kinkfest | For Sale, One Soul [Final Fantasy XII: OGC, Noah x Balthier, PG13] (Reply)

Title: For Sale, One Soul
Author/Artist: manic_intent
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Spoilers for whole game
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII-Balthier/Gabranth-prostitution- Gabranth survives but has to find a new line of work
Word count: 2,927

Final Fantasy XII-Balthier/Gabranth-prostitution- Gabranth survives but has to find a new line of work

[A/N: Deliberately misinterpreting the prompt. Sorry guys. : ) So sorry this is late. -.-; Work overwhelmed me.]

For sale, One Soul

Noah had begun his life with his faith on the market; then his family, his country, his mind, his honor and finally, last of all, stripped by the impossibility of metal, mist, and another man’s dragons, he had himself left his blade.

Rikken remembered him from the Akademy with an odd sort of good-humored grace where Noah had half-expected to be turned away. Drifting, Noah had come last to Balfonheim, without his brother’s blessing but just as like with his knowledge, and Rikken, very casually, after listening to stumbling tales, had offered him a token job with token pay. A guardsman captain of a motley bunch of guardsmen-and-one-female-bangaa, tasked with the impossibility of keeping an undefined degree of order in a pirate port.

Sometimes, on nights like these, Noah wondered if there had been a bud of malice under Rikken’s offer that then, too weary too grateful too shell-shocked, then, he had not perceived. The rain was steady enough to drench him to the bone through his patchwork armor, it was well into the early morning, and the only other member of his command awake enough to follow him on call was the bangaa, who didn’t sleep much anyway. S’hera made a low, unhappy hissing sound in the rain, her beaded mane (hair?) drooping, cradling her spear, but of all of his ‘men’ she was the most reliable, for a pirate port’s guard, and he supposed that someday soon he could respect her for that; mayhap when he began to respect himself..

The supposed Public Disturbance appeared to have long ceased by the time they had roused themselves from the guardhouse in the manse and braved the rain; stragglers of various bruising had already been tossed unceremoniously to the street, and from the safety of the gaudy awnings of one of Balfonheim’s brothels of varying ill-repute and bawdiness the whores jeered and shouted abuse.

Noah swallowed his sigh and approached, trying his best not to look threatening, or worse, interested. The Madame glanced at him once he stepped into respectful distance, a dissolute woman with drooping jowls and breasts wrapped in tasteless silks, her smile sharp and the humor in her eyes, sharper.

“The guards, oi, girls, the guards.”

Jeers, giggles, and not a few “You’re late, ser”, but Noah forced his face still. “I take it matters have been resolved?”

“A Landissan speakin’ like an Archadian speakin’ like a Balfie,” the Madame smirked, all teeth and too much of the world. “Ain’t that a treat, girls! You an’ your lady, want to come in out of the cold?”

“I would have to politely decline,” Noah said stiffly, as S’hera made another low, fluting, unhappy whistle, to the rowdy amusement of the whores, then he started, inhaling sharply, as an all-too-familiar, lithe form wriggled through the press of perfumed bodies and used flesh, to the Madame’s side.

He supposed it said enough that Ffamran’s… Balthier’s clothes looked more or less the same, save that the cotton shirt had been changed for blue silk, the cracked leather breeches for sleek black. Balthier’s knuckles were bruised and bleeding, and beside him, one of the girls made a show of bandaging them up, cooing and petting. Painted eyes and the faintest hint of rouge made Balthier look less a customer than a…

“You work here?” Noah said, incredulous.

Balthier spared him a glance, his only surprise at Noah’s presence a faint arch of an eyebrow, then he grinned, as the Madame curled one bangled arm around his narrow waist and dragged him into an embrace both motherly and obscene. “Oh hello,” the sky pirate drawled, stretching out his other hand to be bandaged, “I am afraid the hero has already saved the day.”

