Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy X-2.
A/N: After I saw Baralai's Sphere, I couldn't get the Seymour/Baralai pairing out of my head, so I had to write this one-shot… There's also some Gippalai. Favorite pairing, whoo. This is connected to Whisper Composition, but you don't have to read that to get this. Some guest appearances are in here, too, but I'm not telling… – mischievous grin – Anyway, this is dark and all that jazz. Just to warn you…Seymour's definitely not a nice guy in this one. Italics denote past conversation.
Letters and Lies
The chill of the floor sank through cloth and skin until it finally hit bone. Baralai shivered, drawing in his legs closer to his body and setting the blank paper in front of him. The pen scratched idly, dribbling ink, and as more and more spilled out and gathered, it reminded him of blood…
He shut his eyes to rid himself of the thought, but it only brought forth a more vivid image. Gippal in bed, wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, unconscious… He had really thought he was going to lose him after Nooj had shot them both. It was then that he had decided he needed to find the truth. His leaving Gippal had begun as a desire to find out why Nooj had turned on them, and then it had escalated into a burning necessity to discover why Bevelle had done that…unspeakable act to them. No one would be allowed to get away with trying to destroy someone he loved.
No one. The very thought made him almost snap the pen in two.
He had endured angry words, hours of confused and hurt sobbing, and still, he knew what he was doing was right. It had to be done.
Why, then, did it feel so wrong?
He couldn't stop writing letters that he was sure Gippal would never receive. There was a growing pile in the drawer by his bed, and here he was, underneath Bevelle, adding to the pile once more. It was eerily quiet, and he knew he wouldn't be disturbed. In the past, he hadn't minded being interrupted while writing, but that was different. It was Gippal who read over his shoulder, studied his handwriting, distracted him.
"What are you writing, anyway?"
And he hadn't minded in the least.
In his letters, he did write about his terrible findings on Bevelle Temple, but mostly, he wrote about how he missed Gippal. The worst part was that he was the one responsible for their separation.
"Gippal…"
No matter how much he wrote, it wouldn't bring him back.
---
"Perhaps you misunderstood when I granted permission for you to be of assistance." Seymour's voice was cold and unforgiving, but there was a hint of amusement, almost. "You see, the intent was not for you spy on Bevelle."
A chill crept up Baralai's spine. It was almost as if Seymour was deriving pleasure from this. There wasn't a glint of disappointment present at all in his eyes. In fact, Baralai realized as his mouth went dry, his lips were even curling into a smile.
Before, he had always been at least outwardly respectful of Seymour. Now he was sure his life was at stake, and any tone of voice, no matter how discourteous, could be used. "Your suspicions are not proof –" he began firmly, fighting off the frozen feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Now, now. There's really no point in lying." Seymour chuckled quietly. "I have quite enough evidence."
Baralai straightened further, attempting to gain a hold of himself as he clenched his hands into fists. Something about Seymour's laughter seemed to unnerve him. It was unnatural and high-pitched, bordering on giggling. He could find nothing funny about this. "Evidence?" The shakiness of his own voice caught him off guard, but he passed it off as anger. "What were you doing in my bedroom?"
"You have…" Seymour's eyes narrowed, passing over Baralai's body, and his smirk grew more pronounced. "…caught my interest in your stay here. What do you think has kept you here?"
Fingernails started to dig into his palms, and his jaw tightened. "You could have given me up at any time. No one was forcing you to do anything."
"Yes… This would have meant your death. However, I see that you understand there are things worse than death." Seymour shook his head, apparently finding something amusing in this, and stood up slowly, gripping the edge of the desk as he did so. "I'm afraid your betrayal cannot go unpunished."
"Betrayal?!" Baralai spit out the word like it was a slur. "We were fed to the horrors of that cave, and after we managed to survive, they shot us in our backs!"
"My, you certainly have a temper when pushed. It seems that this is yet another misunderstanding." All traces of humor gone from his face, Seymour reached across the desk and snapped Baralai's wrist to the hard wood. "You are not being given a choice."
For a moment, he could only stare at his wrist, shocked. Baralai had seen the looks, the not-so-discreet glances, but this was… He struggled fiercely, jerking back his arm, but it had no effect.
Slim fingers coiled around his wrist, slicing nails into his flesh. Baralai gasped, startled, and before he even had a chance – Icy breath in his ear, trickling down his neck, an unfamiliar body against his own, a sickening hardness against the backs of his thighs… Seymour was pinning his entire upper body to the desk, and splayed out like this, he could only squirm uselessly. Freezing fingers, so cold that it struck him as strange, wound around strands of hair, scraping his scalp.
