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It is a very tired and weary, and yet quietly happy party of Scions that returns to the Crystarium after the Warrior of Darkness’s triumph against Hades. If you’re entirely honest, your feelings are much more complex--much more conflicted--than such a simple word as happy could ever hope to express; but you’d done as you’d promised and rescued the Exarch, and none of the Scions had paid for it with their lives, and both of those things are definitely worth being happy about, so those are the things you focus on for now.
For now, you set aside the loss of that friendly shadow pacing at your side and tossing out cynical comments and gruff encouragement at various turns--though truly, Ardbert is closer to you now than he ever was before, and when you’re particularly quiet and still, you can almost convince yourself that you can feel his heartbeat alongside your own.
For now, you don’t think about the other, ultimately rather less-friendly shadow that had paced at your other side, and do your utmost to put all thoughts of that stoop-shouldered, tired old man with his faded golden eyes and theatrical mannerisms and that all-too-smooth voice out of your head.
It feels as though the entire population of the Crystarium comes out to meet you on your return, all of them no doubt overjoyed at the return of both the Crystal Exarch and the night itself, which arches overhead right now, lovely and dark and deep, shot through with sweeping speckles of stars that flicker and sparkle like scattered handfuls of distant diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. They cheer at your return as well: the Warrior of Darkness, slayer of the Lightwardens, bringer of shadows.
As quickly as they manage to ready a veritable feast, you wonder if they’d had so much faith in you that they’d started preparations the instant the Scions had told them of your solitary departure and then left to chase after you, unwilling to allow you to face Emet-Selch alone, regardless of the danger your very presence had presented to them at the time. You were glad of their support in the end, and yet you’re even more glad that they hadn’t been there for your initial confrontation with the Ascian, if what had happened between you could truly be called that.
Remember...remember us... Remember...that we once lived...
After all that you’ve learned here on the First, after all the curious and caustic conversations you’d shared, after wandering the streets of that incredible enchantment at the bottom of the sea-floor in the Tempest, you don’t think that you could ever forget.
Especially not now, as you once again recall the feeling of his mouth crushed against yours in a hungry kiss that you’d returned every bit as fiercely, the drag of his teeth and tongue across your skin, how his bare fingertips had pressed clusters of dark bruises into the tender flesh of your hips as he’d taken you hard and rough against the wall. Not now, when you think of how you’d almost been able to recall what you had once been to him before your soul was sundered--and how that still hadn’t been enough, how you hadn’t been enough for him. Not as you are, not incomplete and fractured and broken-
And so for now, you readily accept the flagon of whatever sort of alcohol Giott wants to foist upon you at the moment, and drink deep, and do your best to forget.
As something of the guest of honor, you stay for the festivities as long as possible, but you still don’t manage to last all that long. At this point your body is screaming at you, a score or more of different aches and pains clamoring to be seen to, and you know that you need to rest--and take a bath as well. Luckily the celebration is in full swing by this time, and between Alphinaud and Alisaie recounting the tale of your victory, Thancred dancing a merry jig with Ryne, Urianger (drunk, he must be drunk) dramatically reciting what sounds like some sort of arcane poetry, and Y’shtola looking on at all of it and smiling her mysterious smile over a glass of wine, you heavily doubt that you’ll be missed.
Even so, you stay as long as you can, wanting to drink in the overflowing joy and the sight of all the shining, happy faces surrounding you, a treasure worth far more than any measure of gold or jewels, a greater reward than any amount of fame or any sort of fancy title. But heartening as it is to see, all the noise and laughter and motion becomes overwhelming all too quickly, and soon enough you’re slipping away from the crowds, seeking the solace and solitude of your rooms in the Pendants.
You can feel some of the stress and strain slipping away from you even as you make the climb up that gently-curving staircase, the sounds of the celebration growing increasingly muffled and distant with every step. By the time you reach your doorway, it’s become little more than a soothing hum reminiscent of a heartbeat, or perhaps more like the crashing of waves on the shore, and you’re grateful that outwardly, at least, you’ll be able to find some much-needed peace.
If only stepping through your door would allow you to silence the mental turmoil roiling beneath the surface of your mind so easily; if only it were that simple to leave all those complicated thoughts and memories and feelings behind, even just for a short time. There is little enough chance of that, you know, but you can only hope that you’ll find yourself weary enough that all those doubts and recollections won’t be able to grasp at your mind with any sort of persistence.
What you do find when you step through those double doors is surprising, though not at all unpleasantly so. Off to one side of the room there’s a large tub full of steaming-hot water, ready and waiting for you already. There’s a stack of soft towels piled on the table, alongside a collection of soaps, scrubs, and shampoos of various sorts and scents, as well as a refreshing-looking assortment of sliced fruit on a tray.
You pause for a moment in the doorway to take in that infinitely welcome sight, then you stride forwards into the room with purpose. Even as the door falls closed behind you with a quiet rattle of metal handles, your fingers have begun to fumble with your top, your usually dexterous hands almost clumsy with your eagerness to get out of these sweaty, dirty clothes and into that heavenly-smelling tub-
Thankfully, you only get as far as stripping off your boots and halfway opening your top before you hear a noise--a quick, quiet intake of air--and turn your head to find a startled-looking G’raha Tia stepping out from behind the privacy screen that halfway obscures the tub from where you’re standing now, an unfamiliar and downy-soft looking robe clutched loosely in his hands.
His crimson eyes go wide, his mouth opening soundlessly, never mind wordlessly, on seeing you standing there in a state of partial undress...and you can’t help but catch the way his eyes are drawn to those newly-revealed parts of your body for the most fleeting instant before he turns his head sharply to the side. When he speaks, his tone is the same calm and even one that you have come to expect from the venerable Crystal Exarch, if a bit more measured and slow with careful control.
“Oh... Forgive the intrusion, but I had thought that you might wish to bathe before retiring for the night. I expected to be long gone from this place ere you arrived, but...it would seem that once again, my plans have gone awry. You have my apologies, my friend. It was not my intention to...”
He trails off there, but he doesn’t actually need to say anything more, and you both know it. You know full well that he isn’t trying to take advantage of you in any way, that he certainly isn’t here to seduce you--not after the state he’d found you in down in Amaurot, and especially not after he’d overheard the deal you’d made for his freedom. Take me instead, you’d said, and Emet-Selch had done precisely that, and with some force. And yet, despite being aware of the terrible mistake you were undoubtedly making, you’d still been willing, both out of determination to save the Exarch no matter the cost, and also out of personal curiosity as well. The experience had been more than a little physically pleasurable, regardless of how rough the Ascian had been in the end and how painful the aftermath was on both your heart and your body, how much it had hurt when he’d all but spat the words you are a mistake before his spend had even grown cool, never mind finished drying on the insides of your thighs.
No, you’re well aware that the Exarch is not here to proposition you, a certainty that’s further underscored as he tugs his hood down lower over his face, sinking his features into deep shadow once more, though the mortified downwards curve of his mouth is still plainly visible.
“I shall leave right away, and give you the proper privacy that you deserve,” he states with a polite incline of his head, then pauses, his hands absently kneading that incredibly comfortable-looking robe he’s still clutching to his chest before he continues in a far quieter tone, “...I simply suspected that...after what you’d been through, you could no doubt do with a bit of looking-after. And...” He briefly bites his still-bloody lip, then continues on with the rest of what he’d wanted to say with a practiced smoothness that belies that previous action, and highlights how seriously he’s taken his leadership role here at the Crystarium, “And since you chose to endure what you did specifically for my sake, I found that I wanted to do some small thing for you in return, though it does not even begin to repay the debt I owe you, much less make up for what you must have experienced.”
