FicWad

He can tell by the smoke that there's a fire, already, and it's that extra light that has Basch up even before the sun starts, far before the others. Too sensitive after prison, still. He'll need to ask Vaan and Penelo if they can somehow darken their tent, when they wake.

He considers letting himself lie there, but his stomach growls, and sooner or later that'll wake these light sleepers. Besides, if there's a fire, it's possible breakfast is started. He lets himself out, remembering to credit Penelo for the idea to face the tent westward.

He's hardly surprised to see who it is, awake this hour. "You're up early," Basch says, standing a few paces behind Vossler's back, sitting low to tend the fire. That he's awake is no indication that he wants company -- though he's not been out in previous mornings, Vossler's always been an early riser. Perhaps he simply never slept.

"You should be by the fire," Vossler tells him, after a moment. He doesn't turn around.

"I'm not uncomfortable." It is cool, without the overhead sun, but not damp, and that's a welcome change. But he comes closer anyway, and when Vossler shifts to make room, he sits.

Basch watches Vossler work over a simple spit rigged above the fire, turning it even after the meat of whatever he caught to eat is browned and tough. When he splits it, and Basch makes no move to eat any, Vossler holds out a limb. He gestures, indicating it for Basch.

"You're too thin." He hesitates as he says it, as if he's not sure the right words to use -- even more so now, than when Vossler first saw him out of prison. "It's good meat. Take it."

Basch takes it from his hands, but does not eat. "I've gained twenty pounds." Still low, yes, but gaining fast. His brother must have only weighed fifteen more, if that. He eyes the meat. "This isn't -- Urutan-Yensa?"

"You're thin, Basch. Eat."

He takes a bite, swallows -- tastes like crab, if anything, and not bad -- but goes on. "You're showing much concern for a kingslayer." He immediately fears his tone isn't as light as that sentence would require, to be received well, but it is done.

"You're no kingslayer."

Basch looks over sharply -- he tears off a strip of meat as he says it, but the effect is not lost; far as he knows, that's the first time Vossler has admitted to believing the truth from him. But he says nothing, and they eat.

"The lady Ashe says it so. I trust her judgment," Vossler explains. Basch understands. If their companionship must be only another duty in serving her, so be it.

"The boy, as well," Basch adds.

"Why wouldn't --"

Basch lowers his voice. Vaan has been remarkably forgiving, but he wouldn't want to test it. "You heard. Brother to Reks."

"Your soldier."

"Yes."

"You've confidence in him, after what he's done to your name?"

"He was a boy. He could not be expected to know Vayne's cleverness."

"Explain the others." Basch does not miss the glance toward the tent claimed by Fran and Balthier. Vossler knows these things, that Basch is telling him. Basch doesn't mind repeating.

For this one, he has the answer ready, and not for Vossler's sake. "Once Rabanastre starts to speak of the lady's kidnapping, Balthier's head will be worth as much as mine. Does betrayal not require gain?"

Vossler drops his head, but not in disagreement -- Basch realizes at that moment how much he's trying, how he wants to be able to trust like they used to. Basch reaches out, but stops himself before they touch.

"A price on your head," Vossler scoffs. "The gods are cruel."

Basch tilts his head enough to meet Vossler's eyes, as well as his light voice. "The gods, Vossler? I wouldn't take you for a religious man."

"Could anyone else design such a thing?"

"True enough."

Silence falls again, and then tension persists, if lessened. Vossler looks up and toward the east, as if he could see Dalmasca. Basch lets himself watch. He is always handsome, but even more in the fire and the morning sun, the orange light highlighting dark skin, a strong jaw. Not for the first time, Basch is grateful for Vossler's nature, allowing him to relax; if he felt uncomfortable, Vossler would put a stop to it.

When Vossler gets up, after they've eaten and thrown the bones to the side, he braces an arm on Basch's shoulder. He needn't -- Basch knows his strength, and realizes that was meant to be comforting -- and it makes Basch wince slightly, the skin raw from the sun, his new clothes offering little protection. He says nothing, and assumes Vossler doesn't notice, as he continues on his way to presumably gather Yensa to feed the rest of the camp.

But he only goes so far as his and the lady's tent, to rummage quietly as not to wake her and emerge not a minute later, making his way back. "Need something?" Basch asks.

"A potion."

"When were you hurt?" He tries not to worry that his reaction may have been too hasty. Vossler would not begrudge him concern.

"I wasn't."

"Then what use--" he starts, but Vossler drops to his knees behind Basch's back, and then his hands are rough but covered in cool potion, rubbing it into exposed, reddened shoulders. "Oh," Basch manages, "oh."

