#jaiyu

If Jaiyu ever volunteers information about his life to his family again, he hopes someone shoots him. As far as they know, he’s a courier on the government route between Thavnair and Garlemald, who used to supply the various provincial rebellions but definitely never did anything that could be construed as piracy…or smuggling…or breaking kneecaps…

Anyway, the point is, his mum and grandpa and assorted cousins all think he’s respectable. That he met his boyfriend doing something heroic, or at least normal, instead of on the opposite end of a battlefield. That he officially has a boyfriend, instead of...whatever he and Zeiran are that they’ve never bothered to label. And, because they think all this, they’ve demanded he bring the man to dinner.

Fuck.

“They say it’ll be another day before they’ve got everything ready to be loaded on,” says Zeiran by way of greeting as he steps into the ship’s hold. He’s got his sleeves rolled up and a pen behind his ear and Jaiyu would kiss him if he wasn’t also trying to dodge their cat. Fortis is a black-and-white Ilsabardian Forest Cat and weighs about thirty ponzes, all of which he will use to crash into unwary ankles like a cuddly freight train.

Jaiyu flicks his tail, successfully diverting the cat. “Fuck,” he mutters. He can’t use that as an excuse.

Zeiran frowns. Partly at him, but also in general. Zeiran’s a frowny kind of guy. “You were just saying this morning how happy you were to come back to, I quote, ‘proper bloody civilization’ again.”

He winces. “Well. Uh.”

“What did you do?” It’s in a tone that implies Are we running from the Radiant Host this time? as though Jaiyu’s skills in evading local law enforcement haven’t saved both their arses. Then again, Zeiran technically used to be that local law enforcement, or whatever frumentarii count as, so old habits must die hard.

He bends to scoop up Fortis, hoping the cat is cute enough to be a distraction. “I just had lunch with my folks!”

“Uh-huh.”

“...Caught them up t’ speed on my life. Bragged a little. Let my mum cut my hair. You know.” He mutters, “Might’ve mentioned you.”

Zeiran closes his eyes briefly. “Oh, false gods. Why?”

He huffs, bouncing Fortis a little in his arms. “This furry bastard sheds, so they asked about the fucking hair and I happened to mention I’m his stepdad and anyway I’m going back for dinner later.”

And now Zeiran is eyeing him suspiciously. “Alright…?”

He takes a deep breath. Right. Asking. He can do this. “Come with me? They want to meet you.”

“They want to what?!”

Fortis jumps out of his arms, staggering him back a step. He grimaces, brushing fur off his shirt as heat rises in his face. He knew Zeiran would react like this, but that doesn’t make it better. He arranges his face into his most disarming grin. “C’mon, Zeizei! The food’ll be great and I promise I’ll keep my grandpa distracted.”

Zeiran somehow blushes harder. Since he’s Hyuran and pale to boot, this is a blotchy bright-red thing that shouldn’t be as cute as it is. Jaiyu wants to ruffle his hair. “What the fuck did you even tell them about me?”

“As little as I could get away with,” he mutters. “We’ve got a few hours to come up with a good cover story about how we met that isn’t about how you shot me and stole my ship.”

Zeiran chokes. “That—you—there were extenuating circumstances and you know it!”

“Riiiight, like the whole Garlean spy thing. Lucky you were hot.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” he counters, and this time his grin is real. “So. You, me, dinner at my mum’s place? Wear something nice and easily-washed, there’s gonna be curry. I’ll give you the rundown on all the aunts and cousins.”

Zeiran’s still red, still not looking at him, but he toys with the woven bracelet on his wrist—white, black, and red, the colors of the Garlean flag, wonky and twisted because Jaiyu’s never been good at braids—and mutters, “Fine. But we’re getting our story airtight before we go.”

