#this is my personal creative blog and i don't owe an explanation dammit

[grosserfluss]

a/n : indulgent af celeif pronz because this is what i live to provide, motherfucker

It’s hard to explain where the feeling comes from, whenever he’s around him. That trembling in his chest, the tightness in his stomach. He thinks he understands it a little more now, today, seeing him knee-deep in scrolls and maps, hands planted on the table as he laid out his plans for the scouting mission in the morning with an authority that couldn’t have possibly not convinced everyone in the room that he was serious and capable despite the fair face. Off to the side, Leif had swallowed, shuffled from foot to foot; eventually, the conversation had dissolved into hammering out the particulars of the mission, and the voices and words had faded into white noise. He continued to watch his cousin, pointing to places on the map, nodding or shaking his head in response to someone’s advice, defending or conceding a point. He’d turned to him with an encouraging smile after it was all over, and in the same gesture a lock of blue hair had fallen over his eyes and somehow that just made him even more arresting.

“I’m glad that’s over.” Outside, the late night air is fresher than the interior of the war tent, which always seemed to retain tension and keep it locked in. Celice takes a deep breath next to him, and Leif feels his heart pound. “We should get some rest before tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he replies, his own voice sounding strange to his ears. “I haven’t gotten a chance to set up my own tent yet, but I’ll figure something out.”

“Oh!” Celice pauses midstep, turning to him in surprise. “Then, why don’t you share with me? There’s plenty of space.”

Blinking, Leif feels himself flush brightly, equal parts flustered by the suggestion and horrified at his own reaction. “N-No, I couldn’t!”

The confused – almost hurt – look on Celice’s face is enough to make him regret having said anything at all. “Why not? We’re cousins, aren’t we? Our fathers were best friends . . . ”

“It’s fine,” he insists, though a little more weakly. “I’ll find Nanna, o-or Asvel, or . . . ” He trails off at the sad look he’s given, feeling his heart drop further into his stomach somewhere. Celice – handsome, strong Celice – is looking at him, and those eyes up close rob him of words, the color of the night sky and just as fathomless. He feels like he could fall into them and lose himself in their eternity.

“I mean . . . we’re friends, aren’t we Leif?” he asks gently. “I understand if you don’t feel that close to me yet, but . . . I’d like to be best friends with you. It’d mean a lot to me if you’d stay, but you don’t have to.” He smiles again, and Leif finds that there’s no way in heaven or hell that he could move himself to refuse. He would do anything to be the one receiving that smile.

“Okay,” he finally replies, and he’s rewarded with Celice’s face brightening even more. Knowing that he’s the cause of it makes his heart clench and he finds it hard to breathe.

“Really? Great! Then come on, let’s find some extra blankets. I think Oifey should have something . . . ”

A little while later, Leif is curled up on the floor of Celice’s tent, back turned to him. The sound of the other’s soft breathing fills the small space, but the thudding of his heart drowns out any serenity he could find. He had arranged himself in the corner of the tent as physically far away from Celice as possible, and yet his body is still painfully aware of his presence. He tosses and turns, trying to ignore the sensitivity of his own skin, hot and wanting.

Finally, after several more minutes, he can’t take it anymore. He tosses the blanket off himself, already having begun to sweat beneath it. Celice is asleep anyway, right? As long as he’s quiet . . . He bites his lip, keeping his back to the other as he hurriedly, shamefully undoes the topmost fastenings of his trousers. His need grows rapidly, and he swallows back a sigh as he takes himself in hand, stroking quickly. This isn’t going to be self-indulgent or drawn-out; he just needs to get this over with as quickly as possible, before Celice can suspect anything.

Though he won’t admit it to himself, the act of doing this with him so close by . . .

He keeps his breathing level, quiet, clenching his stomach to avoid making any sound that would wake or disturb his cousin. But his mind keeps wandering to the other side of the tent. Celice – that handsome face, those plush, perfect lips. His strokes quicken, and he has to bite his lip harder in order to keep silent. His hips have involuntarily started to move – tiny, stilted thrusts up into his own grip. It’s unbearably hot under all his clothes, but if he can just keep it up for a little longer, he’ll be finished. Without meaning to, he lets slip a soft, sharp gasp as he gets close –

“Leif? Are you okay?”

“Ah -- !” Leif starts, then goes completely still, hand still around himself lest any movement should give him away. “Lord Celice – ?”

