professional harlot. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flitswitch) wrote2021-08-14 04:55 pm
flitswitch) wrote2021-08-14 04:55 pm
[second row left] ffxiv - our rest
SHADOWS, or - being kind to yourself.
(meet fray.)
The sword on his back was beginning to weigh down his shoulders as he stepped through the doors. So much had happened in his life, yet the lobby of the Goblet's apartment building was the same as ever. The same wallpaper, the same carpet, the same desk. There was a strange sense of timelessness to it that paused Chaurakh in his steps, the feeling of - something he didn't have the faculties to name swimming over him near strong enough to threaten his footing.
"You need any help, milord?"
The voice broke him out of reverie, eyes snapping to finally take in the young Miqo'te currently manning the desk. It was a face he didn't recognize, nothing about the brown braid or blue eyes jogging his memory. If she'd noticed his momentary slip, she didn't show it; there was an air of lethargic boredom to the entirety of her. Her eyes stayed at halfmast, her words drawled at the end of the syllables. It was clear that, despite her question, she could not care less about his answer.
"No, I'm all right."
She nodded, her eyes already sliding away before he'd finished his sentence. In seconds she was absorbed back in the book spread out before her, and Chaurakh headed for the lift before she could reconsider, or get a second, better look at him.
His title was as much a spotlight as it was armor. One would be hard-pressed to find a corner of Eorzea that didn't hear of the Warrior of Light, at this point, but the stories preceded Chaurakh's arrival by hundreds of malms. He was a hulking beast of a man who spoke nary a word. He literally glowed with Hydaelyn's light, a walking beacon for Eorzea. Most couldn't agree on his actual race, let alone his name. At times like this, with his reserves of energy rapidly dwindling, it was a blessed relief.
The same timeless feeling permeated the space, but it was a welcome feeling now. The place was familiar, his alone. Filled with objects he'd chosen or made himself, painstakingly maintained by a retainer on his gil. There was no sign of dust on his desk or bookshelves, the aquarium and its inhabitants burbled away in the corner, full of life. It was him, through and through, and it was only with the door locked behind him that Chaurakh finally felt the tension begin to release from his muscles in slow ilms. He took the sword from his back and set it against the wall, watching the deepening orange light of the sunset outside paint the room in bands of warm color.
He walked to his desk, considering a book to read or perhaps an entry to write, and only stopped as his hand stretched to pull a thin volume from the stack perched atop the furniture. He paused, staring at the fading trails of dark, cloying aether following in the wake of his hand, trying to recall when he'd begun channeling it.
"I've always wondered why you bothered paying the gil to maintain this place when you barely see the inside of it. Seemed a frivolous waste. But now it's clear. A little piece of sanctuary to run to."
Chaurakh hung his head, breathing out a low, deep sigh. His impromptu guest's footsteps rang of clattering metal as he approached, stopping as his armored boots entered Chaurakh's line of vision. When he raised his head, he met Fray's eyes through the holes of his helmet's visor, arms folded imperiously over his chest.
"That was the intent."
Fray didn't flinch at the sharp edge of Chaurakh's words. The click of his tongue rang out clear as a shot. "If you want to strike at me, then pick up your blade." Despite his words, and the gauntlets on his hands, his fingers were gentle when they reached to take Chaurakh's arms. "Unlike the chattel out there, I have ever only asked for one thing: your wellbeing."
The petulant huff couldn't hide the way Chaurakh listed into the touch. How his body sagged with sudden exhaustion he had no energy left to fight. Fray took the weight with no complaint, hands braced at Chaurakh's elbows to hold him steady. His eyes scanned the Warrior before sighing, exasperated, edging on frustrated.
"You need to clean up. The clerk may have held her tongue, but you smell like a malboro."
"Your bedside manner is a wonder," Chaurakh murmured, managing a smile as Fray scoffed.
"You'd be the only one daft enough to have your inner darkness playing nurse." Fray's hands turned him, slow but certain, toward the door. "Go. Unless you're too weak to make it there and back yourself."
With anyone else it would have been mockery. With the keen way Fray watched his every move, it was a genuine question without judgment, and it wasn't unfounded. Tied together as they were, it was certain he could feel how tired Chaurakh was from his realm-wide trekking, the fights he'd endured. While he knew Fray was invisible to the eyes of others, Chaurakh didn't trust himself in this state not to respond to the dark knight in public. He shook his head, and Fray settled back, arms folded once more.
