Photoshoot | By : anyasy Category: Final Fantasy Games > Final Fantasy XII Views: 660 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy XII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
November 21. 夢ぢには / yumeji ni wa
/ on the path of dreams
Note for aFF.net: all my fics are archived at
manic_intent.livejournal.com : ) Also, I tend to not write arcs in order -.-;;
which is why I’m having a problem uploading continuations to Tomorrow’s Promises
(which was written all over the place… haha).
[A/N: erk, it’s nearly time for me to post and I haven’t
come up with anything. So here’s a
relatively lazy fic for me: Basch’s perspective for Photoshoot. AU. I guess 3 fics is enough to turn the Photoshoot
AU into an arc.]
Photoshoot Arc: Basch x Balthier: AU
Figments
For as long as Basch could remember, trouble always began
with a ‘What’s that?’ from Noah. It was
invariable: once, their father had commented that Noah more than made up for
his serious, cautious brother in terms of mischief and curiosity; and whenever
he tended to actually get himself into scrapes, Basch was always dragged along,
and almost always was the one who had to do the explaining. Invariable.
So on a too-crisp autumn afternoon, the sun lazy in the sky,
when his brother said, “What’s that?” he groaned. Noah smirked, but pointed anyway.
A group of ten to twenty people, milling about what looked
like a movie set, across the street from where they were, in front of a graffiti-adorned
white plaster wall. Photography set,
actually: no video cameras. Traffic was
slowing down on the adjacent streets, Americans being notoriously curious and
hoping to see some sort of celebrity (a Brad Pitt, perhaps, or a Jessica
Alba). They would be disappointed – the
model (a little too much make-up, but then one had to doll for the camera,
Basch supposed) was a movie star, but one of those vaguely familiar
faces in minor supporting roles that tended to get killed off some way or
another. She was speaking to a man, his
back turned, a black collared shirt tucked into brown leather pants accentuated
with black leather belts.
Basch was in the midst of absently checking out the man’s
pert rump, when his brother began to tug him inexorably towards the set. “Noah!”
“Come on, I want to see the cameras from the front,” Noah
said, jaywalking across the street and forcing his brother to commit a minor
offence with him.
“We’ll be disrupting…”
“It looks like he’ll be talking to that pretty thing for a
while more. I just want to take a
look. Walk naturally next to me, I’ll
peek over your shoulder.”
“Walk naturally…?” A hiss, but they were already in hearing
of the crew, who took no notice of them: people in police uniform being more or
less moving fixtures in Kents, so close to the Barheim ghetto.
They were nearly halfway across the wall when the man looked
up, sharply, arched an eyebrow, then darted over to the camera. Basch blinked in the first flash, stunned,
but Noah laughed, beside him. Shocked,
spots exploding before his eyes, he shook his head, trying not to yelp at
another flash, then the photographer was walking up to them. “Would you officers mind doing a few poses?”
An impish grin, “For a magazine.”
“Why not?” Noah asked, just as Basch said, “What?” then
“We’re on duty.”
“It’s been quiet all day,” Noah poked him in the ribs. “Come on.”
“If it’s no trouble,” the photographer added, and Basch
realized several things all at a rush.
One, that the purr that seemed inherent in the photographer’s voice was
warming his cheeks, and secondly, that the man was probably a model himself, of
some sort: he was one of the most beautiful people Basch had ever seen. The black shirt had two brass buttons
undone, and a stencil of the Versace logo across the right shoulder; it hugged
his frame. Hipster leather pants
emphasized the slender waist; and there were oddly colorful rings on the left
hand; slender, artistic fingers. A
Puckish face: elfishly handsome, with delicate cheekbones and sparkling eyes,
but there was mischief, and wicked intelligence. He thought God, this man is pure sex, and realized that
both his brother and the photographer had taken his sudden silence for assent:
the man went back behind the camera, with instructions.
