The trip is needed. It’s been a wild few weeks of misadventures in the market, the pair of them seeming to glory in finding ways to challenge one another to increasingly foolish escapades. Honestly Thancred wonders how Match hasn’t been cast from the Bloodsands for his mischief, though Thancred wouldn’t be surprised if the strange new champion is simply too profitable a draw for the Gladiator guild to attempt anything so drastic.

This most recent stunt, a reclaiming of stolen food for the down-and-outs in Pearl Alley, will definitely require a few days away to let the whole thing blow over. Not that Thancred is concerned; should the worst come to the worst, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn have deep coffers and there are few matters in Ul’dah that can’t be forgotten by ensuring gil arrives in the hands of the right people.

Match stretches luxuriously, cool water running across his bare thighs as he kicks his legs in the shallows. He turns to his companion, a teasing smile on his face. “So where does a bard learn to throw a knife like that?”.

“Are you referring to my rather masterful way in which I was able to nail that brigand of a shopkeep to his own stall?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, you know how it is,” Thancred grins back. “You’ve got to learn how to deal with critics somehow.”

“Remind me never to speak ill of your performance.”

Thancred raises a eyebrow behind his dark glasses. “I’ll have you know I’ve never received a negative review.”

“Oh?” Match’s eyes narrow, his grin widening. “That’s quite the claim. You’ll have to show me how you play some time.”

“A bard doesn’t play for just anyone, I’ll have you know,” Thancred shoots back, his own mouth pulling into a half-smile.

Is this a genuine flirtation? Thancred studies the cocky grin on his companion’s face. True, they’ve been close of late, spent most days together. Then again, he’s not the miqo’te’s only companion in the city. From what he’s heard, Match and Adalberta, leader of the miner’s guild, have been very… Close the past while. Maybe he’s just this way with everyone. Or mayhap a few nights of the guildmaster’s company has made the boy a touch more confident. Either way, Thancred can’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy this new side to Match.

His eyes play over Match’s face again as Match studies his own in return. The sun is beating and the heat like an oven even in the shade. Sweat glides down the miqo’te’s neck, tracing a salted path across that small well where it meets his torso. For a moment, Thancred wonders what that salt would taste like on his tongue…

Match watches Thancred watching him. There’s a lot in Than’s tall tales that don’t add up, but then it’s not as if he’s been honest about his own story either. The anxiety plays at his guts just a little. What right does he have to get Thancred in trouble like this, when Match is already running from a dozen troubles of his own? But then there he is, bare chest and slim arms, those hands that run through his mop of hair. The fingers so ready to knot and pull.

Thancred’s lips are red and full in the heat. Match watches them as Thancred speaks and smiles. How would they feel against his own?

Thancred’s hand moves, coming to rest on his wrist. Match colours a little, but the beating sun makes for an ideal excuse. “What are you-”

“The heat,” Thancred interrupts. “You were looking a little flushed, just wanted to be sure your heart wasn’t going too fast there.”

Too fast? Even that touch is enough to make his chest pound.

Thancred smiles inwardly to himself. It’s a game, in a way. One he’s been taught to play well. The sudden touch, the casual escalation; now he’s in control and Match is once again on the back-foot. Maybe he’s playing a little mean, but needs must. He’s getting too fond of the boy. Letting his own judgement and observations slip in the face of just… Enjoying himself. But then, would that be so bad? To simply live in this moment, with no agenda or bigger plan?

A coldness rises in his throat, doing its best to choke his teasing grin. Of course it would be, it seems to whisper. You’ve no right to such notions. You’re as much a grifter as every two-bit crook on a Limsan dock.

“So what if I am,” Thancred murmurs aloud.

“What?”

“Nothing, Match. Nothing at all.” His hand on Match’s wrist tightens just a little, his thumb rubbing a small circle on the sand-marked skin.

Behind them, the Sagoli sands stretch for miles. The sun will set in just a few more hours. So what harm is there, to sit and rest and wonder for just a little while longer?

...

The Waking Sands, another slow afternoon. Match has returned from the outer reaches of Vylbrand, his slaying of Titan another potent triumph. Thancred sits near the door, an unexpected, awkward encounter. Neither one speaks.

Thank you for saving me from prison, Match does not say.