So over the next hour, that’s what they do. The best lies have kernels of truth, so as far as the Rashid family will know, they met while Jaiyu was on a supply run in Corvos and was apparently instantly smitten with him. (“That last part’s actually true.” “...Shut up.”) Yes, Zeiran does originally hail from Ilsabard, but he’s a civilian who’s never been to war and has a very respectable economics degree. They’ve been working together for—a year now? Really? That sounds fake but according to the calendar is apparently true. (“Hey, we should do something. Like an anniversary thing.” “We can buy Fortis a new puzzle toy.” “...And spend the rest of the day in bed while he’s distracted? I like how you think, baby.”)

Soon enough, it’s time for them to go. Aetherytes make Zeiran nervous, and it’s a bit of a walk to the Rashid Spicery. Jaiyu combs his hair, shines his scales, and puts on some of the clothes his family’s pressed upon him. Zeiran changes his shirt and vest into something almost identical but less frayed. They leave their weapons behind and sternly tell the mammets to keep their eyes on Fortis for the night.

The good part about making regular landfall in Radz-at-Han was that it was a bustling, cosmopolitan city where he could reliably stock up, have necessary repairs made, and enjoy himself until he set off again. The bad part…

“Oh, so my only grandson remembers we exist! Anargul, your son is back!”

“Jaiyu! Every time I see you, you’re taller!”

“Oh, did you hear what Cousin Nanda found in the ruins of Orbonne—”

Objectively, his maternal family was fine. Their home served as both living space and storefront for Rashid Spicery, run theoretically by his grandpa and actually by his mother. Aunts and uncles and cousins, both Hyur and Au Ra, drifted in and out so frequently that the front door was almost never closed. Anargul bihn Rashid might have had her decade abroad end in an acrimonious divorce, but nobody seemed inclined to judge the sole product of that marriage. They actually thought his job (the legal part) was cool and fun.

It was just that they also worried about him, which was downright weird. All “Jaiyu, your scales are so dry,” and “Jaiyu, your hair is all split ends,” and “Jaiyu! What happened to your trousers?” (“I have a cat,” wasn’t a helpful answer, because it prompted questions about the cat, which led to clarification that really he was the cat’s stepdad, which led to demands to meet the actual dad, and anyway now he had to somehow break the news to Zeiran that his family wanted to meet him.)

Scales could be moisturized and trousers could be mended, but the hair apparently required intervention. Which is how he found himself sat sideways on a kitchen chair, his mother hovering behind him with scissors. “Mum,” he offered, “you don’t really have to do this.”

“Nonsense,” she huffed. “You’re my son, and my hands still work. It’s even easier now that you’re so tall!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and drew in a deep breath. Something in his throat ached. I really thought you’d left me when you left my dad. I never was a smart kid. But if he brought that up she’d probably start crying, and then he’d start crying, and then this nice moment would be ruined, so instead he muttered, “...Fine. Hey, don’t cut it too short?”

She prodded him hard in the shoulder. “I’ll cut it as short as I have to to get rid of all these split ends.” Over the snip of the scissors, she demanded, “What’ve you been doing to it?”

“It’s the wind!” He had to raise his voice; like most folk who were half Au Ra, his mother was nearly deaf, and the background noise was doing her enchanted horn cuffs no favors.

She snorted like a backfiring engine. “Wear a hat!”

“I do,” he grumbled. “This is with the hat.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then she giggled. “Sorry, you got that from my side of the family.”

It was true. He took strongly after his mother; the only things he’d gotten from Malaguld blood had been a purple tongue and dark stripes on his pale scales. As he’d grown to manhood, he’d always sort of wondered if that had been a factor in the divorce. But it didn’t matter now; he and his mother were both well rid of the Steppes, if you asked him.

A dark alley, lit only by the moon. The thump of four pairs of booted feet. The rattle of a cart’s wheels, slow under a heavy load.

The quiet snck of a struck match. A long, meditative sigh. The smell of expensive pipe tobacco.

A different set of booted footsteps; a single man this time. He’s walking fast, but he’s tired and it shows.

