sheffiesharpe (sheffiesharpe) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2007-09-03 00:20:00 |
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Current mood: | amused |
Entry tags: | a: sheffiesharpe, f: final fantasy xii, p: balthier/basch, september 03 |
"Six Points," FFXII (Basch/Balthier)
Title: Six Points
Author: sheffiesharpe
Fandom: FFXII
Pairing: Basch/Balthier
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2850
Warnings: I think I’ve done rugby a grave disservice.
Prompt: “I’ve little to no desire to get tackled to the muddy ground, thank you.”
“I have little to no desire to get tackled to the muddy ground, thank you.” Balthier shakes water from his hands, somehow endeavoring to stay dry in the middle of the Rains, despite having given up on at the Spica’s ability to do the same, to be dry enough to fire. The gun is now in the center of Balthier’s pack, with the powder, wrapped tight in oiled cloth. He wipes at a bit of spattered mud on his calf. All of their legs are brown with it, just from walking, but Balthier is bothered by it.
“But this is the best weather for it,” Basch says. “The ground is soft enough that it doesn’t hurt as much.” And mud doesn’t grit in the eyes the way sand does, doesn’t fly quite so far, though the added challenge of running in sand improves the game, in Basch’s opinion.
“And we need at least two to a side to make it even the least bit interesting.” Vaan already has his blanket wadded up tight, wrapped round with cord until it’s spherical enough to throw.
“And Ashe and Fran are actually busy.” Penelo says the last, points to the last two members of the party as they speak with one of the nomads who has not yet left. There is some matter of a ring, and they will parse it. And Basch will do what he can to let the children enjoy a moment of peace while it lasts. He puts his hand on Balthier’s arm, is distracted by the warmth of his skin through wet fabric. Even his own is somewhat chilled—that is no small part of why he took to Vaan’s idea of a (very abbreviated) bit of ruggerball. Without meaning to, Basch turns his hand over, warms the back of it for a moment, catches himself. Balthier cocks an eyebrow, and Basch clears his throat, grips Balthier’s arm like he would Vaan’s, like a fellow soldier.
“Balthier. Surely you would not let children and an old man shame your lack of vigor?” He knows his ploy is obvious. He still thinks it will work.
Balthier shakes his head, rolls his eyes, but he tucks his pack under the rest of them. “You’d find me plenty vigorous,” he says, and Basch feels warmer already. Balthier does this to him, seems to enjoy it—teasing, innuendo, and Basch knows it’s just his way, but he can’t help but think there’s—no. It’s just his way. He turns his face quickly, takes the ball from Vaan and compacts it further. Balthier’s pouches, then shirt and vest land atop the pile of packs, and Vaan throws in his vest, too. Penelo takes off her daggers, punches Vaan in the arm when he says something about her taking off her shirt, too. Basch unbuckles his swordbelt, takes off his half-coat—no good landing on the buckles—and has to throw in his undershirt, too, because it looks ridiculous by itself and there’s no sense getting that filthy, too.
“Teams?” Vaan says, and Penelo takes Basch by the wrist, pulls him to one side.
“Brains versus…skinny sky pirates.” She grins, and Basch tries not to.
“The appropriate adjectives, thiefling, are ‘lean’ and ‘wiry.’” Balthier crosses his arms over his bare chest, and Basch can see that the backs of his knuckles are strategically placed under his biceps, flattening the lean and wiry muscle ever-so-slightly more broad. Vain thing.
Vaan pulls empty crates into place at either end of the cockatrice corral for goal markers, and inside the fence, the boundaries are pretty clear. Basch is fairly sure they can manage to not crush each other into the fencing—not enough bodies for that. Army leave-time ruggerball—the only markers they could use were colored chalk to outline the field and the goal lines: with objects as markers, the injuries were…ugly. And sometimes hilarious.
“Right.” Vaan is all business. “Boundaries are obvious. No sense in a kicking game with a ball that’s just going to splat on your foot, so tries only—get the ball across the goal line. No forward passes. And no biting.” He glares at Penelo, who looks off to the right, mock-whistling, and he wipes his own wet hair out of his eyes, slicks it all back. “You got all that?” Vaan is looking at his teammate.
“Not exactly advanced technomancy, is it?” Balthier cocks his chin toward the field. “Which goal is our target?” He cracks his knuckles and Basch hides his grin. Whether he’s got any desire to do so or not, Balthier’s going to get tackled. Balthier’s going to get dirty.
Basch and Penelo get the ball first, and she surprises him again. He ought not be surprised anymore by her dexterity. He’s got the ball and Vaan is gaining on him, nearly gets him to stumble twice, and Balthier’s boxing out Penelo by sheer virtue of height—got to fix that on the next play--when she dives between Balthier’s legs, shoves his calf hard enough to push him to the side, and scrambles up through the mud. Basch shovels her the ball, a clean lateral, just as Vaan’s diving for his knees. She scoops it up neatly, dashes. Six points.
