feed your soul (and mine with it)
"I… thought you would like to know," are words which Aymeric does not expect to hear from G'raha Tia in the late hours of daylight. Yet, here they are, bathed in the evening light.
A part of him thinks to leave. It is petty and juvenile, but it is there. He tamps it down and looks out across the parapet silently. Standing atop a stairwell in the Firmament, Aymeric takes in those words quietly as his eyes survey the rebuilt cityscape below. The Isghardian Skybuilders have done such a tremendous job of restoring Ishgard to a livable state for the common folk. The dragons who have come to assist with the efforts flit about even now, but at this late hour, not many fêtes nor workers linger in upon emptying cobblestone roads.
He enjoys visiting the Firmament in these waning hours. Something comforting, almost strangely nostalgic, fills his spirit as progress increases each day. It is a beautiful place, even in its various stages of disrepair from their long-fought battles.
To see a shock of bright red hair amidst the grey and white, however, feels jarring. To see G'raha Tia standing sheepishly, gloved hand clutching his elbow like a meek schoolboy, is even more out of place. A strange surge of vehemence swirls through his gut, his envy ugly and bleak. Why look frightened? You have-
He does not even allow himself to finish the thought. To admit that the redhead has, ostensibly, everything Aymeric longs for would be…
A sour taste lingers upon his tongue. Finally, Aymeric finds the calm to reply, "Know what?"
G'raha sighs, but with this permission, he finally moves up to stand beside the knight. Overlooking the Firmament with a warm, yet analytical gaze, he replies, "You truly are far kinder than the annals of history bore you to be, did you know that?"
Aymeric blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"I- nevermind," is the rueful response. G'raha's ears flick in discomfort and embarrassment, his cheeks tinged in pink shades barely lighter than his hair. "I truly respect the work you have put into making Isghard a better place."
"I… appreciate that."
Stepping forward to lean upon the edge of the parapeted wall, the Miqo'te continues, "That is why I wanted to ensure that you harbour no misunderstanding, you see. About yesterday. I truly wanted you two to reconnect- Hydaelyn knows I begged him to go to the pub after you left."
Was I truly that obvious? The embarrassment of having been caught in his petulance almost eclipses his curiosity and increasingly-growing concern. "You sound worried. Perhaps I can offer a listening ear?" He pauses, breathes deep, and steels his courage. "Is it… is it about…?"
Nodding, a look of utter despondency flits across G'raha's face. "Did you know he's an incredible cook?"
The news is hardly surprising, considering all things. The image of the Warrior of Light in an apron is-
His heart clenches suddenly. He's cooked for this man, I suppose. Clenching his jaw, he asks, "Is that a problem?"
"No! No, not by any means…" Sighing, the Miqo'te shrugs, lips painted with a weary, rueful smile. "I met him long ago. Before the Crystal Braves and the ensuing escape into Isghard, we met on an archaeological dig."
"The tower which appeared in Mor Dhona," the Elezen draws from his memory. How fervently he has pored over the reports of his friend's good deeds to know of the incident so immediately.
"Indeed." G'raha's hands grip onto the hem of his tunic, twisting in the fabric anxiously. "He was a little different back then, did you know?"
Aymeric does not. "We were not exactly comrades at the time, merely acquaintances due to the threat of the primals," he admits reluctantly.
Although he knows what is coming, Aymeric still finds himself flinching when G'raha emphatically replies, "Well, we were friends. I admired him- we both had the Echo, but he had just… something greater, you see?"
That is a feeling Aymeric knows well.
G'raha clearly understands Aymeric, for as red eyes search the Elezen's face, the Miqo'te seems to come to some sort of conclusion, his voice softening as he steps closer. "He was so vibrant back then. Then, I met him again- this must have been after the liberation of Ala Mhigo and our eastern allies. He was so different when I saw him again- stronger, of course, but reckless. Tireless. Running from one place to another, never resting unless he was told explicitly that he needed to rest." A pause. "He just… I brought him dinner once. Delivered it to his chambers. One of my staff told me…" and his voice peters out.
"Your staff?"
"I- it's complicated." He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck in fatigue. "He ate it. Disassembled the entire meal, inspected it, tested it for any tampering, then ate it." Red eyes mist over. "He seemed almost terrified, eating it. Then, when he realised it was safe, they told me that he wept."
The story is so familiar that it physically aches, even when hearing it from a different mouth- especially so, perhaps. "He was… much the same, after the Dragonsong War had come to an end thanks to his aid," the knight admits, absorbing this information slowly.
"I… I understand why he changed. Truly, I do." G'raha's fingers clasp onto the stone of the parapet, digging into the frigid stone, trembling. "I read the reports, I asked our comrades. I understand."
"Yes. We spoke about this previously, he and I. I…"
Aymeric closes his eyes, remembering the weakness, the exhaustion and discomfort and vulnerable self-hatred which had all coalesced into an expression of pure, unadulterated grief upon the Warrior of Light's face during their dinner months earlier. It feels as if it had been years since his attempted dinner with the man- since it had all gone awry, seeing the man break down as he confessed his hurts. He did not trust people back then, and for good reason- how in the world was one simply supposed to move on after the bloody banquet which took place at the heart of Ul'dah? How could he ever move on from being drugged before the peace conference at Falcon's Nest?
Has something else happened?
The thought makes him want to vomit. Aymeric had prayed to the Fury and all Twelve that his friend had found some form of respite throughout their time apart.
It seems to not have been so.
"It is not just, to see that he has gone through this." The Miqo'te's voice cracks slightly, bitterness and self-hatred oozing from every pore. "If anyone should be given rest, is it not him?"
G'raha's words are no longer treated as a menace, as a problem. Aymeric listens attentively as the other man speaks, a comrade in their woes; his shoulders naturally hunch as he leans down, paying close mind to the scholar's tale.
The Warrior of Light has not been the same since they first visited Garlemald, apparently; something shifted in his core, in his comportment, which no one has been able to identify. He still relaxes with the former Scions; he still goes out to the Last Stand, the little bistro upon the harbour in Old Sharlayan, for dinner when he runs into friends. He smiles and eats from street stalls and local vendors without hesitation.
He cannot be invited. He cannot think about it. He shies away. Their champion, protecting them from the veritable end of all things, is frightened of prescience, of warning.
Of warmth. Of the basic living joy of sharing a meal with others, too scarred from something he cannot name.
Aymeric absorbs these words mutely, locking eyes with exhausted, broken red peering up in return. Whether or not the sheen welling up from unshed tears stems from the Miqo'te or the Elezen, neither man knows; all Aymeric can do is blink away the daggers of inadequacy and frustration and, surprisingly, camaraderie, for G'raha and he are one in the same. The Warrior of Light shines fervently in both souls. They both yearn, pining for the day their dearest can be at peace at the Forgotten Knight with them.
Clasping the shorter man's shoulder, Aymeric murmurs, "Thank you for telling me. I will try and ascertain what I can."
A wry chuckle emerges from the redhead. "And thank you, for standing by him."
"Always." There is no lie.
"Always." They are truly alike.
So, they separate, not an ounce of animosity in Aymeric's heart. He can no longer dislike the Miqo'te. After all, no one who actually held their beloved's affections would be as visibly lonely as G'raha Tia. Aymeric is still free to want from the other man as much as he pleases.
And, now, he has a way forward. For that, he is grateful.