“Some customers forgot to pay?” The derision leaked into his tone despite Noah’s attempt to restrain it, and if some of the girls smiled now, teeth yellowed from a’kisha weed, it was with wary hostility.

Balthier, however, merely smirked. “I do rather look askance at customers forcing themselves on ladies, I am afraid. It must be some careless influence of basic humanity. As to pay,” the pirate added merrily, looking him up and down, his eyes insulting and his hands a flutter with dismissal, “I do rather doubt you can afford me.”

“I did not ask.”

“Well, now you would not need to,” Balthier said, so very airily, stepped away from the Madame with a nod of thanks to the girl who had treated his wounds.

“What happened to your sky?” Noah asked bluntly, as Balthier turned to go, and the pirate grinned, over his shoulder, all untroubled.

“Why, ‘tis still above me, man. I can go back whenever I like. You, I am not too sure.”

Landissan stubbornness warred with Archadian-born morbid curiosity until the latter won, if barely. Noah sought out Rikken after his rambling meeting with members of the seabound Merchant’s Cartel, found the pirate king sulking over a glass of brandy in the height of the afternoon, sprawled on a wicker chair under the sun, just out the Manse, his toes pushed into the sand.

A limp wave indicated that he settle into the second, and Noah did so, all stiffness and propriety even in a port of chaos. “Ser.”

“I told you that was fucking strange, did I not?” Obscenity was easy and odd on the lips of a man Noah last remembered as a boy, a harassed cadet ever on Judge-Magister’s Zecht’s heels. “Stop calling me ser.”

“Aye.” He had always called his masters thus; once out of love, once out of faith, once for honor, and now, respect. Rikken had turned Balfonheim from a set of teetering factions at each another’s throats after the death of Reddas to something akin to what it had once been. Better, even. Where Reddas had only ever had enough energy to keep the port stable, Rikken – and Elza – appeared to have enough to make it better. Balfonheim knew its new master cared, where its last had only loved.

“So,” Rikken added, so very absently, “Ran into Balthier?”

Noah had once considered Rikken for his own Bureau, and had sometimes vaguely regretted acceding to Zecht’s insistence. “Aye. It was,” Noah added, a little stiffly, “Somewhat of a surprise.”

“When he came out of Archades, he and Zecht… you remember how Zecht was then, do you not?” A broken man, barely a word save when needed, sightless eyes, trauma. The shard’s reverberation had been devastating, and to its accidental wielder mayhap the most of all. “The girls in that place, and the old Madame, somehow took pity on them. Took pity on Ffamran, more like it, he and his insistent ‘please’s and ‘thank you m’am’s.”

“They made him work?” The disgust was thinly veiled, and Rikken snorted.

“No.” His tone was curt enough for Noah to feel guilt.

“My ap-”

“Save your apologies for the persons you slander,” Rikken said dryly. “You could say he learned, for the first time, the better part of this world. From a whorehouse, of all things. Zecht, as well.” Rikken added, almost absently, “The Madame and the girls adore him.”

Noah ignored Rikken’s veiled warning. “He did not look a visitor.”

“Perhaps he works,” Rikken shrugged. “He has before, for a lark.”

“Where is Fran?”

“Fran goes where she will.” Rikken’s evasiveness was ever shameless. “As should you. This is Balfonheim.” As was his encouragement.

“He said I could not, ah, afford…” Embarrassed, awkward, the words petered to a halt. Noah did not want to but he did, hells if he knew why; Ffamran was an echo of a previous like, and Balthier the man that the shadow had grown into; and even then, Ffamran had been but a friend of a friend, a friend he had executed.

“Gil will not buy him,” Rikken shrugged, languid now, the conversation clearly over.

III

The Madame, less her makeup, looked rather more ordinary in the late morning, though her hard eyes were suspicious as he requested entry as respectfully as he was able. She bared uneven teeth to make a remark, then frowned at the large package held carefully in his hands, sniffed.

“Honey cake?”

“Aye.”