“This the shipment?” His voice is a low, rumbling drawl.

A sharp huff. “You’re late.”

“Well, you know...traffic.”

“You flew here.”

Clothes rustle as he folds his arms. “You don’t bribe the Radiant Host enough, old man.”

“I’ve tried. They are irritatingly principled. But your ship is still airworthy, correct?”

There is a distinctly insulted silence. As if he would let his ship—his home—fall to pieces. “This all you’ve got for me? Doesn’t look like much.”

“I don’t pay you to ask questions, Captain. I pay you to fly.”

“Speaking of...”

“Here.” The jingle of coins. Quite a lot of coins.

He whistles lowly through his teeth. “Thanks.”

“Oh, you’re quite welcome.” The soft, silken sound of a blade leaving its sheath. “Do be aware that if any of it is missing when you arrive, my buyers will be quite displeased.”

A quiet huff of laughter. “Who do you think I am? You?”

There’s a long pause, and then a sharp chuckle. “You brat. Whatever happened to respecting your elders?”

“You see any worthy of respect, point ‘em out—” A quiet impact. A hiss.

“You’re lucky I like you.”

The faint rustle of someone rubbing their head, possibly because they’ve just been smacked upside it. “I’m a likable guy.”

An amused snort.

A grunt. The creak of wheels. “...Hey. Listen. Might not be around for a bit after this, I’m headin’ up north.”

“Corvos?”

“Bozja. They’ve got right of plunder up there, with the rebellion goin’ on.”

“...Try not to die.”

There were moments when it paid to be precise. Dealing with the account books, or talking a junkie out of buying a dose you knew would kill him (after which he wouldn’t be a repeat customer), or counting change to make sure you weren’t being scammed. Ship repair, even with the Tormorjargal grounded as he rummaged around the engines, wasn’t one of those.

His airship was tough, okay. She’d ferried supplies to rebels and various dry goods to paying customers from Hingashi to Ala Mhigo for years. It didn’t take much to keep her running. (Good thing, too; Jaiyu wasn’t much of a mechanic.)

They’d set down in a dimly lit, freezing hangar just outside of Camp Broken Glass; if Jaiyu hadn’t been bundled up to his horns they would’ve frozen off. It was the cold that was really the problem; the engine blocks were Garlean-made themselves, but malms of hard use had rattled something loose and they’d never make it back to Thavnair in time for the next supply shipment if he didn’t get this fixed fast. Without an engine, they’d be at the mercy of the winds. And if he was late, they’d probably dock his pay.

(Him. Working for pay. From the government. It made his scales itch. But he looked at the pinched, battered faces of the Garleans around him and thought of the glittering wealth of Thavnair, and he could live with it.)

Zeiran was sitting by the heater, performing the absolutely vital function of entertaining/distracting Fortis. This was delicate enough work without a thirty-ponze beast of a cat slipping his belled harness, slapping things with his meathook paws, or trying to murder the deflated rigging. Zeiran was half eyeing the string he was pulling across the icy concrete for Fortis to chase, but most of his wary attention was on Jaiyu. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Been flying this ship for years, haven’t I?” He got a crowbar up under the loosened cover and heaved, dislodging the stripped screws with a grunt. They pinged across the floor, and there was a brief flurry of activity as Fortis lunged and Zeiran went to his knees to scoop the cat up before the furry bastard could try to eat a screw or something else disastrous.

Jaiyu mostly ignored this. He was busy, damn it. There were screws to tighten and loose pipes to force back into shape. Since reaching for an actual wrench would take too long, he pressed the crowbar into service again.

Over the din, Zeiran snorted, “I have no idea how you managed to escape the Empire for years.” It was pure snooty Garlean drawl and would’ve probably been much more impressive if not for the fact that Jaiyu knew, without looking, that Fortis had just shoved his fist-sized head into the man’s neck to escape the noise. Nobody sounded dignified when they were wearing a cat.

