Chapter Three

Auron was dimly aware, about ten minutes after leaving the port at Luca, that the trip to Kilika was going to make him violently ill. He demurely abandoned himself, therefore, to the inner hold of the S.S Winno, and tried not to think of anything that would upset his sympathetic stomach.

Unfortunately, the location did nothing for his seasickness. He lay in the bed with the porthole covered and groaned lightly, his arms cast over his eyes as he fought down the nausea that curdled with every sway and heave of the ship. Surely the ships shouldn't have been so unstable; that had to be hideously dangerous for the passengers.

He tried to think of better things than this. Bevelle ranked high among them: a life led in quiet and peaceful ambiance away from the waterfront and holed carefully away in the cloister. In a perfect world, he'd not have lost his candidature to Kinoc, and would be sitting nicely as second-in-command of the warrior monks.

With a violent heave of the ocean, Auron remembered that it was most assuredly not a 'perfect world'.

The door to their small, shared room opened with a hideous bang and rattle—more because of the sway of the ship than any real violence—and Auron peered between his arms in order to shoot a half-mustered glare at Jecht.

"What do you want?" he groused, but it came out as more of a pitiful whine. Jecht gabbed his hand to Auron's complaint, and sprawled listlessly on one of the other thin hammocks in their room. Auron decided he'd best reassess his acceptance of the dark man; he was far too at ease with this entire matter.

"Braska wanted me ta check in on ya. Make sure you weren't gonna drown in your own puke." The crudity belied the affection Auron was beginning to associate with the older man—Jecht might have been a callous, brute, uncouth letch, but he was a loyal one, and for a Guardian, it was the loyalty that mattered in the long run.

"I'm fine," Auron assured, but didn't move. Moving only added to the horror of his twisted gut. Jecht watched him critically for a moment, before sighing. He swung in his hammock, before standing, and settling onto Auron's instead. "Hey! Jecht—."

"Oh, qui'cher whinin'. Sheesh. You're as bad as my kid." Auron recoiled a little from Jecht's sudden proximity, and flushed, but didn't trust his legs to support him if he sprung away from the older man. Jecht's claret eyes watched him from close range; his breath wafted over Auron's mouth and nose as a calming, rhythmic humidity. It calmed his tumultuous stomach a little.

Jecht softly explained, "My wife was from further inland, in Zanarkand. I grew up on the beach and all. When we got married, she used to get sick every time she'd try to go to sleep in the boat—."

"You lived in a boat?"

"A houseboat, like they got in Kilika, from what Braska an' the crew's been sayin'. Anyway, I used to do this for her. Calm her stomach right down." Auron huffed indignantly, being compared to the other man's wife. However, his deep and even breathing was distracting him from the arrhythmic beat of the ocean against the ship. The hammock even seemed to be swaying more in time with Jecht's echoing heartbeat than with the sea's pulse.

Auron lulled within a hazy half-sleeping state, and sprung to consciousness only when he felt the soft brush of wind- and sea salt-chapped lips brush against his cheek. He turned towards that caress gently, and murmured something that, later, he could not quite remember.

Jecht chuckled a little ruefully at it though, and Auron suspected that, in his daze, he might have muttered Braska's name. At the time, though, he didn't really care what he had muttered. The warm weight of Jecht pressed to his side was a welcome one; and with his gentle rhythms, the sickness was beginning to alleviate.

The ship gave a sudden, violent heave, and Auron was saved from tumbling to the deck only by Jecht bracing him in. There was that husky chuckle again, right next to his ear, and Auron tried not to flush. He hoped Braska wouldn't walk in, for their rather compromising position would be one hard thing to explain away with light words and Jecht's rogue charm.

That rogue charm, Auron had a feeling, was about to get them into trouble, if he let it.

Jecht's breathing was a little less rhythmic against the back of Auron's neck, sending fitful shivers down his spine and making the short hairs all over his body stand on end. His thick arm, cast as it was over Auron's hip, tightened a little, and the free one was doing a quick job of removing the tie in his hair.

He shifted and grunted a little when Jecht kissed the back of his neck, and vindictively asked, "Did you comfort your wife like this as well?"

"Nah," Jecht assured. He then amended, "We had an actual bed, not a hammock."

"Get off me, Jecht."

"You like it," the dark man breathed on the back of his neck, just above the collar of his top. Auron shifted minutely—neither closer to nor away from the other man—and huffed a little, shaking his head. He groaned in anguish at the movement, and clamped his eyes shut.

