Shiro has been a musician since he was a child. Now an adult playing as a soloist in orchestras across the country, he’s beginning to lose the love he had for music all his life, until he unexpectedly walks into the life of Keith, frontman for a small-time bar band who is clearly so in love with what he does. Keith inspires Shiro. Their one night stand becomes a morning after, and the only thing they might love more than music is each other.
A fic dedicated to @peanut-jars for an amazing idea and being chill with me running away with it.
And dedicated to @veituriel for being an A+ beta and dealing with my nerves and anxieties about writing it.
Short drabble for my dumbass poly ship of Emily, Naib and Eli LMOA.
tw/ mentions of death, though not really specified
---
Emily Dyer and Naib Subedar, the doctor and the mercenary. Nobody had expected them to become so close, seeing as there nearly is never a time when Naib isn't angry and Emily just doesn't seem to be someone that would befriend a troublemaker like Naib.
Well, everyone except Eli.
The seer sees many things, especially with his gift. And well, people tend to lower their guard when they see that it's just his owl, Brooke Rose, around, not knowing Eli can see them if his owl can. He's seen it, the way Naib would relax and seem less angry at the world when Emily is with him, sees the way the doctor would gently, gently care for Naib's wounds, a soft reprimand on her lips as she slowly wraps the worst ones up.
Their interactions remind him of the days before he was trapped in this manor, when he would take care of his fiancé, because Gertrude had always been such a head strong woman and she never backed down from a challenge.
Just thinking of her, and seeing the doctor and mercenary, it makes his chest ache with despair and loneliness. Was his Gertrude okay? Does she know that, even after all this time, Eli still thinks of her? Did she... Marry someone else?
When those thoughts circulate in his head, he wishes that, perhaps, he could partake in the interactions of Emily and Naib, just so that he won't feel as hopeless as he usually does. It's one of the reasons why he continues to watch them, so he can pretend that he's there with them instead of Brooke, can pretend that it's his hair that Emily gently pets when she notices the owl, or even the one who Naib carefully holds against his chest when he falls asleep on Emily's bed.
Eli wants many things, and he knows that most of them can't come true.
Which is why he's confused when Emily calls for him one night, when his chest was full to bursting with frustration and grief as he and his team lost to the hunters once more, that he sent his warnings too late, that he couldn't move faster, that he was the only one who managed to get away–
And just this morning, as if taunting him, the manor owner sent him a letter that Gertrude has passed on, having never married because she was waiting for him, that she truly believed Eli would come back to her. And so she died alone, wondering why he never came back.
"Eli." The doctor's soft voice pulls him out of his reverie, and he's surprised to feel his blindfold soaked through with tears.
"Oh, Eli." Emily pulls him close, tucking him into the crook of her neck, and she smells like antiseptics and clean linen and something distinctly her that Eli just couldn't stop the tears from flowing once more, sobs wracking his frame as he brings his arms up and crushes Emily against his chest, wailing his despair into her shoulder.
"Just let it out, Eli." He hears her murmur, and he belatedly realises that she's petting his hair. "I'm sorry."
And somehow, that makes him cry even harder. He's glad she didn't tell him that everything was going to be fine, because they both know that nothing will be ever be fine again unless they find a way out of this manor.
"She was waiting for me." Eli tells the doctor, voice shaking as he holds onto her. "She was waiting and I, I never came back and she was alone and–"
Emily holds him tight, before she starts to pull him up the stairs, never once letting him go. It's a little awkward going up the stairs wrapped in each other like that, because Eli is significantly taller than Emily, but they get up there just fine. She leads him back to her room, which surprisingly smells like vanilla, and carefully pushes him onto the bed.
He falls, bouncing a little on the plush mattress, before he feels a hand brush against his cheek, fingers tracing his blindfold, as if asking for permission.
Shakily, he nods, and the hand pulls it off, and he's greeted with Naib's grim expression. Brooke is hooting lowly as she alights on the bedside table, and Eli swears that even she looks apologetic and sad. His owl had known Gertrude as well, so perhaps she was mourning his late fiancé as well.
"Come on, let's get you into more comfortable clothes." Naib says, handing him what looks to be an oversized nightgown. "Sorry, it's Emily's. It's the only thing that would fit you."
