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The Guilty Party	By : WonderMint Category: Final Fantasy XIV > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1936 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy FFXIV: ARR is owned by Square Enix and based on the creation of Hironobu Sakaguchi. May they ever walk in the light of the crystal. I own no right to the characters and settings herein and seek no profit therefrom.

Chapter List
- 1-Fantasy Assortment
- 2-Standard Red
- 1
- 2
A/N: As with many things, this story was born out of an effort to troll someone dear. It is written as a gateway from one world to another, by someone who has already passed through and found the journey pleasant. Which world you started in is your own concern, but either way, I hope you find it infuriating.

Hikari is #notmy Warrior of Light. I wanted a male player character, again, for reasons, so to make him easily recognizable, he's just the adventurer from the opening FMVs. His personality has been constructed specifically to make this story work. My apologies if anyone finds him distracting. But you know. Trolling.

Warnings: kissing, some popping. Be advised that the balloons in this chapter are looked-at and not touched. It heats up beginning with the next chapter.

Ser Aymeric was agitated.

There were many words to describe what he was feeling, too many to list, though he tried. Irritated, annoyed, angry, ashamed. Perhaps excited even. But agitation seemed to suit his mood the best. His skin was crawling with the urge to get out of the large hall, into the chill evening air where nothing could harm his once-placid demeanor. But he could not. He had a promise to keep.

It was Lord Haurchefant's nameday. Though he was certainly old enough to know better, he had decided to throw a party. Aymeric blamed it on the odd habits of the adventurers that passed through so frequently, all of whom seemed to think it a splendid idea. One in particular, the most famed of their number, had had an inordinate amount of influence, going so far as to obtain a large supply of exotic imports from Ul'dah. A new type of decoration that had recently come to popularity in ceremonies of devotion. The lord was ecstatic with the idea, and he and his warrior friend had been deep in their preparations by the time he had arrived in Camp Dragonhead. As Haurchefant's closest friend, he had of course promised to attend.

He should have known better, by now, than to indulge the man. But not even he could have expected the outcome.

The day had not been pleasant. Snow had been exotic and beautiful in his youth, kissing the peaks of Abalathia's Spine and descending on Coerthas only in the most magical winter nights. Now it was the Calamity's curse, ensuring that every trip out of the Holy See was wet and cold and miserable. When he arrived, Haurchefant greeted him as ever with open arms and warm smiles, touches just a little this side of too-friendly. Aymeric bore it with mild indifference, as was his habit, murder being quite out of the question.

He had hardly had time to commend his chocobo into the care of a stable-hand before the lord had dragged him away by the wrist. “Come, let me dress you. I will not allow you to attend in your formal attire. You are far too serious for far too much of the time,” he had said. He led him through halls of dreary stone to his own room, chattering happily about his tame adventurer and their grand plans for the evening.

The blue-haired lord had never admitted it, but it was quite obvious that he was in love with the warrior. Ever since Hikari had rescued his friend Lord Francel—at the last moment and with great dramatic flair, if Haurchefant's account was to be believed—he had been a source of some fascination on the part of his friend. Truthfully, he was glad, and not merely because he liked to see the man happy.

“Did you bring me a present?” the lord had asked in his chambers, with a teasing grin that indicated he knew well the answer. Haurchefant was thinking, leaning against the back of the couch by the fire and eying him speculatively, as if he were undressing him in his mind and re-clothing him like a doll. He was more cheerful than usual today, which was saying quite a bit. Rather than his usual chain-mail, ever-ready for a dragon incursion, he had worn a fetching white shirt with deep blue embroidered accents. The colors made his candy-blue eyes seem even brighter, and accented the youthful exuberance in his features. If Aymeric had been inclined, he might have thought it made him look quite handsome. As it was, he merely noted that it seemed to suit him. He looked more like himself, playful, boyish, and willfully innocent of the evils of the world.

