Feb 011: a pound of flesh
[A/N: RE: Underaged: Is 16 underage? Not in Australia. The age of consent is itself in flux, due to Aboriginal laws. Aboriginal brides can marry at 12 (and the age of consent with their husband seems arguable). If you're 15 and your partner is within 2 years of your age it's also technically not statutory rape. Therefore, this story, so as to fit the time lines (thesoulwithin told me that Ffamran made Judge at 15, I believe), is for me not shota. ;3 Would fit in timeline of 'Stitchglass and Fool's Gold'.
Furthermore, I admit to reading Patterson's 'Cross'. However, forgot to bring it back to Melbourne with me, so haven't finished.
FF net note: This is a series of vaguely connected short fiction revolving around ideas in Stitchglass and Fool's Gold. I suppose I've technically finished, since there's nothing much else I want to add to the arc.
Just above the Heart
"Someday," Gabranth says dryly, as he shifts downwards on the armchair, to spoon the warm weight more evenly over cramping thighs, "Someone will find out."
"About what?" The boy in his lap is over-young, truly, for both this life and this: but at sixteen (and a half, he insists), Ffamran somehow manages to retain both an adorable edge of boyishness, in the softness of his chin and his slender waist, as well as an adult sensuality in the twist of that wicked mouth and the knowing downward four-step of elegant fingers. The combination makes for a brand of allure that Gabranth finds irresistible despite any sort of self-discipline he might care to exert.
"About how the very young Judge Ffamran seems over-close to Judge-Magister Gabranth," he replies, as he curls a bare arm over the previously admired waist and pulls the lithe body closer. Ffamran's scent, in the silky curls under his nose: gunpowder, books, soap.
"Are you still obsessed over that detail?" Ffamran twists in his lap, purposefully grinding back his hips as he does so, and shoots a pouting glance over the curve of one shoulder.
They are both dressed casually, for off-duty: Ffamran in a soft white shirt, the three-quarter sleeves elaborately tooled at the edges with gold-thread designs of curling ivy, haphazardly tucked into a pair of almost outrageously tight fawn breeches that stop short in large pale velvet blue cuffs just after the knees. A naked foot curves under Gabranth's bare calf, stroking absently, rubbing against the Judge-Magister's more sober navy blue long breeches. Small fingers tug playfully at the brass buttons of Gabranth's cloud-gray shirt.
"'Tis unethical in more ways than I can care to count," Gabranth points out, but the half-smile on his face shows this as an old argument that he relies on the boy to convince him of otherwise. Far too many things about Ffamran tug so much on his heart's strings that true severance would be quite impossible; would, he thinks, kill him.
"Sixteen is the legal age for anything in Archadia, it is not unknown for Judges to have relationships with each other, homosexuality is only illegal in Valendia, and if you think the other Judge-Magisters are blissfully unaware you are rather mistaken. 'Tis more than coincidence that we have yet had the pleasure of facing each other across the Bench." Ffamran counts off the points on the fingers of his free hand, in a drawl of exaggerated patience, even as he begins to roll his hips.
Gabranth bites back a deepening growl, and pointedly ignores the boy's impatience, exerting his superior self-control over himself, arching an eyebrow at the muttered curse. As a form of conciliation, he pops two buttons over Ffamran's belly, and strokes fingers through over velvety flesh. He's glad that he had finally caved to the younger Judge's pressures and purchased a private apartment in a quieter suburb of Upper Archades; Ffamran had gotten tired of the many calls that other Judges made on Gabranth's time, at any point in the day, when the Judge-Magister still was at residence in the Justice dormitories.
This apartment is far more comfortable, and Gabranth is thankful that he gave some effort to picking furniture. The white leather armchair still smells new, despite occasional misuse; and, of course, the armrest at the edge is just at the right height with which to lift one slender leg to spread his lover's thighs. He feels Ffamran's body tense against his, in anticipation, but continues petting his belly only, nuzzling his hair, his free hand sprawled over the opposite arm rest.
When he replies, his voice is mild, as though considering something purely philosophical. "The age of consent differs in criminal and contract law, and occasionally has conflicts even within the same field of law itself. Judge-Magisters have never been known to take partners with other Judges. Homosexuality is not overtly illegal in Archadia but the prejudice exists, even within case law, and the coincidence is not quite so overwhelming, given that you are technically part of Zargabaath's department."
"Has anyone told you before that you can be terribly boring?" Ffamran's reply carries just the faintest hint of a petulant whine.
