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"My, what a nice big...rod you have. Not much girth, true but very firm and lengthy."
Syrah groaned and buried his face in his palms. "Please stop touching a relic of the ancient like it's a--a sex toy."
His face felt one degree away from erupting into flame and setting his room on fire. Syrah liked this room, in particular the bed he was sitting on.
Unfortunately, his words only made Evaine laugh and change the focus of his caresses to the crystal. "And such a nice ball. Smooth. Bulbous," Evaine continued in that awful salacious voice of his. Syrah entertained the thought that Evaine was secretly an Ascian out to crush him under the Meteor weight of his embarrassment.
"I hate you," Syrah said, despairing of ever getting his face back to its normal colour. "You are awful. Terrible. Horrible. Awful."
"Been spending too much time with the kobolds," Evaine said, laughing, but he stopped molesting the stardust rod in favour of slinking over to Syrah. And yes, slinking was the only word for it, Syrah thought as he watched Evaine.
Even when they weren't trying Miqo'tes had a seductive air about them. When they were trying, well, Hydaelyn help anyone foolish enough to stand in their way.
Evaine wasn't a typical Miqo'te by any stretch of the imagination--he was too short, too stocky and too solid--but he still had some of their more lyrical qualities. There were times Syrah thought he could spend the rest of his life simply watching Evaine move.
Those were also the times Syrah knew he needed to put some distance between them.
It was a true fool who gave their heart to a wanderer. And for all his accomplishments, there was no truer fool than Syrah.
Evaine reached Syrah and did not stop. He slid into Syrah's lap, straddling him as the familiar scent of leather and roselle invaded Syrah's nose.
Sitting like this, it was impossible for Syrah not to notice the size difference--how he loomed over Evaine. He felt like a lumbering fool, everything about him too big and awkward. His hands hovered over Evaine's back, his brain telling him the touch would be welcomed but...but what if. What if this was the moment Evaine saw the whole, broken mess of him? What if--
Huffing, Evaine grabbed his hands and placed them on his hips.
"Better," he declared.
Syrah flexed his fingers, testing the give of Evaine's muscles. It was better, he decided.
Prompted by Evaine's smug smile and the moons they had spent apart, he leaned in to kiss his friend. It was only a light, fleeting meeting of lips but, gods, Syrah finally felt as if he were home.
Foolish hyur, he told himself for the thousandth time when it came to Evaine.
Home should never be another person; he had learned that lesson early and learned it well. People were unreliable. Disappointments. Even when they tried.
A fact he had forgotten when he met the Scions.
A fact he was reminded of in the last few days.
As if he were reading Syrah's mind, Evaine touched his temple lightly and said, "And what have the Scions of Holy Glamourous Umbral Dawn got you doing while I was gone? I see white hair and the start of wrinkles. You should put a stop to that before I decide to find younger looking paramours."
Syrah laughed because he knew Evaine was only teasing. Hoped he was teasing. His amusement faded quickly enough when he was reminded of the trouble thrown in his lap like so much chocobo dropping.
"The refugees from Doma."
Evaine made a face. "I heard about that mess. What do they want you to do about it?"
"Fix it. I think."
Evaine quirked an eyebrow. "A tall order. But I suppose from a chosen of Hydaelyn they've learned to expect the impossible."
Syrah snorted. "They want miracles."
"Well, you are in the habit of providing them."
Syrah was aware. And if there was anything he had learned from his time adventuring, it was this; it was easy enough to fight and bleed for Eorzea, but the politics and ruling of it was beyond him. Unleashing might and magic was nothing like managing the life and wellbeing of two hundred and some displaced people who had nothing but the cloth on their back and their dignity. A fire spell was useless against such ephemeral monsters as hunger and fatigue. He was useless.
Doubt was an ever present shade for an adventurer, and at that moment Syrah felt its presence keenly.
Evaine--clever, sharp-eyed Evaine, hummed and said, "Best be careful. People are hungry for heroes. If the Scions have to drain you dry of your idealism and good will to put you on that pedestal, well, they would be very sorry, of course. But they know the value of a good symbol."
This was a common refrain. Evaine thought the Scions meddlesome and ripe for corruption.
"Let's not talk of such heavy matters. Not when we only have tonight together," said Syrah, drawing on his waning reserve of energy to smile. Defending the Scions to Evaine would only end in a fight.
Evaine sniffed, his ears twitching and his tail lashing from side to side. He really did act like a coeurl sometime, though Syrah knew better than to ever say that out loud. "I know what you're doing," Evaine said.
"Oh?" With a twist of his hip, Syrah had Evaine on his back, pinned to the bed. "What am I doing?"
Evaine bared his teeth in a playful snarl even while he arched and rolled his hips up against Syrah's. "Trying to distract me."
"Trying? I rather think I'm succeeding." And with that Syrah bent his head to kiss and nip Evaine's delectable neck.
Evaine surely had some clever reply but it was lost to a surprised moan. With little effort, Syrah pushed aside all other thought for the pleasure Evaine's body offered. The refugees, the doubt, the heartache would still be there come morning but for tonight, for now, he could let himself have this.