Fanfiction: Close Contact (Metaphor: ReFantazio, Strohl/protagonist)
'Riona, relatively speaking, you're still extremely early in this game. You cannot start writing fanfiction already. You have no idea what you're doing.'
True! And yet here I am. I really want to get to grips with these characters, and writing fanfiction seems like the best way to do it!
I originally called the protagonist Kai (the name he has in my playthrough) while writing this, but, on learning his default name is Will, I've gone with that instead, just because it seems likely to be more comfortable for readers. Fortunately, very few English words contain the letter sequence 'kai'; you can find-and-replace the name Kai much more easily than the name, say, Mark, without the concern that you might accidentally change 'remarked' into 'reWilled'.
Title: Close Contact
Fandom: Metaphor: ReFantazio
Rating: G
Pairing: Strohl/protagonist (implied)
Wordcount: 1,000
Summary: “Will?” Strohl asks. “Room in the tub for two. Do you fancy a wash?”
Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical fantasy racism. No real spoilers, but this fic will make more sense if you've reached the point at which you obtain the gauntlet runner.
“Glad that’s over and done with,” Strohl says, through a sigh, once they’re safely back in the strategy room. “I realise there wouldn’t be a bounty if it were easy, but... well, that was a challenge.”
“Welcome back, you lot!” Neuras’s voice calls through the communicator. “Thought you might appreciate a bath. There’s one run and ready for you.”
“Neuras,” Strohl says, “you are a marvel.”
He feels so filthy, after a day spent fighting dubious creatures of all sorts, that he hesitates even to sit down. For all their newfound magical powers, Strohl still favours the sword; it’s what he’s most confident in, it’s what he’s used to. It is, unfortunately, a messy weapon, and it’s rare to return from a bounty hunt without blood spattering his wrists, his sleeves, his face.
Will and Hulkenberg have been focusing more on magic lately; they’re looking a little more presentable. Still, there’s no escaping the sweat, the exhaustion. They could probably all do with a bath.
“Will?” Strohl asks. “Room in the tub for two. Do you fancy a wash?”
“With you?” Will asks.
Strohl shrugs. “Why not? Saves water, saves time. Means we won’t all have to queue outside the washroom; I’m sure Hulkenberg would appreciate the reduced wait.”
“You assume you’ll be bathing first, I notice,” Hulkenberg comments.
Strohl’s a little thrown by that, a little embarrassed. It’s true; he’d assumed he’d be first in the washroom. The entitled attitude of a young noble, he supposes. It can be a hard thing to shake, even with his house fallen. “Would you prefer...?”
Hulkenberg shakes her head. “Go ahead. I suppose it’s more efficient for you to go first, if you’re both washing.”
“And are we both washing?” Strohl asks, his focus back on Will. “Please say yes; I could do with the excuse to bathe first.”
Will laughs a little. “Well, in that case, why not?”
“Excellent,” Strohl says, with a smile. He begins to untie his cravat, but his hand is stayed when Hulkenberg clears her throat, loudly and pointedly.
Ah, yes. Hulkenberg. She wasn’t thrilled when Strohl first attempted to use the washroom, either; it had slipped his mind.
Undressing before entering the washroom is a matter of practicality, as far as Strohl’s concerned; it protects one’s clothes from the humidity. There’s nothing salacious about it. It would seem that some people see it differently.
“Hulkenberg?” Strohl asks. “Are you asking to join us, or is this part of your campaign against nudity?”
“I am not fighting a campaign against nudity,” Hulkenberg says, crisply. “Nudity has its place, and that place is behind closed doors. If you intend to bathe, strip, by all means, but strip once you’re in the washroom; don’t do it out here in front of the entire gauntlet runner.”
“I doubt anything under my clothes would surprise you,” Strohl remarks. “Clemar and roussainte can’t be that different.”
“All the same, I’d appreciate it if you kept your garments on in my presence.”
“Sounds to me like Hulkenberg won’t be bathing with us,” Strohl says, turning to Will. “Shall we enter the washroom, then, to spare her eyes?”
-
Strohl fairly tears his clothes off the moment he’s through the door. Settles into the tub with a long, appreciative sigh, letting his eyes slip closed. Hot water is still a novelty in their life aboard the runner, and it’s one he intends not to take for granted.
A moment later, he opens his eyes, hearing the rustle of Will undressing in turn.
