#tivian

[ffxiv-swarm]

"trust me"

Tiber pyr Gallius is not a popular man.

Oh, he’d like to be. It kills him inside every time people—even some of his fellow Scions—look at him with narrowed eyes because he’s too tall, too awkward, too Garlean to possibly fit in. Even if he pulls his hat down low over his forehead, it’s ruined the moment he opens his mouth. The crew at the Ironworks doesn’t help; most of them are deserters like him but they blend in better and their provincial dialects are only partly comprehensible. Not to mention he’s never been much like his sister or Alan; he loves music and philosophy and poetry, and the closest he’s been to the inner workings of a magitek reaper was piloting one in the Academia. (He fell off trying to dismount. Not his proudest moment.)

All that is to say, by process of elimination he spends a lot of time with Vivian Capsari. Vivian, who has the Echo. Who’s being taught by Mistress Soleil herself. Who was a Hyuran citizen conscript in Tiber’s legion, and therefore has no reason to give him the time of day. Who somehow, inexplicably, seems to like him anyway.

He won’t ask why. He has his pride, after all. But he is the son of Cicer sas Gallius, whose bones rest at the bottom of Silvertear Lake. He joined the army to follow in his father’s footsteps (to bring glory to Garlemald, security to their Empire) and to avenge his sister (who never needed avenging, who has thrown her sword away for a blacksmith’s hammer with joy in her heart). It doesn’t matter that they shared a cell wall in Ala Ghiri. It doesn’t matter that they can talk about music and philosophy and the theory behind spells Tiber will never be able to perform. Vivian is a good man, a brave man, whose two eyes saw the Empire for the rotten beast it was long before the Eorzeans showed them its gore-soaked heart. He deserves a better friend.

He deserves a better—

Light catches the rims of his glasses as he smiles at Tiber in passing, and Tiber has to look away before his face catches fire.

He never thought he’d say this, but them both being Scions makes it easier. It’s true that he wants to kiss him. It’s true that every time his tank top or short-sleeved shirt or wildly colored adventuring outfit exposes lean rippling muscle Tiber finds himself at serious risk of dropping his gunblade on his own foot. It is certainly true that once the freedom from Garlemald’s chains really hits and Vivian discovers piercings and tattoos, Tiber takes a lot of very cold showers. But when they’re at war, there is simply no time for any of that. Their former comrades want them dead, and Tiber for his part is disinclined to oblige.

(He is a hoplomachus, a shield bearer. What use is he, if he can’t protect those who stand behind him?)

Their first crucible comes too soon for either of them to be happy with it. The broken trenches of Ghimlyt loom large just outside the Alliance camp, and he dresses for battle with too-calm hands. His armor is special issue from the Ironworks, patterned after Scaeva’s own in the Scions’ blue and white, because a man who can’t use aether has no need for aetherial conductivity and every need for the might of Spoken ingenuity and the genius of Spoken minds.

Vivian needs no such consideration. When Tiber steps outside to join him, he’s paging through a grimoire in which the ink glows bright as burning ceruleum. “Finally ready?”

He nods. Resists the urge to bow. Resists the even stronger urge to take Vivian’s hand.

There is a measure of trust involved in fighting alongside another. You trust that they will cover your metaphorical blind spots. You trust that they will be brave, that they will follow orders. Because you are fighting at the front lines, your shield smashing against enemy skulls as your blade carves through enemy magitek like butter, you also trust that the mages behind you will not set you on fire. He’s pretty sure Vivian won’t do that. (He could. Who would notice? And he would have every right.)

The battle goes south in an instant. They are pinned down, Tiber pulling out all the stops on his shield as drones bombard them from above, and though Vivian’s arcane constructs rend everything within reach they can’t be everywhere. Across the field in another knot of Imperial soldiers, Tiber can see the by-now-familiar blue fire that is Mistress Soleil’s favorite spell and hear Mistress Gan’s cackle accompanied by gunshots like lightning. If his team can reach them, they’ll all be safe.

Tiber sucks in a lungful of stinking, smoke-filled air and says quietly, in Garlean, “I’m going to push through. Clear a path for us.”

Vivian looks up from directing his constructs, eyes wide and baffled before they narrow in fury. His glasses are crooked and he’s missing an earring. “You’re going to get us killed.”