Why did you run away without telling me, Thancred does not ask.

"Well, well. There you are. Good. Good." Stumbling words. Inadequate. Foolish. Thancred is a trained man, a scholar of secrets and reading people. How is it that he is undone by one summer of rutting and regrets? And why does it taste so bitter, to think of it so now it is long since done?

It matters little; soon there will be other primals, other fights. Soon, Thancred's body will no longer be his own...

...

He is moving. Thancred feels, really feels for the first time in weeks, the wind in his hair, the thud of heavy, jolting footsteps shake through his torso. His body aches, cut and bruised from a fight he had no part in. The Ascian. That awful, whispered torturer in his skull. He's gone. Thancred's eyes flutter open, just for a moment.

A familiar figure carries him in his arms, one hand piloting a magitek walker that is running, no, galloping from wherever he has been plucked. "Matchstick..." With a shaking hand, and with fingers certain they are about to brush away a dream, Thancred reaches for his savior. Match glances down. The m'iqote's face is a bloody mess, half rent open in a vicious cut that runs its full length across one eye.

"Hold on, Than! Hold on!!" Match's voice is already echoing as if from far, far away, and Thancred wishes that he could, that he could stay, that they could talk just for another moment but he is already drifting away again, his eyes already fluttering closed once more...

...

The ceremony is a good one. Pretty words, spoken well. An accord restruck, a realm reforged and all that. Thancred shrugs to himself. All well and good to say aloud, but ultimately a little hollow until the rest of the world chooses to catch up. Still, a good start in the right direction. He says a few goodbyes, eager to return to Revenant's Toll and then on to Ul'Dah. It's been too long with that cold, heartless creature living in his skin; he would like to feel the true desert heat again if he may.

So eager to leave is he that he walks right into the young man of the hour. "Ouch!" Match rubs his skull where the pair collided. "Look where you're-" He stops, realizing who he's talking to. "Oh! I didn't know... I thought you were still..."

"The chirurgeons would rather I were still in bed, yes," Thancred says, forcing a smile. "But I thought it remiss of me to be absent for such an occasion. 'Champion of Eorzea'. The title suits you."

You look good, he does not say.

I missed you, Match does not reply.

"Well," Thancred coughs. "Best be off. Places to see, people to be, all that."

"Right."

"Be seeing you, Chamipion."

"Be seeing you, Than."

And so, Thancred leaves. Just as he was trained to, Just as he has so many times. Just as Match did back when all this started, without so much as a goodbye.

Maybe this is all they deserve.

...

Okay I'm gonna stop this one here for now! This was so much fun, well, not fun, but really cool getting to write out Match and Thancred's whole messy ARR story. I hope you liked it @mythandral and thank you for the ask!

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Thancred moves closer, joining Match at the balcony. For a moment, Match thinks about going for a hug, embracing him like he has so many times before. But no. Better not. After all, there’d be too many words in that hug, too many things that need saying that have been left unsaid too long already. Thancred watches him a moment longer. “So,” he says at last, grin fading. “To what do I owe the pleasure of the Champion’s company?”

“Har har.”

“Sorry. Would you prefer warrior of light? You do seem to accrue the titles these days.”

“I didn’t ask for any of them.”

“I know you didn’t.” Another moment’s silence falls between them. Thancred looks around. “A pleasant enough night. Reminds me of the last time we were up here.” He glances sideways at Match through his pale fringe, as if measuring the miquote’s response. “A few years back now, of course.”

“I remember it,” Match replies, blushing. How could he forget? That perfect day followed by a perfect night, followed by a perfect kiss…

“Is that why we’re here? To reminisce?” There’s something new in Thancred’s voice, a note of scorn that hadn’t been there before. “Because if so there’s a few memories that aren’t so pleasant.”

Match cringes. “I know, I know. What I did back then-”

“What you did back then, you did back then. It’s done,” Thancred interrupts. “No point going over it now.”

“But I should! Let me apologize at least!”

Thancred watches him levelly. “…Alright. What do you think you need to apologize for?”

“For… For running away. For leaving without telling you where I was going, or why. For you having to come and pull me out of a jail cell.” Match looks away, unable to hold the hyur’s piercing gaze. “I was an idiot. I didn’t even think. All I cared about was saving my own skin.”