"Go, then. And perhaps consider moving up to a place with a private bath. What hero isn't allowed the decency to bathe in peace?"
Chaurakh didn't respond as he stepped through the door. Fray, blessedly, did not follow.
His luck continued to hold up, when he entered the bathing room to find only two others occupying it, and they were distracted by their own conversation. Chaurakh didn't bother putting in the effort to take in their details, focused solely on his own routine, a slow, sluggish affair of disrobing, washing and rinsing. His hands moved with mechanical efficiency as his mind floated, adrift on empty currents, idle thoughts bobbing to the surface before sinking down again.
He hadn't been aware of closing his eyes until he felt the tug on his soul and forced them back open. The bathing room was empty, the water cooling on Chaurakh's skin, minute shivers beginning to wrack his body. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, still, until the tug came once more. Gentle, but insistent. He breathed in deep and finally forced himself into action.
He blinked again and found himself back in his room, dressed down in soft, comfortable clothing, watching as Fray, still present despite Chaurakh's previous distance and all too present exhaustion, took his armor to stow it in a cabinet. His task done, his hand curled around Chaurakh's elbow and tugged him to the bed, where he allowed himself to fall into the mattress, pillows and skins with no elegance. He didn't open his eyes when the mattress creaked again, shifting with the weight of a body clad in armor, nor when Fray sighed.
"You're a godsdamned fool," Fray muttered. "Still running about like a headless chocobo for every grown adult and child you see. Still taking the world's burdens entirely on yourself. Taking refuge with your shadow. Exhausting yourself even now, and for what..."
Gauntleted fingers ran through the damp strands of Chaurakh's hair, slow and sweet. He managed a small smile, barely feeling the curl of his own mouth past the exasperated affection he could feel echoing through every inch of him, buoying him toward sleep. Feeling Fray, both a piece of himself and his own person, and the gentle contact that accompanied his stern demeanor.
He thought he heard someone speak. Wasn't sure who, only aware of the moment where Fray's fingers paused for a long second, and then he sighed. A fresh surge of affection burst to life in Chaurakh's soul, bright like fireworks, and he rode it deep down into a dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, it was to a pillow hanging gored on one horn and an empty apartment. But he felt rested, whole and loved, and that was more than enough.
(meet fray.)
The sword on his back was beginning to weigh down his shoulders as he stepped through the doors. So much had happened in his life, yet the lobby of the Goblet's apartment building was the same as ever. The same wallpaper, the same carpet, the same desk. There was a strange sense of timelessness to it that paused Chaurakh in his steps, the feeling of - something he didn't have the faculties to name swimming over him near strong enough to threaten his footing.
"You need any help, milord?"
The voice broke him out of reverie, eyes snapping to finally take in the young Miqo'te currently manning the desk. It was a face he didn't recognize, nothing about the brown braid or blue eyes jogging his memory. If she'd noticed his momentary slip, she didn't show it; there was an air of lethargic boredom to the entirety of her. Her eyes stayed at halfmast, her words drawled at the end of the syllables. It was clear that, despite her question, she could not care less about his answer.
"No, I'm all right."
She nodded, her eyes already sliding away before he'd finished his sentence. In seconds she was absorbed back in the book spread out before her, and Chaurakh headed for the lift before she could reconsider, or get a second, better look at him.
His title was as much a spotlight as it was armor. One would be hard-pressed to find a corner of Eorzea that didn't hear of the Warrior of Light, at this point, but the stories preceded Chaurakh's arrival by hundreds of malms. He was a hulking beast of a man who spoke nary a word. He literally glowed with Hydaelyn's light, a walking beacon for Eorzea. Most couldn't agree on his actual race, let alone his name. At times like this, with his reserves of energy rapidly dwindling, it was a blessed relief.
The same timeless feeling permeated the space, but it was a welcome feeling now. The place was familiar, his alone. Filled with objects he'd chosen or made himself, painstakingly maintained by a retainer on his gil. There was no sign of dust on his desk or bookshelves, the aquarium and its inhabitants burbled away in the corner, full of life. It was him, through and through, and it was only with the door locked behind him that Chaurakh finally felt the tension begin to release from his muscles in slow ilms. He took the sword from his back and set it against the wall, watching the deepening orange light of the sunset outside paint the room in bands of warm color.