He pauses again, wavering, and you’re debating trying to put him at ease by telling him that it wasn’t really all that awful, not until the end at least, though you wonder if that might not actually make things worse in the long run, if he knows everything that had passed between you and Emet-Selch.
“...I might attempt to find another way to make it up to you, should you allow it--nay, should you wish it,” he adds quietly, and quite immediately but not at all mysteriously, all thoughts of Emet-Selch vanish from your mind for the moment.
It’s impossible to really tell if G’raha Tia had meant it as an enticement, if perhaps he is here to seduce you after all, now that this clear opportunity has presented itself--though he is always so perpetually poised and purposeful that it seems unbelievable, almost unthinkable. And yet...perhaps deep down, that far younger man who had raced you for dirt and subtly (or not) flirted with you at every opportunity still remains. Perhaps the jubilant bard whose mismatched eyes hadn’t been even remotely shy about following your every move, about tracing your figure with visible appreciation or focusing on your face, chiefly your eyes and your mouth, with equal interest is still present in the Crystal Exarch’s heart of hearts.
But right now, you are nothing short of exhausted--far too much so to even attempt to sift through the messy whirl of feelings that possibility stirs within you, especially considering the emotional wreckage that your encounter with Emet-Selch has stranded you in. Right now, the only thing you have the mental capacity to want is that hot bath, perhaps a few mouthfuls of that fresh fruit from the platter on the table, a long draught of cool water, and then a full night’s uninterrupted sleep.
But...you trust him. Whichever he may be now, both G’raha Tia and the Crystal Exarch have more than earned your good faith, and you’re quite literally painfully aware of the fact that you could use some additional healing.
...And now that you get a good look at him, G’raha still looks pretty roughed up as well. He’s changed out of his ragged robes and washed away the worst of the dirt and blood, but the cuts and bruises from whatever Emet had done to him before you’d gotten there still paint a kaleidoscope of colors across what little you can see of his pale skin. Your gaze lingers in particular on his slightly bloody nose, and that cut at the right corner of his mouth, his lower lip slightly swollen in a way you find oddly...tempting. You can’t quite deny that, despite feeling so intensely bone-weary that you’re almost ready to drop, there’s still a part of you that wonders how his lips would feel against yours--a part of you that had wondered that ever since you started spending time together exploring the Crystal Tower back in Mor Dhona in what almost feels like another lifetime.
Honestly, it had been one of your lasting regrets, that you hadn’t been bold enough to kiss him at some point during all of that, before he’d been closed away forever, to sleep for centuries to come and dream of a brighter future.
...Well, not quite ‘forever’ as it turns out. Perhaps it’s a sign--or even better, a second chance. For both of you.
“You’ve been put through a fair amount yourself,” you finally reply, giving him the same sort of soft, beaming smile you’d given him after he’d stumbled over to you and the rest of the Scions, when you’d answered his drooping ears and anxious fidgeting with warmth and relief rather than anger: ‘Tis good to see you awake, G’raha Tia. “To be honest, you look as though you could ‘do with a bit of looking-after’ also.”
Even the concealing shadows of his hood aren’t enough to hide the way the Exarch blinks at that, looking slightly taken back; and judging by how he unthinkingly clutches that robe to himself even more tightly as he looks down at his feet, it’s clear that he isn’t certain what he should do, what you want from him in this moment. Whether you mean for him to stay, or if you want him to go.
Seeking to allay his confusion, your smile shifts into something more wry and lopsided as you unthinkingly toss out a line that is (you think) a fitting balance of snarky and straightforward:
“Hey, don’t look so apprehensive. It’s your city. You can stay if you want.”
Judging by the way his mouth thins with visible displeasure, your halfhearted joke didn’t land properly. Considering the countless horrific and intrusive transgressions of the tyrant you had deposed in Eulmore, never mind the insidiously-plotting ancient being you’ve just slain in an enchanted undersea metropolis, you know it was in poor taste anyway. But there’s always been a dark edge to your humor, and tired as you are, you couldn’t seem to stop the quip from escaping your lips.
“This city is not mine, per se, as it belongs in equal measure to all who dwell here,” is the Exarch’s quietly stern reply, “And even if I were to claim it as such, I would still be held accountable by its rules and regulations--as well as my own.”
The steel fades from his bearing, and he softens again as he gives a slight shake of his head.
“My only wish is to offer you whatever succor I might provide, if you so desire it. However, as it would seem that such aid is not what you require, I shall respect your choice and take my leave.” The smile he turns on you is weary but genuine, overflowing with the same kindness and care he’d shown you before, when you’d found each other in the echoing halls of Amaurot’s capitol building. “If you want for a moment of solitude, my friend, then you should be permitted such.”
Carefully refolding the robe and placing it down atop the bench beside the door, he turns to go, but you call out to him by name again--“G’raha, wait”--and he does just that, looking back at you over his shoulder. Those familiar crimson eyes are slightly wide and full of wonder, just as they’d been when you spoke his name on Mt. Gulg and also after the battle with Hades, and you suddenly can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since anyone has called him anything other than Crystal Exarch.
You don’t know why he’d hidden his identity, but judging by the expression on his face, he certainly doesn’t mind hearing his name from you, having the correct sounds shaped by your lips and sliding over your tongue--a strange thought, but then again, perhaps not. You haven’t missed how the Exarch looked at you, how G’raha is looking at you now, his gaze lingering in a manner that isn’t in any way disrespectful, though it is very telling. Your thoughts briefly drift back to that last long conversation you’d had out in the fields of Kholusia, how he’d shared his dreams with you...dreams that, at the time, he had believed would never be possible to fulfill. But now...
Now, he’s here. And you’re here. And there’s really no reason that you can think of that he shouldn’t stay by your side. If that’s what he wants, he’s certainly more than earned it, in your opinion. That’s part of why you decide to tell him what you do; the other part is simply that his presence is comforting, and after the day you’ve had, you could do with some comfort right about now.
“If you truly believe that there’s anything you can do to...to help me...then please, stay.”
He stands there for a moment, seemingly turning your words over in his head, then gives a firm nod, seeming to accept them at face value, for precisely what they are.
“As you wish, my friend. Please know that I am here to serve you in whatever capacity you might need.”
Those words are spoken plainly, a simple statement that is entirely matter-of-fact; as with his previous offer, his voice is calm and even and inexpressibly fond, but still utterly lacking in any sultry or suggestive tone. Even so, your earlier encounter with Emet-Selch is understandably still fresh in your mind, which takes an immediate downwards and dirty turn. You can’t help thinking of G’raha on his knees, being made to serve and doing so willingly, crimson eyes shining with adoration even in the midst of it all...but then you put that idea firmly aside. You’re still so sore from what had been done to you earlier, you shouldn’t want that sort of thing...and yet, part of you still does.
You had always found G’raha Tia to be cute--a little bit stupid, but cute--and now that he has such a serene, wise aura about him, now that he’s matured...well, now he’s just gorgeous.
