Chapter Text
The air of Old Gridania lights up with the scent of confectionery and the sounds capering couples, adventurers rushing in with trolleys of cakes towering over everyone in their path. House Valentione envoys and pâtissiers shield the incoming adventurers from still ravenous festivalgoers, and a second layer of adventurers guard them from the curious monsters that prowl between House Valentione’s Patisserie and Mih Khetto’s Amphitheatre.
“It’s a wonder how much cake the public can wolf down in a single hour.”
“I would not be so arrogant, Fray. Did you not have a slice from each cake?”
“For your benefit as much as mine, mind you, little bird.”
A knight shirking his duties and the shade that convinced him it was a good idea stand idly near the Moogle-crowned lemon cake, watching adventurers and lovebirds alike flit on and off the stage to stare longingly at the giant treats or converse with the emissaries of love and ardour. Lucient sups from his cup of ginger root tea, hoping to ward off the incoming stomach ache he knows is creeping in after all the cake Fray’s eaten on his behalf. Fray’s face is a crowning example of jubilance, all smiles without a hint of wryness or irony, and not a single thought given to the smatterings of frosting caking his cheeks.
If only there were some way to preserve this moment in something other than his own unreliable memory, perhaps as a physical painting to pester Fray with when he’s being too proud.
Perhaps Fray’s gluttony is simply the result of a lifetime of living lean, a life where food was never a guarantee, yet it does warm his heart to see his shade finally enjoying himself with the sweets he’d never even dreamed of having when he was alive. That they share their senses also helps.
“On the topic of benefiting others,” Fray says after swallowing his current bite, tasting as zesty and indulgent as the last, “have you decided what you wish to bring back to the nest?”
“Gifts? Oh, yes, it had escaped my mind!”
“As much does.”
“Do you wish for me to add salt to this tea?”
“Ah, you wouldn’t. I’ll put on a face that will be sure to make you cry. But go on.”
Lucient sips his tea and thinks.
“Well, Ishgard will be having its own Valentione’s Day celebrations, so no doubt the rest of House Valentione will be providing their own unique souvenirs there. As such, it would be best if we find something that is far more Gridanian in sensibilities…”
Cake is the easiest answer, but with Ishgard’s inter-city state airship system still a work in progress, it would be nigh impossible to get all the required slices back home before they went off. And the thought of trying to hold all of the slices while travelling through the aetheryte network makes Lucient’s head pound in protest.
“Perhaps Meteor would know, seeing as he is usually knowledgeable about these sorts of things. Speaking of which, have you seen him since we left the Patisserie?”
“Oh, that oaf?” Fray twirls his fork about in the air as if mimicking the swirling aether of a Teleport. “He’s long gone, little bird. Said he had a timer for a big fish or some shite like that. I expect he simply swiped his fair share of treats and trinkets and spirited himself away to the other side of the star.”
All too well that Lucient wasn’t sipping right at that moment, for he would have scalded his throat choking on his tea. He should have expected that really; the Warrior of Light is ever on the move, ever at the beck and call of the people (and apparently, his own hobbies). That’s just how his hero is, but sometimes, he does wish that Meteor would come when he called for him, rather than the other way around. Still, Lucient can’t help but laugh.
“Well, it is what it is. Good fortune to our friend, but I was truly praying for his guidance…”
“What, has Halone gone frigid on this most ardour-ous of occasions? You’d ought to pick better patrons to pray to before resorting to mortals.”
“’Tis a turn of phrase, Fray! Anyhow…”
First on the list is Sidurgu. For their partner in all but name, the man is surprisingly hard to buy gifts for, for the sole reason that he barely accepts gifts at all. Fray keeps telling Lucient this every festival season, and still Lucient labours to find something that might make Sidurgu tilt his head with curiosity rather than exasperation.
“Sidurgu…”
“You could purchase some materials to create a small effigy of yourself for Sid, little bird. He does seem to cling like moss to us whenever we reunite.”
“An…effigy? Or do you mean a plush toy?”
“Either one, really. A fine little lucky charm for those cold nights on the prowl. You could put a clipping of your hair in it to imbue it with your scent too, Fury knows you have plenty of it to go around.”
Now he’s just being silly. Lucient shakes his head at this. But something for the cold nights, something handmade…
“Actually, does the Shaded Bower have a seller of thread? If I could procure some fine wool, I could knit him an appropriately darling scarf.”
“Now there’s an idea. If they don’t have any, that really would be a surprise. Now, how about the girl?”
