Archive of Our Own ^beta

Within a Pendants suite in the Crystarium, a man who’d set aside the mantle of the Warrior of Light was having trouble keeping his attention fixed upon the words within his book.

There was little obvious reason for distraction. The shutters had been closed to keep out the unending light staining the sky, the lamps within the suite were dimmed save for the one on Ifan’s bedside, and the walls of solid brick kept the city's ambient sounds muffled almost to silence. He was comfortably reclined atop the bed—still clothed, but absent anything restrictive like his boots and gloves—and his tunic was near-fully unlaced. It even smelled pleasant, owing to the potted orange trees giving off a sweet aroma from where they sat flanking the window.

Yet it was less a presence in the room pulling his focus from the pages, and more the absence of the pain which he'd been carrying since the day he had been branded by Ifrit. An absence owed to one who was himself absent, no less; his mysterious hood-wearing host, whom the folk of Norvrandt called 'the Crystal Exarch'.

The contrast between how Ifan felt compared to yesterday continued to astonish him. He'd felt the scar begin to trouble him on the return journey from Ahm Araeng, but hadn’t expected such a sudden onset of his symptoms after a mere “night” back in the Crystarium… not that it was restful, for he’d had a fitful sleep in which he’d dreamed of people twisted into winged marmoreal monstrosities, interspersed by brief stirrings where the only thing reality presented was the memory of what happened near the Inn at Journey’s Head. 

Ifan had awoken soaked with sweat, feverish, and with every muscle twisted up in agony. Standing to relieve himself took nearly half a bell, and he’d resigned himself to having to seek out Alphinaud half-drugged up on somnus. The show would go on, as it always did.

He briefly considered skipping morning prayer, but decided not to test his luck.

But as it happened, it was while he was braced gracelessly against the side table on which he’d set up a small altar that the gods saw fit to send him a savior.

I profess some small talent with the healing arts, though I would not remotely presume to have earned your trust. 

‘Small talent,’ the Exarch claimed, yet once he had begun rebalancing the Hyur’s aether it was as if Ifan could truly breathe for the first time in years. It was something no other healer had yet managed, not even Krile, and he couldn’t stop himself from weeping out of relief as the Exarch carefully attended to him.

That his host had rendered such a favor even after Ifan spoke so roughly to him on their first physical meeting was enough for the magician. He called the Exarch ‘friend’, and in turn the man himself seemed more than happy to reciprocate; he'd smiled, left Ifan to break his fast, and waited for him in the Ocular that they might speak of where the Warrior of Light was to go next.

Ifan had initially been set on seeking Alphinaud as soon as possible: ideally later that day, such as they were reckoned on the First, or on the morrow at the very latest. But with a clearer head in the absence of most of his aches, he'd instead heeded the Exarch’s counsel to await Alisaie’s return before departing for Kholusia, that he might take at least a day or two of rest during which he could get to know the Crystarium and its residents better.

His instinct was to keep walking, keep working. Yet doing so after the months of letting being Eorzea’s champion eat him up until he snapped at Krile, Tataru, and F‘lhaminn, ignored the worried linkpearl calls from Lyse and Hancock, and become a sullen, wretched presence in the leve rosters from Ishgard to Hingashi… followed by his brush with death in Ghimlyt Dark, where he’d thankfully been rescued with only a scar across his chest to show for it… 

A day or two of rest, in civil company: that was the Exarch’s gentle suggestion. And as Ifan was prepared to trust the man to be his healer, if that was what he recommended… then a day or two of rest it was.

Ifan’s face shifted into a light smile at the memory of the remainder of the day’s activities. The silver lining of his presence on the First—being an unknown but still welcome guest in a free city on another world—meant it felt more like his early adventures, back on the Source. The Crystarium had much to offer in the form of novel sights, folk, food, to say nothing of the Cabinet of Curiosity where Ifan was at risk of idling away hours of his time lost in its many, many books. A bulwark on the edge of the apocalypse the city might have been, but it had generously offered Ifan everything he needed to put life on hold a little while. 

Well. Almost everything.

His mind wandered to the Crystarium’s lord and master yet again. The Exarch had insisted he was no such thing—no king, nor even a mere lord—but his sagely and distinctly regal bearing made it difficult to think of him as otherwise. He was polite, (mostly) composed, cultured, charming… and he had a very lovely voice, as well. 

