A/N: Written in a trade with Andrivette. I suppose I should have written something cuter or sweeter-sorry, dear, next time, I promise! Prompt: Amarant helps Freya in a discreet way.
Rebuilding
Amarant Coral had long come to the conclusion that he hated Burmecia, and above all things in his current life, what he wanted most was to leave it.
Over the past two years the once-crumbling city had unfolded, with every lain brick (and how diligent were its citizens, laying bricks everyday apart from Sabbath) edging closer towards recovery. It was not half of what it used to be, some doubted it could ever really recover completely, but it had come far since Brahne's surprise attack, evolving from a pile of rubble to a mess of scaffolding and stone, and then, with reparations from Alexandria, into a half-built city. Much had changed since Amarant's first visit here, and in the time spent during his sporadic
(unexplainable)
visits, he had helped lay many foundations himself.
He was sick of it.
Amarant was sick of rebuilding things that didn't belong to him, that could never belong to him in the way that it belonged to other people. He didn't belong in Burmecia. He was wasting his time and energy on things that led to little reward; all he could do every night, turning in exhausted from efforts he found pointless and tedious, was feel
(lost)
disgusted in his own stupidity. Stupidity in staying, stupidity in coming for the first place. Burmecia was not his home, nor could it ever be, and nothing tied him here, and nothing belonged to him here but the things he brought himself, and yet he kept rebuilding rebuilding rebuilding, picking up the broken and clumsily putting it back together again.
Amarant didn't rebuild things often. He broke things, sometimes purposefully, sometimes accidentally, but he did this much more often than he mended and created, he felt. And yet here he was.
Rebuilding.
The visit prior to this one had occured six months ago, and much had been raised since then, including the pub he now sat in, nursing his tankard in the corner. He didn't know why he was there. All he really knew is that he didn't want to be, and that the reason he had actually come was stupid, which made him feel even stupider. He had only been there for a few days for hours at a time, sneaking in past the gates once the sun had gone down and leaving after his business was done.
Rebuilding.
Once in a while his eyes flickered to the door, then down to his drink.
He would leave tonight. After this business was done, he decided, he wouldn't come back. He shifted uncomfortably in his habit, hearing the chair (built for Burmecians, not whatever-the-fuck-he-was) creak under his weight. He had packed already, his sparce belongings tucked under the table, ready for Amarant to grab and bolt out and climb into the mountains and never come back.
The door opened, and, finally, the person he had been waiting for stepped in, taking off a ridiculous looking hat and shaking rain out of long blonde hair. Amarant grimaced, tightened a meaty hand around his tankard, and sulked. It wasn't long before the newcomer spotted him in his usual shadowy spot, and in ten seconds Amarant no longer sat alone.
"Fratley."
"Mr. Coral. How are you?"
"Hrng."
"Ah."
Silence.
Amarant held back the urge to smash his tankard into that noble face. He was surprised how often he got those urges over the past few days, meeting him at that sorry excuse for a bar. He had thought that perhaps he would mellow down, grow accustomed to the groomed posture, the kind eyes, the awful fucking apologetic and elegent sincerity of the dragoon, but he never had. Not a fucking lick. He took in a breath, managing to coax his hand into loosening its grip on the mug.
"I…think what we've been doing has been very helpful," Fratley cautioned after a moment of awkward quiet, running a hand over the brim of his
(stupid)
hat. He let out a quiet laugh. "Lady Freya has—"
"Yeah," Amarant cut in sharply. He didn't want to hear whatever this fuck had to say about that. "Let's get this over with."
"Oh." A small frown played on the other man's mouth, but it disappeared into a practiced neutrality. "Yes, I believe that is a good course of action."
"What do you remember from last time?"
Fratley looked thoughtful for a moment, glancing upwards to the visible beams of the pub's low ceiling as if trying to catch a flicker of thought in his own mind.
Amarant growled. "Come on."
"Give me a moment."
"Fuck," Amarant spat, scowling. "Tell me something she likes."
"Erm."
"We talked about this yesterday." Amarant pressed, continuing to glower from his mask of red hair and alcohol. He knew he shouldn't be rough, that he should give this man more leeway—amnesia did things to the mind, made remembering things (not just the things in the past that they had already forgotten) difficult, poked holes in the memory for new thoughts to slip out of. He knew that this was a challenge for even someone as fucking great and wonderful and noble (as Freya put it) as Sir Iron-Tail, but Amarant found he didn't care.
