A/N: The prompt kind of mutated in my brain into Ceo's POV; I hope you like it!)
The Hooded Man says little enough, beyond sardonically incisive critiques of Ceodore’s fighting style--- he certainly says nothing of why he had troubled himself to help a stranger in the first place, or what moves him to continue doing so. Nothing personal at all; and his face stays shrouded in his hood.
Maybe that’s what does it. Nothing personal from the other man means nothing to tell him otherwise, and Ceo’s building castles in the air for himself. (Castles; like the idea that for once he’s wanted for himself, that this is about him and not his damn-near-legendary parents.) But the idea, once it enters his head, refuses to leave.
And maybe he’s imagining it, but he starts to think that the man’s eyes linger on him, sometimes, across the campfire, before they take to their respective bedrolls. Starts to think that the other finds excuses to touch, to sit close by.
Finally one evening it’s too much, one touch too many on his arm, the other man leaning close to him, and before he can think about it, he’s catching up the hand and pressing it against him as he leans across. The other’s wrappings hide his face, but when he jerks back they leave his mouth exposed, and the happy coincidence makes it too easy to follow through.
The kiss is surprisingly long, lingering, and he would have expected the other (older, more competent, so stern and formidable in so many ways) to take the lead at once if he would allow such a thing in the first place (and how many of his nights have been spent thinking of such?) but instead the other man’s lips just melt under his, parting eagerly, and it’s not long before Ceo’s got an arm around him and is being held by two strong ones in turn.
They break, finally, and Ceo’s gasping, is gratified to see that a flush stains the other man’s weather-beaten cheeks. “Well,” says the other, still holding him with an arm (offering support as much as anything, Ceo thinks wryly), “that was... unexpected.”
“I---“ Ceo catches a breath, and something impels him to be no more than scrupulously honest. “You--- you don’t ask me about--- about anything personal. Or say anything about yourself.”
“And you wanted to find out?” The familiar sardonic humor has its sharp edge blunted at the moment.
“I--- no. But I... I wanted something that was... was just... at face value, you know? It’s... it’s about the two of us, who we are together, and nobody else.”
He knows he’s said the wrong thing in an instant, when the body against his tenses; the other man could be on the other side of the campfire (the other side of the moon) for all the closeness in their touch now. Then the other looks down at him, and one hand comes up to stroke his cheek with a gentleness that burns. “Perhaps,” he says quietly, “we both need to learn to be grateful for whatever we get.”
Re: FFIV: TAY: Kain/Ceodore
The Hooded Man says little enough, beyond sardonically incisive critiques of Ceodore’s fighting style--- he certainly says nothing of why he had troubled himself to help a stranger in the first place, or what moves him to continue doing so. Nothing personal at all; and his face stays shrouded in his hood.
Maybe that’s what does it. Nothing personal from the other man means nothing to tell him otherwise, and Ceo’s building castles in the air for himself. (Castles; like the idea that for once he’s wanted for himself, that this is about him and not his damn-near-legendary parents.) But the idea, once it enters his head, refuses to leave.
And maybe he’s imagining it, but he starts to think that the man’s eyes linger on him, sometimes, across the campfire, before they take to their respective bedrolls. Starts to think that the other finds excuses to touch, to sit close by.
Finally one evening it’s too much, one touch too many on his arm, the other man leaning close to him, and before he can think about it, he’s catching up the hand and pressing it against him as he leans across. The other’s wrappings hide his face, but when he jerks back they leave his mouth exposed, and the happy coincidence makes it too easy to follow through.
The kiss is surprisingly long, lingering, and he would have expected the other (older, more competent, so stern and formidable in so many ways) to take the lead at once if he would allow such a thing in the first place (and how many of his nights have been spent thinking of such?) but instead the other man’s lips just melt under his, parting eagerly, and it’s not long before Ceo’s got an arm around him and is being held by two strong ones in turn.
They break, finally, and Ceo’s gasping, is gratified to see that a flush stains the other man’s weather-beaten cheeks. “Well,” says the other, still holding him with an arm (offering support as much as anything, Ceo thinks wryly), “that was... unexpected.”
“I---“ Ceo catches a breath, and something impels him to be no more than scrupulously honest. “You--- you don’t ask me about--- about anything personal. Or say anything about yourself.”
“And you wanted to find out?” The familiar sardonic humor has its sharp edge blunted at the moment.
“I--- no. But I... I wanted something that was... was just... at face value, you know? It’s... it’s about the two of us, who we are together, and nobody else.”
He knows he’s said the wrong thing in an instant, when the body against his tenses; the other man could be on the other side of the campfire (the other side of the moon) for all the closeness in their touch now. Then the other looks down at him, and one hand comes up to stroke his cheek with a gentleness that burns. “Perhaps,” he says quietly, “we both need to learn to be grateful for whatever we get.”