Occupied Position (Chapters 3-6)

[indira]

So suddenly the slow release of chapters seemed kind of silly to me. So here are chapters 3-6 which is the entirety of what I've written thus far. Beware, it's a real cut (I don't believe in fake ones) and it's looooong.

Title: Occupied Position (3-6/?)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Bal/Fran
Rating: Chapter 5 is the lemon, it's under this cut.
A/N: Angsty, borderline crazy, Balthier will contradict himself because damn he's only human. Grammar and spelling mistakes are totally my fault though. Balthier always strives for impeccable grammar during internal monologues.



Chapter 3
She's still not back to her pre-Ivalice-saving form, but close. Running still presents a challenge but walking doesn't appear to strain her at all. We are still sans airship and on the run from the out-law. Furthermore we are running desperately low on funds. While skypirating is the only career I am skilled in, other than ornamental armor mannequin, of course, we should work on procuring a vessel. Unfortunately, and yes, this is a blow to my ego, the Strahl was funded in part by daddy's money. It's not as if I walked up to him one day demanding like a spoiled child that he give me the proper sum so that I could leave the future he had so carefully arranged for me as an Arcadian Judge so that I could take up residence in the skys as a wanted pirate. No, like any good businessman, skypirating is above all else a business after all, I used my verbal prowess to relieve my father of a small monetary burden. I do not know if he ever even noticed the missing gil from his account. I never had a chance to ask him.

Fran is cooling her feet in the shallow pool just down the path. I'm sure the icy water will relieve some of the residual pain from her injury. While we have yet to find a ship we did manage a gun and a few rounds of ammunition. It's not quite enough to fend off every fiend that approaches, we have to pick our battles wisely and there is nothing wise about fighting malboros. There is no shame in running away when the battle seems too costly. I haven't endured this far as the embodiment of the theatrical leading man by getting myself into empty scrapes. At least here the monsters seem unable or at lest unwilling to reach us. The Silkawood is always quiet but this patch in particular seems well suited for wary foot-travelers in need of a rest. Clearly, being bound to the ground is not agreeing with me. And I doubt Fran is enjoying it either.

The Strahl probably will hold her interest longer than I will. But I've long ago decided that the Strahl, or whatever ship we are flying, will be hers. And I do not simply mean if she outlives me, which she will, of course. But if one day she decides she has had enough, that it is time for her to move forward, the ship is hers. And my reasoning behind this is that which can only be formulated by those utterly spoiled as children. Larsa will be emperor now, I am sure of it. Which means my family assets will be easily accessible once I decide to give up this life. What I mean by 'give up this life,' when Fran decides to leave, I cannot do it without her.

There is of course a great issue with my choice in Fran as a partner. I feel as if I will never get the chance to right the wrongs of my father. That somehow choosing a barren lifestyle, in choosing to be with the woman I love even as it is not a convenient love, that I am abandoning any possibility of a quiet life after my skypirating days are through. Not that I am one to every do anything conventionally. Albeit, I am too young to be considering anything other than the open air, or presently, the open road. This should be of no concern of mine, and yet, there it is, lingering at the back of my mind, entirely obscured on some days and so vividly rendered on others. It is perhaps the current lack of adventure that causes me to dwell on such a topic at the current juncture.

I always prefer to give women beautiful things. This may well be why I wish to give the Strahl to Fran. When I was sixteen and just leaving childhood and entering my training to become a judge I bought a coral ring from a street merchant. I wore it on my own finger until a young woman entered the Emperor's home. She was a minor royal of the house Magrace. At least, that is what I believed at the time. Later I would put all the necessary clues together and realize she was intended for Vayne. As third in line for the throne of the Empire he was not as great a catch as his two elder brothers, but nonetheless he was to marry into the Rozzarian family.

She, however, had other plans. Well, she certainly was planning to wed Vayne Solidor, but thought she could get a bit of action on the side as well. I did not realize at my tender age that I was being played. She was perhaps two years older than I and played the perfect innocent. With her long eyelashes and proper up-do I was struck by her graceful movements. She would turn her head just so when she looked up into my eyes. I can honestly admit I did not know she was spoken for. It is not to say that I believed I had any chance of wedding her, nor did I want any such thing. Predictably, I was looking for a good time.

At a formal dinner party we were seated next to each other. I slipped the ring from my finger underneath the table skirt and into her delicate hand, a had that had never lifted more than a wine goblet. And I believed she would be impressed by me and my small token from a street merchant. Well, turned out I was right after all. As we left the table her hand skirted down my back, the faintest smile on her lips, a hint of a blush. That night I snuck to her room to find her already partially disrobed, she had been lying in wait.

