a real live girl

Minoth looks to his left, and Addam is there. Addam looks to his right, and Minoth is there.

A bachelor lord leads a life of the extremest convenience, able to toss care to the side and explore his own self at the infinite leisure that privilege affords. For Addam, this means traveling between Titans whenever the seasons make it a beautiful week or month to be there, lending his strength to what causes would accept an affable man self-determined to be a wanderer.

Minoth is not nearly so carefree, but Addam tries to impart at least a little bit of his lived worldliness unto his age-lined friend, his favored partner if ever he could have one.

That's not where Minoth's argument lies; no, they're a perfect pair.

They rent inn rooms with two beds, but sleep in only one. They order two meals, but serve each other from the same plate.

"Must be cheaper methods of discretion, my prince," Minoth remarks fondly. "Bah," says Addam, "they could stand to be paid twice. And I could stand to empty my pockets - do you know how heavy all this is?"

Minoth grins. He knows. Oh, he knows. He likes to make Addam's pockets a little lighter whenever he can. Only equivalent exchange, since Addam likes to make his load lighter just the same.

They see Torna, every region Addam knows and then a few more that Minoth sees fit to find. They see Uraya, the culture and the sights through blowholes. They see Mor Ardain, impressed by the majesty of a Titan with erect shoulders of its own. As well, Spessia and Coeia and Gormott. Everywhere there is green grass and tilled fields, Addam makes a point to go and breathe in the air of agriculture, people and their places, Blades and their eclectic bodies.

Everywhere there is solitude, Addam has trained his earnest golden eyes upon Minoth and asked him quietly for a kiss, a touch, a pennyworth of the playwright's mind.

Minoth used to scoff and turn away, arms crossed and refusal ready. But now, he thinks he's hungry enough to sense what it is that Addam's been looking at, longing for.

Their travels have had them walking in step, perfectly in sync with each other, whether bonded as Blades and Drivers or simply as two human men.

(Addam loved Minoth from the first that he saw him. Minoth liked Addam alright, too, but the conditioning Amalthus had so happily provided slowed his fall to a crawl.)

"I've missed your face," Addam says, slowly, sweetly. He runs his thumb over every prominent part of it, each fine feature, and then all the in-between places too. Minoth tracks Addam's gaze with his own eyes, watching how Addam takes in every square centimeter of tan skin and bold bone structure, the expressive eyebrows and the intricate folds of god-fearing ears.

(God-fearing? Fearing of some father, certainly. Fearing of who it might be that's listening, learning, preparing to pass judgement.)

The same routine looks different in a desert, at a fence to one side of a field, by a stream through a forest. They sit high on rock formations, huddle low in caves. No such thing as chivalry, only long-denied want.

With Addam's kiss pressing into his mouth, Minoth pulls Addam down over top of him, one hand buried in thick gray hair and the other wrapped so far over Addam's back that it comes around to the gap between tricep and torso and squeezes princely chest.

Each tease pulls a moan from Addam, one that escapes along with gasping breaths when Minoth breaks the kiss to reposition. "No, come back..." Addam mumbles with eyes closed, lidded beyond conscious effort. Smiling, Minoth obliges. Of course. Whatever you say. What Addam wants goes.

What Minoth wants goes too, though. Enough sucking face, and his fingers get itchy for some action. He flips them over, Addam more conscious of the comfort of his jacket's apparatus than he is as it scrapes against the barrel behind them just momentarily, and mounts himself atop Addam's pelvis. Codpiece? What codpiece?

Then, to kill the buildup, he just stares. It might be a sort of spiritual moment for Minoth, Addam figures. The process of absorbing and coming to grips with the individual who will be his Driver, until such time as either one of them dies or they have a terrible, unforgivable parting of the ways.

Architect, don't let it be that.

"I love you," whispers Addam, uncaring that he's functionally trapped between Minoth and the ground. He can think of no place he'd rather be. And Minoth, for his part, works his jaw, running gentle knuckles over Addam's cheekbone, before replying, "Feeling's mutual, Prince."

