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rose_in_winter2013-01-03 08:30 pm
lassarina) wrote in rose_in_winter2013-01-03 08:30 pm
[Crossover, Final Fantasy VI/Final Fantasy XII] A Fine Performance
Characters: Balthier/Setzer
Rating: G
Contains: Spoilers for Balthier's backstory (through the Phon Coast reveal) and Cyan's introduction (through the Phantom Train.)
Wordcount: 1253
Notes: Written for the December Chocobo Races forff_exchange, the AU/Crossover Theme
Betas:seventhe
Summary: Balthier drops in on the Jidoor Opera, where he maintains a box, only to find an interloper. A most fascinating interloper.
Balthier was in the midst of sweeping into his box at the Jidoor Opera when he realized it was already occupied. He stopped short, a kinetic choice that fortunately did not result in making personal acquaintance with the floor, and glared. His eyes had not deceived him. There was another occupant in the box—his box—whom he certainly had not invited. He was in the habit of inviting stunning ladies to the opera, not silver-haired men in utterly absurd velvet greatcoats that were certainly unlike any he had worn himself in his Archadian days.
The man turned to face him, and his face was far younger than his hair would suggest. Perhaps he was a relative of Judge Zecht—an alarmingly pale relative, perhaps consumptive—or there might be another, less complicated explanation. Balthier had not yet familiarized himself with all of the nations of this land; perhaps silver hair was a common trait in young men with handsome, narrow faces.
"I beg your pardon," the other man said politely, "but this box is occupied."
Balthier raised an eyebrow at the refined accent—perhaps a touch too refined, as though it had been carefully cultivated. "Indeed it is," he said, and decided that flashing his very best piratical smile was unlikely to harm his cause, and might indeed help it. "But I think perhaps you misunderstand the situation, sir. This is my box." In point of fact he did not pay for the box, but the Impresario had always been willing to allow him to claim it.
His smile was returned, with interest, and the interloper produced a slip of paper from the sleeves of his coat with a dexterity that suggested skill with legerdemain. He presented it with a flourish. "My ticket says I am entitled to this very seat," he said.
Balthier could have bestirred himself to check the ticket, but whether it was genuine or a clever forgery was not really the point. He was more interested in the multitude of small scars that suggested familiarity with the workings of machinery. Perhaps this was the airship pilot of whom he had heard such tales. "Perhaps there has been some kind of mistake," he said, gesturing broadly with both hands to indicate his willingness to compromise. "I am sure we could come to some kind of amicable solution."
"A coin toss, perhaps?" Balthier hadn't blinked, but the gold coin gleaming in the man's palm had certainly not been there a moment before. He had learned early in his career of piracy to beware the house dealer, particularly when the house dealer made coins appear and disappear as if with magicks.
Balthier produced his own coin from a pocket in his vest; he had liberated it from Her Majesty's royal treasury, along with the damned nethicite that had been far more trouble than he'd anticipated. The stamping mold had gone awry and it bore the Dalmascan seal on both sides, rather than the more usual seal and royal profile. He tossed it so it gleamed pale in the lamplight. "You'll forgive me if I question the provenance of your coin," he said politely.
"And I the provenance of yours," was the reply.
"It appears we are at an impasse, then," Balthier said.
The initial notes from the orchestra sounded, intended to indicate that patrons should take their seats.
"Perhaps not. After all, I purchased but one seat." Coin and ticket alike disappeared into his pockets as he gestured—to his left, Balthier noticed, presumably his off hand.
He strolled over and took the seat to his guest's right, stretching out his legs to their full length. The Strahl was a marvel of engineering, but even so, sitting for long enough to travel between worlds was harsh on the body. He could not properly stretch his shoulders in his opera attire—the shoulders were too fitted—but he could stretch out his right arm until it lay across the empty seat to his right. "Forgive my lack of manners," he said, "but I do not think we have been introduced."
"Of course. I am Setzer Gabbiani." The smile that played around the corners of Setzer's lips was eerily familiar; Balthier had practiced the same expression in the glass for hours in the early days of his second career. He had been right about his guest's occupation, then. He allowed himself to show recognition, and perhaps a touch of admiration, should Setzer choose to interpret it as such.