Aymeric just scowled and stripped his cloak and breastplate, letting his outer clothing dry by the fire while he fished out a towel. His hair did not seem long unless it was wet, which meant inky strands of it were drooping over his eyes and down to his shoulders, much of it tangled and stuck together. He knew he would need to remove his tunic soon, but he had long since learnt that Haurchefant was not to be trusted, so he put it off as long as he could. “Perhaps if you were five summers old, I might have,” he groused. “Count yourself grateful that I am in attendance.”

The lord grinned slowly, in measured steps, as if that were precisely the answer for which he had hoped. It was a little disturbing. Reading Haurchefant's smiles was like reading bird entrails, in that they often carried ill portents, and often left Aymeric feeling mildly queasy. “Then perhaps I shall request a present, and absolve you of your guilt,” he said, confirming the knight's augury. Ill indeed.

Guilt was a powerful word, and devout commander had to struggle against the sudden urge to give in to whatever the man wanted. Instead, Aymeric lifted one fine eyebrow to glare at him, before tossing away the towel and wandering to the looking glass to arrange his hair, hoping at least to look less like the madman Haurchefant was. “Make your request that I may deny it, and we can get on with your ungodly revelry.” The sooner it was done, the sooner he could make penance for all the hateful thoughts he was likely to have as the night wore on.

Haurchefant smiled, smiled all the way to his teeth. He looked like the world's happiest shark. “Give me a kiss,” he said, unleashing the request like hounds after a hare. “Just one.”

Aymeric went absolutely still, hands frozen in midair while he smoothed out the worst of the tangles, not vain enough to think of the need for a brush. His eyes narrowed as if the man had been a threat, looking at him sidelong as if motion would cause the lord to pounce. The shorter man was still sitting against the couch, relaxed and a little languid, the hard muscles of his frame seeming to soften and melt in the firelight. His smile was less predatory now, or perhaps more, having closed over his teeth but widened into a thin malicious curve. Sky-blue eyes flashed at him, half-lidded and dangerous.

It was a jest. But he had long ago learnt that Haurchefant only joked when he meant it sincerely.

He did not want to kiss anyone, of course, much less his closest friend. He had long been quite aware that Haurchefant fancied him, though he had done everything in his power to dissuade the man. He had felt lately that they had settled into a comfortable stalemate. The lord had never allowed his desires to interfere with their friendship, and it wasn't as if Aymeric feared him. He simply accepted the odd inappropriate touch or scandalous comment as the inevitable result of consorting with such an uninhibited free spirit.

It was infuriating, and occasionally mortifying, but he was a martyr for the man. Regularly sacrificing his dignity on the altar of their friendship. Dying in shame and rising to anger with every night spent together, in the sacrament of food and drink and wit over which they frequently bonded.

He had hoped the appearance of the Warrior of Light might mean he would finally be distracted from the chase. Then an odd hopeful thought occurred to him. Perhaps it was a request for a kiss goodbye. Perhaps Haurchefant was ready to move on. If the man did not carry his strange flame for him, but for another, perhaps he could finally find a happiness of a sort.

“Just one?” he found himself asking, taking himself quite by surprise. “Then you will be happy?” But he knew the answer even as he asked. He knew full well that he could not bring the other man happiness, had known it for quite some time. Tonight could be no different.

Perhaps some pearls were worth the price, and some were obtained at too great a cost.

The mad lord looked shocked for a moment, eyes widening and grin vanishing into the aether. “Yes. Just one, and I shan't trouble you again.” He was actually a bit sheepish now, a little alarmed and unsure. Evidently he hadn't been counting on agreement.

Aymeric stepped forward, breaking his spell of petrification and making the other man seem to shrink away. But he soon thought better of it, and allowed the knight to wrap him in his arms. He pulled Haurchefant close and simply hugged him, partly to remind himself that he truly cared about the man and enjoyed being near him, and partly to stall for time.

