chaosrifle-blog

[chaosrifle-blog]

@voleurvaan​:

... For a moment, the world freezes; maybe it’s the liquor, maybe it’s the hour, maybe it’s still the echo of what-ifs haunting the recesses of his mind, but Vaan finds himself staring at the open display and feeling the strangest pang of want the more he watches.

al-cid follows vaan’s line of sight and he snorts at what he finds.

al-andalus takes a much more liberal stance on public affection than much of the mainland (though even the staunchest followers of yevon go no-holds-barred after the tournament, he’s noticed) and dra chytchy is an amalgamation of so many vices. “it’s rude to stare, vaan,” he says, pinching the young man’s cheek to steal his attention away from the young lovers.

“though they are really getting into it, aren’t they,” he continues, grinning. he takes a long sip of the remaining *sawlym*, then exhales slowly. it’s as good a show as any, and they display no signs of stopping any time soon. “úf, they are rather like a couple of behemoths in heat. the large one is bound to bite his face off at this rate, i fear.” ah— perhaps that is why vaan is so fascinated. freed from the reins of religious discrimination, the al bhed are more noticeably lax about the lovers they take—a fling is simply a fling, after all, and those two are hardly the only pair taking solace within one another in this bar.  

now, al-cid considers himself a man of good taste and an open mind; with his line of work, seduction and intimacy are just a part of his duty, and if he sees something he wants, he is sure to take it. balthier is nowhere around to guard his charge like an angry bandersnatch, and the yearning in vaan’s eyes is visible even in the low lights of their alcove. al-cid sets his cup down once more, his arm finding its place behind vaan’s bared shoulders yet again as he leans forward. yes, al bhed clothing suits him much better than those awful robes, he thinks, pleased by the sight of muscle firmed by years of swinging a staff.

“is there something you are curious about, vaan?”

[chaosrifle-blog]

the only downside to being spymaster is that al-cid must keep vigilant at all times—it is difficult to lose himself completely, even flush against vaan as he is, but the brightness in vaan’s eyes as he studies al-cid’s helps with that cause. “do you see something you like?” he teases, and curls one hand around his waist, emboldened by his fascination. though al-cid is no stranger to intimacy, he has come to learn that vaan most certainly is—and his guardian seems most determined to see that it stays like that. the way balthier tiptoes around vaan, his hackles raised nevertheless, is only entertaining for so long before it grows dull. vaan is no child: he is a young man shouldering a burden scant few can bear, with little time on this earth, and he deserves to enjoy as much as he can. at least, that is what al-cid thinks when he watches vaan laugh and dance through the days in the citadel. he thinks it a shame that such a soul would choose martyrdom; would only that he could grant it, al-cid wishes for nothing more than to see him free and joyful under the desert sun.

“no, i do not think it dumb at all,” he replies, the noble bridge of his nose brushing against vaan’s cheek when he ducks his head so as to be heard over the pounding speakers. he tucks a loose strand of vaan’s hair behind the curve of his ear, continuing, “rather, i think it a profession most fitting for someone of your character. you are lithe, adaptive, quick-witted: all traits prerequisite for a star player, no?” al-cid’s teeth glint white beneath the passing light. “i take it that in an ideal world, you would play for the goers?”

@voleurvaan​

[chaosrifle-blog]

Oh, as much as Balthier wants to give Al-Cid just a sampling of what his sharp tongue is capable of, the guardian bites it back. Circumstances would plainly have it that the Al-Bhed, as grating as he is, has done much that leaves Balthier maddeningly in his debt: in addition to saving his life and protecting Vaan, he has given all three of them including Fran private accommodations, plenty of food, free reign of the upper echelons of Al-Andalus, and even this - a trip to an exclusive underground weapons dealer - adds to his tab, as it were.

“Forgive my scorn,” Balthier says to Al-Cid as he tosses the gun back to the dealer. “Your machina are impressive, I do not doubt it. But I’ve appearances to keep up, mind, and the Altair was a piece of art I don’t expect you to appreciate. Allow me to peruse your other offerings and then, perhaps, you and I can blow off some steam in the desert. My trigger finger itches after being bedridden for so long.”

