kinkfest | Final Fantasy XII (Bergan/Zecht) (Reply)

Title: Tolerance
Author/Artist: Anya
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Rough smex
Word count: 3,835
Summary: Bergan dislikes his new roommate on sight.
A/N: October 2 - Loyalty: he was a noble warrior

Oct 2 - - Final Fantasy XII, Bergan/Zecht: Loyalty - he was a noble warrior

Tolerance

To the intruder's credit, he did look somewhat sheepish amongst the wall of hastily sealed boxes, scrolls, ancient pillows and even a poorly rolled orange quilt. Bright orange. Bergan felt his left eye begin to twitch gently as he surveyed the disorder and his new roommate, who was off duty at the moment and therefore dressed in alarming shades of colorblind purple.

"Foris Zecht?" Bergan inquired cautiously, stretching out his gauntleted fist. He had returned from blade practice when Ghis had informed him that his new roommate had finally decided to move in, and what said roommate's name was. Ghis had smirked when he had said this, but Bergan hadn't been curious. He wasn't one for gossip or after-hours social drinking, and as such very rarely touched much at all on the constant politics that took place in the Department, or kept himself up to date with the reputes of various students.

After all, there was no real need for him to – as a member of House Bergan, his place on the judicial roster had been all but confirmed, and a place on the High Bench was an eminent possibility whether he felt like indulging in politicking or not. Hidebound in tradition, the Department customarily had a Bergan and a Ghis on the Bench.

"Pleased to meet you. I had rather thought you would be at practice," Zecht spoke in a florid drawl, his handshake confident and firm.

The other Judge was slighter of build, compact, handsome and muscular, his smile easy and roguish, his high forehead framed in a sleek scalp of silver hair that was trimmed short past the arch of his skull, to taper down neatly to combed sideburns. Bergan read vanity, arrogance and intelligence in equal shares, and disliked his new roommate at once.

"I thought it polite to greet a new roommate. I am Thuron Bergan."

"I've heard of you," Zecht's smile was pure charm, and therefore something Bergan had seen on enough passing faces in the nobility-saturated Department to know not to take at face value.

"Good for you," Bergan replied bluntly, already tiring of the niceties, wishing himself back on the grounds.

Bladework was far more straightforward, more his world than the delicate ripostes of polite conversation. At least he had made some effort yesterday to clear up the other half of the room: it wasn't difficult, admittedly – Bergan treated his room just as a place to rest his head at night, and if it was neat it was because it wasn't particularly lived in. He caught Zecht's eyes wandering to the stark plainness of his walls and his closed armoire, so unlike a cadet's room, watched him purse his lips, and tired of the situation altogether.

"I'll be at practice if you need me," Even the politeness sounded gruff, grudging, but Zecht merely grinned, and this time, his smile reached his eyes, with genuine pleasure. Somewhat taken aback, Bergan hesitated. "Is something amusing?"

"Nothing," Zecht tossed his pillows onto the other bed, then the mattress. "It's always a pleasure to find interesting people."

Bergan frowned. He hadn't been called that before and wasn't particularly sure what to make of it. Zecht's tone didn't sound insulting in the least – quite the opposite, with a silky little undertone that felt out of place. Bergan was at least a head taller than Zecht, built broad over the shoulders, already scarred from battles fought for his House's older duty, as Solidor's guard; his pale brown hair was cut almost to the scalp, and his nose had been broken one too many times for his face to ever make him look like anything more than an armed thug in plate armor.

Puzzling out the annoying ponce would take too much effort, however, and Bergan decided to just walk away. He didn't have much of an impression of his roommates, in any case: he had not even been particularly curious as to what had happened to the previous one, a pale thin boy with watery gray eyes, heir to the massive and ancient Yathrada fortune. Men dropped in and out of the Department all the time: it was just a place where the nobility tended to dump their sons in the hope that they would receive a respectable education as well as forge future alliances in the difficult world of the blue-blooded.

Bergan supposed that was one thing he and his family tended to have in common – the Bergans had traditionally disdained the need for networking, free to view all the little skirmishes with aloof disdain. He didn't know of Foris Zecht and supposed he didn't care: the memory of that roguish smile faded quickly as he strode out from the crumbling sandstone stair into the packed dirt of the practice field.

Life conspired to provide him with far too much information of his new roommate at the same time that his new roommate appeared to have decided, as it were, to stalk him. Zecht was suddenly in most of his classes, particularly the lectures, running into him in the corridors, or at the libraries, awake when he was back in the rooms to sleep: hells, sometimes Bergan caught a glimpse of a skulking dark-skinned figure when he was called upon in his traditional function as an Imperial guard to the youngest prince whenever his Highness' three year old mind took upon itself the whim to explore Upper Archades (properly escorted of course).

