#evbusa

Only answering for the ones with active ships or we’d be here all night, so:

Gantsetseg: Insists she does not get jealous. Is a liar, because anyone flirting with Alan would not only confuse the hell out of him but get her attempting to loom in the background until they leave. (She’s 5′7″. The looming isn’t necessarily very effective.) The Garlic Is Amazing But He Is Hers, Dammit, You Will Not Steal.

…In her defense, “you stole it you bought it” is a recognizable means of marriage on the Steppes. Bayaqud marriages may or may not involve a highly ceremonial form of doing exactly that.

Evrard: Is jealous and will admit to it, because look at Busari. Feast your eyes upon all seven fulms of lizard lancer. Ev just isn’t that much of a catch in comparison, and he’s a little insecure about it–especially if there are other Xaela around. Who would pick Skinny Elezen Dude over scales, fangs, and the ability to yeet a full-grown Roegadyn? (Bu would, Ev. Bu would.)

Ritanelle: Doesn’t get jealous! With the highly open relationship she has with Emmanellain, it would be horribly hypocritical of her–and besides, they’re just friends. Right? Right. No deeper feelings here, no sir. She certainly is not pining while she’s stuck on the First.

The strangest thing about being—about being in love, Evrard supposed, was how soft it made you. Oh, he was no stranger to the feeling of a heart melting in his chest (over a sick orphan, over wounded knights returning from battle, over a fledgling pigeon), but it had never felt personal; never in his life had he looked at another person and felt an emotion calve off his heart like ice from a glacier.

Behind him Busari rolled over, one arm landing heavily across Evrard’s midsection. He winced slightly, but it was far too late and he was too tired to move. They had had a very long day. Even with almost a dozen people and a Dravanian, moving an entire free company’s worth of building supplies into place took time, and his shoulders still hurt. Busari had rubbed them for him earlier, which had helped, but all his muscles felt like lead. And he must be in the same shape, but never once has he made it known, and says he is fine! Ridiculous, stubborn man...but he is so good to me. So good...Halone, how did I deserve him?

A quiet rumble sounded next to his ear; he sighed in answer. I don’t. But for some reason...he had clothes and skills, he could have so easily left and found fortune as an adventurer, but he stayed. He stayed and he loves me—me! The thought still made something float within him, and he grinned to himself. It had taken far too long, but the day Busari had taken his hands and told him he was loved had etched itself in his mind. And then he’d told him that he wanted to join him on his mission, and then they’d bought a house, and now…

Now they would have a life. Together. The idea of it made him want to melt into the mattress forever.

I have to do something for him. The thought jarred him awake, and he stared unseeing at the potted plant on the nightstand as his mind fizzed. It wasn’t nearly the time for Starlight, and they hadn’t had anything like an anniversary yet, and he—gods, he had no idea when Busari’s nameday was. He was a terrible lover. But if anyone deserved a gift with some meaning to it, it was the Xaela who’d managed somehow to take possession of his heart. He rolled over to stare at the ceiling instead.

Plants? No. Spears? No. He has entirely enough of those. The thought of his company made the room suddenly feel even warmer than it was; besides which, he knew damned well he wasn’t that good. Not as good as Busari deserved, anyway. Hmm. Something he’d heard—well, read—from Enkhtuya tickled his memory, and he frowned. There’s a drink the xaela make, very hard to get here...oh, damn it, and what was it called? Fermented mares’ milk…

Ah. Kumiss. That would do for a present. He wondered if it came by the keg.

It’s a spur of the moment decision, really. Evrard is restless, and Busari is back from a too-short mission that’s left him with far too much excess energy. And it’s been much, much too long since they’ve done it. Maybe now Evrard won’t completely embarrass himself. (A rapier dropped on his foot. A spell singing his eyebrows off. Worse ways he hasn’t discovered yet.)

“Spar with me.”

There isn’t space inside, so they have to take themselves to the front yard. Evrard’s never been more grateful for their location; they’re far enough out of the way of most foot traffic to avoid attracting any curious onlookers (or worse, people trying to offer advice. He hates people who think they know the ways of red magic but can’t actually tell a fleche from a zwerchhau, and the less said about those who think Busari, as a spear-carrier, must be a simple Gridanian-style lancer the better.) The scrubby grass crunches under their boots as they step out, and he takes a moment to center himself. His rapier is a reassuring weight at his side.

And then he lifts his sword and his head, and fixes his lover in his sights.

Busari is a glory to behold. He always is, all steel and spikes and power. He’s not in full armor, but the loose tunic is just as good a sight with the way it drapes over his solid frame. And he’s smiling as he readies his practice spear. “By your word.”

He counts off inside his head. One. Two. Three.

“Now!”

