FIC: Sick (Final Fantasy XII)
Title: Sick
Author: ShadowSpirit
Email: HPFerret@aol.com
Rating: PG-13 for language
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Vaan x Balthier if you squint a lot.
Summary: Balthier hides the fact that he's ill, which quickly turns bad for his party.
WIP: Complete
Word Count: 1301
Disclaimer: FFXII is property of Squeenix. Lucky them. I don't want their money.
So it was becoming inevitable for this to happen. I was going to at least finish the game before I started to write fanfiction, but last night after playing for awhile it was just impossible. I don't even know where this small thing takes place. Characters probably OOC, but I really don't care.
Sick
The world spun; every scene around him that he could grasp was instead blurry. He could make out their group, his party being especially easy: Fran with her height and ears were recognizable over Vaan any day, no matter his health.
His replies were more sharp and louder than normal; he had to make them in order to hear himself over the throbbing of his head. Surely he had a fever. Everyone else complained about the coldness of the wind, but he was relishing in it.
Vaan made comments during the small battles: “Balthier, how about hitting something, huh?” A joke, but quite true.
It was his comments later on that were no longer made to joke, but were backed with annoyance instead. “Balthier, that was almost my head!”
Fran ignored him. He was certain that even as his partner, she couldn’t tell. The scent of the forest overran the scent of his sickliness.
Perhaps he would have been better changing weapons, except even that would have made him noticeable. They didn’t have time to sit around for him to return to top-standards. And certainly he didn’t want anyone to poke around at his current state.
“Sky pirates don’t get sick.” He heard that once. Maybe being around on the ground so much lately versus in the sky is what caused this? Maybe he was allergic.
He would’ve been laughing if the world didn’t give another wild tilt. His party, well, Vaan, was screaming at him. His mind slowly assessed the situation -- how had he missed this? The others were separated from them; it was just himself, Fran, and Vaan.
Surrounded by Hellhounds.
Vaan was slashing madly with his dagger, barely sticking to one target as they surrounded them more and more, pressing them tightly. Fran was having a difficult time shooting arrows with there being little range for them.
Balthier barely realized they had been attacked.
He wasn’t sure how many hounds there were. He shot at what he thought was one, then heard the angry groan of shattering bark beyond the growls from the hounds. He stared, trying to focus, feeling his aim waver as he held his gun out. Focus, he hissed to himself.
The scene mixed in on itself. Colors merged, like a painting getting soaked with water. The chilled air no longer did anything for him; he was heating up too much, enough that he was almost prepared to have cast a Blizzard spell upon him.
Now Fran was voicing her concerns. She was out of mana and Vaan was desperately trying to multi-task, keeping up on the magic and the fighting and shouting at Balthier to do something.
He did the only thing it seemed his body could do; tilting along with the rest of the world and finding himself crashing to the ground; he saw close fangs to his head and then a blade sticking from the muzzle and then the flood of blurred colors became a steady, almost calming, black.
“He’s sick?! Why the hell didn’t he say anything?! We were nearly killed back there!”
Vaan’s voice did a number to his ever-present headache that returned upon waking up. He didn’t chance making it known that he had returned to consciousness, keeping still, and trying to figure his bearings as much as possible with his eyes closed.
He could feel the forest floor, unfortunately. He almost wished his body had magically traveled to a nice, soft bed. The addition of pebbles and sticks beneath his back were unnerving.
He could hear pacing, which was most likely Vaan. He had to be talking to someone; one person. It made sense if it was Fran. The others must have still been gone.
Fran answered, “Why not ask him for yourself?”
The pacing stopped. He held himself back from wincing. Now that Fran knew something was wrong with him, her attention on him was strong. She sensed the moment he awoke.
There were heavy footsteps. Balthier, surprised when he realized they were so near to him, was suddenly jerked off the ground just a bit, hands curling into his shirt. His eyes snapped open and they met the close body of Vaan, looking down at him furiously.
“What the fuck is your problem?” the boy yelled harshly, something that did not suit him at all. The optimism was missing. There was a tinge of sounding betrayed in his voice.
“Have you not heard that it is best not to ruffle a leading man’s feathers?” Balthier answered as calmly as possible, gritting through his clenched teeth. His head was a full ensemble of percussion instruments now. It hurt. Vaan was not helping.
“Fuck the leading man! The leading man almost got his party nearly killed because the leading man failed to mention that he was fucking sick!” Vaan continued to rage, hands tightening more into the shirt. Balthier prayed that the boy wouldn’t do something incredibly stupid, like drop him.
Balthier remained silent and looked towards Fran. Her eyes were narrowed. There was a familiar air surrounding both her and Vaan. It almost made him feel guilty, if the fever didn’t swell up again and he quickly closed his eyes and dropped his head back with an unsuppressed groan.
Vaan’s eyes widened. He mumbled a short curse and all-too-gently rested Balthier back to the ground and sprinted away.
Fran approached her partner quickly and looked down at him. He had a hand held over his brow, forefinger and thumb pressing into his temples to try and relieve the pain. His face was strangely contorted, so unusual compared to his everyday appearance.
“You, are an idiot,” she told him indifferently. His smile was more of a cringe. He was glad his eyes were closed to avoid hers. “You worry us. We rely on you,” she said slowly, “and you betrayed us.”
The guilt wasn’t stopped by any of his symptoms this time. That air he had felt from the two: feeling betrayed. Balthier should have been able to focus through this. He should have been able to recover before any of the group had noticed their was anything wrong with him.
But he didn’t.
“The hounds?” he questioned quietly, uneasily.
“You collapsed. Vaan saved you from your body becoming a chew toy. I was able to stay focused on potions while he gathered together enough mana for us to pull off a chain of quickening. It was luck. We needed you with us.”
And you weren’t there. The words were unsaid.
Vaan was running back. Balthier only opened his eyes briefly to see the boy holding a poorly torn piece of cloth from someone’s old armor, dripping wet. His anger had been temporarily moved aside as he knelt down by the sky pirate and batted away the hand on Balthier’s head to instead place the cloth.
The coolness made him breathe out a sigh of relief.
He felt a toned-down slap against his cheek. He looked towards Vaan, trying to focus without the world doing funny things around him.
“How could you do that?” the boy whispered. The anger had completely subsided. He sounded like a wounded puppy.
“Can a man of my particular standings not be allowed a mistake or two?”
“No, he can’t!” Vaan cried back. “Not you…” he hung his head. Never Balthier. He thought the sky pirate was the definition of Perfection. He thought that… Vaan didn’t know anymore.
“Perhaps,” Balthier whispered, “I am teaching you what not to do. Never keep something that is life-threatening to your comrades bottled up.”
“… You scared me.” Vaan felt like such a child. He couldn’t look at Balthier until a hand slowly rested against his cheek and pulled his gaze back.
Balthier stared at him with a weak, though sincere gaze, “Then I’m sorry.”