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The first time Cid notices, it’s after they spend the night on Quentin’s floor. Not the best bed, to be sure, but Cid’s woken up with his fair of stiff necks and learned how to get around them. The older a man gets, the more likely he is to suffer all sorts of aches and pains.
From the way Clive grimaces and rolls his neck as though confused, Cid is guessing he hasn’t had too many stiff necks yet. Ah, the wonders of relative youth.
“What are you staring at?”
The flat question inspires a huff of laughter from Cid. He claps Clive on the shoulder once, intrigued to notice he doesn’t flinch away as he did the last several times. “Nothing, lad. We’ve time, go on, take a hot bath and we’ll reconvene.”
Rolling his eyes, Clive vanishes for a short while. So short, in fact, that Cid doubts he took his advice. That, and his hair is dry.
He lets it alone for now. After all, the lad’s been uniquely insistent that he won’t be sticking around.
***
The second time Cid notices, it’s a few weeks later. Clive’s fair friend has awoken, though Tarja insists she needs a couple more days to regain her strength. It leaves one restless lad fidgeting on the green couch of his solar, eyes drawn, well into the night. Far past even a madman’s bedtime, one might say.
Cid groans, pushing his chair back to stand. Popping his neck and glancing to where Clive remains seated, staring at nothing with the most intense yet amusingly sullen expression.
What’s even funnier is that Cid isn’t quiet as he rummages around. But when he tosses a blanket over Clive’s head, the lad reacts like a startled cat. Were they not in the Deadlands, Cid might have presumed Garuda had some influence right there.
“Take the couch,” says Cid, walking away. He doesn’t look back. If there’s one thing that will spook the younger man, it’s making eye contact when he hasn’t prepared himself. At least when it comes to Cid himself, for whatever reason. “Easier to go running if your fair lady calls, eh?”
He ascends the couple of steps to his room, briskly stripping down and lying atop the covers in nothing more than sleep pants and a loose cotton shirt.
His dreams are kinder than usual tonight.
***
The third time, Cid has no choice but to notice. He catches sight of the lad and his fair friend at Martha’s Rest, but an unfortunate change of plans drives everyone indoors, arriving in the form of one stern Martha stepping outside to scold all four of them for loitering. Before Clive and Jill can slip away, Cid stays them, nodding to Martha in understanding.
“What’s all that about?” inquires Jill.
Cid casts her a wink, though he’s far from in a jovial mood. “Martha and I have a few codes we use. I strongly invite you to heed this one and spend the night.” His eyes narrow in meaning. “It’d be quite unfortunate if such an innocent lass and her bodyguard were caught up in a runaway Bearer hunt.”
The warning sobers them all. They quickly retreat inside. With the dangers lurking about, Cid figures he may as well procure them rooms.
He’s traded coin for Goetz and Jill, but before arrangements can be made for Clive or himself, the lad leans unusually close and drops his voice to a low register.
“I have questions. Can we talk?”
Cid cocks his head. “Can’t say that I mind. Should we meet in the tavern after we’ve settled?”
Clive shakes his head, jaw set. “It may take a while.”
Ah.
Only fairly certain he knows what the lad intends, Cid passes coin over for a single room, two beds. Martha arches an eyebrow but says nothing. He always knew he liked her for good reasons.
Not long after they’ve unstrapped their swords from their persons, Clive all but corners Cid near his bed on the opposite side of the tiny room. Really, it’s barely more than a closet. The two beds barely fit. Not like Clive can corner him, necessarily; even turning left could corner a man. But it feels similar all the same.
“Aye, lad?”
Clive’s expression is softer than Cid’s ever seen, yet retains that deeply glimmering pain in the blue depths. “I’d like to see this, how did you put it… decoration for long service and exemplary misconduct.”
Were it any other man asking, Cid would feel well within his rights to deck him. Bloody hell, he can’t even get through a session with Tarja without what she calls “excessive bitching and moaning” about it.
Yet for whatever reason, with Clive, he simply takes the easiest route. Shrugs off his coat, folds it over the end of the bed. Then strips free of his shirt, exposing his upper torso entirely for Clive’s perusal.
It’s not a pretty sight.