Well, the fan belt needed replacing. He swore, pulled its shreds out of the engine, and informed Zeiran, “Zeizei, baby, you fuckers couldn’t shoot for shite.”

“Excuse me—” Zeiran started, and immediately cut himself off with a yelp as Fortis used his shoulder as a springboard to get to the back of the chair for what were, no doubt, Important Cat Reasons.

Jaiyu couldn’t help but laugh. Sure, he was stuck in a frozen hellhole doing ship repairs, but it wasn’t all bad. There was their cat. (And somehow, Fortis really had become their cat—argh, no, sappiness could come back later when his arse wasn’t elbow-deep in fuselage.)

He got the fan belt replaced eventually. And the screws replaced. And the pipes...mostly fixed, even with some of their mammets offering extremely unwanted advice. As the sun bathed the hangar in golden afternoon light, Zeiran stood beside him and said, “Congratulations. You’ve got her looking airworthy, at least.”

“Oh, shut up,” Jaiyu muttered warmly, and thumped the engine. It rattled again.

Jaiyu had never met anyone in more obvious need of divine protection than Zeiran Tahlar. That’s what he would’ve told his family if they asked. They didn’t. (Thank fuck.)

It would look nice on the man’s wrist. That’s what he would’ve told Zeiran, if Zei had caught him at it. He didn’t. (It was...oddly disappointing.)

He wasn’t actually very good at braids, and had to keep redoing segments. Fortis kept trying to attack the leather strips, or worse, eat them. That was a pain in the ass, but Jaiyu had dealt with worse. At least the big furry bastard didn’t attack furniture.

Jaiyu glared down at the would-be bracelet. Silk cord was traditional, but more fragile and slippery; leather like this would be harder to lose. There were three strands—black, crimson, and a dull ivory—so the braid should’ve been easy, but his fingers kept fumbling and he had no idea how he was going to attach a clasp. Maybe he’d do a fancy knot? He flew an airship. He was good with knots. He was supposed to be good with knots. It was just that he was usually working with much thicker rope, and this was so fiddly, and he wanted it to be good. Something Zeiran would like wearing.

It didn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t have, anyway. He and Zeiran...bracelets like this were something you gave to people when your relationship had a name. When it was more than just sharing a bed. He should unravel the whole damn thing and chuck it over the side.

But it’d look nice on the guy, and Zeiran was so damn squirrelly about getting nice things. This would be simple enough to go mostly unnoticed, and if he was going to fly with Jaiyu he couldn’t go around looking boring.

He grimaced, lashed his tail, and kept braiding.

He resolutely did not think about what it might say about him.

(Some time later, he chucked the completed bracelet at Zeiran in passing. Zeiran fumbled to catch it, glaring suspiciously at him once it was in his hands. Suspiciously. Like he thought it was a trick of some sort. Gods, the Frumentarii made you paranoid. “What’s this?”

He shrugged. “Bracelet. Matches your stupid flag. Keep it if you want.”

Sometimes, Jaiyu missed horses.

Not all the time. Hells, not even most of the time. He’d spent too much time picking up shit and trying not to get kicked in the head for that. And one of his father’s favorite mares had bit him once. No, he wasn’t especially nostalgic for that life.

But sometimes—like today—he passed by a Doman livery stable and paused, listening to them whinny and stamp in their stalls. It was nothing like the way they kept horses back home, grazing on malms and malms of green grass under the open skies, but the sounds and smells were the same. If he dared to enter, he’d see inquisitive ears perked up and large soft eyes peering back at him. Steppe tack wasn’t like Doman tack either, but the Malaguld were half Doman anyway and he was sure he could figure it out if they gave him a minute to adjust. He hadn’t forgotten everything.

