Fic - FF14, Emmanellain/Honoroit/Sicard
Jun. 13th, 2024 09:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ghoulmouseFandom: Final Fantasy 14
Characters: Emmanellain/Honoroit/Sicard
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1.8k words
Notes: More Kiss Battle stuff. This was in response to an anonymous prompt, and it took me a little bit to write, so I hope Mystery Shipper sees it someday. Let it be known that I am never one to pass up my OTP (or OT3 in this case, Sicard can come too). Warning for ambiguously teenage Honoroit as usual, and I apologize for Emmanellain barely being in this (the prompt kinda necessitates it tho). Also, I tried not to make Sicard sound like a renn faire pirate but GOD is it difficult.
The boy was clever, Sicard would give him that. He'd come in all quiet-like while Sicard's back was turned and sat down at the table some soldiers had set up days ago to play dice at -- a table that was just barely big enough to hold the half-empty bottle of port and two tin mugs that he set down with enough force to make Sicard jump. He whirled around, prepared for a split second to deck someone, but found himself confronted not with a back-alley cutthroat but an invitation to sit -- though the boy's icy stare wasn't too far off the mark. Sicard waved his hand dismissively and tried to elbow past, but Honoroit's auburn brow pulled into the faintest suggestion of a pout to stop him cold. That was the fatal blow, pinning him in place as surely as a musket ball to the kneecap. Emmanellain was fond of Honoroit -- so fond, in fact, that if Sicard had been inclined to jealousy he might have considered greeting him with a right hook when they finally met. If Emmanellain suspected Sicard had been rude to Honoroit, he'd be furious.
Well, he had been warned that Emmanellain's loyal hound -- more of a loyal puppy, as it had turned out -- would flush him out sooner or later and get his teeth into his neck. Might as well not exhaust himself running from the inevitable.
He sat down. Honoroit poured some of the port first into his own mug, then the other -- a gesture that struck Sicard as uncommonly like he was trying to show the drink wasn't poisoned.
"Since his lordship seems especially fond of you," Honoroit began, "I thought I would give you the courtesy of a conversation."
That was quite the concession, Sicard realized. According to the soldiers who'd apparently seen this pantomime played out a number of times, Honoroit typically just observed anyone who wanted to take his master to bed before passing his own judgement, which was usually dire and carried a heavy sentence of being driven out of Emmanellain's company come hell or high water. Whether Emmanellain knew about Honoroit's aggressive campaign for celibacy or had simply chalked it up to his own ineptitude was not entirely clear.
Sicard took a sip of the port. It was probably dreadful by Emmanellain's standards, but to Sicard it tasted solidly middle deck. "Suppose I'm flattered, then," he said. "Under the circumstances."
In response Honoroit took a sip of his own drink -- strong stuff for a lad of his size, but he didn't even flinch. It was difficult to judge an elezen's age, as they stayed in the wide-eyed cherubic stage for far too long before seemingly sailing straight to sharp-faced elder without weighing in at a single port in between, but Sicard had almost immediately realized that Honoroit was at least a bit older than he looked. Gods knew he'd be jaded for his age if he were a hundred. "I shall speak plainly, then," he said. The boy usually spoke almost entirely in circumspect niceties ("How does ser prefer his tea?" "Will ser be retiring soon?" "I have forgotten ser's profession, so would ser be so kind as to explain it to me in front of Count Artoirel's personal retainer and an ordained priest?") that this came off almost as a threat.
"Right. Good." Sicard took a swig of the wine, assuming he was going to need it. "I always prefer plain speakin'. Saves a lot of trouble in the long run. So go ahead." He gestured with the cup. "Say what you're wantin' to say."
Honoroit narrowed his eyes. "My master is an awful judge of character, and will typically overthink himself into the worst possible decision, when he bothers to think at all." For a moment Sicard felt like he ought to object to this pronouncement, but even a harsh truth was difficult to argue with. "He is also in possession of a considerable fortune and a susceptibility to flattery that borders on the embarrassing."
"So you're sayin'..." Sicard prompted. Even Honoroit at his most direct seemed to beat around the bush a little -- either he was inordinately proud of his education, or he was just so used to speaking like a fancy servant that it had stuck, or possibly (and likely) both.
Honoroit sighed. "I am saying that his lordship attracts a particular sort. "
"I thought you were going to talk plainly." Sicard knew what Honoroit was implying, of course, but he couldn't resist needling at the boy a bit.
Honoroit did not seem to be amused. "Chief upon my lord's often rather succinct list of good qualities," he said, "is a generous and unguarded nature that, I am afraid, takes the barbs of heartbreak harder than most. He is adept at appearing carefree, as I am sure you are well aware, but am privy to his lordship's heart."