Vaan starts the ball on their first possession, and Penelo’s brutal attempt at a tackle ends up being a spectacular wipe-out—she hits a puddle—and as Vaan’s slip-sliding on the wet grass toward the goal, Balthier’s somehow in front of Basch, wherever he turns, a hand on his arm, an ankle between his. Touching. Vaan’s doing a fairly obscene victory dance before Basch gets a chance to go through Balthier.
The points get harder with the rain, with the way their feet are churning more mud through the grass. The next time Basch carries the ball, he’s halfway to the goal, fakes Vaan right out of his shoes, and his foot sticks in a particularly mired spot, goes down, spattered. He tilts his head skyward, lets the rain rinse away the worst of the mud, because he can’t even wipe his face on his arm he’s that filthy. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this dirty and it was this much fun. Shaking the water out of his eyes, he sees Balthier’s sidelong glance, and decides again that Balthier is far too clean.
But Balthier proves irritatingly difficult to catch. He has a natural quickness, even if he’s not familiar with the game, and sure hands: he and Vaan are abusing the lateral pass, and Penelo’s only managed to steal the ball from him once, though she’s stripped it from Vaan’s four times. Basch, though, has patience.
His chance comes on another of Vaan and Balthier’s sneaky laterals—as the ball leaves Vaan’s hands, Penelo flies at the boy, sends them both skidding almost to the fence. And Basch is free to pursue without worrying Vaan’s going for his knees.
Basch gathers himself to spring when Balthier cuts back, spins around Basch, and ends up behind him, his first mistake on the slick ground. Two steps slipped too far—Balthier finds himself facing, not chased. Basch grins. This is going to be fun.
Balthier hunkers down a little, tucks the ball more tightly against his body, and it’s leaving muddy smears on his torso, down his arms. That’s not nearly enough dirt, and Basch and Penelo are already down six points.
“You could give up now. Save yourself the trouble,” Balthier offers.
“No trouble at all.” Basch grins, and waits.
Balthier will go left. He favors that side, always does in battle, and it works perfectly because Basch prefers the right, and when Balthier moves, it will be to both of their better sides. And he does—manages to find purchase enough to dart left, hard, and Basch doesn’t go straight for him. He takes the diagonal—remembers the geometry—because Balthier’s got to stop before the fence, got to go forward, and when he makes that move, Basch will be waiting.
Balthier gets nearly to the fence before he pivots, and he tries another dodge, another cut back inside, but finally the ground gets him, one spot that slows him, and Basch can see him bracing himself. He slows, feigns his own troubles, waits until Balthier gets his feet set, gets comfortable in the run again. It’s so much better if he doesn’t see it coming.
Basch waits until the goal line is right there, and Vaan is trying to yell something to Balthier, but Penelo is sitting on his back and his face is in the grass. There is a suspended moment, battle-clarity, when Balthier has committed himself forward, when Basch weighs his options. He could trip him and leave Balthier muddied and affronted and himself standing. He could slide tackle, which is fun on slick ground, but Balthier has sharp reflexes, might avoid it altogether. He can approach from the side, strip the ball and keep going because he’s sure he’s strong enough to loosen Balthier’s grip. He chooses.
He takes two steps, lunges, low, wraps his arms around Balthier’s ribs and lays them both out, flat on Balthier’s back in the mud. They slide, and Basch can feel earth furrowing under them, sees the water puddling under Balthier’s shoulder as they come to rest in a low spot. The water is cold where it touches, colder than the rain. Balthier is warm, and Basch enjoys that for a dizzy moment—now his lungs heave, with exertion, with something. He rests, forgets himself there on the ground, half on top of Balthier, until Balthier squirms a little, shifts his hips, warm—
“Basch,” Balthier coughs out, and when Basch looks at Balthier’s dirty face, his eyes are wide.
Basch scrambles back. “Gods, I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”
Balthier sits up, too quick to be injured, and puts the sodden blanket-ball in his lap. “No, you’re just heavy.”
But he still looks as though something’s amiss. Basch offers him a hand up, and Balthier takes it, and maybe his fingers slip because the warm drag of Balthier’s fingers finds his wrist, the back of his hand. Basch looks at him, but Penelo’s voice makes him turn.
“You’re supposed to tackle him, take the ball before he’s down, and get our six points back, not have a cuddle.” Penelo waves toward their goal and pulls a chunk of turf from Basch’s arm.
Vaan takes the ball from Balthier, and Basch sees him look Balthier over. “Well, you’re in better shape than I thought you be when I saw Basch square up.”
“Wasn’t so bad.” Balthier is wiping himself with his palms, and the mud only smears. Basch reaches out, scrapes the grass from his back where Balthier keeps missing it—the grass itches--and Balthier looks at him. The chill starts to leave Basch’s chest, the residual heat pooling, when Penelo shoves the ball into his hands.
“Ashe says we get one more shot before we have to go back to the city for the petitioner.” She sets her feet, glares at Vaan, and says, “So we have to score.”