From the upper curve of his shoulder down to just centimeters away from his wrist, stone splotches his skin with the gray of an old, worn headstone. Though he’s retained enough movement for now, Cid is well aware it’s not going to be much longer before this arm is little more than a stone weight dragging him down. For now, though, it remains as useful as the lungs he uses to breathe, tarnished with soot and years of smoking.
Aside from that, the curse is present, though thankfully in smaller patches. A few blotches along his back, which Clive sees when the lad gently touches his arm to urge him into a turn. Some smaller dots down his flanks, a couple here and there along his legs; nothing to write to Kanver about anytime soon.
When he comes back to finish the full turn, Clive’s eyebrows are pinched. He steps back, gaze still roaming over Cid’s torso; namely his left arm. Cid waits expectantly for the usual question: Does it hurt?
Clive opens his mouth. Closes it. Then says, softly, “Thank you, former Lord Commander, for your years of exemplary, if not extraordinary, misconduct.”
Cid blinks.
Blinks again.
Then, when Clive glances at him with the barest hint of a smile, Cid bursts into laughter. Any tension seems to evaporate. Here, in this moment, with the cold, unforgiving reality of their statuses outside, he feels completely human.
“All right, enough jokes, lad. You’ve a long walk ahead once the storm passes, eh? May as well get the rest while you can.”
Clive nods, turning to remove the heaviest of his armor. He doesn’t lie down; in fact, sits on the bed, back to the wall, eyes closing.
And still he keeps that faint, almost cheeky hint of a smile on his lips.
***
The fourth time, Cid can’t deny it or even pretend to himself not to understand anymore. Particularly because that’s the night Clive nearly sets the inn on fire in his sleep.
Not Martha’s inn, thank Greagor. Clive and Jill’s journey to Phoenix Gate gave them the answers they needed, and they’ve returned to join Cid’s cause. He couldn’t yes, he could be happier.
But right now, he’s got the issue of flames trying to turn the bed he’s sleeping on into cinders. Cid waits for no one, taking action before the fire can spread beyond the bed Clive’s already charred to its barest bones.
He grabs the pitcher of water, douses the lad, and lands a solid whack on the top of his forehead—a pointed strike, to do the least damage on that adorably thick skull—with the pitcher before Clive snaps out of it. The flames suck back into him as though they never existed, for for a few bare sparks escaping his blinking eyelashes.
“What…” Even with one syllable, Clive’s slurring his words. Cid utters a curse under his breath, reaching out to pull the lad off his smoking frame of what was once a rather decent bed.
“That happen often?”
Clive, as per usual, regains his bearings quickly. His nose wrinkles, likely at the smell, before he follows Cid’s gaze to the bed. He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers.
Eventually, he admits, “Only twice. Both since we visited Phoenix Gate.”
Only twice, he says.
“Well, one of us was dead asleep,” drawls Cid. He releases the lad once he’s sure he can stand on his own, crossing the room to open a window. In tune with his thinking, Clive uses a few gusts of Garuda’s wind to clear the smoke and most of the smell out. Cid follows it up by lighting a cigar, leaning against the wall. “Care to share with the rest of the group what’s been going on in that pretty head of yours?”
Clive startles into a lovely shade of pink, likely from being called out so easily. Cid hides his smile behind another drag, looking away to allow the other man a few seconds to gather his wits.
“... I have nightmares,” admits Clive. He sounds… unusually small. Almost ashamed. Cid can’t help but peer at him and notice how his fists are clenched, a prominent vein running down the back of his hand. “Not about Joshua—not as much, anymore. But… the others. My father, Tyler, Wade, Lord Murdoch… Lady Hanna…”
Quietly, Cid ashes his cigar and says, “Nothing to be ashamed of.” When Clive frowns at him, he flashes a careful, gentle smile. “I have nightmares, too.”
Clive snorts. “And electrocute your bed, I’m sure.”
“On the rare occasion I’ve slept on a bed comprised of metal rather than wood, aye.” At Clive’s surprised blink, Cid chuckles. Takes another drag before stubbing the cigar out on the stained ashtray. “Time has given me wisdom, lad, but not all the answers. We’ve all got our shadows to face, some perhaps for the rest of however long we breathe.”