Busari lunges, and the world slows. They both know to pull their punches, but it takes all Evrard has to keep moving, to stay at range—and here’s where he begins to regret his choice of weapon, for one cannot cast spells with a spear in their face, but getting far enough away to focus his aether means sacrificing the ability to bring his rapier to bear. Still, the chance to think on his feet is exhilarating.

Step. Turn—there, an opening—damn, he’s parried me. Back and circle and back—breathe—

Inhale. Exhale. A scintillating burst of magic, blinding but harmless.

Busari staggers back, and Evrard strikes.

He’s panting, hair in his face, sweat making his shirt unpleasantly clingy. His voice comes out rough. “Do you yield?”

Busari swallows hard. A tiny drop of blood wells up where the blade rests at his throat. “I do.”

He breathes out slowly, calming his racing heart. Belatedly, he remembers to lower his sword. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Once.”

And then Busari is laughing, and he’s smiling back.

“We can’t afford this.”

Saying it out loud didn’t make Evrard feel any better. He dropped his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. That didn’t help either. The lines of his ledger were imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, the damning evidence that Vidofnir’s Wings weren’t flying as high as he’d hoped (thought) (prayed for.) That could have been dealt with on its own—he could easily skip a few meals, cut back on lighting, spend more time haggling prices down. But there were his comrades to consider too, and people who depended on them. He could hardly ask Enkhtuya or Harumi for an advance on their rent to pay the debts he’d incurred helping Ala Mhigo rebuild.

I thought I was helping. Fury save me, I thought I was helping. The knowledge that the children of Ala Gannha would not now starve, that their families would sleep in warm beds come the winter, was cold comfort next to the certain knowledge that, unless he did something, the mortgage on his own house couldn’t possibly be paid this month. Has Busari realized it yet? Gods, I don’t want to see his face—

The clanking of plate. Heavy footfalls. Further clanking as Busari started peeling his armor off behind him. Speak of the dragon, and it swoops down. He couldn’t bear to look at him. The table, now; the table was safe to look at. The grain of the wood had a knot in it he’d never noticed before.

His lover’s voice was a quiet rumble. “Evrard?”

He winced. “Yes?”

“You’re upset.”

He sucked in a breath. Hiding it won’t make it go away. In lieu of words, he shoved the ledger at his beloved’s face. “Here. The last few lines.”

Busari scanned it slowly. Evrard heard his tail swish against the floor once, twice. Finally, he spoke. “Is this all?”

He nodded. He didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how many corners we can cut. I’m sorry.

“This is what’s got you upset?”

You have eyes, don’t you?! He bit it back. It would only make both of them feel bad. “You can see why I’m concerned.”

“Evrard.” A clawed hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he looked up into his lover’s face. Busari’s golden gaze was kind but firm, slit-pupilled eyes sharp. “We are adventurers. Take your sword and come with me next time, and we’ll have enough gil to sort this out.”

He took one breath. Another. We are adventurers. It was so simple, put like that. They were adventurers, therefore they could solve this. They would solve this. We are adventurers. And I...I have spent too long with my wings tucked.

He felt himself smile. “I will. Thank you, love.”

They’ve written scattered letters back and forth--a page here, a few more pages there--but it has been months since he’s seen Busari in the flesh. Months since he’s had to face all seven fulms of black scales and white hair and the glowing golden eyes he sees in his dreams. Months since he’s--

Make me forget.

They’ve never talked about that part. They sit in the inn and drink their ale and eat their dinners and continue not to talk about that part. They keep on not talking about that part as Evrard goes up to his room, as Busari follows, as Evrard stands in the hallway with his hand on the door latch--

And somewhere, some spark of courage and certainty catches flame within his heart.

The shock hasn’t set in yet; he is a lamb waiting for the knife. “Master Briardionne, I’m sorry to say your parents have passed.”

Relief and pride, tinged with sorrow for those who never will see his success, as the bishop anoints him. “Rise, Father Evrard, and serve the Church well.”

Cold. Bitter cold, spearing his lungs, and the steadily mounting dread that it is not enough to burn the pews for kindling if he is to keep his parish's souls firmly attached to their bodies. He hears his own voice from a long way off. “How much will you give me for this copy of the Enchiridion?”

A clawed hand in his, and his heart lodges in his throat. He thinks he could drown in golden eyes. “Thank you.”

Rage. Sick, bitter rage and disbelief—at the lie, and the idea he has been lied to. That his faith has been lied to. His congregation looks to him for answers, and he has none. “Father Evrard, is it true?”

It is too much. It’s all too much. His nation is built on a lie, his people are in danger, and he has failed them. And there is nothing he can do. Clawed hands at his hip, a tail wrapping around his legs, and his voice only shakes a little. “Make me forget. Just for tonight…make me forget.”