Ifan could listen to him talk all day. The cadence was both fluid and dynamic, keeping one entranced without risk of putting them to sleep… unless the Exarch wished it, at which whim it turned into a soothing comfort in the ears. He was likely a good singer, Ifan believed, and his thoughts played on the memories of things the Exarch had said to him, and how he’d said them.

‘Champion,’ he called him, in his sweet voice. Such titles rarely failed to stir at least a frown from the magician, much preferring 'just Ifan'. But coming from the Exarch…

He said it with the same adoration and respect as the others, yes… but there was a strange familiar fondness to it which made Ifan’s mind attach a qualifier. One which wiped away the awful distance of the title, and spoke instead of tender and perhaps illicit proximity.

My champion.

Ifan inhaled slowly through his nose, and sucked on his tongue as he gazed at the ceiling. Then at length he let out a light huff and gave up trying to pay attention to his book.

“Something on your mind?”

He blinked as Ardbert’s voice rescued his mind from where it had been dancing on the edges of a fantasy. 

The man who’d called himself the Warrior of Darkness was ‘leaning’ against the dresser with his arms crossed, and had halted his quiet humming at the sound of Ifan’s huff. One eyebrow was raised curiously, but there was a distinct hint of worry pulling at his ghostly features; echoing the agonized concern when he’d tried desperately to ease Ifan’s earlier pain with words alone.  

Ifan gave him a reassuring smile, and shook his head slowly.

“...Just a bit wound up,” he said, after a pause, and with a little chuckle to himself.

Ardbert’s face shifted into a fond smile in return. He rose from where he made pretense of leaning on the dresser and uncrossed his arms so he could gesture at the door.

“Go have a drink, then,” he suggested. “You’ve earned it.”

The magician’s smile took on a teasing quality. He shook his head again.

“Not that kind of wound up,” Ifan replied, before giving Ardbert a small wink. 

Ardbert stared at him for a few moments before realization struck. He blinked, then clicked his teeth and chuckled awkwardly as he cocked his head towards the door again.

“Ah. You, uh… want some privacy?” he offered.

Ifan returned his stare. His own eyebrow rose slowly… and then he let out a small snort.

“...You’ve had your tongue up my arse, Ardbert," he replied, quietly.

“...Listen. I-” Despite the warrior’s ghostly state, it still seemed as though his cheeks turned pink as he trailed off into bashful grumbling. “...Just being polite,” he muttered, looking off to the side.

Ifan’s face split into a grin as he began snickering quietly.

“Teasing,” he said. His laughter only grew louder as Ardbert failed to stop himself from joining in with a low chuckle. Then Ifan exhaled and nodded before he closed his book and set it down on the side table.

“You can watch, if you want. I just wouldn’t want to…” He paused and glanced off to the side, pursing his lips before looking back at Ardbert pointedly. “...Make you envious, or anything,” he finished.

Ardbert blinked again, then let out an incredulous chuckle as he moved over to the bedside with a smile that was beyond appreciative. He reached out with his right hand and gestured next to Ifan’s face, as if brushing some of his ash-brown hair out of his eyes; and though there was no touch, it didn’t fail to stir a sparkle in his lover’s wine-dark gaze.

Lost as he was in Ifan's eyes, the Warrior of Darkness still gave the offer a fair think.

“…Feels good watching you eat. Might take the edge off for me, as well,” he mused, at length. Then he moved to ‘sit’ by Ifan on the bed, one elbow resting on the headboard, and he let his eyes rake up and down the other man. He wet his lips, though he’d no need to, and then met Ifan’s eyes again as his fists clenched momentarily.

“Go on, then,” he said, flicking his chin at the magician's groin. “Take your cock out.”

Ifan’s own smile had receded, too. A neediness began to steam up in his face as if driven by the bellows of his chest where he’d begun breathing heavily, luxuriating in the sight of Ardbert gnawing on him with nothing but his sky-blue eyes. He wet his lips, which he needed to given they were bone dry, and swallowed before giving his companion a half-grin. 

“Is that an order?” he teased, wiggling his chin in turn.

Ardbert’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes burned in a pale pyre of long-cloistered passion. He simply tilted his head leftwards, and then let out a rough snort.

