yangut

[yangut]

Daydreamer -

[yangut]

Unimpressed -

[yangut]

Really good! It must have taken a lot of time to write this.💪

2 | Bittersweet

Two days have passed since the less-than-ideal landing. Around the campfire of an ill-maintained outpost, injured conscripts stave off the cold Bozjan air.

Even from this distance, Castrum Lacus Litore was still visible on the horizon. Its dark silhouette lodged into the border of the evening sky.

Rhel placed another log on the fire, sending a tapestry of floating embers adrift. The warm light danced across his face. His amber eyes affixed to the motion of the flames as they licked at the chilled night air.

"Aren't you cold?" a familiar voice asked from behind. Dellon stepped into the glow of the campfire, two tin cups in each hand and a slight limp in his step. "Not really," Rhel answered in a monotone voice, letting his eyes linger on the fire a little longer. The clinking of metal cups made their way over to the brooding Miqo'te.

Rhel's right ear flicked at the sound of tin on tin, snapping him out of his fiery trance. He adjusted his posture, pulling at his sleeveless shirt with a bandaged left arm. His focus shifted from the warmth of the fire to the warmth on the Hyur's face. "Well, too bad," Dellon said facetiously, extending his arm, urging the Miqo'te to take a cup.

Coffee.

Rhel's ears dropped, pulling his brows along with them as his eyes made contact with the jet-black bitterness before him. Remembering his manners, he lifted his weighted ears and gingerly took the mug in both hands. He looked up, a haphazard smile plastered on his face, but the Hyur's focus was elsewhere.

"Where did Yole go?" Dellon asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "T' bed!" a deep raspy voice chuckled across the campfire. Covered in a motley assortment of blankets, the Roegaden leaned forward and reached out lazily, beckoning a cup towards himself with a greedy hand. Dellon made his way over with a cautious limp, careful not to place too much weight on his left side.

Rhel took note of the freshly wrapped bandage around the Hyur’s left knee as he journeyed around the fire. His eyes scanned the empty seats before returning to the tin cup of bitterness in his hand. He brought his tail to rest on the log beside him as he took another glance across the flames. The Roegadyn’s eyes were glued to the cup, gripping it with two bulky fingers. Rhel seized the distraction and emptied his own on the dirt behind him.

He took a whiff of the empty cup.

How can something that tastes so vile, smell so good?

Rhel closed his eyes and savoured the aroma.

"Well? What do you think?" Dellon’s excitement rang a little too loudly in the cold air. The Miqo’te froze with his still eyes shut and nose resting on the tin rim. A hint of panic crept down his back.

Fuck.

Rhel pursed his lips together and kept his eyes closed.

Just lie, you fool.

The Miqo'te took a slow, deep breath, Dellon's enthusiasm still thick and fresh in the air.

"Never had better," Rhel winced at his delivery. He clenched his eyes tightly, a poor attempt to wring out the embarrassment from his face. "And it smells great," he stammered out desperately.

The hint of sincerity in his proclamation calmed the Miqo'te's nerves.

"Compliments of Thavnair!" Rhel could hear the excited smile in the Hyur's voice, as his own shoulders relaxed and his tail's subtle pulses ceased. It was clear that Dellon's infatuation with the brew left no room for notions other than praise.

Rhel braved another glance in the Hyur's direction. With a cup in each hand, he stood grinning at the concoctions in his grip. Dellon raised one of the cups to his face and took a deep drag at the aroma. "It does smell great," he said softly, as if only to himself. His gentle affirmation matched the adoration on his face.

Rhel, bemused by the moment of simple pleasure, conjured up an expression not too dissimilar from the Hyur's own, as he kept his face half committed to the empty cup in hand.

Movement pulled the Miqo'te's eyes towards his brow, following Dellon’s approaching steps. Discreetly, he swung his tail over to his right side, resting it on the three ilms of log that remained.

With the groan of a man thrice his age, the Hyur sat down to Rhel’s left, two cups in hand. Dellon straightened his legs, releasing the strain between his rolled-up trousers and the bandaged knee. He glanced over, taking note of the Miqo'te's empty cup with a pleased grin.

“Yole called it a night, so you’re in luck,” Dellon whispered as he leaned towards the Miqo’te, offering a cup with pride. Compelled by guilt, Rhel placed the empty one at his feet and accepted the retribution with a bandaged hand.

Lucky me.

He brought the cup to his lips, savoured the smell, and sipped. Bitter regret coated his tongue as he swallowed hard and clenched his jaw, maintaining a straight face.

