practically perfect.

low-activity + selective rp account for ffxiv's nero tol scaeva. penned by ren, the guy who likes whatever the hell this dude has going on.

my main xiv rp blog is @flowerwept

summarized version of my rules under the cut, you can find the extended version in the doc i have on the other blog!

Another day, Cid might misunderstand Nero’s words. The cold has always been good at sharpening his mind, though. Not dulling it. He doesn’t hear a dismissal. To Cid, the words sound like some kind of strangled attempt at comfort. It feels like a strike of pure levin to his chest, one that short circuits the programs he runs in his mind daily–Ones that tell him how the world is and what he can do to change it–as if he’s reached an error in real time. Nero. He’s unpredictable, or can be, and with Garlemald as an added variable, Cid hadn’t fully considered the consequences of their being together there. Even as he feels those consequences himself.

In the moments of quiet, all Cid can do is watch the twitching of Nero’s hands. [It’s so achingly familiar, he has to fold his arms to keep from mistakenly reaching his own out to stop them.] No words come to mind that might be able to answer the, likely rhetorical, question– What was he expecting? Clearly he was wrong, whatever he had been. He’s about to say as much, even chances a turn to face Nero with a grim sort of joke on his tongue when–

“Wh-what?” It comes out as more of a sputter, like a failing engine. The contemplative look in his eyes is eclipsed by a fond sort of pride that he doesn’t bother hiding as he nods. “Of course I do. You wouldn’t stop harassing me before the attack.”

Nero can’t help but laugh at the memory and Cid’s obstinate recollection of it. He doesn’t laugh openly like this much anymore, and especially not in Cid’s presence, but he can’t help himself at how firmly Cid words it.  “So I did.”  Harassing, huh? That’s all Nero has really done since meeting his fellow protege. How frustrated he had been when he’d discovered there was another person his age at the academy...and a blueblood especially! That flame -- it’s been the one constant in Nero’s life. Even when the source of that spark had been on the other side of the world. Here and now Nero warms his hands over a different source of heat. Ceruleum’s not the same.

“Maybe I’m feeling nostalgic,”  he admits it a little more softly, feeling stupid saying that here in the hollow bones of Garlemald’s corpse, especially when nostalgia has never been one of Nero’s creeds. He finds such reflections a waste of time.

Haurchefant knows not quite what pushes him to approach the man sat alone at the bar of the Forgotten Knight, except for mayhap his own curiosity.  Post his injury at the vault and once his recovery had been deigned far enough along to allow him outside, Haurchefant has spent much of his time looking for new avenues of purpose, ways to temper the boredom and self-doubt slowly seeding within his heart. Though his travels with Estinien had certainly helped, and Aymeric’s reassurances he would always have a place at his side within the House of Lords even more so, he’s still not quite certain politics are what he wishes to wile all his time away in.

And thus, he’s found himself approaching the machinists and the Ironworks manufactory within Ishgard more and more oft, certainly finding enjoyment in honing his skills with the muskatoon and expanding his knowledge on Garlean and even Allagan technology alongside. The highlights of such visits, of course, were the times he managed to catch hold of Cid Garlond passing by, offering his own help in any which way he could.

To say he’s heard mention of this particular man in passing, then, is somewhat of an understatement. In fact, from everything he’s heard, ranging from annoyed exasperation to grudging respect, he nigh recognized him right away. Then again, the man’s not exactly trying to be inconspicuous, even if he does hide away the third eye.  “ No, “ his lips curl to a smile, amusement sparkling within blue hues.  “ At least no personally, “ yet. “ But I have heard of you plenty.  Lord Haurchefant Fortemps, “ He introduces himself then, with a polite nod. “ May I offer you a drink? “

Nero looks back at Haurchefant for a moment after he introduces himself, then blinks in recognition. No wonder he looks so familiar. He smiles something wry and twisted, a hand curling itself around the mug of ale he’s holding.  “Heard a lot from Garlond, have you?”  He finishes off the last gulps of his drink, setting it back on the counter with a satisfying clunk! before pushing it back to the other edge of the bar for the tavernkeep to pick up. Nero props his cheek up with that same hand shortly after, eyeing the elezen curiously.  “Well, if you insist. Who am I to deny a lord’s whims?”  Although polite, his tone is not quite without sarcasm -- as is Nero’s tendency.

