kinkfest | Final Fantasy XII (Larsa/Basch) (Reply)

Title: The Last of Meeting Places
Author/Artist: aliana_iskassa
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for the end.
Word count: 1,668
Summary: I am a poor replacement for dancing sky pirates and fathers and brothers,’ Basch thought.
A/N: The prompt was ‘Larsa/Basch: Loyalty kink – “oath of fealty”’. Betaed by the wonderful [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com].

Basch fon Ronsenburg slumped against the door to his rooms, slapping a gauntleted hand at the keypad blindly. He hit it, ignoring the long scratches his claw-tipped gauntlets left in the wall. The door slid shut with a hiss of hydraulics, locks engaging with muted clicks. He closed his eyes, breathed out in a long sigh.

‘I should hate you, Gabranth.’ He couldn’t call him Noah, not anymore. That name had died with Landis, had died in blood and fear and pain and in the way his twin had turned and left him there.

But he couldn’t hate him- had probably never hated him- and so was forced to wear this heavy armor, heavy not just with the weight of a hundred pounds of steel, but with the burden of an emperor’s life and a dying man’s last wish. He sighed again, feeling the air hit the metal and condense on his skin in cooling droplets.

He sat down on the bed, raised hands that trembled with exhaustion, inside the gauntlets that were too big, to his neck, and began undoing the latches, one after another, and fitted his hands into the slots, pausing, the way he always did. A few seconds ticked by, before he pulled off the helmet and set it aside, looking into the mirror, afraid to see Gabranth’s face.

Even more unhealthily pale, now; hair silvering at the temples; jaw dusted with stubble; gray eyes tired. Still not Gabranth.

Not himself, either. The locks disengaged, making him blink, look up. There wasn’t any reason for anyone to call at this hour of the night, not after he had given up his watch to Zargabaath. It unsettled him, still, to give up his duty to another, after he had sworn his oath to Larsa, an oath of fealty and loyalty that would last until his death.

Larsa stepped inside, his bare feet making little noise upon the tile, ill-fitting nightclothes- they had fitted scarcely a week ago, and now Larsa’s growth spurt was only going to give the already overworked seamstresses more- too tight on his skinny frame. His hair gleamed blue-black in the light from passing airships filtering in through the window.

“Basch?” He fought the urge to close his eyes, once more, and stood, straightening to attention, the armor clicking with his movements. A relief, to hear his name spoken again, when he sometimes thought, after nights of sifting through reams of paper and judicial decisions marked with a dead man’s signature, that it had been lost. Even if he would only ever hear his true name in the confines of this room, it would be enough.

“Don’t get up.“ Larsa crossed the room in three strides, waving him back to his seat impatiently. “After six years,” the emperor of Archadia said, as if scolding a child, “I would think that we would be over the formalities.” Basch began to undo the latches on his gauntlets before replying, stung by the chiding tone.

“After six years, the threats to your life have only grown larger, Your Highness. It is important that I be ready.” One gauntlet slid off, set aside carefully, to be cleaned in the morning. Larsa folded his arms over his chest, regarding him with the look of someone grown much too old before their time.

“I would not have you unhappy,” the child Emperor finally said, his expression troubled. ‘They’re all so ridiculously perceptive, these young rulers,’ Basch thought ruefully as he pulled his left gauntlet off and flexed stiff fingers.

“’tis not the work that causes me to be tired, Highness.” Larsa came closer, knelt on the floor at his feet. Basch watched him move, somehow too tired to protest his charge’s abasement.

“It is something more intangible, then?” Slender fingers moved to undo the catches hooking the plates of his boots together, somehow practiced and graceful, despite unfamiliarity. ‘He would have made a good squire.’ A boot loosened, and Larsa pulled it off him and set it aside. Basch finally found the strength to speak.

“Your Highness, I am able to do-“ Larsa cut off his words with nothing more than a glance, dark eyes- somehow like Vossler’s, and that was a terrible thing to say, when all he can truly remember of Vossler Azelas now is black eyes filled with fire and a callused hand wrapped around him- skeptical.

“You swore an oath to follow my orders, and as your charge, I am ordering you to sit still and let me do this.” Basch snapped his mouth shut. Another boot off. One of the greaves, exposing the black leggings worn underneath the stifling plate. Larsa set it all aside neatly, dark hair hiding his face from Basch’s sight as he continued removing Gabranth’s- never his- armor.

