Touch
Chapter 1
Lon'qu hasn't been with the Ylissean Shepherds long. Merely a handful of weeks have passed since Prince Chrom triumphed over the West Khan's champion, and Lon'qu's blade was presented to him as a gift. Merely a handful of weeks, yes, but it is more than enough time for him to bitterly curse Khan Basilio a thousand times over for lending him out to the Ylisseans.
They are all too nice, gratingly so. The prince he can understand. It is his political obligation to appear affable and obliging. But all of them, from the knights to the mages, have clearly cut time into their schedules to interact with him. Stahl cajoled him into going with him for a potion-shopping trip into the city that Lon'qu couldn't care less about. Miriel has asked him—numerous times, with increasing enthusiasm—if he wants to volunteer as a subject in one of her experiments. Just this morning, Prince Chrom's little sister had latched onto his arm—making his heart rate spike and his stomach roil—and tried to drag him to teatime with her. He was only able to worm free from attending by insisting he absolutely needed to run through his sword cadences this exact instant. Her brief touch bothers him still. His heart rate is never as accelerated as he goes through the familiar motions as it is now.
Lon'qu doesn't understand why they persist in pestering him. He thought he had made his stance quite clear, from their very first encounter. He does as he is ordered. He was ordered to join them. He said nothing about requiring, or even wanting any interaction save for what was necessary. At Ferox the others knew to keep their distance, especially the women. Every time Sully unabashedly slaps him on the back or Sumia unintentionally trips into him it is as if a wyvern takes a hold of his nerves in its mighty jaws and chews them to scraps.
He had hoped to escape to the training ground, but even there he finds no respite. He has only gotten through three motions when the nape of his neck prickles; someone is watching.
Lon'qu whirls around, sword raised and ready to strike. But it is no risen undead, nor a would-be assassin. It is Robin.
The tactician's eyes widen—he hadn't anticipated Lon'qu reacting as such—and he raises his arms in a show of surrender. In Chon'sin, such a response would have him dead in days.
"Easy, Lon'qu, it's only me."
Except there is nothing "only" about this man. He claims to be a Ylissean, but Lon'qu would be a fool not to notice how distinctly Plegian the tactician is. Even if the mark of Grima was not tattooed on his hand, his robes still baldly identify him as a priest of the Grimleal. Truly, what is Chrom thinking, having a Plegian as his master tactician in a war against Plegia?
Lon'qu does not trust this man, but even he is capable of erecting a façade if he must. Though Robin makes him feel almost as on-edge as he feels around women, he is sure nothing in his body language betrays his discomfort. He smoothly returns his blade to its sheath, then lets his hands rest idly at his side. Robin, seeing that the swordsman's survival instincts have calmed, lowers his hands again.
"What is it?" Lon'qu demands, gruffly. "I thought there were three hours yet until we had to move out."
Robin blinks. "Well, yes."
"So what is it?"
"I just—well…" He laughs, scratching at his nose a bit sheepishly. Lon'qu feels a small spark of irritation, and knows it will grow to an inferno if Robin does not soon make his point or leave.
"I've seen you practicing before. Your style is extraordinary; a perfect blend of accuracy, power, and speed. I've never seen anything like it—at least, that I can remember." The tactician supposedly has amnesia. While it would certainly explain why a Plegian has no qualms helping a Ylissean, Lon'qu remains skeptical. It is all too clean cut. "Would you mind teaching me a few moves?"
Now that is unexpected. Lon'qu doesn't want to step on the man's toes—he is one of the prince's most trusted advisors, after all—but he has no desire to be saddled with him for weeks on end out of politeness.
"I am no teacher. Besides, you are of Ylisse." Supposedly. "The knights of your people have their own style. You would be better served learning from Frederick."
"Oh, I already am." Robin dismisses it with a wave of his hand. Lon'qu is aware of how brutal Frederick's training regimen is. And yet he wishes to increase his work even further with additional training? He must be mad.
"But with the two styles being so different," Robin continues, "why not learn what both can offer? It's possible a mix of the two would be stronger than either one alone."