He points to a rifle behind glass and juts his chin towards the display case. “That one,” Balthier says, before eyeing Al-Cid. He offers him a smirk. “Let’s see how well your guns really work.”

“i’m sure something itches,” he snickers. perhaps he’s been spending too much time with vaan; the boy’s good humor has rubbed off on him, and his guardian’s leather trousers plus desert sand cannot make for a good equation. al-cid tames his smile, turns to the merchant and proceeds with the transaction—though he pays for two, and shoulders one while holding its twin out for balthier to take.

“what do you say to a friendly wager between men? naught but a minor test of skills, yours and mine,” al-cid murmurs, and he matches balthier’s smirk with one of his own. he steps closer, close enough to bring the three inches he has over him into play. he grips balthier’s shoulder as he leans in to speak; his voice is low, but it doesn’t matter who hears when they are the only two that speak spiran. “for how am i to trust you to defend the young summoner when you cannot even defend yourself?”

his dark eyebrows raised, he withdraws from balthier’s space once more. “we al bhed have a game, a contest of sorts. i believe you are familiar with the most infamous of our local fauna: the bikanel cactuar is a wicked, swift little creature, and only the best gunman can send it to its grave with a single bullet. first man to take ten wins, oac? if you are amicable, and should you anticipate yourself the victor, you may choose your reward.” 

al-cid pauses, tilting his head with another coeurl’s smile. “ah, but if i win, i take your place at vaan’s side.” 

@itsbalthier

[chaosrifle-blog]

“eager, aren’t you,” he says with a laugh, and allows vaan to pull him down the stairs and through the masses, his flaxen hair flashing platinum in the rotating lights.

vaan’s grip belies his strength, strong and warm as it is on al-cid’s wrist, and he finds that he doesn’t mind the least bit as the boy finds a space for them amid the crowd of twisting bodies. perhaps i should have brought the bottle, he thinks distantly, for it is markedly hotter downstairs and the night has barely started.

vaan’s voice, faint over the music, brings him back down to earth. it is hard to make out the sounds, but al-cid learned to lip-read four languages before he was twelve so he has no problem understanding his questions. at this proximity, their height different is stark. “oh, this is nothing,” he says, leaning down so that his mouth is at vaan’s ear. “we must return on the weekend, sometime; or after the psyches win the cup! last year’s victory accrued so many damages that the proprietor petitioned my family for reparations.”

his spiral eyes glint when the spotlight moves above them. “do you like blitzball, vaan?”

al bhed music is loud and frantic, all heavy bass and fast drums and bright synthesizers, worlds away from most spiran music; the last song is all of that and more, but the next one starts slow and deep. when the dancers push behind him, al-cid presses closer, body fitting along vaan’s.

“ha! i do not mean to offend,” he replies, nudging vaan’s leg back while leaning forward to snag his own cup from the wooden table. his free hand is raised in apology. the sawlym, though sweet, burns down the column of his throat as he drinks at length. between trips back and forth from the mainland and bikanel, it has been a while since margrace has had any time to relax; and though the circumstances of their meeting were less than ideal, touring vaan is the perfect excuse to take a week to himself, show him the sights and introduce him to the nuances of al bhed culture. (of course, if everything goes right, vaan will not leave any time soon.) as spymaster, work never actually stops for al-cid, but he can allow himself a break every now and then; let his little birds can pick up the pieces.

vaan’s tone softens at the mention of his guardian, and al-cid cannot help the grin that pulls at his mouth. interesting, he thinks, and tucks it away as something to keep an eye on. “you think? why, one would think you are trying to convince yourself that, not me. …ah, i would advise you to take that slow, vaan: much like its cactuar origins, sawlym proves lethal when underestimated.”

the low electric lamps cast warm shadows across vaan’s spiran face, its curves decidedly foreign from the sharp lines of al-cid’s own. he watches him through lowered lashes as the young summoner turns to him—and it is not a question he expected, but who can say no to him.