He won’t. He can see the path in the shifting chaos, his third eye finding the scantest ilms of safety. But still, he feels his heart in his throat as he says—begs— “Trust me.”

Vivian looks at him. Tiber can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Then he grins, wild and sharp, and says, “Sure. Let’s give the bastards hell.”

Tiber promises himself, right then and there, that if they make it out of Ghimlyt alive he’s going to kiss him. He’s going to take him dancing. He’s going to treat him right.

But first they have to survive the day.

The ground shaking under his feet, Tiber charges forward.

(They survive the day. Vivian—bloodstained, scorched, alive with post-battle adrenaline—crashes into him like a freight train, and Tiber is being hugged so tightly that he entirely forgets about anything more until the moment has passed.)

(That’s alright, though. They are Scions. They are together. There will be more moments.)

[ffxiv-swarm]

J : JEALOUSY. does your muse get jealous in a relationship?

Only answering for the ones with active ships or we’d be here all night, so:

Gantsetseg: Insists she does not get jealous. Is a liar, because anyone flirting with Alan would not only confuse the hell out of him but get her attempting to loom in the background until they leave. (She’s 5′7″. The looming isn’t necessarily very effective.) The Garlic Is Amazing But He Is Hers, Dammit, You Will Not Steal.

…In her defense, “you stole it you bought it” is a recognizable means of marriage on the Steppes. Bayaqud marriages may or may not involve a highly ceremonial form of doing exactly that.

Evrard: Is jealous and will admit to it, because look at Busari. Feast your eyes upon all seven fulms of lizard lancer. Ev just isn’t that much of a catch in comparison, and he’s a little insecure about it–especially if there are other Xaela around. Who would pick Skinny Elezen Dude over scales, fangs, and the ability to yeet a full-grown Roegadyn? (Bu would, Ev. Bu would.)

Ritanelle: Doesn’t get jealous! With the highly open relationship she has with Emmanellain, it would be horribly hypocritical of her–and besides, they’re just friends. Right? Right. No deeper feelings here, no sir. She certainly is not pining while she’s stuck on the First.

Tiber: He’s a walking ball of guilt, insecurities, and inferiority complexes when it comes to Vivian. He is so jealous. Being Tiber, he expresses this by sulking in a corner in a cloud of cigarette smoke and depression. When they finally get together, it might briefly get worse (until Vivian points out he is in fact being a dumbass); his last relationship ended when the guy cheated on him, and he really doesn’t want to go through that again.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 23: parched

They’d given him a blanket; Ala Mhigan nights were considered cold to people who hadn’t grown up in Garlemald. (Back home, he wouldn’t even have worn a jacket on nights like this.) Tiber pulled it up over his head and squeezed his eyes shut as though it would help. Think of nothing. The void. Darkness. Absolutely...nothing…

Unfortunately, he had a very good memory and an even better imagination. And only a fulm’s thickness of stone separated him from Vivian oen Capsari. He imagined he could hear the man breathing, and it made his skin tingle.

They’d touched once, a brief clasp of bare hands. He could still feel it.

He breathed out slowly, remembering the warmth of Capsari’s fingers. Remembering how their eyes had met, how the anger in them nearly set the cell alight before his magic had had the chance to. Remembering the way he’d rolled his shoulders, preparing for a fight (and false gods how did a signifer wind up with those muscles, the thin shirts they’d been issued as prisoners of war hid just about nothing), as he’d snarled Tell me what you know of Carteneau.

He’d ripped Tiber’s world out from under him, and then taken his hand like a friend. Tiber wasn’t sure which was worse.

Capsari was strong and beautiful and brilliant and absolutely, utterly untouchable. In the darkness, all he could see behind his eyelids was the way the man moved, lashing at the walls with his magic and his voice like a caged lion. The grille that separated them sliced his form into separate frames, each hypnotizing—here the curve of his shoulder and hip (the space perfect for Tiber’s palm to rest), there the fall of his shaggy hair into his face (soft and thick, just the right length for Tiber to bury a hand in and tilt his head up). Capsari was a good half-fulm shorter than him, but stripped of the uniform that had contracted him into an empty shell he managed somehow to take up what felt like Tiber’s entire world.

And he’d told him that skin contact—skin contact, fuck his entire life—would let him read Tiber’s thoughts if he so wished. Tiber shivered on the hard cot and hoped that the Eorzean gods really did exist and might take pity on him, that the range of that particular ability really did only extend to physical touch. If you knew what I’ve thought about you...