Eli doesn't really care about what clothes he's wearing, so he merely shrugs and slowly changes his dirty clothes with the soft, blue nightgown. Emily is nowhere to be seen, which makes Eli a little confused, but he decides not to think too deeply about it, because his fiancé's death is still forefront in his mind.
Naib doesn't try to make him talk, but the smaller man does sit close to him; a quiet show of support. Eli is too tired for tears and is slowly nodding off when Emily comes back, carrying a tray with three bowls of piping hot stew.
"I asked Andrew to make some for us," the doctor explains. "Let's eat before we sleep."
"Don't think too much about it," Naib whispers. "If Emily wants something, she'll find a way."
Andrew rarely cooks for anyone except his lovers, and said lovers usually gobble it all up so nobody could have a chance to taste the man's ("Godlike," Edgar had sworn) cooking, so Eli is a little surprised that Emily managed to snag some of it.
And, well, Eli can't exactly refute that. He's seen Emily on the grounds after all. The doctor sets the bowls on a low table, waving the two men forward when she's done. For the first half, they're silent, carefully eating the stew. By the time they're finished, Eli feels less like death and more like himself again, albeit still heartbroken.
"Um, thank you." He mumbles. "For, uh, everything."
"We care for you, Eli." Emily says, reaching out to pat him in the head. "I can't leave you alone when you looked as if your entire world had just shattered right in front of you."
"You don't need to talk about it." Naib adds, throwing his head back as he drinks his stew straight out the bowl. "We just want you to know that we're here for you, if you need support."
Eli manages a few tears before Emily is softly shushing him, wiping his tears away as she leads him back to her bed. She slides in after him, and Naib occupies his other side, the two sandwiching him between them.
"Finally." The mercenary says, hugging as he sidles up close. "I was wondering when I can cuddle with you for real and not just your owl."
Eli blushes. So they knew he'd been watching.
"Naib, hush." Emily says, swatting the mercenary. "Eli, are you okay with us cuddling you? We can always make room if you don't want to."
"Please." Eli practically whimpers. He wants to be comforted, and knowing that Emily and Naib are willing to give it to him makes him feel just the slightest bit better. Naib immediately hugs him, head dropping against Eli's chest, while Emily pulls them both close, a hand brushing against Eli's hair and face, before dropping down onto Naib's.
"Sleep." The doctor says. "I'll watch over you two."
Not everything is okay, but cuddled close and warm, Eli thinks that maybe he'll be just fine.
Aly had expected the world to turn upside down when she spared the assassin's life. Maybe it was because the world had already been inside out since Ostagar that this little bit of upset barely put a wrinkle in her smallclothes. Alistair wasn't happy about it, and wasn't too shy to complain to her nor to give Zevran the stink eye when he thought she wasn't looking. Morrigan was pleased if only because Alistair was not, but she too watched the elf with caution and suspicion. Sten was unreadable and silent as ever about his thoughts on her companions, but Aly had the suspicion he wasn't surprised she had adopted the Crow. He was a murdered too, after all.
Grandmotherly Wynne had something to say about it. Aly had something to say right back. "Wynne, we bested him and a dozen more with fewer folk than we've got at camp," she snapped, cross about being questioned yet again when the decision had been left to her. "Arphen's set to watching him. I wouldn’t try to slip a mabari, and I never heard of the damned beasts before Ostagar. If you're wont to sleeping with one eye opened, Andruil's blessings to you. Or maybe it's Fen'Harel's. If I'm not on watch, I'm getting the best sleep I can manage, and I suggest you do the same."
Aly knew she drew eyes. She turned stormy grey ones on those that looked back at her. "Assassins don’t tend to be stupid lots, so I've a thought that he won't be trying anything. But I've a dog as will wake if he so much as touches the fletching on an arrow. I made the decision, and Fen'Harel witness it, you can respect it or you can lead this merry band of misfits yourselves."
Leliana shrugged, but Aly hadn't been expecting a fight from her for this. Maybe it was her life before the Chantry that made her so forgiving of folk that lived a little crooked. Creators, it certainly couldn't have been the Chant that taught her that. Wynne backed down, satisfied Zevran would be under watch or shamed by the scolding, Aly didn’t much care. That was a lie. She would find some way to make it up to the old woman. She liked Wynne, and Wynne was only worried for everyone's safety.