"Has anyone told you that personal criticism is not an acceptable logical refute?" Gabranth's reply, on the other hand, follows the tail of a rich chuckle that makes the boy in his lap shiver.
"Your idea of foreplay leaves much to be desired," Ffamran mutters mulishly, as though he had not heard, his eyes fixed on the glass table before them that rests on white bearskin.
"Desire, of course, being such a fascinating word, in all its connotations," Gabranth slowly unbuttons Ffamran's shirt, starting from the belly up to the neck, making sure to trail the pads of his fingers against twitching flesh along the way. "Wherever did you learn that curse?"
"What curse?" Ffamran's voice is already distracted, as Gabranth slides the open shirt over boyishly slender shoulders to pool in folds over his elbows, stroking both sword-roughened hands over his arms. Gabranth repeats the word in question for clarification. "Oh. That. I heard it uh… in the aerodrome a few days ago… aah."
The boy arches against him as he trails fingers up from ribs to nipples, pebbling them with expert upward rubs of his thumbs, stroking and gently tugging, as he rasps teeth over one elfishly delicate ear to the curve of Ffamran's jaw, then brushes butterfly kisses over the graceful neck. It takes a difficult amount of self-control to ignore the breathy little pleas and the insistent writhing on his lap, but this is a game they're both quite familiar with, at this stage. A year of being 'involved', and only of late had that taken a physical meaning (despite Ffamran's various efforts throughout said year, and only because Gabranth had been a little more than slightly drunk on his birthday), and he has already had a decent amount of experience with this particular instrument.
"Do forget all about it," Gabranth advises, nipping over the arch of Ffamran's right shoulder, then sucking over the mark, to redden it. He loves the canvas of Ffamran's flesh, a delicate pale due to the encasing Judge uniform, that marks so easily with rose. "It is very unbecoming."
"I can show you unbecoming," Ffamran grits out, in between whimpers, the fingers of one hand tight over the vacated arm rest, the other slipping down between two sets of legs to rub insistently over the swell in Gabranth's breeches. The Judge-Magister permits himself a hungry growl, right next to the cup of one pale ear, which makes Ffamran buck backwards and whine. "Please."
"The young can be so impatient," Gabranth grins when Ffamran glares at him with unfocused eyes over the shoulder he is busily marking, and tugs at the soft lobe of an ear with his teeth. "Turn over."
The purr he injects into that command makes Ffamran comply without comment, still tangled in the folds of his shirt, though he forgets about freeing himself when Gabranth pulls him close with a splayed hand over the small of his back. The first lash of a wet tongue against a reddened nipple makes him shudder, dig fingers into Gabranth's shoulders, and hiss. "Our law has… ohh… strong covenants against… torture, Gabranth."
"Outside of prisoners-of-war, yes." Gabranth's voice is steady, even as he licks a slow path to the other nub of flesh, taking his time to explore this one with the tip of his tongue.
Fingers are curled in his short hair, curled over the base of his skull, the other digging harder into his shoulder. He can feel a curve of heat pressed against his abdomen, and the boy is panting, now, even as he struggles to keep up. "Of which category I do not fall into."
"Do you not think 'tis quite curious how love seems to be equated with war in many proverbs?" Gabranth strokes the hand at the small of Ffamran's back to the pert rump, his other deftly undoing the ties on the other Judge's breeches.
"If by that you mean that both sides tend to be at unequal advantages, I do see a correlation." Ffamran unexpectedly leans down, then, and gently pulls up his chin. The kiss is sweet and slow, with a flick of a warm tongue against his teeth, at odds with the sexual frustration that the boy must be enduring. When they break, Ffamran speaks in a low intensity beyond his years, a hair's breadth from Gabranth's lips. "I love you, Gabranth. And nobody will love you as I do."
--
Basch may have been suspended mostly alone in the dark for what felt like eternity (it is to his surprise that he finds it has only been two years), but it has not blinded him to the rest of the world. The sky pirate Balthier steals glances at him far more than even curiosity should dictate, and they are the wrong sort of glances: the sort that makes the back of his neck prickle, and his cheeks start to warm. Thin from deprivation, his shoulders bearing the red scars of recent lashes over the white scars of older punishment, the scars of sores over his wrists still raw despite the Viera's attempts at healing, his hair long and matted and greasy over his scalp and jaw, Basch knew he cut a highly unattractive (and rather pungent) figure.