“Rielle? Hm, the clothing gifted to those who gave their aid with the cakes should serve well as a gift, no? She has been asking for more comfortable clothing. I shall ask if they have any on the smaller side.”
Fray raises an eyebrow at this suggestion, his eyes darting back and forth between the stall and their swiftly dwindling supplies and Lucient standing utterly unaware.
“Little bird, do you happen to know why Rielle has become a connoisseur of clothing lately?”
“I, well, is it not natural for ladies of her age to turn their eyes towards what is fashionable? She does seem to be growing into the most remarkable young lady.”
“Oh, growing is right. Tell me, Lucient. Do you remember how old she will be this year?”
“Of course! She will be turning ten and…nine summers…oh dear.”
Fray chuckles, tapping his fork on the rim of his plate like a teacher tapping their pointer on their desk.
“Correct! So, if you do decide to get her a lovely set of her own, do remember to ask for a size larger. Or three sizes, just to be sure.”
Lucient pins that to the top of his mental to-do list. If he manages to still forget, well, at least Sidurgu can have a break from being the target of Rielle’s ribbing.
“Next, Lord Speaker de Borel—”
“Aymeric.”
“Lord Speaker Aym—”
“Just Aymeric, love. Bloody hells, you act as though he doesn’t address you like an old chum himself. Next you will be calling that old superior of yours “Ser Estinien Varlineau of the Knights Dragoon, also known as Ser Estinien Wyrmblood, former Azure Dragoon”.”
Lucient pointedly ignores Fray’s jab at his tendency for over-eloquence; at least being far too polite never got them into trouble.
“Lady Lucia mentioned that he had been struggling to wake at his usual time, to the point of the House of Lords inquiring with her about his whereabouts. Could he be suffering from sleeplessness?”
“That, or too much sleep. And you haven’t been keeping up with your medical teachings, have you?”
“Unfortunately not…what do you suppose would help him?”
“In all honestly, I’ve not the slightest clue; “not waking up on time” could mean just about anything. But how about we gift him both coffee and lavender tea? That way both common causes are accounted for, aye?”
The logic makes sense, even if Lucient could see how redundant it might end up being. Heavens know it’s a far easier solution than convincing the House of Lords and House of Commons to allow the Lord Speaker a few weeks of leave. Or convincing Aymeric he needs those weeks to himself.
“I suppose. It may help either way. I do hope he would enjoy it. Oh, the list of people awaiting gifts is so very long. I must get something for House Fortemps, they have been ever so kind, and for House Haillenarte as well. Francel may be needing some new inks and sheet papers, or perhaps some orchestrion sheets for inspiration…and then there is the matter of Marianne and my other kin—”
Lucient’s frittering and fretting is interrupted by a concerningly loud rumbling from his stomach, then a sharp pang from that same area. Perhaps that headache from before wasn’t from a logistics nightmare after all.
“My, you’ve gone and done it again, haven’t you?” Fray tuts, though his expression softens as Lucient tries (and fails) to soothe his empty belly with more gingerroot. “Ignoring your own needs to serve others. I was hoping you wouldn’t still require me to remind you to eat.”
“My apologies…perhaps I should have taken breakfast before assisting the pâtissiers…”
“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to yourself. And keep your mouth open, I have a treat for you.”
Lucient looks down to see Fray holding out a scoop of lemon cake. Quite the sizeable chunk, perched precariously in a way that makes the already small fork look completely dwarfed.
“Ah, you know that I have been tasting that through you…”
“You have been tasting, but not truly eating. Unless you plan on eating me and converting my aether into a full stomach, I suggest you take the cake.”
Leave it to Fray to say the most inexplicable things in the middle of a perfectly explicable sentence. Lucient goes to take the fork, but grabs thin air as Fray pulls it away.
“What is this all about? I can feed myself, Fray.”
“Of course, but are you really going to deny your dearest the romance of feeding the one he loves? On Valentione’s Day no less? Come now, you wouldn’t. Now open nice and wide so I can stick this in.”
Oh, does he enjoys sticking all sorts of things in Lucient’s mouth. Lucient tries to kick that stray thought back to the dusty corner it came from, but the slight smirk that flashes on Fray’s face tells him that he’s already heard it. He mouths a single word. Pervert.
Lucient pouts, but the dizziness and rumbling stop him from protesting any further.
