The surf foamed around Basch's ankles, dark spots marking the leather of his greaves where the water had reached higher. He stood with his eyes closed and his face tilted skyward, a scarred sunflower.
Balthier, playing unofficial guard to Ashe, couldn't help but glance at him time and again; Basch's sudden melancholy was nearly tangible, a ghost of bittersweet at the back of Balthier's tongue. Though Vaan and Penelo frolicked in the shallows not far distant, Basch seemed as alone as when he'd stepped from his shattered cage, thin and filthy and marked by the dungeon's atrocities.
Balthier's hands itched to touch him, offer comfort and understanding. It was no more than one friend would do for another, yet Balthier feared that his desires were nothing so altruistic. Closing his own eyes for a moment, he turned his full attention back to Ashe and told himself firmly that Basch would be better without his meddling.
Some day he might even believe that.