Clemar and roussainte can’t be that different, Strohl had said. One would think the same might go for the elda. But, in truth, he’s a little curious to see Will beneath his clothes.
From the stories, from the attitudes of the people, the elda are something so much lesser than the clemar. It’s a stupid division to hold; even from their brief acquaintance, it’s clear that Will is no less a person than anyone Strohl’s met, and more of a man than most.
And yet a part of Strohl is still half-expecting something wholly alien beneath Will’s garments, something entirely unclemar, like some sort of horrific human. It seems absurd that everyone would speak like that about a tribe of people like any other.
Will lacks the spinal ridge of a clemar; it makes his bare back look all the barer. He’s perhaps a little less endowed than Strohl; hard to know if that’s a mark of his tribe or just a difference between them as individuals. But there’s nothing else to mark him as different, as lesser somehow.
“Strohl?” Will asks, hesitantly.
Ah. Strohl was staring; of course it was going to make Will uncomfortable. “Forgive me. I’ve never seen an elda disrobed before. I suppose I was curious.”
“I don’t look that different from you,” Will points out, sounding a little nettled.
Strohl laughs at that. “You don’t, do you? Hard to understand why we face such different treatment.”
Will tests the water with his hand, then climbs in; Strohl shifts his legs to make room for him.
They’re... very close, like this. The tub has room for two, but barely. From this distance, it’s hard not to get caught up in the strange duality of Will’s eyes: one gold, one blue.
Strohl’s shin is against Will’s side; there’s no way to sit that wouldn’t have the two of them pressing against each other. Will’s skin feels like anyone else’s; he’s as warm and alive as a person of any other tribe. Strohl’s ashamed, suddenly, of being so curious to see how the elda differed.
“I’m sorry,” Strohl says, quietly. “I wish the world saw you...” The way I do, he wants to say; it dies on his tongue. He still has things to learn himself, he supposes. “I wish the world saw you as you are.”
“It’s fine,” Will says. “We’ll change it.”
There’s something so compelling about Will’s determination, his quiet confidence in his impossible goal. “That we shall. I’ll be by your side until we manage it.”
An impossible goal. I’ll be by your side forever, Strohl might as well say; it hits him as he’s speaking. But, if that’s what it takes, then that’s where he’ll be.
True! And yet here I am. I really want to get to grips with these characters, and writing fanfiction seems like the best way to do it!
I originally called the protagonist Kai (the name he has in my playthrough) while writing this, but, on learning his default name is Will, I've gone with that instead, just because it seems likely to be more comfortable for readers. Fortunately, very few English words contain the letter sequence 'kai'; you can find-and-replace the name Kai much more easily than the name, say, Mark, without the concern that you might accidentally change 'remarked' into 'reWilled'.
Title: Close Contact
Fandom: Metaphor: ReFantazio
Rating: G
Pairing: Strohl/protagonist (implied)
Wordcount: 1,000
Summary: “Will?” Strohl asks. “Room in the tub for two. Do you fancy a wash?”
Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical fantasy racism. No real spoilers, but this fic will make more sense if you've reached the point at which you obtain the gauntlet runner.
“Glad that’s over and done with,” Strohl says, through a sigh, once they’re safely back in the strategy room. “I realise there wouldn’t be a bounty if it were easy, but... well, that was a challenge.”
“Welcome back, you lot!” Neuras’s voice calls through the communicator. “Thought you might appreciate a bath. There’s one run and ready for you.”
“Neuras,” Strohl says, “you are a marvel.”
He feels so filthy, after a day spent fighting dubious creatures of all sorts, that he hesitates even to sit down. For all their newfound magical powers, Strohl still favours the sword; it’s what he’s most confident in, it’s what he’s used to. It is, unfortunately, a messy weapon, and it’s rare to return from a bounty hunt without blood spattering his wrists, his sleeves, his face.
Will and Hulkenberg have been focusing more on magic lately; they’re looking a little more presentable. Still, there’s no escaping the sweat, the exhaustion. They could probably all do with a bath.
“Will?” Strohl asks. “Room in the tub for two. Do you fancy a wash?”
“With you?” Will asks.
Strohl shrugs. “Why not? Saves water, saves time. Means we won’t all have to queue outside the washroom; I’m sure Hulkenberg would appreciate the reduced wait.”
