#tiber

Tiber pyr Gallius is not a popular man.

Oh, he’d like to be. It kills him inside every time people—even some of his fellow Scions—look at him with narrowed eyes because he’s too tall, too awkward, too Garlean to possibly fit in. Even if he pulls his hat down low over his forehead, it’s ruined the moment he opens his mouth. The crew at the Ironworks doesn’t help; most of them are deserters like him but they blend in better and their provincial dialects are only partly comprehensible. Not to mention he’s never been much like his sister or Alan; he loves music and philosophy and poetry, and the closest he’s been to the inner workings of a magitek reaper was piloting one in the Academia. (He fell off trying to dismount. Not his proudest moment.)

All that is to say, by process of elimination he spends a lot of time with Vivian Capsari. Vivian, who has the Echo. Who’s being taught by Mistress Soleil herself. Who was a Hyuran citizen conscript in Tiber’s legion, and therefore has no reason to give him the time of day. Who somehow, inexplicably, seems to like him anyway.

He won’t ask why. He has his pride, after all. But he is the son of Cicer sas Gallius, whose bones rest at the bottom of Silvertear Lake. He joined the army to follow in his father’s footsteps (to bring glory to Garlemald, security to their Empire) and to avenge his sister (who never needed avenging, who has thrown her sword away for a blacksmith’s hammer with joy in her heart). It doesn’t matter that they shared a cell wall in Ala Ghiri. It doesn’t matter that they can talk about music and philosophy and the theory behind spells Tiber will never be able to perform. Vivian is a good man, a brave man, whose two eyes saw the Empire for the rotten beast it was long before the Eorzeans showed them its gore-soaked heart. He deserves a better friend.

He deserves a better—

Light catches the rims of his glasses as he smiles at Tiber in passing, and Tiber has to look away before his face catches fire.

He never thought he’d say this, but them both being Scions makes it easier. It’s true that he wants to kiss him. It’s true that every time his tank top or short-sleeved shirt or wildly colored adventuring outfit exposes lean rippling muscle Tiber finds himself at serious risk of dropping his gunblade on his own foot. It is certainly true that once the freedom from Garlemald’s chains really hits and Vivian discovers piercings and tattoos, Tiber takes a lot of very cold showers. But when they’re at war, there is simply no time for any of that. Their former comrades want them dead, and Tiber for his part is disinclined to oblige.

(He is a hoplomachus, a shield bearer. What use is he, if he can’t protect those who stand behind him?)

Their first crucible comes too soon for either of them to be happy with it. The broken trenches of Ghimlyt loom large just outside the Alliance camp, and he dresses for battle with too-calm hands. His armor is special issue from the Ironworks, patterned after Scaeva’s own in the Scions’ blue and white, because a man who can’t use aether has no need for aetherial conductivity and every need for the might of Spoken ingenuity and the genius of Spoken minds.

Vivian needs no such consideration. When Tiber steps outside to join him, he’s paging through a grimoire in which the ink glows bright as burning ceruleum. “Finally ready?”

He nods. Resists the urge to bow. Resists the even stronger urge to take Vivian’s hand.

There is a measure of trust involved in fighting alongside another. You trust that they will cover your metaphorical blind spots. You trust that they will be brave, that they will follow orders. Because you are fighting at the front lines, your shield smashing against enemy skulls as your blade carves through enemy magitek like butter, you also trust that the mages behind you will not set you on fire. He’s pretty sure Vivian won’t do that. (He could. Who would notice? And he would have every right.)

The battle goes south in an instant. They are pinned down, Tiber pulling out all the stops on his shield as drones bombard them from above, and though Vivian’s arcane constructs rend everything within reach they can’t be everywhere. Across the field in another knot of Imperial soldiers, Tiber can see the by-now-familiar blue fire that is Mistress Soleil’s favorite spell and hear Mistress Gan’s cackle accompanied by gunshots like lightning. If his team can reach them, they’ll all be safe.

Tiber sucks in a lungful of stinking, smoke-filled air and says quietly, in Garlean, “I’m going to push through. Clear a path for us.”

Vivian looks up from directing his constructs, eyes wide and baffled before they narrow in fury. His glasses are crooked and he’s missing an earring. “You’re going to get us killed.”

He won’t. He can see the path in the shifting chaos, his third eye finding the scantest ilms of safety. But still, he feels his heart in his throat as he says—begs— “Trust me.”

Vivian looks at him. Tiber can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Then he grins, wild and sharp, and says, “Sure. Let’s give the bastards hell.”

Tiber promises himself, right then and there, that if they make it out of Ghimlyt alive he’s going to kiss him. He’s going to take him dancing. He’s going to treat him right.

But first they have to survive the day.

The ground shaking under his feet, Tiber charges forward.

(They survive the day. Vivian—bloodstained, scorched, alive with post-battle adrenaline—crashes into him like a freight train, and Tiber is being hugged so tightly that he entirely forgets about anything more until the moment has passed.)