"Your hair is really soft, y'know that?"
"Don't…touch me…" Baralai ground out through gritted teeth.
In response, the fingers in his hair tightened harshly and yanked his head up. He let out a cry of pain and surprise before his head cracked into the desk. Again. And again.
"You will not resist."
Closing his eyes, Baralai listened to the sound of his own raspy breathing. He couldn't think of any possible means of escape… The dagger he usually kept on him at all times wasn't with him now. It had been missing from his room this morning, and he hadn't been able to find it. But if he could just… There was a fountain pen slightly out of reach. Stretching his arm to grab it – He was spun around and slammed onto his back, but he managed to grasp the object.
Baralai glared at Seymour steadily, nearly piercing his throat with the sharp point of the pen. "I won't hesitate to kill you."
A cruel laugh erupted from the man above him. It was plain to him that Seymour wasn't the least bit worried. Baralai had been expecting this, especially given Seymour's usually haughty nature and the position he himself was in. He could only imagine how he appeared to Seymour. Easy prey. Vulnerable. Even as he thought this, he couldn't keep his eyes from looking any wider or his chin from trembling uncontrollably.
Baralai watched, unmoving, as a thin line of red began to bead on Seymour's neck. He had completely ignored the pen.
A hand slid down in between their bodies, easing past the folds of his shirt, and then, before he could react, clammy lips closed forcefully over his. He clamped his eyes and mouth shut, trying to block this out, because it wasn't happening. It wasn't happening… Wasn't happening, because he had promised himself to –
"Hmm… Kiss?"
"Gippal, they're right over – Mmpf!"
"…So?"
Striving to shove Seymour's continuing efforts away, he remembered what he was holding. The fountain pen. With a burst of energy and a desperate shout, he slammed it into Seymour's chest and broke out of his grip. His wrist, it was still – He cringed and stifled a cry as a snapping sound reached his ears. But his wrist was now free, and the door – He was actually holding onto the handle. If he could just push it open…
What struck him immediately was that the handle was hotter than usual. So hot…that it had started to sear into his flesh… A scream tore from his throat, but it didn't matter. Didn't matter. The door was right here –
Something – a knife or razor? – sliced into his hip, causing him to stumble and fall. Crawling, he would make it… He had to.
Frigid breath coursed up his neck and danced in the shell of his ear. "That wasn't very polite," Seymour snarled.
"No –!"
Baralai felt his body being flipped over roughly, and it was then that he knew. There was no chance for him. Fear choked him, numbing…
His palm was spanned by a network of raised red welts, and he gazed at it blankly for a moment. It almost comforted him, strangely, provided him with something else to focus on. Anything but those cruel, frightening eyes…
"Look at me." There was a crushing grip on his jaw, and the tone he heard mirrored this, guaranteed imprisonment. "You will obey. Look."
"No…" He wouldn't bend. He would not plead or beg, because he knew that was what Seymour wanted. Baralai would go down fighting this every step of the way. "No," he repeated, louder this time but also more fatigued. "I will not –"
A vicious jerk of his head forced him to instantly meet Seymour's eyes before he could think. He was shaking, couldn't stop. There was… There was a glass…paperweight above Seymour's head. He was holding it like he was going to –
A gut-wrenching crack sounded from within the confines of his skull. All the lights went off, as if someone had extinguished the ones in the room. Thoughts went fuzzy around the edges as he drifted away from his body…
That was all he could remember.
---
He felt the dull, throbbing ache of his head first. Gradually, other things came into focus. The hurt came to him faster than anything else. His palm and hip were stinging, but his wrists were especially excruciating. And that confused him, because his memory held that only one –
A spike of sudden fear stabbed his stomach. His wrists were cuffed to the head post of a bed…and his clothes were missing. It felt as if an object was lodged in his throat.
Couldn't breathe – Blood on the sheets –
In a sort of panic, he tried thrashing against the cuffs, but it wore him out quickly. He had already used much of his energy in his unsuccessful attempt to escape Seymour.
Seymour…
Baralai let his eyes wander around the room. It was very large, ornate, and well-furnished. The bed itself was of beautiful dark wood, and under different circumstances, he was sure he would have liked it. Sterile, white sheets were the only things that didn't reflect the grandiosity of the room.