“i would like nothing more,” he says, after a beat. al-cid finishes the dregs of wine at the bottom of his cup and sets it back on the table with finality, then makes to stand, one hand held out to help vaan up.

@voleurvaan

[chaosrifle-blog]

arms folded across his broad chest, al-cid stands to the side to watch balthier peruse one of many weapons stalls that comprise this section of al-andalus’s sprawling underground market. al-cid translates when necessary, and carries conversation with the sellers in the rare silence. this al bhed merchant is not happy to see a spiran’s hands upon his merchandise, but he knows better than to make a scene in the presence of a man wearing the margrace coat of arms around his neck.

“you speak so disdainfully of our weapons, yet was it not an al bhed make you used to its very limits? i have not seen such artifacts of an era bygone since my last visit to our city museum,” he says with no small amount of smugness in his words. he smiles catlike as he continues, “the altair, you called it? ’tis a shame you had to go and blow it up—it would prove valuable to our historians, i should think.”

balthier’s lip curls in displeasure and the very sight makes al-cid take a step closer. “function over form, dear guardian. a single shot and the fiend is downed with no chance to arise—much more refined than the gaudy things you indulge in. perhaps a pistol would be more your size?”

The display case of weapons stares soullessly at Balthier with ugly, crude-looking firearms he would never be caught dead slinging around like some bullet-hungry Al-Bhed. He does nothing to hide the curl of his lip, obvious distaste marring his features. Already he misses the finesse and timelessness of the Altair, now blown to bits - evidence to how beautiful it was to miss it at all after it nearly killed him. 

These guns are hideous things, nearly the entire height of Vaan, and when the merchant practically throws one at Balthier for him to hold his makes a noise of disapproval. 

“Such crude looking contraptions,” Balthier voices to Al-Cid, inspecting the weapon’s layout as though he were touching something dirty. Its jet-black, matte finish is nothing compared to the wood and brass of his tastes. “Is this the future you Al-Bheds seek to forge? Ugly things like this slung upon one’s back like a dead weight? Do you have anything less unsightly, I wonder. I’d rather not go traipsing around Spira with anything the likes of this. I’m a guardian, not a Shoopuff poacher.”

@chaosrifle

[chaosrifle-blog]

“ha! i do not mean to offend,” he replies, nudging vaan’s leg back while leaning forward to snag his own cup from the wooden table. his free hand is raised in apology. the sawlym, though sweet, burns down the column of his throat as he drinks at length. between trips back and forth from the mainland and bikanel, it has been a while since margrace has had any time to relax; and though the circumstances of their meeting were less than ideal, touring vaan is the perfect excuse to take a week to himself, show him the sights and introduce him to the nuances of al bhed culture. (of course, if everything goes right, vaan will not leave any time soon.) as spymaster, work never actually stops for al-cid, but he can allow himself a break every now and then; let his little birds can pick up the pieces.

vaan’s tone softens at the mention of his guardian, and al-cid cannot help the grin that pulls at his mouth. interesting, he thinks, and tucks it away as something to keep an eye on. “you think? why, one would think you are trying to convince yourself that, not me. …ah, i would advise you to take that slow, vaan: much like its cactuar origins, sawlym proves lethal when underestimated.”

the low electric lamps cast warm shadows across vaan’s spiran face, its curves decidedly foreign from the sharp lines of al-cid’s own. he watches him through lowered lashes as the young summoner turns to him—and it is not a question he expected, but who can say no to him.

“i would like nothing more,” he says, after a beat. al-cid finishes the dregs of wine at the bottom of his cup and sets it back on the table with finality, then makes to stand, one hand held out to help vaan up.

@voleurvaan

[chaosrifle-blog]

vaan’s smile outshines even the desert sun, and al-cid watches with a pleased smile of his own as the boy feels out the machina with wonderment. it is a beautiful model—al-cid would only provide the best, after all; but airbikes are a necessity both within the city’s walls and out on the hot sands, so it has been quite a long time since he has seen anyone so eager to ride. when he turns those eyes on al-cid, why, he could ask for the stars and moon and he would be unable to deny him. it is no wonder his guardians are so overprotective, he thinks with a low laugh.

