This pairing is eating my brain.
Here, have more
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"You have always had a bit of a weakness for noble men."
Balthier was shaken from his musings by Fran's voice to realize, irritably, that he'd allowed his gaze to creep back to the man on the other side of the fire. Basch was deep in conversation with Ashe and the High Chief, the Garif a great hulking shape above them, war-mask casting a nightmare shadow on the ground.
"Nonsense," Balthier huffs. He drains his goblet of rich, golden wine. The wine of the gods, the Garif call it. "I like my men like I like my women. Loose."
Fran's ears twitch in amusement. "What of Jackine? The school teacher."
"Please. He enjoyed being tied up and beaten. Besides, he spent five years embezzling money from his university. Lovely behind, though," he added, pouring himself more wine from the jug.
"Eion," Fran tries again.
Balthier snorts. "He was a whore. Albeit a friendly one."
Fran cocks an eyebrow. "Reddas?"
"He's a pirate. The pirate king, no less."
"An honorable pirate."
"Aye, perhaps." Balthier drinks more wine and leans back. The moon is fat and round in the sky, no city lights to diminish its brilliance. Around the Garif's camp other fires have sprung up, the scent of cooking meat drifting up the hill with the wind. The darkness and the endlessness of the sky reminds Balthier of a rare bright spot in his childhood--when he and his brother had camped on the plains outside of Archades, sometimes for days on end.
Balthier would have expected Lord Larsa to participate in the princess' conversation, but no, the young prince is sitting away from the fire, being taught some game played with coins and pebbles by Vaan and Penelo.
A child after all, Balthier thinks with some relief.
He goes back to watching Basch, profile highlighted by the firelight, wheat-colored hair turned to gold. Bondage has left him lean and diminished, but there is still evidence of a life spent in training. The scar on his face, the battered knuckles, the calluses Balthier had felt when Basch helped him to his feet on the Dreadnought.
He takes a moment to think about how he'd look naked, no shabby uniform cobbled together by the half-efforts of Captain Azelas and the Resistance. Sun-bronzed skin, corded muscle, scars to match Balthier's own, perhaps. He wonders if it would even be worth the effort to try to get him into bed.
He's fairly certain of Basch's tastes in companions, if only because he's given no reaction to Fran. Most men, at the very least, slur their words a bit when they meet her. And besides, Balthier is sure he's seen him watching the boy. He can't blame him--there's certainly a great deal to watch, considering Vaan dresses the way all Rabanastrens do--in hardly anything at all.
"Hmm. Perhaps I do like noble men," he concedes, pouring himself yet another glass of wine (the stuff is addicting), "Because they are so unlike myself."
Fran's ears twitch. "Aye, perhaps."
Later, when all the wine has been drunk and the princess has finally finished her conference with the Garif Chief, Basch makes his way over to Balthier. He stands above him, arms folded, stern. He smells of battle sweat and woodsmoke.
"You've been staring at me all evening," he says. "Why?"
Balthier doesn't think he should risk standing up. The Garif wine has snuck up on him like a snake hiding in the grass.
"No reason," he answers airily. "I've got to look at something, haven't I?"
Basch makes a noise that sounds like assent, but might be frustration. Balthier's really too drunk to puzzle it out.
He stumbles to his feet as best he can--really, it's like falling upward. He can see Fran's ears shaking out of the corner of his eye as he keels over toward the left. Two broad hands take his arms, steadying him gently.
"Are you well?" the Captain asks, voice rough with what Balthier hopes is concern.
"Fine, fine," he assures him flippantly, feeling even more drunk than before.
"Let me help you to your tent," Basch says, and it sounds more like a command than an offer.
Balthier takes a step and stumbles, the world bleeding together for a moment, torches and campfires turning to streaks of light.
Basch's arm is there for him to lean on, body warm and solid against him.
"How very noble of you," he hums.