Attempts to clear his thoughts were not working. He’d had way too much practice picturing Capsari naked back when he’d been under the (incorrect) assumption that the inside of his own head was inviolate. Attempts to remind himself that he stood no chance—he was Garlean, a former officer of the Empire, they weren’t even friends—were likewise useless against the part of his brain that cared much more about the shape of Capsari’s arse. Cursing Hydaelyn in general and the entire concept of the Echo in particular also didn’t work, but did—briefly—make him feel a bit better. He threw his blanket off with a grimace. What he needed was cold. Cold, a clear mind with chaste thoughts, and sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, it was morning. One out of three was better than nothing.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 9: hesitate

“Capsari.”

Vivian.

“I was wondering if y—if you...”

Do I address him informally or not? Should I? We are friends. Friends. But I want—

Vivian hadn’t even looked up from their book, some enormous battered grimoire emblazoned with signs Tiber couldn’t and didn’t want to decipher. It would probably make his eyes bleed, but Vivian was absorbed—as they had been, ever since Coultenet had lent them the use of his library. As he watched, they licked their index finger lightly to turn a page. Oh. Not for the first time, he wondered about spontaneous combustion.

He took a breath. It killed him to disturb them, but this was the first day they’d had off in weeks, and the last one they’d likely have for weeks more with so many of their comrades out of commission. He’d never get a better chance. “Vivian?”

Silence. Then, glasses gleaming, they lifted their head. “Hm?” He couldn’t see their eyes.

Tiber took another breath, deeper. It wasn’t helping. He needed time. Hastily, he fished out a cigarette from its case, rifling through his pockets for his matches. “I...would you...”

Come to dinner with me. Let me take you dancing, to the theater, to watch the sun rise over the lake. Let me bring you armfuls of roses or the heads of your enemies. Let me kiss you.

“Never mind.”

Vivian looked at him for a long moment. As Tiber considered the statistical likelihood of the ground swallowing him where he sat, they reached over to him, hand raised. He held himself very, very still.

A tiny spark flashed from their fingers, lighting the cigarette he’d held frozen to his lips. “Here.”

The smoke tasted like aether.

[ffxiv-swarm]

The worst part, Tiber admits to himself (once he’s well away, tucked up against a wall in one of the Toll’s back alleys with a cigarette he desperately needs) is that Valentin is right. He wants to be respectful, would die if he made Vivian uncomfortable (emperor’s name, the man deserves naught but happiness) but...well. He’s been entertaining thoughts. If he’s really honest, he can admit he’s made up a spare bedroom for thoughts and invited them to stay the week. Vivian’s arms and shoulders and smile are paying rent, and the way their eyes gleam behind their glasses is helping with the dishes. Their arse is probably taking out mortgage payments (in his defense, those trousers ought to be illegal, they fit so well).

So no, he really can’t blame Valentin for being protective over his brother. But (as he takes a long drag of his cigarette and huffs out a grumpy breath) he can blame the bastard for assuming he’d be dishonorable about it. Vivian doesn’t even know, and Tiber’s certainly not going to tell them.

Not yet. Not unless he deserves them.

(Valentin has nothing to worry about regarding his brother’s virtue, because he knows he never will.)

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 22: a love like religion (i’m such a fool for sacrifice)

There are things they tell you when you enlist in the Imperial army. They tell you that the Eorzeans are savages, little better than the beast tribes, that their reliance on gods has made them weak and stupid and in need of ruling. They tell you that you are doing a glorious thing, that you are (following in your father’s footsteps and) bringing civilization to these fools who don’t know how good their lives could be if they just accepted our rule. They tell you that if you’re captured, you’ll be fed to wild beasts. They tell you to return with your shield or on it, that you’ll bring honor to your family and your country if you die well.

You think of your father (the Agrius in flames). You think of your elder sister (the radio had called it Operation Archon, and there had been no survivors). You sign the papers.

There are things they do not tell you in the army, things you only learn later. Ala Mhigo is hot and dry and dusty; its people are miserable, trod into the dirt by your peoples’—no. By your booted feet. You cannot flinch away from this, nor from the dull resentment in their eyes. The men you’d hoped to lead are naught but a pack of ravening jackals, and you must be cruel to restore order. (If you lay an unwanted hand on these Aan, you tell them, I will shoot you dead. They don’t believe you—you’re too soft, too kind—until the day you’re forced to prove it, and then they hate you.)

