Gentleman of Fortune

@alcidmargrace

A grunt, and a soft huff of breath as Noctis feels– as though from far away– the warmth of mouth and breath on his skin. He is far from conscious, and if the way he squints his eyes shut immediately indicates anything– not quite ready to meet the day. The scrape of teeth though, that gets his attention and he lets out an unguarded little sigh, brows raising as he peers out into the morning light. 

Ah, such oppulence he is allowed; such decadence. He is sure that he perpetuates the myth that surrounds him; a spoiled brat of a prince– but he will gladly wear the mantle if it will keep eyes off of his exploits and allow him this freedom. 

He wants to be grumpy, he wants to stay in that warm embrace of sleep– but this embrace is just as inviting. Ah yes– a very handsome foreign envoy with a sweet, sultry accent and a penchant for pretty things. He does have a tendency to find a place in his bed for the men who catch his eye, but Noctis has the sense to not get involved with the more high-profile guests. Save for when they tuck your hair behind your ear and tell you how enchanting and lonely you look at the shitty, boring party you’re required to attend– 

Al-Cid, of nobility comparable to his own taking an interest in him was… not what he’d expected. With the Empire pressing closer and closer, encroaching on territory every which way, those who opposed them must remain close, no? How dangerous it was, to let an affair like this stretch onward.

These past few months of talking alliance with King Regis, vying for his time and attention with the Archadian representative despite the fresh and tenuous peace between them, have been in nearly every other moment filled with the company of his heir and only progeny. The men of House Margrace love well and without reserve, whomever makes their hearts move in any given moment– Rozarrian ideals the ruling clan exemplify, some say well into excess– but as nobles they never get attached, until such time as to take a wife of comparable social status.

This is where the prince, though but one of many and far in line from the throne, has gone wrong for the first time in his life.

Suddenly sitting inside a conference chamber with his advisors to discuss important matters didn’t seem as intimidating anymore, compared to what he had to face soon. He knew one day he’d have to marry, but now that a deal had actually been pronounced and signed by both him and the Rozarrian Emperor, nervousness robbed him sleep and calm.

He knew he lacked the right means to ensure the marriage was going to be smooth and fruitful. All the isolation and properness hadn’t been helpful in regards to his skills as a spouse, and that when the princess he was to wed was Rozarrian, who were known for their interesting practises when it came to love. It was too embarrassing to mention however, he was certain Basch had other troubles rather than listen to Larsa confess he feared he might not be able to please his wife the way he should.

In fact, that was the most important part of the marriage, seeing an Archadian-Rozarrian child would truly solidify the new union and make certain peace was going to last, hopefully for generations to come. 

He was seated on a chair by the table as he watched his advisor Ilvaire discuss matters with lord Al-Cid, who happened to be the cousin of his bride-to-be. Larsa listened to their respective arguments, enjoying the banter between them, seeing Al-Cid was usually quite adept at calming agitation whereas Ilvaire was known to be quite choleric. More than once had he exploded during a talk with Larsa, and he had apologized immediately afterwards, with fear in his voice that upset Larsa. He didn’t want his advisors to fear him, there was no reason to and he had believed, that much was clear. 

Eventually he silenced the lord with a raise of his gloved hand. “It has gotten late, my lords. We ought to end the discussion now and allow everyone to retreat for the night.” The advisors bowed their heads and rose, murmuring with each other all the way out. “Lord Al-Cid, would you like to join me for a cup of tea in the gardens?” The usual place, beneath the archs of leaves, decorated with roses. 

“Your little Empress-in-waiting is a beauty beyond compare,” he assures after a long, savoring sip of his tea, having come to appreciate the Archadian method of preparation for what it is after these many years of the Emperor’s friendship.

The air of the gardens is humid from abundant vegetation and heavy with the roses’ perfume, a scent which Al-Cid has, and always will associate with him.

“A little meek for my tastes, but...” He lowers the cup held delicately between his fingers to a saucer awaiting it below, leveling his gaze with that of the younger man. Isabeta is younger still, a full year from sixteen, and womanhood-- but after such time she will make a fine wife for Larsa. She is, after all, his favorite cousin.

nonsexual acts of intimacy

♖: Having their hair washed by your muse

He was certain Al-Cid would rather spend his time in the baths with a handful of gorgeous women, so he appreciated the older’s efforts to comfort him. After the sudden reveal of his father’s demise, Larsa hadn’t said a single word. It was impolite to remain silent in company and he had been thaught how to hold a meaningful conversation no matter how few the similarities between himself and the other person (and there were plenty of similarities between himself and Al-Cid so that would be easy even) but he just couldn’t speak.

Fearing his resolve to hold his sorrow in and not bother others with it might shatter if he spoke, he kept remaining silent. But he leaned into the touch when the older started to wash his dark hair, to show his appreciation for the gesture.

Al-Cid wasn’t obligated to do any of this, Larsa was the youngest heir of the Empire that planned to go to war against his own home, and Al-Cid was brother to Rozarria’s Emperor, but he still treated Larsa with kindness, which only seemed to make the young lord’s inner turmoil worse. He was confused, too many emotions mixed inside his heart like a puzzling concoction, he feared it might explode any moment.

Had Larsa voiced his assumption, he would have been quite correct in it– he would much rather be the one being pampered by a pretty bird or two, but time (and a near-brush with death) had given Al-Cid the opportunity to reflect, and try as he might, he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of some responsibility for the little lord’s despondency.

It wasn’t until after he had thoroughly washed and rinsed the locks free of soap, however, that he finally spoke.

“I fear I may have been overly…”

Working the cork from a bottle of rose-scented oil as he searched with some difficulty for that which otherwise came effortlessly to him, he began to work it, root to tip, through the child’s fine curls.

“Direct, at Bur-Omisace.”

He winced. It wasn’t right– but alas, was said, and would have to do.

oh boy! al-cid is definitely not at all a ridiculous or embarrassing person