Noah was enjoying himself a little too much (which
never boded well, either). The
photographer was skilled, and obviously experienced with handling models of
varying levels of introduction to the industry; the instructions he gave them
were concise, and the playfulness eased tension, all the while directing his
assistants, smooth and efficient. When
he finally straightened from the camera, stretching and giving instructions to
his crew to pack up, Basch realized the sun was a little lower in the sky than
it had been when they’d first seen the set.
The photographer was before them again, thumbs in his belt
and a quick grin on sensuous lips.
“This would probably sound awkward, but it’s industry practice to pay
models, so…”
Noah laughed. “We
can’t accept money. Being, well,
officers, and we’re technically on duty, at the moment. Think of it as assisting the public.”
Basch found himself wishing for his brother’s quick wit,
when the photographer chuckled, mellow amber.
“I’ll accept that, but I have to repay the both of you somehow, for your
time. What about dinner today?”
“Um,” Basch said, just as Noah nodded, “Sure.”
“Great. See you in…
hm… four hours, at Cloudborne on Olston?” the photographer consulted his
watch.
Noah nodded.
“And… this is terrible of me, but I don’t know your names.”
“Basch,” he said, dropping his eyes, as his brother added,
“Noah.”
“I am Balthier.”
That struck no chord in him: he looked blank; but his
brother (whose hobby it was while waiting in the Courts to give evidence was to
read a variety of trashy magazines: he said it helped when picking up girls)
smirked and asked, “Do we get to be on the next issue of Rolling Stones?”
Basch blinked, horrified.
--
Later, on the way back to the precinct, he asked his brother,
“That photographer…”
“Balthier? He’s famous,” Noah said, absently, alert to the
street life. “You’ve probably seen some
of his work before, just never realized it.
Used to dabble in landscape for National Geographic, did some world
famous shoots in the East, then came back and decided to photograph beautiful
people for Rolling Stones.
Friend of that supermodel Fran.
Other than that, don’t know anything; he keeps to himself, and I guess
the press don’t really hound their own kind.
Sort of odd, since he’s openly gay, but I suppose that sort of thing
isn’t newsworthy anymore, in this day and age.”
Openly gay. That was
good. Actually. Probably not, it made it a little
worse. “Ah.”
His brother glanced at him, thoughtfully, then smirked. “Interested?”
He blushed. “No! And
anyway, he’s definitely…” a dream of a dream, celebrities.
“Out of your league? That’s the problem with you, brother,
you give up too easily.” Noah poked him in the elbow. “We’ll get off from work early today and dress up for dinner.”
“And you’ve just decided that why?”
“You have to dress to impress, don’t you?”
“Noah…” Basch took a deep breath. “I really don’t think…”
“I don’t think you have any decent shirts, you’ll have to
borrow from me.”
“And to think you’re the straight one,” Basch muttered. Noah ignored that.
--
“That wasn’t too bad,” Noah said, when they were driving
home. Basch didn’t answer, pretending
to concentrate on the road, but his brother persisted, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Come on, he was obviously checking you out.”
“So? It’s part of his profession.”
“He wasn’t checking me out.”
“We look exactly the same.
It’s probably your imagination.
Besides, I was sitting closer to him.” And had been fighting, with
thankful success, an erection all night, at that. Close enough to smell spicy aftershave, it seemed everything
Balthier did (that lazy drawl, the sharp wit, the unconscious grace) went
straight to his groin (cold shower needed, and soon). “And I doubt we’ll ever see him again.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Noah said, mysteriously. When Basch glanced sharply at him, he added,
“Oh come on. We might happen across him
again on patrol.”
“I doubt it,” Basch said.
--
The following week wasn’t particularly pleasant. He was a little too obviously distracted at
work (leather clad rump), to Noah’s (and therefore, Vossler’s and Drace’s)
amusement (his brother being all too happy to drop mention of ‘my dear
brother’s new infatuation’). Cold
showers weren’t helping; neither did biting his pillow at night and jacking off
into a towel at night to a sun-drenched dream.
