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Sanson remembers the chill of the Sea of Clouds as a dream. In sleep, sometimes, he hears the siren’s song curl around him like a lover, and wakes with his heart stammering out the same beat - a fearful one, one that sends adrenaline through him anew.
It’s not a new feeling. He knows battle. The Adders had put steel in his hands, lance and temperament both, and in this lay his pride: resilience, the courage to barge through the haze of terror and dread that fighting brought.
Sanson knows fear. He knows it like well-worn armor, a loyal and steadfast battle companion. He remembers how it threads brass down his spine, burning at the base of his skull, and keeps it tucked away in the back of his head as a reminder.
With abduction, however, comes a new kind of fear - that of the unknown, the prisoner, and the thundering worry of what would become of his companions. This, for the first time, is the fear that renders him nearly immobile, and when he’s finally freed into the hands of his allies he lets it shake out of him in heaving breaths.
When he stumbles back into Castrum Oriens, the dark of evening masking the tiny tremor of his frame, Guydelot takes him into his arms. (The Warrior of Light is smart enough to see this and immediately make themselves scarce, disappearing into the night with nary a word.)
“I’m fine,” Sanson says, unsteady muffled into the fabric of Guydelot’s coat, “‘m fine , really, I--”
“I know.” Guydelot answers, hushed, and Sanson can hear the guilt still lit in his voice. “I know, but, even so…” he trails off, fingers clenched into tight fists. They press heavy against Sanson’s spine, grounding as he sags further into Guydelot’s arms.
“It was my fault.” His voice sticks in his throat, traitorous in its unsteadiness, and he takes a moment to let out a long exhale. He wriggles a little in the confine of the embrace, then, freeing his arms from where they’d been held tight against his sides. Guydelot lets up a fraction, pulling back to peer down at Sanson’s face. “I let them-- I mean-- it was me who couldn’t, couldn’t fight--”
Sanson quiets when he meets Guydelot’s gaze, suddenly unable to read the expression on his face. There’s still a worry, but his brow scrunches together like he’s in pain, and his eyes glitter hard in the low light.
He realizes, then, that it’s fear that makes Guydelot’s eyes hard, and he feels his familiar companion fall into step beside him once more.
“I’m sorry.” Sanson says, and reaches up. He pushes his fingers through Guydelot’s hair, pulling him ever closer, other hand coming to rest at the side of his throat. Another moment of silence passes, before Guydelot lets himself relax just a touch, head dipping to gently touch his forehead to Sanson’s. “You were afraid.” He adds, quiet.
"I fear nothing." Guydelot finally answers with a crooked smile, and Sanson feels his pulse flutter under his palm. "Except, perhaps, the thought of losing you."
Sanson exhales again, long, and something in him melts. As he opens his mouth to speak, Guydelot tightens his grip again, and leans in to kiss him.
It’s not their first, not by far - Sanson is used to stolen kisses and sweet kisses, brief and parting kisses, and heated ones with Guydelot against his front and sheets against his back but this , this is different in its desperation, in the part of him that awakens with a sudden yearning. He breathes hard and pulls Guydelot against him, warming in the dusk chill.
“What would I have done,” Guydelot says, hushed and urgent, and kisses him again, “had you not come back? Had I not been able to bring you home? ” His pulse is unsteady again, rapid and stammering, and Sanson is helpless in the face of his honesty.
There’s a tenderness in him, fierce and flickering, and it grows with a lick of heat when Guydelot’s mouth opens against his. Gyr Abania’s night cold disappears against this familiarity, the little breaths between kisses, the flash of tongue and grasping hands rendered clumsy with sudden passion.
“I suppose,” Sanson finally manages, breathless as Guydelot shifts, presses tiny kisses to the corner of his mouth and over his cheek, “you would have had to find another foolish lancer.”
Guydelot laughs, quiet where his lips trail over the curve of Sanson’s jaw. “I certainly know plenty of those.” he says, a half-murmur. “But I fear my heart only has room for one fool.”
Something stings behind Sanson’s eyes, and he lets out a cracked little laugh of his own, moving to wrap his arms tight around Guydelot’s neck. “A fine pair of fools we are, then.” he croaks.
“I suppose we are.” Guydelot smiles, and Sanson can feel it against his cheek. He lets his eyes close.
“Moreso myself.” He says wryly. “Though not so foolish as to let you return home on your own.”
Guydelot shifts against him, and lets out a thoughtful little hum. “It would hardly be a home if I were the only one in it.” He answers, and Sanson utters another quiet laugh.
“I suppose not.” He says, and lets himself relax in Guydelot’s arms. Around them, the air stills with warmth, and Sanson’s fear melts away into the night.