#ffxvrarepairsweek

“Go away,” he demanded, his voice low and tone curt, and he almost winced at how vile he sounded. This was the nature of their relationship. They each had a role to play with their own secrets to hide from the rest of the world. Cor didn’t leave, though, true to his part, and instead threaded calloused fingers through his hair. Another shiver, another long sigh, and Loqi’s hands fell away from the block of metal entirely. Curse him and his damnable but perfect hands.

For a long time, they sat as so, Cor slowly coaxing the former General to lean into him and Loqi slowly allowing it. Above them, the light flickered, and the buzz from the generator was the only sound to fill the small space. It wasn’t much; a living area with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a small bedroom, but it was theirs to escape to when the hunts were slow and there were lulls in missions. It wasn’t Niflhiem, but it was home.

A frown tugged on Loqi’s lips, then, and he dropped his head back on the Marshal’s shoulder. His eyes were heavy, though whether it was from a general lack of sleep or the constant strain and tension of being at war and fighting for their lives that was taking a toll on him was debatable. Not once in all his years serving the Empire did he consider he might be on the wrong side. For his entire life, he had been blinded by and enamored with the taste of power. If he had power, then nothing could stand in his way. If he had power, then he could prove…what? What had he wanted to prove then? His family’s worth? His own? It didn’t matter, not anymore. There was no more Empire to serve, nor Niflhiem to return to, according to the latest recon missions. The only light that remained was here, in Lucis, and consequently, with Cor.

“Don’t think about it too hard.” Cor’s voice was deep, and the hum of his throat was calming to Loqi’s ears. He should have pulled away, and put as much distance between them as possible, but what for? Were they enemies anymore? Even when they were, he had spent too many nights lost in Cor’s arms and too many mornings tangled in limbs and sheets stealing kisses and savoring the way Cor’s mouth stained his lips. Empires and kingdoms be damned, if there was one constant in Loqi’s life, one that never failed to ground him and push him to keep going, it was Cor.

Loqi swallowed, and unconsciously sank further into the defined, aging muscle that held him close.

“Easier said than done,” he replied quietly, and he felt Cor nod, making a face when the stubble on his chin grazed his cheek.

“You aren’t defined by your past,” Cor hummed insightfully, and Loqi couldn’t help the tiny snort that escaped him.

“Of course not, Immortal,” he jabbed, and he didn’t need to open his eyes to know Cor had rolled his in response. Loqi smirked.

“I mean there’s no shame in admitting you changed your position or took on a different opinion. People change. You aren’t the same man you were when I first met you.” Cor explained, and Loqi felt himself nod in understanding. He knew all of this, but still found himself struggling from time to time. There were many people who still shot him nasty looks, slung insults at him, damned him to Hell… In all fairness, he didn’t blame them, not anymore, at least, but his former status certainly made it hard to maintain a relationship, especially with the strongest man in Lucis, and the stand-in leader of the Lucian people whilst the king was…wherever he was.

Loqi knew Cor was right – he usually was, even if he was loathe to admit it. The world was bigger than the Empire, and he himself was much smaller than he had thought before. There were families fighting to find the will to live, hunters pushing themselves beyond human capabilities just to put a smile on a child’s face, and Cor…Cor kept fighting even though he had lost so much. That alone was enough to force Loqi out of bed day. He would fight to his last breath if it meant Cor could breathe easy for only a moment.

The frown that had weighed his features down had lifted, and he batted his lashed against his cheeks, smiling softly up at Cor. His eyes were older, but they were still the fierce blue that had ensnared him years ago. Yeah, he was definitely not the same person he used to be. Now, his smiles came more freely, at least when they were alone (and despite the roles they upheld). The world might not be in black and white, but the change in him, well, that was difference between night and day.

“Hey.”

Cor quirked an eyebrow and grazed the pad of his thumb across the line of his jaw. 

“Hm?”

Loqi blushed, and he knew he would never hear the end of it, but he continued anyway. 

The older Fleuret was off having a pissing contest with the Chancellor again. She'd just happened to be in-between missions, all her subordinates were off on pass; the Emperor had been all like sneer sneer someone to guard the Oracle slime drawl transport her keep her safe snide snide she is in your hands when she'd reported in, and so now Aranea —

— Aranea was watching over the kid, who was curled up miserably on the white leather couch, her eyes rimmed red and her nose pink, half-heartedly fluffing her pet dog behind the ears as she pored over a datapad with an itinerary for the Oracle's next tour on it, and —

— and she was starting to feel almost as awful as Lunafreya Nox Fleuret looked. 

She wrinkled her nose and adjusted her weight to her other foot.

The day was dreary outside the tall crystal-glass windows, sky a flat shade of blue-slate with just a tinge of silver light to the west. The lofty corridors inside were cut off from the stifling summer fog, but stuffy nonetheless — the air in the grand manor was cool and scented like flowers throughout, but slightly stale, and the rooms were in need of an airing-out. If it had been up to Aranea, she would have cracked open a window or the doors to the balconies. But the Oracle, it seemed, caught chill easily.