Aly gathered up a bowl of stew for herself, a bone for Arphen who lingered at the edge of the camp, and another bowl for Zevran. Alistair hovered, jaw set firm. "If you're going to scold me for taking him food, I'm going to remind you that you left his fate to me, Alistair." Oh Creators, she sounded like Marethari scolding the little ones for being foolish.
"It wouldn't do to starve him, I suppose." Alistair sounded shamed, like he had been thinking it.
"Not when I spared his life."
"Be safe, Aly. He tried to kill you once today."
"Then he'd be a fool to try it twice. Alistair, we are a stone's throw from camp. I'm always armed. Arphen is right there. Zevran would be dead before he could draw blood. Quit hovering, and let me feed the man, will you?" To Aly's relief, Alistair stepped aside. She wouldn't have liked to argue and alienate him.
Arphen it seemed couldn't decide whether Zevran was friend or foe. The elven assassin lounged against a log, the very picture of innocuity. The dog laid beside him, head on his paws but intelligent eyes watchful. The dog's ears were alert, and pricked Aly's way when she drew near. Zevran sat up. "I see you have brought supper for the dogs," he said. His manner was friendly, for a man who was little better than a captive.
Aly tossed Arphen his bone. Her mabari relaxed, wuffed his thanks, and set about gnawing at it. She smiled disarmingly at Zevran. "Well, I've fed my dog. Stew is for people, not animals," she said handing him over a bowl.
"Then you think more highly of me than your companions." Zevran toasted her with his bowl of supper. The smile he offered her was wry and thin. Aly sat where she stood, sipping the broth from her bowl.
"Ir abelas, lethallin," Aly said.
Zevran surprised her by laughing. "You know, I lived among the Dalish for a little while, but I can't speak a lick of the language. Your Loghain did not tell me you were Dalish. I wonder if that was because he thought my allegiance would sway because we are both elves."
"Your allegiance did sway," she pointed out. Aly used her fingers to scoop some boiled vegetables from the rim of the bowl into her mouth.
"Ah yes, but that is only because he did not mention you were a beautiful woman." Zevran had a wooden spoon in his hand, which he ate with. Aly hadn't even seen where he pulled it from. He chewed carefully, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
Aly swallowed her mouthful. "A beautiful woman who spared your life."
Zevran toasted her again. "A beautiful woman, to whom I now owe a blood debt. May I live long enough to repay it."
"I'm sorry, about them," Aly said quietly. She glanced up from her food, looking toward the others then back down. "They think to be careful. They don't think they're being cruel."
Zevran swallowed the last of his food. "I can't blame them, truthfully. Though with this brute here, I don't know why they think I'd be any trouble." Aly smiled a private smile. It was much the same thing she'd told both Wynne and Alistair. Zevran reached for Arphen, maybe to ruffle his ears. The mabari wasn't having that. He tensed and growled. Zevran snatched his hand back.
"Arphen! Venavis! Is na falon. Zevran is a friend." Aly spoke firmly to the mabari, swapping between languages. Her voice, though not a shout, carried. Those around the campfire would hear. Arphen obeyed his mistress's command and settled. He even squirmed closer to Zevran, nudged his hand with a wet nose.
Aly went about finishing her dinner. Zevran reached again and the war hound licked his hand and welcomed the attention he offered. Aly took both their bowls and stood. "Arphen will stay with you. Since you're staying away from the main camp, he can alert you if we raise the alarm."
She didn't wait to hear his response. Aly gave Arphen the command to stay and returned to camp. Leliana helped her gather the rest of the dishes from their supper. "They know you weren't just giving orders to the dog, Aly."
Aly didn't insult her by pretending to the contrary. "Well I'm not going to kill him, and I'm not turning him back over to Loghain. Zevran can be useful, he's already given us information on what Loghain is up to, and unlike Alistair and Wynne I don't think he's going to up and turn tail on us."
"I don't think so either, but they'll come around. Give them time. Help me with the dishes."
Aly had to chuckle. "Practical as ever, Leliana."
