#nahte

I've got you.

And I would give all this and heaven too I would give it all if only for a moment

“It isn’t worth the fuss.” The knuckles were broken, mended now to where F’ystran could move them painlessly again, but Nahte held fast. Aether hummed and wound over their hands, and Lily fluttered curiously from one of Nahte’s shoulders to the other, as though she herself was trying to get an idea of what it was that had her master’s attention so fixed.

F’ystran could not quite push past Nahte’s expression, that mixture of stony and pleasantly serene that made it difficult to parse what thoughts circled his head. The mismatched blue of his eyes remained glued to the bruised span of the back of F’ystran’s hand, impenetrable in his paradoxically gentle—infinitely gentle—way.

“It needs to be tended to, if you’re keen to hold a sword any time soon,” he replied, glancing up to F’ystran’s eyes. He smiled, then, soft and coaxing. “Just a moment more.”

It did not need it, the tingle of the aether weaving up the length of F’ystran’s forearm in want of things more pressing than the leftover bruise. The small scrapes and chafes stitched shut, skin smooth and unmarred where they had been that moment before.

It was excess, and one F’ystran would not tolerate from any other healer. From Nahte, it was not unwelcome. Where a plethora of tiny aches had built, they now eased away, leaving only warmth in their wake.

The promised moment passed, the glow of the magic dissipating into the air. Task complete, there was a heartbeat of hesitation, both of Nahte’s hands holding F’ystran’s one. Neither seemed fit to part in the silence that had fallen. F’ystran, without fully meaning to, squeezed Nahte’s fingers, thumb smoothing just a fraction of an ilm over the side of his hand.

“Thank you, Nahte,” he murmured. Nahte smiled, returning the pressure. F’ystran near thanked him for that too.

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Oh, all my nights taste like gold Yeah, when I'm with you It's like everything glows💛

This is totally unedited and written in a flurry before work but yeet.

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The poor thing’s eyes were glued shut with cold and infection, her breathing punctuated by sneezes. The tortoiseshell kitten shivered against where F’ystran pressed her to his chest, violent tremors for such a tiny creature. When she mewed, he stroked the thumb of his spoken hand over the damp top of her head, rubbing the tips of ears that, just moments ago, would have threatened to fall away had he not pulled her from the frigid Ishgardian streets.

She was small enough to tuck into one hand, paws no bigger than his fingernail kneading against the space on his skin he bared to provide his warmth. She mewed again, and this time he hushed her, gentle and doting.

It did not take long for a curious head to poke into his room, black ears piqued up and eyes wide. Another followed suit, tangle of red hair that F’ystran suspected meant his contraband had woken the pair.

He turned quickly, half to keep the warm air of the fire on his front, half to keep eyes off the bundle. But she was stuttering a purr, and she smelled of street and illness—even were they not Miqo’te, there was no hiding it, and F’ystran knew this. He had no true intent, only gaming avoidance.

“Apologies for waking you,” he said, head tilting down to watch her wriggle in an attempt to get more comfortable. He shifted his fingers to allow it. “I had not expected to be out so late.”

“Why were you out so late?” asked Nahte, knowing and urging at once. It did not take long for a chin to come to rest on F’ystran’s shoulder, a hand on his arm to better look. A second head nestled into the crook of his neck on the other side, an ear twitching against his in question.

“Something caught my attention,” he replied, rubbing a temple idly against Mahl’s.

“Something, alright,” snorted Mahl, but despite the tease, he returned the gesture, reaching a hand around to scratch the kitten’s cheek. She purred a little louder, mewing again. “Where’d you find it?”

“A crate in the Brume.” F’ystran brought her a little higher, just below the divot of his collarbones. His brows knit. “The rest of them didn’t fare so well. I could not well leave her.”

“No indeed,” said Nahte, and it was his turn to reach forward and run his palm, careful and soft, over the top of her head. He cocked his head, faintest glow of aether twining around his fingertips. She wriggled again in response, a degree stronger than a second before, and F’ystran smiled, squeezing her just a little. “She needs a bath right away.”

“A good meal wouldn’t go amiss.”

“I’ll go get Maurelin,” said Mahl, pulling away, but not before nuzzling F’ystran’s neck. “See if he starts looking for fleas in the rugs.”