The point, moreover, is that the tenderness is a secret succor beneath the roughness of a male-for-male partnership. They compete with each other, in subtle ways. Their connection is enhanced during battle; they work out - or in - their testosterone by culling monsters for random mercenary writs together. Love is, of course, gender-neutral if not gender-agnostic, but this is the way it is, for them. Two men, equal in stature, opposite in temperament, but mutually and powerfully attracted.

It's just about the time when they're ready to stop pretending, to others or to themselves, that they're about to sleep in separate beds, that they arrive in Auresco for another of their periodic trips. Minoth's interested in the pens and stationery, as he always is. Addam's interested in whatever Minoth's interested in, and a little bit of hobknobbery with the locals.

Whether men or women or Blades of some indeterminate median position (rarer to see or identify humans with such traits, though they are spotted every now and then), Addam and Minoth greet passers-by as presently and politely as is appropriate. Minoth seems to garner the attention of old ladies most often, while Addam is popular with children. Again, this type of love has no eyes for gender either.

But then they see her. Stooped at a perfumer's stall, clad in gold-heeled calf-height boots and a soft pink dress that ruffles at the hem to enhance its fit with an exceptional generosity over her bottom, is a woman with rich dark brown hair and freckles. Even as she frowns in the throes of her financial decisionmaking, she carries an aura of warmth that stops the companion adventurers, strangers to no worldly sight, in their tracks.

"Did you want to look at colognes?" asks Addam, out of the corner of his mouth, as if he'd just thought of it - and he had, prince's honor.

Minoth elbows him. "You're not slick. I see her too."

In any other situation, Addam might have turned to bat his eyelashes (long, but not nearly as long and thick as Minoth's) obnoxiously, faux coquette. Here and now, he just nods, mouth hung open some sizable fraction of a ped.

"Well?" prods Minoth. "What's her name?"

The woman's dress makes a shimmering shift as she holds one wrist, blue-veined, to her lips and nose. There: freckles and visible hair on her forearms, too. Oh, and see her shoulders, too, round and rosy.

Addam's all but forgotten the question. "Her name? How should I know?"

Now Minoth rolls his eyes. "Am I not currently enjoying the mediocre company of one Addam Origo, Lord of Aletta and fourth in line to the throne of Torna?"

His stage whisper is, apparently, in need of a little brush-up attention; the woman's own eyes, ostensibly a deep crystal blue, flick over to the men watching her through a shopperless sightline that's managed to materialize itself right in the middle of the otherwise bustling shopping ward.

"I'm nobody at all," replies Addam distractedly. "Sure," says Minoth, "and she's a princess."

She could be a princess. She could be nobody at all, herself. Minoth's implication is that it's Addam's job to know his loyal subjects, to cherish each one in their gifts born of being such noble Tornan citizens of capital city and countryside, which would certainly include someone so obviously well-mannered and pleasing to the eye as this woman. Girl? She looks to be about their age, maybe a little younger.

Still. She could be nobody at all, except that she has just been promoted to most important person in all of Alrest. That's in the estimation of one part-Tornan part-Leftherian prince and his one Flesh Eater cowboy Blade, hailing from Indol as far back as anybody cares to keep track, and those aren't particularly heavily weighted voting categories, but there's no one and everyone else in the running, so it should balance out.

It seems, then, that the woman has decided to forgo her purchase of perfume, and she accepts the sample that the artisan insists she take in its stead with a grateful blush, tucking it into the pouch on her belt. Her footsteps take a turn to the left, up the steps and toward the restaurants. Minoth and Addam let out a sigh of simultaneous relief and colossal disappointment. They don't look at each other. They only have eyes for her.

And then, the toes of the boots shine their way back in a half-circle, toward the front gates of the city. In other words, toward Addam and Minoth.

"Titan's foot!" exclaims Addam, in a proper whisper of his own. "She's looking at us!"

All of that, to get here. Addam and Minoth are stood agape in Formide street, in full view of Café Amicus, petrified as the newest object of their affections (and they can't remember ever having had any other but the other member of the group that comprises solely themselves) strides calmly toward them, arms at her sides but their hearts in hand.

Addam, for as much as his brain is even working, is furiously trying to piece together who she must be. She has the diamond patterns on her dress (over her breasts, and those are just as lovely as the rest of her, it appears), the blue eyes and the bangs. She looks just like every other woman in Torna looks, and then again she looks like no one else Addam has seen.