"Something Freya likes," Fratley stammered. "Erm…fish—"
"She hates fish, you stupid fuck," Amarant broke in, the look on his face growing darker. He watched with some level of satisfaction as Fratley bristled, but then calmed. This was one thing he could look forward to when it came to these sessions—the first time they had met, Fratley had argued when Amarant had called him something similar, to which Amarant replied, "I'm the one teaching you, I can call you whatever the fuck I want."
Fratley conceded, and Amarant took advantage.
(Part of him hates Fratley for conceding, knowing that he does it only because he is desperate for Amarant's help, that in the end, the dragoon loves Freya so much that he would do whatever he could in all sincerity to make her happy, even if it meant taking abuse from a big lumbering asshole with no right, no fucking right, to do what he was doing, and he wishes, while calling Fratley a stupid fuck, a dumb ass, a prick, that he wishes the Burmecian would just try once to stick a pike up his ass, but he never does, he never fucking does)
"Chocolate?"
"All women like chocolate, that's cheating," Amarant grumbled, taking a drink. "But yeah. Chocolate."
Fratley smiled a little at his small victory, only to be shot down by another one of Amarant's looks.
"Something she hates."
"Ah. Hrm."
It had taken him days to get Fratley to memorize what he taught him, and it nearly pissed Amarant to fucking hell when he realized that he would have to spend a chunk of their nightly meetings on "review." It meant Amarant would have to stay in the rain longer, that he would have to spend more time in this place, with this man, with a pain
(in his chest)
in his stomach and head.
Every night, all night, they would talk about Freya. Every night, all night, Amarant would be astounded at himself, at how much he knew about her. The things he had learned on their journeys together. Things she had told him, things he had picked up on from observation, from months of faithful exposure. Every night, all night, Amarant wanted to strangle the man that Freya would spend so much of her time talking about by the campfire on some godforsaken wildground, the man that stumbled on something as simple as remembering that the ribbon tied around Freya's tail was her most treasured possession. Or that daisies made her sneeze. That she liked spicy things.
Every night, all night, Amarant hated himself as he told Fratley everything he knew about Freya, her memories, her idiosyncracies, her likes and dislikes, so that maybe she could feel that all the tireless work she had spent on this man had meant something. That she found progress not only in the recovery of her city, but in her lover.
Every night, all night, Amarant rebuilt.
Hours passed in that small corner, and finally the lesson ended. Amarant tossed Fratley a small leather journal.
"It's all the shit we talked about, written down," he said, trying to make his annoyance as obvious as possible. "I was hoping you wouln't need it, but you're useless. Take it."
Fratley looked at the book curiously before reaching over to pick it up, flipping through the pages. Inside, lines of curiously neat handwriting spelled out lists of traits and quirks.
"She likes blackberry preserves?" Fratley read from one of the pages.
"Wouldn't shut up about them," Amarant mumbled as he stood, shouldering his pack in one swift movement, quickly quelling a memory of a chat on the bridge of the Invincible from days far too long past. "We talked about that two days ago."
"Thank you," the other man said, breathless, running a finger against the book's binding. "This will help so much. You have no idea. She'll be so hap—"
"Just remember what I said about telling her," Amarant interrupted. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear about how she would be with his help, how much it meant to him or to her, if it was working. He supposed it was the point of him helping in the first place, all of those things gave reason to his meddling, but he would rather jump into the fucking river and drown himself before he would let Fratley tell him anything. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to.
"Yes. I won't tell her."
"Good."
Amarant made his way to the door, the bar having just about emptied out as night grew far too late for the men and women who would get up early to
(rebuild)
lay more bricks and foundations the following day. Fratley followed two paces behind, putting on his hat.
"Same time tomorrow?" The dragoon asked as Amarant wrenched open the door. The rain fell hard on the paving stones, half-invisible in the darkness of near midnight but for the lantern-light spilling out of the pub door.
Amarant ignored the pain in his chest, and one final urge to smash Fratley's face in with a stone-hard palm.
As far as he was concerned, he was finished.
"No," he answered, and disappeared into the shadows.