And the stables were right there. There was nothing stopping him from renting a horse. Suddenly, he wanted to. It had been years since he’d been in the saddle. Felt the thunder of hooves under him. Scratched behind a mare’s ears until she rested her head against his chest. He’d had a good horse when he’d lived with the Malaguld, a strong bay gelding that hadn’t measured up to breeding standards by virtue of being slightly cow-hocked. Only the best for the master merchants, after all. They had a reputation to uphold. His sister rode the beast now, assuming he was still alive.

He blew out a meditative breath. He hadn’t thought about his tribe in ages. He wasn’t sure why he bothered now; it wasn’t like they were going to change beyond the petty family squabbles, tribe politics, and animal husbandry that had made up his entire life until he’d finally gotten out. He’d seen too many fistfights over someone’s sheep or—worse—passive-aggressive bullshit arguments over who was the better weaver to count. Horses weren’t worth that.

Besides, if he rented one he’d probably fall in love and want to buy it, and an airship was no place for an animal that didn’t have wings.

It hadn’t been bad, just him and the mammets, but...

Well. Jaiyu is fully prepared to admit to anyone who asks that having Zeiran eir Tahlar around is a vast improvement. It’s good to have a navigator, if nothing else. Someone whose hands he trusts on the Tormorjargal’s controls. (Trust. When had that happened? Oh, it was definitely sometime between that mad scramble into Garlemald to rescue the man’s family and the equally mad scramble back, but he’s sure there must’ve been what Zeizei would call an inciting incident.)

(It was probably before they fell into bed together. Probably. It might’ve even been that first sight of him on the Garlemald airship platform, surrounded by fellow refugees and so desperate to get them to safety before the city collapsed that he was even willing to take a chance on the rebel who’d battled him across Bozja.)

Anyway. Now he has a partner. Someone who takes turns cooking and fusses over keeping the hold organized and—against his will, apparently—makes friends with the mammets. Whose cat sleeps in Jaiyu’s bed. (In what he keeps catching himself thinking of as their bed, not that they talk about things like that.) Who snorts at his jokes and has a permanent pencil smudge on his right pinkie and hasn’t run away yet, even though he could. The Garlean Empire might be gone, but Zeiran’s a smart man and an incredible fighter. He wouldn’t lack for opportunities if he did decide to fuck off somewhere at the next port and never come back. Jaiyu wouldn’t even be surprised.

They keep landing at different ports. Thavnair, Doma, Hingashi. Zeiran keeps not fucking off.

He’s at the helm now, a mammet on either side of him, with his sleeves rolled up and his collar undone and his vest slung over the back of the chair. Now that it’s no longer being slicked back so tightly—now that he’s no longer eir Tahlar, but simply Zeiran—some of his lovely black hair is flopping in his face, and Jaiyu’s fingers itch to mess it up some more. He watches from the doorway instead, unable to look away from the light in Zeiran’s ruby eyes or the faint twitch of a smile on his lips.

Oh, he’d like to do more. He’d like to do a lot more. But even if Zeiran didn’t get so bloody prickly when he’s working, his cat is riding around on Jaiyu’s shoulders, which is a real feat because Fortis is an Ilsabardian Forest Cat and weighs about thirty ponzes. Jaiyu isn’t suicidal enough to make any sudden moves.

“I can feel you staring,” Zeiran grumbles.

He would laugh, but that might dislodge the cat. He grins instead, thumping his tail on the doorframe. “Zeizei, I’ve got the best view in Eorzea. Can you blame me?”

Zeiran’s pale, so when he blushes—like he’s doing now—it’s spectacular. It reaches all the way to his adorable little hyuran ears. “You are an arsehole,” he mutters, but there’s no heat to it. A real smile threatens to break free.

Archery is more or less default; he is a Xaela, after all! He was born on the Steppes, and learned to shoot a bow very early. But as for machinistry...

That, actually, started as revenge. During the Bozja campaign, he uncovered a Garlean spy, who proceeded to shoot him and steal his airship. Once he recovered, he dedicated himself to learning--and mastering--the same sort of revolvers Zeiran eir Tahlar had used in battle. See how you like getting shot, asshole!