But you don’t say any of that aloud, of course, instead finally starting off across the room, heading straight for the tub and turning your back on G’raha as you resume stripping off your tunic--then find yourself brought up short, a quiet hiss of pain dragged in between your clenched teeth, flinching sharply as you discover that one of your arms doesn’t want to lift right. Craning your neck back, you don’t find any visible injury, which means that it must be internal, a torn ligament or a pulled muscle...which makes sense, considering that you’d had to swim from the bottom of the Tempest up to the Kholusian shoreline after hurling a battle-axe made of pure Light with shattering force. Still, visible or not, the muscles twinge and spasm unpleasantly when you attempt to raise that arm too far.
Without you so much as saying a word, the Exarch is instantly there at your side, his touch gentle as he helps to ease you out of your top. You keep casting surreptitious sideways glances at him, but you find that although his expression is intent and focused, there isn’t any trace of heat or desire in it; at this moment, he’s simply a healer looking after a patient.
That’s actually more than a little reassuring, you find, and some of the tension that had re-settled into your back and shoulders when you’d found an unexpected visitor in your quarters eases away again.
Clutching at your injured arm, you let the Exarch help you with the rest of your clothing, though once your top is off, he pauses to heal your shoulder before continuing. It should be embarrassing, you think, having someone assist you, a grown and capable adult, with something as everyday and simple-seeming as getting undressed, as personal as helping you out of your socks and smallclothes. And yet, somehow it’s not. Maybe it’s because you know that you’re in good trim from your adventurer’s life of constant battles and errand-running, and don’t particularly feel as though you have much to hide. Or maybe it’s simply that...you really do trust him, and being embarrassed about something like this, about allowing yourself to rely on his freely-offered, freely-given aid, isn’t really possible any more. Maybe it also has something to do with the placid way he goes about the whole process--there’s almost a rhythm to it, the unhurried movement of his hands, the way he steps in close to brace you as he carefully shifts your weight from one foot to another, the way his half-lidded gaze never lingers overlong on any one particular part of your body, save for your face.
His resolute, almost slightly blank expression doesn’t change as he grasps your forearms to help steady you as you step into the bath, his grip firm and yet gentle, and once again you have to force your thoughts away from idle imaginings of those strong, lovely hands clamping down around your wrists in a decidedly different sort of situation. Not for the first time, you’re relieved that female physiology is far more subtle when it comes to showing arousal--had you been male, you likely would’ve had some rather awkward explaining to do.
You suddenly can’t seem to let go of his hands fast enough, grasping the worn-smooth edges of the large wooden tub instead as you let your legs fold beneath you, slowly sinking down into the blissful heat of fresh, clean water. Your eyes ease shut as well as you lean back against the side of the tub, bending your legs so that you can slide down enough that the water closes over your shoulders, nearly lapping against your chin. Despite the tub’s generous size, that leaves your knees and lower thighs feeling decidedly chilly, but at the moment you can’t bring yourself to care. You want to stay here like this forever, or maybe just at least until you fall asleep. It isn’t as though you can drown, after all, so you’re not in any real danger.
“Would you like assistance with washing yourself?”
You force your heavy eyelids halfway open, tipping your head back and slightly to the side to turn your owlish gaze on the Exarch, who is looking down at you with an inquisitive sort of expectance. You can’t help but wonder if he phrased it that way on purpose, asking if you want help rather than need it--you’re both well aware that you’ve fought your way through far tougher battles than your upcoming struggle to scrub the dirt and grime, the blood and long-dry sea-salt (and other things) off of your body. You could manage it on your own, you’re well aware...and yet, still you hesitate. You don’t need his help...but that isn’t what he’d asked, and you can’t help but think that yes, you probably would very much like his assistance, would like the feel of having those strong yet gentle hands running over your body-
Then your injured shoulder gives a faint but still very distinct throb, and your decision is all but made for you.
“I-I think I can manage for the most part,” you say, vaguely irritated at that brief stammer and how low and thick your voice sounds, far more throaty than usual, and you swallow hard in an attempt to banish some of that atypical hoarseness before admitting, “Though...I would appreciate it if you’d help me wash my hair. My shoulder is much better thanks to your healing spells, but...”
“But even once flesh has been knitted back together, some lingering discomfort often still remains,” the Exarch smoothly cuts in, picking up the conversation where you’d half-sleepily stumbled and filling a potentially awkward silence with a gentle flow of easy words. He isn’t seeking to lecture you, either--he knows how skilled you are as a healer, after all, as good or even better than he is himself; rather, it’s a simple rote repetition of information that you’re both well aware of, facts that are comfortingly commonplace. “Ligaments and tendons stretched or strained by the initial injury can only truly heal with adequate time and rest--so it wouldn’t do to overtax it so soon.”
As he speaks, he’s sorting through the collection of brightly-colored bottles clustered on a nearby table, finally selecting one and pulling the stopper, bending his head to take a quick sniff at its contents before offering it to you, allowing you to do the same if you like. The scent is light and refreshing, smelling of both flowers and fruit, and you give a nod, accepting his choice. You shift in the tub a bit more so that you can lean your head back to get your hair completely wet, then sit up enough to give him easier access. You watch as he tips the bottle to the side, letting a generous but not wasteful amount run into his cupped palm, then sets it aside and proceeds to slowly, carefully work that shampoo through your hair.
No one has helped you wash your hair in years, not since you were a child, and this is a decidedly different situation. You’re an adult now, and a very attractive equally-adult man is bathing you. The whole thing should feel sensual, seductive...but you find that it’s too calming to really feel that way. As before, the Exarch is gentle, but his hands are every bit as strong as you’d expected, and before long you’re relaxing into his touch. It honestly feels pretty heavenly, having someone else’s fingers rubbing firm little circles into your scalp, washing away all the accumulated salt and ash. Once he’s satisfied with the lather, he silently guides you to lay back and rinse your hair, his fingers combing through your tresses with care, and you’re more than a little impressed that he manages to shield your face properly throughout, that it’s near-effortless how he doesn’t get any soap in your eyes. Next he works a nice conditioner through your hair, once again meticulous and careful when he rinses that out as well, though this time he seems to go a bit more slowly, carefully threading his fingers through it, making certain there are no knots or tangles. Once again, the whole situation is so soothing, you’re almost afraid that you might drop off to sleep here and now, so eventually you force yourself to sit upright again, reaching up with your good arm to wring out your hair as best you can.
G’raha sits back in response, his eyes steady on your face as he waits for your next instructions, and without much thought, you snag the clean washcloth draped over the side of the tub and hold it out to him, pointedly turning your bare back towards him once he’s taken it. He understands your obvious though wordless request, and obediently falls to washing your back for you, scrubbing your skin with a fresh-smelling soap and that washcloth. He isn’t in any way rough about it, of course, but still he slows and takes extra care around your bad shoulder, the spot where a faded bruise lingers and your previous injury still aches. Unexpectedly, he pauses to lightly trace the shadow of that wound with his thumb...and you find yourself giving an involuntary shudder as that simple touch sends a spike of heat through your body, a coil of desire stirring low in your belly despite the undeniable soreness that still lingers in that same area as well.
It’s more than enough to let you know that you most assuredly can’t have him, not like that, not right now--you’re entirely too raw from how roughly Emet had used you, how you’d let him use you, how you’d wanted him to use you, at least at the time. Now that heady, overwhelming pleasure has long faded and only the pain still lingers, both from what he’d done and what he’d said, and neither is in any way enjoyable.
