#sleeptalker

With his heart still galloping in his chest, Guydelot curls tighter against Sanson's back, burying his face in his lover's dark hair, breathing him in. Part of him longs to wake Sanson, only to talk, only for the reassurance of his voice here in the dark - the comfort of knowing they did find him, they did bring him safely home, with only a few minor wounds to show for it. But no, gods know Sanson needs the rest, and what Guydelot meant to tell him to excuse rousing him from much-needed sleep, the restless bard couldn't begin to guess. The truth?

Today I got a taste of what it might be like to lose you, and Sanson? It tastes like poison. I reckon it'd kill me.

The way the earth dropped out under his feet when Vorsaile said the Adders meant to throw Sanson away… gods, they might as well have driven a spear right through him, too! There'd been a gaping, bleeding wound in Guydelot's life from the moment Sanson was torn from it, and it threatened to bleed him dry when he thought, for a moment, all hope was lost. A mad, wild moment when he envisioned storming the Adders’ Nest alongside the Warrior of Light, tearing the place apart until he wrung out of those wretched cowardly bastards just where Nourval’d taken Sanson, and then he’d get Sanson back himself or - more likely - get them both killed trying. Anything, anything but standing back and doing nothing. Anything but throwing Sanson’s life away.

I love you, he thinks, as his pulse settles at last. Gods save me, but I love you, Sanson the Stiff. He’d known, of course. He’s known that for a long time now, though they’ve never quite put the words to it - as though never saying it out loud could keep it from meaning too much, could keep it from being too real, could keep it at a safe and manageable distance. They’ve never needed the words. They don’t need them now. But that doesn’t stop the words from rattling around in Guydelot’s head, clashing hard against I could’ve lost you today and Sanson, they would’ve had to kill me, too.

Slowly, slowly, he realizes the tone of Sanson’s sleeptalking has changed: sharper, more agitated. The body in his arms is tense, as though-

“Hey.” Guydelot shifts, shaking Sanson gently, carefully, mindful both of his wounds and the fear and uncertainty that accompany waking suddenly from a nightmare. “Hey-”

Sanson jerks awake, breathing hard, and after a moment to orient himself, sits up. “Guydelot?”

“Right here, Chief.” Stretching, Guydelot reaches to light the lamp on the nightstand, illuminating the room, chasing away the shadows. Sanson sits in silence, looking around the room as though reacquainting himself with it - or perhaps as though convincing himself it is real, as unconvinced he’s been saved as Guydelot is. He lets out a long, slow breath, drawing his knees up and lowering his forehead to rest against them.

Another long silence stretches between them before Sanson speaks again, muffled. “I suppose I woke you?”

“Nah.” As casually as he can, Guydelot rubs Sanson’s back, hoping to soothe away the last of the nightmare’s terrors - Sanson’s and his own. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Sanson peers over his shoulder, skeptical. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Must’ve been something I ate.”

It makes Sanson smile… until a moment later, when his expression crumples into misery again, verging on tears. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “Gods, I’m fine. I don’t know why I…” He trails off, burying his face in his hands, trembling ever-so-slightly.

“Here, you know what you’ve been through.” Guydelot sits up, winding his arms around Sanson, pulling him close, willing it all to fade away. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’re bruised enough, eh?”

It earns him a groan, somewhere between rueful amusement and genuine mortification. “You’re being sweet,” Sanson says, leaning into him. “I must look truly wretched.”

Guydelot lays them both back down, tucking Sanson into his side. Safe and warm. Right where he belongs. “I’ll be back to being a pain in the arse tomorrow. Promise.”

“Only if you promise.”

Smiling, Guydelot reaches to extinguish the lamp, but Sanson stops him. “Leave it. Please. I need…” Whatever he means to say, he can’t quite find the right words. He stops, looks around the room once more, and shakes his head. Guydelot understands: he needs to see this room, this sanctuary, when he wakes. “Please.”

“Sure.” Settling back down, Guydelot tugs playfully at a lock of Sanson’s hair. “Anything else?”

Very, very quietly, Sanson asks, “Will you sing for me?”

“Sure, Chief. What do you wanna hear?”

Sleep pulls at him like a current, but like any drowning man, Guydelot fights to keep his head above water, clinging to consciousness. Just a few more breaths, just a few more minutes, then he’ll surrender. Then he’ll let himself doze off here, in this unfamiliar bed that nevertheless feels like home - then he’ll let himself drop off to sleep at last, here with Sanson at his side. Just a few more minutes. Just a few.

