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FFXII: Five Times Basch And Vossler Spar
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Basch/Vossler
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: Vossler hesitates. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
first_seventhe's request, but also for her birthday! ♥
"You do not think me capable enough for this command," Basch says. It is blunt, for what Vossler knows of the other captain, and it pretty much demands honesty -- and he is glad for that, somehow. The silver tongues of those involved in politics make him feel as if he can't tell up from down: people like Basch make him feel as if up is always up, and down always down, and if you keep walking you'll find the floor steady under you quickly enough.
"I do not think you suited to this level of command," he says, and he means it: he's not just saying it to edge around the question.
"If you doubt my skills, try them," Basch says, and there is a quiet pride in his voice, and his hand is on his sword-hilt. Vossler thinks about it for a moment, and then nods.
"Very well," he says. "Not here, though."
"I will meet you later, if you wish," Basch says, with the tiniest shrug of his shoulders, and Vossler nods.
That evening, he learns not to underestimate Basch; he learns how quick he can be, and how strong, and how easily he makes the correct judgements on the spur of the moment. He discovers that sparring with Basch does not feel clumsy, as so much of modern warfare does -- hack and slash and decimate, for a soldier with finesse like himself -- it feels almost like a dance: something graceful and easy.
He discovers that Basch is a man he wants to have at his side, a man he would entrust the men under his command to. He even thinks Basch might be a more worthy leader than him.
He comes upon Basch a few days later, a sword in his hand, practicing movements. Basch looks rather graceful, if anyone with a heavy sword could be said to be graceful, and Vossler is so caught up in watching the almost-dance -- the quick movements, the easy side-steps, the sweat on Basch's skin -- that it takes him a moment to remember that Basch was injured in the last battle.
"Is that not difficult?"
"It is," Basch says, and Vossler notices a bandage on the arm that would usually be his sword arm, and he also notices that Basch is holding his sword in the other hand. There's a glimmer of a smile on the other's face. "A soldier can use his weapon with one hand. A good soldier can switch hands, if it be truly necessary. A true soldier learns everything twice: once with the right hand, once with the left."
Vossler nods. "May I practice with you?"
"You may," Basch says, smiling: a brief, easy smile, but Vossler feels welcomed by it -- as if Basch considers him a friend. He feels honoured by that.
The sparring matches become a regular thing, after that, right-handed and left-handed both. The next one, though, breaks the pattern before it is established. As they stand together after, cooling down, the heat of the day fading from the world around them as the sun dips down, Basch kisses Vossler.
He doesn't seem to expect anything more. Vossler doesn't know what to make of it, and in the end just turns and walks away, unable to read what Basch wants from him in his eyes. He must have been corrupted by politics, he thinks, after: he made a simple situation complicated by refusing to accept what Basch offered.
Friendship. Companionship. Something deeper. Did it really matter?
It matters.
Sparring matches after that are not the same. Basch seems no different, and yet -- and yet there's an element in it that wasn't there before, a new tension. Vossler finds himself noticing things he wouldn't've noticed before -- the colour of Basch's eyes, the grim curve of a smile as he fights, how flexible he seems to be -- and somehow Basch gets in a lucky hit, drawing blood: a mere scratch on his arm, but it stings.
"No more for today," Basch says, after dabbing some leftover potion on it for him. Vossler wants to say something -- have some kind of conversation -- but Basch just walks away, not waiting.
They don't spar for a while after that. Until one evening, when Basch comes over to him for reasons other than necessity and sits beside him, talking about the problems that will face them. And then --
"We may die, today," he says, quietly. He draws the whetstone over his blade one more time and then passes it to Vossler, apparently satisfied. "Perhaps we should try and settle all our scores."
"I believe you stand as the champion at the moment," Vossler says, barely paying attention. "You won the last three duels."
"I didn't mean that," Basch says, softer still.
Vossler looks up at him. He wants to kiss him. He wants to, because there is nothing complicated that can come from this: it's the eve before a battle, a new campaign; almost a new start. Basch doesn't say anything, but steps back, holding his sword ready.