Jecht rocked into him, a more natural movement than the sway of the boat. Auron gasped a little, and glared over his shoulder at his fellow Guardian.

"Braska—."

"—is busy on deck, placatin' the crew." Auron hadn't known Jecht knew a word like 'placating', let alone how to use it properly. His mild awe was washed away as Jecht shifted against him again; there was no mistaking his movements for a readjustment now. He flushed darkly, and buried his face between his arms and the canvas of the hammock. "C'mon. It'll keep your mind off the sea for a while."

Jecht's hand was sliding southbound along his spine, and was hot through the heavy silk of his coat and the tight-knit linen of his shirt. Auron swore under his breath, trying to keep his body still and his breath even. He didn't really want this, not badly enough to let Jecht see him want it.

As the hand came to the small of his back, pressing him into a slight arch, his hair came fully undone. The ship gave a grand heave, and even Jecht's blitzer strong arm couldn't keep Auron on the hammock. They both tumbled to the deck; Jecht chuckled, his body strewn over Auron, and slowly levered onto his palms to stare down at the aggravated and slightly green warrior monk.

He kissed him, barely less brutal than that first time on the Thunder Plains, and let his hand dive for the belt that held the red jacket closed. Auron batted at his hands fruitlessly, groaning and grunting his protests even as he allowed the accost of his mouth. The pounding of the surf was throbbing in his ears—or perhaps that was now his heartbeat, beginning to race as Jecht managed to open his jacket and slide a hand under his shirt.

Auron supposed Jecht had once been a breathtaking man, before Blitz had scarred his face and age had begun to worry lines into his skin. Still, when he smiled tenderly and fleetingly, his eyes half lidded and the scruff of his face catching just a sliver of light from somewhere—the porthole, or the doorway, or perhaps something else—Auron supposed he could see a bit of that very young man who had married and had a child in a Zanarkand he knew nothing about.

Jecht's hands were rough, but no more rough than he had expected, even against the soft, naked flesh of his thighs; and they were textured, not brutal, for which Auron was a trifle thankful, though he'd never say as such. The wood of the deck, biting into the small of his back, was more irritating than Jecht's weathered hands catching on his skin and the hair of his legs. He shivered, and couldn't place whether it was because of the randomly recurring nausea, or the brutally passionate look Jecht shot his way as he demonstrated just how he could 'keep Auron's mind off the sea'.

"Stop," Auron grumbled, pushing at Jecht's shoulders. And the older man did, though one hand stayed at the bend in Auron's knee and the other supported his weight, planted beside Auron's ribcage. He shook his head a little.

"If I stop, you're gonna get sick again," Jecht pointed out. Auron shook his head, pushed at Jecht with the leg that wasn't held.

"I'll get sick if you keep doing that," he protested, pushing a bit more firmly. Jecht backed off, fixed his clothing as Auron fumbled with his own.

When his trembling fingers continued to refuse to cooperate, Jecht made swift work of righting Auron's slacks and jacket, and even tied his hair back after lifting him from the deck and depositing him back on the hammock. Auron shoved him away.

"Don't coddle me, damnit," he groused, laying back and holding his stomach this time. He knew Jecht was watching him, and swung out at him desperately. "Leave me alone."

"Yeah. Sure. Just don't drown in your own puke."

When the door slammed shut, Auron knew it was because of violence and not the sway of the ocean. He sobbed a little, and tried to ignore the throbbing in his lower gut.

Kilika was a small, rural island to the south of mainland Spira. Except for the Kilika Temple, there was not much reason to come to the island—their commerce was lackluster at the best of times, with Sin constantly battering its shore; and their Blitzball team wasn't much to speak of either—but it was a nice retreat, especially after the hustle-bustle of Luca.

Auron stretched, and fell back onto the bed he had claimed his own as soon as they'd hit solid ground and sequestered themselves. They were on a houseboat, much to Auron's chagrin, but the motion was far more subtle; he supposed that, given time, he could get used to the movement and be nearly presentable by the time they loaded onto the S.S Liki to head the last leg south to the Isle of Besaid.

"Are you feeling better?"

He started up, and nodded a little to Braska's question, rubbing the back of his neck. Braska nodded thankfully, and settled onto his own bed, across from Auron's. They were silent for some time.