"And I am Balthier," he said, just as the music swelled once more and the lamps began to dim. Setzer quirked an eyebrow in a mannerism eerily similar to Balthier's own. He was not entirely certain how comfortable he was with that idea.
The opera began with the usual summary of the plot—in this instance, a knight of Doma (a nation with which he was unfamiliar but whose name evoked wistful sighs from some of the audience, so he assumed it to be of some repute) struggled valiantly to save his liege, wife, and child from poison poured by a madman. Setzer looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"The singing seems none too ill to me," Balthier observed, hoping to find out why Setzer looked as though he had bitten a lemon.
"It is not the singing that troubles me," Setzer said, and hesitated a moment. "I know the man this play is based on, and I find myself—uncomfortable."
Balthier was rather put out. There were, as yet, no plays being produced about his exploits in saving an entire world from the machinations of a madman, yet a friend of this gambler merited his own opera? "Is it tolerably accurate?" he asked. If the entire thing was an exaggeration, his pride might yet be salvaged.
Setzer sighed. "The facts are close enough, I suppose, but I am not in a mood to watch a friend's tragedy trotted out for the titillation of anyone with the gil for a ticket—or other means of entry." He rose abruptly, and Balthier noticed that the velvet coat was exceptionally well-tailored. "Enjoy the show," he said brusquely.
"A moment, if you would," Balthier said, timing it so that Setzer had to turn back in the doorway, perfectly framed by red velvet and golden lamps bright against his black coat. "Should I ever wish to take you up on the offer of a gamble, where might I find you?"
Setzer smiled faintly. "My Falcon is the only airship in the sky—besides yours," he said. "I imagine it won't be too difficult." He made a sweeping bow and an exit worthy of a leading man.
Balthier leaned back in his chair, idly walking the coin he had pinched from Setzer's pocket back and forth along the fingers of his left hand. As he had suspected, it had two heads. He tossed it up, spinning end over end, to watch the gold gleam in the lamplight, and caught it again. He would give the gambler a day or two to notice its absence, and then go to find him.
When he tucked the coin into his own pocket, he had to laugh, for his own two-tailed coin was missing. He saluted the empty air, and settled back to watch the rest of the opera in his very own box, now perhaps a touch emptier than he might have liked.
It was a fine performance, but Setzer's had been better.
Rating: G
Contains: Spoilers for Balthier's backstory (through the Phon Coast reveal) and Cyan's introduction (through the Phantom Train.)
Wordcount: 1253
Notes: Written for the December Chocobo Races for
ff_exchange, the AU/Crossover ThemeBetas:
seventheSummary: Balthier drops in on the Jidoor Opera, where he maintains a box, only to find an interloper. A most fascinating interloper.
Balthier was in the midst of sweeping into his box at the Jidoor Opera when he realized it was already occupied. He stopped short, a kinetic choice that fortunately did not result in making personal acquaintance with the floor, and glared. His eyes had not deceived him. There was another occupant in the box—his box—whom he certainly had not invited. He was in the habit of inviting stunning ladies to the opera, not silver-haired men in utterly absurd velvet greatcoats that were certainly unlike any he had worn himself in his Archadian days.
The man turned to face him, and his face was far younger than his hair would suggest. Perhaps he was a relative of Judge Zecht—an alarmingly pale relative, perhaps consumptive—or there might be another, less complicated explanation. Balthier had not yet familiarized himself with all of the nations of this land; perhaps silver hair was a common trait in young men with handsome, narrow faces.
"I beg your pardon," the other man said politely, "but this box is occupied."
Balthier raised an eyebrow at the refined accent—perhaps a touch too refined, as though it had been carefully cultivated. "Indeed it is," he said, and decided that flashing his very best piratical smile was unlikely to harm his cause, and might indeed help it. "But I think perhaps you misunderstand the situation, sir. This is my box." In point of fact he did not pay for the box, but the Impresario had always been willing to allow him to claim it.
His smile was returned, with interest, and the interloper produced a slip of paper from the sleeves of his coat with a dexterity that suggested skill with legerdemain. He presented it with a flourish. "My ticket says I am entitled to this very seat," he said.