(You clad your heart in iron, and don’t think that maybe you hate yourself.)

You take a lover, and that is some small bit of happiness until the day you find him in another man’s arms. The wound to your heart is still raw when you meet him.

He is oen Capsari. Vivian, and you remember the name because he doesn’t look as lively as it would suggest; there’s too much strain around his eyes and in his hands, and before you can think better of it you’re buying him a drink in the canteen and having a—well. Having a very pleasant conversation and remembering your damned ranks and not thinking (much) about his lovely clear eyes or his too-long hair or that you want so badly to ask him about the magic he uses.

You don’t get the chance. Your first deployment is to the Fringes, and it goes...poorly. The Alliance says they will spare you—will spare your men—if you surrender. You are an officer of the Imperial Army; you expect death for yourself, but if it will spare your men (who are not good men, no, but they don’t deserve the ends they would see at Alliance hands) you will bow your head and accept Alliance custody.

And then you find out—those things they told you, when you were yet bas Gallius and had only dreams of your decurion’s rank?

Those things were lies.

The Eorzean Alliance has honor, and trials, and when they take your armor and weapons they make you sign a receipt and promise you’ll get them back if you’re released. (You think that part’s probably bullshite.) They feed you and give you a mostly bug-free cell and never lay a hand on you. They ask you questions, and when they don’t understand you (you never were good at Common, the words tangle themselves on your tongue) they only sigh and take you back to your cell.

You remember the whipped-dog eyes and scarred backs of the Ala Mhigans. You remember the rumors of the Resonatorium where Capsari stood guard. You don’t believe it at first when Alanais pyr Venditor—Alan Vesper—comes to you and says that your sister lives, but as you lay in the dark of your cell that night the iron in your heart starts to fall away. The anger strikes first, hot and savage, but then comes the grief. A man who’s surely going to die anyway has no use for revelations, does he?

When Capsari is put in the cell next to you, it doesn’t take more than a few nights of conversation for you to discover something you dread more than your own death, more than never seeing your home or your family again. Capsari has magic, yes—but he also has the Echo. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn want him to fight gods. He is brave and sharp-witted and kinder to you than he should be (and he should hate you, he’s a citizen conscript and you’ve been a bloody idiot), and they’re going to get him killed.

You remember your shield.

And when the Scion—Miss Ritanelle Soleil, all clad in purple and gold and wearing the claw-tipped gauntlets you heard she’d strangled an eikon with—walks up to Vivian’s cell and announces he can go free, you don’t think twice before asking if they need another right hand.

If you’re going to die anyway, you’ll die for someone worth protecting.

@eorzeanfool

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 9: dense

“You. New bloke.”

Tiber, who had been leaning against the wall of the Seventh Heaven enjoying the cool breeze, nearly choked on his cigarette. While he was fairly sure by now that most of the Scions weren’t going to kill him for existing in their presence—though it had been a very tense few bells when he and Vivian had been introduced to their healer Q’yala—he couldn’t help the dread that coursed down his spine whenever any of them actually spoke to him. Miss Soleil was bad enough, but he’d heard from his former comrades in Ala Mhigo that Miss Gantsetseg had once ripped out a man’s throat with her teeth. Teeth that he now saw were bared in an attempt at a smile as she sidled up to him. The effect brought him to mind of a shark trying to be friendly. “Um.” Well, new bloke was a step up from you, Garlean at least. She stood a head and a half shorter than him, and he was acutely aware that his thin shirt wouldn’t protect him at all. “...Can I help you, miss?”

She folded her arms across her chest, meeting his eyes directly. Her cheeks around the edges of her scales were flushed purple. “I need a favor. It doesn’t leave this space, and you don’t tell a single living soul. Understand?”

Oh, false gods. Hastily, he nodded.

“I...” Her gaze seemed to be hovering somewhere around his shirt collar. “...Alright. How the blazes do you flirt in Garlean?”

What. Slowly, Tiber blinked at her, letting her words filter through his brain. Sorry, but I’m not interested was not a quip that would extend his lifespan, so he bit it back and focused on the more pertinent information at hand. “This is about Ven—Vesper, isn’t it.”