Lunafreya for her own part had barely noticed Aranea coming in the door, and she still barely seemed to notice her now. The girl had grown up around guards and probably thought of them as more furniture than anything, Aranea reasoned. Aranea had taken note on her initial check through the spacious flat of the flatscreen television — off, and dust-free in the corner — and the alcove full of old books — half of one of shelf was partway through being packed into a crate, maybe time for a stock rotation? — and the kitchenette, clean and with just enough space to make some coffee and biscuits. There was a beautiful old wooden writing desk in the corner, massive and polished and ink-stained; next to that, an easel, palette and brushes and little pots of unopened paint, and envelopes of thick stock paper. Speakers sitting in a nook in the wall were presumably wired to play music from a datapad, though nothing was playing now. There was always the buzzer for the servants, set in a gold-plated panel next to the door.

Plenty to do on a day in, and plenty of room to enjoy it all.

Lunafreya hadn't moved in hours.

Hadn't gotten up for a stretch, for a glass of water, for a sweater, for the bathroom. Aranea was supposed to be standing at attention, but she was feeling fidgety just looking.

That was some inhumanly intense focus. Either that, or the girl was just feeling too awful to leave her spot.

As Aranea watched, Lunafreya coughed delicately, pressing her knuckles to her mouth. Then she took a deep breath, bent slightly, and made a truly horrible hacking noise that didn't sound like it should've come from a human being so tiny. The dog jumped a little under her palm.

Aranea shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat.

"Uh, hey. Kid." She probably shouldn't be calling her that. Did the Oracle have a title or something? "Kid, you okay?"

Lunafreya looked up, blinking, bright-blue eyes like searchlights hunting for the source of the noise. Aranea waited patiently for her to conclude that yes, the lamp was speaking, the lamp being a five-foot-five leather-clad Imperial airborne division commodore working overtime.

"Ah," Lunafreya said, a tad embarrassed. She ducked to her work again, swiping something on the pad. "Yes. I apologize. I've — I've had a bit of a cold."

Lunafreya didn't seem exceptionally bothered about being spoken to. Aranea figured she could push her luck a little.

"I thought Oracles were supposed to be healers," Aranea said.  

Lunafreya looked up again quickly, flushed, and Aranea was sure for a dismayed moment that she'd gone ahead and crossed a line of some sort.

But Lunafreya merely opened her mouth and said, defiantly, "This is nothing. Many are worse off. My discomfort is nothing in the face of the suffering inflicted by the Scourgfffchoo — "

Aranea gave up standing at attention and lunged to fetch a box of tissues from the coffee table.

"Thank you," Lunafreya whispered, muffled, and took the proffered box delicately.

Aranea sighed as Lunafreya blew her nose. With her knees to her chest, the girl looked — really small and kind of helpless. It made Aranea nervous for reasons she couldn't put a finger on.

"Listen, can I get you something? You want like a tea, or..." That was about the extent of what Aranea could offer here. "There are servants around here, right? Hey," Aranea said, cracking the door open and craning her neck to see if anyone was in the hallway outside. "Hey!"

"No, no, please don't, they needn't — " Lunafreya looked like an anak calf in headlights as she struggled to her feet and turned her offended dog off her lap onto the floor. "I wouldn't be able to enjoy it anyway," she said.

Aranea frowned. "Soup? Blanket?"

Lunafreya hesitated. "I haven't — there are blankets in the closet down the hallway," she said, voice catching.

Aranea strode down the hallway like she knew where she was going and called back over her shoulder. "Soup? What do you like, tomato? Mushroom? Eusciello?"

"Tomato," Lunafreya admitted. "I don't want to bother — "

Aranea was already poking her head back out in the hall. "Hey, can we get a pot of hot tomato soup for the Oracle?" She could feel Lunafreya glaring at the back of her head, but the staff member passing by with a cart in the hallway outside looked gracious enough about it. Aranea tightened her jaw resolutely. "Two bowls, two spoons, pepper and grated cheese — bread rolls, a basket of bread rolls maybe? And butter and jam? Thanks."

Lunafreya looked furious when Aranea withdrew.

And there was the closet; Aranea ducked inside before the girl could try to chew her out and break into a coughing fit instead.

"You didn't have to do that," Lunafreya said faintly from down the hall.

Aranea ignored the feel of her ears reddening at the tips as she rummaged through a chest of throws and knits. Some items looked like actual fur, folded neatly and never touched. It was incredible how everything here looked both brand new and like it cost more than Aranea made in a year. "You heard me, I ordered for both of us," Aranea said. "I wanted some too, just — just, uh, take it from my paycheque." She pulled out a silver-and-periwinkle wool throw that felt heavier than looked and shook it out. No dust. Obviously.

She re-emerged to find Lunafreya sitting back on the couch with a wince and a stretch, pad set aside on the coffee table, her dog curled beneath her ankles. The creature was really... really well-behaved.

Aranea handed the bundle of blanket over. She settled on the armchair adjacent as Lunafreya gratefully draped it across her lap; the dog sniffed and prodded the corner of it, then slipped underneath.