Minoth is trying to remember the shape of his scar, wondering whether he even looks presentable, shuffling the treads of his boots in place to help him stand up straighter - and when's the last time he worried about that? Not since Amalthus, surely, and even for Amalthus he didn't really personally care.

They're nervous, is what they are. The woman's gaze is keen, curious, but impossibly even upon her face. Full cheeks, almost heart-shaped chin, firm brows and tidy plaits.

"Hello."

Finally, she's reached them. Addam tries not to gulp. He can't recall if a single other person has passed them by, if they've been brushed past by reasonably impatient Tornans who just want to be able to walk up the street in peace or if they've been skirted by hushed voices gossiping about what Prince Addam could possibly be doing, here, with such a suspicious-looking man at his side.

When Addam doesn't say anything in answer, she turns her face toward Minoth. He looks back at her, and if he's afraid, he doesn't show it.

"Were you watching me?"

Minoth swallows. Addam can nearly hear the thoughts riffling through his head, not like cards ready to be dealt but like a test of tricks. Oh boy. It'll be some audacious tough-guy line, like "What'll you do to me if I was?" or "I think you already know the answer to that."

But that's not what Minoth says at all. Instead, he replies, "I'm sorry if we unnerved you. We just..." And then he trails off, seemingly sheepish.

"That's fine," the woman allows quietly. She turns back to Addam. "Aren't you Prince Addam?"

"Y-yes." He scratches his hand at the nape of his neck, as if that'll help anything. "And you are?"

Well, he probably has just as much right to ask. "I'm Flora," she says. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my lord."

No curtsey. She simply stands there, completely unbothered by the fact that she's looking up into their faces, rather than across. Come to think of it, they don't even feel like they're looking down. It's as if she commands the presence of a person several feet taller, through some power as yet unknown.

"And this is Minoth," Addam says, rather than address how awkward it is to be referred to as "lord" to his face. Flora nods at Minoth as he's introduced, and Addam has to squint at Minoth to make sure he didn't wink, or some such, because then she smiles. Actually, she seems genuinely pleased.

Sometimes people ask if Minoth is Addam's Blade. Most times, they don't. Flora doesn't, even though she's at eye level with the strange Core Crystal that he bears. She gazes back and forth between the two men, no doubt inspecting their faces for traces of lechery. They had to have some reason for staring, hadn't they? Maybe she's got a hair out of place, a piece of straw stuck in her hair?

She's not asking it aloud, but Addam almost wants to reach out and reassure her, no, you look perfect. You look more than perfect. You look like a princess.

But she couldn't be a princess, because then he'd know who she is. Who is she?

"What do you do, Flora? If you don't mind me asking."

"I'm a schoolteacher in Heblin," she replies. "I work with the youngest children."

"Difficult job," puts in Minoth. "Short attention spans."

"Oh? Do you work with children as well?"

Addam knows that Minoth would never admit to his love of young minds, his passion for sharing a great love of the world with those just in the midst of deciding where it is they're meant to be, or those who haven't even gotten there yet. He's proud to know it himself, of course, but that's a close-to-the-vest special, for the Flesh Eater.

So, then, imagine Addam's surprise when Minoth's answer to the question is, "Ah, sort of. I read them stories, from time to time."

Flora's eyes crinkle. Addam feels as if the whole street has been lit up with an intangible glow, just as bright as Flora's eyes and just as warm as her demeanor. "You'd like this bunch, then. They don't do well with coloring or partner play, but stories have them transfixed. Sometimes I think I'll run out of stories before they run out of the discipline for sitting still to listen."

And that's the other thing that's odd about it. No matter how giving and selfless Addam is, or at least tries to be, especially when it comes to Minoth and his affairs, he'd never imagined that he could be so happy just standing here letting Minoth get all the attention from a girl so beautiful, so graceful, so...dreamy. Yet, unbelievably, this is an absolutely idyllic way to spend a few minutes. A few hours? Perhaps the whole remaining afternoon.

Well. Yes, he'd be disappointed if it turned out that Flora and Minoth wanted to run away together and leave poor Addam behind, but that's a different concept altogether. Really, he's getting ahead of himself - no one said that anyone's running away with anyone, ever! Only, he would like to steal Minoth away, forever. That much he hopes can be certain, guaranteed.