After a long moment of silence, he thinks he upset the younger Dominant. Then Clive says, without so much as a stuttering breath, “Time’s also given you more than your fair share of wrinkles.”
“Hey…”
“My father was younger than you when he died, but you look a good fifteen years older than he ever did.”
Cid cuffs him on the shoulder. “Twat.” Then, because he’s clearly lost his own damn mind, he adds bitingly, “Just for that, you get the wall.”
“What?”
He gestures at the one remaining bed. “Go on, now. Tuck yourself back into bed like a good lad. You can have the wall.”
Clive frowns again. “Why don’t you sleep on the floor?”
“Don’t push your luck, or you’ll be sleeping hanging out the window.”
“Oh? Didn’t realize you had Goetz on hand to help with the heavy lifting this time around.”
They bicker all the way back to climbing into the same bed. Clive presses his back to the wall obligingly, leaving Cid a modicum of room to lay on his side as well… but he has to lie facing the other man, the stone weight of his arm too uncomfortable to use for anything at night, unless it’s a good wank. (Not tonight, thank you. He has decency. Ignore the rumors.)
In spite of this, Cid misses how, when his eyes finally lapse closed again, Clive’s expression melts into open fondness, his fingers twitching against the sheets by his face as though wishing to reach out and touch Cid, even if just once.
***
The fifth time, Clive is seated on his cock, eyes screwed up in concentration. Sweat drips down his lovely toned body, making the hairs of his chest cling to his skin, his nipples puffy and pink from Cid’s continual touching tonight. The younger man moves, albeit with frustrating slowness that both annoys and delights Cid.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he urges, voice rough and raw from the past… fuck, how long as it been since they clashed in the solar, and how long after that did it take for them to make it to the bed and tumble onto it without their clothes?
Whatever the span of time, it’s one of the most delectable first times with another person Cid’s ever had—no, it’s absolutely the best. Clive rides him like he knows his own body, in and out, like he knows how to take what he wants. His cock is flushed a dark red, bobbing between his flexing legs as he rises and falls on Cid’s dick. His lovely chest heaves from the exertion. Cid can barely grip his waist in guidance; they’re both absolutely drenched in sweat and spit and oil and at least two of Clive’s previous orgasms.
There is absolutely nothing Clive could be doing to make the experience better. All Cid can do is coax him, keep him moving if there’s even the slightest flicker of doubt in those hungry, wanting eyes. “That’s it, just like that. Fuck. Never felt such a tight, hot hole on my cock… you love this, don’t you?”
Clive moans filthy at the question, head tipped back to expose his throat. Twin trails of sweat trickle down his flesh, pooling in the dip between his collar bones before dribbling down his sternum. “Yes… yes…!”
The other man’s hands slap to Cid’s chest. Pushing his weight onto him, fingers curling through his hair. For whatever reason, Clive seems enamored with Cid’s chest hair, petting through it, down his stomach, back up again, tangling his fingers, kissing and licking before pushing himself back up to ride him harder. It’s been a wonderful pattern throughout the evening (night? morning?) and Cid almost wishes they could stay like this for hours more.
But his body is giving the signs that he’s close. And Clive, Clive looks like he’s fit to burst. Arms shaking, legs twitching and trembling. His hole hungrily swallows Cid cock with each push down, sucking him into tight heat that, were anyone to ask him in this very moment, would make him agreeable enough to throw all his gil into the holy doctrines and swear by them for the rest of his life.
When Clive comes, Cid is right behind him, ready and willing to give his life for this incredible soul he’s been lucky to have known for as long as he has.
***
The sixth time, Cid can’t even keep it to himself anymore. Really, how can he be expected to at this point? He’s all but died and come back to life, recovered from traumatic injuries, and come to only to find his Hideaway had been obliterated, many of the wonderful people within returned to the earth’s soil against their will and before their time.
But somehow, some way, he’s managed to retain this one precious thing—well, all right. He has more than one precious person in his life. The difference is, this one he can wake up to find pressed into his arms, curled against his chest, where he fell asleep alone the night before. Cid sighs into the ragged mess of Clive’s hair, nuzzling into it. The other man is out cold, not even reacting to the small kiss to his ear where he’s normally quite ticklish.