"Very well. Draw your sword." If he fights Robin at close to his full strength, the tactician, more comfortable with a book in his hand than a sword, will give up the idea of training with him altogether after one session.
"Wait, we're jumping right into sparring?"
"I told you. I am no teacher. You will have to learn for yourself. Now come!"
Lon'qu has already talked far more than he prefers. He draws his sword once more and raises it into a defensive stance.
"So be it!" Robin is quick to tackle the challenge Lon'qu has set before him. He draws his own blade. It's nothing special, but at least it's been forged from iron, not bronze.
He charges towards the myrmidon with a battle cry. Lon'qu shifts his stance slightly as he recalls previous fights with Ylisseans. Robin would feint towards the right, then aim for the left, as most men are right-handed, and thus more vulnerable on their left when without shields.
As predicted, the tactician feints right. Lon'qu brings his blade up to counter him, but then Robin surprises him by feinting again—he intends to attack from the right after all. Lon'qu darts back, putting more distance between them. Robin doesn't give him much time, though, before he charges at him again.
"You'll only tire yourself out like this." Lon'qu warns him. He curses himself immediately. That is the point—to trounce Robin so thoroughly he'll never bother him again. He shouldn't offer advice.
Robin doesn't respond verbally, instead repeating the same motions he had before. Now that riles Lon'qu. He asks for advice, and yet ignores it when given. Fine then. As Robin feints yet again, Lon'qu raises his sword to deal the blow that will end the duel. But Robin's free hand shoots out, grasping Lon'qu's wrist. He squeezes at just the right pressure point. Were Lon'qu an average warrior, he would reflexively open his hand, dropping his blade. But unfortunately for the tactician, Lon'qu has spent the bulk of his life fighting and training. Such a simple trick won't work on him. Robin's dark eyes widen as he realizes this. He instantly releases his hold on the other man, stumbling back to regain some distance.
But Lon'qu doesn't wait for him to regain his footing—this time, he's the one on the offensive. Robin manages to deflect each jab with his own sword, but Lon'qu knows he is the superior swordsman. Within moments, Robin is sure to slip up, and the match will be decided. Robin must know so as well, but Lon'qu notes with no small amount of satisfaction that he doesn't give up, even slightly. He knows the fight is helpless, but he still fights ardently, with all he has.
"Robin! There you are!" Prince Chrom's voice rings out.
Robin's eyes instinctively snap in the direction of the prince's voice. His defenses lower, but Lon'qu is already mid-way through his stab, and can't stop it now. He jerks his blade to the side, just nicking Robin's cheek. The tactician hisses, pressing a hand to the cut. Blood wells out between his fingers and trickles down his face.
"I am sorry for wounding you. It was not my intention."
But instead of the anger he expects, Robin just flashes him a self-deprecating grin.
"It's alright, really. It was my own fault for looking away." Robin speaks between pants. He's soaked in sweat, eyes bright with the exercise. Lon'qu wonders if he attacks everything in life with such vigor. He himself would find it exhausting. Lon'qu opens his mouth to respond, but by now Chrom has jogged up to them.
"Lon'qu." The prince nods shortly at him before returning the brunt of his attention to Robin. He eyes the cut. "You alright?"
"I think I'll pull through somehow," Robin jokes. "What did you want, Chrom?"
"I wanted to go over the plans for the march with you one last time."
"Of course."
"But first we're stopping at the infirmary to get that patched up." Chrom is friendly, but firm.
"Of course," Robin rolls his eyes, but goes along with it, good-naturedly.
Robin and Chrom leave Lon'qu alone then, the former promising to give him a rematch some other time.
At last, Lon'qu is left to his own devices. He resumes the cadences he had begun before the tactician interrupted him. But as he goes through the familiar motions, his mind does not go to a relaxed, serene place as it normally does. Against his will, he continues to turn over in his mind what has just happened, and what is yet to come. Chrom had interrupted them before Lon'qu could defeat Robin. So at some point in the near future, the tactician is going to pester him again.
His sword cuts through the empty air, an imagined enemy. Again, again. His aim is always off, a hair away from his usual perfection. Lon'qu sheaths his blade. There's no point in attempting to train when his mind continues to wander from the task.