“You seem to be confident with this armor,” he tried, awkward. His purpose was to protect and serve others, not to be served by one he serves. The last greave was gone. Larsa moved up to sit beside Basch on the bed, long, coltish legs curled underneath him, pale hands moving to unsnap the hooks where the backplate and breastplate joined. Backplate fell back, the draft of cool air slipping up underneath the gray linen tunic. Basch knew he should say something, should usher Larsa from the room gently, should make some excuse.

“As part of my training as a child in putting other’s needs before my own, I was assigned to help Gabranth with his armor at night. I could not be a squire for a soldier, but Gabranth had gained enough trust for my father to approve the match.” Ah. Even here, Gabranth had come first. Larsa’s hands slid past the deadened scarring on his shoulders to lift the breastplate, emblazoned with curling greenery and the dragon of Archadia, free.

Basch bent enough to pull his socks off, laying them aside. For a moment, he felt that he might laugh at the absurdity of the situation, that he, Basch fon Ronsenburg, exile and knight, was sitting on his bed dressed only in tunic and trousers with the Emperor of the Archadian Empire sitting behind him in his nightclothes, hot breath fanning out over his neck.

“You worry me, Basch.” Arms stole around his waist, a skinny form molding itself to his back, dark head resting on dead skin. He stiffened, hands going to encircle Larsa’s wrists gently and extricate himself. Larsa spoke, breath stirring his hair. “No.” And he stopped, bound by fealty. “When did you last eat?” He blinked once, slowly. There seemed to be no reason for Larsa’s sudden physicality.

It was uncomfortable, and more affecting than it should have been, despite the six years it had been since someone last touched him like this. He recalled the question, answered in a low, bitter mutter.

“Yesterday.” Lips pressed against the back of his neck.

“Basch.” Reproachful. “I realize that the Bureau needs you to sign a myriad of documents, but the agency will not fall apart if you are not there to oversee it for a day.” Larsa’s voice cracked. The questions he wanted to ask were stuck in his throat. ‘Why?’ was the foremost.

He felt Larsa’s skinny frame shudder against him in the unmistakable rhythm of a sob. And then he finally remembered the date, the anniversary of the fall of the Bahamut. He shouldn’t have forgotten.

“Basch.” He bowed his head, let his silvering hair fall to cover his eyes, let callused, rough-hewn hands- hands used to sword and plow- cover slender, pale hands wrapped around his waist.

“Yes?” The hands curled around his own, the hands of a wounded child seeking affection from the one person who was bound by fealty to give it.

“Kiss me.” ‘I am a poor replacement for dancing sky pirates and fathers and brothers,’ Basch thought. But Larsa had asked- and for this child emperor, he would kill and die and damn himself- and he had to answer. Even if there was only one answer he could give. Fealty and an oath over the protests of his own conscience.

“Aye.” He turned his head, met Larsa’s dark, dark eyes, large and liquid in his pale face. They were disarming, a powerful weapon Larsa knew how to use to his advantage. Larsa pulled his hands away, made his way across the mattress to sit beside him. ‘I’m sorry,’ Basch thought- he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to- before he slid callused hands up all-too-prominent ribs to cradle Larsa’s face, thumbs tracing the sweep of cheekbones and the delicate arch of eyebrows.

Larsa closed his eyes, shuddered, leaned into the touch. Basch studied him, and finally let himself bend towards him, lips meeting lips. He tried to keep it impersonal, devoid of passion. But Larsa’s hands clenched in his tunic, a soft sound of need escaping him, and it had been so long-

And then it was suddenly a true kiss, and he could taste the watered wine Larsa had drunk at dinner, and feel the slide of Larsa’s tongue past his. His hands moved to cup the back of Larsa’s skull in his palms, feeling silky hair slide through his fingers. Fire like Belias couldn’t dream of coiled around the base of his spine, hot and hungry and licking at his limbs.

And then it was over, and he pulled away. Larsa’s eyes remained closed for a long minute, tongue darting out to sweep over swollen lips, before they opened, dazed and clouded. Basch shifted uncomfortably, wishing his trousers were less confining.

“Thank you.” Larsa’s voice was weak and watery. He tried again, louder this time. “Thank you, Basch.” Basch bowed his head as Larsa slid from the bed.

“You are welcome, Your Highness.” Larsa touched his hand one last time, lingering, and finally left.

He graced Basch with a fleeting smile before the door shut behind him.

Basch lay down, and curled up to sleep in the last remnants of the warmth that Larsa had left behind.