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Photoshoot	By : anyasy Category: Final Fantasy Games > Final Fantasy XII Views: 659 -:- 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.

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They'd met by pure, un-bloody-believable coincidence; one of the most famous
photographers in the world, and a detective from the local precinct. Balthier
had taken it into his head to do a graffiti shoot (and there were some
good pieces, out there, on the street), and so he'd dragged his long-suffering
crew along with him, to ten different locations as suggested by a guide to the
city's graffiti (picked off the closest Borders). Finally he had decided (just
as his assistants threatened to kill him if they had to move everything
again and set up elsewhere if this area was not up to his standards) on a white
plaster wall south of Kents, where someone had done a gorgeous stencil of an
angel, face turned skyward, wings torn and weeping bloody tears.

He had been busy speaking to the model (a bored pretty blonde thing with long
legs but not much of a brain), when two identical twins, dressed smartly in
navy blue police uniforms, strolled across the set, just before the wall.

And that had been a perfect picture, right there. The deer-in-headlights shock
of the one with a scar, as the first flash strobed the wall; the arched eyebrow
and the amused smirk of the other. The model was abandoned. The second twin had
been all too happy to pose (despite the first twin's protests that they were
still on duty), and he'd used a roll of film, captivated by the dichotomy. Shy
smiles and confident smirks. He offered remuneration (laughingly refused) then
dinner (accepted). His assistants had been relieved to be dismissed; as he
watched them pack up, he realized he didn't know the twins' names.

"Basch," said the shy one, and ducked his head. "Noah,"
said the confident one, with a mock salute.

"I am Balthier," Balthier had said, and was oddly gratified to see
that it didn't ring a bell, with the shy one; the confident one blinked, and
laughed.

"Do we get to be on the next issue of Rolling Stones?" Noah
had asked, and the deer-in-headlights expression leaped back onto Basch's face
and set up camp.

"There's a good chance," Balthier said, and smirked, as Basch
blushed. He had wished his camera was still set up.

--

Dinner, in a small French restaurant east of Olston where the chef was a
friend, had been a mostly two-sided affair: Noah was chatty (the leader of the
pair, it seemed), but Basch was silent, monosyllabic at best. Adorable, was the
word Balthier had thought, seeing the man (plain clothes, now, slacks and
shirt) pick through his fillet mignon and very obviously try his best not to
make eye contact. He could tell, actually, having had a decent amount (if
discreet) of experience, with the sort, and as the main course moved on to
dessert, had wondered how exactly to get the officer's number.

On leaving the restaurant, Noah (with a pickpocket's unobtrusiveness, odd for
an officer) slipped a namecard into his jacket.

Later, alone in the car, Balthier looked at it. Basch's namecard, and scrawled
on the back: 'He's too shy when he really likes someone.' That made him
laugh (and wonder if there was such a thing as being too self-assured).

--

The next day, when he had lunch with Fran, he could tell she suspected
something. And was laughing at him, while not laughing at him, over her Thai
salad.

--

A week, then he called Basch, carefully timing it, for the evening. "Basch
Ronsenburg, speaking."

"Hey," he had said, and wished he'd thought of coming up with
something witty, beforehand.

Confusion. "Who's this?"

"It's Balthier." When there was a long pause, he added, "Kents?
Olston lunch?"

"Um... er... I remember you. I mean, yes, uh..." Stammer, and hurried
words. "Right. Um. How did you get this number?"

"Do you really want to know?" Amusement.

"I'm going to kill my brother tomorrow." A mutter, then a
cough. "Er..."

Balthier let the silence stretch, until he could feel the other man's
uncomfortable silence turn pregnant with self-doubt, then he drawled,
"Free tomorrow for dinner?"

"Oh! Er. Sure. What time and where?"

"Seven at the Bahamut," Balthier said, naming the most expensive
grill in town (and likely the best steak he'd ever had). There was an
embarrassed pause, as he felt Basch want to protest (dinner for two would
likely come up to a month's pay for a street cop), so he added, "See you
there," and hung up, just because.

--

The suit looked rented, but Basch looked stunning (and Balthier wished he had
thought to bring a camera). Dinner consisted of self-conscious dialogue (questions
that sounded memorised). Balthier footed the bill, despite protests, and
outside, in the cold air, said, "Are you busy?"

"Um, now?"

Balthier nodded. "This may sound strange, but... do you mind following me
to the studio?"

"Er..." A blush, and a blink. "Why?"

"This looks so good on you it should be illegal," Balthier said,
unashamedly looking Basch up and down. "So I'll like you to try some
outfits that came just yesterday. If you don't mind."

"Oh." Was that disappointment? "I'm free."

--

The Armani suit and white shirt looked far better. Basch looked even more
self-conscious: the wardrobe of clothing in the studio likely cost more than
his apartment, and that wasn't good for the camera. Finally, Basch smiled, a
little wryly, and said, "Perhaps you should call my brother."

"I'm not interested in your brother," Balthier had replied. Basch
blinked, then gasped, as the photographer walked up to him, pulled down his
chin and kissed him, hard, on the lips, probing until he felt the tension on
shoulders and arms ease, and hands rest tentatively on his hips. A moan, when
they broke, and Balthier kissed him again, for good measure, then stepped back
behind the camera.

Far better pictures. Basch ran a hand through blonde hair. "I hope you
don't do that to all your models."

"Only the hot ones," Balthier said, and smirked. It took Basch a
moment to catch the joke, but his laugh seemed a little forced (jealous sort,
perhaps).

"Um... the photographs..."

"Are a sight better than the ones taken with the professional model this
afternoon, but I could be biased," Balthier pursed his lips, looking at
the linked laptop. "Remuneration..."

A wry laugh. "I'm beginning to think this is a totally novel dating
strategy."

"And I thought I was being subtle," Balthier drawled.

Basch ducked his head. "Saturday lunch?"

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