“Even if it isn't what you wanted?” He spoke to a point somewhere above Haurchefant's pointed ear, a hushed murmur for their proximity but no further implication. He could feel something, he knew, warmth and friendship and yes, trust. But it was not desire, there was no sin in it. Perhaps if he could do so without hurting the other man with phantoms of unrequited passion, he could at least get used to this. He was not accustomed to letting people close. But with Haurchefant, this at least felt right. Perhaps a tiny, selfish part of him had craved comfort, not caring whom it hurt or how.

The other man seemed to be savoring the moment as well, mayhap for different reasons, but with no great urgency. At length he saw fit to answer, resting his forehead on Aymeric's shoulder, making his neck feel naked and exposed without his cape and pauldrons to protect it.

“Yes. I rather think... especially if it isn't what I want,” said Haurchefant softly. He sounded small and sad and frail, already mourning what he had never had to lose.

On the one hand, it was a demon of the lord's own making, a mad, forbidden love for which Aymeric had little understanding or sympathy. But he could not condemn him. He would ever only see Haurchefant for himself, unhinged and indecent perhaps, but his dear friend. A sinner suffering under the weight of his own crimes, but unable to put off the burden. In a way he pitied him.

Just then, he only wanted to protect him.

He lifted the other man's chin with a light touch, and tried to speak to him with the force of his thoughts. He did not love the man, but he cared, no matter how often he wished he didn't. He knew, dimly, that he was about to hurt him. But at that moment it seemed almost a mercy. Looking into his eyes and seeing a river of fear and sorrow, he at least had to put his uncertainty to rest.

His lips were soft. He had thought the act would be wet and unpleasant, all lashing tongues and spittle, but somehow it was like a reflection of their embrace. Gentle, warm, chaste but sorrowful. He found his eyes sliding closed automatically, highlighting the strange sensations that seemed neither good nor bad, merely disconcertingly intimate. It could have been because Haurchefant had done the same, a glance prolonged and then slowly severed, but he supposed it was rather because he did not wish to remember the sight. He should have kept it brief, shortening the suffering and speeding the recovery, but he felt almost as if he owed it to the man to let him take what he needed. He could be patient, and so he did, letting the lord move slowly against him and taste his lips with a cautiously tracing tongue. The only mercy he could pay him was to keep his mouth shut, pressing softly with pliant lips but admitting him no further. It made no matter how much the other man wanted it. Even he could not be so cruel.

Perhaps that was why, when he had finished, the man in his arms began to tremble and weep, clinging to his shirt with fisted hands like a child afraid to say goodbye to a father on the way to war.

Aymeric drew him toward the couch, pulling the lord into his lap and holding him close. He made no comment, no words being capable of healing the wound he had inflicted. He just gathered him tight against his chest and tucked his head beneath his own chin, humming a soft hymn with no name and no lyrics.

The knight would make penance by protecting his friend until his weakness had passed. It was all he could do.

Now of course, Aymeric felt neither safe nor comfortable. His agitation had been building brick by brick. It had only begun by breaking Haurchefant's tender heart. The Fury was surely punishing him now, making known her displeasure at his double sin. First for the forbidden kiss, and second for causing the recipient such sorrow. If you were going to sin so flagrantly, she seemed to be saying, you should at least have made him happy. But he could never make the man happy, and it was well that they both understood that now. Perhaps his friend could finally move on.

The sympathetic ache in his chest had at least dulled. Seeing the man laugh and make merry at the celebration had been balm to his soul, though the guilt had remained. He had simply been quite distracted from the matter, and could no longer spare the time to think on it.

Holding the man as he regained his composure had left him feeling strangely jittery, almost too exposed. Afterwards the lord had mercifully let the matter drop, scrubbing the tears from his face with cold water until all that remained was a faded smile. There was nothing else to say anyhow. Aymeric would always be there, close but just out of reach, and Haurchefant would learn to live with it. He could hardly do otherwise.

He would not let drop the matter of his dress. He still insisted on finding more casual clothing for him, climbing through a tiny closet that looked as if it would have eaten him alive were it not for the cultivating hand of a few brave servants. He emerged triumphantly, declaring a scrap of black and blue silk to have been made for him and him alone, and pressed it into his hands.