Balthier could have bestirred himself to check the ticket, but whether it was genuine or a clever forgery was not really the point. He was more interested in the multitude of small scars that suggested familiarity with the workings of machinery. Perhaps this was the airship pilot of whom he had heard such tales. "Perhaps there has been some kind of mistake," he said, gesturing broadly with both hands to indicate his willingness to compromise. "I am sure we could come to some kind of amicable solution."
"A coin toss, perhaps?" Balthier hadn't blinked, but the gold coin gleaming in the man's palm had certainly not been there a moment before. He had learned early in his career of piracy to beware the house dealer, particularly when the house dealer made coins appear and disappear as if with magicks.
Balthier produced his own coin from a pocket in his vest; he had liberated it from Her Majesty's royal treasury, along with the damned nethicite that had been far more trouble than he'd anticipated. The stamping mold had gone awry and it bore the Dalmascan seal on both sides, rather than the more usual seal and royal profile. He tossed it so it gleamed pale in the lamplight. "You'll forgive me if I question the provenance of your coin," he said politely.
"And I the provenance of yours," was the reply.
"It appears we are at an impasse, then," Balthier said.
The initial notes from the orchestra sounded, intended to indicate that patrons should take their seats.
"Perhaps not. After all, I purchased but one seat." Coin and ticket alike disappeared into his pockets as he gestured—to his left, Balthier noticed, presumably his off hand.
He strolled over and took the seat to his guest's right, stretching out his legs to their full length. The Strahl was a marvel of engineering, but even so, sitting for long enough to travel between worlds was harsh on the body. He could not properly stretch his shoulders in his opera attire—the shoulders were too fitted—but he could stretch out his right arm until it lay across the empty seat to his right. "Forgive my lack of manners," he said, "but I do not think we have been introduced."
"Of course. I am Setzer Gabbiani." The smile that played around the corners of Setzer's lips was eerily familiar; Balthier had practiced the same expression in the glass for hours in the early days of his second career. He had been right about his guest's occupation, then. He allowed himself to show recognition, and perhaps a touch of admiration, should Setzer choose to interpret it as such.
"And I am Balthier," he said, just as the music swelled once more and the lamps began to dim. Setzer quirked an eyebrow in a mannerism eerily similar to Balthier's own. He was not entirely certain how comfortable he was with that idea.
The opera began with the usual summary of the plot—in this instance, a knight of Doma (a nation with which he was unfamiliar but whose name evoked wistful sighs from some of the audience, so he assumed it to be of some repute) struggled valiantly to save his liege, wife, and child from poison poured by a madman. Setzer looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"The singing seems none too ill to me," Balthier observed, hoping to find out why Setzer looked as though he had bitten a lemon.
"It is not the singing that troubles me," Setzer said, and hesitated a moment. "I know the man this play is based on, and I find myself—uncomfortable."
Balthier was rather put out. There were, as yet, no plays being produced about his exploits in saving an entire world from the machinations of a madman, yet a friend of this gambler merited his own opera? "Is it tolerably accurate?" he asked. If the entire thing was an exaggeration, his pride might yet be salvaged.
Setzer sighed. "The facts are close enough, I suppose, but I am not in a mood to watch a friend's tragedy trotted out for the titillation of anyone with the gil for a ticket—or other means of entry." He rose abruptly, and Balthier noticed that the velvet coat was exceptionally well-tailored. "Enjoy the show," he said brusquely.
"A moment, if you would," Balthier said, timing it so that Setzer had to turn back in the doorway, perfectly framed by red velvet and golden lamps bright against his black coat. "Should I ever wish to take you up on the offer of a gamble, where might I find you?"
Setzer smiled faintly. "My Falcon is the only airship in the sky—besides yours," he said. "I imagine it won't be too difficult." He made a sweeping bow and an exit worthy of a leading man.
Balthier leaned back in his chair, idly walking the coin he had pinched from Setzer's pocket back and forth along the fingers of his left hand. As he had suspected, it had two heads. He tossed it up, spinning end over end, to watch the gold gleam in the lamplight, and caught it again. He would give the gambler a day or two to notice its absence, and then go to find him.
When he tucked the coin into his own pocket, he had to laugh, for his own two-tailed coin was missing. He saluted the empty air, and settled back to watch the rest of the opera in his very own box, now perhaps a touch emptier than he might have liked.
It was a fine performance, but Setzer's had been better.