“You let Basch by you, Balthier, and I’ll tell Migelo you let Penny get nabbed again.” Vaan points.
“Heavens forfend,” Balthier says, his voice cool and dry again, but he crouches across from Basch like he means business.
Basch laterals to Penelo right away, knows Balthier is gunning for him this time, and as soon as the ball leaves his fingers, Balthier is against him, tight to his side, one hand across Basch’s chest, holding him back.
“Foul,” Basch says, breathless, to Balthier, because Penelo is running circles around Vaan, and he keeps cutting her off when she tries to break past him.
“Are we playing by the rules, then?” Balthier’s breath, too, is warm, a different kind of humid than the air, one that curls around his ear and heats it. Balthier’s arm starts to drift, starts to relax and pull away. This is Basch’s chance.
He slides his own arm back, drags his hand over the heavy wet leather of Balthier’s trousers and up, his other hand pressed back flat on Balthier’s stomach. Balthier jostles him front, and Basch’s left hand falters, drops, and that’s the front of Balthier’s trousers, the decorative seams, the buttons—the warm, raised swell of his cock, and Balthier pulls him close.
He needs to disentangle himself. They need six points. He needs—and the flash of Penelo’s water magic hits the ground in front of Vaan. He flounders, she sprints, they have six points, and Basch knocks Balthier’s feet from under him, rolls over to pin him into the mire again. Balthier arches into him, only for a moment, and then the soppy squelch of feet makes them both pull away enough.
Penelo is trailed by a particularly wet Vaan. Her steps stop short, though Vaan comes close, shakes himself like a dog.
“A little more help would have been nice, Basch,” Penelo says, but she’s grinning her secretive grin.
“Help? I think a lakeful of Watera is enough help, you little cheat.” Vaan flops down, pats Balthier on his muddy, bare shoulder. Basch wonders if he notices the heat. It doesn’t look like it. Vaan tries to throw a handful of wet grass at Penelo; it sticks to his fingers instead. “We win by virtue of not cheating,” Vaan says.
Basch knows he should move, that he should at least sit up more, sit back and let this be the end of it. Balthier stretches, his arms broad, and he shifts his hips again, lets his neck crack, and comes to rest with one hand easy on Basch’s back. “Actually, Vaan, I had him in a two-point obstruction without attempting a play on the ball-carrier, and to be perfectly honest, I hadn’t any intention of observing the three-pace progress regulation.” There’s a brief press of palm, and then the hand leaves Basch’s back, wipes instead at the mud on Balthier’s chest. “So I think we’re obligated to allow Penelo her breach of the rules, too.”
Penelo crows and Vaan lifts himself from the ground, trudges back toward the hut where Ashe and Fran are waiting, Penelo on his heels, twirling the ball around him.
Basch rakes his rain-pressed hair out of his eyes, backs up so Balthier can right himself. They aren’t touching anymore, but Balthier keeps glancing at him as he does what he can to wipe away the worst of the mud. He holds his palms out flat, to rinse them, but the rain has gone too slow and too soft to do it now.
Balthier is a puzzle. Basch knows that. Knows also that he’s holding some of the pieces, but he’s not sure where they fit. Balthier stands, rubs his hands down the length of each leg, pushing the water from the leather, bent nearly double and dripping. He knows he’s staring. Can’t do anything about it.
Balthier glances at him again, runs a muddy hand through his hair, grimaces when he realizes what he’s done. “Something troubling you?”
Basch finds words, is surprised what they are when they leave his mouth. “You said you didn’t play, but then you quoted the rulebook at Vaan.”
Balthier shakes his head. “You weren’t paying attention. I was trying to decline the mud.” He twists to look at his back, the green-brown streaks on his trousers, and makes another face. “I said nothing about not enjoying the game.”
“But—”
Balthier runs his hand down Basch’s side. “I’ve no objections to a good, hard tackle.” His hand slides back up. “Only the mud. It’s hell on the leather.”
Later, when they are all dry and clean, and the petitioner has his ring, and they their reward, and even the Sandsea is starting to quiet, Basch makes it a point to get behind Balthier on the staircase, to pull him back when he reaches the landing.
“I thought you played by the rules.” Balthier leans into him, slides against him as Basch opens the door.
“I do.” Basch backs away a pace, as if to light the second lamp, and Balthier looks disappointed at so much light, the way they light the lamps for cards or riddles. “And I wanted to clarify your explanation to Vaan earlier.” Basch takes a step to the left, half a step back, and he can see Balthier charting the growing distance between them with slumping shoulders. “Because the Dalmascan variant says that incidental contact is allowable—”
“Incidental?” Balthier looks caught between indignance and despair. He lights the lamp, puts the glass over the flame, steps away from the table.
“—allowable if it’s part and parcel of a good, clean tackle.” Basch launches himself, exactly as he had earlier. He manages to get them to fall on the woven carpet, and their bodies don’t slide at all. The floor is solid beneath them, but Balthier’s mouth is lush and wet under his tongue, and Basch feels himself slip.