--
Aly knew things had changed in their neat little group. Zevran still hung to the edges when they made camp, but Alistair no longer glared in their direction when she went to talk to him. Leliana took supper with them, two rogues, a warden and a dog. Morrigan commented once that with the addition of Leliana to the little group on the edge of camp, their meals were balanced women and dogs. Zevran was within hearing and laughed. Aly was certain Morrigan would have cast some horrible spell her way if she'd mentioned the bare smile with witch had cracked.
Wynne still looked at Zevran with a frown, but Aly could no longer tell whether it was distrust that put it there or the fact that he flirted with her, and indeed many of the others around. Even Aly wasn't free of his flirtations, though she'd commented on it once. "You've a happy nature, for a man as makes his living killing people," she said.
"I find it better to focus on the pleasurable things in life, when I can. And I enjoy killing. Done well, it is like an art." Zevran replied glibly, as if he talked of food not death. "Does it bother you?"
Aly could only shrug. It didn't, neither his approach to killing nor his admitted enjoyment of his profession. After all, she too lived by the sword. There were other things to talk of besides killing. Sten found Zevran could talk weapons well. Zevran and Leliana swapped stories of travels. Wynne gave better than she got from him in sass. Alistair eventually joked with him, even if Zevran's jokes made him blush and walk away from the conversation.
And Aly, Aly told herself she was glad for another elf even if he was a flat-ear who flirted entirely too much. It didn't hurt that he was nice to look at, or that he flirted with her first and foremost, or that her dog liked him.
Aly wondered how long it would take them all to forget Zevran had been hired to kill them once.
1. Describe yourself how you would describe a character you’re introducing
They weren’t much at first glance. As a matter of fact, they were the type of person that might have gone quietly unnoticed, had they so chosen. Short of stature, rather slim, toned, but not muscular, with brown hair (quite nearly black) and dark brown eyes under neatly plucked brows. Their lips were as likely to be quirked in response to a private joke as to be pressed thin in concentration. Hands with nails frequently bitten short
3. What is your absolute favorite kind of fic to write?
Um, well I love magic/fantasy!AU’s, but I write a lot of fluffy romance too
18. How old were you when you started writing?
uh... a little kid. I think I started writing my own stories around 5th/6th grade.
19. Why did you start writing?
I had a very active imagination, loved books, and wanted to make the things I loved. So I started writing.
20. 4 sentences from your work that you’re proud of
Oh well, shit I only publish half of what I write. Like a really huge part of my fic writing is unpublished from this past NaNoWriMo... So some of these lines might not be readable elsewhere.
You match him step for step, breezing through every push, pull, and turn. Your shoes glide on the floor, led by his, but he’s so close your feet are mere centimeters from hopeless entanglement. -- My Baby Shot Me Down (JeanMarco swing dancing oneshot)
The bed is warm, and Jean is warm, and the light that filters in the window is surprisingly golden for a December afternoon. -- Better Than a Space Heater (Trans!Jean menstruation comfort fic)
Garden sprites are also assholes; and, currently, my room is their new favorite place for Hanji-condoned mischief-making. -- Lux Caliginis (unpublished magic/demons Attack on Titan fic)
[Hanji] stopped short and snatched the book Levi chucked at her from the air. “Levi Ackerman! If you break any more of my precious books by throwing them around like that, I’ll show the boys what a real transfiguration looks like, and then you best hope your apprentice is as good as he thinks he is, because you’ll need him to set you right again! -- Lux Caliginis (I really like writing Master Summoner! Hanji in this universe)
Jean is always beautiful, you notice. To be fair, you've been noticing that a lot lately. It's something about him, you think--the way he moves, maybe. You've paired up with him for hand-to-hand combat practice, and you're glad for the excuse to stare at him.
Eren likes to say he has a horse face, but you disagree. At least, with the way he means it. Maybe Jean's features a tad similar--long and angular--but horses are strong and beautiful creatures, as is the boy who's just knocked you down again.
"Geez, Marco," he says as he offers you a hand to get up, "that's too many times in one practice!"
You twitter, irrationally nervous, as you stand. "I guess I'm not really focused today," you tell him. You're too focused on his form, instead, but you don't say that aloud.