And then he had stepped away to keep rummaging, when Aymeric knew well that he ordinarily would have stripped the knight of his clothes and forced it over his head himself.

It was a black tank of a smooth shimmery silk, shoulder-less and unadorned save for the deep blue material wrapped around the waist that extended over a yalm on each side. The loose collar hung from his shoulders to bunch on his chest, lower than he'd have thought strictly decent. It revealed his rosary with its string of black beads, the traditional rough star sapphire at its apex glittering dully back at him from the full-length looking glass. It did look nice, he realized, hanging loose in some places but hugging others, showing off his flat stomach once the broad sash had been tied off at his hip following instructions shouted from within the closet's tangled abyss. Despite himself, Aymeric had to agree that it did seem to have been made for him, though he wondered perhaps if the tailor had mistaken him for a woman.

The effect only increased when the other man emerged once again, with a pair of black leather boots whose main recommendation seemed to be that they provided no protection whatever from sword or claw. Grudgingly he struggled out of his sabotons, but Haurchefant recommended he keep his long gloves. Then his friend had fetched a brush from a nearby drawer and began brushing out his now-dry hair. It was a curious feeling, tingles and pulling and too much sensation, almost as intimate as the kiss but without the complications. It left him somehow both less relaxed and more at peace, transforming physical security into wellness of spirit. A strange alchemy that he surely did not deserve.

“You look beautiful, you know,” the lord had said once he had finished. He had set down the brush and moved to Aymeric's side as the knight frowned at his image, looping one arm around his waist and clutching his forearm with the other as he laid his chin on the knight's shoulder.

“So you are fond of saying,” Aymeric returned absently. Now that he had dried, his hair hung about his bejeweled ears with its usual understated elegance, drawing attention to his shrewd eyes and aristocratic brows. He had become so accustomed to seeing himself in his formal attire that he had forgotten he was indeed fair. The roguish grin on the man at his side only enhanced the effect, the white to his black, the lance to his sword. In his own way, Haurchefant was beautiful too, strong masculine jaw and wild blue eyes, a man unhinged and untamed. When something caught his fancy he became a lion on the prowl, a predator of clever intellect and hard muscle, all hidden behind an innocent charm. Woe betide he who resisted his grin, for he would soon feel tooth and claw.

Had either of them the inclination, there would likely not be a woman in the realm who could resist their combined charms. The truth of the situation was as droll as it was pitiful.

“We should sit for a painting, you and I, looking just like this.” Evidently the lord was thinking along a similar path, his eyes tracing both of them appreciatively in the mirror, too-blue eyes shining with that predatory glint. “An hundred years hence it will hang in a collector's gallery, and great men and women will look upon it and wonder. 'Who were these sons of gods, these princes among men,' they will ask. 'Surely they inspire armies to glory and bards to song. Surely ones so noble would have the whole of the world at their feet.'” And through the mirror, he smiled softly, looking at Aymeric with enough affection and pain to make his heart ache.

“You are full of delusions,” Aymeric had replied, closing his eyes briefly to escape the sight. Haurchefant was noble. He himself was merely efficient. Beauty made no matter, only blood, sweat, and prayer, in precisely that order.

“Yes, quite,” the other man had agreed, shadows seeming to lurk in the deep hallways of his eyes, though they were no longer as red from his tears. “And some days I think myself nearly happy for it.”

In that time, the Warrior of Light and the captive servants at his disposal had managed to transform the main hall into a palace of wonder. Paper streamers and colorful tablecloths brought riotous color to the occasion, shouting out amongst the dingy stone walls. The tables were littered with all manner of confections, and there were drinks on hand for those who enjoyed their thoughts and those who didn't both.

Aymeric didn't see any of that but for a brief moment, the impression burned into his mind in a flash as if he had been blinded. But he hadn't, he could see perfectly well. He merely could no longer focus on anything else, every sense trained on the overwhelming presence of the hall's other decorations.