Finally, Braska sighed and removed his headdress. He ran a hand through his short hair, and smiled at Auron, his eyes unsure and almost searching for something in Auron's face. Auron's heart fell a little; he wondered—did Braska know? Had Jecht told him of his attractions?

"Are you alright?"

"What? Yes, of course, my Lord." It slipped out without any second though. Braska watched him intently, and it was clear that those blue eyes did not believe his words. Auron tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. "What would be wrong?"

"You and Jecht seem to be on uneasy terms again. And you were getting along rather well at Djose. I am . . . worried. For both of you."

"Worried, Lord Braska?" The Summoner nodded a little bit. His smile was an indulgent one, his eyes knowing and almost parental.

"I know it must be hard for him, being away from everything he's known. I had thought it good for him, for both of you, when you two began your rapport. Still, I can understand your hesitance, I suppose." Then, his smile became cordial, if a little pressed. "Please, don't worry over me. Even at these times, you must think of your own well being as well."

"What?" The incredulous look on his face must have startled Braska. Then, his words began to sink in. Did Braska think that they were—? Auron flushed darkly, and lifted his hands, shaking his head almost violent. "Lord Braska, you misunderstand—!"

But perhaps he didn't. For all pretenses and purposes, that would be the image cast by the two of them, Auron supposed. Still, he could not help the vindictive little denial that sprang up in his throat. Braska blinked owlishly for a moment, before a slight color came to his cheeks. He coughed into his fist subtly.

"Misunderstand?" He thought that over, and coughed again, his color darkening. "Oh my—. Auron, I must apologize for my assumption. I'm afraid I've embarrassed both of us now."

"No, my Lord. It's my fault." Auron ducked his head, and clenched his fists into the bed cover. He felt like an idiot, sitting there and still unable to broach the subject of the truth behind Braska's claims.

Braska gathered his headdress and stood as he settled it. He touched Auron's shoulder gently, and squeezed, whispering, "Be well, Auron."

Auron still couldn't make the words come from his mouth—three simple little words, and he couldn't even bring himself to say them. What a pathetic wretch he was. He buried his face in his hands, and fell back on the bed again, wishing the world would open up and swallow him whole.

"What's with you?"

He didn't unbury his face, but waved indistinctly at Jecht's voice. A calloused hand caught his, holding it still. Fingers roughened by salt water and years of Blitz slid between his own sword-calloused digits, and he flinched back, stealing his hand away.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. Jecht shrugged, and sat on the edge of the bed. After a moment of staring at the setting sun blazing over the ocean, he looked back at Auron, and cocked a brow.

"Feelin' any better?"

"Yes. Please go, now." Jecht smiled, planting his hand on the other side of Auron's hip and leaning over. Auron turned his face away, flushing darkly.

"What's the rush?"

"You know, Braska was just speaking with me about . . . about . . ." He didn't even know what to call it. He waved indistinctly between their bodies.

"About this?" Jecht touched Auron's thigh gently, felt the quiver under his slacks, and his smile widened. "What d'ya tell him?"

"I didn't tell him anything, because there is no this." He batted Jecht's hand off, and slid away, standing to glare down at Jecht. Jecht met his gaze evenly, one brow cocked.

"Really? Nothing?"

"No, nothing." Auron shook his head, but wasn't sure whether it was to point out his own lie or to negate the entire situation. "I'm not attracted to you, and I do not wish for our . . . encounters to continue."

"Your brain says that, but your—."

"Shut up!" Auron snarled. He threw his arms wide, glaring at Jecht defiantly. "You aren't what I want from this world, Jecht, and I know you don't see me like that, so would you please just leave me—."

"Who said what? I don't see you how, Auron?" Jecht was kneeling before him by that point, staring into his eyes at a point-blank range that made Auron quake and want to hurry away from the situation. He stood his ground, his fists tight and his jaw set.

"I hate you." He gritted it quietly, his eyes never leaving Jecht's. Jecht smirked, a tiny, quiet laugh leaving his lips in a short puff of air that ghosted just the side of Auron's lips.

The burst of movement lasted shorter than Auron's flying heart. Jecht reached for his wrist, just as Auron brought up a fist, and connected firmly with his jaw again. Together, they fell back on the bed; Auron struggled with the firm grip on his wrist, growling and swearing under his breath; Jecht rolled them both, until the smaller man was pinned beneath him, still struggling violently beneath him.