Sanson’s bed is a hair too short, and Guydelot’s lanky frame doesn’t quite fit; the blankets aren’t quite long enough. His feet are propped up awkwardly on the footboard, exposed to the balmy evening air, unless he curls his legs into an uncomfortable position - and that risks jostling Sanson, fast asleep on his shoulder. Instead, Guydelot lies on his back, feet propped up, staring at the ceiling overhead with its shifting shadows, while his arm goes numb and his head begins to ache with sleep denied.

He’s never been so comfortable.

I hated you, he thinks, listening to Sanson breathe, marveling at it. I hated you.

He can’t fathom it now, trying to remember - when had he stopped hating Sanson? There seems to be no precise moment he can point to, no moment when the indignant disgust had abruptly shifted into something warmer, softer, brighter. Only that when he’d tried to leave, he couldn’t. Only that when he meant to give up, he hadn’t. And now the fussy, pompous little bastard has a place in Guydelot’s heart no one’s ever touched before; Guydelot feels it sinking in deep, like a tree spreading roots - and it doesn’t scare him, not like he thought it would. Feels right. Feels natural.

Feels as comfortable as Sanson’s bed does: it doesn’t fit, it’s not him, but it’s right.

It’s not just the sex, though that was better than Guydelot had dared to anticipate - though mayhap he oughtn’t be surprised by that; there’s always been a deep well of passion and heat in Sanson, once he thought to look for it. The thought makes him smile all over again: Sanson had been shy at first, explaining in halting, embarrassed tones that it had been some time since… so Guydelot took it slow, took it carefully, undressing Sanson like a gift, gentle and patient. Some fires are better kindled slowly, after all - and there was fire in Sanson, no mistake. Guydelot had worried, some, that it was too soon; too much, too quick - but somewhere in their curious, exploring kisses, I want you ignited and became Oh gods, you wanted this too, and then for a time, all Guydelot cared to be aware of was Sanson’s body, Sanson’s breathing, Sanson’s ragged voice gasping his name.

“Guydelot,” comes a drowsy murmur at his shoulder, and he blinks - but no, Sanson’s not waking, only dreaming.

“Dreaming of me, eh?” Guydelot rests his cheek against the top of Sanson’s head, letting his eyes close.

It’s not just the sex: it’s this, it’s the way Sanson fits here beside him. It’s the gift of his trust, gods! That’s a potent thing, more than Guydelot reckoned. How many people have ever trusted him, truly trusted him? And Sanson’s gone and made him a key part of all his big dreams, never mind taking Guydelot into his bed. Plenty of people have taken Guydelot to bed. How many have rebuilt their whole life’s mission around him? How many have put faith in him, for so little cause, on so little evidence?

Remember, my plan can’t succeed without you.

He remembers to breathe, listens to Sanson murmuring against his shoulder, wonders at the ache in his chest. I hated you, he thinks, holding Sanson a little tighter. I hated you, he thinks, wondering what it is he feels now.

He’s unsurprised to find the house dark… but he is surprised to find Guydelot’s boots already by the door; ‘twas far more common for Guydelot to celebrate a successful mission by joining the others at a tavern for the evening, and though it’s late, it’s far too early for him to retire. Frowning, Sanson sheds his own boots and the gloves, coat, and hat that mark him as a Serpent Captain, wandering toward the bedroom.

Asleep already?

Painted by the moonlight spilling through the open window, limned in silver, Guydelot is a sight to behold, and Sanson leans in the doorway a moment, simply admiring the view. Not for the first time, he wishes he had a bard’s poetic tongue, the better to capture in words what a rare and special creature Guydelot is: even with his hair as ruffled as a bird’s nest, even snoring quietly, even sprawled like an awkward colt across the bedsheets, Sanson finds him beautiful. More beautiful still when Sanson notices Guydelot’s fingers moving: not merely twitching, no, but familiar - he knows those movements, from watching the bard play his harp hundreds of times. Sanson has heard him sing in his sleep before, as well. Even in sleep, Guydelot reaches for song.

How in the world had Sanson Smyth, no particularly grand romantic, stumbled into love with someone like this? His heart aches, in the best way - he’d never particularly thought himself capable of tenderness, but rooted to the spot, his throat tight, he cannot feel anything else. His conflicted feelings about their mission, even the pain of his lip; none of it mattered. Those were concerns for the outside world, not here, not their quiet little sanctuary.

Sanson lets them go, and lets himself revel in his own fortune, instead.

How did I manage to get so lucky?

With a drowsy murmur, Guydelot’s eyes open, bright in the moonlight. They settle on Sanson in the doorway, as surely as though he’d called the man’s name, and Guydelot’s lips curl into that familiar slow half-smirk that always makes Sanson’s heart stutter.