Evidently this was the reason Hikari had made the journey to Ul'dah, despite being wanted for regicide and marked for death. Haurchefant had mentioned that the warrior had been most particular in selecting them, and refused to allow any but himself to see them hence. Balloons, they were called, odd alchemically-created latex balls, hollow like a soap bubble and just as buoyant. He had even acquired a small tamed bomb, an odd breed of voidkin which produced a gas that allowed it to float, and could be coaxed to fill balloons with it in exchange for sweets. It followed him around the hall like a puppy, accepting offerings of hard candy and allowing him to ruffle the spikes on its head. The adventurer seemed oblivious to the fact that all but his host gave the pair a wide berth, sometimes leaping out of chairs to stay clear of the creature.

For a long while, Aymeric could only observe.

It would not have been accurate to say that he recovered from his shock. Rather, Haurchefant had left him by the door to greet Hikari and heap praise on him for his work, leaving the knight with a moment to wrestle his thoughts to the ground. It was just enough stability to recognize that he was staring, and would draw attention to himself. This was never desirable, but just now he felt the need to keep eyes off of him. He made common cause with thieves and cats, and became a creature of shadow and unobtrusive silence. Fortunately, this was enough like his usual cold indifference that his friend hardly noticed the change, only catching his eye on occasion or pressing a drink into his hand. He was either too occupied or too heartbroken to do much more, and he spent the majority of the evening by the adventurer's side. Greeting his guests, exchanging stories, and laughing at the things only close friends understand.

It was bittersweet, but he was glad to see him in good hands. Whether the warrior felt the same for him or not, he was at least a good friend. That was far more than Aymeric would claim at the moment.

But he appreciated the distance just now. Haurchefant's preoccupation with the duties of host left him ample time to observe, to catalogue, and to begin to process what he was feeling. There was much grist for his mill, every surface being decorated with colorful apparitions. They were beautiful, objectively so. They sparkled like gems, only larger, with curves softer than any woman's. Their colors were pure and unsullied, like a field of cultivated tulips, too perfect and uniform to have grown wild, too bold and bright to be made for anything but the pleasures of the senses.

When they moved, he felt light himself, and he had to steel his resolve to keep from swaying when the door opened and every balloon in the hall danced in the breeze. He was enchanted by them, and more. He was cursed with some strange infatuation, and vaguely he worried that it was the work of the Fury, her wrath played out as the holy legends told. There seemed little explanation for the turbulence in his mind save madness. It was like staring down the abyss, and falling gladly into its embrace.

And through it all, amid the mad dance of demons playing with the tatters of his sanity, Hikari walked like a king at court, with the void-sent bomb on his heel.

Everywhere he went, balloons would tend to follow, and so Aymeric's gaze was drawn to his movements as surely as the ballet of the baubles themselves. Children gathered around the smiling Hyur, caring not the least for his fearsome reputation or the snarling face of his pet. And he would produce a limp latex blob from his bag, place it in the mouth of his tame bomb, and Aymeric's heart would cease to beat.

It was difficult to spy from so great a distance, but it was not merely the beauty of the alchemical creations that was so magical. Their inflation was... it did something to him. Something dark and unfamiliar, a little frightening, but it beckoned him all the same. It was... arresting. It arrested his thoughts, his breath, his sense. Everything ceased when he watched the little globe inflate, then begin to shine, eventually tipping upward toward the ceiling as it filled. The entire world held utterly still until Hikari finally held the neck closed, tied it with an expert motion, and leashed it with a ribbon to tie to the wrist of a begging child.

It was certainly frightening. But he drank in the sight like a man who knew his love of wine would kill him, but cared only to sate his thirst.