Nothing stays a secret in a royal household and in two days time it seemed that everyone in the palace knew. Luckily for everyone involved such families are experts at keeping their internal affairs internal. When I was questioned I admitted to deflowering the girl. This, of course, was a lie. But it is not like me to call the honor of any lady into question. No, it wasn't on the part of any physical coincidence that I knew I was not her first, even as she was mine, no, I would not even think of questioning her virginity on a mere assumption. She told me outright. After we had finished the act, which I handled with such finesse I doubt she realized my inexperience with such things, she said, to my face

"you are good, but not the best I have had."

It was with that same pretty silken voice that had concealed her history from me. That voice that suggests innocence and naivety. I was the only one who was naive. Not that I would take the experience of it back, not one bit. She was the beginning of a long line of success stories. Yet, the experience did teach me never to underestimate the power of the older, more experienced woman. Not that I at all shy away from older women, quite the contrary. But now I know they mean business.

On her way out she must have dropped the ring into the planter by the doorway. I found it there a few days after her departure. The only thing I could think of doing was placing it back onto my own finger. To this day I wear it. It's the only one of my rings that means a damn thing. The rest are simply decorative, or more accurately, the purpose of my otherwise unnecessary adornment it to obscure the significance of this single ring. It is not that I believe women can be bought, the mere fact she discarded of the ring once she discarded of me proves that very fact. But certain things are tokens of a bygone moment, and certain other, nearly identical mementos are of nothing. Sometimes life is easiest when one cannot tell the two apart.

But I know Fran is more than a keepsake or a notch on my belt. I know this and yet sometimes it makes life more bearable to think of her in such terms. Of course I would never tell her this. I'm sure if I ever made the attempt she would simply cock her head and inform me that she knows. That she already knows everything. About how when I was a child I would copy homework off another boy who I believed to be smarter than I. I wanted my father to be proud of me. And he was. Such a genius his boy was, just like his father. Even before Venat took the father of my childhood away, Cidolfus Demen Bunansa was one arrogant son of a bitch. It seems a bit odd to this of my father as those three names, one of which I share. A name is such a funny thing.

When I was sixteen, what a pivotal year that was, my father, who is not the same man that I played a part in the killing of, no no not I, told me a story about my name. Well, not the first or the last but the one that comes in the middle. Had he not, I may have continued to believe it was just another way of his branding me. Perhaps that is the truth of the matter.

He said that Cidolfus and variations of that name were kept in the family. Every generation would have its very own Cidolfus. By the time I was born there was already another distantly related "Cid." I do not enjoy dwelling on this particular part of the story because it reveals my own distant relation to House Magrace. After this encounter with my father I rushed through every piece of genealogical information on my family I could find to try to assure myself I hadn't inadvertently lost my virginity to my first or second or third or....well any sort of cousin of mine. In the end I determined conclusively that the relationship was distant at best. Still, for quite awhile I was considering "do you know andy Cids?" to be a screening question for potential relations. No, that was not the right word at all.

So, he had reached further back into our family's past when trying to concoct a name for his first, and ultimately last, born child. Mid too was a great scientist, or so my father told me. Years ago when airships were first being developed, Mid, who was the son of one of the great Cid's, had devised a way to steam power the ships to allow for more efficient use of materials. The steamships were lighter and faster than the previous test models. Mid was just a boy of fifteen when his research came to fruition, and all this in a time before standard schooling procedures. Mid had effectively one-uped his father who was instead concentrating oh how to run the ships off of the much more problematical, though certainly more complicated method of running ships off of hot ash. The lesson was one of practicality. It is not always the older who are the wiser, my father told me. Some people are dreamers and others are doers. In that time long ago, Cid was a dreamer, but his son, Mid, had changed the world.

He had told me this story at sixteen. Clearly this was a sign that he was disappointed in me. Well, at the time I took it that way because he had been so careful to point out Mid's age at the time of his discovery. 'Just a boy of fifteen,' 'in a time before standard schooling.' But the message of practicality had rung true at that time. I was going to be a judge, he would see to that. I would be placed into a profession where I would not be dreaming and deducting and thinking. No, I, the son of Cidolfus, would be doing the Empire's dirty work. I would be practical.

Maybe that was the turning point for me. When I decided to become a dreamer. Had my father never noticed my penchant for the theatrical? As a child I would be curious about every word and inflection from every woman and man's mouth. He had not realized I too was a dreamer, and that being a judge would stifle that dreaming. I hadn't realized it at that time either. All I could think of was how my life was rushing by faster than I could handle. It moves even faster for me now. But now I'm dreaming up new memories before they even occur. I'm pressing my scant time for all it's worth. Today I am just a man of twenty-three. One day, I'll achieve immortality in the history books. Who would have known that just saving the world wouldn't be enough. Well, who knows really, it's been what, less that a week or two? Maybe among those who still walk among the streets of Ivalice's great cities we are already immortal. The problem with immortality though is that you don't have the benefit of living through it. I'll never know if I reached my goal. But then again I suppose Mid the First never was able to see the world his airship engines built. He received a pat on the back for a job well done. I'm still waiting for that.