Despite his promise of a rematch, Robin has yet to track him down since their short duel weeks ago. Granted, much has happened—only last week they had scrambled up a craggy mountain to rescue a Ylissean noble girl. The prince had acted on emotion, rising to Gangrel's bait and striking down a Plegian soldier. Now, they're marching back to the capitol to discuss war preparations. They've set up camp for the night, but the lingering sun still blankets the camp in light. It's the perfect time to get in a good spar, and the postponement of his obligation makes him restless.
Lon'qu meanders through the camp, searching for Robin's tent amidst the rows of identical pitched cloth. On an overturned log sit Sully and Stahl. She gestures grandly, going over in enthusiastic detail how she finally managed to trounce Frederick in their last duel. Stahl listens with a fond smile and warm eyes. Lon'qu jerks his gaze away from the scene.
He rounds a corner to see Frederick. The prince's lapdog is busy sharpening a stack of lances on a whetstone.
"Lon'qu," Frederick greets him, setting the lance he was working on to the side. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Part of Lon'qu wants to shake his head and walk away. He doesn't need help with something as trivial as this. But still…there are quite a lot of tents.
"Where is Robin?"
The knight points him toward a cluster of tents near the edge of camp. "Farthest one on the right."
Lon'qu leaves the man to his self-imposed chores and makes his way to Robin's tent. Once there, he ducks his head inside and looks around. Robin is tucked amongst several stacks of books. One hand holds a text as the other scratches out notes on parchment. Robin's fingertips are blackened with ink. His face has several smudges as well, presumably from when he has rubbed at his face during his reading. Lon'qu's glad to see the cut he gave him is nothing more now than a thin scab.
"Robin." The tactician gives no indication of hearing him as he turns another page in his book. "Robin." Lon'qu says again, slightly louder.
He starts, shaken out of his reading and back to reality. Some life seems to flicker back into him as his eyes drag from the page to Lon'qu. His mouth crinkles into a small smile.
"What brings you here? You're not normally one to initiate conversation."
"You had requested me."
Robin's eyebrows furrow. "Requested—ah, right. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I've no time to spar with you today."
Lon'qu lets the tent flap shut behind him as he comes closer to the tactician. "It is not wise to neglect your training."
"I know." Robin's gaze flicks to his book, then back up to Lon'qu. He clearly wants to return to his reading. Lon'qu doesn't care.
"So take a break from your books and come spar."
Robin flashes him a glare. "You misunderstand me, Lon'qu."
"Oh?"
Robin gestures to the pile of books. Lon'qu glances at their titles—The Strategist, Conquests of the Hero-King, Magvelian Tactics. All books on the art of war.
"I was so focused on training my sword arm that I neglected to train my tactician's eye." His grip on his book tightens. He bows his head slightly. "And a child has suffered for my negligence."
Ricken. The boy had rashly snuck behind enemy lines to spring the noble free. As the ensuing battle raged, Robin was one of the many racing up to meet Ricken and Lady Maribelle halfway. But no one was able to reach them before a wyvern rider sliced open the boy's stomach with an axe. If Lon'qu were to enter the healing tent today, the boy would surely be there, recovering still from the grievous wound. Magic is only capable of so much.
"Don't be foolish." Robin looks up at him. "It is not a tactician's responsibility to predict and control every variable of battle."
"What is the job of a tactician if not that?" Robin retorts. "We're such a small force, Lon'qu. If the Shepherds are to survive Plegia's onslaught, we must fight smart. I want to keep my friends safe, and the townspeople, and everyone else, too, and I can't..."
When Robin fails to continue, Lon'qu asks: "Have you told the prince any of this?"
The tactician shakes his head. "Chrom has more than enough to worry over without me adding to the pile."
Lon'qu wants to help, but any words of comfort he can think to offer lodge in his throat. They hardly know each other; Robin would not take his words to heart. As he casts his gaze around the room as he tries to think of something to say, he finally notices how Robin's hands tremble, as well as the lack of flush in his cheeks. His eyes narrow.
"Come."
Robin sighs. "I'm not practicing with you today."
"No, you're not." Before Robin can ask: "We're going to the commissary."