Privy to his heart, Sicard thought. A fancy turn of phrase that, if Sicard had read Honoroit correctly, confirmed a suspicion he'd held since Emmanellain had recounted the tale of how he'd swooped in and rescued the lad from what sounded like truly cruel circumstances, penniless and at the mercy of a master with a bar of gold where his conscience ought to be. Though Honoroit still called Emmanellain "master", Sicard had gotten the impression that Emmanellain could hardly care less if the lad did any work at all -- in fact, Sicard hadn't realized that Honoroit was a servant at all until the boy had come home from some research excursion and immediately changed back into his house livery.
"So what you're getting at," Sicard said. Having finished off the port in his cup, he poured more. Honoroit seemed to have barely touched his. "Is that you're worried I'm set to take him for all he's worth and leave him cold and weeping like the stone-faced cutthroat I am."
"I don't worry about things. His lordship does quite enough of that. I am warning you," Honoroit said, fixing Sicard with another one of those hard-edged stares that wouldn't have been out of place on a Limsan buccaneer, "that if you give my lord cause to shed a tear, I will personally make your existence so miserable you will be fleeing back to whatever stinking dock you came from faster than you can spit."
Sicard could not suppress a grin. "See, now you're speakin' plain," he said, downing the rest of his wine and slamming the empty cup down on the table. "Believe me, I've no plans to do your master wrong. The pay-out wouldn't be worth havin' to put up with him! There ain't purse or politics that'd make that man's nonsense worth weatherin' -- only wantin' his company would ever make it worth my while. You of all folk ought to know that, lad -- I presume even better than I." Sicard reached across and grabbed Honoroit's still mostly full mug of wine, poured it into his own cup, and set the empty vessel back down in front of the boy. "You can rattle off a list of his worst qualities quicker than you can think, and it's not that it don't matter to you. I've seen you hound Emmanellain like a schoolmaster when you think he's actin' worse than he ought. But I ain't the type to suffer fools unless the fool in question's worth the effort, and neither are you. Am I right?"
Honoroit was silent for a moment -- a dangerous, calculating silence as he weighed Sicard's response. Never one to leave an advantage on the table, Sicard pressed forward.
"Besides, I think we've got more in common than not. Just for an example, oh, pulled from the air," Sicard said, making sure he'd caught Honoroit's gaze for this one. "It ain't like you don't wanna screw him too, yeah?"
Sicard was impressed — the boy was GOOD. He didn't even flinch. However, those ears of his -- far too big for his face, giving the impression of a puppy that hadn't quite finished growing into them yet -- turned scarlet like he'd been out in the snow for hours. Sicard considered himself a passable shot with a pistol, but he couldn't recall ever hitting the mark quite that dead center before. The crude language had been carefully selected to stun Honoroit into silence, and it had done it's job with precision. Besides, Sicard remembered being that age. The fact that Honoroit didn't seem to have his brain permanently situated in his trousers was something of a minor miracle, and maybe spoke to the depth of his devotion.
"Listen," Sicard went on, leaning over the table in a conspiratorial fashion. "I ain't the jealous sort -- and gods know Emmanellain's got enough heart for half the world if he had a mind to."
"How--how dare you imply his lordship would be so crass as to take liberties with servants," Honoroit hissed.
"Oh, come off it. You know he doesn't think of you that way. Hells, he talked about you all the time and never once thought to mention you were his godsdamned valet." He leaned closer, and at this distance Honoroit looked more like a boy than he had since Sicard had arrived -- flushed, flustered, too many feelings going to war in his heart for any one of them to actually reach his tongue. For a moment, Sicard actually felt a twinge of pity -- not yet twenty, already in love, and already resigned to the idea that the gap between them would remain forever too wide to cross. "I'll put in a good word for you, yeah? Or do you want to tell him yourself?"
"There you are!" Emmanellain's voice, thankfully, carried immensely well down the stony corridors of Camp Dragonhead. Sicard pulled back, and Honoroit attempted to distract himself with a swig of wine only to find the cup empty. His flustered expression quickly soured into a schoolteacher's scowl.
With all the grace of a clumsy cat, Emmanellain swept into the alcove and threw a fur-clad arm around Sicard and Honoroit's shoulders, pulling them both as close as they would let him. Heedless of the difference in their heights that made the gesture awkward to accomplish, he pressed an affectionate kiss to the top of both their heads, one after the other. "I'm so happy to see my two favorite people in all the world getting along so well!"
It was a shame the war was over, Sicard thought, as Honoroit (still flushed red as a beet) turned a withering glare on him. If anyone needed a dragon slain, surely one look from him would get the job done faster than any lance in Ishgard.