Very much taken aback and more than a little disturbed Bergan naturally first reacted with confrontation, in their rooms one night, growling at Zecht's cheerful hello with a "Why are you following me about?"

Zecht's expression of innocence was artful enough for theatre, and it made his fists itch. "Following you? My dear Bergan, you must be quite mistaken. We are both Judges; 'tis natural that we might see each other about on the grounds."

"Military philosophy is a small class. I would have noticed were you to have taken it before."

"I took the liberty of reading one of your texts when you were away and found it quite interesting."

"I know for a fact that you should not be in any of my practices."

"Sadly my current practice session is inconvenient for my schedules, since I try to take some classes with my other friends."

Bergan felt like disputing how he had been so easily included into the circle of Zecht's friends, but decided that at this moment it would be too childish and undignified. "I've seen you lurking about whenever I am escort to Prince Vayne."

"Sadly enough an Imperial procession, even be it on the will of a child, is spectacle to most Archadian citizens."

Bergan curled the fingers of his fists tight into his palms and took a deep breath. He supposed he was doing fairly well: were he his father, he would have dragged Zecht by the scruff of the neck to the grounds by now and proceeded to try to cut him to ribbons. Were he his grandfather, Zecht would already be dead. Unfortunately, Bergan had had the somewhat civilizing effect of a strong-willed mother and two similarly willful younger sisters, and if his hereditary murderous reaction to verbal bafflement was not curbed it was at least better controlled.

"Do as you will," he snapped, and pointedly stalked out of the room. A long walk would calm him down.

Somewhere near the library he nearly walked over Ghis, who was absorbed in balancing a stack of books in his arms. Ghis had already been picked as associate to Magister Salkian, and despite his near-guaranteed place on the Bench had enthusiastically applied himself to his new role. The Ghis family had always rather enjoyed the practice of Law: the Bergans, on the other hand, had really had it handed to them as a legitimizing cover. 'Judge', after all, sounded far better than 'Armed killer'.

Grudgingly helping Ghis to carry the books to the Thirteenth's Chambers, Bergan decided that he would break one of his personal rules. "Tell me about Zecht."

"Has it reached that stage already?" Ghis' smile was tight and malicious. Their families were close and ancient allies, and as such, Ghis was free from observing his usual guard. Bergan tolerated his company better than most, socially: with him, Ghis did not bother with necessary masks, and they could both be as frank as they liked. Besides, the fortunes of their families, as closely tied as they were, meant that he could confide in Ghis fairly safely, and as such, Bergan told him somewhat haltingly of Zecht's conduct and his own instant dislike.

Ghis was nodding absently by the time they reached the Thirteenth's Chambers. "He's a well known maverick in the Department. Brilliant mind and a talented swordsman, but his attitude is so poor that 'tis unlikely he will rise higher than Judge."

"Attitude?"

"Zecht enjoys mischief, Thuron, and he's unpredictable, manipulative, and oddly enough, fiercely principled. 'Tis a dangerous combination in a Judge."

"Family?"

"He's from one of the tithe-states, Omria. Dark skin, silver hair. One of the large noble houses."

Bergan put the books down where directed automatically, thinking. With that assessment it was fairly clear that the stalking was mere mischief, and Zecht was just another blue-blood cadet with far too much time on his hands: certainly not something unusual. So he was somewhat surprised when Ghis paused just as he let himself out of the Thirteenth's antique double doors, and stared keenly at Bergan.

"Careful, Thuron. Zecht's a dangerous man."

"What happened to his previous roommate?"

"The previous roommate was Zargabaath, now Magister," Ghis said, with delicate emphasis. Magisters had their own private chambers, and the Department was always in desperate need of space. Small wonder Zecht had been allocated to him. "A close friend of Zecht's, by all reports. You'll do well not to make trouble: just ignore him if you need to."

"I've no need of such advice," Bergan said, a little irritably. He already knew better.

It was around when Bergan was finally getting used to being followed around that Zecht began talking to him, chatty and familiar and so very annoying. Talking at him, at least – Bergan had already perfected his House's monosyllabic answering grunts, but his clear animosity at the unwanted company seemed to slide off Zecht as easily as water off a duck. Usually Bergan would simply proceed to ignore the person speaking to him until they went away, but Zecht was not only persistent, there was something about the damned rogue that made him difficult to ignore in the first place. Bergan was beginning to be sure that Zecht could hear him grinding his teeth in pure irritation.

Still, killing someone outright in blind fury, however provoked, was rather frowned upon when the other person was a member of nobility (as Bergan's father had stressed to him before he had been enrolled), and the Solidor child he had been assigned to was too young yet to be very much protection at all. Bergan applied himself to his studies for the first time since enrolment, reasoning that the sooner he could get to associate, the sooner he could get to Magister. Said problem would then likely be resolved, and besides, it meant that he could hide in the Thirteenth's Chambers, ostensibly to read Ghis' books and obsessively perfect notes. Zecht seemed to avoid Ghis, and Bergan could tolerate Ghis better than Zecht.

