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“Easy now, Chief. This is gonna sting for a while more.” There is a tremor in Guydelot’s voice that Sanson has never heard before in the two years they’ve known one another, as the bard dabs cleansing potion on his wounds with a piece of gauze. Several bloodied pieces already lay discarded in the bin, which they’d pulled next to the couch they’re sitting on in Sanson’s apartment.
Bare-chested, he feels exposed in the chilly autumn air; under Guydelot’s scrutiny, whose touch is steady, but perturbingly delicate, like he’s afraid Sanson will splinter and crack into a thousand pieces. He winces, half out of pain and half out of shame as Guydelot dabs at a particularly large cut on his back. One of Nourval’s guards had slashed him with the tip of his spear, and the cut ran deeper into his skin than the rest. In the mirror — Sanson had all but insisted that Guydelot bring it here, despite his friend’s baffled protest — the wound looks angry and red, on the cusp of infection.
Small wonder, given he’d been dragged through dirt and mud for almost a sennight. There’s a dull, haggard look to his eyes in the mirror that the fading sunlight won’t reach. His captors had seen that he had not bled to death or died of thirst, but little else.
“Sorry.” Guydelot’s quiet apology takes Sanson aback; he is being far too serious about this. Where Sanson might have once appreciated the change, it feels wrong now, like the world around him has tilted. “I’m fine. There’s no need to be so gentle,” he insists. He goes for a reassuring tone, because Matron knows how worried his friend must have been while he’d been gone. He’d thrown in a few light-hearted complaints about how much it had twisted his pride to call on Commander Vorsaile’s aid on their way back to Gridania, but Sanson hasn’t missed the dark circles under his eyes, nor the way Guydelot hasn’t left his side since they walked away from that dreaded clearing.
He must’ve worried him half to death, and all because he’d been so stupid as to fall for Nourval’s trap without a second thought.
There’s a hollow chuckle from Guydelot, who shakes his head. His hand, still holding the gauze, drifts down to Sanson’s shoulder. “Not just that. I should’ve followed you. If I’d been there, maybe you wouldn’t’ve…” His voice breaks, just by an ilm, but it’s enough for Sanson to sit up straight as his friend leans back, eyes wide and hands held in the air. “But you’re here now, eh?” he says, a little too quickly. “No sense in mulling over the worst version of things.”
Guydelot. Sanson doesn’t know what to say, or maybe it’s that he doesn’t want to say it. Hadn’t he turned that very thought over in his head, endlessly, each and every night while he was held captive? Carried it in his chest like poison: that the last time he saw and spoke to Guydelot might have been carelessly spent, a moment of no consequence. That he’d leave him behind without ever saying the words he’s wanted to say since his feelings struck like a bolt from the Destroyer himself, somewhere along the path of their friendship.
“Chief?” The concern in Guydelot’s voice snaps some sense back into him. Captivity has addled his mind; professing his feelings here would be ridiculous…wouldn’t it?
But he remembers the pensive way Moro'a had looked at the two of them when it was all over, and the words he’d said to him in private, before the Warrior of Light was called to the Far East. Don’t leave it too late.
Gods, if he’s been so obvious about it, there’s a chance others have noticed it as well. It is a terrifying precipice to stand upon. Yet Sanson had nearly lost his chance once — could he stand to lose it again? With difficulty, he finds his voice. “Guydelot.” His friend looks back at him, slightly apprehensive.
He still can’t find it himself to say the exact words, but he tries. “Thank you,” he stammers out. “For…for this. For finding me.” A sudden sliver of courage bolsters him, and he takes Guydelot’s free hand, hearing the bard’s breath catch as he curls his fingers into his palm.
“I’m sorry for worrying you.” He swallows. “I hope this is not too forward, but I…” His momentary boldness deserts him, but their hands are already joined; mild panic seizes him. What is he doing? He is Guydelot’s commanding officer, his superior — he cannot be propositioning the bard in his own home when he merely wishes to make sure that Sanson’s injuries are seen to-
Except…
Guydelot is laughing. A softer variation of an all too familiar cadence, it sounds suspiciously relieved, and all too sweet to Sanson’s ears.
“And here I thought I’d have to coax it out of you in another five years.” Sanson throws him an exasperated look, to which the bard adds, “Give or take. Matron’s teats, Sanson…”
Sanson is about to object to invoking Nophica’s bosom in the middle of a- a confession (that’s what this is, isn’t? At least take it seriously!) when Guydelot threads his fingers between his own, bringing his thoughts to a jarring stop. The bard places his remaining hand atop theirs, and the gauze tumbles to the back of the couch, forgotten.
“I’m glad you’re here. So please…stay.” There’s that quiver in his voice again; Sanson never wants to hear it again.
Feeling his own throat tighten, Sanson squeezes their fingers together. “I am here. For as long as you will have me,” he whispers. It’s a long, long time before they let go.