Being moved around like Nero is pushing him dusts off more memories than just that of the familiar camaraderie they once shared. In fact, there’s so much more than that swimming in the stream of his sleep deprivation that Cid can’t even find the surface of it. All he can hang onto is Nero’s smile like a kind of life raft that returns him to the present. If he could just take whatever this thing that tightens in his chest into his hands and tinker with the feeling longer than the few seconds he’s afforded, maybe then he’d understand. But as the moment begins to right itself, Nero releases him, Cid’s world slowly returns to its proper orbit after it was so unceremoniously turned it on its head, Nero sits, and everything begins to feel just out of reach. There’s a reason for it, too – The wall that Cid built with his own hands and never fought to add a door to, one made to keep from feeling just like this.  [ Like he’s a student again and he can’t keep his hands from shaking. Like he’s chosen to lose something he’ll never hold again. ]  It, more than any lack of light, or lack of care, is why he misses Nero’s flush.

And now he’s leaving again. It has to make a difference that he’s being asked to, he tells himself. It has to.

He turns once he’s halfway to the door. Everything is as it should be now, isn’t it? Nero challenging him, or maybe pretending to for Cid’s sake, and morning will light the small workshops then. The first day of what could very well be the rest of their lives. Their life’s work, at least. “I wouldn’t fear that. Nobody else knows our bloody code for measurements, anyway.” With a half-hearted shrug and a much more genuine smile, he finishes walking to the door, one hand resting on the frame of it. It’s the kind of pose that might seem wistful if Cid didn’t look so dead on his feet. Before he collapses into the old mattress he calls his bed, there’s a certain contraption in the Ironworks’ makeshift kitchen that he fills with water.

Z’nakei scoffed, still entirely unimpressed that he still insisted on wearing sunglasses indoors. “How do you even see inside with those on?” Hearing his question, she shrugged while humming out a little ‘i’unno’ sound. “Something from the Studium. Whatever it is, judging by the fact they sent me rather than a post-moogle, they probably want me to butter Cid up for something once whatever is in there gets to him.”

Crossword puzzle now in hand, her ears flick a bit as she inspected it. Not too difficult compared to what the Studium had been giving her… Annoying as he’d probably find her solving it, this one didn’t particularly spark any interest to motivate her further. So she just sort of haphazardly tossed it back on to his desk before moving on. “Gives me a chance to practice, though.”

Another proud little hum, “I think I’ve nailed down what really makes him tick. If they want me to butter him up for something, then…” The Miqo’te cleared her throat, normally blank expression shifting into a cute little pout, head lowered as she looked up through her lashes.

Another scoff and the cute little pleading face was wiped away. “Works on everyone else, I think he may have a soft spot for it as well.” Rather, she knows it works on him- evidence being Alpha. The manipulative little shit, with her wrapping everyone else around a little finger.

“My eyes are sensitive to light,”  Nero quips back, tone dry. Not that it’s any of the mi’qote’s business, but whatever. The former tribunus just continues to stare even-keeled, ice-blue eyes tracking after Z’nakei while she moves about the room, expression uninterested but not exactly happy either -- if anything, he just looks kind of bored. Bored and a little irritated. Even when Z’nakei flashes her pout his way his expression remains unchanged. What, is he supposed to be impressed?  “Are you finished?”  Nero reaches back for his crossword puzzle, pulling it into his lap, propping the paper up against his thigh. Already he’s reaching for the pen in his breast pocket, clicking it open.

The latter half of Nero’s words cut off a near-immediate protest to the idea of ‘going to bed.’ If there’s anything he should be doing it’s this. What would his early grave matter if the problem was solved? A small hammer whacks him from the inside of his skull, something others might call a rational thought, though at this time of day it feels painful to recognize, reminding him that he hasn’t done anything yet. No groundwork has been lain yet and, as Nero says it Cid knows it to be true, almost nobody can read his handwriting. And then there’s that finality in Nero’s voice – Or is it a challenge?

After everything, he does take Nero’s words as truth. Cid hadn’t thought to doubt them. Perhaps he truly is a fool, but he doesn’t feel like one. Well. Until Nero takes his arm, at least. He teeters on his feet for a moment with the unexpected movement and has to lean back into Nero’s hold on him to balance. It’s not the the kind of leaning on Nero he thought he’d do today; It feels like nights of studying too late and mornings of falling asleep into their breakfasts. Or like the early mornings spent toiling over Omega. They were hardly ever so close then, but the taste of it is the same. Coffee and aching eyes and the almost-intimacy of sharing a space. If they’re going to work as a team, Cid decides with a touch of humor, it’s better to start sooner than later. He glances up to say as much with a weak sort of chuckle, the back of his hair brushing against signature red fabric, and lifts his free hand to the goggles hanging around his neck, as if they might help with his balance. Then he catches the look in Nero’s eyes.