“Aye," he answered.

The pair stared at each other for a long few moments. Then Ifan bit his lower lip and grinned, jaw flexing as his hands went to the laces of his tunic; beginning to undo them slowly, letting Ardbert drink in the sight of his bronzed fingers working deftly over each and every fastening. Ardbert's eyes lidded, and a light huff escaped him as his mind replayed the feeling of those same digits on his skin more than a century ago.

After what seemed like an age, Ifan finally opened his tunic and began to slide his trousers down. Ardbert watched as Ifan's cock sprang free, and his tongue ran over his lips again as he remembered what had felt like hours with his mouth around it. His fingers twitched as he tamped down the urge to just reach out and grab it, to wrap his glove around the shaft and squeeze it just like Ifan was now doing while he watched.

He wasn't sure if he imagined it, but his face felt like it was burning.

"…Forgot how good an audience you were," Ifan breathed. His gaze was smoldering, and his pace was slow and overly exaggerated for Ardbert's benefit; giving him a show of stroking, and pausing now and then to run his fingers through the ash brown hair dusting his groin and upper thighs. But his own need proved insistent, and soon enough his hand was quickening along his length slicked by a palm of conjured lubricant as Ardbert stared with his eyes lidded and his lips parted.

"Hard not to be, around a magician," he replied, thickly.

Ifan smirked and chuckled breathlessly. He too fought the urge to reach up towards Ardbert, fought the urge to beg him to lean forward and ravish him until his jaw was stiff and legs were numb. Instead he paused to disrobe further, and spread his legs so that he was splayed nearly completely nude in front of the warrior… helping Ardbert slake his thirst, as best they could.

"What was your favourite night?" he asked.

It took Ardbert a minute to realize that he'd been spoken to. He blinked slowly, then wet his lips again as he let out a quiet chuckle.

"…Gods," he said, eyes roving. "…Hard to choose." It wasn't clear if he spoke of the question, or about where he wished to let his gaze linger on Ifan's body.

"Take your time," Ifan replied, laughing breathlessly. He tilted his head languidly against the pillows, but kept his eyes affixed on Ardbert's as he let out a fond hum. "Let's enjoy it, hm?"

Ardbert somehow tore his gaze away from Ifan's cock and met his eyes again, despite the growing noise from the magician's stroking threatening to snare his focus. Instead he put his mind to running through the many nights which they had shared together on the Source; easy work, as he'd been doing it for more than a century, yet difficult in choosing just which one of every cherished tryst he'd call his favorite.

There was their first, of course; that night where Ifan snuck him into Fortemps Manor after drinks at the Forgotten Knight. There was the second, after Ardbert's loyalties had been revealed at Loth ast Gnath and yet proved no impediment to how they felt about each other. And many nights of stolen time which followed after, where they'd kissed, and groped, and bit, and licked, and sucked, and—

"…Heh," Ardbert chuckled, at length. "That night, when…" He paused, and struggled not to grin as he had difficulty putting the memory to words without embarrassment. "When I went in at the wrong angle, and you…"

He gestured towards Ifan's prick, then cocked his head with a shy chuckle as he said nothing further.

"…Ahh. That one, hm?" Ifan gave the warrior a knowing and wry smirk. "Have to say, I wasn't expecting you to like it," he added, breezily.

"I like watching you lose control," Ardbert blurted out, before catching himself. He blinked and let out a light huff, then tilted his head as he gave Ifan an infatuated look. "Not when it's taken by force, mind, but… when you trust someone. Beautiful," he clarified, biting his lower lip and letting his eyes roam over every square ilm of the magician's naked form.

Ifan's eyebrows fell at the ends, and a besotted grin began taking over his features.

"Far too romantic for such a feckin' pervert," he teased, eyes sparkling in mirror of the sweat slicking his brow.

"That's rich, coming from you," Ardbert countered, before chuckling and shaking his head again. Then he bit his lower lip and flexed his jaw as a quiet but lustful huff escaped him. "…Feel good?" he asked, huskily.

Ifan nodded, his hand still working at a steady pace.

"How about you?" he asked.