Hard as he’d taken you, he hadn’t wanted you in the end. Despite your very best attempt to find some common ground, to establish...something between you, the proverbial hand you’d extended had been slapped away--though honestly, you can’t say that you were surprised. You’d both wanted such different things, after all: Emet-Selch--Hades--had wanted a return of the past, while you and your friends fought for the present and for the future, things that the Ascian would not, could not have ever been satisfied with, tempered as he was. You’d known that even then, when you’d said if two stars and more are doomed otherwise, I would risk anything--everything--in the attempt. Known that it was sheer folly, a hopeless endeavor--and yet, some part of you had been drawn to him, had still possessed an entirely unjustifiable lingering hope...and longing. Whoever your soul had once belonged to had meant something to him in that past that he so highly valued; and the fact that even now, thousands of years later, the feelings that she had held for him in return still resonated in you, when her soul was in literal pieces...there was a heartbreaking beauty in that, a bittersweet tale of star-crossed lovers.
But you were not her. Not fully. And not fully had not been enough for Emet-Selch.
Perhaps the sting of that rejection is part of why you’re so eager to embrace these rekindling feelings that are yours, only yours. Perhaps that’s why, despite what you’d said before, once G’raha is finished washing your back, you shift to offer him one arm instead, then the other. He takes it in stride, dipping the washcloth into the tub and reapplying fresh soap as he turns his attention to whatever body part you hold out to him, scrubbing hands and arms and face and legs and feet firmly enough to remove dirt and dried blood, but never too hard, never harshly. He pauses then, passing you the washcloth as he moves to add more hot water, giving you a moment of privacy to clean your chest, your midriff, and the lower half of your body as well. Once he’s returned, as you sigh again and sink down slightly in the renewed warmth of the water, his hands come to rest lightly on your upper back once again, and after murmuring a request for permission and receiving a curt nod in response, he falls to rubbing your shoulders.
...And that, perhaps unfortunately, is something you’ve always found to be a huge turn-on. A good back rub can leave you feeling blissfully boneless and pliable, as well as more than a little aroused, your once-tense muscles warm and silky-smooth and ready to be put to use. You’d hoped it wouldn’t be the case this time, tired as you are and stiff as your muscles feel, but you find to your chagrin that even now, it’s sending further tendrils of heat and longing throughout your entire body, leaving you practically humming with desire. Still, you fight that feeling, for both his sake as well as your own--now is not the time for this, and you do want those painful knots in your shoulders to loosen up, you do want his hands on you. And while you would trust him with your life--have trusted him with your life--and believe that he’s an excellent confidant, you somehow can’t bring yourself to tell him that he’s turning you on with what he no doubt views as nothing but a friendly, therapeutic shoulder massage.
You do what you can to keep quiet, biting your lip hard and swallowing down all the sighs and moans that the deliciously pleasurable movements of his hands are threatening to drag out of you; and for a time, you manage it. But when he really starts to dig his thumbs into the sore, tightly-knotted muscles of your shoulders, your mouth falls open and a low, gasping groan escapes you--a sound wanton and sensual enough to give him pause, his hands immediately going still against your skin.
Flushing deeply, you wish that the gift of the Kojin hadn’t made it impossible for you to drown, though it’s still tempting to make an attempt here and now in the tub. Abruptly, you stand, pulling away from those hands, out of the Exarch’s grasp, uncaring that you’re completely bare before him now, water streaming from your hair and body in silvery rivulets.
“Much as I’d like to linger, I’m clean. So I should get into bed, to—to rest properly.”
It’s clear from his startled expression that G’raha is momentarily taken aback, both by that unexpected sound that you’d made as well as your sudden movement, but he accepts your words, your sideways excuse without question. In an instant he’s gathered up one of the nearby towels and has begun to help you dry off, something of a repetition of the way he’d helped you wash yourself not a quarter of a bell ago. You catch his eyes straying towards those bottles again, a collection of lotions and the like, but he doesn’t mention them, and his focus returns to the task at hand. Before long, he’s helping you into that plush new robe, taking particular care that your bad arm doesn’t get tangled or tugged on uncomfortably as he does so, before turning his attention to drying your hair. Once again, you think that this should seem sexual, erotically intimate; but as he ruffles your hair with a fresh towel, it just feels comforting, somehow almost parental, an entirely innocent sort of intimacy.
Sure enough, as he works, the Exarch breaks the silence with a fond chuckle, his tone musing and half-absent. “Perhaps it’s strange to admit it, but...I think the last time I helped someone bathe like this was when Lyna was still very small.”
“Not quite like this, I hope,” you say before you can stop yourself, and his hands go tellingly still atop your head. That moment stretches between you, a miniature infinity; then those hands start to move again. Aside from that pause, he doesn’t respond at first, and you’re quiet, suddenly worried that you’d overstepped somehow, that another joke (such as it was) had fallen flat.
“...No. Definitely not quite like this,” he finally murmurs, a soft admission in that echo of your words; and for the first time, there’s the barest touch of heat in his tone. Looking up at him from beneath the edge of the towel, you meet his gaze--but rather than a burning flame, the expression you find is far more akin to embers glowing faintly in the hearth, long-dormant but still there, still able to be stoked. This is the look of a man who has waited more than a century, and who would be content to wait longer still, forever even, if that was how long it took.
He smiles amiably, that light yet gleaming dully in his striking ruby eyes, but doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t act on that hint of heat or make any sort of move on you as he guides you over to sit on the end of the bed, settling in beside you as he gently combs out your still-damp hair, then moves back, seating himself across from you on the nearby desk chair as he starts to look over the rest of your injuries.
The tiny cuts on your arms and hands, a mostly-closed gash on your shin, a scrape along your side, each and every one is dealt with quickly and easily; then his gaze comes to rest on the bruises of a very different sort visible on your neck and shoulders. You watch his face intently as he studies those marks, but his expression is closed and calm, though the light in his eyes and the firm set of his mouth reminds you of the time he’d knowingly set himself and indeed all of the Crystarium against the might of Eulmore. He is...angry, you think--but not at you. Ever since your brief exchange in Amaurot, when he’d found you after, every time he’s looked at you there has been nothing but care, and concern, and overwhelming gratitude in his gaze. There are traces of guilt as well at times, and always, always a certain sort of wistful sadness, but there is no judgment, no blame whatsoever, and certainly nothing like displeasure, resentment, or disgust.
No, the truth of the matter is clear: he is angry at Emet-Selch for treating you thus. That you’d been willing, that he’d heard you make the deal for his freedom, was of no import. Regardless of your consent, the Exarch does not approve of how the other man had handled you, a fact made even more apparent by the way he starts to reach out towards the darkest, most egregious mark on your neck--only to check himself, pulling his hand well back and away, looking to you for permission first.
“...If I may?”
It’s suddenly a little bit difficult to meet that warm, steady gaze that’s overflowing with tenderness and veneration. You find yourself swallowing hard as your eyes cut to the side--though you still notice his gaze following the subtle movement of your throat--and you give another silent nod, confident and absolute in your affirmation. There’s no reason to keep those marks on your skin, no purpose in reminding yourself of those desperately grasping hands and that starving-hungry mouth, those sharp teeth and that far sharper tongue. Whatever you had hoped they could mean at the time, when you were lost in the moment, now they’re only a reminder of how empty you’d felt afterwards, how dirty and used and inadequate.
You flinch slightly as the Exarch’s questing fingertips brush against the most visible of those bruises, but it’s nervous energy, not pain that had caused you to cringe; his touch is so light, so gentle that it feels as though he’s scarcely touching you, that you’re really feeling the heat from his skin rather than his skin itself brushing against your own. A gentle blue-green light flares up as he traces each of the bruises marring your flesh, and the intense and intent expression on his face, the way his eyes have gone half-lidded as he focuses carefully on this delicate undertaking, is nearly impossible to look away from.