So there is my name. Fframran Mid Bunansa. One name of significance cluttered by two pieces of trash. Makes the whole story hurt less I suppose.

"Balthier."

Though her voice is subtle and there is still a great distance between she and I, familiarity has made her voice legible to me. Perhaps she speaks to me in the same manner the Wood once spoke to her. She may be inside my head, saying nothing at all but speaking clearly.

"Fran."

Bathier and Fran. No clutter.

"We should continue moving. I don't believe our current tent will hold more than another night or so. We must press forward."

I nod in agreement. To feel her would be such a pleasure right now. She must sense it in me. My desire for her.

"That's a lie, Fran."

"Or a preference."

Of course, after all this time together my theatricality must have made some impression on her.

Chapter 4

We're still a day's travel from the Hunter's Camp. While accommodations there are anything but fine luxury, they are a step up from our tattered tent. At the present moment we are gil-less but we have managed to acquire a few pelts and other wares which should be enough for a night's stay in a truly inclosed structure as well as a new tent. Fran is becoming increasingly on edge as of late. I do believe the lack of physical comfort is beginning to wear on her. As much as she would like to deny it she has become accustomed to a certain standard of living that under normal conditions a Viera would shun.

We were never fond of brief encounters, and I would hate our first coupling after saving Ivalice to be unsatisfying for her. But, if we do not reach the camp in a timely fashion she may very well snap before I do.

After she had watched me amuse myself I had questioned her about Viera sexual practices. She and I had not been together very long and at that time I had not detected a difference between my experiences with her compared to Hume women. At first she said nothing. Then I asked a question that even Vaan would avoid.

"Have you only had Hume males?"

Shockingly, her reaction was not violent, but resigned. She did not answer my question that night but instead lay silently beside me. I listened to the rise and fall of her breathing and fantasized. I imagined myself as a Viera male, taking her with more strength than my youthful Hume body could muster, or as myself but under more romantic conditions than a shabby Bhujerban inn. That night I wanted to be anyone but myself. I was captured by such a fear that she was already tired of my then-boyish charms. And still she lay there. She didn't answer my question that night, or the night after that or after that or that that that. Even when my question had been answered I was unsatisfied with the answer. I felt as if I should question everything but it was then my turn to say nothing.

"Only Hume males have intrigued me."

I felt like a specimen on a pin to be observed. It was no longer about my ability to satisfy her, no, I was a simple fetish and nothing more. Something about Hume men, something about me, she has found amusing or curious. It was no longer about what I did but about who I was. I was utterly passive in the whole situation. I didn't want to resign myself to that. She wasn't pulling my strings and making me dance, I didn't have to dance, only look good, appealing, intriguing. And here all along I worried she may have thought my attraction to her were along the same lines. It wasn't. Not at all. She was never a trophy to be acquired. Even if all along I had been. I was part of a collection.

"It may be time to stop for the night."

While I agree with her on a practical level, part of me wants to scream out that we can make it. If we travel through the night we could reach the camp, make passionate love for hours and then pass out for the next four or five days. But traveling at night would be slow going and I'm rapidly running out of ammunition. The last thing I want to resort to is going back to using the pole and embarrassing myself in front of my graceful companion. Of course I'm in no position to disagree with her and she is already beginning to set up the tent. We have a bit of meat packed away from one of our kills and I can't imagine any sort of delay that would prevent us from reaching the camp, and thus better provisions, tomorrow.

"I'll work on the fire then. I'd like something warm."

She obviously caught the innuendo of my statement, her ears perking slightly. I leave her with a confident smile.

There is little in way of firewood to be found, but there is enough driftwood that while it will not keep us warm for the night, we'll at the very least be able to cook some rather thinly sliced meat. Our body heat will have to sustain us through the night. What a shame.

Before departing from the inn initially, Fran discarded her elaborate, though certainly seductive, battle armor. While she once told me that the felt most comfortable in it, she wished to draw as little attention to herself as possible. Consequently, she has been wearing a brown shift style dress that is clearly three inches too short for her slender frame. The shape of the thing does leave a bit more to the imagination, providing one is not imagining her legs. It's something a heftier Hume girl should be wearing, not a child of the Wood. But she absolutely insisted, even when I pointed out it didn't much improve her modesty.

The overall result, however, is breathtaking. I must admit that I have never viewed Fran along quite the same terms as I have these last few days. She does appear to be more connected with the soil, whereas previously I had perhaps dreamed of her as something otherworldly. She's not from outer space, she's from this space. Something I always knew but couldn't truly recognize. She's undeniably warmer, more childlike. And there is something sexy about that as well.

As a child I had such limited interactions with little girls. The Empress had only boys and I had no siblings of my own. When dignitaries would, albeit rarely, bring their children with them for an audience in the imperial home I had little to no contact with them. They were not there to play, but to suggest a certain level of humanity. A "we have children to tend to as well," method of negotiation. I cannot remember if the Emperor ever used his own sons in such a capacity. He must have.