Seeing him like this, vulnerable and trusting, swells that emotion into something that threatens to overwhelm and drown Cid in a wave of his own reckoning. Since Clive is asleep, however, and they have… an agreement… well, Cid also blames how early it is for his brain grasping the simplest path to take in order to express how he feels.
Like him, Clive is completely nude, his skin warm to the touch. Cid soaks it in like a sponge. Since giving away forcing Ramuh onto Clive, he’s found his body running colder these days. The blessed warmth Clive provides is a cozy fire of their own on cold nights, and a welcome home the rest of the time.
Cid kisses his shoulder, pausing for a response. When he gets nothing, he hugs the lad a bit closer, pressing his lips to his back, his neck, against the base of his skull as he breathes in the pure scent that is simply Clive.
A soft mumble escapes the other man, but he doesn’t wake, nor does he even unconsciously indicate any sign of discomfort. Cid resumes his kisses. Dares to bring his hips forward, sighing heavily and ruffling the younger Dominant’s hair when his half-hard cock finds a comfortable place to rest at the cleft of his cheeks. Firm muscle, taut skin, scars catching on the calluses of Cid’s sword-worn fingers as he takes to lightly petting and teasing his lover.
“Mmn…” Clive sighs, shifting so his head rolls toward Cid. His hair falls aside, revealing the still-fresh, pink scar of the Brand removal.
Cid’s heart wants to erupt.
He clasps his lover closer, fitting his hands against his hip and chest. Gently rolls against him, rubbing his firming cock against the man he’s, quite frankly, fallen in love with. And it’s only now that he thinks that it’s been past time to tell him so. Even if all Clive wants is a physical relationship, Cid can’t keep lying to him by refusing to impart his feelings.
But Cid also believes that Clive feels the same as him. And he’s tired of hiding it.
Though Clive does respond with gentle pushes back against him, he otherwise gives no sign of waking. Which is more than fine for both of them, really.
As the lad seems amenable to this sleepy rhythm, Cid carefully extracts his right arm from under him, giving his pec a light squeeze before reaching over Clive to the side table. The drawer opens with a small creak, and after a moment of fumbling, he finds the bottle he’s looking for. Uncorks it with his teeth. Carefully, carefully pours a decent amount onto Clive’s side, ensuring most of it ends up between them so he can reslick his fingers as needed. Then he sets the bottle aside and wets his fingers in the oil, prodding gently at the tight, twitching hole waiting for him.
A small, soft moan pops from between Clive’s lips, followed by a gentle, wanting sigh. As though knowing who he is by his touch alone, the younger man relaxes under his prodding fingers, allowing Cid to slip one in easily.
If anything, Clive is more trusting while asleep. He makes these soft, dare Cid call them pouty noises until his finger can go no further. Whispering nonsense against his ear, Cid begins the slow slide in and out, smearing the oil around, stretching him with surprising quickness. When he extracts the finger to wet two, Clive whines, head tossing a bit, eyebrows scrunched in frustration.
Greagor’s gash, does Cid love him.
Between the slow grind cadence and pausing to work Clive open, Cid finds himself entranced by Clive’s every minute expression. How his lips part when his breaths quicken; the way his tongue barely darts out as though expecting a full kiss; how sweetly his lashes flutter against his flushed cheeks. Cid litters dewdrop kisses along his cheeks, his chin, the corners of his lips, husking praise and adoration as he smears more oil to ensure Clive is ready before slicking his own cock.
“Gods, you’re incredible. Truly a man of your own making. I admire you, sweetheart, for breaking those shackles to Fate of your own free will. I stand in awe of your reserves of compassion, not once burnt dry despite all you’ve been through.” Whether Clive hears him or not, Cid doesn’t mind. He can say it all again later if need be. “I said that no one could take on the mantle better than you, and you’ve proven my madness true time and time again. You are a treasure in this bleak world, Clive.”
