Final Fantasy XII (Vayne/Larsa)
Jul. 1st, 2007 05:58 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kinkfestTitle: Long Way From Here
Author: Laylah
Rating: PG for subtle badtouch
Word count: 789
Summary: Vayne twitches back the sheets with a flick of his wrist. "I'm honored that you came to me," he says.
Vayne wakes as soon as the door opens. One who did otherwise would be unworthy of House Solidor, and likely would not long be part of it. But tonight the intruder is not a threat.
"Brother?" Larsa says softly.
"Come in," Vayne answers. He sits up, letting the sheets fall back. "Are you well?"
Larsa closes the door carefully, and pads across the room without lighting any of the lamps. Starlight from the windows is just enough for Vayne to make him out, a ghostly little figure in his nightshirt. "I couldn't sleep," he says, stopping at the edge of the bed.
Vayne twitches back the sheets with a flick of his wrist. "I'm honored that you came to me," he says. He slides over to make room, so Larsa can crawl into the warm spot where he's been lying. "What's the matter?" he asks, though he's fairly certain he knows.
"You need me to tell you?" Larsa asks reproachfully. His hand finds Vayne's, under the blankets. "It's a long way to Rabanastre from here."
"Only a few hours, in a good airship," Vayne points out. He eases himself back down, pulling up the blankets, and slides an arm around Larsa's narrow shoulders.
"That's still much further than the other end of the hall," Larsa counters. He sighs. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound petulant."
"You don't need to apologize," Vayne says. He buries his face in Larsa's hair, breathes in the sweet, clean scent of it. "You never need to apologize to me."
Larsa hugs him. "You're so kind to me, brother." His hand curls tight in the linen of Vayne's nightshirt, and holds on. "And that makes it worse. Ever since Mother -- I'll miss you."
By the time their mother died, three years ago, she and Vayne were thoroughly estranged; indeed, he sees it as a blessing more than anything, for it was in the wake of her death that he really grew to know Larsa well. "I'll miss you, too," he says. He's been trying not to dwell on that aspect of his new post, for fear that his resolve might waver. He strokes Larsa's shoulder, fingertips circling the blunt knob of bone. "Try to be brave. I work to secure the future of the empire, so it will be worthy of you by the time you inherit."
"It is you who will be the next emperor, brother, not I," Larsa says sternly. Vayne smiles in the dark, and kisses his temple.
"And should I die without issue, you succeed me," Vayne says. It is what he intends; he has chosen his heir already, not some hypothetical son but his beloved brother.
"But forgive me," he says. "You come to me for comfort and here we are talking of death. I apologize." He draws Larsa -- slender and bird-boned and warm -- into his embrace, allowing himself to treasure this moment, at least; it will likely be the last of its kind for some time.
Larsa presses a soft kiss against his throat, and if it makes his heart beat faster, Vayne is careful not to show it. "Will you come home for holidays?"
"I will come home whenever my duties allow," he promises. It will serve him in good stead, not only for the chance to see Larsa, but in order to keep abreast of the maneuvers in the Senate as it seeks to weaken the standing of House Solidor in Gramis's decline. "And you -- so long as you are properly accompanied by a Magister, I see no reason why you should not come to visit Rabanastre as well."
"I shall, then," Larsa declares. "As often as my studies allow." He shifts, pressing closer as he stretches up to brush a kiss against Vayne's cheek.
Vayne nods. "We have a bargain," he says. He returns the kiss, and for a moment as he draws back their lips meet -- and he hears Larsa's breath catch, feels Larsa's hands clench tight: he could press further, should he choose to. Larsa would not refuse his hands, his mouth.
But Larsa is unsullied, still perfect, untouched by the depravity or the schemes of Archades. Vayne would not see that change, would kill to keep him so.
"Good night, my brother," he says, and feels Larsa relax against him. "Sleep well."
"And you, as well," Larsa murmurs, the last tension draining from him as he accepts his place: safe in his brother's arms.
Vayne will not sleep well, not when he must watch over his brother, but no matter. He can doze tomorrow on the transport ship; he knows his speech well enough not to need further rehearsing. This treasure is more than worth the trouble.
