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Fandom: FFX
Characters/Pairings: Auron/Yuna
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Auron never swore to anything lightly.
Notes: For the FF Kissbattle
The moon hung in the sky like a criminal from a noose. He never slept, and she never did enough. Auron had heard Yuna walking up before she had probably even thought of it.
"Why would a legend like you offer to be my Guardian, Sir Auron?"
The time spent in Zanarkand with Tidus had reminded him comfortably of Jecht; no matter what the boy said or did, he was every fiber the man's son. Auron could easily recover in the presence of that, the failures less fresh while the boy bounded around, talking about his new blitzball shot.
Yuna being so much like Braska, though, that stung more than he thought it would. Spira itself was a dull ache, but the sharp single gray-blue eye in the girl felt like knives. And her formal politeness combined with Braska's perceptiveness was almost cruel in a way.
"You are a legend yourself, Yuna. Don't doubt that."
But she was still such a young girl, one who pretended like the entire world meant more to her than the natural things a girl her age should have been concerned with. Auron wanted to tell her that she had a choice, that she could make it all go away, that maybe he would whisk her away somewhere and they would find another Summoner for the Eternal Calm. Take both of them away, so they could be normal teenagers again.
"But I do, Sir Auron. My father was--"
"--Much like you."
He knew she wouldn't ask him more than that, Yuna was the kind of girl that shrouded herself in the stars of the death dance. When this was all over he would become that veil, and they would dance together. But not yet. Not yet.
"I appreciate your support."
Auron knelt, took her hand, and kissed it, like the gesture he'd refused as a Fighting Monk when faced with a priest's daughter. He never swore to anything lightly, but this girl, and that boy, and the promise of eternal rest was a much easier thing to cleave to. It was the right thing to cleave to.
Formally speaking, she should have bade him to rise, but instead she knelt down with him, taking his face in her hands and kissing him back properly; chaste, but full of feeling. For a moment Auron could swear that she knew what he was, with the briefest flicker of understanding passing across her features.
Instead she dropped her hands and stood, the sound of her footsteps retreating like the moon should have been. Auron looked up and it was still hanging there.
"Zanarkand is still so far away," he said to himself.
Characters/Pairings: Auron/Yuna
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Auron never swore to anything lightly.
Notes: For the FF Kissbattle
The moon hung in the sky like a criminal from a noose. He never slept, and she never did enough. Auron had heard Yuna walking up before she had probably even thought of it.
"Why would a legend like you offer to be my Guardian, Sir Auron?"
The time spent in Zanarkand with Tidus had reminded him comfortably of Jecht; no matter what the boy said or did, he was every fiber the man's son. Auron could easily recover in the presence of that, the failures less fresh while the boy bounded around, talking about his new blitzball shot.
Yuna being so much like Braska, though, that stung more than he thought it would. Spira itself was a dull ache, but the sharp single gray-blue eye in the girl felt like knives. And her formal politeness combined with Braska's perceptiveness was almost cruel in a way.
"You are a legend yourself, Yuna. Don't doubt that."
But she was still such a young girl, one who pretended like the entire world meant more to her than the natural things a girl her age should have been concerned with. Auron wanted to tell her that she had a choice, that she could make it all go away, that maybe he would whisk her away somewhere and they would find another Summoner for the Eternal Calm. Take both of them away, so they could be normal teenagers again.
"But I do, Sir Auron. My father was--"
"--Much like you."
He knew she wouldn't ask him more than that, Yuna was the kind of girl that shrouded herself in the stars of the death dance. When this was all over he would become that veil, and they would dance together. But not yet. Not yet.
"I appreciate your support."
Auron knelt, took her hand, and kissed it, like the gesture he'd refused as a Fighting Monk when faced with a priest's daughter. He never swore to anything lightly, but this girl, and that boy, and the promise of eternal rest was a much easier thing to cleave to. It was the right thing to cleave to.
Formally speaking, she should have bade him to rise, but instead she knelt down with him, taking his face in her hands and kissing him back properly; chaste, but full of feeling. For a moment Auron could swear that she knew what he was, with the briefest flicker of understanding passing across her features.
Instead she dropped her hands and stood, the sound of her footsteps retreating like the moon should have been. Auron looked up and it was still hanging there.
"Zanarkand is still so far away," he said to himself.
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