fortitude, [ffxii/ffx, basch/kimahri] Fandom: Crossover FFX/FFXII Title: Fortitude Rating/Warning: R/Xeno Characters/Pairing: Basch/Kimahri Other: for kinkfest prompt ‘Kimahri/Basch, xeno - unexpected but not unwelcome’
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It’s the Ronso that Basch first finds familiar against the sea of strangeness that is this Spira.
Kimahri’s mass is substantial against the others, the children, the shadow. At Basch’s shoulder, before, behind; he feels like an old friend. Kimahri’s silence proves another comfort, here, where an unwary word wounds out of ignorance, and Basch aches for silence after the torrent of words forced from him in Nalbina.
As for Kimahri’s silence, Basch understands why he holds it so close. Despair makes a song soundless; the dearth of alternatives leaves them only this, a sparing eloquence.
Muscle to muscle, a dialogue. Hair to fur, with Basch’s beard rubbing against the line of a fuzzed jaw, forceful as he cannot be against bare Hume skin. Kimahri’s fur parts under Basch’s seeking fingers, shades of black, grey, white, and a surprising tan all mixed to make the blue. Details such as this resolve only in such close proximity. Strength to strength, an argument. The force of shoulder against shoulder, thigh against thigh, of blue on blonde; they match their harsh aches, they sate them in moments of paired solitude. A wet muzzle under Basch’s palm, the wet head of an unsheathed cock at the other.
That -- a startling black when revealed, glistening against matt blue. That -- Basch cannot match, but Kimahri takes him instead with the rough pad of a reciprocal palm, the rasp of a tongue like sand and water, pain and precision. And that -- proves unexpected, for Vossler had never been so charitable.
Scar to scar, an admittance. Basch’s vanity, Kimarhi’s pride. The pair of them homeless, vagrant but for the anchor of her--
Name to name, a delusion. The same dream of redemption, even if they call her by a different title.
Basch looks up at the arch of the sky, the pattern of waves against the shore. Not his homeland, but that is not unfamiliar. Not his duty, but close enough. Who he was is dead and gone. Not his comrade, but then, it was not often one could choose who held the blade at one’s back.
Basch thinks himself fortunate to have been given so many chances at life, at redemption; through it all, to always find such fortitude, silent, at his side.