#note: 'melita' was andromache's alias in the beginning. she didn't let the boys know her real name until a little while later

[sealrock]

09. lend an ear

no content warnings word count: 940 words

If Hector had spoken up earlier to break the stalemate, he wouldn't be soaked to the skin. He situated himself on a nearby rock, watching as Achille and Melita, both equally soaked, barked insults to each other as the heavens dumped a deluge's worth of rare rain onto the parched Thanalan plains, right on the cusp of winter. Somehow, the trio got lost on their way back from Hector's gleaner assignment, and Hector forgot to take his map with him, a rookie mistake he never thought to make four years into his career. Trying to rely on waymarks was difficult when you have people yelling at each other over your head.

"This is all your fault!"

"How is it my fault!? You're the one who said you knew this area like the back of your hand, you fucking shrew!"

"I do, but I also didn't have to deal with a dishonest kvetch who doesn't know which way is up!"

Achille offered an indignant grunt in response, his red hair sticking to the back of his neck and dripping with rainwater. Melita stood on the opposite side of the road, hands curled to fists and shoulders quivering with rage. Achille, saying only that he was from Ishgard, obviously had no clue where they were going, but he couldn't help but jab at their traveling companion's blunder of taking the wrong path back to camp. To add insult to injury, the trio stumbled into a nest of antlings and had to run for their lives, further straying from the beaten path.

Melita, a self-proclaimed mercenary Hector met in a seedy tavern on the outskirts of Ul'dah, only agreed to come along because Hector not-so-subtly begged her for her aid, ignoring Achille's advice to reconsider. He didn't know the landscape all too well with his assignments keeping him closer to home in the temperate regions of Dravania.

"We could've taken that pack of antlings easy, or are your spindly arms not strong enough to lift that rusty sword of yours?"

Melita let out a frustrated growl at Achille's attempt to rile her up, a petty smirk spreading across his face as she fell for it.

"Oh, sure, I trust you and your little gats could handle even the mightiest of vilekin! Such a shame your aim is hindered by your lopsided vision!"

Hector cringed at that; if it was one thing he learned from traveling with Achille, he learned to never ask about Achille's missing left eye. Melita had only been with them for two moons, but she wasn't doing herself any favors.

Hector could've jumped in to break them up before things turned ugly, but he didn't.

Hector wasn't the assertive type—the word "no" wasn't in his vocabulary. If he had a problem, he would figure it out himself so as not to be a bother, but if other people had problems, he would drop everything to help them. It was in his nature to give, to always lend an ear to those in need, even if it meant he didn't receive the same treatment in kind. Hector was the type of person to be easily taken advantage of, someone who didn't think twice if somebody was trying to stab him in the back before offering the shirt off his back. Achille once remarked that he had no spine, something Hector easily agreed with (he didn't miss Achille's dissatisfied side eye).

Hector knew it made him much like a doormat, someone who rolls over at the first sign of disagreement to try and appease people. He would try his best to be the neutral party in arguments, but he would make it worse by not taking either side. So to be caught between two lovely, but extremely bullheaded, people who couldn't see eye to eye on anything took him out of his comfort zone. Hector seemed to attract people like that; those with prickly, cheerless exteriors latch onto his squishy and malleable personality. The fact this happened twice concerned him a bit.

That is why he's currently stuck in a downpour, his boots soggy and skin goosefleshed, with nothing more to say than a defeated sigh and a stifled sneeze. Achille and Melita paused their verbal assault to watch Hector descend into a sneezing fit; Hector didn't see their guilt-ridden stares from the curtain of his bangs. A sudden weight fell over him and a familiar scent tickled his nose—it was Achille's bulky leather coat. It practically swallowed him as he slipped his arms through the sleeves.

"Wear this, it'll keep you warm, though it might not be much help now."

"But," Hector sniffled, burrowing himself into the coat, "what about you?"

"I'll live."

Hector noticed how Achille's tone wasn't that of anger or derision, it was soft and awkward as the taller man refused to look him in the eye. Exposed in the rain, Achille's scarred, strong arms seemed to not react to the change in temperature, his twin pistols holstered at his hips. With little effort, Achille slung Hector's pack over his shoulder as he led the gleaner to Melita's place under a nearby tree for an ounce of shelter. She rolled her eyes when she and Achille glanced at each other, though Hector could tell she felt a bit ashamed for her behavior.

Hector understood why gleaners traveled alone, so he couldn't help it when he let out a small chuckle, standing between his two bodyguards.

"I'm not a bodyguard."

"I'm not your bodyguard!"

Without thinking, the two of them were in unison with their response. Embarrassed, the two looked in opposite directions with a scoff.

Hector blinked. He didn't mean to say that out loud.