Characters: Emmanellain/Honoroit/Sicard
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1.8k words
Notes: More Kiss Battle stuff. This was in response to an anonymous prompt, and it took me a little bit to write, so I hope Mystery Shipper sees it someday. Let it be known that I am never one to pass up my OTP (or OT3 in this case, Sicard can come too). Warning for ambiguously teenage Honoroit as usual, and I apologize for Emmanellain barely being in this (the prompt kinda necessitates it tho). Also, I tried not to make Sicard sound like a renn faire pirate but GOD is it difficult.
The boy was clever, Sicard would give him that. He'd come in all quiet-like while Sicard's back was turned and sat down at the table some soldiers had set up days ago to play dice at -- a table that was just barely big enough to hold the half-empty bottle of port and two tin mugs that he set down with enough force to make Sicard jump. He whirled around, prepared for a split second to deck someone, but found himself confronted not with a back-alley cutthroat but an invitation to sit -- though the boy's icy stare wasn't too far off the mark. Sicard waved his hand dismissively and tried to elbow past, but Honoroit's auburn brow pulled into the faintest suggestion of a pout to stop him cold. That was the fatal blow, pinning him in place as surely as a musket ball to the kneecap. Emmanellain was fond of Honoroit -- so fond, in fact, that if Sicard had been inclined to jealousy he might have considered greeting him with a right hook when they finally met. If Emmanellain suspected Sicard had been rude to Honoroit, he'd be furious.
Well, he had been warned that Emmanellain's loyal hound -- more of a loyal puppy, as it had turned out -- would flush him out sooner or later and get his teeth into his neck. Might as well not exhaust himself running from the inevitable.
He sat down. Honoroit poured some of the port first into his own mug, then the other -- a gesture that struck Sicard as uncommonly like he was trying to show the drink wasn't poisoned.
"Since his lordship seems especially fond of you," Honoroit began, "I thought I would give you the courtesy of a conversation."
That was quite the concession, Sicard realized. According to the soldiers who'd apparently seen this pantomime played out a number of times, Honoroit typically just observed anyone who wanted to take his master to bed before passing his own judgement, which was usually dire and carried a heavy sentence of being driven out of Emmanellain's company come hell or high water. Whether Emmanellain knew about Honoroit's aggressive campaign for celibacy or had simply chalked it up to his own ineptitude was not entirely clear.
Sicard took a sip of the port. It was probably dreadful by Emmanellain's standards, but to Sicard it tasted solidly middle deck. "Suppose I'm flattered, then," he said. "Under the circumstances."
In response Honoroit took a sip of his own drink -- strong stuff for a lad of his size, but he didn't even flinch. It was difficult to judge an elezen's age, as they stayed in the wide-eyed cherubic stage for far too long before seemingly sailing straight to sharp-faced elder without weighing in at a single port in between, but Sicard had almost immediately realized that Honoroit was at least a bit older than he looked. Gods knew he'd be jaded for his age if he were a hundred. "I shall speak plainly, then," he said. The boy usually spoke almost entirely in circumspect niceties ("How does ser prefer his tea?" "Will ser be retiring soon?" "I have forgotten ser's profession, so would ser be so kind as to explain it to me in front of Count Artoirel's personal retainer and an ordained priest?") that this came off almost as a threat.
"Right. Good." Sicard took a swig of the wine, assuming he was going to need it. "I always prefer plain speakin'. Saves a lot of trouble in the long run. So go ahead." He gestured with the cup. "Say what you're wantin' to say."
Honoroit narrowed his eyes. "My master is an awful judge of character, and will typically overthink himself into the worst possible decision, when he bothers to think at all." For a moment Sicard felt like he ought to object to this pronouncement, but even a harsh truth was difficult to argue with. "He is also in possession of a considerable fortune and a susceptibility to flattery that borders on the embarrassing."
"So you're sayin'..." Sicard prompted. Even Honoroit at his most direct seemed to beat around the bush a little -- either he was inordinately proud of his education, or he was just so used to speaking like a fancy servant that it had stuck, or possibly (and likely) both.
Honoroit sighed. "I am saying that his lordship attracts a particular sort. "
"I thought you were going to talk plainly." Sicard knew what Honoroit was implying, of course, but he couldn't resist needling at the boy a bit.
Honoroit did not seem to be amused. "Chief upon my lord's often rather succinct list of good qualities," he said, "is a generous and unguarded nature that, I am afraid, takes the barbs of heartbreak harder than most. He is adept at appearing carefree, as I am sure you are well aware, but am privy to his lordship's heart."