He looks at you with concern, his sharp features angling into the soft worried look, and your breath hitches imperceptibly. "Are you sure you're okay, Marco?"
You nod, and Jean's face clears. "Just fine. Let's try again; I'll be more focused this time." The pair of you take your combat stances and begin the exercise again. This time as you go through the fighting motions, you're paying closer attention to him movements. You realize you've been missing out on a lot of things by just admiring him in general. Attuned to Jean in this mock-fight, you see all the small movements he makes--the tiny shifts in weight before he moves to strike, the way his shirt pulls tight against his chest as he twists to block your counterstrike, how he'll bend his knees slightly before springing back to throw a punch at your chest.
You jump back to avoid that one, and Jean takes the advantage to step closer to you, back within his striking distance. He takes another step closer and throws his shoulder into you. Already off balance, you find yourself falling backwards. You grab at Jean without thinking and end up pulling him down with you.
The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh as Jean lands on top of you. "Hey, man, sorry about that, you okay?" You can't stop staring at his face long enough to answer him. Jean's beauty isn't just in the way he moves, you're beginning to notice. It's in the almost invisible freckles that litter his own cheeks, brought about by three years of training under the unforgiving sun. It's the way the angular boy you met three years ago filled that lanky frame to have the muscular build that compliments the angularity to his features. The way he's immediately concerned for you, even though you're the one who pulled him down. The way the light catches his tawny-golden eyes as he blinks at you while you still don't answer. The way his thin lips move to say something else to you that you're too distracted to hear.
It's the way his lips brush yours when you take too long to answer his second inquiry.
You jolt, as if struck by lightening. "What--Jean--!"
"You were staring at me. Well, at my mouth. Thought it might've been something you could use." Those tawny-gold eyes you were admiring moments earlier look anywhere but at you.
"I--uh... yeah, I needed that, actually." You find yourself smiling at the blush spreading across his features that has nothing to do with the heat of the day or the physical exertion. Jean meets your eyes again, and you try to make your expression as calm as you can to put him at ease.
It works, and his sharp features soften as he smiles back. "I think I did, too." He stands abruptly, expression hardening as he brushes dust off his clothes. But he's still smiling as he offers a hand to help you up. "Let's try that exercise again, and see if you can do it without landing both our asses in the dirt," he says, voice all business. But the squeeze to your hand and the way he holds a fraction too long say otherwise.
And you're once again struck by how beautiful Jean Kirschstein always is.
He hated feeling vulnerable. Hated it. He was strong, damnit. Strong as stone. Stronger. He wouldn't allow himself to fail, to be broken as Wall Maria had. Let no one say Jean Kirstein needed protection from anyone. He was the protector. He needed to be.
If he wasn't, what else was he?
It worked, most of the time. No one noticed his insecurity, everyone saw him as the leader he could be at his best. At his best, no one could tell he was at his worst. Except for Marco. Marco-goddamn-Bodt. Marco could see him at his worst, and smile as though Jean was at his best. And, admittedly, it was hard not to feel stunning when Marco smiled like that. Jean was stunning. Marco, certainly, was stunning. The whole godforsaken world was stunning when Marco smiled.
But Marco wasn't smiling anymore.
Jean didn't smile much either, nowadays. Arlert could sometimes weasle one out of him, but losing your best friend did that to you, they said. Whoever "they" were. "They" were still alive, probably. Marco wasn't.
Jean wanted to wring their necks, but that wasn't very leader-like, and Marco would disapprove. Marco would disapprove of his moping like this, too, but Marco wasn't around to tell him so. But moping made Jean feel vulnerable, so he hid it, like always. Only Marco would know.
Jean remembered every bit of advice Marco gave him. That damn speech in the middle of Trost, too. And still, Jean managed to fuck things up and do nothing but watch his friends die later. So much for being a leader. He kept wondering if Marco died while Jean was swapping out his broken gear--distracting the Titans to save his life.
It might have been a sweet sentiment, but it made Jean sick. Marco didn't have to die for that. Marco was the team player. Marco worked well with the group. Jean was the standoffish asshole whose friend he now carried around in a little leather bag as a bit of bones.
Jean was a protector now. He couldn't afford to be weak, to be vulnerable, to be insecure. Jean couldn't add anyone else to his bag of bones.
