@corditeheart:
She puts up with a lot, frankly– more than anyone else he knows might be able to. Seifer blames the sweat her fingers drift through on dreams, incoherent ones that have left him laying still in the dark, regaining his equilibrium until she’d plopped herself in his lap.
That, and the heat of the desert, still drifting in through the open window. The sand is everywhere, in everything. He runs his palms down the curve of her hips.
“’Course not,” he agrees, words easier than he feels, but it’s nice to be distracted by her. “Who’d be asleep in the dead of night, anyway?”
They do each other a favor, and don’t lie about anything. It makes life easier.
Who would be, indeed.
The night sounds of Rabanastre drift in on the breeze, a dying gust from the storms of the Westersand. While Fran is far from spared from the typical Dalmascan grime, not having suffered the perspiration of night terrors herself, comparatively few grains stick in her lustrous mane and soft, fine fur.
(She heard him wake from the adjacent room-- his breath ragged, heartbeat pounding in her ears.)
“Not you, nor I.” She speaks low near his ear, nails gently plucking at the fastening of his breeches, as if they ought to do something about it.
A considerate offer, to distract from the daemons of his dreams.