"Sounds like a wonderful career," Minoth pronounces, meantime. "I'm sure you do well with it."

"Well, I do," Flora says, slowly. "Only, I still live with my parents, and I love them, I do, but my mother can be a bit...much."

Addam's fault for being to afraid ever to spend much time in Heblin and run the risk of upsetting Zettar, it appears.

"You'd like to move?" Addam lets himself say, but doesn't let himself dare to believe it. Minoth shoots him a glare softened by his own unreal hope.

"I'd like to know why you were staring," Flora says, pursing her lips pleasantly and evading the question.

"Ah, well, that's- you see, I--"

Minoth jerks a surefire thumb. "Addam's in love."

Oh, Addam rounds on him with sudden decisiveness. "I beg your pardon! You stood in this very spot, and you said 'I see her too.' You did!"

Minoth shrugs, but he does turn slightly toward Addam, and engages the argument. "I didn't say I didn't, Prince. I didn't say I have no feelings on the matter whatsoever. I just said, you're in love."

Flora peers shrewdly between the two of them. Addam shrivels at the thought; there's no earthly way she likes what she hears. All of their hopes, blown in an instant, because Minoth "you're not slick" Castigo thinks himself a smooth talker and a ladies' man.

Once upon a time, he was a man's man. Of that fact, Addam's no longer quite sure.

But Flora interjects, at last. "You were eyeing me up, in other words."

Addam grumbles. "I...won't deny it." Again, Minoth just shrugs.

"But I'm the one who came up and talked to you," she points out. "So, obviously, I'm not completely detached from this scenario."

"Everybody wants something," says Minoth, diplomatically. Addam can't help but agree. There are several things he wants, at the moment. The first is for Minoth, for the love of the Titans, to shut up.

"I want to kiss you. Both of you."

Minoth blinks. Addam doesn't know it, because he's just as dumbstruck.

"And, then, I want whatever it is you started thinking about when you looked at me, because I'm sure it must be interesting."

Swiftly, Minoth recovers enough to add, "Which could be something horrible. You don't know us."

"No," Flora acknowledges. "But he's royalty, and you're chained to his side, virtually. You've one clearheaded plan of action between the two of you, and you share everything else. Including your lady friends. Have I gotten that all right?"

Oh, but it just sounds so good when she says it (excepting the bit about lady friends, plural, even though she's just speaking in the abstract). Minoth and Addam both nod fervently. Because they're not preschool children, they don't allow themselves the minor delight of taking her hands, but they can't exactly make a showing of themselves at the inn, let alone the palace, so it's back to Aletta with them.

Titan ship? Also too obvious. Everyone knows who Addam is, after all, though his own depth of recollection has shown itself to be somewhat lacking.

"Remember what I said about cheaper methods of discretion, Prince?" Minoth laments as they stare at the first few hundred peds of the desert laid out before them. Expedited ground travel is a faraway dream; nature is an absolute ruler, and anyone who wants to get very far just takes to the skies if they haven't got work to do along the way.

Traveling's a big business, isn't it? Not only for laybouts in gray and brown.

"You could treat me to that perfume I was sampling," Flora reminds them, in a most reasonable tone of voice that makes it clear she's not attempting to use them for their deep pockets (remember, one set between the two of them).

Minoth looks over at her, for the first time applying a glimpse of his usual sardonic mood. "Remember, we're rotten, dirty-minded men, and we just want to get you in a bed somewhere, for our own purposes."

"Is he always this ill-behaved?" Flora remarks to Addam, cheerfully slipping her hand into his. What he could have said, indeed, was "But we want to kiss you now," and then Flora would have replied, "So kiss me."

It's not the same as with just the two of them, Addam and Minoth together. Flora, all in the span of a surreal half an hour, has made them long for luxurious creature comforts: king-sized beds and plush pillows and low-burning lamps and hot water and the presence of mind to offer chivalry, infinite special treatment the likes of which any merely handsome man could only dream, if he even did want it.

"We want to take you home," Addam says honestly. "That's what we were thinking when we looked at you. It's what we thought the moment we saw you."

"He didn't ask me, but he's right," Minoth confirms. "You know, two men of the same mind and all that."