Author: Laylah
Rating: PG for subtle badtouch
Word count: 789
Summary: Vayne twitches back the sheets with a flick of his wrist. "I'm honored that you came to me," he says.
Vayne wakes as soon as the door opens. One who did otherwise would be unworthy of House Solidor, and likely would not long be part of it. But tonight the intruder is not a threat.
"Brother?" Larsa says softly.
"Come in," Vayne answers. He sits up, letting the sheets fall back. "Are you well?"
Larsa closes the door carefully, and pads across the room without lighting any of the lamps. Starlight from the windows is just enough for Vayne to make him out, a ghostly little figure in his nightshirt. "I couldn't sleep," he says, stopping at the edge of the bed.
Vayne twitches back the sheets with a flick of his wrist. "I'm honored that you came to me," he says. He slides over to make room, so Larsa can crawl into the warm spot where he's been lying. "What's the matter?" he asks, though he's fairly certain he knows.
"You need me to tell you?" Larsa asks reproachfully. His hand finds Vayne's, under the blankets. "It's a long way to Rabanastre from here."
"Only a few hours, in a good airship," Vayne points out. He eases himself back down, pulling up the blankets, and slides an arm around Larsa's narrow shoulders.
"That's still much further than the other end of the hall," Larsa counters. He sighs. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound petulant."
"You don't need to apologize," Vayne says. He buries his face in Larsa's hair, breathes in the sweet, clean scent of it. "You never need to apologize to me."
Larsa hugs him. "You're so kind to me, brother." His hand curls tight in the linen of Vayne's nightshirt, and holds on. "And that makes it worse. Ever since Mother -- I'll miss you."
By the time their mother died, three years ago, she and Vayne were thoroughly estranged; indeed, he sees it as a blessing more than anything, for it was in the wake of her death that he really grew to know Larsa well. "I'll miss you, too," he says. He's been trying not to dwell on that aspect of his new post, for fear that his resolve might waver. He strokes Larsa's shoulder, fingertips circling the blunt knob of bone. "Try to be brave. I work to secure the future of the empire, so it will be worthy of you by the time you inherit."
"It is you who will be the next emperor, brother, not I," Larsa says sternly. Vayne smiles in the dark, and kisses his temple.
"And should I die without issue, you succeed me," Vayne says. It is what he intends; he has chosen his heir already, not some hypothetical son but his beloved brother.
"But forgive me," he says. "You come to me for comfort and here we are talking of death. I apologize." He draws Larsa -- slender and bird-boned and warm -- into his embrace, allowing himself to treasure this moment, at least; it will likely be the last of its kind for some time.
Larsa presses a soft kiss against his throat, and if it makes his heart beat faster, Vayne is careful not to show it. "Will you come home for holidays?"
"I will come home whenever my duties allow," he promises. It will serve him in good stead, not only for the chance to see Larsa, but in order to keep abreast of the maneuvers in the Senate as it seeks to weaken the standing of House Solidor in Gramis's decline. "And you -- so long as you are properly accompanied by a Magister, I see no reason why you should not come to visit Rabanastre as well."
"I shall, then," Larsa declares. "As often as my studies allow." He shifts, pressing closer as he stretches up to brush a kiss against Vayne's cheek.
Vayne nods. "We have a bargain," he says. He returns the kiss, and for a moment as he draws back their lips meet -- and he hears Larsa's breath catch, feels Larsa's hands clench tight: he could press further, should he choose to. Larsa would not refuse his hands, his mouth.
But Larsa is unsullied, still perfect, untouched by the depravity or the schemes of Archades. Vayne would not see that change, would kill to keep him so.
"Good night, my brother," he says, and feels Larsa relax against him. "Sleep well."
"And you, as well," Larsa murmurs, the last tension draining from him as he accepts his place: safe in his brother's arms.
Vayne will not sleep well, not when he must watch over his brother, but no matter. He can doze tomorrow on the transport ship; he knows his speech well enough not to need further rehearsing. This treasure is more than worth the trouble.
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Date: 2007-07-01 05:02 pm (UTC)