”

Chrysos doesn’t fancy himself a poet, but something about the way Santiago smiles fondly at him could be considered poetry—something about the ambient green lighting, the glow reflected in those golden eyes creasing with affection, the shockingly pure stutter it inflicts upon Chrysos’ heart. Something about the way he drops genuine praise shamelessly when he’s on the high of victory-inspired euphoria. Something about their proximity, the way that they’re drawn together like two magnets of different poles.

“I’m what?” asks Santiago teasingly.

“You’re…” Chryso grumbles a little under his breath. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Nuh-uh. Not for you. This is the truth right here, buddy.”

Chrysos, growing a bit red in the face, is glad that Santiago looks away to chug the last of his punch and toss the cup into a bin after saying that. 

It’s just the heat and humidity of having been stuck with so many people in one place, he wants to think, but even he knows better by now.

Meanwhile, they approach the wishing well in the courtyard, where emerald firelight gives way to the pearlescent illumination of the moon and the stars. 

“Hearing praise coming from your mouth somehow feels unusual,” Chrysos remarks, to hide how good all this praise makes him feel. To hide how he feels about it coming from this very sweet, very pretty beastman.

Santiago slows to a stop before the well.

“Then…” He opens his mouth to say something—before, apparently, quickly thinking better of it. “...Ahh, nevermind. That’s cheesy, even by my standards.”

“What?” Chrysos furrows his brows, coming to stand so close to the other that their arms—his crossed and Santiago’s prone at his sides—brush and press against each other. “So now you’re going to shut up? Just because it’s unusual doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear more.”

It’s Santiago’s turn to have his cheeks darken, one lanky hand coming up to hide his mouth. “But it’s sort of…” 

He hesitates for a few moments, maddening in how they feel like they last an eternity, then shakes his head with newfound determination. 

“You know what? It’s now or never.”

Chrysos holds his breath as Santiago leans in a little closer and caresses his cheek with a feather-light touch that gradually becomes more grounded, more confident. 

The beastman’s eyes, normally bright with a challenging sort of spirit, are semi-lidded but still possess the fierce earnestness of the sun. Their inherent brilliance puts to shame the moonlight veil draping over their surroundings; and while he searches for the courage to speak up, those eyes express the beginnings of what he wants to say. 

A gentle breeze blows past them amid the silence, carrying with it the entwined scent of the rainforest and the sea. 

“If you can’t believe in my praise,” Santiago murmurs at last, “then how about this?”

When their lips meet, gravitating towards each other in a slow start but quickly seizing the moment and pulling together, it’s not at all the messy thing Chrysos had been expecting. Instead, it’s drawn together by a sentimental magnetism that draws power from their polarizing differences. Rough but careful; desperate but precise; passionate but planned. It feels like someone has stolen the air from his lungs in the best possible way, replacing his senses with the endless freedom of flowers, fruit, and the open sky. 

It’s undeniably Santiago, and Chrysos—unafraid to use that forbidden four-letter word—loves it.

…Eventually, the sensation of their breaths thinning from metaphorical altitude leaves them with no choice but to pull away from the kiss. 

“I hope I did that right,” Santiago whispers, a little sheepish yet giddy with basking in the afterglow of it all.

“There’s no such thing as ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ when kissing,” Chrysos replies breathlessly, “only good and better. When it comes to you, at least.”

It’s hard to miss the way Santiago puffs up with pride, eyes glimmering.

Chrysos’s smile, one he hadn’t realized was tugging at his lips, grows. “Now hurry up and do it again. Even better this time.”

“On it, boss,” answers Santiago with an affectionate lilt to his voice, leaning in for another kiss.