Thancred watches him for another second, then exhales a long sigh. A weary smile tugs at his cheeks. “Well, I won’t deny it’s nice to hear you finally say it. The way you’ve been acting I was starting to think you were blaming me for the whole mess.”

“What? Why?”

“Why?” Thancred says, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t exactly welcome me back into the fold with open arms, Match. We never talked about it when I handed you over to the Scions, and we never talked about it all over again when I met up with you and the others in Dravania. Then you pull another disappearing act and the next time anyone sees or hears from you you’re waiving a Doman sword around and going on about this Musosai fellow, and we still don’t talk about it.” His face grows darker. “Not to mention the few times I did see you, you constantly made those little comments.”

“Little comments?”

“You think I don’t hear you? That I don’t see that judging look in your eye when I speak to Hilda, or any woman for that matter that you happen to be in earshot of? You were never any kind of master of stealth.”

Match cringes again. “When you put it like that, I guess I have been pretty shitty to you, huh?”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Well I’m sorry for all that too.” Match looks away, unable to look Thancred in the eye. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean any of it. Not really. I’ve just been… It’s like…”

Match trails off, words leaving him again. Thancred watches him, his eyes widening in surprise as his companion’s shoulders start to shake, as tears start to tap onto the balustrade. Thancred reaches out and places a hand on Match’s shoulder. “Hey now… No need for that. You said sorry, no need for tears.”

“It’s not.. I meant, it’s not just that. Oh gods.” Match wipes his eyes with his arm. “Gods, Than. It’s all gone wrong. None of it makes any sense anymore.”

“What doesn’t? Talk to me, I’m here.” He leads the shaking m’iquote back to the stone bench set against the back of the balcony, sitting him down gently. “It’s alright, Matchstick. Talk to me.”

Match sniffs. “I should never have told you about that nickname.”

“Too late now. Now, what’s caused all this?”

Match takes a long, slow breath. “I just. I’m supposed to be this great hero, right? Everyone’s expecting me to save them from whatever the next horrible thing to show up is. Ultima Weapon. Nidhogg. Thordan. Every damn Primal, over and over. But how long am I supposed to keep doing that, you know? When do I get to stop? Haven’t I done enough yet?”

“I suppose we’re a little over-reliant on you sometimes. But you know you’re valued more than any of us.”

“I know, I know… It’s just… I still don’t remember anything from before this, you know? None of it. I’ve been so many places, seen so many m’iqote tribes now, and every time I do I walk in with part of me hoping that this is it, this is the one. This is where…”

He trails off. Thancred watches him, his expression unreadable. “Where you’re from.” Match nods. “I see. You still haven’t found a family.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love my life with the Scions. I’d die for any of them. But with all this business with Doma and Ala Mhigo… I don’t know. It’s just been hurting more lately. It’s like every time I get something solid its all snatched away. And not like for the others.” He gazes despondently out over the city lights again. Below, a pair of lalafel courters stroll arm in arm through the quiet street. “Everyone else has gone through stuff, sure, but they have that surety. They know where they’re from. Raer and Muirrean, they have homes and lives they could go back to, if they wanted. I think Muirrean might even stay in Doma, the way she and Hien hit it off. But there’s nowhere for me to go except back to the Rising Stones.”

“Is that so bad? It’s a damn sight better than Pearl Alley at least.”

Match sniffs again, managing a weak smile. “And I’d definitely be able to hold onto a box better these days.”

“Exactly.” Gingerly, Thancred puts an arm around Match’s shoulders. His foolish, perfect Matchstick. How can he even begin to comfort him? How do you sum up so many years of gratitude, of resentment, of the mess they’d left behind them right here in Ul’Dah?

