#shrieks in teredio writing woes. i still got my ishgard boys tho

[furymint]

wc 641 (this ask was sent to my insp blog @unforgettablesilhouette so just to keep my writing in one place i copied it here! thank u @houserosaire!)

"What," Nolanel grunted, "are you doing?"

Elliot strengthened his grip on Nolanel’s hand. "You needn't question what you know—it dulls your understanding of the world."

They strode side by side in one of the brackish portions of the city, where the closely paved walkways of the Pillars began to twist into the impaired streets of the Brume. Lights in Skysteel make hung over the path towards the sector's barracks to guide ale-drunk soldiers home, but as soon as the sun fully set, the rest of the road would be lit only by the windows and brazier fires of the shops.

Nolanel tried to jerk his hand away. "Instead of chaffing me, answer me why," he griped.

"I'm fond of you," Elliot declared. "And walking with you remains the highlight of my days."

Sarcasm soothed Nolanel no further. "Let go of me or I will make a scene."

"The Horde would agree to peace sooner."

"Are you more ill in the head than we knew? Do you see anyone else here making some pathetic show of their affections like this?"

"Not exactly. You're also not looking deep enough." Elliot pouted. He tugged Nolanel toward the center of the street to skirt the collection of low tables and chairs that made a bistro's veranda. "The people don't know you here; you've never been here—"

"Baseless certainty will be your death one day."

"Yes, and I'll march to my grave completely blind in the belief it is my salvation! Now stop pretending there are knives at your neck and start looking at the stars. They're beginning to appear."

Nolanel tried to yank himself free again. To his own annoyance, he could never purposefully harm Elliot or allow himself to appear as trapped by sick enjoyment as he was—so his strength was not in him as he lifted his arm and punched it suddenly down. Elliot dipped readily with the force and leaned against his shoulder. Spite prevented Nolanel from enjoying the warmth.

"You may be correct about the people here knowing me, but what of the agents among them? My aether is poisoned with the inner dragon. The Inquisitors need to see no more than that."

"Be realistic! Hypocrisy may be strong among them, but the Inquisition is abounding with inverts. They're the ones who require intervention from a saint—preferably Raphael, what for their tools, lest—"

"Gods, be silent, afore I scream. The Inquisitors do not look above their caste to sell himself as the adored pet of some nobleman with a penchant for uniforms."

Wagging his free hand dismissively, Elliot shrugged, "If the Tribunal were looking for such a pair, they would find more than one here."

Nolanel finally paid attention. The strip was lined with brasserie, cafés, and dwellings, all of them twinkling with activity and rumbling with the voices of men. Of the knights posturing at the rim of counters or alone against walls, few of them lifted their concentrated eyes to him. They watched Elliot.

Others were long engaged in conversation, drink, and games, while women with slack hairstyles prodded those who stepped too close apart. Smoke cycloned behind the windows of one bar, then rushed into the streets as a laborer threw open its door and hollered a greeting.

There were too many alleys and too many people who stood on the lip of their darkness, like effigies of temptation, to feign some occupation while they waited for another to approach.

Nolanel returned Elliot’s grip with force, causing Elliot to laugh. "'Tis not myself I intended to shield, but you, ser. We wouldn't want anyone to think you could be had."

"Still—"

"I know this area, which is why I've brought you to visit de Charlus' little place. He boast the best madeleines. Nevertheless, if anyone offers you a cigar—"

"You're making this worse," Nolanel cringed.

"You'll love it."