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“Thanks, Ferreol!”
The sound of the voice drifting from the lobby prompts Beatin to lift his head, and his heart is similarly buoyed even before the slight figure in green flannel appears in the doorway to the workshop. Sylvien has been gone somewhat longer than usual, and though Beatin had been deeply engrossed in a new project when he departed, the grip of inspiration has since faded, leaving him feeling just slightly bereft as Sylvien’s absence stretched to nearly a moon. While Beatin certainly understood that it was best to make the most of the long trip to La Noscea, he cannot deny that he is glad to have Sylvien back.
“A successful trip?” Beatin inquires as Sylvien hops up the stairs to meet him. Sylvien’s smile widens, and his eyes glint with satisfaction as he leans up to catch a quick kiss.
“Enough mahogany to last us through the next few moons, a shipment of palm fresh from Thavnair, and…” He places a small, paperboard box down on Beatin’s workbench with a metallic clink and something of a flourish, stepping back with an expectant air.
Adjusting his glasses, Beatin peers at the box, which, while not bearing the stamp of Naldiq and Vymelli’s, is otherwise identical to those they receive in regular shipments from the guild.
“I thought I detected the stench of the forge about you,” he says with a sideways glance. “Should I feel betrayed?”
“I knew you would be like this,” Sylvien retorts with a pout. “It helps you, too, if I can make my own nails and hinges.”
“It does, though I wonder if the Lominsan guild will have aught to say about the effect such practices may have on their sales…”
“Exactly. So it isn’t you who should feel betrayed.” He pauses, crossing his arms with a slight frown. “And it isn’t my fault that Brithael kept flirting with me.”
“…what?”
“Well, maybe he wasn’t. Things are so different in Limsa, you know? People always asking you to drink the night away in a tavern and they don’t even mean anything by it.”
“Sylv—”
“But one guildmaster in my bed is enough, I daresay,” he adds breezily, with a knowing smile tossed in Beatin’s direction. “One must keep these things professional, you know.”
Professional, indeed. “While you stole all their secrets to wean us from our dependence on expensive imports,” Beatin confirms, relieved, despite himself. Sylvien has taken other lovers—with that he takes no issue—but when it comes to his counterparts at other guilds, there is something—
“Well—yes,” Sylvien admits, and Beatin draws his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Except, all that hammering is tiring, in the end, and the forge is so hot—and smelly, and metal is nothing like wood, so I fear it won’t be quite as successful a scheme as I’d hoped.” He shrugs. “Good to know in a pinch, at least.”
“Quite,” Beatin chuckles. “We have lasted this long, so I am certain we shall manage.”
“Mm.” Despite his agreement, Sylvien yet looks a little crestfallen. His eyes dart to the box on the workbench. “Perhaps you should save those for something special, then. Since I won’t be making that many more.”
Beatin taps the box open and plucks a nail out to inspect it. “What would you suggest?”
The nail he holds in his fingers is not quite straight—he sees Sylvien notice just as he is about to speak. Snatching it from Beatin’s grasp, he goes rummaging in the box for another, scowling all the while.
“They’re not all like that,” he grumbles, pressing a straighter specimen into Beatin’s hands.
Beatin just smiles mildly—and decides against remarking that the new one is not especially sharp. “To be quite honest, I am a little relieved to think that you do not have a hidden talent for metalworking—or a passion that might grow into one.”
Sylvien’s gaze slides slyly over to him. “So you just want me all to yourself?”
Such remarks cannot faze him now as they once did. “And if I said I did…?” he wonders.
“Hmm…” Sylvien makes a show of thinking. “Geva is quite mean to me, so you needn’t worry there.”
Beatin stifles a snort.
“Armorcraft is just as bad as smithing, I’m sure. What do they have in Ul’dah, again?”
“Alchemy, goldsmithing, and weaving.”
“I’d like to try goldsmithing. It seems less…taxing. And it might elevate my more decorative pieces.”
“Indeed. You and Serendipity would get on well, I imagine.”
“I’d rather gather the ingredients for alchemical concoctions than make them myself, since I know I’m already good at that part.”
“For all that Severian is a dear friend, I do feel that is for the best.”
“And I’m not sure about…textiles. It could be fun as a hobby, but I don’t think I’d be able to make clothes.”
“Yes, I share a similar lack of confidence. Mending is one thing, but fashion is an art unto itself.”