“well, you are in luck—she is the fastest available,” he says, climbing onto the smooth leather seat in front of vaan. he twists the key in the ignition and revs the engine, looking over his shoulder to watch vaan’s reaction. “the latest model, you see, and engineered by my very own brother. truth be told, he spends too much time down in the lab, but who am i to criticize when he creates such wonders?”

al-cid pulls down his goggles, then taps a hatch on the side of the bike. “you will want eye protection, dear summoner. sand does get everywhere, and i daresay that guardian of yours will have my head if i return you in anything less than perfect condition.”

once he sees that vaan is properly outfitted, the bike lifts humming from the ground. sand billows below its jets as it floats, and al-cid pushes forward to pick up speed. “i would hold on to something, if i were you.”

@voleurvaan

[chaosrifle-blog]

“oh? and what is it that makes you so unconventional?” al-cid’s voice is playful, teasing even, but he carries a genuine interest in vaan’s story. what could drive him to choose the pilgrimage, he wonders as he watches him from the corner of his eye. there are many reasons he has heard from others: fame, fortune, honor, love, revenge, to name the most common. but why would this young man sacrifice his life for a cycle that cannot be stopped? sin will return soon enough.

it seems the boy has become rather taken with the airbikes. his smile is contagious, and al-cid laughs, amused by his poor pronunciation. “but you were so close—you must put the stress on the second syllable, like this,” he says, and repeats the word.

he comes to a stop, and unclasps a small machine hanging from the harness across his chest. it crackles to life; al-cid holds it up to his mouth to speak in a flurry of al bhed much too fast for a new learner to understand. he gestures with one hand as if to make a point, but there is no one but vaan to see him. then he turns it off and clips it back.

“lusa ymuhk, come along, we make for the plaza ahead,” he says, putting a hand between vaan’s shoulderblades to push him down the alley. the sandy alley opens into a circular space, bright desert sunlight bleaching the cobblestones white. within moments, the roar of a bike engine bounces off the stone buildings. its rider is a young al bhed woman, her face covered by the ubiquitous goggles; she comes to a stop in front of al-cid, disembarks silently and holds out the key.

“ah, thank you,” he says, and in turn, takes it between two fingers to jingle it in front of vaan.

@voleurvaan

[chaosrifle-blog]

the city shines ever brighter in the darkness, alive with countless spotlights, lasers, party ships cruising over the inner rings of the citadel. vaan is adjusting to life in al-andalus very well, al-cid thinks, for the boy takes to the dancing and music like he was born for it. they maneuver through the crowds, past the machina speakers blasting heavy basslines and drumbeats across the plazas at night, down into a complex network of back alleys to find al-cid’s second-favorite haunt, a dark and anonymous place where no one will bother them. dra cyhtcay’s proprietor may be a man of loose morals but for the right price he is trustworthy, nonetheless, and a shrewd source of information on the city’s comings-and-goings. the drink is strong as long as one stays on his good side, and al-cid is on his best.

even through the fabric of al-cid’s fatigues, vaan’s leg bleeds warmth against his own. though he has shed his leg holster and rifle for the evening, margrace keeps a knife tucked into his knee-high boots—and a few choice inventions on the rest of his person. but he will keep that a secret from vaan, who is a guest in his fair city, and whose laughter would be a true treasure lost if he is to continue his pilgrimage. those are thoughts for another night, however, and al-cid pushes them away with another mouthful of sawlym, an al bhed cactuar wine produced in the camps along the far side of the island. the bottle sits half-full on the table in front of them, so al-cid tips another couple inches into vaan’s empty cup.

“your bedtime?” al-cid echoes, eyebrows raised. stars, how sheltered have they kept this boy. “my, are you even old enough to be in here?”

it is a good thing balthier is stuck in bed, for all those distrustful looks he sends al-cid’s way only encourage him. the thought of his pale face twisted in displeasure is precisely what drives margrace to drape one arm around the back of the bench, behind vaan’s sunscented shoulders.

he waves a hand. “let us speak not of your guardian… what is it you say—speak of the coeurl and he shall appear? should the man scowl at me any more, i am afraid his face will freeze like that. it will have to be our little secret, oac?”