Another moment passes. At last, his voice slow while he searches for the words, Thancred speaks. “For whatever it may be worth… There is far more to family than tribe or name. Those back at the Rising Stones, they miss you when you’re gone, you know. They worry every time they ask you to step into danger. We all do. We ask the impossible of you, and you make it look easy. And more than that…” He squeezes a little tighter, his other hand turning Match’s face so that his despondent eyes are locked with his own. “Were you ever to ask for a reprieve they would grant it. You are more than an ally, Match Munroe. You are more than simply those titles of yours. You are family. You are so, so loved. We all love you.” A moment passes. “I…”

But he can’t say it. Not yet. Those last two words die in his throat, choked by the bitter ghost that still haunts him, that echo of nights on this very balcony that whispers on the desert wind what if, what if, what if. Still too soon. Still too late. When? When will it ever…

All of sudden his thoughts are interrupted as Match presses his lips against his own. Just for a moment. Then, Match breaks a way, his eyes still closed, his forehead still resting gently against the hyur’s.

For once in his life, Thancred doesn’t know what to say. “Match…”

Match’s eyes do not open. “Yeah. I know. Me too.”

And there, on that balcony in Ul’Dah where they’ve left so many words unsaid, three more words remain silent thoughts, as warm as that endless desert wind.

...

“Did we lose ‘em?” Match’s voice is a hissed whisper.

“Heh.. It would appear so. Unsurprising. The Brass Blades are far from the cream of the crop as far as law enforcement goes."

It's been a long few weeks of misadventures such as this, ever since Thancred's curiosity over this seemingly-invulnerable new fighter in the Bloodsands had gotten the better of him and he'd invited the young m'iquote for a night of carousing. Since then, he's found himself in more scrapes than he has in years, pulling pranks like a wharf-rat barely out of his short trousers. And yet he can't deny it's been the most fun he's had since leaving Old Sharlyan.

“Buncha pricks if you ask me," Match sniffs. "Them and the Yellow Jackets. Besides," he smiles, tossing a shining apple to his white-haired companion, "it's only a bit of fruit, right?"

Thancred catches the apple in one hand, smiling back as his friend takes a white, toothy bite. Juice dribbles down the m'iquote's chin. It is true what the Limsan privateers say; the thieved apple certainly does taste sweeter. "Another daring heist pulled off without a trick. I commend you for your speed with a snatched prize."

Match beams, winking, juice still dripping from his mouth. "How about we step up the prize next time? Seeing as we make such a good team and all."

Thancred raises a teasing eyebrow, eyes lingering on those juice-stained lips for just a moment. "Oh? What did you have in mind?"

Match's expression changes. He raises a finger, his brows furrowing in righteous anger. "Well, there's this hunter, see, comes through every coupla weeks to sell what he's caught. Thing is, there's this one git what buys the whole lot and then sells it in scraps for way more gil just so none of us Pearl Alley lot can even get a taste!" Match sniffs. "I reckon we wait 'til his spent his gil then snatch the whole lot. Make it that we get to be the ones eating like empresses for once."

"A daring proposal. And how would suggest we go about seizing your prize?"

"Easy! We go up, all cloaks and stuff, pretend to be buyers, then you snatch the meat, I flip the table, then make for Thanalan until the Brass Blades get tired of lookin'!"

Thancred can't help but laugh at the simple, silly audaciousness of the so-called plan. “You’re a wild one, Match, and no mistake! Gods but I love-” He catches himself just in time, heart pounding at the narrow miss. Easy there, Waters. That's a dangerous thought. No time for words like that. Not in his line of work.

Match raises an eyebrow. “What was that, Than?”

“I love… How much fun I've been having. With you.” The smile on Thancred’s face doesn't quite reach his eyes. Not that the m’iquote notices.

Match grins back. “You’re not so bad yourself. Didn’t know you had it in you, pulling tricks like this!”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me and my misspent youth, Munroe.” And if I’m not careful, one day some of it will slip out. That and all too much more.

And there it is, the dark cloud in Thancred's heart that snatches "love-yous" from his lips before they have a chance to become more than thought. Twelve know he's a dishonest man by trade. Aye, and good at that trade too. Would not do to let sentimentality get in the way of that now. Besides, still plenty of fun ways to assess the potential of this strange, wild boy he's found without making fools of them both. He grins again, this time with a little more conviction. "Well, why not. Let's find this dishonest merchant making gold from hunger and see if we can't teach him a lesson or two."

...

Thank you for the ask @yloiseconeillants! Match and Thancred's long summer of Ul'Dahn misadventures is probably the happiest they are in their relationship, so it was great to give a bit of a snapshot into what that looked like.