His solution ironed out, Bergan settled with relief back into routine, and his partners at practice began to take fewer bruises.

Unfortunately stability again became merely fleeting: one night Bergan let himself back into the dark shared room, familiar enough with its layout to close the door behind him, and was about to head towards his bed when a warm frame abruptly pressed up against him, an arm clasping him tight around his waist, fingers curling around the base of his skull. The shock stunned him for a moment, enough for lips to fumble against his, part, teeth to nip, and Bergan tasted malt, beer, realized that he was growling, that the body against him was a) naked save for shorts, b) the back his fingers were splaying over was muscular, c) the door had been locked and d) the person in his arms was letting out a breathy, hungry little sound that the lower half of his body immediately found very interesting.

"Zecht?" Bergan hissed, only to be kissed again, this time more thoroughly, and his brain managed to point out that a) Zecht was male, b) how the hell had Zecht known, and c) he technically loathed the man, before his body took over and pushed his thigh between Zecht's legs, felt the slighter man rub himself against it shamelessly, felt Zecht's moan as a shudder in his body.

"You're drunk," he managed to say, panting, blinking in the darkness. The small window they had was curtained, and he could barely make out Zecht's outlines in the dark.

"Necessary contingency," Zecht murmured, and Bergan knew the rogue was grinning, lopsided perhaps with drink, tipsy and unstable, "Otherwise I find it very difficult to do things that would very probably get my nose broken."

Zecht talked too much. Absorbed in roughly kissing Zecht silent, Bergan ignored his mind's remaining logical protests and slipped one hand down to cup the man's pert arse, squeezing it, then pulling him flush against his hips in emphasis, growling deeper as the swell in his uniform breeches pressed against that in Zecht's thin shorts, making it clear what exactly was going to happen if Zecht didn't pull away. The other man merely groaned, and began to roll his hips eagerly – that, more than anything, was too much a warning for his body to suppress.

"You're drunk," he tried again, his voice husky, and felt Zecht shiver. "You don't know what you're doing."

"A noble warrior," Zecht spoke against his neck, mouthing a kiss over his skin, "Perhaps 'tis why you've somehow managed to miss all the cues altogether."

"Cues?"

Zecht sighed, and there was a little tremor in that, as though of laughter, and fingers were picking his jacket open, then his shirt, pulling them off his shoulders, and he wasn't resisting. "If 'tis easier to understand – very well, I want you to fuck me. Hells, I've wanted that since the first week."

The turnabout and the new information was definitely not computing, but Bergan's instincts overruled the last vestiges of his rational mind, which he demonstrated by roughly dragging down Zecht's shorts. The man laughed – laughed! – then blinked at him as he switched on the lights. Zecht's cheeks were flushed, even with the dark hue of his skin, and naked, the man was beautiful, draped over him, his lips upturned. Bergan kissed him again, thrusting his tongue deep into Zecht's throat, as they stumbled heavily back against his desk, enough for him to grab a potion from the upper shelf and fumble the stopper open. Fingers curled tight into his shoulders, as he pushed the first slicked digit into Zecht's tight rump.

Bergan caught and held Zecht's chin when he pulled away, enjoying the rogue's dazed state, watched him jerk and gasp as a second finger squeezed into him. "This will hurt in the morning."

"If I were looking for anything other than what I know you'll give me, I'll inform you," Zecht replied breathlessly, and ground his hips down on the fingers.

That decided matters for Bergan – he shoved Zecht onto his bed, watched the other Judge throw out a hand to prevent himself from colliding with the wall, sprawled in delicious abandon on the sheets, his legs curled at the edge of the bed. It wasn't a good height, but it would have to do: he undid the laces on his breeches with fingers too slick to be stable, massaged the rest of the potion onto his own eager prick, and looked up to see Zecht staring.

"You're bigger than I thought," Zecht said frankly, though his lascivious smirk told Bergan that this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

It didn't seem necessary to reply in so many words – he set a palm down next to Zecht's cheek, cupped the man's weight in his other, fingers circling over his hips, the firm arse, and thrust between open thighs. Zecht arched with a gasp; the preparation hadn't been enough, but legs curled quickly around him, and Bergan waited for the tight heat around him to relax enough for him to move, not bothering for cues from Zecht, hungry with an almost violent lust that had seemed to rise from everywhere and nowhere at all.

Bergan kept his feet planted firmly on the ground, cradling Zecht's hips up to meet his, arched over him, and began to drive into him with brutal thrusts, marking time with the headboard's dull rhythm against the wall, Zecht's gasping cries, ignoring the flushed prick bouncing over the other man's belly, not bothering to try and find Zecht's pleasure. Something in the sheer savagery of their coupling was exciting Zecht, in any case – the prick between them was slick now, and his cries were getting plaintive, dark-skinned fingers fisted tight over the edge of the bed and in the sheets. Bergan held Zecht's glazed eyes grimly, imprinting his possession, knowing that despite the potion Zecht was sure to be painfully sore on the morrow; memorized the velvet look of Zecht's skin with the sheen of sweat, his swelling lips, the silver hair plastered to his scalp.