Somewhere between his hypnotic trance and self-recriminations, Aymeric was required to practice his arts. He was a consummate politician, well-gifted in hiding his own face to present the one the world wished to see. From time to time his cover was disturbed and he would, with reluctance and a touch of fear, greet a familiar adventurer or a friendly noble. It was a fragile thing, his attention always wandering, ever at risk of dropping his thoughts to shatter his focus upon the stone floor. He would nod, recalling names and facts and moving his mouth in imitation of intelligent speech. But in the corner of his eye a balloon would dance, and he could seem to think of little else.

The celebration was well-attended. For all Haurchefant's mad airs and impolitic practices, he was well-loved. Even his youngest brother could be seen, though Aymeric knew the relations between the lord and his half-brothers to be somewhat strained. Lord Francel was also in attendance, as well as many others of House Haillenart, the bonds of loyalty between the two great houses only strengthened by the man's willingness to bind himself to a friend's burden even as he sank beneath the waves of despair. Even when all hope was lost and the lord's own life could have been at risk, he did not flag nor waver.

In short, he was reminded in brief moments of lucid thought, Lord Haurchefant de Foretemps was a man most extraordinary. His loyalty, once gained, was never lost.

He almost wished he could love him in return.

If his current curse was any guide, it would not have been a sin. Not as much as hurting him, at any rate. Not as much as crushing his heart like a blossoming edelweiss under the heel of his boot.

And so he floated, his thoughts moving from one perch to another like a sparrow searching for seeds in the snow. And he found nothing, no reason for the rapture of his senses save theological speculation and grief. Here a spark of bright color, there a reflection of dancing flame, always bobbing and wafting on the wind, or bounced by the string in a child's hand. The sparrow could find nothing, for there was no food upon the ground. All he had was agitation, and the splendor of the balloons he beheld.

The man whom he hoped would mend his friend's heart seemed to be up to the task, at least. From time to time he caught the adventurer with an arm around the lord's shoulders, sometimes leaning their heads together to share some joke. Aymeric's eyes seemed oft drawn to the center of the room where the two of them eventually settled, feasting and making merry. Not because of his guilt but despite it, because there lay the hall's greatest concentration of balloons. Magenta, green, teal, lilac, saffron, orange, an explosion of color made all the more sensual for their combination. The colors played with each-other, each singing in a different voice, combining into a song that was more than the sum of its beauty. Much more, Aymeric found, the vision moving him to a depth of feeling that was nearly frightening in its intensity.

It did not help that the warrior could not keep still, tugging lightly on the strings to watch them dance and sway, or attaching one to Haurchefant's wrist with an affectionate smile. The both of them were as children, innocently playing with toys, and it made Aymeric's blood thick with agitation, unease. Delight.

And sometimes when Hikari tugged on a string, he would seem to look to Aymeric as he did so. And he would raise his brows in question, before turning away with a secretive smile, as if deliberately leaving the knight to the illusion that he was invisible.

The first few times this happened, the commander sought to relocate, feeling against all rational sense that his cover had been blown. But all the guests knew of his attendance, the adventurer most of all. It merely bothered him that the warrior seemed to know where he was at all times, and more that he seemed so easily able to goad him. He knew, knew that no-one could possibly understand his fascination, though he feared ever that they would sense it as though it were written on his skin with aetherially-conductive ink. But eventually he forgave Hikari for the disturbance, returning his questioning glances with wary glares and grudging tolerance. There was no threat there. It was almost as if the Hyur were respecting his seclusion.

Aymeric didn't know the warrior well, but he trusted him. He had done too much for the realm, and too much for his friend.

He was attractive, too, as near as he could tell, though his eyes ever strayed back to the balloons that clustered around him. Tussled brown hair that seemed to glow orange from their reflected light, soulful blue eyes, a jaw that walked the line between strength and beauty. Where Haurchefant's looks were roguish and rough, Hikari had the fair boyish charm of a young Midland Hyur, making him seem almost too slight or too innocent to swing his terrifyingly large battle-axe. Aymeric knew, of course, that he was the most fearsome fighter in the room, and so did most of the guests. The Warrior of Light was legendary, both for his strength and his pure heart. His handsome face and easygoing personality only helped the stories to spread, his name now known across the realm, feared and respected even among those who sought to see him harmed. It was little wonder that he had strode so boldly into the markets of Ul'dah, when the Blades and Braves both had put a kingly purse on his head. There was scarcely a person in the realm who could have given him cause to fear in a fight, fair or otherwise.