“Look at you,” Guydelot says, his voice hoarse with sleep. “How’d I luck into you, eh?”

“I was just thinking much the same thing.”

The smirk becomes a grin. “What, about how I got so lucky? Smug bastard.”

Sanson sighs in rueful affection, pushing away from the doorway and peeling off the rest of his clothes. Though he’d like a bath, he suddenly realizes he’d like Guydelot a good deal more, and too much time on the road without much time alone together…

“There you are.” Guydelot reaches out a hand and Sanson takes it gladly, letting himself be drawn down to the bed and the familiar warmth of Guydelot’s embrace. “What kept you so late?”

“What sent you to bed so early?” Sanson counters, tracing idle patterns on Guydelot’s bare chest with his fingertips. “I’d have expected you to be out for hours yet.”

Guydelot catches his wandering fingers, pressing them briefly to his lips. “Might be I was tired?”

“Mayhap.” And mayhap he’d simply wanted to be home alone with Sanson after weeks on the road, behaving themselves because they were on duty, and had a certain responsibility. Sanson suspects he knows the feeling. The taverns will wait. This hunger is more urgent, though gentle.

That smile resurfaces, and Guydelot releases Sanson’s fingers to trace the curve of his cheek instead, resting his thumb gently on Sanson’s injured lip. “How bad’s that hurt, anyway, Chief?”

Sanson pulls him in. “Best we find out.”

The first kiss is gentle, careful, almost chaste. Almost, if not for the heat in Guydelot’s eyes, and the way Sanson’s heart leaps when their lips meet. The second kiss is hungrier - and he jerks, hissing in pain. But when Guydelot goes to draw back, concerned, Sanson holds him in place, hands firm on the back of his neck.

“It just stings,” he breathes. “Don’t stop.”

Guydelot allows himself a long, quiet sigh of relief. Lucky stars, indeed. Quietly, he slips into the room, closing the door behind him. It’s not a bad little room for a brief stay, though it’s a bit drafty and the windows rattle in the frigid Coerthan wind - it’s four walls and a roof, and he’s not particular. Not after hearing some of the tavern’s rougher natives complaining about conditions in the lower stories; no, after that, Guydelot’s more than content just to have a bed for the night. Even if that bed does have a perfect view of Sanson Smyth.

He strips off his boots and clothes in silence, then takes a seat on the edge of his bed, studying his sleeping companion.

So this is the Serpent Captain Jehantel mentioned, then. So far Guydelot’s not impressed: like most men in authority, this one’s up his own arse, with a big head full of ideas and no concern whatsoever about the people he’s got plans for. Out here hunting after a song, of all things. What’s a well-to-do lancer know about songs? Even now, sound asleep, he’s still clutching that damned book of his, cradled against his chest, one arm wrapped around it - and what’s he even been writing about, any road? They haven’t been on the road more than a day yet, but there he was the whole way to Ishgard: scribble scribble scribble, no time for conversation.

Not hard on the eyes, though, Guydelot admits, in the privacy of his own mind - even if the thought does make him frown. It’s true, though. In the flickering lantern light, the pompous prat looks peaceful, all his stiffness softened and faded. The bed was built to suit an elezen frame, and as a result, Sanson looks almost comically small, bundled up in blankets with his journal; Guydelot finds himself smiling at the sight in spite of himself. Why’s Sanson got to be such a miserable stiff-necked bastard, anyhow?

This could have been a halfway enjoyable little adventure: just Guydelot and the Warrior of Light, chasing a song through the legends of Coerthas. Instead…

“There’s gotta be more to you, right?” Softly spoken, the question hangs in the air between Guydelot and the sleeping soldier, not meant to be heard or answered. He leans forward, resting his chin in one hand. “Jehantel likes you well enough. Means he sees something-”

Sanson mutters, and Guydelot bites his tongue, hastening to look anywhere else - but no, Sanson’s not waking up, just talking in his sleep: quiet murmuring that goes on for a minute or more, incoherent and unintelligible.

He can’t put words to the why of it, no more than he could in Tailfeather, when his every instinct said to head back to Gridania in truth and leave Sanson to the hunt on his own. Just another day or two, he told himself, over and over, and every day found him lurking on the fringes of the hunters’ settlement… watching Sanson. The way he talked to the hunters, asking questions. The way he chatted with Sylviel for hours at a time - about the Ballad of Oblivion, sure, but other tales and songs from Ishgardian history besides, all while Sanson took diligent notes. And sometimes he’d catch Sanson gazing off into the distance, frowning slightly, almost as though he were looking for something. Maybe looking for him.