“How’s your wrist?” The Hyur’s jaunty demeanour dropped. The sudden change of tone sent a ripple of confusion across Rhel’s brow.

Quiet permeated the air.

The Miqo’te lowered his cup cautiously and responded with a nonchalant “Stiff.”

He turned his attention towards Dellon, half-expecting the calm face he’d grown accustomed to in the past two days. Instead, Rhel met the side profile of a Hyur’s thousand-yalm stare.

The silence lingered.

Dellon’s mind seemed adrift, cast into the evening’s abyssal sky. The Miqo’te dug deep, pulling at the few, and frayed, social protocols he could recall. He took a soft draw of Bozjan air.

“And h-”

“It could have been so much worse, you know.” The Hyur’s unexpected utterance cut Rhel’s question short.

“It could have been so much worse,” Dellon repeated.

The phrase was weighed down, seemingly chained to memories painted in firelight. Rhel found himself tracing the Hyur’s stare, a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of what was tethered to his words.

“Two blown engines and a leaking hull, and we still managed to make the landing.” Dellon rested his tin cup on the bandaged knee. “Well, somewhat at least.”

The Hyur’s cold stare melted with the fresh warmth on the injured joint.

“It’s not always like that”–he raised the cup to his lips and took a sip–“but I’m grateful it was this time.”

He adjusted his bandaged knee, and pulled the other leg close to his chest, resting his bare foot on the shared log seat. Enthusiasm returned to his face as he leaned in for a second sip. “It does smell great,” he whispered, admiring the cup like a fine vintage.

The Hyur’s resumed infatuation with the brew drew half a smile on Rhel’s face, one pinned between a trifecta of confusion, concern and relief. The Miqo’te raised his own cup in lingering guilt and took another swig.

Just as god-awful as the previous one.

"The nutty undertones really tie this blend together." Dellon's right arm was wrapped around his tucked leg as he held the cup aloft. "Two years from now I'll be free to bring these marvels to the rest of The Empire." He turned his head towards the Miqo'te, a familiar smile in tow. "If you don't mind my prying, how long before your citizenship?"

Rhel averted his gaze, narrowly escaping a shared glance. "Still a bit off. Seven years I'm afraid." He took another whiff, feigning delight in the bitter brew. His words were ones of anticipation, but his whispered tone betrayed his lack of interest in the prospect.

Stillness draped the air once more.

Dipped in boredom and painted in curiosity, the Miqo'te eyes drifted left and landed on Dellon's clutched leg.

Underneath the Hyur's grip, dated burn marks marred a defined calf.

Rhel’s eyes traced the scars with concerned interest, charting their path as they crawled under Dellon’s arm, grazing the side of his knee, and disappearing under the folds of his trousers.

His eyes lingered for a moment longer, the tip of his tail brushing against the bark of their seat in rhythmic sways.

“It healed surprisingly well.” Dellon’s voice startled the Miqo’te. The jolt struck the vestiges of his dignity and travelled down his arm, spilling the cup’s content on his bandaged wrist and down his thigh.

Rhel shot up, his red-hot complexion far more scalding than the spilt brew.

“I-” The Miqo’te’s eyes sprung between his stained garments and the Hyur’s worried brow, before finally halting at the muddied dust on his feet.

“Sorry, I-” He fumbled at the empty cup in his hands before awkwardly placing it next to the other. “I need to go clean up.”

The brevity of his words was accompanied by a brief slap as he clutched the side of his trousers, tail pressed against his leg.

In his peripheral, the Roegaden was fast asleep, cup in hand. A small mercy at least.

The Miqo'te turned on his heel, his eyes darting for an anchor in any other direction as he marched towards the dilapidated barracks, itching to wash off the shame.

...

[yangut]

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #miqo'te #final fantasy xiv #male miqo'te

[yangut]

With a small, warm home of my own.

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #miqo'te #final fantasy xiv #male miqo'te

[yangut]

what are you waiting for?

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #miqo'te #final fantasy xiv #male miqo'te

[yangut]

Acrid •❗

[yangut]

Rhel is so handsome!

Vantage -

[yangut]

Eh? Do you want to come too?

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #miqo'te #final fantasy xiv #male miqo'te

[yangut]

It's a hot day...