Ardbert bit his lip so hard he would have drawn blood were he still capable of bleeding, or anything besides watching the world go on as he remained static and impotent… Cursed to wander as a shade, with only the mere memory of urges or sensation for bedfellows, and weighed down by a heart given to love but rendered loveless by a lack of means to help nary a soul, not even his own.

But all of that had changed when Ifan had not only seen, but heard him. And in an instant Ardbert Hylfyst had remembered that he had been a human man with human needs, long, long ago.

"…I missed this," he breathed, reaching out and hovering his ghostly fingers over Ifan's solar plexus before drawing them back. "Even if I can't touch you… Feels good. Really good."

Ifan shifted where he lay, and his skin prickled at the need within his lover's eyes and voice. His breath grew heavier and that more ragged.

"Surprised you haven't watched before," he teased.

"Been tempted, believe me." Ardbert gave the magician a half-grin that was near boyish. "Wouldn't mind watching someone rut you," he added, voice strained and dripping at the seams with ardor.

"Watching me with another man, hm?" Ifan breathed, tone wavering between strained and excited as his stroking picked up pace.

"Would watch you with more than one," Ardbert countered.

"How many?" Ifan asked, swallowing.

"Could toss you in a barracks full of drunks, if you could handle it." The warrior's voice took on a nasty edge paired with the ghost of an enamoured sneer playing on his features, and Ifan felt his chest grow tight at how intensely Ardbert was staring.

"Pervert," he hissed.

"Aye," Ardbert answered, his grin widening. "What of it?"

Ifan answered only with a breathy chuckle, then closed his eyes and lost himself as he put on his show.

At first, his memory replayed the nights which he had shared with Ardbert; their clumsy eagerness to start with, replaced by adroit passion as they found a rhythm suiting them. Yet before long the magician's mind began to wander into fantasy again, and the thoughts which had inspired his present need began to reassert themselves, unbidden.

"Wonder if the Crystal Exarch watches me, like you said," Ifan mused, idly and with his eyes still closed.

Ardbert raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in subject. But it was brief; the thrill in Ifan's voice stirred the same feeling in the warrior, and a wry smirk played on Ardbert's as his voice took on a teasing quality.

"You don't seem to mind the idea," he observed.

He wasn't wrong. The thought of his mysterious and sweet-voiced not-a-king watching him splayed out and nude while stroking himself soon had his breath starting to catch, and he wondered what the Exarch sounded like when speaking filthily.

"…I wouldn't say no," Ifan replied, shrugging his shoulders.

The warrior snorted and let out a snicker.

"Whore," he teased.

Ifan took in a sharp breath and began stroking his cock with slightly more speed.

"Say it again," he pleaded.

There was a pause. Then Ardbert shifted to loom over Ifan, and gazed down at his face with a raw sneer.

"You're a fucking whore, Ifan," he growled, practically spitting the words. "Opening your legs to a man whose face you haven't even seen."

"He's got a nice voice," Ifan wheezed, practically drunk on his mounting arousal.

"That enough, eh?" Ardbert flicked his chin at Ifan's face derisively. "Figures, the way I used to have to pull you off me."

"Not my fault the gods gave you such a nice cock, Ardbert," Ifan countered, opening his eyes and shivering beneath Ardbert's intense stare.

"Nicer than your Crystal Exarch's?" Ardbert mocked.

"Haven't seen it," Ifan shrugged, grinning deliriously, "but I do have two ends."

"Aye?" The warrior's sneering twisted into a warped and yet boyishly excited grin. "Which end do I get, then?" he asked.

"Do we need to choose?"

"Fair point," Ardbert snickered. "Haven't forgotten just how much you can fit when you're of a mind." His voice became a growl, and he reached to grip his wrist for emphasis as his grin turned savage.

"…You really were checking off a list, huh?" Ifan asked, rolling his hips and biting his lower lip hungrily.

"You never said no," countered the warrior.

"Don't think I could, for you."

He meant it. Every hair dusting his body was practically screaming at the warrior to take him, and Ardbert's fists were flexing furiously as he fought back the urge to reach out and rip into nothing. The sound of the magician's hand upon his cock was filling his ears, and though the faculty of scent had long deserted him Ardbert could still remember the way Ifan's sweat had smelled and likely did right at that moment; clean, and laced with the sweet scent of roses.

The air had grown so volatile a struck match could have set it alight.