Privy to his heart, Sicard thought. A fancy turn of phrase that, if Sicard had read Honoroit correctly, confirmed a suspicion he'd held since Emmanellain had recounted the tale of how he'd swooped in and rescued the lad from what sounded like truly cruel circumstances, penniless and at the mercy of a master with a bar of gold where his conscience ought to be. Though Honoroit still called Emmanellain "master", Sicard had gotten the impression that Emmanellain could hardly care less if the lad did any work at all -- in fact, Sicard hadn't realized that Honoroit was a servant at all until the boy had come home from some research excursion and immediately changed back into his house livery.
"So what you're getting at," Sicard said. Having finished off the port in his cup, he poured more. Honoroit seemed to have barely touched his. "Is that you're worried I'm set to take him for all he's worth and leave him cold and weeping like the stone-faced cutthroat I am."
"I don't worry about things. His lordship does quite enough of that. I am warning you," Honoroit said, fixing Sicard with another one of those hard-edged stares that wouldn't have been out of place on a Limsan buccaneer, "that if you give my lord cause to shed a tear, I will personally make your existence so miserable you will be fleeing back to whatever stinking dock you came from faster than you can spit."
Sicard could not suppress a grin. "See, now you're speakin' plain," he said, downing the rest of his wine and slamming the empty cup down on the table. "Believe me, I've no plans to do your master wrong. The pay-out wouldn't be worth havin' to put up with him! There ain't purse or politics that'd make that man's nonsense worth weatherin' -- only wantin' his company would ever make it worth my while. You of all folk ought to know that, lad -- I presume even better than I." Sicard reached across and grabbed Honoroit's still mostly full mug of wine, poured it into his own cup, and set the empty vessel back down in front of the boy. "You can rattle off a list of his worst qualities quicker than you can think, and it's not that it don't matter to you. I've seen you hound Emmanellain like a schoolmaster when you think he's actin' worse than he ought. But I ain't the type to suffer fools unless the fool in question's worth the effort, and neither are you. Am I right?"
Honoroit was silent for a moment -- a dangerous, calculating silence as he weighed Sicard's response. Never one to leave an advantage on the table, Sicard pressed forward.
"Besides, I think we've got more in common than not. Just for an example, oh, pulled from the air," Sicard said, making sure he'd caught Honoroit's gaze for this one. "It ain't like you don't wanna screw him too, yeah?"
Sicard was impressed — the boy was GOOD. He didn't even flinch. However, those ears of his -- far too big for his face, giving the impression of a puppy that hadn't quite finished growing into them yet -- turned scarlet like he'd been out in the snow for hours. Sicard considered himself a passable shot with a pistol, but he couldn't recall ever hitting the mark quite that dead center before. The crude language had been carefully selected to stun Honoroit into silence, and it had done it's job with precision. Besides, Sicard remembered being that age. The fact that Honoroit didn't seem to have his brain permanently situated in his trousers was something of a minor miracle, and maybe spoke to the depth of his devotion.
"Listen," Sicard went on, leaning over the table in a conspiratorial fashion. "I ain't the jealous sort -- and gods know Emmanellain's got enough heart for half the world if he had a mind to."
"How--how dare you imply his lordship would be so crass as to take liberties with servants," Honoroit hissed.
"Oh, come off it. You know he doesn't think of you that way. Hells, he talked about you all the time and never once thought to mention you were his godsdamned valet." He leaned closer, and at this distance Honoroit looked more like a boy than he had since Sicard had arrived -- flushed, flustered, too many feelings going to war in his heart for any one of them to actually reach his tongue. For a moment, Sicard actually felt a twinge of pity -- not yet twenty, already in love, and already resigned to the idea that the gap between them would remain forever too wide to cross. "I'll put in a good word for you, yeah? Or do you want to tell him yourself?"
"There you are!" Emmanellain's voice, thankfully, carried immensely well down the stony corridors of Camp Dragonhead. Sicard pulled back, and Honoroit attempted to distract himself with a swig of wine only to find the cup empty. His flustered expression quickly soured into a schoolteacher's scowl.
With all the grace of a clumsy cat, Emmanellain swept into the alcove and threw a fur-clad arm around Sicard and Honoroit's shoulders, pulling them both as close as they would let him. Heedless of the difference in their heights that made the gesture awkward to accomplish, he pressed an affectionate kiss to the top of both their heads, one after the other. "I'm so happy to see my two favorite people in all the world getting along so well!"
It was a shame the war was over, Sicard thought, as Honoroit (still flushed red as a beet) turned a withering glare on him. If anyone needed a dragon slain, surely one look from him would get the job done faster than any lance in Ishgard.