Noah was just beginning to get bored of the jibes, when the
absolutely unexpected phonecall happened.
Next morning, sitting at breakfast in the demilitarized zone in their
shared apartment, Basch hoped he looked properly murderous. “Did you give Balthier my number?”
Noah looked innocent, as he poured milk over his
cereal. “Would I do that?”
“Yes, yes you would, and you’ll probably have somehow
contrived to get him to call me, as well,” Basch said, sharply.
Noah cast his eyes over Basch’s half of the apartment
(divided roughly down the middle with an invisible line, with ‘demilitarized’
zones of kitchen, laundry area, shower; other than that, two separate desks,
armchairs – though there was a couch, for whenever either party brought home
company – bookshelves, CD players and framed pictures), which was neat to a
fault. Noah’s half looked like a
typical bachelor’s pad; there were papers and CDs and books strewn on the
floor, the occasional suspicious cup with discolored dregs at the oddest areas,
and empty boxes of food. “I just
thought it would be nice for you to start seeing someone.”
“There is so much that’s wrong with that statement that I
don’t know where to start.” Basch attacked his breakfast, which was bacon and
eggs on toast.
“I know you like him.
A lot.” Noah smirked. “You’ve
been giving off fluffy gay pink vibes all bloody week. Any more and the Chief would have choked and
died, then we’ll get Monster Mary as Chief, and I’ll die. So.
Did he ask you out?”
“Yes,” Basch muttered.
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“To dinner at the Bahamut.”
“Oh.” Noah chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip, and ate a
few spoonfuls of cereal. “I suppose I
can give you a loan. Drace, too.”
“I’ve money saved up, but…”
Noah snorted. “Then
why not use it to buy happiness? That’s what money is for, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it happiness.” Basch took a gulp of
scalding coffee. “It can’t work out, I
think he’s playing around – or whatever it is celebrities call it. More like a bloody expensive dream, which
happens to be your fault.”
“Some dreams are worth having?” Noah suggested, then
grinned, when Basch glared at him.
“When?”
“Today.”
“Okay. Today we’re
going to work on your lines, during patrol.”
“Lines?”
“You have to talk to him, you know,” Noah said,
dryly. “You barely spoke at all, in
that French place.”
“Why is a straight guy giving me advice?” Basch asked, but
he smiled, wryly.
“A straight guy and your brother,” Noah said, firmly,
then added, “Besides…”
“You find this very funny?”
“You deserve it. For
laughing at me when I was with Jessica.”
A stifled snort of laughter. “Was that the aerobics instructor with the… Eeyore obsession?”
“It was never funny,” Noah retorted, then
smirked. “But yes. This is my chance for revenge.”
Basch groaned.
--
“How did it go?” Basch realized his brother had waited up –
Noah was curled on the long couch before the flatscreen telly.
“Uh… fine.” Basch decided.
“I asked him to lunch on Saturday.”
Noah looked at him thoughtfully, and expectantly, then
tapped fingers on leather when Basch simply headed towards his bedroom. “Well? What happened?”
Basch paused, tilting his head. “We had dinner. Then we
went to the studio.” He told his brother about Balthier’s ‘dating
strategy’. Noah laughed.
“There has been progress, my young padawan.”
“Die.”
--
It took four ‘dates’ before Basch finally stopped being more
or less tongue-tied all the time and relying a little too much on Noah’s
suggested topics of conversation. The
problem was that he knew Balthier was all too aware of the effect he had, on
others (and himself in particular), and worse, found it rather amusing. Which could be why he was being asked out
nearly every week, rather than any sort of actual romantic inclination. On the fifth date, being driven home in
Balthier’s sporty green Porsche, he asked, a little cautiously, “Isn’t this um,
eating into your schedule?”
“I’m rather free at the moment,” Balthier said, and that
wasn’t reassuring. Free enough to amuse
himself with a lowly street cop, who hadn’t even been born in the city. Basch looked away. “Why?”