Once he’s finished, your throat and shoulders cleared of any telltale marks, you find yourself hesitating, biting your lip as you waver between wanting more of the bruises left behind on your body healed, and the indignity of having to show anyone, much less the Crystal Exarch, all the other various places where Emet-Selch had staked his claim on your mortal flesh. You shake yourself out of that indecision by reminding yourself sharply that G’raha has just helped you undress and bathe; those sharp, watchful eyes had doubtless caught at least a glimpse of some of the lingering blemishes on your skin, even if he hadn’t given any sign of doing so.
No, you’re being ridiculous. It’s best to show him, to have this done and get it over with.
Even so, the movement of your hands is tentative, honestly just shy of timid, as you shift on the bed enough to allow you to tug aside part of your robe, fully displaying one of your hips and upper thigh--as well as the wealth of livid bruises you’d known would be there, which the warmth of the bath has only drawn out and further emphasized.
The Exarch scarcely pauses at the sight--though he does still pause, be it ever so slightly, for the barest fraction of a second...or perhaps he didn’t and you’re just reading into things too much, your tired eyes seeing things that aren’t really there. Whether you were imagining it or not doesn’t matter though, because soon enough his hand is there, gently smoothing away the angry purple-blue marks, the soothing warmth of his healing magicks setting you at ease, making it far less taxing to shift the other way, and let him do the same for your other hip, your other thigh. Thus emboldened, you turn away from him, then let the robe slip down to the small of your back, and this time you’re almost certain that you hear a soft intake of breath as he gets a good look at the bruises on your lower back. Your room isn’t well-lit at the moment--the Exarch had lowered to lights to preserve your modesty somewhat, as much as was possible under these circumstances--but you’d brought one of the Crystalline Mean’s many lanterns back to your room, to sit proudly on a little table beside your bed, and that lantern provides more than enough light for G’raha to see just how much damage has been done here. Your tender, quietly protesting muscles had let you know those bruises and scrapes were there, that they must be running down most of your spine after being slammed into the wall, but from the way Emet had held you in place towards the end of things as he’d moved against you relentlessly, you aren’t surprised that the small of your back is the worst off.
Feeling that pain melting away is a welcome relief, and you think now that you might actually be able to sleep comfortably, without pain, for the first time in a long while.
The sensation of the Exarch’s hand resting lightly at the small of your back isn’t at all unwelcome either, a reassuring touch that does not linger overlong, much as part of you wishes that it would.
...And that thought reminds you that there’s still more bruises left to be dealt with…though these are perhaps the most difficult to admit to of all. Once again you find yourself swallowing hard, and you turn to face G’raha fully, your gaze anxious as you peer into his hooded face, your hands fisting in the front of your robe, knuckles flaring white.
“...And, uh...these also, if...i-if you don’t mind...”
Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, you tear the proverbial bandage off quickly, letting your robe fall open, baring your breasts--as well as the even more abundant number of blood-bruises peppering the soft skin of your chest--this time with a healthy number of very obvious bite marks as well, the sensitive areas around your nipples looking particularly red and raw.
By now your face is burning with embarrassment and shame, but the Exarch takes it all in stride. His expression is still calm, closed, and not the least bit judgmental, and his touch is so, so gentle, as if you were made of delicate glass or spun sugar. You’re rather impressed at the fact that he doesn’t fluster, that he doesn’t even seem to be blushing, though the shadow cast over his face by that hood could very well be hiding any color that has risen to his cheeks.
...And if you’re completely honest, there’s a part of you that’s...almost a little disappointed that he hadn’t flustered and flushed adorably at the sight of you sitting there in front of him on your bed, topless and covered in bruises and bite marks, utterly naked beneath your loosened, half-removed robe. Then again, he is...what, well over a hundred years old by now, isn’t he? And almost another quarter of a century on top of that. Perhaps it’s only to be expected then. Perhaps even though he can still look at you with that quiet longing, even though his eyes had gone wide at the sight of you starting to strip out of your clothing, he doesn’t fully feel the heat of desire any longer; perhaps his blood has cooled after so many years, old age lowering his libido until there is naught left of any of the lingering traces of lust or desire that he might have once felt towards you.
It’s a slightly bitter thought, that you might actually have the chance to be together after all these years, only for something like that to prevent it yet again.
...It’s an even more bitter thought that once again, you could very well be facing down another man whose feelings for you have spanned centuries, but who doesn’t truly want you after all.
That isn’t fair, you tell yourself, practically snap at yourself, really. G’raha is nothing like Emet-Selch, you know this, and it’s hardly his fault that he’s...what, old? He’d done so much for you--he had literally gone back in time to save you, had even been planning to die for you, had set himself to the task of rewriting history to save the hero he so deeply admired, as well as this world full of people whom he had come to care for, to be responsible for.
They are nothing alike, and you won’t allow yourself to insult G’raha Tia by thinking otherwise, not even in the sanctity of your own head or heart.
You do your best not to react, not to shiver or flinch or arch into his touch as he methodically heals each and every bruise and bite mark that you’ve revealed to him, trying your damnedest to ignore the almost teasing stroke of his fingers as they run along the curves of your breasts, the pads of his thumbs lightly circling your swollen nipples before skimming away again, until the skin of your chest is once again smooth and free of blemish, as clean and unmarked as a fresh field of snow. As you tug your robe back into place, you’re startled to find the Exarch’s hand reaching for your face, and your heart gives a hopeful, nervous flutter--until you realize that he’s just lightly tracing the bruises that Emet-Selch had left on your chin.
...You do find it a bit interesting, though, that he’d saved these ones for last: the most obvious, but also the ones he’d actually seen the Ascian placing on your skin.
But he only heals you, and that’s all, though you want to think that maybe his hand did linger slightly beside your face, so close to cradling your cheek and yet never quite making full contact. His head is bowed, and with the way the lantern is situated behind him, his hood casts his face in even more shadow; and then your heart nearly stops, because as he starts to pull back, he gives a quiet but unmistakable sigh, one fingertip brushing every so lightly along your jawbone before his hand whispers away from you, leaving your skin tingling in the wake of his touch, your whole exhausted, weary body yearning for more, more of his hands on you.
You find yourself staring up at him dumbly as he pushes himself onto slightly unsteady feet, and he’s already half-turned, already sliding the chair back into its place beneath the desk when you find your voice again, long enough to blurt out a single, faltering word:
“W-wait.”
The Exarch does so instantly, his body going still as a statue as he waits to hear whatever else you might say. You swallow down that unreasonable desperation that had suddenly overwhelmed you, an intense feeling of not wanting to be alone just yet--no, of not wanting G’raha Tia to turn his back on you and leave you behind once again, albeit under radically different circumstances this time.
But it’s true that you’re not done here. That there is something more that you want from him...so long as that’s what he wants as well. Please know that I am here to serve you in whatever capacity you might need, he’d said, and my only wish is to offer you whatever succor I might provide, if you so desire it even before that. You don’t want to take advantage of him, of that generous offer, don’t have any desire to force anything on him that he doesn’t want--that he doesn’t still want here and now.
But you won’t know how he feels, what he feels, unless you ask. You won’t know what he’s willing to do, how far he’s willing to go to aid you, if you don’t tell him what you want, if you don’t request further aid.
Still, easier said than done. Especially now, after all this time, and after the day you’ve both had.