The man was flamboyant, even by the standards of adventurers. He seemed completely at home surrounded by brilliant baubles, nearly as bright as a balloon himself. He had exchanged his magically-augmented armor for more casual clothing, as Aymeric and Haurchefant had done. Over a pair of black trousers, he wore a short white yukata, a sort of seasonal Doman robe casually tied at his hip. Bright orange and red designs covered the lower portion, images of bombs like the one that followed him dancing across the fabric, and a pair of glowing lanterns that grinned in lifelike imitation were tied at his waist. He had, in essence, played on the theme. There was even a sculpted charm hanging from one of his ears, a tiny bomb in miniature that bobbled around with every movement of his head.

Hikari was always playful, whether he was showing off his wardrobe or enjoying a chocobo race. He was playing now, tapping on the taut surface of a lilac balloon and watching it cascade against its mates in the bunch. They all recoiled from it in different directions, before swinging back together as if they could not bear to be apart. Then they seemed to shuffle, renegotiating their positions, jostling and bumping until at last they settled together. And the warrior would grin and take a bite of cake, perhaps stealing it from Haurchefant's plate, and then tap another balloon.

And then, perhaps, his eyes would trail once again to meet Aymeric's, and he would smile knowingly, as if at some secret joke, before returning to his play.

The Warrior of Light carried the burdens of all of Eorzea, but he never meddled, only lent his hand in times of need. He was as loyal as the lord whose heart he had captured. He was a free spirit, a force of nature, a child at play. Unlike Aymeric, he would let nothing stop him from being there for Haurchefant. Not sin, not fear, certainly not appearances. Definitely not sanity, or sense, or self-restraint.

Time would only tell whether he could be more for him than a friend.

Time did not seem to be on Aymeric's side. It seemed to be working against him, rubbing salt into his wounds as he ticked away the interminable bells to the party's end. The balloons were no longer merely hypnotizing him. They were calling to him, dancing like faery-lights just beyond his grasp, mad puppets moved by the strings in Hikari's hand.

Somehow, Aymeric knew, Hikari was their master. And as much as he feared them, he desired them. So, like the children, he found himself under the warrior's spell, following him with rapt attention from within the shadows whenever he moved from Haurchefant's side.

It was the bomb that was his undoing.

A child, a petite Elezen girl, long golden curls pouring over her shoulders, tugged on the adventurer's yukata. And he had stopped, placed his hand upon her head and ruffled her pristine locks until she looked like she'd been roughhousing with the boys. His smile was beautiful enough to soften any indignity, though, and when he gathered the voidkin in his arms and placed a balloon to its lips, it was not only the child who was excited. She jumped from foot to foot in anticipation, and Aymeric merely bit his lip, unable to close his eyes against a sight that made him want to groan with frustration and unease.

The little voidsent took the balloon between its jagged toothy lips, and blew, transforming the lump of lifeless latex into a great jade gem, pure and shining. It was achingly beautiful, a hurt he felt in his entire body, from his toes to the tips of his ears, which prickled with warmth. Gradually it took shape and took flight, becoming an ovoid instead of a sphere and lifting into the air like a nestling unsure of the direction of the sky.

And then it was no more.

It was loud, even from across the hall, the sound of an explosion that made half the guests cower in fear, perhaps thinking the bomb itself had exploded. But it was the balloon, the synthetic one, not the creature from the abyss but the one that called Aymeric's soul.

He did not see it go. It was too fast. But it was loud, sudden... powerful.

Suddenly Aymeric did not trust himself to stand upright.