“If you’re so intent on doing it by yourself, Nero, you could’ve just said.” He tries for a grin, the kind he might have once worn when piloting his forever grounded airships. Hopeful and wrong in the present they share. Cid can feel the warmth of Nero’s hand on his arm already dragging him closer to the exhaustion he’s been fighting off for hours in the way his back refuses to straighten and his shoulders sag. “I’m not so averse to our partnership that I’d keep any work from you. I’m–” He shakes his head in something like disbelief. Or maybe awe. “I’m glad to have your help. Decipher away, hah.”

Nero’s arm moves with Cid as the white-haired man stumbles and reorients himself; Nero’d almost expected the other to pull away from him like Cid had been burned / in truth, maybe Nero would find that more comforting than what really happens and how quick Cid is to lean into his touch. It’s not that Nero minds -- he’s spent the better part of the last years of his life chasing Cid  -- it’s just so strange and so reminiscent of what had ostensibly been an easier (and more ignorant) time in their lives. Like coffee. And aching eyes. Which is probably what Cid is thinking too. There’s a little pang in Nero’s chest, completely illogical and unfounded, that reminds him that the last time he let his guard down like this, it hadn’t stopped Cid from leaving.

Again, it makes no sense for him to feel a little frightened. But he is anyways. It’s something he hates about Cid; how much he ties himself up with the emotions of those around him, and how it bleeds over into Nero even when he finds it easy to distance himself from others.

If this was another time, Cid would keep staring. It’s as if something finally clicks together in his mind. Twenty years–Cid has spent more of his life knowing Nero than not.  He’s spent more of it with Nero, than without him.  How many times had Cid turned his head to speak to the man’s ghost in the moments in between, when more than an ocean separated them and he told himself it had to be that way. Everything Cid had ever known in his life before was wrong. So how can Nero’s smile, a relic of that time, that place, one he abandoned and gave up the right to ever see again, still make him feel like this time things are different. Nero has made him feel confident rather than cautious on purpose only a few times. Each as significant as the last. And just that expression pulling at Nero’s lips, however ill-fitting it might be these days, confirms everything for Cid. His breath catches a little at the sight of it.

“I’m not changing my mind.” He doesn’t sit back, doesn’t pull away from the small bubble of space between them. “Not when a world exists where we’ll never have had to bury them at all.” It’s clear as crystal who he thinks of first: the Warrior of Light, Wedge, the Scions and Ironworks members who were never seen again. Too many questions have the wrong answers–Dead–or none at all. “I’ve abandoned a cause before. I won’t do it when this one is right.” When Nero is, when there’s room to reach out their hands and graze the very bones of the past and twist it how it should be. No, once he had realized what had to be done, he may as well have wrung the death knell of all that ‘Freedom through Technology’ meant to him before. But he was expecting to find that new meaning alone.

“There’s too little of the world left,” he swallows, pauses. He hasn’t missed the use of his first name. Can’t. Cid holds Nero’s gaze like his life might depend on it. “For anyone to stop us.”

He stares back, holding Cid’s gaze as seriously as he had when he first tested him in his resolve, and Nero is reminded of that turret they built a long time ago. It seems so far away now, especially with the world as twisted as it is, but it’s an oddly comforting thought nonetheless. “Alright, then.”  He straightens up. And that’s that. Beginning now, this is what drives them forward -- for Cid, it’s about the promise of lives that were snuffed out in the blink of an eye. For Nero, it’s simply what’s asked of him by the only person who’s ever offered up anything to him. Like Cid says, there’s too little of the world left to bother being obstinate. Nero will oblige.

    lovek  doesn’t  have  the  mental  energy  to  even  dignify  nero’s  taunts  with  anything  more  than  a  tired  sigh , eyes  glad  to  be  able  to  look  quite  literally  anywhere  but  at  this  eye-sore  of  a  man  lecturing  him . fingers  tighten  into  half  made  fists  as  something  pulls  at  his  heart , though , and  it’s  not  long  before  he  finally  takes  the  bait  and  clicks  his  tongue  angrily .     “   i’m  not  here  to  fight  off  the  entire  empire ,   “   he  snaps , finally  looking  at  nero  with  an  almost  petulant  expression . lovek  is  young  still , naive , there’s  still  hope  that  beats  in  his  heart .   “   i  left  to  stop  black  rose , not  because  i  intend  to  abandon  my  home .      “   but  what  about  you ? if  anyone  between  the  two  of  us  is  a  defector  abandoning  their  empire  it’d  be  you , tribunus .   “

Nero laughs -- just the one singular ‘hah!’ head shaking ever so slightly.  “What, and you think they’ll just let you back in once you’ve stopped Black Rose? Oh, dear. You understand far less than I thought you did.”  His eyes cast over Lovek from the side of his gaze, still taunting, mean smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “Walk me through your thought process, would you?”