“...There’s...somewhere else that still hurts,” you manage to say, forcing the words out through your shame and uncertainty and utter exhaustion. You shouldn’t be doing this now, you don’t have the emotional capacity to process all these feelings when you’re so tired that you could lie down and probably be dead asleep the instant your head hits the pillow, and yet...you aren’t lying, either. You do still hurt...and you do still want him to fix it, if he can.
His face still entirely cast in shadow, the Exarch pauses for a conspicuously long moment, crystal hand still resting on the back of the chair; then he wordlessly returns the chair to its previous position and reseats himself in it, waiting for you to either show or tell him what else you want or need from him. When you hesitate, he tilts his head slightly, and in the soft glow of the lantern’s light, you can see the small, kind curve of his mouth, and think you can almost see a matching expression in his eyes. Either way that smile gives you courage, enough for you to pointedly let one of your hands drop from where you’d still been clutching at the top of your robe...and press it against your lower abdomen.
Your gaze drops and slides to the side, focusing on the lantern’s cheery light for a fortifying moment before you dare lift it to read his expression--and you’re slightly startled to find him already leaning forward, reaching out to place his hand atop yours. Once again his face is shrouded by the shadow of that hood; all you can see is that his eyelids have fallen half-closed again as he focuses the majority of his attention on healing you. And this time, the soothing warmth of his aether sinks deeply into you, alleviating the dull ache that has been plaguing you for hours now, making every step uncomfortable, if not outright painful. You hadn’t complained though, forcing it aside as just one more burden to be carried, and you’d pushed through the pain from the time that you and the other Scions had ventured into that imagined version of the Final Days of Amaurot, up until the point where you confronted a sorcerer of eld in all his terrible power and glory. Those twinges of discomfort you’d felt when you’d moved just wrong, with too much power or speed, certainly hadn’t made any of those fights any easier, and it hadn’t helped you on the swim back to the surface either, nor had they eased on the long amaro ride back to the Crystarium.
To finally feel that throbbing soreness fading away is a sort of bliss in and of itself...even if you know that it’s still not enough for you. That you want something more, and that there is still some pain of a very physical nature that lingers deep inside you even now, as yet untouched by all the Exarch’s magicks.
Still, you don’t want to push this. The Exarch has done so much for you tonight already--more than enough, more than you had expected anyone to do for you, more than anyone has done for you since you first became an adventurer. You don’t want to force anything further on him, don’t want the guilt that you know he feels about what had happened, about what you’d done to save him, to influence him and cause him to do something he might regret. You still haven’t outright asked what he wants, so you need to stop, or else you run the risk of taking advantage of him, which is a genuinely awful thought.
You find yourself staring down at his hand, settled firmly atop your own as he weaves his aether into restorative spells, and you bring up your other hand to rest it over his, sandwiching it between your own in an almost protective manner. Yes, regardless of whatever else you think you want right now, after he’s done healing you like this, it’s time to stop. Time to give both of you some space, to figure out where you stand. You’re both so beaten up and worn down anyway, the timing isn’t really the best-
And that’s when your vision blurs, and you’re suddenly struck with one of those familiar splitting headaches that always herald a vision of the past being shown to you by the Echo.
Everything is slightly grainy-looking and faintly sepia-toned, as usual, but even so, you immediately recognize your surroundings: you’re in the Crystal Tower, in a room that looks like the Ocular--but no, it’s smaller and covered in an avalanche of books, with a desk buried somewhere beneath it all. A desk at which is seated a very familiar figure: G’raha Tia, the Crystal Exarch himself.
It’s a rather younger version of him, you think--he’s wearing clothing similar to the robes he currently wears, but there might be slightly less crystal to him than there is now, though since you’re seeing him from the doorway behind his back, it’s difficult to tell. Lying on the desk in front of him is, unsurprisingly considering the cascade of them all around him, an open book...and as you watch, he gives a quietly rumbling hum, reaching out to brush his fingertips over whatever is there on the page, which you can’t quite see from where you’re standing, so you force your point of view closer-
And find yourself looking at an extremely lifelike (and quite flattering) picture of a painting...of you.
Past-G’raha gives a quiet sigh, followed by a low, slightly strained groan--and it’s only then that you look down, and realize with a start exactly what you’re being shown here.
G’raha is partly slumped down in his chair, his hood thrown back and his face and hair sweaty, his ears pinned back against his head, which he abruptly tips backwards, resting it against the back of the chair. Those usually-pristine robes are all askew, shoved aside with obvious impatience and a distinct lack of concern, to allow him easier access to what’s beneath them--specifically, his cock. He has one hand wrapped around that wetly-glistening length, pumping at it slowly, and judging by the state of him, he’s been at this for a while, and is either going for a second (third?) round or else has been edging himself like crazy for who knows how long. His chest is heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and his eyes are half-closed, vaguely unfocused--and yet also extremely focused, quite plainly concentrating on that picture of you. Impossible as that might be, if you’d had any lingering doubts, they’re fully banished by the way he suddenly breathes out your name, broken and unsteady and yet somehow still sounding deeply reverent despite this whole indecorous situation, speaking it as earnestly and adoringly as a prayer.
You don’t catch the rest of what he’s been saying, because as he rubs a thumb against that picture, stroking it with a tenderness that is somewhat at odds with what his other hand is doing, he suddenly gives a sharp gasp and a panting whimper, followed by an unexpectedly deep groan, his body convulsing and folding in on itself as he spills himself over his hand. His forehead comes to rest on the desk in front of the book, but judging by the movement of his arm as well as all the muffled, decidedly cute little moaning sounds he’s making, G’raha continues to work at himself for a while, instinctively doing everything he can to prolong his pleasure. Eventually he goes still though, his whole frame sagging in place, bonelessly limp and relaxed. Finally, he turns his head to the side, resting his cheek against the desk’s smooth surface as he simply rests there for a long moment, catching his breath and regaining control of himself. After a time, his eyes flutter open, and he sluggishly lifts his head from the desk--just enough to turn his gaze on that picture of you again. Once again his clean hand comes up to whisper across the printed copy of your face, and he seems quite concerned when his sweaty fingers wrinkle the edge of the page somewhat, prompting a moment of minor, if still very lackadaisical panic.
“...Forgive me, my friend,” he murmurs as he attempts to smooth that page out once more. “Even here and now, still nearly a dozen years before you are due to be born to walk the earth of our home world...still I cannot contain my desire for you. My longing...or my love.”
He swallows hard enough that you can hear it, and despite the sepia tint to everything, the hot, guilty color blossoming in his cheeks is unmistakable--and rather fetching in your eyes, as well. Briefly closing his eyes, he firmly yet respectfully closes that book and sets it aside, shaking his head at himself as he looks down at the mess he’s made with a weary sort of resignation. You can tell from his shamefaced expression that this isn’t the first time he’s done this, and you strongly suspect that it won’t be the last either.
“And yet...would that I could stay my hand. For to think of such things, to even fleetingly imagine a future in which we might be together, where you might accept my dearest wish and allow me to travel by your side... ‘Tis an unspeakable cruelty to allow myself to even dream of it, when already I know full well that such a thing cannot come to pass.”
Closing his eyes again, Past-G’raha bows his head amidst the sticky wreck he’s made of himself and his robes, and you feel the familiar sensation of being pulled away from that moment, your consciousness being drawn back to the present, where it belongs.
As that vision slowly fades away with another skull-splitting, throbbing pulse, reality trickling back into place in a brilliant wash of almost painfully bright white light, the first thing you hear is the Exarch’s quietly concerned voice:
“...Are you all right?”