Al-Andalus’ nightlife is a spectacle unlike anything Vaan has ever seen. It feels like a festival every night, with street performances of music and dance, and vendors selling sizzling fare left and right. Stringed lights crest along the tapestries hanging over the footpaths, peppering the alleys like stars for as far as the eye can see. 

The tavern - Dra Cyhtcay, Al-Cid had called it - is one of many they passed once the sun had set and bathed the streets in a dusky purple-black. Inside, it is booming and alive and crowded. The air is filled with the chitter of Al-Bhed and rousing song and dance, and the ceilings stretch high to boast an array of machina that seem to add nothing but showy ambiance instead of its usual practicality.

Truth be told, it’s a blast to be in the middle of it all.

They are tucked away upstairs, in a little alcove above the din and excitement; a cozy half-circle enclosure with an arcing bench overstuffed with pillows. It’s comfortable and secluded, and no one can hear him speak Spiran amidst all the Al-Bhed. Vaan wears a smile easy into the night, and laughs around the rim of his nearly drained glass.

“Y’know,” he says, his cheeks tinged with a rosy mirth at this late hour, “this is past my bedtime.” Vaan laughs at the ridiculousness of his confession. “Balthier usually orders Lights Out by now.” The summoner plucks another spicy cracker from the basket and dips it in the strange hummus and eats with evident relish.

“Don’t let him know you keep me out this late,” Vaan jokes, draining his glass dry. 

@chaosrifle

[chaosrifle-blog]

the citadel of al-andalus is a behemoth resting between the rolling hills of the bikanel desert, her high walls hiding the island’s sole shelter from the searing desert sun, wandering fiends and religious persecution. the only way in is over and the margrace family has an iron grip on the airspace for leagues around. lower, among her streets, much of the machina floating overhead is blocked from view by heavy canvas draped between the pale stone buildings, a lovely sight which also helps to keep the rings of the city cool—as al-cid is more than happy to dictate to his newfound charge, the young summoner who gapes open-mouthed and wide-eyed at any and all passing machinery. al-cid thinks of honey spun into candy and turns down another side street. he supposes vaan’s reaction is only natural, for aside from the al bhed psyches, there are so few of his people who leave the island anymore; and those yevonites are so amusing with their censorship and scriptural nonsense. indeed, al-cid is no stranger to the rude words and hateful looks thrown his way when he ventures for the mainland.

however, vaan stares at him with naught but wonder, so al-cid grants him a smile, slowing his pace as they continue down the narrow cobblestone pathway. there is no need to rush at this time: even with the best al bhed technology at his bedside, balthier will still be days yet. (his gun, though, that is a different matter. what a wretched thing that was.)

“did you now,” al-cid prompts, spiral eyes twinkling as he glances down at the boy. “may i ask, dear summoner, what your yevon has to say of our quaint little city? does the real thing live up to expectations?”

the hum of an approaching bike is enough warning for him to grasp vaan’s shoulder, twist him out of the way; he is pleased to see that vaan brushes the strewn sand off with good humor, though al-cid himself makes a note of the rider’s bike make as it flies by. the man may very well be visited soon by a little bird with a stern warning.

“should you wish to ride, you need only say bmayca,” al-cid murmurs. his grip is firm and vaan’s flesh is warm beneath his fingerless gloves.

@voleurvaan

[chaosrifle-blog]

margrace tips his head to slide his sunglasses down with a practiced ease. his empty hand rises as though to clink wine goblets; he savors balthier’s attention and lets the moment hang. 

“…bitch.” ah, the sea air is sweet on his tongue. 

"ah, sky pirate, balthier—spare us a glance, won't you?"

He’s feeling charitable - and perhaps, even, a touch curious. Though he isn’t fond of taking orders, Balthier turns his head to fully regard the princeling without so much as a hum of acknowledgement. 

This had better be good. 

[chaosrifle-blog]

Al-Cid Margrace, at your service.

[chaosrifle-blog]