Flora's cheeks flush, but she doesn't balk. She holds firm with her eye contact, keeps Addam's hand gripped tight but tender in hers. Some craftiness floats into her gaze as she considers Minoth, roves her eyes over his scar and the way he holds himself away from the two of them.

"You're thinking of how I would be the Lady of Aletta, if you courted me. Is that right?"

A question for Minoth, not Addam. Minoth lids his eyes, nods. Addam watches him.

"Because you're a Blade," she continues, "so you think you're not a real person. You think you're nothing more than his backup dancer."

She's mounting an investigation into their psyches, on the spot, in the sand. As if their recently-announced intentions toward her physical safety mean nothing!

"She's smarter than both of us combined," Minoth says to Addam, over Flora's head. His arms are crossed and his chest cants forward, his head held back. Just the smallest dosage of candor, and they're ready to formalize a marriage. It's crazy talk for crazy people, and the bachelor lord who isn't one anymore seems ready to commit himself in quite a few ways.

Minoth's committed right there with him, though. Always has been. Always will be.

"I can defend myself in the desert, you know," Flora adds, for their consideration. From her pouch, she produces a slim piece of metal that, with a fluid motion from her wrist, doubles in length: a switchblade with notches on one side of the dual blade. Based on the position of the pouch, Minoth gathers that she's left-handed, but she hasn't let go of Addam's hand for her demonstration, so his theory remains simply that.

Addam quirks a brow, seeing it all fall together (as the three of them hopefully will, very soon). "In other words, we'll court you the same way Minoth and I did - with weapons in hand?"

Flora nods, eyes and nose scrunched, cheeks prim. In the back of his mind, Minoth readies the patter that will precede him handing off to her his own knives (which, at this moment, she doesn't exactly know he has; the holsters, he assumes that she assumes, are for guns of a lower profile variety than what he actually uses, taking into account the hover of the bullets).

"You know," Minoth begins his observation when they get a few Antols deep and he's discovered that Flora can match him, break for break, and smash Addam's launched targets with definitive ease, "I think I'm starting to understand why your youngins like stories so much."

"Oh?" Flora brushes stray strands of her bangs from her eyes, puffs out a breath around another pesky piece of hair. Just there, she turns on heel and stabs into the next encroaching prickly threat. Addam, too, looks on for further comment, even as he readies his sword. Good thing they all travel armed, eh?

Minoth grins, glances out of the corner of his eye at these two lovely individuals he's so lucky to have as his ever-devoted company. (See, battle'll do that, for a Blade, especially one searching so intensely for an anchor point.) "I'm here in the midst of a glorious tale being told, and all I want is to get to the good part."

Minoth lets that declaration linger in the air, waiting for the Antol to keel already.

Neither of them have kissed her yet. It's part of the chivalry as much as it's part of the trepidation.

As soon as the ugly bug goes belly up, Minoth tosses his guns to Addam, who catches them on instinct even if he is properly confused, points his toes to spin his heels, and sweeps Flora off her feet and into his arms. It's a kiss so deep it has to be a dip.

Now Addam's mouth really does fall all the way open. But he catches himself, eventually, and feels his heart bursting up into his throat as he looks on. A victory for one is a victory for them both - how many times must it be said?

When Minoth releases Flora from the kiss, still holding her low and sweet as he gazes into her eyes, her chest is heaving. A few breaths, just as deep as the dip, and then she's ready to reply.

"I suppose I want to get to the good part too. In fact, I don't suppose. I know."

Minoth shoots a wicked look at Addam, winks. Oh, she wants us bad. Once again, feeling's mutual.

Got to be a tale for another time, though. Minoth reluctantly, so reluctantly, sets Flora back on her feet again, resisting the temptation to wrap his arms around her and curl her in to his chest. Fair's fair - if Addam wants to curry favor, it's his time, now. No begging, though, my prince. Kept it classy, will you?

For his part, Addam doesn't feel that the time is yet right. He'll get there, somehow, maybe by the time they breach Hyber. And there's an inn there, after all, much more discreet than what's available in the capital itself. Three cheers for country living, eh?

He looks to his right. Minoth is there, and he looks to his left, except that he also looks down, and there, between them, is Flora - all for their, and her, very own.