He does hear. Every word.

The pen almost slips from his fingers with how still Cid goes as he listens. Everything else suddenly feels so unimportant, like his vision is narrowing to a singular focal point. When someone turns in a circle, they often find a spot to focus on–A paint spatter on a wall or a particular trinket on a shelf–to keep from getting dizzy. Cid is more than turning now. He is caught in a veritable tailspin with only the ground below to comfort him in its inevitability, every success or failure always marking an end. But Nero still stands. Solid as the foundations of the homes they one lived in, whose frames and occupants have long since fallen to ash. The two of them are what is left. Maybe all that is left.

Has he misunderstood? There are many things Cid doesn’t know and that idea only ever spurred him forward, higher, closer to every truth he could reach until it was his. Maybe once he had believed that Nero shared the values of the Empire, but ever since defecting he has done everything in his power to make Cid question that belief. So much so that he can’t say he’s held it in years. No, he hasn’t been that far from the truth. But the rest is–

“Me?” His voice is strained when he asks; The apology from before feels lodged in his throat. Cid says the word like it might be a curse. His name has been before. Navigating the shock that clouds his mind has left his notebook abandoned, his eyes on one thing, one person, only. “For that long?”

Nero might have been embarrassed had he been saying all this another time and another place but what the hell -- the world's ending anyways.  "You really are a bloody idiot.”  His arms cross in front of his chest, staring down at Cid / Cid who looks like a deer in the headlights. Nero can’t really fathom why this comes as such a shock to him after their long storied history together, but then again Cid’s always missed things like that.  “Yes, for that long. Are you going to keep staring at me with your mouth open like a goldfish?”  A sharp silence weighs itself amongst the corpse-like shadows of the room for a moment both too long and too short. Nero sighs. He reaches down for the pen and plucks it gently from Cid’s fingers, setting it on its side beside the worn-out journal. His arms remain splayed on the table, lowered so he’s nearly eye-to-eye with Cid now.

“You need to be ready. Your reputation will be reduced to that of a madman. I, for one, don’t care about the world’s vitriol. But you do. So, Cid,”  it hits Nero all at once that he’s using Cid’s first name again and not Garlond,  “is that a risk you’re willing to take? I know what I believe in. You need to make sure you do too.”

There’s an apology trapped in the glassiness of his eyes when he looks up, though whether it’s for this mistake or a hundred others remains unclear when he does not give the words a voice. Cid’s shoulders curl in a bit as he leans to dip his pen in the new well. It makes him look small. “I did know,” he says, as evenly as he can manage.  [He had been stupid enough to hope, though.]  As tired as he is, somehow he keeps in mind that he doesn’t want to snap. He can’t remember why, though. “There’s nothing else to accept from people, Nero. I won’t ask anyone else to believe in something just because I do.”

And he goes back to writing. The scratching is quieter, but no less erratic than before. Desperate. He’ll be lucky if he can use any of the work by morning. It’s better than nothing, though, and if Cid will be the only one checking over the computations, he’s sure he’ll eventually be able to decipher the smeared numbers and symbols. The thought alone makes it feel like something in his chest is snapping in half–All the muscle and tendon and bone of everything he’s built has caved in and this is what he’s left with.

Cid swallows and his grasp on the pen tightens. A part of him screams for him to be cold. In the end, his voice is hardly lukewarm. Concern bleeds into his sharp edges, sands them down and whittles away every pretense until all that’s left of Cid is how he feels– Lost.

“If you don’t think it will work, why are you still here?”

“ ’Why are you still here...?’ ”  He repeats it back below his breath, processing it all. And then Nero’s hands ball into fists at his side. He stares down at Cid incredulously although his expression remains without bite -- in fact, his mouth falls open into a loud scoff, eyes casting over this pathetic room Cid has drawn himself into, a shade of the former Ironworks institution.

“For a man with as sharp as an intellect as yours, you can be amazingly daft. Seven hells -- I can’t believe I need to spell this out for you -- you have always needed to believe in people, or in a cause, or in something that can justify the reason for you and your big brain to go on existing. I’m not like you! I don’t need that! Cid. All I’ve needed to believe in is you. That you’ll keep me on my toes. I don’t need your aspirations, or your dream of ‘freedom through technology,’ I just need you to push me forward. That’s all I’ve known for the past -- how long has it even been, 20 years?”  He draws in a breath, the words having left him in one big rush that he could hardly contain, as if he’s giving up the ghost.  “You might have been the one who left all those years ago, but I hardly intend to repeat your mistake. So--no, I’m not leaving, and I’ll be damned if you don’t learn from the past if you want to fix it so badly! Do you hear me?!”