A moment of silence, and then: “ . . . I wasn’t asleep, you know.”

Mortified, Leif realizes he knows. Dread fills him, solid as a stone, and he swallows. Can he make up some excuse? No . . . denying it would only make it worse. Slowly, he pushes himself up, crossing his legs and trying his best to cover himself. His face is on fire, but his body still aches, on the edge of release.

He’s startled by the sound of rustling cloth, and then – is he dreaming? – he feels, more than hears, Celice’s voice in his ear. “Do you . . . think I can help?” A hand comes around, surprisingly bold – he’s still learning that Celice is hardly as soft as his face would suggest – grazing against his thigh before wrapping around the tip of his length. His head is spinning; he can’t understand why Celice is being so forward about this – until he feels a firmness press against his back. Oh.

Throat dry, he gasps again as Celice begins to stroke, slower than his own hand but so much better precisely because it isn’t his own hand. Celice is touching him. Celice. His eyes close and he can’t help but lean back against him with a throaty moan, arching his back to press his hips up. He feels Celice shift to sit closer, his own erection hard against the base of Leif’s spine.

“Lord Celice – can I . . . touch you as well?”

His hand is already wandering back, and a ripple of pleasure goes down all the way through him when Celice kisses his neck in answer, grip tightening around his cock. “Sure,” he murmurs, breath hot against the curve of his shoulder. “Let’s do it together.”

Without waiting for more, Leif turns to face him, and then presses his beautiful, incredible, breathtaking cousin down onto the blankets. Fabric shuffles as Leif moves to strip Celice of his trousers and Celice does the same, pushing down on the waistband of Leif’s pants to free his cock completely. At some point his mouth is on Celice’s and his lips are just as soft as they looked and he can’t possibly stop kissing him, not even if the entirety of the Liberation Army stormed into the tent at that moment. The night air filtering through the tent flap is cold but it goes unnoticed, eclipsed by the heat generated between them as they grind and writhe amidst the blankets, breathing heavy sighs and strained moans. Once they’re both undressed, their erections brush and the sensation can only be described as a burn. Celice’s hands are on him, his on Celice’s; their mouths meet again and again, each kiss more feverish than the last, and it’s all dizzy, heady, winding up so quickly –

Leif hears his name leave Celice’s lips in a choked whisper and he can’t help himself anymore; a surge of excitement rushes through him and he climaxes, thrusting hard into his cousin’s hand. Thick, hot liquid spurts between them and he doesn’t realize until he hears Celice cry out – and what a sound – and feels warmth on his own hand that he’s following close behind. Realizing that he’s brought him to finish too prolongs his own pleasure, and he rides that fevered, desperate feeling for as long as he can.

Sticky, sweaty, and overheated, Leif stays there, panting hard, until he finds the strength to untangle himself from the nest of blankets they’ve wrapped about themselves. Almost immediately as he rolls back onto his side, a wave of guilt hits him, and his throat seizes up. What had he done? Had Celice really wanted that? He’s not worthy –

“Leif?”

He swallows, but manages a quiet “L-Lord Celice, I’m sorry -- ”

“No. Don’t be.”

The firmness stops him, but there’s something else – a sure softness, understanding and kind. The Celice that speaks to the heart, everyone says. “This is silly, Leif. We’re friends. Well . . . “ He can hear the blush in his voice. “Maybe a little more than that, now. But you shouldn’t have to call me that.”

“But -- ”

“Everyone else in this army calls me ‘Lord Celice’,” he says, and Leif feels him press close, a warm body to the curve of his back. “Please. I want it to be just ‘Celice’ when I’m with you. Do you . . . only see me as a Lord?”

He’s quiet, shoulders relaxing a little. “ . . . No. I’m sorry, I just – the way I feel for you, I thought . . . if I put that distance, maybe . . . ” His heart aches as he speaks, and he has to pause, taking a deep breath. Since the moment he’d first seen him, and every moment since. It’s not lessened, not at all.

But Celice simply reaches around to find his hand, and places his own over it, and Leif can feel that he doesn’t need to say anything more. “Don’t. Please, don’t. I don’t want that distance between us.”

And he says it with such sincere yearning that Leif has to bite his lip, his chest clenches so tight. “Okay . . . then Celice it is.” And he finds himself smiling as he says it.