The large tent is deserted. The usual suppertime for the Shepherds is still roughly an hour off, but Lon'qu doubts anyone would begrudge him getting some food into the tactician a little earlier. He grabs simple foods—bread, apples, jerky—and places them before Robin.
"I don't need mothering." He grumbles, but nonetheless digs in. After the first few small bites, he eats with gusto. He must not have realized how hungry he was until he began to eat.
Lon'qu drags a sack of potatoes and a bucket to the table, to keep his hands busy as Robin eats. He flicks out a knife and peels the lumpy vegetables with deft movements.
Robin swallows down a clump of jerky. "I must say you're the most efficient potato peeler I've ever seen."
"…Do you find my skills "a-peel-ing"?" Lon'qu's delivery is completely flat.
Robin gapes at him. Lon'qu fidgets as the open-mouthed stare goes on for an uncomfortably long time. Should he not have attempted humor? Just as he's about to apologize, loud laughter erupts out of Robin.
"Gods, I cannot believe it." Robin wipes away small tears of mirth from his eyes. "You made a joke."
This whole affair has been a bit embarrassing, but it has the effect Lon'qu was striving for. Between the food and the unexpected humor, Robin has started to perk up a bit.
"Jokes, potato peeling, swordplay…is there anything you don't excel at?"
Lon'qu shakes his head. "I'm hardly a great swordsman. If you saw what I have seen…if you saw him fight, you would know how far I have to go."
"You mean Basilio?"
Lon'qu tosses the now-peeled potato into the bucket, and draws another from the sack. At the mention of his Khan's name his mind returns to memories of the many battles he had with the man—every one of them lost. "His command of his weapon lends it a weight. A…depth. I may as well be swinging a feather by comparison. Knowing his power, I would not dare call myself strong." He's practiced sword cadences to perfection, but it's not even close to enough to put a dent in the Khan's defenses.
"But he's given you something to strive for. A paragon to pursue."
"Yes." Lon'qu's surprised with himself. He never volunteers personal information, and yet here he is chattering on about his life goals. He falls silent then, but Robin does not pressure him to speak further; rather, they sit in companionable silence as the tactician polishes off his meal. Once he's finished, Lon'qu sets the potato bucket to the side and stands.
"Come."
"Where are you taking me to now? I do have things to get done today."
"Come with me, Robin."
The small cheer that Lon'qu had given the tactician over the meal fades fast as Lon'qu leads him to the healing tent. The myrmidon is about to enter when he notices that Robin has stopped following him, hesitating a few feet away.
"I don't want—"
"Robin." Lon'qu's tone is firm.
"I—" He shifts his weight. For all his courage on the battlefield, he's a coward outside this tent.
"Is that—Is Robin out there?" Ricken's voice comes, weak and thready, from inside.
His voice is soft, but Lon'qu knows Robin hears him as well by the way he tenses up.
The myrmidon jerks his head in the direction of the tent and enters. The tent is small; with two proficient healers, the majority of battle wounds are completely treated on the field. Four of the five cots are empty, but on the one closest to Lon'qu is the curled form of the boy. He is suddenly struck by the boy's smallness; he hardly takes up half the bed. His color is bad, as Robin's had been earlier. Dark circles beneath his eyes stand out starkly against the pallor of his cheeks. The blanket is folded down by his waist, letting Lon'qu see the thick bandages around his torso.
In a chair by his bedside sits Lady Maribelle, who seems bemused to see him. Her gaze flicks past him and Lon'qu knows Robin has entered the tent.
"Robin." Ricken raises his head slightly off the pillow, beckoning the tactician over.
Maribelle nimbly leaves her seat, sidling closer to Lon'qu so Robin can get by. Though he stiffens at her proximity, he otherwise tamps down on his reaction.
"Ricken, I—"
"I just—"
Both pause. Ricken smiles wanly and takes the tactician's hand, giving it a tremulous squeeze.
"I just wanted to say thank you."
Robin is visibly taken aback.
"I should have died that day, but your tactics saved my life." Lon'qu can tell the mage isn't saying this just to assuage Robin's guilt; he's earnest.