"I did warn you not to fight."
Baralai started, swinging his head up and scanning the room hurriedly. Seymour. The tremor of fear rushing through his body was instantaneous. He had known before he saw him. Even if he couldn't have heard, he would have known.
Seymour advanced toward him, predatory, looking none too patient, though he took his time.
Baralai shut his eyes and shrank into the mattress, wishing he could slip right through it. Hoping. The bed creaked, and his weight shifted to roll him beside something solid. A leg. His skin was prickling more with every breath against his face. Cold lips pressed to his throat, making him swallow. He remembered. Gippal had always done that.
"I love you, Baralai… But you already knew that."
Seymour, in the process of straddling him, stilled. "You can think of him if you want." The false humor in his tone only faintly masked a deadly brand of anger. "Say his name again. I want to hear you say it." He had seized Baralai's shoulder painfully, and now his nails were burrowing deep enough to wound.
Had he said it aloud? Baralai wasn't quite sure what he and hadn't done. It all seemed to blend together.
"He would never do this…" Baralai met Seymour's eyes levelly. "You don't deserve to hear his name."
He was aware of being slapped before he actually felt it. The force of the hit was brutal enough to smack his face into the pillow. A burning sensation seeped in while Seymour began touching him again, furiously and roughly, fingers without warmth.
It was as if Seymour was dead. That thought and all the others were more real to Baralai than what was happening to his body. He focused on the ceiling, the walls, the floor, staring until he became part of them.
The scratching and scraping dragged him back. Seymour smeared the blood streaming from Baralai's hip, coating a finger entirely in it before bringing it to his mouth and flicking his tongue across it. "Isn't it interesting that this was caused by your knife?"
Squirming away – or trying to – Baralai felt his insides twist in similar motions. "Let me go…" He was hoarse, strained.
Baralai heard a rustling of fabric, and he could only look away as Seymour ignored him, reaching for something and positioning his legs.
"You're not untouched, are you?" Seymour asked, low in his ear, gripping his bleeding hip.
"No," he whispered, hardly able to push the word out. He felt tears spill over and drip down his face. It had been the last thing he could keep from Seymour, but he couldn't help it. He was being violated, forced into an act he had shared with Gippal only.
"Please… I want…"
"Baralai…"
"Gippal, you can…"
"How strange… I always thought you were an innocent," Seymour mused. "Until I found out about him. It was him, wasn't it?"
Baralai was too overcome to reply, but it didn't matter.
Seymour never waited for an answer.
---
"Hey, mister? Are you alive? Wake up…"
Baralai moaned softly, wincing as the bright morning sun burned into his eyes. Glancing around the room, he saw that the person speaking to him was…a child? He scrambled to throw the stained sheets over his body, able to do so because Seymour had left him unbound when he grew too weak to have any chance at resistance. "You shouldn't see this…" he explained, uncomfortable. Studying the child closer, he noted that the boy was in typical Bevelle Temple dress.
"You're worse than the other one," the boy murmured, coming closer to the bed.
"The other one?" He stiffened, deadly still. Seymour had done this to someone else…?
"Yes, the other man. When's the last time you had water?" The child sat on the edge of the bed, holding a bowl of water.
"Two days ago." It was the third day since Seymour had confined him here, and as of yet, he had been given no food, water, or treatment for his wounds.
"You look really sick."
Baralai reached for the bowl and almost downed the whole thing in one swallow. The water was cool and refreshing to his parched throat. "Thank you…" At the child's nod, he asked, "How did you get in here? Wasn't the door locked?"
The boy shook his head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "No, mister…"
"No one's ever called me that before." He managed a smile, but it was a sad one. "My name's Baralai."
"Oh."
"I wonder if this is his way of letting me go," Baralai wondered aloud, examining his scabbed palm.
"I don't think so. He never lets anyone go," the boy informed him. "I think it was an accident… I just came after I heard screaming."
"Was it very…loud?"
"Yes." The child fidgeted, wringing his hands in his robes. "What did you…you know, do? I heard he only tortures you if you're…bad."
Suddenly, he was extremely angry. "That's not true."
"Don't get mad."
"Where's this other man?" Baralai questioned, dragging his legs over the edge of the bed, preparing to stand.
"A cage," the boy replied. "He was blonde and kind of tan. He had a yellow shirt on."
"What?" He was in disbelief. Someone could be so inhumane as to… "A cage?"