Zecht let out a yell when release took Bergan, buried balls-deep in the other Judge, waited squirming and gasping until Bergan pulled away and slumped on the bed, spooning Zecht's back up against his chest. "Finish yourself off."

"Not one for niceties," Zecht managed to whisper in his hoarse voice, but obeyed, and Bergan waited until the strokes hastened before sinking his teeth into Zecht's shoulder, held him tight until Zecht rode out his own ecstasy.

Zecht turned out to be a fairly obnoxious bed partner, always somehow managing to crowd Bergan onto the edges or hog the sheets, up until he lost patience and would half-carry, half-drag the other man to his own bed and dump him there, ignoring sleepy protests and random flailing. And then repeat the process a couple of hours later when he awoke to a start to realize Zecht had burrowed back onto his bed and was on the verge of tipping him out. All in all, Bergan was beginning to lose sleep, which made him somewhat more surly than usual.

It was beginning to show. This was made far too clearly apparent when, somewhat abruptly, at the royal stables, Vayne tugged at his guardian's cloak (an annoying habit of the child's of getting Bergan's attention that Bergan had so far been unable to talk him out of) and asked, very innocently, "Do you have a toothache, Thuron?"

"No sir," Bergan blinked, having been occupied in snarling at cowering stablehands for tying the bridle on too tightly to his ill-tempered charger, Sacher. "Why do you ask?"

"You have been in a poor mood for a long time," Vayne said primly. "I can only conjecture that it has been toothache."

Silently, Bergan wished that a) Vayne was not at the age where he felt memorizing large words meant he could appear older and, b) the boy's linguistics tutor was dead. It was somewhat embarrassing sometimes to pause and try to guess at the meaning of the words, and then try to guess at what Vayne was really trying to say. Thankfully, so far the sentencing structure had been smooth going, but it worsened as Vayne explained himself, and Bergan emerged from the eventual ride with a mild headache and a very random, vague impression that he should avoid the Palace whenever the Emperor had problems with his teeth.

Somewhat later, after passing the day with enough of a darkening cloud that even Magisters kept out of his way, Bergan retired to his room to contemplate the vagaries of fate, or in not so many other words, to brood. Brooding came naturally to Bergans: their angular faces were built for it, with their sharp black eyes and square jaws and their tendencies to accumulate scars. He needed some space, some silence.

It was perhaps unfortunate that Zecht was in the room, looking disorganized and in fact actually partially under his own bed, rump in the air, swearing to himself fluently in Dalmascan.

"Zecht?" Bergan asked cautiously, closing the door behind him. "What are you looking for?"

"Set of file notes, green ribbon," Zecht replied, and sneezed. Bergan sighed, and bent down to the haphazard stacks of paper that populated Zecht's side of the room.

One hour later, Zecht kissed him in sheer relief, brandished the notes and sprinted off in the general direction of the Ninth Chambers. Only when the footsteps had faded did Bergan remember that he had been angry.

"You're foolish," Bergan said bluntly, once Zecht sat down. The man looked different without his sleek silver hair, now shaved save for the sideburns, and dressed in horrific shades of orange and silver.

"Oh?"

"I could have arrested you. I should." Bergan looked away. Balfonheim had the most beautiful taverns, and the Whitecap was no exception. "I shouldn't have agreed to meet you."

"So you should, and you shouldn't," Zecht smiled, but there was a tightness in the smile now, and his eyes were haunted, and the fingers that crept across the table to his were slow. "I took the brat. If you have chance to meet his father you can tell him he is well."

"You are not seriously considering turning pirate."

"I am already a pirate," Zecht shrugged. "By definition. And I notice you did not say that I should not have run."

"I am glad you did," Bergan made no move to curl his fingers around the other man's. "As I am glad you are safe. But I do not like how you have settled so close to Archades."

"Do you speak as a friend, a Judge, or a Bergan, Thuron?" Zecht smiled, and this smile was just as the one from the beginning, guarded and only outwardly friendly. Things had changed in Nabudis, without him even being party to it, and if Bergan was one to consider philosophy he would have felt more keenly the injustice. But in all things he was a Bergan, and his kind were bred for few traits.

"All of the above," Bergan said, and he squeezed Zecht's hand, then drew away his fingers, rose to his feet. He had expected to feel pain of some sort, any sort, but he only felt a cold emptiness. "But in neither of those worlds do I belong here. We'll not speak again, I suspect."

"Someday your loyalty will be your executioner."

-fin-