Even as a child myself I had no interactions with little girls. I have known only women, and powerful women at that. The Empress, Fran, Queen Ashe, even Penelo, as young as she is. But in this moment, when Fran smiles in her simple brown dress, her smile is anything but innocent, but it is the smile of someone who had cheated death. Not for the first time or for the last. But someone who understands the value of life. I think children understand it as well. To accomplish as much as possible in the time we're given and not give a damn what anyone thinks. I know that's not truly what is going on behind Fran's smile. She is not a little girl. Maybe she never was and was always just as wise as she is now. But when I see her smile now. I...I...can't she her, I see a little girl. The little girl I wish we...I can't.

She's smiling because the fire is going and our meal is cooking and our tent is pitched and soon enough our bellies will be full and our heads lain down.

Everything seems to be the fault of little girls. Little girls who grow into women who I can't leave behind.

Fran may be haunted by the loss of her mother Wood. But what of me? Am I not allowed to mourn what I have lost? When my father...not in front of the others, but in our room in Balfonheim I cried openly. She held me as if I were a child when I wept. I had lost my father over and over and over again. There was nothing left to lose then. The only thing I had ever come to expect from my father, the constant coming and going, had finally halted. There would be no more loss after that. Finally there were no more chances at redemption.

This war has caused us all to lose so much. Not a single person has been unaffected by tragedy. But to lose so actively. I can feel his blood on my hands, even as we battled with bullets.

Suddenly I have the urge to throw my gun into the ocean. I want to watch it float away into the abyss. I never want to fire another shot. I have to choose. My pride or my sanity.

"Balthier."

She stands by my side, her hand on my shoulder and we both watch as my firearm sinks like a lead weight. Of course it wouldn't float. What a silly, romantic thought that was. Of course now it is gone. But it wasn't the weapon that struck my father. That piece of equipment is long gone. I cannot even recall what happened to that particular gun. It seemed so unimportant at the time and now I can't think of anything but. I discarded it when it had outlived its usefulness. It was so easily traded up for something more accurate and more powerful. A gun that would allow me to kill with better precision. But it was all to save Ivalice. I hadn't killed in vain. I could have once. Yes, I did once. But the gun that struck my father, it was only used to save Ivalice.

She says nothing, though I find it impossible that she would know quite what I'm thinking now. While she can read me quite clearly the fading light would obscure my face. I want to believe she can't tell a thing. I want to drown myself in her.

"Dinner should be done."

I turn back to the 'fire' which is now simply a smoldering black heap of debris. Now I don't have very much of an appetite but I should choke down a few pieces, even if it's only for show. Fran opens her mouth slightly as if to speak but closes it again. I feel aggressive and enraged by nothing in particular. She parts her lips again. Nothing.

She is not one to typically lose her voice. Saying so little is a sign of great clarity. I may have frightened her. If I did, good. I want her to be afraid of me just now. Not later, only in this moment. I want her to see what I am capable of. That I cannot be the man now that I was once before.

No, that's not it at all. I want to be a little boy again. A little boy so I need not be responsible for causing anyone pain, only annoyance. I do not want her to be afraid. I want her to be annoyed, to call me a selfish brat and put me in my place. But her face shows only resignation. The same as that night I questioned her past. But only Hume men intrigue her. Oh but do they satisfy you? That would have been the appropriate response.

"I need you."

That is all I can muster now. That is all of the truth in the world. Everything else is flexible but that. I need her. It is irreversible. If only she believes this it will all fall into place. Perhaps not as I had initially imagined it. The life I wish to lead with her is unattainable. Not only because of who we are but because of what we do. Every day we make decisions that lead us astray from what I do want. Because what I need and what I want are two different things. I need her, all my wants go out the window.

"You need you as well."

Even if I tried I don't think I could understand quite what she is saying to me. I don't want to think right now. I don't want to do. My limbs feel heavy and my head is spinning. Perhaps it was too much sun today. Maybe she knows that. She throws sea water onto the fire and offers me her hand. I suddenly find her in my arms, my hands resting on her slim hips. I desire her as well. That is something beyond need. Earlier in our relationship I would be embarrassed by my body's innate reaction to such intimate proximity. But there is nothing I can do to save face but to play it off as charming. I know, charming or not, she would not be disgusted by me. But I also know what I promised to her. Even if she is unaware herself. I shouldn't give in to temptation even as she is escalating the situation.

"We both need to rest."

And that is the absolute truth. Pirates were not meant for the land, and we've been so very well acquainted with it thus far on our journey. Absolutely must get a ship as soon as feasible. Absolutely.

When one of us speaks I'm never entirely sure if it is her voice or my own. It seems so irrelevant who states the obvious and who is, in turn, most insightful. All the information we accumulate seems to be stored up together in any case. That's not to say we've lost our individuality. Only that the day to day functioning of life is meant to be shared. There is so much more I want to share with her. But the light is waning.