When Robin starts to make choking sob sounds, the healer inclines her head toward the tent exit; Lon'qu nods. They slip out together, giving the pair privacy.
The soft discussion inside the tent is muffled by the general hustle and bustle outside of it. Lon'qu couldn't eavesdrop even if he'd wished to.
"I must say, I rather didn't expect this from you, of all people." Lady Maribelle plays with the wooden shaft of her parasol.
Lon'qu raises a raven brow. "Expect what, exactly?"
"Many of the Shepherds had the sense that something was bothering Robin, and yet no one could get him to explain himself or leave his tent." Her eyes fix upon him, shrewdly. "And yet you have managed to do both."
Lon'qu grunts, not quite knowing what to say. But the idea of him being important, being meaningful in someone's life in such a way…it makes a ball of warmth grow in his stomach.
Several days later, Lon'qu is idly cleaning his sword when raised voices draw him from his tent. There's some commotion from the rear; even from here, Lon'qu can feel the crackle of elemental magic in the air, the cries and moans of the undead—a Risen attack. As the myrmidon surges towards battle, those in the tents around him are roused as well.
A pit forms in his stomach as he reaches the fight. Though more Shepherds are swelling the ranks with each passing second, he knows their numbers are grossly dwarfed by those of the reanimated corpses'.
"Lon'qu!" Robin comes up to him, breathless and sweaty, a thoron tome held open in his hands. "Will you fight by my side?"
Normally, Robin would pair off with Chrom for battle. But the prince is nowhere to be seen—probably en route to the fight—and Robin needs someone to watch his back.
"I will." He eyes the sprawl of undead lumbering towards them. "But I cannot guarantee our victory."
Robin makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. The lightning magic rolls out of the tome in a hot wave, slamming into five Risen. They spasm with the lethal lightning before crumbling to the ground, dead for good this time.
"We'll win." Says the tactician, without a shred of doubt. "We will win!"
Robin charges forward, dealing the Risen horde significant damage with his magic. Lon'qu keeps pace with him, scanning the area for any threats. Nearby, Stahl, without his mount, runs through a Risen with his lance. He roughly jerks the weapon back out just in time to parry another Risen's axe. Further afield, Miriel's fire tome roasts several of the creatures. The farm boy jabs every one she brings down for extra measure. Vaike hacks down foes with his axe; Virion picks off the ones he misses, his usual flirtatious levity absent.
Robin's head whips towards the tents, away from the army. "Sully, Sumia, flank from the left!"
Distracted, he doesn't notice the Risen swordsman raising its blade to cut him down. With one hand, Lon'qu pushes the tactician out of harm's way; with the other, he blocks the enemy's sword with his own. His sword's intended for two hands, so at first it buckles slightly under the weight of the Risen's blade. Lon'qu quickly returns his other hand to the hilt, and thereafter easily takes the advantage. He pushes forward with force enough that the Risen's blade tumbles from its grasp. Enraged, it lunges for Lon'qu, only for the myrmidon to cleave its head off with one swift strike. As the Risen slumps to the ground, Lon'qu flicks his sword to remove some of its black, tar-like blood.
"Pay attention!" It'd be a waste for the tactician to die in such a skirmish.
"Right, right." Robin raises a hand to call some magic, but the tome only fizzles out a few fat sparks in his hands, its power all but spent. He tosses it away without a second glance, and tugs an iron sword free from one of the felled Risen. "I suppose—" Robin pants. "—now is as good a time as ever for you to give me advice?"
Lon'qu lops off a Risen's arm. The limb twitches in the dirt as the remainder of the corpse snarls at him. He thrusts his sword through its neck, twisting it so the flat of the blade is parallel to the ground, then cuts through half of the neck to free his blade. Black blood spurts from the fatal wound. These foul beings seem to rattle some of the army, but not him. An enemy is an enemy, alive or undead.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Robin take down his own foe, slashing at the creature's torso until it folds to the ground.
"You've been using tomes too often," Lon'qu observes. "You keep trying to strike from a distance. Use your body to your advantage."
