Bask in the spotlight and burn, baby, burn

"She's a charmer, isn't she?" Leofard crowed, settling into a cruising speed. His acrobatics had left Moro’a slightly lightheaded, and a reedy laugh escaped from the Keeper's lips, loosening some of the pressure in his chest.

"So says the pilot," he managed.

"Give her a little more credit!" It was all in jest, of course — Moro’a knew that the faith Leofard placed in his airship was more than founded.

They were flying at a calm pace now. As had often happened during their jaunts, Leofard settled back and stopped talking, content to drink in the sky’s splendour. For Moro’a, it was one of his favourite things about their flights — the silent companionship, the quiet ease with which they appreciated the same things.

Several more minutes passed before Leofard turned his head towards Moro’a again. "Say," he said, his voice lowering into something a little softer, though still teasing. "What say you give her a try?"

"Me?” Moro'a's words petered out as he faltered. “I..." This was a first. Borrowing a Redbill airship was one thing; the Raimille was Leofard’s pride and joy, second only to that which he valued most. That he was willing to leave it in his hands was no small offer; an offer not made lightly, no matter how casual Leofard acted about it.

"Come on, reach over. I'll show you." Leofard drummed his fingers against the Raimille’s handles expectantly, leaving Moro’a no choice but to reach forward with his arms. His palms hovered over Leofard's knuckles in awkward suspension, before finally settling on the hyur's hands. His skin was cool, and Moro’a grimaced as he hoped that his palms wouldn’t grow damp with sweat.

Leofard continued as though nothing was wrong. "Now I've flown one of Garlond's ships, and they're smooth, more about stability than anythin' — won't give you any more trouble than what you’ve made for yerself. The Raimille, though…you’ve got to be a touch more precise to get on her good side." To prove his point, Leofard veered to the left, letting Moro’a feel the way the airship responded to his commands, faster and looser than Cid’s manacutters. 

Desperately, he tried to focus on that rather than the splay of Leofard’s long fingers underneath his own as they adjusted over the handles. 

"And she'll change her speed or angle in moments, if you let her!” The Raimille dipped sharply without warning, sending them in a tilted arc that made Moro’a’s stomach tumble in equal parts fear and exhilaration.

“Arse,” he shouted, and Leofard laughed. Before the Raimille could reach a level position he dropped them again, but Moro’a was better prepared this time, watching him as he piloted his airship with muscle memory-ease. Leofard repeated the manoeuvre once more, and then the Raimille soared, climbing higher and higher, before gradually decelerating as they returned to where they were before.

Moro’a was committing the airship’s controls to memory when Leofard’s fingers slid over his, guiding them to where the smooth leather had been warmed by his hands. “Your turn,” Leofard said. “I’ll work the pedals, so just focus on the steerin’.” Moro’a tried his best to ignore the odd flip his stomach had just performed. 

Led by the light pressure of Leofard's hands, he pulled at the left handle, and the Raimille responded enthusiastically, turning clockwise with more speed than he’d anticipated. Tugging hard at the other handle only made the airship shudder, and the loss of control was enough for the airship to yaw as it began to spin, at which Moro’a gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus . He was grateful that Leofard’s hands didn't tighten their grip on his as he fought to regain control of the airship — a sign of trust, and one that Moro’a had no intention of betraying.

He spent a few more moments fighting with the handles, until something clicked: the wind, the flowing currents of aether; constant flux and rebalance. The Raimille broke free of the spiral, wobbling slightly as Moro’a sailed upwards. 

He felt almost giddy as his chest swelled with unexpected pride. The airship may have lacked the manacutters’ lenience, but the thrill of maintaining such fine control was its own joy, and he understood why Leofard loved it.

"Aye. Precisely that, Moro’a." His name was almost a croon in Leofard’s mouth, like water sliding over polished pebbles, and the world seemed to pause, muting the wind and blotting out the sky as Moro’a’s heart skipped. He realised that Leofard’s hands hadn’t moved, and didn’t dare move his, afraid that the slightest twitch would signal for Leofard to let go even as his mind rebelled against that very desire. It wasn’t as though touch was a foreign matter between them — they’d gotten plenty handsy with one another before, and much, much more; but they’d always kept it playful, casual, something to revisit when mutual desire struck at each man’s leisure.