"The night we met..."

She doesn't complete her thought. And I don't complete it for her. The statement just lingers there. If I were foolish I would think that I knew what she was to say. But I don't. I can honestly say I do not. And I'm fine with that. None of these thoughts occurred to me the night before our assault. I was too caught up in the warmth of her. Not fucking like the world was about to end, but with the familiarity of lovers. No, something was different. But not the sort of different to be expected.

The night we met I had yet to perfect my leading man performance. I was charming but not enthralling. But she took me. Boy as I was she took me. I wish to speak of something else, but no words come to mind. Nothing but IwantyouIwantyouIwantyou. It's the same thought I had when I first saw her in the pub. She was by herself, of course, sorting through the contents of her traveling bag. I asked if she had ever flown. Her answer was a curt yes. She ordered me to take her home. I could only take her to the Strahl. She was so forward with her desires. Something I had not expected. I wanted her and then she had me. Over and over again. We've made up a hundred false stories between the two of us to account for how we met. A hundred pretty lies that are safe to tell children. Something that didn't make what had actually transpired seem so vulgar. But she stayed with me. She wasn't gone in the morning as I had expected, as I would have been in her place. Or perhaps I just tell myself that because it makes me feel more like a man. That I would be the one to leave a girl satisfied but alone. Maybe I'm not that man. I never really had a chance to try it.

"We've made it thus far."

Thus far is never far enough. But all I can think of is the warm bed that isn't in our tent. It's not going to be at the Hunter's Camp either. I'm starting to wonder if it exists anyplace at all.

"We'll make it further."

Still not far enough.

Chapter 5 : There's a lemon...finally

The pressure against my thigh is borderline unbearable. We've been in our own little private hut at the Hunter's Camp for about five seconds and she's already on me. I had to barter nearly everything we had acquired over the last few days to get this place for a single night. There's no inn here so we were forced to improvise. I certainly couldn't make it any further and from the positioning of Fran's hands I'm starting to suspect she reached her limit hours ago. As soon as the door shut her hands were in my hair, on my chest, down the front of my pants. It feels like she must have six hands from the urgency she's conveying. As stoic as she is on the battlefield and in the pub, she's another creature altogether in bed.

There's something so utterly vulnerable about being naked with someone. Of course, we're not quite to that point yet tonight. My shirt is still hanging about my shoulders, while unfastened my pants are still clinging to my hips. She hasn't made any attempt to disrobe though my hands have been up under her dress for quite some time now.

I hardly have the chance to breathe. If she could swallow me whole I'm sure she would.

Any second now my mind will switch from rational assumed playboy to greedy desperate lover. All of the clever words will fall away. I know this pattern well. I'll have nothing left to say and she will finally speak freely. Maybe she's only really herself just prior to climax.

But while I still have my senses about me I should focus on her enjoyment. Removing her dress is more complicated than I had initially conceived. I would have assumed anything would be easier than dealing with the leather getup she normally dons. But then again her apparent need to crawl inside my ribcage and take up residence there makes everything more difficult.

"Fran, Tart, lift up your arms for me, I've got to get this thing off of you."

If I were to ever, ever call her "Tart" outside of a hyper-sexual situation she'd be likely either to remove my head from my torso or give me the cold-shoulder treatment until my corpse finally decomposes. But, I also know that at just the right moment I drives her wild. She pulls away just enough to let me slip the garment over her head, leaving her deliciously naked, other than her sandals. That's kind of a turn on in its own right. Her momentary lapse in attacking my body also gives me enough time to reverse our positions. My mind hasn't gone into auto-pilot yet but my body is getting there. Still too much pressure in my pants.

With her pinned against the thatched wall I'm free to press as much or as little of my body against her as I desire. Right now much is seeming like a great idea.

"Do you feel that? Do you feel how much I want you?"

Her hands make quick work of my shirt. At least she didn't tear it off of me. The last thing I could afford right now is a new wardrobe. One of the other thing's I know not to do is try to hold her back. Fran doesn't take well to being restrained. And yes, I know it wasn't the most appropriate thing to inform the rest of our traveling party to that fact. It seemed clever at the time.

"If you want me so badly, why are you wasting time?"

Everything about her voice is different in these moments. It's been so long that I almost don't recognize that voice. The one that takes over. It's different than when the mist had her. Different than when she's enraged. Always something totally unique to this moment.

"You'll get to pick: bed, floor, here?"

I've never determined if she fully appreciates my cocky smile. I wanted this to be something memorable. Really, I did. I tried so very hard to make something out of this. But hormones are hormones and screw saving Ivalice. It's over and done with and there will be other occasions that warrant celebration. You know, like birthdays, all the major holidays, tuesdays....

"Now."