“Yes!” It came out as an explosive hiss; as she gestured, her tail lashed hard against the wall. “He’s just—I gave him food! I hunted for him! I praise his fighting skills—really, have you seen him fight, he’s amazing—and he just—looks at me! Like an idiot! I’m not sure he actually even notices when I dress nice!” She huffed out a breath, tail drooping. “So. You’re both Garlean. I was hoping you’d know.”

He frowned, thinking through what he knew of Alan Vesper. It wasn’t much; the man had been an officer, was quite good with magitek, and had spent the past two years hiding his third eye and pretending to be a mediocre bard. He rather doubted any bardic stereotypes had been involved. And I’m sure he’d notice when she dresses well. I notice when she dresses well, it’s hard not to when she’s wearing shorts like that. Come to think of it, he had seen Alan stare when she walked by. “Hmm.”

“What?”

He winced preemptively, unable to look in her direction. “...Have you considered that he may just be an idiot?”

She groaned, letting her head thud against the wall. “No. Nobody can be that dense. I refuse to accept it. There must be something. What would you do to let a guy know you’re interested?”

It was a chilly day, but he felt his face grow hot anyway. “I don’t—” Even if he could take Vivian dancing or something, it was entirely outside the realm of possibility that he’d accept. Not from Tiber formerly-pyr Gallius. He had to focus. “I’ve no idea what anyone does for fun in these lands, so I’m afraid I can’t be much help...” He squinted at her. “Have you tried telling him?”

The noise that escaped her sounded like a teakettle; her tail coiled around her legs as she stepped back in evident horror. “No! Gods, you have any idea how bloody awkward that would get?”

He could imagine it all too well, but… “I saw him drop a wrench on his foot once when you rolled your sleeves up. I don’t think it would be as bad as you fear.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Bullshite.”

His eyes narrowed. “Truly, Miss, I have no idea why you thought I’d be able to help. If I knew anything about how to—how to date in this bloody country, I’d—”

But she was tilting her head, staring past him. “Hey, is that Vivian? Maybe he’ll be of more use.”

Vivian? He spun around, scanning the crowd. Bloody hell, did I brush my hair—I’m not wearing a hat—I knew I should have bought a newer shirt—

But Vivian was nowhere to be seen; when he turned around, neither was Gantsetseg.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 22: fluster

It really wasn’t his fault, but he knew he couldn’t blame it on anyone else and still call himself a proper man. And he was holding the glasses, after all.

Every year, the Rising Stones underwent what Tataru ominously called “the purge.” Broken things were repaired if they could be or thrown out if they couldn’t. The icebox and pantry were emptied of everything that had sneakily gone bad, and everything due to turn soon founds its way onto the menu over the next few days. The cups were inspected for chips and cracks, the silverware for smudges. The carpets were taken up and beaten aggressively. And (most importantly, if you asked Ephemie) the furniture was cleaned, reupholstered if necessary, and shoved against walls so the floor could be washed.

Tiber was on glass duty. The everyday ones were easy; they were heavy, sturdy ceramic or lead crystal, breakable if set down hard enough but nothing he was likely to shatter by accident. But the Rising Stones also kept elegant, fragile wine glasses for company, and those were in a padded box on their own high shelf. Tiber was never more glad to be of a height with Ephemie.

“Ah, careful...”

“I know,” he grumbled, reaching up to grab the edge of the box.

A screech of wood on stone reverberated through the common room, and Ephemie winced. “Mind the floors!”

“I’ve got it.” Vivian’s voice, rough with tension. Knowing it was a bad idea but unable to stop himself, Tiber looked over.

Oh. Aye, there was their resident black mage stripped down to their sleeveless undershirt, which was thin and white and hid precious little, especially when they knelt, wrapped both hands around the seat of a solid oak chair, and hauled it full five fulms to the left. Muscles strained and bunched with the effort, standing out in sharp relief; the flex of their back was the sort of thing poets wrote odes to. Tiber’s mouth dried out completely.

His fingers grazed the padded cloth. For a moment, he felt it in his hands, quilted cotton against his palms cushioning the expensive glass within. It would prevent them from shattering at an average touch, but not if it had the misfortune to be dropped from a great height.

Vivian straightened up, hands at the small of their back, and stretched extravagantly.

Crash.