Work Text:
Sometimes, when an inn was on the cheaper or emptier side, they could afford to split themselves into two or three rooms, kicking back and enjoying the extra space. Tonight, though, was not such a night; their entire entourage was all sharing the same communal room.
That was probably why Zidane had felt it. The prickle at the back of his neck, something in the air too quiet, an unknown tension aimed in his direction. It was a sense that was more subconscious than anything, ingrained into him from years of…well. Making himself unseen, so to speak.
There was someone looking at him.
…It could only really have been that one person watching him. And, well, since it could only have been that one person, it could only be for one reason that he was being watched.
Zidane stayed in his bed for a moment longer, considering his options, before coming to a decision.
Ah, fine. Let's get it over with.
He got up, quietly, stretching the drowsiness out of his bones.
He found his eyes trailing over to Garnet, at the piece of hair that was stuck to the corner of her mouth where she'd probably drooled a bit in her sleep.
Cute. She was often either just a little too on the side of uptight (which was also cute in its own way) or had a bit of a melancholy in her eyes (which was not), so seeing her ruffled and relaxed was a nice change of pace.
Careful not to wake her, Zidane walked over and brushed her hair back, out of her face. His eyes lingered on the shine at the corner of her lip, also begging to be wiped away, and his hand hesitated for a moment.
He dragged his eyes away, his hand reluctantly following.
Back to business.
Zidane walked back over to his bed, put on his shoes—taking extra care in making sure they fit snugly—and then made a show of picking up his daggers, twirling them a few times before sheathing them at his sides. Stretching again, barely holding himself back from jumping around a little to warm up, he turned and walked out the door of their sleeping quarters.
Walking past the unmanned reception desk, Zidane stepped outside. The darkness that had fallen over the town was not a new sight, as it'd already been twilight when they had turned in for the night, but the clouds of the evening had cleared up sometime within the last few hours; he couldn't help but stand around for a moment, gazing at the stars that had shown themselves. The air was cool on his skin, but not uncomfortable.
All-in-all, a pretty good night, for a tussle.
He spotted the set of stairs to the side of the inn building that he'd been curious about since they had arrived. Climbing up, he got his answer: they led to a small park. Well, clearing was a better description; it was just an empty little grassy patch of ground with a single, mossy bench to one side.
Forgoing the bench, Zidane walked toward the other side of the clearing. The park was walled by a fenced-off steep drop overlooking the small town they had shacked up in. He reached the fence, and leaned against it—also mossy, the green under his arms a little soft.
It was far enough from the inn that the sleeping group wouldn't be woken (should things get loud), and the view wasn't half bad. The stage was set; all that was left was for him to wait for its antagonist.
Zidane dropped his chin down on his crossed arms, resting his weight on the fence.
He liked being around others. His entire life (that he could remember, anyway) he'd had people around him, whether the troupe, or other friends he'd made along the way. But that didn't mean he didn't like the quiet. The calming silence of solitude was nice sometimes, if it was just for a short while. And, if he was right, it would only be a short while before he had company.
Bingo. Sure enough, he felt that gaze on him again.
Zidane straightened up, but let himself take one more quick glance over the night-covered scenery before turning around. He tilted his head up to aim his gaze in the general direction of where eyes would be, hidden by hair as they always were.
Amarant didn't move from he was standing, a few paces behind Zidane, simply looking down at him from over his crossed arms.
…Crossed arms, Zidane noted, that weren't concealing claws of any kind. Well, not the literal "weapon" kind, at least. Zidane's eyebrows raised slightly. He looked back up at Amarant's face.
"I didn't come to fight," came Amarant's annoyed reply to the question Zidane hadn't even started asking.
A beat passed. Two. Zidane only stayed silent, waiting for the "Gotcha!" and subsequent surprise attack.
…Not that Amarant would do something like that, but the words were so unbelievable that, for the moment, all Zidane could do was wait for the rug pull. His disbelief was clearly obvious to Amarant, as the man's mouth curled into an even deeper scowl, tongue-click and head-tilt-implying-eye-roll following, as if he could hear exactly what Zidane had been thinking.
Zidane forced his look of confusion into a sheepish grin as he toyed with one of his daggers, sheathed and ready at his right hip. Hearing an annoyed sigh from Amarant, Zidane threw his hands up and turned away from the man. He crossed his arms back over the stone wall. Amarant wasn't here to fight, but he was here. All Zidane could do was wait to find out why.
…Well, he could wait, or he could try to provoke the guy into talking. Zidane definitely had a preferred route in mind.
"Then don't let me distract you from whatever it was you came here to do. The night is young, right?" Zidane didn't turn as he talked, just waving a hand in Amarant's direction. "I think the rest of that saying could still apply to you."
