#alvaan

“such a fanciful name for a common plant,” al-cid replies, watching with interest. “in rozarria, we call it what it is: hierba.”

once vaan is done, he holds up the joint for al-cid to take. while al-cid places it in his mouth, vaan murmurs a fire spell to balance naught but a dancing flare on his fingertip, a flashy trick he learned in lowtown. he brings it to the cigarette hanging between al-cid’s shapely lips, staring intently as he inhales to light it. al-cid holds the smoke in his lungs, one, two, three, before turning his head away to exhale the surplus. vaan breaks into a grin. “good, right?”

al-cid, raising his eyebrows, says, “you tell me,” and holds the joint out for vaan’s turn.

vaan watches as the smoke curls into the air, taking a slow, deep lungful. he smiles again when he breathes out, and if he coughs lightly, al-cid pretends not to notice. al-cid is too busy staring, half-lidded and intense, at the blond man in front of him, and when vaan passes the joint back, he is much closer than before. vaan feels his heart beating in his chest, in his stomach, in his throat; al-cid’s gunmetal eyes bore right through him.

the dark-haired man takes another drag, and his smirk is as sharp as a bandercoeurl’s as he leans forward. his large hand cups vaan’s cheek, his thumb against his pale lips; and then al-cid’s mouth is pressed against his, hot, insistent, pushing cloying-bitter smoke stinging down his throat. it is not unpleasant, a prince’s hand tilting his face to kiss him deeper, his body solid against his own. vaan takes it all, greedy, gripping the straps of al-cid’s choker to keep him there.