"…You want orders, hm?" Ardbert asked, in a low voice.

"I want you," Ifan answered, drunkenly. "Whatever makes you happy."

Ardbert nodded slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Ifan's face.

"You're mine," he stated, roughly.

"Aye," Ifan rasped.

"Say it," Ardbert demanded.

"I'm yours, Ardbert."

"All mine?" the warrior snarled, voice rough as he loomed over the magician savagely.

"All yours." Ifan's voice was a faint wheeze, and the motions of his hand had grown erratic as he neared his peak… clearly waiting for the warrior to give him permission.

"Good." Ardbert leaned back, then nodded once. "Stop touching yourself," he ordered.

It took a minute for his words to register. Ifan's eyes blinked open, and his gaze landed on Ardbert as his hand halted; trembling, grasping his twitching, leaking cock, but otherwise motionless. He let out a whine of protest.

"But—"

"Hands. Off."

Ifan's lips clamped shut, and he drew in a long breath through his nostrils as he considered disobeying. But though it took all of his willpower… he slowly laxed his grip, and pulled his hand away with a brief shiver.

Ardbert's lips twisted hungrily.

"Put your clothes back on," he said.

The magician blinked again. His lips were parted as he panted, and his brow began to furrow in confusion.

"Ardbert?" he asked.

Ardbert seemed quite deep in thought, even as his eyes were raking over Ifan's body. But he returned his gaze to Ifan's face after a few moments, and wet his lips before giving the magician a firm nod.

"You're going to go out, and you're going to find a man," he instructed. "Then you're going to bring him back, and you're going to give me the best damn show of my life."

Ifan stared as if he had misheard him, lips parted and his breath starting to ease as lack of stimulation edged him down… briefly wondering if the warrior was serious, but soon convinced by the intensity in Ardbert's sky blue eyes.

He nodded slowly in return.

"Any man?" he asked.

Ardbert's eyes briefly flicked off to the side, and his head began tilting leftwards.

"Big. Rough," he answered, nodding again and gazing at his lovers' face. "I want to see you struggle."

Ifan bit his lower lip and shivered.

"All right, give me a bit." He swallowed and sat up so he could dress… but paused, looking at Ardbert with a faint note of hesitation. "…You sure?" he asked.

Ardbert nodded firmly, and though his jaw was firmly set his lips still curved into a loving smile.

"Checking off a list, like you said," he replied, reassuringly.

The magician returned a fond half-smile, but didn't resume dressing.

"You'd be my first choice," he insisted.

"I know," Ardbert replied. His jaw relaxed and his smile widened as he leaned forward to make pretense of brushing hair away from Ifan's face. "That's why I'm comfortable sharing what's mine. And you need this too, Ifan, just as much as me. So go on; have some fun."

His coaxing was accompanied with a small wink, and Ifan felt a flutter in his chest as the futile urge to kiss the warrior dug into him. But resentment of the nasty trick that fate had played by reuniting them in circumstances where they couldn't even touch each other…. it couldn't compare to the sheer joy of just having Ardbert there.

He'd savor every minute of it.

"Come with me," he offered, tugging his trousers up and making to relace his tunic. "I want you to be there when I'm flirting."

Ardbert blinked, seeming taken aback, then chuckled as he gave a hesitant but still appreciative smile.

"Wouldn't want to dampen the mood," he said, quietly.

Ifan shifted to slide off the bed and stood so he could finish dressing. And as the sash around his waist was tied in place, he turned to regard Ardbert with a similar expression to the warrior's, when he'd made his suggestion; resolved, and utterly redolent with affection.

"You and me, remember?" he said, reaching out and tapping the air in front of Ardbert's nose with his right index finger before giving him a dazzling grin. "We're off the job. So… let's go find a man to fuck."

Ardbert stared at him from where he sat with a faint note of incredulity playing on his features, hardly able to believe that after years of bitter loneliness there was now someone reaching out and offering a taste of things he'd once savored in life. And that it was Ifan of all people, someone who he'd missed so much his face was etched into his very soul now standing there and smiling, looking at him like his lack of flesh made little difference…

He swore he could have felt his spirit shimmering.

"…Aye," Ardbert agreed, rising to his feet enthusiastically. "About damn time."