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #miqo'te #final fantasy xiv #male miqo'te

[yangut]

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #miqo'te #final fantasy xiv #male miqo'te

[yangut]

irreversible past

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #miqo'te #final fantasy xiv #male miqo'te

[yangut]

Fixate -

[yangut]

Gift • 🦔

"Can I offer you a companion in these troubled times?"

[yangut]

Vices -

[yangut]

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #miqo'te #final fantasy xiv #male miqo'te

[yangut]

1 • In Transit

Trouble brewed on the Bozjan Southern Front, as more Garlean troops were deployed. A young J'rhel stood among other conscripts, gripping the straps of his backpack tightly.

The bellowing of the ceruleam engines was deafening. As was usually the case with the last airship to leave port, it was overloaded. Safety always seemed to be the last concern for anything conscript-related. Garlean transport ships could accommodate a fair amount of troops, but this vessel was filled to the brim, forcing some conscripts to endure an uncomfortable journey in the cargo hold. An unsafe prospect, as it lacked any of the reinforcement and safety measures afforded to the standard infantry cabins, but it's a risk the Legatus was willing to take.

The Miqo'te tightened his grip on the rope strung overhead, trying to steady himself as the rocking cargo hold stirred up nausea from below. It was never easy, whether sea or air, motion sickness has always been an unwanted companion. The poorly lit cargo hold had a distinct metallic smell, exasperated by the tang of burning fuel that seemed to seep into everything. The sharp acrid odour made Rhel’s nostrils flare and his amber eyes water.

It was his first deployment to the Bozjan front. It’s all going to shit down there, or so he’d heard. Briefings had been less than forthcoming as Garlean pride obfuscated any notion of retreat.

Rhel’s short frame strained to maintain his grip on the taught rope as another turbulent shake rocked the cargo hold. If only the Roegadyn two yalms away was a little more accommodating, and not rested so much of his mass on the shared support, things would've been a little more forgiving. No amount of Rhel’s disapproving glares and tugs had brought any attention to the issue, as the giant seemed to be wrestling with nausea of his own.

From underneath an ill-fitting helm, Rhel made another attempt to get the oaf’s attention, but his exaggerated waving cost him his footing. The momentum from an unsteady flight and a heavy backpack weakened his grip and sent him stumbling backwards.

A hand grabbed him by the collar of his uniform, halting his fall. Steadied by the grip, Rhel regained his footing and straightened his crooked helm. He locked eyes with the hand’s owner, a Hyur donned in a Medicus' uniform. Illuminated by the hold's dim, flickering lights, his features were striking. Sharp cheekbones accentuated by dark eyes, with a look of concern and slight bemusement on his face.

Rhel stammered out a “Thank you,” but the cacophony of the engines drowned out his shaky gratitude. The Hyur released Rhel’s uniform, steadying himself on the strapped-down crate adjacent to him. He brought his hands forward and signed a “You ok?” in Rhel’s direction. Rhel attempted to sign back, his nausea almost unbearable, but another violent shake rocked the hold.

The hyur kneeled and motioned for Rhel to do the same. He deftly unbuckled and removed Rhel’s backpack, dragging it towards a nearby crate where he clipped it to one of the straps. Secured, he carefully made his way back over. He leaned in close, pale blonde hair peeking out from under his helm. Rhel took notice of his badge, a medicus from the IVth Legion.

“The name’s Dellon!” he shouted, barely audible against the relentless clamour of the engines. “J’rhel!” the queasy Miqo’te replied. Dellon extended his palm, and Rhel shakily met it with his own, locking hands around their thumbs. The Hyur smiled, tightened his grip and stood up, pulling Rhel with him.

His footing and balance seemed accustomed to the airship's unsteady shaking. He kept his grip on Rhel's hand while inspecting the taught rope above. A head taller than Rhel, Dellon managed to get a firm grip on the support giving it a hard tug. The Roegadyn woke from his semi-conscious state and straightened his back, leveraging some slack in the rope. Rhel seized the opportunity and latched on with his free arm.

The Hyur maintained his grip on Rhel's hand and used his other to straighten the Miqo'te's helm. Rhel's confused, but grateful, expression gave way to discomfort as nausea crept back up his throat. Dellon noted his sickly complexion and removed his hand from the Miqote's helm, giving it a departing tap.

"I'm going to get you a tonic for–" Dellon's shouting was interrupted by more of the airship's turbulence. Rhel gave a few quick affirming nods as he struggled to maintain his composure. The Hyur loosened his grip on Rhel's hand and patted his shoulder. "I got you!" he shouted before turning towards the infantry cabin.

...