Shock at first, and then awe. The shadow of a dragon's wings swoop low, bearing a child on her back, and even prayers fail him. “Father Evrard, is that—?”

I might, Gwynael had said, have a lead on a place for your free company.

That had been two weeks ago; since then, Evrard had made further inquiries. The house was in the Goblet, overlooking a dizzyingly steep cliff and—so Gwynael had claimed—correspondingly cheap by virtue of being nowhere near the Brimming Heart. It had four floors, a fully outfitted kitchen in the basement, and the realtor was willing to throw in the existing furniture as well. An inspection had revealed no great flaws in the construction or cracks in the walls; though the garden in the front yard was massively overgrown and an attempt at a water feature seemed mostly to attract mosquitoes, Busari swore it was salvageable. (Seeing the look on his lover’s face when he’d suggested moving Cantavrel into the pond, Evrard had bitten his tongue on the idea of simply letting it all dry up and planting cactus.)

And now the realtor—a lalafell who was tiny even for one of her kind, with a voice that was probably quite pleasant to ears not tuned to catch the faintest vibrations in the air—was leading them upstairs. “As you can see, this floor holds the master bedrooms—light and airy, easy to remodel if you’d rather—but first I’d like you to see the crown jewel of this house.” This proved to be up another flight of stairs leading to an enormous set of double doors, all intricately inlaid wood that made Busari whistle softly under his breath. She cleared her throat. “The library.”

Evrard’s ears flicked backwards. A library? Hm. I would have thought that would figure into the price. “Lead the way, Miss Neru.”

It was a sunny day. With its enormous windows recently cleaned and the tables covered with white drop cloths, the library’s brilliance briefly struck him dumb. Even the books had been left on the shelves. As Neneru Neru took up her patter—something about Ladislas Fulke having been a rather electic reader and how they might wish to review the books before opening up the room to all and sundry—he listened with half an ear, wandering further in. A distinctly harp-shaped thing shoved haphazardly into a corner made him smile. Ah, I’ll have to invite Gwynael to perform at some point.

“--and it will be a wonderful draw for your fellow adventurers. Well? What say you?”

“Hrm. Ask Evrard.”

Something buzzed in his ear, and he flicked it away. It took a moment for him to realize both lalafell and au ra were looking at him expectantly, and he felt his face heat. “I think—though of course we can’t make any promises yet—that you may have a deal.” Some impulse urged him to add, “Master Fulke’s estate won’t have any issues with the use we plan to put this property to, will they? I should hate to cause a scene.”

She shrugged. “After he died so suddenly and all, they just want to be rid of the place. They’d rather live in Limsa Lominsa.”

Busari looked as though he’d like to agree, but winced at Evrard’s pointed look. Limsa’s white sand beaches also meant having to deal with his sister Tsenxeri and her husbands for extended periods. Neither of them wanted that.

Evrard nodded. “Of course. Is that all for the tour?”

“Mm-hmm, let me just—” She cut herself off as footsteps sounded from the ground floor. Evrard’s ears strained; there were three pairs, light on their feet.

And a voice. “Hello? Miss Neru? Are you there?”

Neneru swore so viciously that Evrard took a step back, only narrowly avoiding being knocked into Busari as she barrelled down the stairs. “I told you three to come back when you ‘ad the gil, and not waste my bloody time before then! An’ you’re late, besides, I’ve just finished showing it to a proper adventurer.”

By the time Evrard and Busari made it to the foyer—Neneru was startlingly fast—they found her glaring up at a trio of auri women. The Xaela in the back was wearing a very familiarly murderous expression, but seemed content to let her Raen comrades handle it. One of them, orange-haired, seemed to be the appointed spokeswoman. “We do have the gil—well, most of it, we’ll have the rest when our checks come in—and we’re early, you told us to meet at 4 bells past noon and it’s not there yet.”

“—I have a better property for you folk anyway, it’ll make a fine storefront—”

There’s...quite a lot of space here. And—from what Miss Neneru said, and by their garb, these three are merchants. A lofty goal is one thing, but if Vidofnir’s Wings are to soar properly...a library and a kitchen won’t be enough. Evrard stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Miss? I believe there’s been a slight misunderstanding, but we’d be happy to work with you regarding this space. You see, my partner and I are adventurers, and...”

The redhead turned out to be Haruka; her sister, black-haired Harumi. Enkhtuyaa, the Qestiri maid, signed excitedly at Busari until resorting to a slate, a piece of chalk, and a drawing that made Busari laugh out loud and Evrard turn red. By the time their discussion of business had turned into all five of them piling into an eatery in the Brimming Heart, Evrard was feeling much more confident in his decisions.

Yes, this will work out. Thank you, Gwynael; I’ll buy you a drink for this.