Still wincing in the aftermath of your vision, nonetheless you manage to look up at the Exarch and give a silent nod, though after what you’ve just seen, you’re certain that there’s more than a hint of heat rushing to your face as you stare up at him searchingly. He’s looking back at you with clear concern, but without any self-consciousness--of course not, he doesn’t know what you just saw.
Not yet anyway.
“I take it that was the Echo?” he continues, his voice carefully muted in response to the way you’re still clutching at your head with one hand, and you find that rather than resting over your lower abdomen, his hand has now shifted to loosely grasp your other one. “A vision of the past, one somehow related to your present situation, no doubt...”
Though he doesn’t ask, the glint of curiosity in his eyes makes it obvious that he’s wondering what it might have shown you of his past...and you decide to tell him, albeit in a roundabout way.
Instead of answering his question, either the one he’d actually spoken or the one his expression is asking, you ask one of your own, straightforward and serious. That vision had given you the push you needed to take another step forward here and now, in regards to what the Crystal Exarch--no, G’raha Tia--means to you, and what you mean to him as well. Which is why you say:
“G’raha, do—do you still want me? What I saw just now... It looked like it was from some years ago, but...even so...”
As you watch something like understanding--or perhaps realization--growing on his face, you lose the rest of the words you’d had so clearly in your head just moments ago. You blame it on your exhaustion, the emotional wringer that you’d been put through today, the fact that he’s holding your hand so charmingly, when just moments ago you’d seen that very same hand with a firm hold on something else, his whole body shuddering and shaking at the mere thought of being with you.
He’s still staring at you wordlessly, eyes wide, so you struggle on, scrambling to gather up the scattered words you’d wanted to say, the perfect and polished turns of phrase you’d hoped to use, and for the most part, failing.
“It’s okay if you don’t. I’d understand. It’s only been a few years for me, but for you...it’s been so much longer. A century, and then some. So if you...don’t...anymore...if you’re not interested in that sort of thing...that’s okay.” You’d meant to stop there, but the words keep coming now, an inexorable flow of them that would put even that huge waterfall in Il Mheg to shame. “But...if you do want me, if you still do even now, then...what I want--no, what I need--is...”
You swallow the rest of what you’d wanted to say, about how you want him to touch you, to touch you deeply, inside, because by now the Exarch’s expression has shifted to one of mingled shock and mortification, with a thick layer of shame spread over top of it all--clearly he’s got some idea of what you might have seen, and--there, finally, you start to see some color in his face, his skin slowly growing a vibrant shade to match his eyes as he subtly flusters. Words seem to be beyond him, and he falls to simply staring down at your joined hands as he bites his lip--hard enough that you’re concerned that he’s going to set it bleeding again.
You stay silent for as long as you can manage, but finally you speak up again, prompting him as gently as possible.
“...G’raha? Is...are you-”
“Are you certain of this?” he interjects, and you’re momentarily taken aback, because you can’t recall a time that he’s ever interrupted you before. The intensity in his gaze as he stares at you head-on is both thrilling and honestly a little intimidating. “Are you certain that this is what you want?”
That I am what you want, he’s really saying, and you both know it, but he continues on, making sure that there is no possible chance of miscommunication.
“I am...so very changed from the G’raha Tia you once knew, so altered in both body and soul that I may as well be an entirely different person. I am...so very old,” he adds, those last five words low and quiet, a murmured whisper, and the mournful longing in his eyes as he meets your gaze says the rest. How could you possibly still want me, as I am now?
“That doesn’t matter,” you state, firmly and without hesitation, and you give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “No matter how old or young you are, no matter how much time has passed, you’re still you. The same G’raha Tia who I came to care about so much. And after everything I’ve seen here--after everything the people of the Crystarium had to say about you, how much they all love and respect you...and most of all, after everything you’ve done for me, never mind everything you would have done for me...I’m certain.”
The urge is there to reach for him with your other hand, to brush his hair out of his eyes, to push back his hood and run your fingers along his adorable ears, to cradle his face, crystal and all, in your hand. But you don’t--you won’t, not until you have his answer.
“...I should have picked a better time than this, when we’re both exhausted and beat halfway to the seventh hell and I’m so tired that I can hardly string a decent sentence together,” you say with a rueful chuckle, and that earns you a soft laugh from G’raha as well. “But after today...I can’t hold back any more, and I have to know... I’ll find a way to say it better some other time, but...yes, I’m certain. Yes, I want you...so long as you want me, as well.”
G’raha gives a sound that’s caught somewhere between another laugh and what might be a choked sob, though there’s no evidence of tears on his face this time--only shining eyes and a radiant though disbelievingly-wavering smile.
“More than anything,” he declares, and you find yourself leaning forward, leaning closer to him.
“...Then will you finally kiss me?”
He exhales another soft laugh at that as his smile widens, briefly breaking into a genuine grin, then he reaches out to gently cup one of your cheeks with the hand that isn’t still folded around one of yours. “Gladly,” he murmurs as he leans in with a shadow of the old familiar smirk he’d worn so often during your initial exploration of the Crystal Tower, and finally, finally, he does.
After waiting for it as long as you have--as long as he has--it’s undoubtedly the sweetest kiss you’ve ever had. You both take it slow, a soft, chaste kiss that’s gentle, yet still gains an edge of heat and passion to it as it goes on. When you break away to breathe, neither of you goes far, and you give in to that earlier impulse, mirroring the way he’s cradling one side of your face, stroking your thumb over skin and living crystal alike. Before long you give into the pull of each other again and share another kiss that’s every bit as long and lingering, full of unspoken feelings and promise.
The urge is there to take this further, to reach out and pull him onto the bed with you, to see just how far things might go...but honestly, you’re both so tired that you know it undoubtedly wouldn’t go much of anywhere. In any case, you’re still so raw and sore from earlier, and much as you do want him, you know that it would only be painful and all-around uncomfortable, which isn’t at all the way you want this to go. Not after he’s waited more than a century to be with you. He deserves far better than what little you could give him now.
...And yet, even so...you want to be closer to him. You want to feel him, to touch him, to have him touching you. So this time when you break off that kiss, you lean back a little more, studying his face as you make your request.
“...I know we’re both too exhausted to do much, but...still, I...I want you to show me just a little of what you want to do to me. I want you to touch me...to touch me...deeper.”
You don’t have the words to say anything more specific than that, at least not right now, and you’ve always been more about actions than words in the first place, so as you say that last word, you shift your grip on his hand slightly, guiding it pointedly downwards, until it’s resting somewhere far more interesting--though not quite as interesting as it could have been, since you hadn’t slipped your hands inside your robe. Regardless, it’s certainly enough for G’raha to understand what you mean, though you do catch the way his eyes flick back up to your face, as if checking to be sure that you’re actually okay with his hand being there, pressed against you, so close to such an intimate part of your body.
“Of—of course. Whatever you wish,” he says, and gestures for you to make yourself comfortable on the bed, finally leaving his chair behind for good to join you. You stretch yourself out on your back, and can’t help giving a sigh of relief at finally being able to lie down. Your eyelids are heavy with weariness, but the tentative touch of one of the Exarch’s hands on the inside of your knee has you pushing sleep away again for now as you pointedly spread your legs a little wider, invitingly.