The next annoyed sound that followed was more a scoff than a sigh, this time—the quiet of the night made the differences between the two clearer than usual. The quiet also made other sounds audible, where they usually wouldn't be, even to Zidane's sensitive ears: the brush of fabric as Amarant uncrossed his arms, the light crunch of gravel under his feet as he paced to stand at the fence to Zidane's side. The scraping of that very gravel as Amarant spun on one foot to lean his waist against the fence—his back to the view, of course.
Zidane hid his quick huff of laughter by leaning to bury his mouth in his crossed arms, eyes still on the town. He watched a window dim as another night-owl's candle was put out, and he realised that he hadn't even tensed for an attack from behind, even having turned to expose his back without thinking.
Maybe the night was too calm. Or maybe it was something in the strangely quiet atmosphere around Amarant. Well, "quiet" in a way that wasn't the usual leave-me-alone kind.
"...I don't understand you."
The tone of Amarant's voice was not anything that Zidane could ever remember hearing from the guy, usual annoyance replaced with something like frustration.
He moved to reply, but Amarant continued speaking. "Even if I fight you again and again, I will probably never understand you."
Zidane felt an eyebrow raise before he could catch it. Now those words he had heard before. Though, again, not quite with that voice. They sounded more contemplative than they usually were, but the sentiment was that same one that Amarant had shared, time and time again.
At first, Zidane had thought of the statement as an insult—not that he'd ever taken offence to anything Amarant had said, finding him more entertaining than anything—carrying some meaning like You're beyond comprehension or What is wrong with you, but the more they had interacted, whether fighting together or having one-sided conversations, it really started to seem like Amarant actually meant them.
Especially now, in the quiet, still air of the night. Zidane couldn't just shake Amarant off, when the man seemed to be speaking so sincerely.
"I think…" Zidane thought about how to phrase his thoughts, for a moment, before deciding to just let his words come as they would.
If he already wasn't "understood", what would it hurt?
"...I think most people feel that way." Zidane lifted his chin off of his arms as he spoke. "Even those you fight together with, or care about…there will always be things you don't understand. Motivations or reasons that seem weird to you. Maybe spending time with people is all about trying your best to learn about them anyway. Even if you'll never really fully figure anyone out."
There was no reaction from Amarant at his side, but Zidane knew he'd heard the words. If anything, the silence was a bigger sign that they had sunk in. No dismissive noises or sighs.
To put it into words Amarant would really understand, though… "I mean, I don't know what tree the handles of my daggers are carved from, but I still used them to kick your butt, didn't I?"
Amarant didn't take the bait—the guy may as well have been asleep for all the reaction he gave the words. It was honestly beginning to weird Zidane out, a little. Though, that feeling was far outweighed by the satisfaction of seemingly finally getting something through Amarant's thick skull.
"...So, looks like you'll have to stick around longer to keep trying," Zidane added on when the silence stretched a few moments longer, trying to save Amarant a headache from overworking his brain. Zidane was just a hero like that.
"We'll see about that," finally came Amarant's reply, after a beat.
Zidane let the teasing lilt to his voice grow. "Not hearing a denial."
"Hear what you wanna hear."
Zidane hummed, and turned to face Amarant. Amarant, probably more out of habit than anything, too used to staying on guard around others, also straightened his back and looked back down at him.
Zidane's fist landed on Amarant's chest with a soft thump.
"What I'm hearing is that you're part of the team now."
A moment passed in which neither of them moved. Zidane thought he could see the shape of an eye through the thick curtain of Amarant's hair.
"...I guess I am."
It was not the reply Zidane had been expecting—not any reply Zidane would have ever expected, coming from the man. But maybe, more than anything, it showed how much he himself had left to learn about his friends. Comrades. Teammates. Whatever Amarant was.
Before Amarant could make a move, Zidane beat him to it – he pulled his fist away, redoubled back, and gently punched Amarant in the chest. Maybe not quite "gently"—the punch was a little on the side of too-hard, just to annoy the guy a bit. "Welcome aboard, then."
Amarant shoved Zidane's hand away—a little too subdued to be truly irritated, and a little too rough to be just playful—and crossed his arms in the same motion, looking down at Zidane through his hair. His mouth was still set in that ever-there unimpressed line, but maybe his lips had twitched up a little. Zidane didn't mention it.
He did, however, cross his own arms dramatically, a mirror to the pose in front of him. "Last chance to back out."
Amarant only huffed and finally turned away, taking up his vigil at the fence once more. "Get out of here before I feel up for that rematch."
Zidane grinned, and turned without reply.
He made his way across the clearing, toward the stairs. Reaching them, Zidane glanced back. Under the dim light of the stars, he could make out Amarant leaning against the fence, looking out at the view.
…And for the first time, Zidane thought, it didn't entirely look like he was brooding.