"Hey, cut it out—damn it, Auron—damn it, Auron, hold still for a minute, I'm trying to—Auron!"

There was a dull noise, and Auron stilled, his gaze passing slowly to the fist flexed into the mattress just beside his temple, a shuttering breath leaving his lips. If Jecht had moved one hair closer, he would've connected very painfully with Auron's face.

"Are you listening now?" He leaned in close, bumping their foreheads together and holding Auron's gaze powerfully. "Now, you're gonna shut the hell up and listen to me, or I'm gonna hogtie you, gag you and make you listen."

There was no rebuttal to that, though Auron's smoldering glare quickly reiterated his earlier missive. Jecht left his fist planted beside Auron's head, and gripped his shoulder with the other one, shaking him.

"Look, I don't know what the hell Braska said to you, and I really don't care. But I'd like to know where you got the fucked up idea that I'm doin' all this just to piss you off. And it better be damn good."

"You have a wife," Auron hissed. Jecht snorted.

"Yup. And she's been dead for almost a thousand years." His grip tightened on Auron's shoulder, beginning to make the muscle and bone ache in protest. "Try again, kid."

"You want to go back to Zanarkand."

"Well, shit. Trust me, if I thought screwin' around with you could get me there faster, you wouldn't be lyin' here with all your clothes on." Auron blushed darkly, and sucked in a breath as Jecht's hand tightened on his shoulder again. "Lucky number three?"

Auron grumbled darkly under his breath, and looked away from Jecht. Jecht stared at him for a moment, before leaning forward just a bit more, until his ear was just beside Auron's lips, and his mouth set askew to Auron's own ear.

"I didn't catch that, kid," he whispered. Auron gave a breathy sound, and Jecht could just feel the flutter of long lashes darting on his cheek.

"You don't love me." The breath of words was hard to make out from the slur of Auron's gravely voice. Jecht smiled against Auron's ear, and slowly pulled back, releasing his shoulder and sitting back on his ankles over Auron's hips.

"What gave you that idea?" Auron stared at the ceiling blankly, and didn't speak. Jecht chuckled lightly, and rose from the bed.

He didn't leave for a minute, standing at the door. Auron could feel him there, staring out at the walkways of Kilika Port and the growing half-dark. His strides were heavy when they came back to his bedside. His lips were warm, and almost tender.

Auron laid very still in the dark, after Jecht had left, and wondered over the ache in his chest.

The trip on the S.S Liki to the Isle of Besaid was slightly more tolerable, in that an apothecary on Kilika had made some vile-tasting concoction for Auron to drink which settled his stomach like nothing else. The sea was calm and beautiful, all dark, glassy blue-green as far as the eye could see, with just a slight breeze at their tail.

Jecht was messing with the recorder. He had not mentioned the incident on the houseboat after it had occurred, and Auron had been at once relieved and little put off. Still, it had given him time to reflect on the change in events, and to analyze his own response and thoughts on the entire matter.

Auron was distinctly aware of Jecht filming himself and Braska as they stood side-by-side looking out over the ocean.

"After we get that aeon on Besaid," he asked, "where're we going?"

"Back the way we came," Braska replied gently, shrugging one shoulder. "Then we go north from Bevelle, and climb Mt. Gagazet." He turned then, and looked directly at Jecht. "Beyond that lies . . . Zanarkand."

Jecht backed up from them a little. He was smiling ruefully, looking up at the sun and squinting at the raw blue sky. "Zanarkand, huh? It's been in ruins for a thousand years, right?"

"So the legends say," Auron replied, looking back at Jecht and watching him intently. He approached him slowly, cautiously. "No one knows for sure. Perhaps it is still your Zanarkand."

Jecht smiled at his feet, and quietly murmured, "Thanks for trying, Auron."

Jecht turned off the sphere, and juggled the recorder from hand to hand for a moment. Auron, watching the movements and feeling the sway of the ship, felt a little green all of a sudden. Braska touched his shoulder gently, cocking a brow.

"Do you need to go under?"

"No, my Lord. I should be fine. Actually, I think I might go up higher." He pointed to the upper level, and smiled slightly as he bowed and wandered towards it. Braska nodded, and smiled as well; Jecht wasn't looking at him, but staring out across the ocean.

Auron lay on the upper deck, and simply listened to Jecht and Braska talk to one another.