“G’raha,” you say as he settles himself between your legs, and you can hear the slight waver in your tone. So can he, because his ears perk up and he looks up at you expectantly, his carefully-questing hand pausing, curved around the lower part of your thigh. You give him a small smile that’s a fair bit sheepish as well, and you have to admit what’s bothering you, what you want most of all from him right now. “...All the healing you did earlier really helped, but I’m...still really sore...in-inside.” You swallow hard, suddenly unable to meet his gaze, and you feel his hand tighten ever so slightly on your leg as you add, “Emet, he...wasn’t particularly...gentle. Which, honestly, I didn’t want for him to be, but...” Your voice drops, going somehow thin even more than quiet, as you confess, “...But now, it just...hurts. I still don’t regret it--I think I...I needed to do it, for myself as much as for your sake. To find the answer to yet another question.”
“...And did you?”
“Yes. But what I learned...it doesn’t matter any more. Whoever my soul might have belonged to once...it’s mine now. And I’m free to make my own choices, free of that past.” You shift slightly beneath his hand, not quite an impatient squirm, but near to it. “So please...touch me. Touch me deep, and soothe away the pain. Until all I can feel is you.”
Once again you see that look on G’raha--no, the Exarch’s--face that had given you pause, that set expression of disapproval, of anger. As before, it isn’t in any way directed at you, and it’s gone when he looks back up to meet your eyes, everything cold and stern melting away as he gives you a warm, reassuring smile.
“I shall do my utmost. To heal your hurts, and...perhaps do what I can to make you forget about who gave them to you, at least for a time.”
His hand drifts upwards as he speaks, though he takes his time about it, stroking the smooth skin of your inner thigh, leaning in to brush soft whispers of kisses to your legs as well, moving higher and almost reaching the apex of your thighs, almost touching you where you’re aching to be touched, only for him to pull back again. It’s a delicious sort of tease, and you’re not sure why you didn’t expect it from him, because it’s completely in character for that happy-go-lucky archer who created a random, stupid contest on a whim simply because he wanted a challenge and it had seemed like good fun at the time.
You get the feeling that he’d love to draw this out even more, that he wants to tease you and tenderly torment you, until you’re literally shaking as you beg for him, but neither of you has the energy for that right now, so instead he finally lets his fingers lightly stroke across the outside of your sex. He watches your face closely the entire time that he explores, wanting to be certain of both your continued consent and your comfort, particularly when he determines that his fingers are wet enough, and slowly, carefully presses one of them inside you.
“You deserve to be cherished...treasured,” he murmurs as you give an involuntary flinch, tensing up at even that gentle intrusion; the pain soon subsides though, replaced by the welcome warmth of G’raha’s healing magicks. “You deserve to be honored, not only for your remarkable deeds, but for your kind and steadfast heart...and so should you receive kindness in return.”
Reaching up with his other hand, he tugs at the belt of your robe, tilting his head in a question and receiving your enthusiastic nod before unwrapping you, baring you to his eyes for a second time tonight--though this time, the atmosphere is different, as is the relationship that you share. No longer are you simply medic and patient, at least not really, though he is still healing you; but now you’re lovers, or at least something like it.
The warmth from the magicks he’s working inside of you only makes that coil of heat sitting low in your belly wind tighter. You can feel yourself growing slick and wet around his carefully probing finger, and before long the previous pain is gone, leaving behind an entirely different sort of ache. You give a small, encouraging roll of your hips, and he cautiously adds a second finger in response, sinking both of them into you in a way that makes you choke on your words.
“Guh...G’raha, please...”
He glances up at you again, then shifts on the bed meaningfully, placing himself much more directly between your legs. His gaze dips downwards, and he runs his tongue along his lower lip in a way that very nearly has you reaching for him, desperate and hungry for whatever he wants to give you. He angles another questioning glance your way, and you can’t help sputtering out, “Gods, yes, I want this, want you-”
That’s as far as you get before he’s dipped his head down to press his mouth against you.
He takes his time with this too, even more so than he had with touching you, and you get the sense that he’s had a long time to think about this, how he’d do exactly this if he ever got the chance, and now that he has, well. He isn’t about to waste it, or go without satisfying every wicked whim and filthy fantasy to the best of his ability at this moment. He pays close attention to your reactions, learning your taste as he discovers how best to pleasure you with his mouth, where to suck, where a long drag of his slightly rough tongue or a quick and playful flick of the same will earn him the best response. Through it all, he’s kept those fingers pressed inside you remarkably still, but now, as the heat from his healing magicks fades, he raises his head long enough to watch your face again as he carefully withdraws those two fingers, then gently slides them deep inside you again.
There is no pain, only pleasure, and your body’s reactions tell him as much--the way a shuddering exhale quietly rattles its way out of your lungs, how you clamp down around his fingers, the eager little shift of your hips--and a broad smile spreads across his face before he buries his head between your thighs again with gusto; and this time, he moves in time with the steady pumping rhythm of his hand.
G’raha is almost breathtakingly gentle throughout the entire thing, his every touch firm but careful, eager but never overly forceful. He treats you just as he’d said you deserved to be treated: with kindness, with love, and with overwhelming generosity. He gives of himself without reservation, giving you everything you need, everything you want and more, including some things that you never would have thought to ask for, that would have been impossible for you to put into words or that you might’ve found too difficult or embarrassing to speak aloud.
It’s not at all like being with Emet-Selch had been; there’s no wild, heady rush of pleasure so intense that it approaches pain, no bruising force, no near-violence in the way he touches you. And when you come apart beneath G’raha’s tongue and around his fingers, it’s not the hardest you’ve ever come, not a feeling that makes your whole body arch with the tension and relief of release; rather, it’s like a gentle cascade, a soft and smooth caress of waves lapping at a sandy shore. It’s a rush of warmth that enfolds you like a blanket, your entire body feeling as though it’s melting away into peaceful white-hot bliss.
It’s gentle, and it’s loving, and you are more than enough for G’raha Tia, just as you weren’t nearly enough for Emet-Selch.
As that wash of radiant pleasure ebbs and fades and you linger in the deliciously delirious afterglow, you force yourself up onto an elbow, struggling to sit up. You’re all about keeping things fair, and exhausted and utterly wrung-out or not, you want to return the favor. You’ve only just gotten that second elbow to bend right, only just convinced it to support your weight and managed to prop yourself up, when you find G’raha gently pressing you back down onto the bed...and the fact that he can press you down is telling.
“Another time,” he murmurs with a slight smile that is almost unbearably fond and gentle, though if you’re not mistaken, there’s also a hint of mischief, something ever so slightly coy in the curl of his lips, “after you’ve had a chance to rest, and heal.”
Although reluctant to agree, you wearily subside, knowing that as much as you want to have him right now, or at the very least pay him back in kind, you’ve finally reached your limit. I’ll just have to make up for it whenever this ‘another time’ happens, you tell yourself, matter-of-fact and decided despite how heavy your eyelids--your whole body--feel at the moment.
You’re more than half asleep already as G’raha shifts you into place, with your head properly on the pillow at the top of the bed, and then tugs the covers out from beneath you, first draping them over you and then tucking you in neatly, blankets cozily pulled up to your chin with no gaps anywhere that might allow the Crystarium’s chill night air to bother you. His hand settles briefly on top of your head then, his fingers brushing a stubborn lock of hair back out of your face, and you give a contented little hum as he strokes your head.
The last thing you hear as you’re pulled down into the welcome embrace of a deep, dreamless sleep is that soft, soothing, familiar voice:
“There’s no hurry, my friend, never fear. I’m not going anywhere.”