Kiss Prompts (still accepting!)

Guydelot lies awake in the dark hours of the morning, listening to Sanson talk in his sleep - the familiar sound that always brings the bard comfort, assuring him that all is well. And for the moment, at least, it's true. For tonight, the sound of Sanson’s voice amidst the shapes and shadows that make up home is enough. Tonight there's just the two of them, safe and sound here in this bed, where nothing can touch them but each other.

Tomorrow they march for Ala Mhigo, and from there on to Garlemald, to face dangers unknown.

It should get easier, Guydelot thinks - each time they take to the field, each time duty calls them into certain danger, it should get easier and easier; an old habit, a familiar routine. Instead it seems to get harder. Oh, it'll all be easy enough once he gets there! He's a bard, after all, and he'll do what bards do best; he'll shine on the battlefield and he'll ward Sanson's back, making sure they both make it home safe and in one piece. Once the habit of duty takes over, he'll be alright.

The waiting kills him.

"I can feel you thinking too much," Sanson murmurs drowsily. Guydelot starts, guilty; he hadn't even realized the man was awake. Sanson rolls over to face him in the darkness, reaching up to stroke his hair. "Overthinking is my talent. Are you nervous?"

Nervous. Nervous. Like it's nothing more than a performance, and he's getting stage fright. No, he's not nervous, he's terrified. But he can't say that, not even here, in the charmed circle of Sanson's arms.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," he says instead, closing his eyes, trying to focus on Sanson's fingers in his hair, on Sanson's breath where it mingles with his own. "Can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"It's not too late to back out. This mission is strictly voluntary, as I said." Sanson's fingers on the back of his neck, raising goosebumps. "If you wish to stay home, I'll not gainsay it. I meant what I said: I won't order it of you."

'I will not order any member of the unit to serve in Garlemald,' Sanson had said, solemn and sincere, upon hearing their orders. 'I will order no one to extend a hand in friendship and compassion to the Alliance's greatest enemy. I will not order it, but I will ask.'

And Guydelot, who would walk through fire for Sanson (so long as he wasn't ordered to do it), agreed to go. What else could he do? And what else can he do now? Nothing short of locking Sanson up and throwing away the key will get him to stay home when duty calls him away, and even then, Guydelot isn't sure he wouldn't find a way. And if Sanson's going, well, so the hells is he; he can't very well leave Sanson the Stiff to his own devices. The only thing worse than marching into deadly danger at Sanson’s side is the idea of Sanson marching into it alone. Sure, the rest of the unit agreed to go along, too - but not a one of them is Guydelot, and he’d trust the lot of ‘em with his own life…

But not with Sanson’s.

“And I meant what I said,” he replies, opening his eyes again, seeking out the glimmer of Sanson’s in the dark. “We’re in this together.”

“To the bitter end,” Sanson echoes softly, pulling him closer to press a kiss to his forehead. “Which I’ll continue to hope is a long way off yet.”

“Aye.” Guydelot kisses Sanson’s lips, light and teasing. “I’m in no rush.” Another kiss, longer this time. Long enough to keep the spectre of death or worse in a far-off land at bay, at least for one more night.

Tomorrow they march for Ala Mhigo, and from there on to Garlemald.

Kiss Prompts (still accepting!)

Trembling from exertion and adrenaline alike, snow-soaked even through his coat, Sanson finally takes a moment to look around - the battle is coming to a close, with only small pockets of tempered Garlean resistance remaining: the diversion has been a resounding success, albeit one bought at a steep and bloody cost. Too many of the bodies that litter the battlefield - the dead, the dying, the wounded - wear the contingent's many colors.

For the first time, Sanson wishes he hadn't convinced Guydelot to wear an Adder coat. His customary bright turquoise would have been far easier to spot at a distance.

Breathing hard, Sanson wipes his hair from his face; it's fallen loose in the fighting, plastered to his skin by the falling snow, sweat, and blood alike. Where is he? That Guydelot is alive, he does not question. Intense though the fighting has been, never was there a moment Sanson did not hear Guydelot's voice, strident and rallying, soaring over the sounds of battle. Had his song been cut abruptly, horrifyingly short, Sanson would have heard it. He is not afraid that he has lost Guydelot, not at all.

He allows himself to rest a moment, leaning against the one remaining wall of a fallen building. He doesn't dare close his eyes, to listen hard above the swirl of the wind and the remaining sounds of combat for the familiar voice he knows so well; no, not while the enemy lingers. But neither can he set out to search for the man on his own - duty compels him to remain where he may best provide aid. But then, Guydelot is his man, and if he could justify the search as his duty...

"Chief." The voice is a benediction, chasing away all his weariness in one breath. Sanson pushes from the wall, looking sharply toward the source of the voice: Guydelot, limping, but alive. "Looks like things are-"

Sanson cuts him off, closing the distance between them in two long strides and seizing the man's face in both hands, pulling him down for a kiss right there on the battlefield.

@richuchick24 had several suggestions; here's the first: His thoughts on different WoLs. Like 1 whos friendly and polite, 1 who's quiet and reserved, 1 who's loud and hot headed, etc.

This one features, in order, my WoLs Tajna Ratyasch, Coeli Qoet, Ernaswys Lubbloefwyn, and @lesenbyan's Eve. And an increasingly frustrated and baffled Sanson.