To show an example, he darts to a nearby Risen and swiftly swipes its legs out from under it before running his blade through its brain. Robin is quick to adapt the physicality to his overall battle strategy, alternating between kicks and stabs. When he defeats his third enemy he flashes a grin at Lon'qu, and the smile tugs at his stomach.
"Chrom!"
"Milord!"
The moment ends as several voices around them ring out with joy. The prince has arrived, bringing with him the vestiges of the army, and, perhaps more importantly, horses and pegasi. The Shepherds who normally ride into battle hop onto their mounts and dive right back into the fray. With the added strength and speed of the steeds, as well as the second wind aroused by Prince Chrom's presence, the Shepherds are able to rout the enemy.
They've fought the Risen enough times by now to fall into their usual pattern once the battle is over. Frederick the Dutiful scours the field to make sure all the creatures are dead, and a wounded one hasn't been overlooked. Anyone injured is ushered towards Ladies Lissa and Maribelle to be healed.
"Took your time, didn't you?" Robin jests as Prince Chrom walks up to him.
"I was confident in your ability to handle the battle for a few minutes."
"Minutes!" The tactician snorts.
Prince Chrom sobers. "We should relocate the horses' area to the center of camp. That way they'll be an equal distance from wherever the enemy might attack from."
Robin nods. "We were fortunate their numbers were few enough this time." He gives Lon'qu a light clap on the shoulder. "Thanks for watching my back."
"Of course," Lon'qu says.
In celebration of their victory, proper meat is roasted over a bonfire for dinner in lieu of the usual tough jerky and rock-hard bread. The Shepherds congregate in the center of camp, clumping into smaller groups of friends for conversation. Lon'qu stands apart, eager to receive his share of the meal so he can retreat to his tent. Several people try to approach him and engage him in their conversations; a sharp glare warns them away. He spots Robin nearby, speaking with Ricken. The boy's still a bit pale, but the fact that he's up and walking already bodes well for his recovery.
"Bear?! Again? Frederick, you must be trying to kill me!" Lady Lissa whines.
"Bear meat is quite nutritious and palatable, milady." Undeterred, the knight hands her a hunk of bear meat on a stick.
The meat is at last distributed, and as a group they roast the food on the fire. Donnel is most at home with the practice, chattering on with some of the Shepherds about the most efficient ways to roast particular animals. After his own meat is cooked Lon'qu intends to slip away, but Robin makes a beeline over to him before he can escape.
"Lon'qu." He greets him, happily.
"Robin."
"It's a shame you missed Vaike trying to trap the bear earlier. It was quite the sight. The bear might've had him for dinner instead of the other way around if Miriel hadn't stepped in."
"Hn."
"Can I speak with you for a moment?"
"Is that not what you're doing right now?"
Robin huffs. "I meant privately." There's a knowing glint in his eye. "Afterwards you're free to sneak away to your tent. I won't make you come back and socialize."
The offer is too tempting for Lon'qu to pass up, and he begrudgingly trails behind Robin a little ways until the bonfire is a gentle smolder, the chatter of the other soldiers a faint hum. They stop at a copse, Robin leaning back against one of the trees.
The mirth drops away from Robin's face, then. "I haven't had the chance yet to properly thank you for the other day."
"I'm sure you'd do the same for any Shepherd." Lon'qu demurs.
"But that's the thing. You wouldn't." Astute, just as Lady Maribelle had been the other day. "I'm not quite sure what I did to earn your friendship, but I'm glad to have it."
He feels his face begin to heat. Robin picks up on his distress easily, and turns his gaze upwards so the myrmidon can regain his composure. The dark sky is lush with stars.
He lets out a sigh of contentment, and mercifully changes the topic of conversation. "Beautiful, don't you think?"
Lon'qu can't tear his eyes from Robin's face, at the way the fire's glow catches on his hair. "…Yes."
That night he dreams of sharing his bed with the tactician, Robin's pale hands gripping his shoulders tight as Lon'qu thrusts into him. Though he scrubs the stains from his clothes the following morning, he cannot scrub the thoughts from his mind. And they don't only grow; they flourish.