Don’t be stupid, he scolds himself. Warns himself. Don’t read too much into it. He should make good on his plans and go home, Sanson’s goading remarks about being named a deserter be damned. He doesn’t need to be in the Gods’ Quiver to be a bard, after all; who says he has to stay in Gridania? He could do what the Warrior of Light does: travel the world, see the sights, lend a hand or a song where it’s needed. If this mission’s been good for naught else, it’s given Guydelot a taste of wanderlust. Yes, the idea of traveling the world, footloose and beholden to no one but himself, has a certain appeal.

So why’s he here, then?

Here: the summit of Sohm Al. Here, watching Sanson nap in the shade, blissfully unaware of Guydelot’s proximity - scant yalms away, and creeping closer with each minute.

Idiot. If he wakes up, all you’ll get is a lecture.

Sanson’s not been sleeping well, and Guydelot knows it; he’s seen the way Sanson wakes in the middle of the night to rise and pace, fitful and restless, near the entrance of Moghome. Always peering off into the distance. Are you looking for me? Despite himself, Guydelot takes a few steps closer again, knowing he should leave. Knowing he should turn tail and retreat to where he’s been hiding since his arrival… but this close, he can see the dark circles under Sanson’s eyes, and it tugs at him. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t, and he’s mad for letting it. But he moves closer anyway, fearing - half-hoping - with every step that Sanson will wake and find him there.

But he doesn’t stir, though Guydelot’s close enough now to hear the familiar sound of Sanson murmuring in his sleep. Despite everything - their argument, his frustration, the knot of emotions sitting heavy in his chest - it makes Guydelot smile, and he settles himself down on the grass, surrendering the option to sprint away at the slightest sign of Sanson stirring. Fine. Let him be caught, then.

I miss you.

That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? In spite of everything. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that - and perhaps he’s grown more than passing fond of Sanson Smyth, in observing him from a distance all this time. There’s something special there, under all that stiffness. A spark of passion, fierce determination, a streak of unexpected recklessness… and yes, yes, a love of song that goes far deeper than Guydelot suspected, and he wonders where that comes from; where does a soldier learn a love for music? But that, like so many other things, Guydelot never thought to wonder until it was too late.

He could come back, he knows, but how? Pretend he never accused Sanson of using song as a tool? Pretend he never stormed off like a scolded child? No, this warrants an apology, but how? Sanson despises him, and why not, when Guydelot was thrust upon him as a poisoned gift, meant to sabotage any hope Sanson might have of achieving his dreams? How is he meant to apologize for being angry - hurt - that Sanson called him what he was, that he laid out the truth without mincing words?

And yet… and yet.

I miss you.

The sleepy muttering warms Guydelot more than it should: just the sound of Sanson’s voice again! Incoherent as it is, it’s still good just to hear him. He could sit here for hours. Gods, why is it so hard to make himself apologize? Swallow his pride, shake Sanson awake, and just...

“You must be Guydelot, kupo!”

The voice makes him jump to his feet, swearing - it’s rare that anyone manages to sneak up on him, but then, moogles have something of an advantage. Belatedly, he glances at Sanson, but the other man hasn’t so much as twitched. Deeply asleep indeed. Or… Guydelot glances suspiciously at the moogle. “Sleeping spell?”

“Only a little one.” The moogle waves one paw, somewhere between guilty and dismissive. “He needs the sleep, kupo. And I wanted to say hello.”

“Is that right.”

“I’m a bard too, you know! Mogta, the finest moogle bard who ever lived!” Flapping merrily, the creature produces a small harp, much to Guydelot’s bemusement - where was it keeping it? - and strums a few notes. “Once you join us, we can seek the Ballad of Oblivion together! Why haven’t you joined us yet, kupo?”

Guydelot glances at Sanson. “You mean he hasn’t told you?”

“Well… no.”

Quite a change from enumerating my many faults and flaws right in front of the Warrior of godsdamned Light, eh? Guydelot shakes his head. “Never mind. I ain’t joining you; you might as well go on without me.”

“What?” Alarmed, the moogle flaps closer. “Why not!?”

The answer to that question would take all day. Guydelot kneels beside Sanson instead, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face; knowing he won’t wake, where's the harm in it? The drowsy muttering barely pauses. Guydelot shakes his head. No. No, he doesn’t have the right words to fix what’s broken here, and maybe he never will. Maybe he doesn’t deserve to see it fixed: if ever he had a chance to prove himself to Sanson, he blew it. Worse, he threw it away, never knowing what he had.

It’s true, all the things everyone’s ever said about him. Just a waste of potential.

He doesn’t deserve to be in Sanson’s company.

“Never you mind.” He rises, stretches, walks away. “I just… can’t bear to be around him, that’s all.”