"He was put back in there after…" the boy trailed off. "Wait, where are you going?"
"I've…got to leave…find my clothes…" Baralai stood up. At last, he finally put his whole weight on his legs.
And promptly collapsed to the floor.
"Ah! Are you okay?" Small hands wrapped around his arm and tried to pull him up, without success.
Gasping, he pulled himself up by the edge of the bed and attempted to walk. The pain was so piercing that he could only limp.
"You're not going to get very far looking like that…" the boy murmured, staring with wide eyes at his blood-caked thighs. A faint blush had already colored his face, proving that he was just as embarrassed as Baralai was. "I'll, um, look for your clothes…"
Baralai was able to cover himself partly with some of the sheets while the boy searched the room quickly, covering his face when necessary.
"Here." He tossed a bundle in Baralai's direction, keeping a hand clamped securely over his eyes.
"Thank you…" His clothes were a bit ripped, like they had been rapidly torn off his body. He grimaced in disgust and tried to step into his pants. His actions were clumsy, difficult to carry out when his fingers were shaking this badly. He tugged his coat on and sat down on the bed to put on his boots. For a minute, he just rested there, regaining his energy. Every movement was so painful… Even a simple task like getting dressed was an exercise in endurance. His body was painted in bruises, and to add to that, he was greatly weakened, having been without nourishment for days.
"Aren't you scared to leave?"
"No." It was a lie, but he only realized that after he had already blurted it out. "Goodbye. Thank you for your help."
The door seemed to waver. He wasn't sure if that was because he was limping or because he was dizzy. Things swam in front of him, blurry and unclear. How much blood had he lost? As he caught onto the door handle, he brought a hand up to his head. His hair was matted with dried blood. So much blood…everywhere.
"H-hey, mister!"
He swung the door open, tripping and landing on the floor. The doorframe… Grasping it, he hauled himself up and leaned heavily against the wall. If he could just get a start by walking this way… Palming the wall and trudging forward cautiously, as if he was blind, he continued down the hall. The boy didn't follow.
The minutes dragged on, and it felt like ten minutes before he made it out of the hall. What greeted him was one of the most horrendous sites he had ever witnessed.
Cages. Tons of them, hanging from the ceiling.
He was shocked to see that there were actually people inside of them. Prisoners, each appearing incredibly desolate and despairing. They peered at him with looks of both interest and pity, causing him to wonder how terrible his appearance actually was.
Finally, he could make out the exit, but something made him stop as he stumbled past one of the last cages. Two men, one in a red robe and the other curled up, were in this cage. The curled up one was blonde and had a yellow shirt.
Baralai temporarily forgot to breathe.
He was more of a boy than a man, really, younger than Baralai, from what he could tell. His skin was tan, like his own. Every breath was a struggle. The movements of his ribcage were jerky, and his breathing was labored. Blood, bruises…
The other man held his head in his lap and was gently stroking his hair. His expression was solemn, but Baralai saw past that to the thinly veiled fury he held inside.
For a moment, their eyes locked, and there was an understanding. The man's eyes held no questions. Perhaps he knew, or maybe it was something else. Baralai would never know for sure. He wanted to say something, but he was unsure of how to express what he was feeling.
"He looks like someone I know," he uttered softly.
That was all. The man gave a nod, and Baralai kept walking, with one thing in mind.
Seymour could not be allowed to continue this.
He never expected to run straight into a group of nuns outside the exit. At that point, he hardly cared.
"He…needs…medical…"
Their voices were fading. Had he fallen? It was all so confusing, and he wondered if this was a dream. Maybe he was still back in Seymour's room…
"…bleeding…"
"…all right?"
He was very tired. If he could just close his eyes for a second…
---
Baralai heard that the boy in the cage and the others he was with had escaped. People in the temple were shocked. No one had ever gotten away from what had before been certain death. He still hadn't, and he wondered how they had succeeded where he failed.
Seymour paid him no more visits. He was apparently quite caught up in things. Not that Baralai cared.
Folding the letters in his lap, he leaned back up against the pillows in his bed. He had been told that rest would be the primary factor in the speed of his recovery. The bandages on his head and other injuries definitely helped.
Baralai wasn't sure why the letters had been left alone. He wasn't sure of many things. There was, however, plenty of time to think over them. He continued to stand by what he had done, coming to Bevelle, but…
"Look at me! Is the truth that important?! What bullshit!"
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
If only he could find him again.