Sylvien nods. “Is that it?”
“Ishgard claims long traditions of stonemasonry and glassmaking, though one must needs get there, first.”
“Cold…” Sylvien mutters, with a slight shiver.
“Indeed. And Limsa is home to the Culinarian’s Guild, but I already know you cannot cook.”
Sylvien’s head snaps up. “Wh—can you?”
“I have a handful of staple recipes,” Beatin sniffs defensively. “I have made you breakfast many a time.”
“That…barely counts,” Sylvien asserts, and Beatin arches an eyebrow at the dismissive assessment. Sylvien retreats, slightly: “Well. It's just toast, isn't it? With things on it. But how do you know I can’t?”
“Forgive the assumption, child, but if memory serves, you have neither stove nor hearth.”
Sylvien slumps. “Well, that’s true.”
“There is nothing wrong with being adapted to a more…foraging-focused diet.”
“If I had a stove…”
“You are always welcome to my kitchen.”
Bluff called, Sylvien narrows his eyes. “…it just seems like a hassle,” he says eventually.
“So I daresay no hidden passion will arise there, either, though it certainly would not hurt to try.”
“Maybe…eventually. That won’t much help my carpentry at all, though.”
“Not nearly as directly, no.” Beatin plucks another nail from the box and holds it up to his glasses. “Ah—this one, too—”
“Alright, don’t use them, then,” Sylvien gripes, taking the box back before Beatin can inspect any more. “Is there something you do want me to work on?”
“Sylvien.”
Still scowling, Sylvien spares him the briefest glance. “Yes?”
“Welcome home. You were missed.”
Pout deepening, Sylvien narrows his eyes. “You always say it like that.”
Beatin blinks. “We all missed you, and I most of all. I wondered how long sunny La Noscea would keep you away, especially at this time of year, with winter's chill lingering in the Shroud.”
Sylvien lights up in an instant with a remembered thought. “We should go back to Costa del Sol in the summer. It’s more fun with company.”
“Perhaps we should invite Brithael,” Beatin suggests, adjusting his glasses.
“Oh, don’t start,” Sylvien laughs, knocking their shoulders together. “I promise I have no desire to become the ore—or some such.”
Beatin’s eyes meet his around the side of his glasses. “So well do you embody the virtues of wood that I believe I would be somewhat alarmed if you could alter your nature so easily.”
It would not, to most people, be considered a standard compliment; he is immensely lucky that Sylvien never fails to take it as one. And even now, he brightens about it, shimmering like freshly sanded birch. Suddenly, Beatin wants to kiss him again, though he refrains for now—whether or not their fellow carpenters would mind overmuch, there will be more time later to show Sylvien just how much he missed him.
Sylvien chuckles, a sparkle in his eye that seems to imply he knows just what Beatin is thinking, anyway.
“Other bedmates are one thing,” he says in a low voice, audible only to Beatin beneath the sounds of the workshop, “but I trust no other craftsman. Don’t you worry.”
Inspiration, flagging these few days past, seems to strike anew, and it is all Beatin can do now not to reach for him, taking refuge behind his glasses in a way that has done naught to hide him from Sylvien’s comprehension in moons. Sure enough, Sylvien smirks, dark eyes seeing straight through him, and turns with sudden workmanlike energy towards Beatin’s bench, glancing around with a searching gaze.
“Did you finish those screens for the Sanctum? I was thinking about it on the ship, and I’m wondering what you came up with…”
“Ah—yes. The first is out back now while the glue dries. You may recall that I was puzzling over how precisely to balance the natural and geometric elements, but I am rather pleased with how I made use of the growth formula, in the end…”
Sylvien glows now with naught but eager interest, and if anything, Beatin only feels more strongly the impulse to pull him close. He settles for leading him outside to where the screen rests on sawhorses behind the building, drinking in his delighted exclamations of approval like a leaf angling to catch the sun. Beatin may be the Timbermaster, the foremost authority on wood in all Gridania, but Sylvien has grown to display keen judgement in his own right, and while Beatin could certainly still function without his perspective, he is not sure why he would wish to.
“It’s lovely,” Sylvien is saying, trailing his fingers over the delicate latticework that had so engrossed Beatin for the first fortnight of his absence. Sparing application of growth formula had lent the thin strips of wood a natural look, like a fine network of vines which then blends seamlessly into the more solid frame at the top of the piece. Carefully carved leaves augment the illusion, and though yet to be added, there are openings for panes of colored glass, green and gold, to complete the effect.