Vossler hesitates.
Pairing: Basch/Vossler
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: Vossler hesitates. For
first_seventhe's request, but also for her birthday! ♥"You do not think me capable enough for this command," Basch says. It is blunt, for what Vossler knows of the other captain, and it pretty much demands honesty -- and he is glad for that, somehow. The silver tongues of those involved in politics make him feel as if he can't tell up from down: people like Basch make him feel as if up is always up, and down always down, and if you keep walking you'll find the floor steady under you quickly enough.
"I do not think you suited to this level of command," he says, and he means it: he's not just saying it to edge around the question.
"If you doubt my skills, try them," Basch says, and there is a quiet pride in his voice, and his hand is on his sword-hilt. Vossler thinks about it for a moment, and then nods.
"Very well," he says. "Not here, though."
"I will meet you later, if you wish," Basch says, with the tiniest shrug of his shoulders, and Vossler nods.
That evening, he learns not to underestimate Basch; he learns how quick he can be, and how strong, and how easily he makes the correct judgements on the spur of the moment. He discovers that sparring with Basch does not feel clumsy, as so much of modern warfare does -- hack and slash and decimate, for a soldier with finesse like himself -- it feels almost like a dance: something graceful and easy.
He discovers that Basch is a man he wants to have at his side, a man he would entrust the men under his command to. He even thinks Basch might be a more worthy leader than him.
He comes upon Basch a few days later, a sword in his hand, practicing movements. Basch looks rather graceful, if anyone with a heavy sword could be said to be graceful, and Vossler is so caught up in watching the almost-dance -- the quick movements, the easy side-steps, the sweat on Basch's skin -- that it takes him a moment to remember that Basch was injured in the last battle.
"Is that not difficult?"
"It is," Basch says, and Vossler notices a bandage on the arm that would usually be his sword arm, and he also notices that Basch is holding his sword in the other hand. There's a glimmer of a smile on the other's face. "A soldier can use his weapon with one hand. A good soldier can switch hands, if it be truly necessary. A true soldier learns everything twice: once with the right hand, once with the left."
Vossler nods. "May I practice with you?"
"You may," Basch says, smiling: a brief, easy smile, but Vossler feels welcomed by it -- as if Basch considers him a friend. He feels honoured by that.
The sparring matches become a regular thing, after that, right-handed and left-handed both. The next one, though, breaks the pattern before it is established. As they stand together after, cooling down, the heat of the day fading from the world around them as the sun dips down, Basch kisses Vossler.
He doesn't seem to expect anything more. Vossler doesn't know what to make of it, and in the end just turns and walks away, unable to read what Basch wants from him in his eyes. He must have been corrupted by politics, he thinks, after: he made a simple situation complicated by refusing to accept what Basch offered.
Friendship. Companionship. Something deeper. Did it really matter?
It matters.
Sparring matches after that are not the same. Basch seems no different, and yet -- and yet there's an element in it that wasn't there before, a new tension. Vossler finds himself noticing things he wouldn't've noticed before -- the colour of Basch's eyes, the grim curve of a smile as he fights, how flexible he seems to be -- and somehow Basch gets in a lucky hit, drawing blood: a mere scratch on his arm, but it stings.
"No more for today," Basch says, after dabbing some leftover potion on it for him. Vossler wants to say something -- have some kind of conversation -- but Basch just walks away, not waiting.
They don't spar for a while after that. Until one evening, when Basch comes over to him for reasons other than necessity and sits beside him, talking about the problems that will face them. And then --
"We may die, today," he says, quietly. He draws the whetstone over his blade one more time and then passes it to Vossler, apparently satisfied. "Perhaps we should try and settle all our scores."
"I believe you stand as the champion at the moment," Vossler says, barely paying attention. "You won the last three duels."
"I didn't mean that," Basch says, softer still.
Vossler looks up at him. He wants to kiss him. He wants to, because there is nothing complicated that can come from this: it's the eve before a battle, a new campaign; almost a new start. Basch doesn't say anything, but steps back, holding his sword ready.
Vossler hesitates.
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