It's practically a growl. If it were 'now' as she insists I'm afraid it would also be short. I'm pretty riled up myself and the only way I'm preventing myself from coming like a thirteen year old who just discovered nudie pictures is by focusing on anything that isn't the slender, naked form pressed under my own half-clothed body. But I suppose I can only hold off the inevitable for so long.

This is familiar, the motions of it. But every time it's unexpected. The way in which her body reacts can never fully be accounted for. First finger almost always goes without a hitch. She's far more experienced than I could ever imagine. I can tell she's wanted this, been waiting for this. Her breath hitches but otherwise she's silent. This state won't last long. The second finger is the wild card. Sometimes it's no problem at all, other times her body resists even if she herself wants more. Getting the mind in sync with the body is so damn tedious sometimes. Tonight though, despite our long absence from intimacy, her body yields. The third is no issue.

Part of me wants to say something to her. Call her a tart again, and venture into dirty language. Then there is the part that wants to do away with the foreplay and get right onto...into...it. No no if my mind goes down that road I'm lost. Finally, I want to make love to her. Silly phrase for something that I feel so passionately about. Try again try again. I want to use my body to prove to her there will never be anyone else. This is only for her.

But this is Fran. It doesn't matter which path I take, she'll enjoy any and all. I'll enjoy any and all possible tracks, possible results. There can be no mistakes here. I'll change the pace of this whole encounter. My breath on her ear, her body stills.

"I need you."

I continue to work my fingers, but at a more languid pace. The tenseness that wracked our bodies only moments before begins to dissipate. She's far more pliable now. I know it wasn't the words I used but the tone of my voice. The same words could have led to a variety of paths. This is the one I have chosen.

Her face betrays her. She's getting close I can tell. I can feel the muscles contracting around my fingers. Any moment now I'll be carrying her over the edge. Her lips are pressed against mine, my free hand tangled in her hair.

There she goes.

I can't see her face, only into her eyes. She keeps them open. I love that about her. She didn't utter a sound.

"Saving your voice for later?" I can't help but chuckle.

She's too incoherent at the moment to muster an intelligent comeback. Day to day she's the only one that can put me in my place, yet at the moment I have the complete upper hand in the situation. Finally, she is placated enough that I can get her into bed. Knowing her I have but a few brief seconds before she's on me again. Those men who assume sex with a Viera to be the ultimate attainable goal...well they're probably right, but the point is it takes a certain amount of precision and focus. You have to be able to use your head and your dick at the same time, most Hume men probably couldn't face such a challenge.

My pants are finally off and she still appears rather receptive. I crawl into bed next to her and our lips meet again. This time, though, she's gentle. Receptive really is the correct word for it. She's not relinquishing control, Fran would not do that, but she's yielding. Still sure of herself, but sure of me as well. Trusting.

The warmth of her skin underneath my fingertips is exhilarating. I've certainly touched her hundreds of times since we were last intimate, but the anticipation was not there. She's on top of me now. I should consider myself luc....

So hot. Not yet not yet no no no. Beautiful. I have to match her rhythm. Match match match. The rhythm gives me time to think. Her hips are just perfect. Perfect. Softer than I expect, always. Her hands on my chest, steadying herself. Back arched. I can only do so much with my own hands to regulate her thrusts. I could tell her to slow or speed or do this thing or another. But why bother. Why assume I know more than she does. Rhythm rhythm rhythm. She alters. Slows the pace. She wants it to last as well. Beautiful beautiful beautiful. If I tilt my hips just so. That's the expression I'm looking for.

"Soon." She croaks

Normally she's louder, more vocal. Have I been talking all along? I can't tell. Can't tell don't care. Alter my rhythm from her's. Always works always.

I can't last. I can't do it for her. Too long too long. Too long and not enough. Oh but her face, that expression. I have to do this. Have to have to have to. Rhythm rhythm rhythm.

There's that voice of hers.

"Theretheretherethere." Heavy breath, "I can feel it. Dontstop." Breath breath. Just ten more seconds. Hold off hold off hold off. Too tight.

She collapses against my chest. I can't remember it clearly enough. Did she? But there is the familiar clamping feeling. She must have.

"Award winning performance?"

I wouldn't ask if I didn't already know her answer.

"In a supporting role, perhaps."

Obviously, her mind has cleared as well. Give her twenty minutes. I may need a little more though. Never can tell.

"At the very least it was an honorable mention."

"You really are a little tart."

There is the familiar glare. She'll forgive me though. Still caught up in the afterglow I can get away with a bit more than I would be able to normally.

I can feel her body cool against mine. She shifts slightly and I slide out of her. I was enjoying the sensation but it can't last forever. I can't last forever.

"Were you afraid?"

"When?"

She's acting as if she doesn't know. As if she doesn't know that I was afraid. That I've been afraid. It doesn't refer to any particular event, just the last few months of our lives. Since meeting up with that street urchin, that princess, that destiny. No, afraid is the wrong word, that's why she couldn't answer.