Vossler's hands have lost no skill, gained in strength if anything, since the times they used to do this on their leave in Rabanastre, when Basch would foolishly remove his armor in the sands near the city like the darker-skinned Dalmascans. Or perhaps he's weaker, has less muscle, or was simply deprived of senses for so long that every touch goes -- goes straight to his cock, oh gods.

He stiffens -- possibly unnecessarily, he chides himself, for gods know they did that during those days in Rabanastre as well. But the reaction is not right, after weeks out of prison, taking care of himself occasionally and even, once, receiving help. Yet he's still so needy -- it's been so long since he's had Vossler, or even given himself the thought, and Vossler is doing nothing to discourage it, his fingers under the edges of Basch's shirt and running over his back, thumbs working on tense muscles, where there is so little sunburn to justify it.

Vossler presses his lips to Basch's nape, lighter than he can ever remember Vossler's touch being, and he is no longer sure why justification is neccessary.

"Yes," he mutters, conscious of making noise, at the same time reaching up to take Vossler by the hair, letting him know that Basch wants this, and is neither expecting nor wanting gentleness. His mouth presses harder, along with his beard and his hands and everything else he's ever liked about Vossler -- he can't see him, but he needn't see to know the concentration in his expression, just as focused in this as everything else.

Basch can't help biting his lip, but ends up growling anyway when after the first decent bite Vossler's presence leaves him entirely -- they are cruel gods, to have Vossler changing his mind now -- but he returns, and there's a cool, tingling counterpoint to the heat of his mouth, tongue working it into the skin and healing the bites as soon as he can make them --

He /remembers/; it's the same old precaution devised when Basch would mark more easily than either of them liked, and that's as much of an ache as anything else. He tries to turn to face Vossler, needing friction, pressure, something. Vossler knows his strength already, and well exceeds it, but one hand can only do so much to keep Basch in place -- the other is still dripping potion, slowly, keeping things wet. He manages enough movement to take the edge off, and then Vossler growls and drops to one knee, his thigh pressing up hard, huge, between Basch's own.

They can kiss properly now, and Basch wastes no time, the potion bottle spilled, hands tangled in hair and clothes and one of his own in Vossler's shorts now, his tongue pressing into Vossler's mouth, as much to muffle the noise as for the pleasure.

This would feel like he was a teenager again, rushed and trying to keep quiet, but at the same time it's nothing like he knew then: Vossler is rough and confident, finely muscled, larger than Basch is. His voice is all rough words and growls and Basch's name, his mouth no longer sucking or kissing more than sporadically but close enough to feel his panting breath, and it's -- it's too quick and it shouldn't be enough, just Vossler's thigh, and his hand only barely touching Basch's cock through cloth, but Basch gives in and moans, caught between the cool air and cooler sand and Vossler's body, his own hand faltering on Vossler's cock as he shudders, comes, harder than he has in years.

Vossler is more patient than he'd expect, only rocking his hips slightly while Basch catches his breath. Once he does, he wastes no more time, as the sun is rising and he owes this much -- he leans back and down and swallows Vossler's cock as soon as he can manage. He can't take all of it, or even near, too large and too out of practice, but Vossler's hand on his shoulder tells him it's enough. Vossler thrusts, but only shallowly and only for a minute, coming with a moan that Basch has to echo, a sound like he'd been waiting too long to make: trusting, showing weakness, and unafraid of doing so.

Vossler drags him up, a hand around his face but not particularly rough. "I would've," he starts. Basch kisses him, makes sure to make it deep. Vossler doesn't back away from his own taste on Basch's tongue.

"I know," Basch says, between kisses, close to Vossler's lips. "When we have more time."

It's hardly comfortable, Basch still close to straddling Vossler's thigh, raising his arms to wrap around Vossler like the ones around himself, but he makes no effort to move, expecting that of Vossler, first.

"No," Vossler says, eventually. "Nothing changes, Basch."

"I -- understand." If that is what Vossler needs to tell himself, Basch is willing. He would expect no less, even, for a man as determined as he knows this one to be, and he suspects Vossler knows it.

Yet he doesn't seem to be eager to move, once they've rearranged themselves, and Basch says nothing, enjoying it until the mess in the rising heat becomes more uncomfortable than before. They should rinse off, while they have water to spare. "Wash up with me, before the others rise?"

He may say they won't change, that their tentative trust is no different, but after years of watching Vossler, Basch can tell they have -- he's not seen Vossler move so quickly, and once he's up, he offers a hand down. Basch takes it, and allows himself a smile.