He ducked behind the pillar in whose shadow he had hidden, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning against the stone, taking comfort in the roughness and cold against his bare shoulder blades as his only lifeline to reality. Something had happened, something terrifying and amazing. He was trembling, he knew. His hands shook and his left knee didn't seem to want to lock properly.

The worst part of it was, he wasn't certain that he didn't want to see it again.

He stayed that way for some minutes, seeking surety in the kiss of rock, listening to the giggles of the children. Gradually his breathing calmed. But when at last he opened his eyes, Hikari was looking at him. No longer in the hall surrounded by friends and children, but here, in his seclusion, observing first-hand his distress.

The warrior was still giving him his space. He was a few yalms away, standing in the shadow of another pillar, where only Haurchefant might think to look for him. And damn it all if he didn't look just as amazed, as he studied Aymeric with his knowing blue eyes.

Before Aymeric could retreat, Hikari held up his hands in a gesture of peace, backing away a few paces and looking away. It seemed at first that he did so to calm him, as one might do to convince a dog that they were not a threat, but Aymeric didn't have time to feel insulted. The warrior's eyes lit upon a table set against the wall, laden with half-empty drink cups and a bowl of candy. And to it he strode, looking back to the knight meaningfully, making a show of his actions and making certain his audience attended.

With his left hand, the warrior removed his earring. The miniature red bomb wobbled from its hook even as he set it down, to lie sideways on the table as if the creature had been defeated in battle.

With his right hand, Hikari produced the object the knight had consciously followed every time it had been in view. A white silk bag which Aymeric knew well was filled with uninflated balloons. This he held over the table, directly next to the earring... then moved it a few ilms to the side before setting it down. He glanced back to his audience, smiling gently. Nonthreatening, perhaps, though Aymeric could not help but feel nervous merely by the expedient of being observed.

And then the adventurer turned on his heel and walked away, without a backwards look, leaving both the earring and the balloons for the agitated knight to do with as he would.

To say that Aymeric was astonished would be an understatement. He was shocked, and not a little frightened. He was agitated, stirred up like a tempest in a soup pot. He was nearly sick with the feeling, as if he had been colonized by ants, digging tunnels beneath his skin and making his wants feel alive. He was astonished and agitated and more. He was careening beyond the bounds of agitation into the waters of madness and fear.

Unlike the kiss of bells past, these feelings did not seem innocent. They settled low in his body, made him quake and tremble, made his stomach roil with turbulent desires. It was unfamiliar, and unwanted, and unholy. But he could not ignore it.

Hikari had presented him with a choice, or rather two choices. He did not understand either, nor their implications, but he knew his answer just the same.

Like the patrons that had frequented the table earlier, Aymeric was uninterested in concessions. Rather he migrated toward it automatically, like a salmon to the place of their death, because it held what he truly sought. The second choice, the bag of balloons. The very source of his fixation.

He snatched up the bag, tucking it into the band of his trousers, not even bothering to find a pocket, too worried that somehow his movement would be remarked.

And he paused.

The first item had been left very deliberately for him. A piece of fine craftsmanship, belonging to the adventurer. It had the scent of an offer, of understanding. Of the knowing look Hikari had bestowed upon him, as he trembled in the lee of the pillar, trembled in fear of his own amazement.

He was afraid, and so he should not have taken the earring. But as his fingers closed around it, he understood that he took it precisely because he was frightened. He wondered if the other man had, in his maddeningly cautious way, offered to help him with his fears.

He didn't know what that would entail, but at the moment he did not care. He was gone as quickly as he could manage it. Haurchefant would forgive him for leaving. He would forgive everything, in time. Just now, Aymeric needed to be a thousand malms hence, or at the very least, alone. He should have fled from his desires, but he fled instead from the light of reason. Hikari had given him the final push, mayhap the key. He would follow his instincts where they led, find out what compelled him so in the hope that in so doing, he could break the spell.

He knew it was irrational. But if it could calm his madness, Aymeric was willing to howl at the moon.
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The Guilty Party