"Let me rephrase, what if I had died?"

"I would be sad."

Pushing her further would lead to a question I don't want the answer to. Because I already know, naturally. Her ability to know my thoughts conveniently comes and goes depending upon the actual question.

"If I could give you the life you want, I would have already."

There she goes, reading the thoughts I wasn't even thinking.

Chapter 6

For the first time in ages I actually find myself sobbing. I'm alone, utterly alone and I seemed so perfect to break down just now. Fran has gone off to who knows where. She didn't give any warning really. This happens on occasion and is not at all the cause of my tears. It's everything else. It's living this life. Or not living it. What more is there for me to do. Nothing.

It's withdrawal, that's all really. The thrill of it all is gone at the moment. No airship, nothing that needs saving, so nothing at all seems worth saving. We've been steering clear of confrontation as of late, which leaves little room for dramatics. Until Fran left three days ago, our affection for each other had grown. But it's more than just affection that we thrive on. I think that may have been why she left. Or it has nothing at all to do with me. She can't hear the wood anymore, I know this as fact. But that doesn't preclude her from thinking she can hear it's call. Like when you've carried a heavy weight for miles and when you finally let down your load you can still feel it there. It will always weigh her down, arouse her suspicions. She told me as such. I never knew a Fran who could actually hear the wood. Long before I came along she had lost that part of herself. But her ears still twitch. In a fit she'll go searching. She knows better. How could she not? But there is that moment she gets caught up in again and again. There is the need to search.

I asked her once if she could speak to the wind now that she had found her wings. It was a joke as we lay between the sheets, her skin reacting to the cool air, her body first held tense then relaxing. Over and over and over again. The stress on her heart could have killed a Hume. Her appearance was still but I knew better, at least that is what I believed.

"The wind answers to no one, you know that, pirate."

There was no need for a response. She knew that but decided to speak in any case. I didn't respond then and let the room fall silent.

She knows I'm losing my mind like this. That I yearn for entertainment, for the sky, for more than just her touch at night, though I wouldn't sacrifice that for anything. She knows I'm losing my mind like this and she's abandoned me in yet another forest. Where she can pretend to be in her element. Where she can pretend that she is more than just a Hume with large ears.

No no no. She is so much more. But she has lost that which makes her Viera. That doesn't make her any less attractive, desired, wanted. Because in fact I have only ever known her as this. The exoticism of it all was really only in my head.

I unload my gun. I shouldn't do that and at the same time it is imperative. If I were to be attacked now, alone with only trees as my witnesses, I could be dead before I had the chance to retrieve another weapon. If I leave it loaded, my little game will certainly lead to destruction.

It's not that I want to die. I must remind myself of that. I do not wish to die, not in the least. Still I point the unloaded pistol to my head and pull the trigger. Once, twice, thrice. The clicking sounds like it's inside my brain. It's a click that I wouldn't hear otherwise. It would all be over too quickly. I'm sure the bullet would hit my brain before the gentle clicking. None of those I've shot have heard it quite like this. I've been through dozens of guns. I do not know if they all sound just like this. I'll never know. There is never really a reason to become attached to one in particular. They break just like everything else. Click click click.

If Fran were to see this. I don't know. I want to believe there would be concern. But Humes break. Just like everything else. Click click click. Each beat of my heart brings me closer to broken.

It's not at all about killing myself. It's not at all about wanting to die. It's about control. It's about knowing I can. If I have no ship to steer I should at the very least be able to steer myself.

Could my father hear it? The control clicking away from him. His heartbeat being replaced by something else. Science is about control. Trying to control the world, genius comes when you realize you don't control a damn thing. Insanity when you believe you understand it all. My father chose the latter. I want to believe if I were a scientist and not a scoundrel I would have gone with the former. I would have embraced the unpredictability of this universe. How else could a gangly son of a professor have become a dashing hero? The odds were against me. How else could the boy who was coddled by an empress kill her favored son? Or perhaps how could I have become her favored son. She loved us both so. She loved all her children with such a passion.

And what is it like knowing what I know. What I have known. What I have done. My passion for Ivalice, I never let the others know that it was about more than just a big pay off, led me to slay my father. My passion for Fran insures I will never be a father myself. It's for the best, I tell myself. I will never want that life. The only reason it ever passes into thought is the knowledge I can never have it. I don't really want it at all. I don't.

What I do want, certainly, is the Strahl. Absolutely. There is no question in my mind that I want, right now, to return to that life. Who knows what I will desire tomorrow. But for now it is my ship. My lifeline. Click click.

My tears stopped what seems like ages ago. But the soft sound of my trigger, the controlled rhythm of it, goes on. That's what this is really, roulette with no chance of losing, or is it winning? What is the aim of it after all. I already know the outcome of each pull. It's total control. It's what my father wanted for me and what he could never have himself.