He walked to his desk, considering a book to read or perhaps an entry to write, and only stopped as his hand stretched to pull a thin volume from the stack perched atop the furniture. He paused, staring at the fading trails of dark, cloying aether following in the wake of his hand, trying to recall when he'd begun channeling it.
"I've always wondered why you bothered paying the gil to maintain this place when you barely see the inside of it. Seemed a frivolous waste. But now it's clear. A little piece of sanctuary to run to."
Chaurakh hung his head, breathing out a low, deep sigh. His impromptu guest's footsteps rang of clattering metal as he approached, stopping as his armored boots entered Chaurakh's line of vision. When he raised his head, he met Fray's eyes through the holes of his helmet's visor, arms folded imperiously over his chest.
"That was the intent."
Fray didn't flinch at the sharp edge of Chaurakh's words. The click of his tongue rang out clear as a shot. "If you want to strike at me, then pick up your blade." Despite his words, and the gauntlets on his hands, his fingers were gentle when they reached to take Chaurakh's arms. "Unlike the chattel out there, I have ever only asked for one thing: your wellbeing."
The petulant huff couldn't hide the way Chaurakh listed into the touch. How his body sagged with sudden exhaustion he had no energy left to fight. Fray took the weight with no complaint, hands braced at Chaurakh's elbows to hold him steady. His eyes scanned the Warrior before sighing, exasperated, edging on frustrated.
"You need to clean up. The clerk may have held her tongue, but you smell like a malboro."
"Your bedside manner is a wonder," Chaurakh murmured, managing a smile as Fray scoffed.
"You'd be the only one daft enough to have your inner darkness playing nurse." Fray's hands turned him, slow but certain, toward the door. "Go. Unless you're too weak to make it there and back yourself."
With anyone else it would have been mockery. With the keen way Fray watched his every move, it was a genuine question without judgment, and it wasn't unfounded. Tied together as they were, it was certain he could feel how tired Chaurakh was from his realm-wide trekking, the fights he'd endured. While he knew Fray was invisible to the eyes of others, Chaurakh didn't trust himself in this state not to respond to the dark knight in public. He shook his head, and Fray settled back, arms folded once more.
"Go, then. And perhaps consider moving up to a place with a private bath. What hero isn't allowed the decency to bathe in peace?"
Chaurakh didn't respond as he stepped through the door. Fray, blessedly, did not follow.
His luck continued to hold up, when he entered the bathing room to find only two others occupying it, and they were distracted by their own conversation. Chaurakh didn't bother putting in the effort to take in their details, focused solely on his own routine, a slow, sluggish affair of disrobing, washing and rinsing. His hands moved with mechanical efficiency as his mind floated, adrift on empty currents, idle thoughts bobbing to the surface before sinking down again.
He hadn't been aware of closing his eyes until he felt the tug on his soul and forced them back open. The bathing room was empty, the water cooling on Chaurakh's skin, minute shivers beginning to wrack his body. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, still, until the tug came once more. Gentle, but insistent. He breathed in deep and finally forced himself into action.
He blinked again and found himself back in his room, dressed down in soft, comfortable clothing, watching as Fray, still present despite Chaurakh's previous distance and all too present exhaustion, took his armor to stow it in a cabinet. His task done, his hand curled around Chaurakh's elbow and tugged him to the bed, where he allowed himself to fall into the mattress, pillows and skins with no elegance. He didn't open his eyes when the mattress creaked again, shifting with the weight of a body clad in armor, nor when Fray sighed.
"You're a godsdamned fool," Fray muttered. "Still running about like a headless chocobo for every grown adult and child you see. Still taking the world's burdens entirely on yourself. Taking refuge with your shadow. Exhausting yourself even now, and for what..."
Gauntleted fingers ran through the damp strands of Chaurakh's hair, slow and sweet. He managed a small smile, barely feeling the curl of his own mouth past the exasperated affection he could feel echoing through every inch of him, buoying him toward sleep. Feeling Fray, both a piece of himself and his own person, and the gentle contact that accompanied his stern demeanor.
He thought he heard someone speak. Wasn't sure who, only aware of the moment where Fray's fingers paused for a long second, and then he sighed. A fresh surge of affection burst to life in Chaurakh's soul, bright like fireworks, and he rode it deep down into a dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, it was to a pillow hanging gored on one horn and an empty apartment. But he felt rested, whole and loved, and that was more than enough.