Honored to be your enemy (ex_arianne555) wrote in roads_diverged, @ 2008-04-01 01:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | arianne:house solidor, final fantasy xii, theme 23: arabia |
"As Royals" (Final Fantasy XII, Vayne/Larsa, theme 23: Arabia)
Title: As Royals
Author: Arianne
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Vayne/Larsa
Rating: R
Warnings: shota, see pairing.
Words: ~850
Theme: 23. Arabia
Summary: He is told Persia has known the tradition for centuries, but in their hosts' households the assumptions are near constant, and the desirous gazes often enough for Vayne to encourage such display.
A/N: It's still March somewhere, yeah? I'm surprised this didn't turn out longer, with how well Vayne goes with medieval Arabia.
The air is heavy, thick with jasmine oil -- Larsa's favorite -- that he had poured into the bath directly and liberally. It is, in truth, nearly too sweet for Vayne's own taste, but he cannot deny it is softening to the skin, and not unpleasant. He'll simply need to have himself rubbed for the evening with his choice of oils, perhaps an Indian musk. Larsa enjoys the bathhouse too thoroughly to disrupt for such concerns.
He looks closer. They've been resting in the bath for many minutes; Larsa has had a cushion placed on the rim of the basin and has tipped back his head, with one arm outstretched over the gold, its hand resting boneless in Vayne's own. His eyes are closed and his breath slow, but his skin dampens and begins to flush. "Have you had enough?" Vayne asks, with only little reluctance. When he insists on dismissing any personal attendants to preserve Larsa’s modesty as best he can, it would be shame to invite him into the bath and then be so inattentive to his comfort.
When Larsa stirs to respond, he reaches out and blinks his eyes for a moment before focusing on Vayne, and that is answer enough. Vayne considers raising his hand for service at this time -- he has no doubt that the serving men are observing them despite his instruction, barely concealed -- but simply closes it around Larsa's, and stands dripping, using his weight to help Larsa rise.
"Thank you," Larsa says, and steps out. He gains his footing easily, and Vayne releases his hand to drape himself in cloth, then begins to rub Larsa’s skin down with soft brushed linen. It is hardly work, and goes quickly in the desert lands' dry air, even in his unpracticed hands and with no assistance. He would welcome it, but for a nominally diplomatic excursion through the caliphate there is little diplomacy among any people so far east of Damascus; he is unsure whether he would entrust Larsa's safety to the people of these cities at all.
"I've had new silks made for our travels," Vayne explains when his task is complete and dressing can begin, gathering the carefully folded cloth and presenting it.
"You're too kind," Larsa says, but smiles, and reaches out to admire an embroidered sleeve. "For what occasion are they?"
"Is traveling not occasion enough?" Vayne says. "The expense is quite worth your comfort." Larsa smiles still, and steps back with the cloth in hand. He dresses himself quickly and with skill, like a Westerner might, but when he turns and presents himself his poise and delicacy are far greater than any boy from the West could hope to achieve. For this, the household surely has the luxury to spare; if his brother is to represent the Solidor line, he must be dressed to speak of power.
"They're handsome," Larsa says.
"Mm," Vayne agrees. "Come here."
The deep blue of the silk plays in the light as Larsa steps. He leans into Vayne's arms and Vayne reaches out, one hand on his shoulder and the other running down his side over the fine silk already warm, and pulls the sash tighter around the slender waist. He looks carefully, and admires more openly than he tends to favor in public. Of the pleasures of youths, he is told Persia has known the tradition for centuries, but in their hosts' households the assumptions are near constant, and the desirous gazes are often enough for Vayne to encourage such display.
After several moments of no more than light touches, Larsa looks up, flushed nearly as deep as if he were still bathing. "These are not the duties of a caliph, brother," he says.
"Nor are you the image of a trusted advisor," Vayne says, stroking his hair, "yet you are my most clever." He tilts Larsa's face up with gentle fingers on his throat, then kisses him -- and takes his mouth while he yields.
"Very handsome," Vayne says when they part, stroking back up over the silk at his brother's side. "Every man in the household shall be jealous." He tightens his hand, once again grasping Larsa's shoulder. Every man shall desire him, as well.
At dusk, after the last of the wine, he orders the lamps doused, a dish of sweets brought, and Larsa sent to him. The bed is turned down while he is attended, to be dressed in finery both: he in a silken robe dyed dark red and threaded with gold, sash low and loose around his hips, the bed in pale Egyptian linen that warms as he lounges. He waits with anticipation. As men go, he indulges not in women or in verse, but allows himself instead the privilege of his brother.
He begins with a simple kiss as greeting, and talk of the caliphate's news; soon he braces himself over Larsa, dropping kisses on his neck and collarbone, the soft skin exposed by his rustled tunic. Vayne lusts, yes, but he prides himself on attending only to Larsa, to ensure all he knows of men's desire will be this, hours of doting touches and a lavish mouth.
His generals speak of them as ancients, as royals -- how there are none in the empire worthy of Larsa but his brother -- and Larsa's cries sing assent.