It tastes just as he expects and knows, but he hadn’t paid attention to the texture of the cakes at all since Fray started guzzling slices down. A moist sponge center, the sharp acidity of lemon jam contrasting with the light sweetness of the lemon frosting. It truly is a marvel how two ingredients using the same base fruit could taste so different. A man cannot live on cake alone, however; Lucient makes a mental note to take them both to the Carline Canopy for a proper meal later on.
As he finishes his third bite, Fray stops all of a sudden. He stares directly at Lucient’s mouth, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.
“What is it? Is there something on my face?”
Lucient wishes he could know what it is he said that makes Fray’s flush deepen. Then it hits him. Goodness gracious, he must be mirroring Fray’s own frosting-smeared face. Fury only knows how it must look to someone with a dirtier mind. (A dirtier mind than yours? Lucient snarks to himself, just so Fray can’t get the jump on him.)
“Oh, looks like I was a bit careless, my mistake. Let me get that for you.”
Covering their mouths with the rest of the cake, Fray leans in and, Fury take him, licks the stray dollops of frosting straight from Lucient’s lips. Lucient freezes, then fidgets about as if he’s suddenly caught a deathly chill.
“On stage? In front of all of these people, Fray?!”
“Oh, don’t be so full of yourself, little bird,” Fray shrugs, licking his own lips clean with unironic smugness, “everyone else is far too occupied with their own darlings or desserts to see what I did. Your clothes could explode off your body and I doubt any heads would turn.”
“What sort of example is that?!”
“One that has your head turning, evidently.”
Spinning, more like it. He sets his cup and saucer aside and pinches his brow. At least Fray is getting a good chuckle out of it, and the sound of his deep laughter is enough to bring the smile back to Lucient’s face, in spite of everything. He could never be mad at his heart, no matter how many times he messes around with him.
“Oh, there they are! Ser Knights!”
Their quiet moment comes to a crashing halt as a group of frantic adventurers (juniors in the dawn of their journeys, if their sparse armour of mismatched colours is anything to go by) rush on stage and surround Lucient and Fray. A beleaguered House Valentione pâtissier trails them, panting as he addresses the two bemused lovers.
“My deepest apologies, sirs, but we are running out of cakes for the guests, and these young adventurers require some guidance in the Patisserie. Could you spare some time to teach them?”
So much for a rest, but a hero’s duty is never done. Lucient was already moving to nod and walk them to the Patisserie when Fray steps between him and the crowd. Though he does naught but bristle and give the adventurers a harrowing glare, the way they instantly grow pale and step back makes it seem like he’s summoned an aura of pure darkness to fill them with mortal dread.
“Absolutely not. Do you not see the state he is in? I didn’t think they could make men like him quite so weak and haggard.” He snaps at them, waving his fork about as if to launch it straight into the eye of the next whelp that would try whining for Lucient’s aid. “Ser Lucient has been in and out of that mammet-infested mess since dawn today, with naught to eat since yesterday’s supper! So if you would not subject yourself to that indignity, I suggest you practice kindness and just leave us to recover. Just listen to what Kupka Kupp tells you and you will do fine. I assure you, even half-baked cakes by second-rate chefs get customers.”
There is a great silence between the pâtissiers-to-be and their petitionees.
“But, Ser Knights—”
Fray’s head snaps towards the timid Miqo’te who had spoken up, silencing her in an instant. She’s gone beyond pale into grey, her eyes watering as if she’s a second away from bursting into tears. She mutters a tripping apology before scurrying off, with the other adventurers and their now mildly horrified pâtissier accomplice following in suit. Lucient wishes he could sink into the ground and never return, but Fray did make many valid points. If only he could have made them without costing Lucient’s precious motes of reputation.
“Now where were we…ah yes, filling your stomach and filling our packs with gifts for the flock back home.” Fray chirps up as he turns back towards Lucient, a painfully “innocent” smile on his face. “Eat up, little bird. We still have much to do.”
“Do you not want a gift yourself, Fray?”
Fray doesn’t miss a beat, prodding right through Lucient’s open tunic into his chest. Straight where his heart would be.
“Being right here is a gift enough, love. Now be good and open up, I’ve given you your trite little words.”
Lucient smiles. Fray makes himself out to be so flippant and composed, yet he knows his heart just as well as Fray knows his. It won’t be too long before the facets shift and Fray is peppering him with affection and his so called “trite words” once more.
He opens his mouth, and Fray places another chunk of cake on his tongue, a sweet little offering to some strange mortal god.
It’s sweet and zesty. As always.