“I was thinking of just the same technique on the ship,” Sylvien goes on, “and the way it might…start to seem overgrown, if not done well. But the balance is perfect. You can already see how it will dapple the light.”
The screens have been requested for a new chapel in the Sanctum of the Twelve which is meant to evoke the natural beauty of the surrounding forest. Sylvien continues to circle the piece, inspecting it here and there with light fingers and his quick, intent eyes, providing a running commentary of his thoughts as he goes. Beatin files away a few remarks for improvements that his own intense focus had blinded him to in recent days, and at length, Sylvien looks up.
“And how many of them will we need…?”
It is the dreaded question, and Beatin cannot help but deflate slightly, for this is a good part of why his motivation has suffered in the last week. “…six. Admittedly, I may have gotten carried away with the details.”
“Well, you certainly can’t spare me for other sorts of crafting now,” Sylvien laughs. “Have we enough growth formula? You will have to show me how you did that bit, and then we can get started.”
“Yes, of course. But first…”
Catching Sylvien on the stair leading back to the workshop, he pulls him properly into his arms, the embrace quickly turning to a kiss. Sylvien twines against him just like the reaching tendrils of wood in the latticework he had just admired, though soon he finds himself providing more structural support as Beatin breaks the kiss and succumbs to the desire to lean on him more heavily, prompting Sylvien to huff a quiet laugh against his shoulder.
“Whatever did you do without me,” Sylvien wonders, though the sing-song note in his voice grants the question the flavor of a jest. In protest, Beatin squeezes him a little more tightly.
“I do wonder sometimes,” he replies quite seriously. “Pray know you have my full support in other pursuits, but—”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll always come back,” Sylvien interrupts him, before he can think of a suitable conclusion to his sentence, one that is not too hopelessly demanding. “You should know I won’t be uprooted quite that easily. But”—his voice grows uncharacteristically stern, and he steps suddenly out of Beatin’s embrace, holding him at arm’s length with a penetrating glare—“you know, you were quite convincing about your cooking before, but have you been eating?”
Beatin stares at him, briefly uncomprehending, then, upon consideration, begins to grimace. “Ah…”
Sylvien exhales. “I told Hartford—oh, never mind. Come on.” His hand slips down to grasp Beatin’s, tugging him not towards the workshop, but around the side of the building, grumbling indistinctly as he goes.
“Maybe the Culinarians’ Guild would have been a better use of time, after all,” Beatin hears, and nearly trips on the stairs as Sylvien hauls him around the front of the Atrium and past the water wheel. Sylvien grips his hand more tightly as he steadies himself, and Beatin stares after him with faint bewilderment, a strangely warm feeling rising in his chest at the thought of Sylvien coming back with a freshly made box of sun lemon scones upon his next return from Limsa...or perhaps those fish pies that had been the specialty of a ship's cook he had once known, if they would keep, or a hearty popoto stew with leeks and—
Then his stomach rumbles very audibly, and Sylvien twists about to cast him an intensely exasperated look that Beatin has not known him capable of. Beatin returns what he hopes is a suitably contrite expression, and he lifts their joined hands to kiss Sylvien’s knuckles, which overrides his accusatory glower with a faint blush.
“I worry too, you know,” Sylvien says, nearly as quietly as before, as he turns back around and continues to stalk resolutely towards the Carline Canopy with Beatin in tow. “What am I meant to do if I come back and find you’ve really withered away on me? I might”—he pauses with some significance, and his glare gives way to a knowing pout—“have to replace you with another guildmaster.”
Beatin, beginning to wonder if he should point out the probable eventuality of the anxiety in question, stops and gazes at him a moment, nonplussed, then droops with a sigh. “...I begin to regret my remark."
Sylvien smirks. “And I begin to wonder: have you some secret rivalry after all?”
“Certainly not. You only surprised me. As I am certain,” he adds, tugging Sylvien a little closer, “you intended to do.”
“Heh.”
They have arrived at the Canopy, so Sylvien drops his hand as they find their way to a table. But as hungry as Beatin is, it is a distracted meal—after nearly a week of idleness, his fingers itch for work again, and with such suitable materials before him, his mind wanders to how he might best make use of them.
There are things only wood can do. Sylvien should know, but mastery demands repetition, as Beatin is ever happy to demonstrate.