I take the gun away from my temple and proceed to reload it. The mood I was in has passed now, though I'm no better off than where I started. I know now what the internal sound of it is. Otherwise, I would have never known, like so many other instruments before that I have felt the weight of. It doesn't make me any more or less attached to this particular weapon. But now I'll know the sound my kills will never have the chance to hear. The chambers now full, I tuck it away for safekeeping. To keep me safe, not it.

I'd go crazy from boredom if I stay like this, if some other sort of crazy doesn't get me first. But there is nothing left to do but wait. Fran will return, we will continue, but traveling alone is dangerous. She is far better suited for it than I. When I run out of shot I'm a dead man. I'm obsessed with my weapon. For all the right and wrong reasons. For all the reasons possible.

Small but more deadly than any other weapon. Truth or story, it brings me comfort.

Here she comes now. My senses are not so acute, I suspect she makes extra noise for my benefit. She wasn't gone nearly as long as I suspected her to be.

"Say Fran, why don't we cut out all this running and take up flying again? Seems as good a time as ever, don't you say?"

Her eyes turn dark, like a woman possessed. That's all she is, isn't it? A woman made of flesh and bone, only shaped a bit more perfectly. With so much more care. They say the Viera existed long before Humes, the creator must have become rusty in his old age.

"Now is not the time."

I want to wine like a child to his mother, but I daren't. I have only ever noticed strong women.

"And roughly, when shall the time be?"

If looks could kill I would have been dead ages ago, now they barely even scratch the surface of my skin. I feel as if I could take on anything.

"They will find us now, as I have just found them."

And suddenly the stench of blood is overpowering. I didn't notice it before because I wasn't seeking it out. But there it is in stark clarity. She has been killing. Or, at the very least, wounding. I can't see a drop of it but it hangs heavily on her skin. She must have been wielding an axe for the occasion. It always seemed too messy for her. Death should never touch her as closely as it has. I can never decide if she really is an angel, or only a woman with long ears. I'll never have enough time to find the answer.

"If you've gone ahead and killed them why should we bother hiding?"

It doesn't matter how logical my questions are, how direct and succinct. I know she will always find a way to prove me wrong. An even more direct answer that I would have not considered.

"We needn't, you must."

Cryptic. While I would expect her to give such an answer in the presence of, say, Vaan, privately she is generally much more forthcoming with information. Luckily, she continues without further prompting.

"They are only interested in you. They will use me to get you."

She stands with such confidence. I want to bury myself inside of her.

"Your father's genes. They know who you are. I could not acquire all the details. They want the part of you that is your father."

"Then let them come, they won't find it."

I try to make it sound off-handed, but to me it is the utter truth. I killed that part of me to become a judge. That's a lie. I will always be my father's son. I know this utterly. It's his predisposition to madness that is driving me increasingly closer to the edge.

"Well fine, let's see if they can catch us, but the air is just as fine a place to play chase as the ground. Better even."

She must have known from the beginning that I would choose this path. I hear no protests. There is only the faint sound of her breathing.

"We'll have the boy bring the ship to us. I'm tired of all this damn walking."

Silence is her only response. She knows I'm being reckless. But she also knows that my end will not be hers. I can catapult myself into the sky or be shot down out of it, and it will not be her end. She can be killed like anyone else, but that doesn't mean she'll go down quite as easily. For the first time I realize truly how split our destinies are. Hers will fork away from mine. There is a freedom in it. As reckless as I am, it doesn't make a bit of difference to her. Beyond anyone else in this world I believe in her belief in me. She will not leave me until I have been completely undone. Perhaps this is what drives her, watching her lovers tick. How they function, how they live, how they die. The same experiment over and over again. We are her little test subjects. That is why she will not grow bored with me in my lifetime. There is no need for boredom when you can attempt the whole project over again when results are not satisfactory. I am finally appreciating her for the scientist she is. We are so alike.

I want to be reckless.

With that I am on her. Our bodies pressed against one another, hands in her hair, her nails digging into my hips. This has been my source of relief after being grounded for so long. She doesn't resist. This is as important, as vital to her as it is for me. It's beyond arousing, being wanted like this. Knowing each and every moment this could be mine mine mine. Each and every moment of my life I have her. Somewhere between my lips on hers and the trail they mark down her neck her previous lovers enter my mind once again, if only briefly. Of course I want to know how I compare, I always do. But in the moment between her neck and her breast all that matters is the heat of her skin and the increasing pressure between my legs. The arch of her back overrides all else and I want to forget about the ticking of my heart. Each beat one step closer to the moment I will be replaced with a new specimen.

Congrats! You've made it to the end of what I've written thus far. If you'd like there to be more, I ask that you suggest a song. Something Balthier might listen to were he a real 20-something living on Earth instead of Ivalice. A song that maybe suddenly popped into your head while reading a particular line. Really, nothing would make me happier.