When they stop for a breather, in the abandoned tunnels, the Viera leaves them to scout ahead, and the boy astonishingly manages to curl up over the rocks to sleep, exhausted from the excitement of an escape from a dungeon. Balthier wanders off by himself over the twisted wreck of the rails, to sit quietly on a large slab of fallen rock debris and stare broodingly down the seemingly endless passage.
It is as good a time to speak to him as any, and Basch walks up to him. "Balthier."
"Mm?" Balthier's voice is distant, then he seems to come back to himself with a start, and his smile becomes lazy, cynical. "My dear king-slayer. If you do wish to make small talk I'll trouble you to wash yourself in the nearest pool of water you can find, first."
"I did not…" Basch begins, automatically, then catches the faintest gleam of an amused twinkle in Balthier's eye, and belatedly realizes that two years in the dark seemed to have done liberal damage to his sense of humor. "I apologize."
"You should catch some rest," Balthier advises him. "I will keep watch, and Fran should be back soon from sniffing out a path. She tells me there is a fork ahead."
"There would be enough time for that once we are out of here," Basch says. Out in the open, where I can see the sky.
Balthier seems to understand: he inclines his head. "Very well. Basch. What was your surname again, fon Ronsenburg?"
"Some Dalmascans confuse it as von," Basch agrees, glad for the opportunity to talk about inconsequentials. He has not realized how much he has missed being able to talk normally, and about nothing at all, over two years of the occasional interrogation for information and bitter exchanges with his brother.
"Then whoever is your so-called twin brother, who betrayed you?" Basch looks sharply at Balthier as the sky pirate says this, but can only discern polite curiosity. Of course: the sky pirates are free birds, and birds concern themselves very little at all, with politics and treachery.
"Ah… Noah fon Ronsenburg, my brother. He is a Judge… a Judge-Magister, actually. Known as Gabranth."
"How very interesting," Balthier murmurs, and this is only in the same clinical curiosity. "One brother a Captain of the Dalmascan Knights, the other a Judge-Magister. Was your mother a Senator of Rozarria and your Father a Hierophant of Nabradia, per chance?"
"Nothing quite so sundered," Basch says, and realizes he remembers how to laugh. Balthier's eyes are dancing, at this apparent triumph, and it seems the sky pirate has intended this all along. But the concern fades quickly into a shuttered enigmatic expression, again, when Basch struggles to voice a question as to his motives. "What will you be doing, when we… escape?"
"Escort you and the brat back to Rabanastre and make nefarious plans to steal that shard in his possession, perhaps. Or leave on the next wind-tide to the Escatean Purveema. Or cruise down to Balfonheim to lie on the beach." Balthier shrugs, and Basch envies him his freedom, for a heartbeat, before duty reclaims him. "What are you going to do?"
"Take a hot bath," Basch says immediately, and Balthier grins: the attempt at humor is evidently appreciated. "After that… I have duties to the Resistance."
"Very clever. Given that everybody believes you killed the King," Balthier says dryly. "No matter. 'Tis your skin. But if you change your mind, Fran and I will be in port for at least a day. You can get a ride with us out to Balfonheim. I highly recommend lying on the beach as therapy to two years of sensory deprivation."
Curiosity and honor makes him apologize. "I have no means of repaying you."
Balthier stares at him for a long moment, until Basch begins to feel uncomfortable, again, though he forces himself to hold the sky pirate's eyes. Finally, Balthier chuckles, softly, looking down at loosely knotted fingers on his lap. His words have the carefully scripted ring of something that had been mulled over in the last few hours or so. "The pirate king Reddas would be quite interested in your story. Enough to reimburse me. And besides, no doubt your honor dictates that this would be a safe investment for me. Someday you will find a way to repay your debt."
Basch attempts to think quickly of a suitable response, but is interrupted by the faint sounds of metallic clicks that heralds Fran's return. The Viera looks at the both of them, thoughtfully, then addresses her partner. "We turn right at the junction. It is not far."
"All right. Time to wake up that brat," Balthier stretches luxuriously, and shoulders his rifle. As he passes Basch, he murmurs, "At your disposal for a day, Captain. Think of it as pity if it makes you feel any better."
'Why' and 'how' are questions that consume Basch's mind throughout their escape, and then he steps out of the musty dark into the scorching heat of the sun and the sharp scents of the desert, and he forgets to ask meaning, motive, and method; does not see how Balthier's expression twists briefly when he turns his face up towards the blue sky with the first genuine smile of delight that he has harbored for two long years.
-fin-