"So. Busy?" Aranea hedged, nodding at the pad.

"Yes," Lunafreya admitted. "I have an upcoming speech needs to be approved by public relations by the end of the week."

"Nobody drafts those things for you?" Aranea's maybe heard one of them, and probably tuned it out halfway, but wow. She did recall it being less... Imperial, than she would've expected. Better than the tripe the Emperor spat out on national television every quarter. Less repetitive, less empty, less insulting.

"They have offered speechwriters. But I like to — speak to the people, when I speak to the people," Lunafreya said, sounding very tired. "I don't like to recite lines."

Aranea nodded. "From the heart," she said, jokingly.

"Yes," Lunafreya said, completely solemnly, and Aranea felt something inside her cower and wilt under the intensity of it.

Aranea scratched her neck. "So... should I... I guess I should leave you to it?"

"It's fine. It's in the best shape it'll be between now and then," Lunafreya sighed, leaning back. "Tell me about yourself. Commodore Highwind? How long have you been with the military?"

Aranea was caught off-guard for a second by the fact that Lunafreya even remembered her name. "Oh. Well. A while now," she said, floundering under Lunafreya's curious gaze.

A knock at the door interrupted her. Thank the sun. Aranea jumped up to retrieve both the meal cart and a shred of coherence, from wherever that'd gone. 

By the time they'd settled in with the soup and rolls spread out on the coffee table before them, Lunafreya knew about Aranea's squadron, and her favorite foods growing up, and the difficulties in getting ahold of standard-issue armor her size. Aranea knew that Lunafreya did have a title, but to call her Luna instead.

"Luna," Aranea said. "What do you do for fun around here?"

Luna smiled, hands cupped around her bowl and blowing at the soup in a way Aranea was sure she didn't do at fancy dinner parties. "Read, mostly."

"Yeah?" Aranea snagged a third roll from the bread basket, which Luna hadn't touched. "What're you reading?"

"Many things," Luna said. "History. Biographies. Romances."

"No thrillers?"

"I prefer the realistic — or the idealistic," Luna said fondly. "Yourself?"

Aranea thought about saying she'd read the same damn book she'd taken on tour with her repeatedly over the last three years and never managed to let herself get to the end of it. "Not much of a reader," she lied.

"Oh?"

"I've been — meaning to get into it," she said. "More."

"I could lend you some," Luna offered.

Aranea winced at the idea of cracking the spines and dog-earing the pages of all those gold-embossed hardcovers. "Oh, no, I — I'd just lose them, probably."

"I have plenty more. Do you like accounts of air combat in the early Expansion Wars? Pirates? Knights? Murders? College students in need of rescue?" Luna paused. "Thrillers could be arranged. I have been ordering more." She nodded at the reading alcove.  

Aranea felt her lips twitch up. "Maybe if come by again," she said.

"Please do," Luna said, brightening up a bit, and Aranea had no idea if she was just being polite or if she really would be happy to have the company. It was hard to tell.

"I — I guess I'll see," Aranea said, because she would've liked to say sure yeah, I'll see you around, but truth was, she couldn't know. This was supposed to be a one-off gig, and she wasn't sure anybody just called up the Oracle to hang out on a day off.

Luna looked guilty at that, like she was embarrassed to have presumed.

If it was an act, it was a good one. Aranea wondered if the kid had ever been able to let her guard down in her life. Or since she'd been twelve, anyway.

"Look," Aranea said, setting down her roll on a plate and taking pity (on herself, probably, and on whatever the melty feeling in her chest was supposed to be). "The television free?"

Luna turned to look at the flatscreen in the corner, surprised. "Oh," she said. "Yes. No. Well, it — it only has so many channels," she said, clearly never having really thought about using it.

"You don't know how to take the signal blocker off?" Aranea was incredulous. Did anybody in this day and age not know how to get around the censorship blockers?

Luna looked blankly at her, and Aranea rolled her eyes. Fucking Imperials.

"All right, where is it," Aranea said, getting up and moving towards the screen.

Luna peered over the back of the couch, dog joining her in poking her nose up over the edge. Aranea pressed a button on the remote and went to hunt down a screwdriver from a toolbox while the device started up.  

Having retrieved the box, Aranea surveyed the screen, and then carefully pried it out from the wall panel. Once the wires were exposed, Aranea paused.

She brandished her screwdriver back towards Luna. "Pay attention," she said. "Learn to do this once, and you and that bitchface brother of yours can enjoy the wonders of satellite programming for the rest of your lives."

Luna grinned, tugging the blanket higher around her shoulders. "I did warn him that his face would stay like that if he kept making it," she said. "I told him."

"He should've listened," Aranea said ruefully. She went to work.

Hours later, with the Oracle dozing on her shoulder, an enormous pet dog curled up in a pile of fluff next to her on the couch, a bottomless pot of soup on the heated cart nearby and a badly-acted serial adaptation of Four Duchesses and A Thief's Honor playing out on the screen before them, Aranea thought that maybe being an Elite Imperial Officer working overtime on the request of the Emperor of Niflheim himself might have both its perks and its downsides.

This?