“Hrmph.” The Madame looked him over again, economically, as though evaluating him against the general ill stock of men and yet finding him short, then she folded her arms. “How many?”

“Enough for everyone?” Noah tried a smile. “I was not on my best behavior last night, and must ask pardon.”

“Not working now?” Madame, however, had turned back into the building, without slamming the door in his face, and Noah supposed that some improvement.

“Had the night shift,” Noah explained, following, if not without some trepidation.

Oddly enough, the brothel in its off-hours was clean and smelled persistently of lemon. The gaudy furniture looked faded and worn in the soft sunlight, and in the corners of the ground floor, two of the girls were sweeping, their hair tied up into buns, dressed in plain frocks.

At the low table set to the right, ringed by couches, Balthier appeared to be teaching a string of women of differing ages their letters on scrounged up pieces of papers and pencils. He looked up warily at Noah’s approach, and his smile, even as the package was unwrapped on the table, was carefully controlled.

“And a potion for your knuckles,” Noah said, reaching for the vial at his belt, but Balthier held up one badly bandaged palm.

“No need. Though, the Madame always accepts donations.”

The vial was ferreted away into Madame’s unhesitatingly dowdy evening dress, even as she sat herself down on the couch and called for the two girls on chores to join them. Eight women and two girls in all, Noah counted, and Balthier, elegant even with bandaged hands, no shirt, and fingers full of honey cake. Ffamran had died long hence; that he could well see. Balthier, for all he smiled, with his ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s, ignored him.

On the fourth day of paying court in the morning (there was little else to call it), Balthier sighed, shot one of the girls an incomprehensible glance, and rose to his feet amongst catcalls. The sky pirate rolled his eyes as he sidestepped grinning girls to Noah’s side and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

“My room,” he said, so very dryly, and for all the Noah was about to protest that he certainly was not here for that… not really… Balthier was already striding up the stair.

“Where is that Viera partner of yours?” Noah asked, after, in the small, clean room with the one bed and the neat wardrobe, relieved that it smelled merely of soap.

Balthier’s expression did not change, nor did his tone, but sensing hostility was something Noah did instinctively. “She is in Eruyt. The crash… caused her great injury. She is recovering.” Something flat in Balthier’s voice told Noah that Fran was unlikely to be returning, whether by choice or otherwise.

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Balthier sprawled on his bed, arms behind his head, boots crossed. “She told me someday her ‘mother’ would call her back, hard enough that she would stay. She was never that happy out of the jungle anyway. None of the Viera outside it are.”

“And your ship?”

“My Strahl’s a two pilot girl. If I go back all by myself, I’ll break her heart.” Balthier’s lip quirked, quick enough that humor seemed an afterthought.

“So you look for company in a whorehouse.”

“It’s good logic,” Balthier said, facetiously now, “In a place which trades company for coin. Rather,” he added, a little more seriously, “I am looking for company in a pirate town. With rather poor results, I may add. Care to explain why you are here?”

“It was a place to go,” Noah shrugged, hesitant about seating himself on the bed, and resorting to standing instead, against the single window, arms folded.

“Basch knows?”

“Of course.”

“The two of you are so very fucked up,” The vulgar word is all too easy on Balthier’s pretty mouth, sharp with all his lonely grief; Noah acknowledges it with a forced laugh. “So, what do you have against whores?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Merely a lack of respect. Which,” Noah continued quickly, as Balthier opened his mouth, “Tends to apply equally to most people.”

“I remember that about you.” Balthier’s humor seemed to improve, very fractionally. “You are your brother’s opposite in so many ways, and yet the same.”

“I would beg your pardon.”

“Well! Your brother would not bed me because he did not respect himself enough to do so, and you, you would not touch me because you do not respect me enough to do so. I love Landissans, I must say.” Balthier grinned, and there was no malice or rebuke in the curve of his mouth or the gleam of his eyes, merely mischief, pure and simple. “Am I right?”