The head of his cock slips around as he prods in gentle search before finally finding its objective. He kisses along Clive’s shoulder again, groaning softly as he begins to press in. Slow, careful, not aiming to hurt, only to please. It feels good for him, of course, but what truly does it for him is the way Clive reacts when Cid’s inside him. Like he’s in a heaven of their own making. Like Cid is perfect for him.
Between shuddering breaths, clutching Clive’s waist to hold him close as he presses inside inch by inch, Cid manages to say, “You took in Mid when I was barely hanging on and gave her a father figure whilst she floundered. You admit when you’re wrong, even though you remain committed to your convictions. You are brilliant, clever, sweet, understanding…” Cid chokes on a moan as Clive’s muscles seem to suck him in further. He breathes harsh between his teeth, against Clive’s neck, lips raw from the other man’s sharp stubble. “Even when you were thrown into slavery, your hound knew to remain hopeful for you. You are loyal, loving, and persevering…”
A long, low noise filters out from deep in Clive’s throat. He moves more than before, though his eyes remain closed, his lips taut and panting and mouthing for words that won’t quite form. It’s got to be now, or Cid won’t find the courage again.
He squeezes Clive tight, burying himself to the hilt as the younger man rasps a hoarse cry. Grinds against his prostate, sucking the skin along his neck, whispering again and again and again:
“By the fucking gods, I love you, Clive.”
His next thrust is met with a notable tension. Hands fly up to grip his forearm, Clive’s breath stuttering with a wakefulness that wasn’t there before.
“Cid…”
With a grunt, Cid inhales him deep. Nuzzles along his neck, kissing the skin there fervently, not minding even when stray, sweat-dampened strands catch his lips and form the salt along his tongue. Places his dying hand low, the crease between his thumb and forefinger just enough to rest on Clive’s pelvis comfortably. Relishing in the thatch of hair there, feeling the very base of his swollen, leaking cock. Wanting. Twitching.
“I love you. I love you, Clive. Lord Rosfield, with my heart, I love you. With all of me.” Cid knows he’s babbling, even as he holds Clive still enough to thrust in deep and steady. Clive’s sleep-thickened voice releases a guttural cry. He arches back, trying to take Cid in deeper. Eyes partially open, groggy, pupil-eaten, needy.
Clive’s head tosses. He pulses around Cid, moaning, gasping, tears slipping over the bridge of his nose even as he tries to turn and look at the other man. For a man so exhausted not minutes ago, he’s hardly ever looked more alive than this moment.
Cid keeps driving in. Long, controlled thrusts. Whispering deep, throbbing praises. Though his hands wander, ensuring Clive experiences as much pleasure and adoration as possible, he is careful not to let Clive get away… not that the lad is trying. The thin layers of sweat help them slip against each other. Hot breaths puffed into one another’s mouths, before Clive cranes his head and Cid meets him. Awkward, but perfect.
“I don’t ask anything of you,” says Cid, voice hitching as he feels his precipice rapidly approaching. “Just—fuck, love, you’re so… I…”
Clive rolls his hips back and down. Harsh, tight, and wet. Choking Cid with his own gasp.
“Cid, Cid, you stupid ass, I’ve loved you for so long, just come inside me, please.”
The Lord Rosfield’s wish is his command.
Cid renews his efforts, sucking bruises into Clive’s neck, shoulder, and back. Grasping his tantalizing waist, fucking into him as hard and long and deep as he can. Assisting when Clive pulls his thigh back to open himself up more, and fuck, there, yes, that’s absolution.
He’s so utterly lost in the problematic young man that Cid loses track of everything. Who comes first? Who knows. Does he call Clive’s name, or Clive his? No way to tell. All there is, is the sheer pleasure of orgasms rocking them; of Clive eagerly sliding off Cid to turn in his arms and kiss him with tearful ferocity.
“Idiot,” croaks Clive, blinking more frustrated tears free. “I love you. Stupid, fucking asshole.”
“Love you,” whispers Cid, lips clinging to Clive’s. “I love you, sweetheart, my love, my firefly.”
It only took six times for Cid to confess, and he can’t believe his luck even now. That Clive Rosfield reciprocates; returns his feelings. All he can think is,
I’m the luckiest old fuck to surpass death.