“Didn’t… really want to be um, an inconvenience,” he said,
and wished he hadn’t stammered.
“Am I boring you?” Balthier asked, and Basch knew
that was playful rhetoric, but he couldn’t help but reply (yelp, actually).
“No! No, you’re not.
It’s just that… er… you’re a… and I’m a…”
“Hm.” Basch sneaked a glance over. Balthier was staring at the road, enigmatic, then he began to
chuckle. “And that’s a problem?”
“It just seems… a little hard to believe.” A dream.
“Don’t like me?” And this was too over the top, for playful
rhetoric.
Basch sighed. “A
little too much, and I think that has been obvious for weeks.” ‘Like’ was
probably a gross understatement, at this point.
“My job doesn’t preclude me from liking you,”
Balthier pointed out, then added, dryly, “And in case you didn’t know, Basch,
you’re drop dead gorgeous.”
He blinked at that, then blushed. Balthier glanced at him, and arched an eyebrow. “Never been told?”
“Well… I have, but, well, Noah is…”
“Is this a common problem with identical twins?” Balthier
asked, then took a turn.
Basch frowned.
“That’s the wrong way.”
“I know,” Balthier replied, calmly, “Change of plans. We’re going to my place, instead.”
“Er. Why?”
“Need it to be spelled out?” Balthier smirked. “I’m going to suck you off in the car park,
in the Porsche, as a way of trying to convince you to then go upstairs with me
to fuck me.”
He flushed, opening his mouth, then closing it tightly and
leaning back in his chair. “Ah.” A
shaky laugh. “You don’t mince words.”
“Waste of time.”
--
His first thought, upon waking up to the shrill of an
unfamiliar alarm in an unfamiliar bed, was a dream, then a hand reached
over him and slapped the alarm off the dresser. Needless to say, that didn’t stop the sound – Basch reached down,
instead, and turned it off properly, only for lips to press brushing kisses along
the base of his spine. He looked down,
to see Balthier stretch, catlike, and roll over, and thought a dream,
again, then his phone went off, somewhere to his right.
His slacks were on the floor; the shirt, over a red
couch. Shoes, socks, belt and underwear
nowhere to be seen, at least not on a cursory glance. A blink, and he looked around.
The dawning sun was pushing yellow through wood paneling, and there was
a dizzying view of the city. Penthouse
apartment. Metal and glass, faux modern
furniture. Beautiful photographs of
beautiful people and faraway places, framed on the walls. Basch got off the bed (realizing he was
naked, and sticky) and got his phone.
“Uh. Basch Ronsenburg,
speaking.”
“You didn’t come home.
Does that mean…?” Noah, sounding amused.
Basch glanced quickly at Balthier, who had curled up and
pulled a pillow over his eyes. “Uh…” He
grabbed his slacks and shirt, and made for what looked like the bathroom. The problem with being a twin was the near
absolute lack of privacy.
“I take that as a yes,” Noah drawled, just as he got the
door closed (no lock… he supposed Balthier likely felt there was no
point). “Don’t be late for work. Or do you want to take leave?”
“I’ll see you at work,” Basch muttered, and pointedly hung
up.
Halfway through the shower, to his shock, Balthier let
himself into the bathroom, yawning, then into the shower, and kissed him, then
smirked, under the hot spray. “Good
morning. Wasn’t sure you’ll still be
here.”
“Well, er… last night… sort of fell asleep,” Basch said
lamely, before he caught on to what Balthier meant. “I didn’t see it as a… it’s not a one night thing, to me, I mean,
if you don’t mind…” his voice trailed off, then he took a breath. “You mean that sort of thing happens to
you?” Disbelief.
Balthier shrugged. “You’ll
be surprised. There’s a difference
between sleeping with a pretty face and sleeping with a person.” He looked
away. “And I won’t mind.”
“Ah.” Basch gently tipped the other man’s chin up, for a
kiss.
He was late for work.
-fin-
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