"I thought if I went with you guys, I might find a way back. But it's not that easy."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, Braska. It's not your fault." There was a pause. "I should be thinking about fighting Sin now, anyway." And then another, longer one. "Zanarkand can wait. But I will find my way back."

"Be careful, Jecht," Braska said.

"Hey, I'll be alright. You're the one who should be careful. Wouldn't want your little girl to cry."

"She'll be alright. She's strong, like her mother was."

The Isle of Besaid was picturesque in its simplicity. There was a small crowd waiting at the dock, though Auron suspected more of them were waiting apprehensively to see if relatives were returning from Luca or further north. Still, several of them smiled and greeted Braska and his Guardians respectfully.

Besaid, like Kilika, was obscure, though perhaps a bit more well known. Nobody really came that far south, except for Summoners, but Besaid's fabrics were known all around Spira. Their Blitzball team was also known, though for completely different reasons.

Besaid Village was tiny, even compared to some of the smaller villages on Kilika, or those that spotted Spira's countryside. Auron looked around, and suddenly found the sphere-recorder shoved into his hands; Jecht smiled a little, stretched, and sauntered towards the temple.

"Smallest heap of huts I ever seen." Braska chuckled, and stepped up along side Jecht.

"Now, that looks like a fine place to live." He sobered a little, sighing thankfully. "Auron."

"My Lord?" He stepped up, watching Braska's profile carefully. Braska was quiet, a little somber, but the smile was still on his face.

"When this is over . . . could you bring Yuna here? I want her to lead a life far away from conflict."

"You have my word. I will bring her here."

Braska turned a little, and stared at Auron seriously for a moment. Then, he nodded once, his smile softening.

"Thank you, Auron. You are a good friend."

From somewhere up ahead, closer to the temple, Jecht called out, "What're you guys doin'? Let's go! I'm so hungry, I could eat a whole shoopuf!"

Braska laughed a little. "Sorry. Well, let's go then."

Auron turned the recorder off, and tucked it into his own things, brooding over Braska's request. When this was over . . . he didn't know if any of them would be alive, let alone able to come back for Yuna. Still, if it was within his power, he would see it done.

Braska received the aeon from the temple, and they retired for a short time, before the youth of the island requested a show of the summoner and his guardian's skills. Many of them were Crusader hopefuls, ready to fight for Spira against Sin at a moment's notice. Most of them were younger than sixteen.

At the beach, Braska displayed his summoning skills for them, and even a bit of simple magic he'd learned 'once, a very long time ago'. Most of the youths were impressed. A single, red haired boy sat to the side, a Blitzball at his feet and a bit of scorn in his eyes. Auron approached him slowly, and sat beside him in the fine white sand.

"Not impressed?" The young man ignored him for some time, his eyes sharp on Braska's movements as he summoned something else. Glyphs glowed around him, bright in the growing darkness of the twilight.

The boy watched Braska critically, leaning over his knees a little. Auron looked at the boy's profile. His brown eyes slowly rose to Auron's face, and darted slowly, as though looking for some weak spot to poke through and shatter.

"What if Lord Braska's Calm isn't eternal?" the boy asked, and gestured at Braska. "The Summoners go off, and Sin comes back eventually. What if we don't atone, ya?"

"We will, some day." The redhead shrugged, grabbed his Blitzball, and tossed it into the air. Auron trod on safer ground; "Are you part of the team?" That got a curt little nod, a little shrug to negate that; Auron figured him too young for the team. He gestured to Jecht, off to one side, who was speaking with other blitzers. "Jecht plays as well."

"What team?"

"Ah . . . freelance." It felt a little bitter on his tongue, but it wasn't an absolute lie. The boy nodded a little, and stood. He cast another glance towards Braska, and then looked at Auron.

"I'll fight Sin too, ya."

"We all do." He nodded, and strode off towards the other Blitzers and Jecht. Auron sighed heavily, and sunk behind his knees to watch Braska across the beach.

Some time later, after a bonfire had been lit and Braska had settled down to hear recounting of fiend activity and general news, Jecht sat beside Auron, leaning back in the sand. He looked up at the stars, and was perfectly silent. A warm breeze came off the bay, and swept over them slowly. Auron shucked his jacket absentmindedly, and flopped back into the sand, using it as a pillow.

They didn't speak, just watched the stars and listened to the burble of conversation and crackle of the bonfire.

Braska watched his Guardians, and smiled slightly.