At Ylisstol the Shepherds split. Robin and the royalty peel off from the bulk of the army to head to the castle, presumably to discuss war preparations. Frederick leads everyone else to the Shepherds' home barracks, where he subsequently distributes pay and dismisses the men from duty for the remainder of the day. After receiving his sack of coins, Lon'qu slips away from the lot before he can be roped into attending anything. The days after the bonfire have been nothing but torment. He could not stop picking out Robin from the crowd of soldiers during meals, could not stop his thoughts from repeatedly returning to the sight of the tactician, grinning with him with bright eyes as they fought side by side.
He strides far from the sparkling main square, to the dark alleys which lead to far darker places. The prince and his Shepherds have made excellent work in eliminating brigands and pillagers from the capitol and its surrounding towns. But even the kind people of the capitol are not without their vices.
At last Lon'qu reaches the establishment. The woman at the front desk has a mess of red curls and a familiar face.
"You—the saleswoman in the woods!" Lon'qu turns swiftly on his heel and is about to leave when she calls out to him.
"Just a moment there, sir!" The red-haired woman gestures for him to come closer. He doesn't obey, but he stops shy of running back out the door. "I've never seen you before today—who you saw was definitely one of my sisters!"
"You mean to tell me you're not Anna?"
She rests her cheek on her palm and smiles coquettishly. "Oh, my name's Anna too, sir."
Lon'qu growls. "Don't toy with me, woman."
"I've come from a large family, good sir. And I've never seen you before today, I swear by the Gods."
"…Fine." He returns to the desk and retrieves his coin sack from the inner folds of his shirt. "What's your price?"
"Depends on what exactly it is that you want, sir."
He flushes. "One night."
Anna gets out a quill, ready to add his information to a book of clients and bookings. "Of course. One lady?"
"…No."
She arches a brow. "Two ladies?"
"No, I…" He wishes he hadn't come.
To his surprise, she manages to glean the truth of the matter through his embarrassment.
"One gentleman?"
He cannot meet her unabashed, non-judgmental gaze. "Yes."
"Any further preferences?"
"White hair." He blurts, before he can stop himself.
She drums her fingers on the desk, the other hand leafing through the pages of her book. "White hair, white hair…aha! I've found your perfect match." She holds out an open palm expectantly. "That'll be thirty gold, then."
"Thirty?" He growls.
"You've come to the best establishment in all of Ylisse, good sir. I assure you he's well worth it."
Relenting, he plunks the appropriate number of coins into her waiting hand. She scribbles something in her book and then slides a key across the desk to him.
"Go all the way down the hall, last door on the left. Knock twice."
"Why knock when I have the key?"
"The doors lock from the inside, hun."
The key is small and cold in his hand as he walks to the room. This is undoubtedly a high-end establishment; though he passes by several occupied rooms, he can hear only the faintest of moans and sighs. When he reaches the door, he stands outside for a long while. He shakes his head. He's being stupid; if he was going to back out of this, he should have left before paying such an exorbitant amount. So he knocks twice, as instructed. In seconds the door opens a crack, Lon'qu seeing little but a shock of white hair atop a handsome face.
He opens the door wide enough for Lon'qu to slip inside, then shuts and locks it. That taken care of, he turns his full attention to Lon'qu. The prostitute's gaze flicks up and down his body, and he hums appreciatively. He wastes no time in striding over to him and planting a full kiss on his lips as he simultaneously paws at the myrmidon's clothes. His kiss tastes of cheap wine, and Lon'qu can't resist wondering what Robin tastes like.
The whore shucks him of his Feroxi furs and trails kisses down his now-exposed chest and stomach.
"Bed." Lon'qu says.
The man throws off his own loose garments in a few seconds; once Lon'qu has shed the remainder of his clothing and placed the key on the nightstand, he climbs into bed on top of him.
"You gonna make me feel good tonight?" He purrs. His voice is nasally and abrasive, a stark foil to Robin's gentle tone.
"Be silent." The platinum-haired whore pouts a bit, but obeys. Instead of talking, he only emits breathy moans as he cants his hips upwards to brush against Lon'qu.
As he buries himself inside this stranger, he knows there's no sense in denying the truth to himself any longer.
He has developed feelings for Robin.