relative privacy [ffxii/ffvii, tseng/balthier] Fandom: FFXII: OGC/FFVII: AC - Stockmarket AU Title: Relative Privacy Characters/Pairings: Balthier/Tseng Rating: PG Word Count: 638 Other: written for karanguni as a drabble prompt that grew too long. Takes place early in Balthier/Tseng interactions.
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'When I was fifteen,' Balthier tells the horizon, completely at random, 'I wanted to be a spy.'
Tseng is busy with loading the rifle Balthier's given him, but looks up at that comment. Balthier's hair stands on end, starched with the salted wind of his father's lands. Despite that wind, the scarf around his neck never tangles with his own rifle, currently held angled and arrogant across the length of his shoulders. The half a hundred jewelled pieces, ornaments and affectations attached to his clothing flames bronze with sunset.
Balthier's not dressed for The Hunt, (thank God, Tseng thinks, because no American could resist laughing in the face of that, but even in civvies he stands out against any a landscape.
'Espying another man's faults will hardly make your own less noticeable.'
Balthier ignores him. 'I don't know why British Intelligence hasn't contacted me about it yet.'
Life is too short for subtlety; Tseng gives up. 'Balthier, will you look at what you're wearing? And your name is in more papers than the word 'and'. You play up specifically to be noticed. That's not much of a spy.'
'Christopher Marlowe was a spy,' Balthier tells him. 'And a thespian.'
Tseng only realises the man's sulking when Balthier misses his shot. One lucky pair of pigeons live, to fly away.
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Maybe it was the sheer randomness of that comment – or maybe it's the castle, the ghosts (which don't exist), the damned freezingness of the corridor and Tseng's need to prove it truly doesn't bother him to be sneaking back from Balthier's bedroom to his own--
None of the doors are locked, and despite the warren of rooms Balthier lives in exactly four of them, not counting the garage or workshop. And Balthier is inherently, unforgivingly sentimental. Tseng finds what he's looking for so swiftly he nearly laughs. Balthier could scarcely make a spy when his own trail is so unguarded.
The comment was an invitation, Tseng decides. Balthier is never one to say things directly. They exist in today; for Balthier to talk about a yesterday implies, well, something. Tseng doesn't know what the English call this, but for an American it would be his leavers, his last year of schooling, his last memories. The photos are rather more staid than any in an American boy's leavers' book, and look more like criminal mugshots than anything memorable. Tseng is intrigued as well as amused (ok, he's grinning); the hats the boys uniformly wear look like a form of mental torture, especially when coupled with the ridiculously short shorts. The boys – the men – are seventeen. At least. No one over twelve should ever wear shorts.
The sole point of individuality acknowledged resides below the photos. Name: dictated by daddy. School House: prescribed by the principal. Memorable Quote: the idiocy of the individual can be indulged, as long as it fits within two lines or fifteen words…
Tseng nearly misses Balthier's photo –
--he sees Bunansa and thinks, Balthier's real name is Ffamran?--
--and he nearly misses it because there's no photo--
--and he completely misses the heavy creak of the door that should have had him slap the book shut and pretend at innocence, to startle only when Balthier says, strained, 'Tseng…?'
Tseng does not slap the book shut, or do anything that could ever indicate guilt, but he does say, 'Who else were you expecting?'
Balthier steps closer, bare feet muffled in carpet. 'Is that my yearbook? Huh. I've forgotten what I wrote in that. Show me.'
Tseng closes the book before Balthier can reach for it. Possibly a little too quickly; Balthier frowns at him. 'Something witty and profound.'
Balthier snatches, flicks the book open, and stares.
'Well. How fucking original of me.' A flick of the wrist and the book spins through the air, an arc terminating at a wall. 'For crying out loud, Tseng, put on some pants if you're going to wander around after dark. You'll scare off the peasant mob with that waving around.'
Tseng only realises the man's angry when Balthier doesn't make a move once they're both back in his too-large bed.
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'When I was fifteen,' Tseng whispers, into the chill dark of dawn, 'I wanted to be just like my father.'