“You assume you’ll be bathing first, I notice,” Hulkenberg comments.
Strohl’s a little thrown by that, a little embarrassed. It’s true; he’d assumed he’d be first in the washroom. The entitled attitude of a young noble, he supposes. It can be a hard thing to shake, even with his house fallen. “Would you prefer...?”
Hulkenberg shakes her head. “Go ahead. I suppose it’s more efficient for you to go first, if you’re both washing.”
“And are we both washing?” Strohl asks, his focus back on Will. “Please say yes; I could do with the excuse to bathe first.”
Will laughs a little. “Well, in that case, why not?”
“Excellent,” Strohl says, with a smile. He begins to untie his cravat, but his hand is stayed when Hulkenberg clears her throat, loudly and pointedly.
Ah, yes. Hulkenberg. She wasn’t thrilled when Strohl first attempted to use the washroom, either; it had slipped his mind.
Undressing before entering the washroom is a matter of practicality, as far as Strohl’s concerned; it protects one’s clothes from the humidity. There’s nothing salacious about it. It would seem that some people see it differently.
“Hulkenberg?” Strohl asks. “Are you asking to join us, or is this part of your campaign against nudity?”
“I am not fighting a campaign against nudity,” Hulkenberg says, crisply. “Nudity has its place, and that place is behind closed doors. If you intend to bathe, strip, by all means, but strip once you’re in the washroom; don’t do it out here in front of the entire gauntlet runner.”
“I doubt anything under my clothes would surprise you,” Strohl remarks. “Clemar and roussainte can’t be that different.”
“All the same, I’d appreciate it if you kept your garments on in my presence.”
“Sounds to me like Hulkenberg won’t be bathing with us,” Strohl says, turning to Will. “Shall we enter the washroom, then, to spare her eyes?”
-
Strohl fairly tears his clothes off the moment he’s through the door. Settles into the tub with a long, appreciative sigh, letting his eyes slip closed. Hot water is still a novelty in their life aboard the runner, and it’s one he intends not to take for granted.
A moment later, he opens his eyes, hearing the rustle of Will undressing in turn.
Clemar and roussainte can’t be that different, Strohl had said. One would think the same might go for the elda. But, in truth, he’s a little curious to see Will beneath his clothes.
From the stories, from the attitudes of the people, the elda are something so much lesser than the clemar. It’s a stupid division to hold; even from their brief acquaintance, it’s clear that Will is no less a person than anyone Strohl’s met, and more of a man than most.
And yet a part of Strohl is still half-expecting something wholly alien beneath Will’s garments, something entirely unclemar, like some sort of horrific human. It seems absurd that everyone would speak like that about a tribe of people like any other.
Will lacks the spinal ridge of a clemar; it makes his bare back look all the barer. He’s perhaps a little less endowed than Strohl; hard to know if that’s a mark of his tribe or just a difference between them as individuals. But there’s nothing else to mark him as different, as lesser somehow.
“Strohl?” Will asks, hesitantly.
Ah. Strohl was staring; of course it was going to make Will uncomfortable. “Forgive me. I’ve never seen an elda disrobed before. I suppose I was curious.”
“I don’t look that different from you,” Will points out, sounding a little nettled.
Strohl laughs at that. “You don’t, do you? Hard to understand why we face such different treatment.”
Will tests the water with his hand, then climbs in; Strohl shifts his legs to make room for him.
They’re... very close, like this. The tub has room for two, but barely. From this distance, it’s hard not to get caught up in the strange duality of Will’s eyes: one gold, one blue.
Strohl’s shin is against Will’s side; there’s no way to sit that wouldn’t have the two of them pressing against each other. Will’s skin feels like anyone else’s; he’s as warm and alive as a person of any other tribe. Strohl’s ashamed, suddenly, of being so curious to see how the elda differed.
“I’m sorry,” Strohl says, quietly. “I wish the world saw you...” The way I do, he wants to say; it dies on his tongue. He still has things to learn himself, he supposes. “I wish the world saw you as you are.”
“It’s fine,” Will says. “We’ll change it.”
There’s something so compelling about Will’s determination, his quiet confidence in his impossible goal. “That we shall. I’ll be by your side until we manage it.”
An impossible goal. I’ll be by your side forever, Strohl might as well say; it hits him as he’s speaking. But, if that’s what it takes, then that’s where he’ll be.