“I cannot speak for my brother,” Noah said dryly, “But I can certainly say that I respect you enough to wish I did better the first night I came by this establishment.”

“But not enough to fuck?”

“I said I did not want to-”

“Then all the honey cakes, the wine and the other sweetmeats?”

“An apology. To the women,” Noah said, a little lie in a larger one, but though Balthier arched one graceful eyebrow he seemed to accept Noah’s words at face value.

“Women like to hear you grovel and apologise, by the way. Outright.”

“I will bear that in mind on the morrow.”

“Hah!” Balthier crossed his boots again. “Let’s see that.”

The women laughed in his face, but Balthier smiled, slow and playful behind the angular curve of the Madame’s shoulder; his long legs crossed, and his right thumb hooked lightly into the leather hem of his pants. Noah chose not to see the invitation as what it was. He may now have coin enough, but what little wisdom half his life has taught him advised him not to spend it.

“I am flying tomorrow to Rabanastre,” Balthier announced, sprawled on his back on Noah’s couch, staring up at the ceiling mottled by candlelight, “And I want you to come with me.”

“No,” Noah said mildly, continuing to oil his sword, cross-legged on the wooden ground before an old rag.

“Oh, do spare my feelings,” the drawl was facetious, but the surprise is faint enough to be insulting. Noah chuckled, to add further to injury; Balthier’s pout was swift and fair unmanly. “Come now. Do you like it here? Balfonheim ill suits you.”

“And a life of piracy would suit me better?” Noah survived on purpose, and ill-fitting, ill-cultured, Balfonheim provided him with such semblance as he could live by. “You have no coin with which to buy my blade.”

By the swift curve of Balthier’s lip, Noah could tell that the sky pirate appreciated such petty wordplay. “If you’ll but let me touch you I could put lie to your words.”

“I have no interest in the sorts of intimacy that mere coin can purchase.” In this at least Noah could be honest.

“And myself, no interest in the quality of a blade that mere coin can purchase,” Balthier shot back, a little predictably, “I prefer to steal.”

“Tell that to someone who respects thievery.”

VII

To Noah’s considerable and incomprehensible irritation, Basch seemed utterly unsurprised to see him entwined with Balthier in the pilot’s cockpit of the Strahl, having with typical good-natured Basch presumption boarded said airship without notice. Their shirts had long been discarded beneath the console, but thankfully, the rest of their clothes were still in place.

“I received a letter from Penelo,” Basch said, untroubled. Balthier squirmed a little in his lap to sit up, and Noah found himself curling a palm around the pirate’s flank to keep him from losing his balance.

“Said very much?”

“Only that you had taken the Strahl.” Still unflappable. “I trust Fran is well.”

“She is.” Balthier’s flat tone invited, again, no enquiry, and Basch arched an eyebrow, but made no issue. Balthier stared, then his hackles smoothened back to charm, and Noah felt somewhat more annoyed that Basch seemed absolutely at ease with how to deal with the pirate.

“Noah.” Cautious, now. “I heard word from Rikken.”

“Aye.” A well-deserved ‘vacation’, indeed.

“If you have time, Lord Larsa would like to meet with you privately.”

“I have no time,” Noah’s answer came as quickly as he was able, and Balthier glanced between them, his eyes slightly narrowed, then he grinned again, mischievous.

“He’s changed profession to ‘pirate’, Basch. Tell his little Majesty that.”

“Very well.” Basch’s lips curled briefly, upwards, his face carefully blank, and for a brief moment, Noah could remember what it had once been like in Landis, when they were children, before he had learned the myriad ways of selling himself short.

VIII

To the sky, as Balthier had before him, Noah offers the remains of his soul. Recompense is abstract, in the curve of a pirate’s smirk and the ozone scent of the glossair engines; he finds it in the upturned blue of a sky above the blanket of clouds, the warmth of the sand in his toes in an empty beach washed over a bank of jeweled coral, the twist of a hand against his hip, under the belly of their ship.