Fool's Gold

[A/N: I drew the picture in a competitions law lecture, just before running out of paper and then falling asleep. Yes, we DO have color-coded folders in law. XD But most of our books are terribly boring in hue…

Sentiment

Ffamran Bunansa would have felt a little more indignant about being the errand boy, had his objectives been different. Zargabaath's surprise birthday party was getting into full drunken swing with the hours, however, and nobody above sixteen years of age was currently able to walk in a straight line, let alone maneuver the darkened corridors of the Justice Department in after hours, rife with treacherous stairways, esoteric corridors, and identical rooms.

And so it was left to the fifteen-year-old Chief Aide of Zargabaath's bureau to navigate about and locate the few remaining workaholics in the building to invite them to the party. Damn drunken Judge-Magisters and their sudden bright ideas.

Slightly annoyed, but having been plied full of delicately fried cheese and honey cake (a clear tactic if he ever saw one), Ffamran climbed up another flight of stairs to the Arkon Wing of the Department, shared by Satre's and Zecht's bureaus. A somewhat older wing than the rest, it was constructed of crumbly brick weathered beautifully by the sun, its various sculptures and carvings depicting the stern eagles and scales of the Department fading quickly into bleached orange. Pale yellow fluorescent dots, a new addition, lined the ground, providing enough to see by.

Satre's office was occupied, judging from the orange light of the indicator next to the large oak double doors. Ffamran knocked politely, waited, then pressed the indicator. The soft chime of a bell went off, and there was another long pause before heavy steps indicated Satre's approach as well as his state of dress.

Satre was yet another relic of a Judge-Magister, close to his retirement. He was older yet than Zargabaath, likely in his sixties, and work in the Department had aged him quickly before his time, as it tended to. He was tall, more than a head taller than Ffamran, thin from too many rushed meals, skin pale from a lack of sun, his head of russet hair already mostly silver, dressed in full armor. Imperious green eyes held his, and one thin silver eyebrow arched. "Yes, boy?"

Ffamran grimaced inwardly, even as he kept his smile just on this side of mischief. Satre, Zargabaath and Zecht always failed to address him by his title or name. "Judge-Magister Satre, Judge-Magister Zargabaath formally extends you an invite to attend his fiftieth birthday party, held in his Chambers. Or he would, if he was somewhat less drunk than he is now."

His cheeky quip went unappreciated. Satre rubbed eyes reddened from little sleep, yawned, glanced backwards at the antique grandfather's clock that sat court over the darkened associate's room, then up at the pale light emanating from the door to his office at the very end. "Give me a quarter of an hour, then I will make my way down."

"All right. I extend my condolences to you, that you can have such a mountain of work which prevents you from-"

Satre reached over and ruffled his hair, which made Ffamran squeak indignantly and jerk away. Amused, the older man then pointedly leaned down, hands on armored knees, until he was on eye level. "None of that cheek with me, boy. 'Tis a little too late in the day, and your master knows the difficulty of the case I am working on."

Ffamran pouted. Satre was a difficult mark, with his equally quick wit, but he always welcomed a challenge. Still, Ffamran knew when to back down gracefully. "I will see you at Chambers, then."

The Judge-Magister straightened up, nodded absently, and closed the door. Feeling a little irritable, Ffamran wandered down the corridor and past the next Chambers, this one also lit with an orange light. Zecht and most of his team was already present at the party and navigating new definitions of insobriety, but his Chief Aide had lingered behind to 'finish up', Zecht had explained, along with other words such as 'inhuman' and 'crazy bastard'.

Ffamran paused outside the door, knowing that it likely said something about his regard for the other aide that the chance of being however briefly alone with him made being the errand boy worthwhile. He found Gabranth's ice intriguing, his disdain for 'childishness' amusing, and the Judge himself mysteriously attractive. Gabranth was not the most handsome person in the Department or Ffamran's experience by any measure, but something about him drew Ffamran's attention easily and unconsciously.

Moths to a flame, perhaps. Ffamran shared Zargabaath's scorn for Judges influenced by Solidor, however efficient or intelligent, and it was no secret who Gabranth's benefactor was.

He tried the door handle without knocking, and the door slid open easily. Mischief overrode propriety, as Ffamran sidled around the horrendous tangle of documents and tomes atop the main table of Zecht's associate room. He was glad that he had changed out of his armor into a blue shirt, breeches and a white scarf: armor was not particularly good to sneak about in.

Gentle snores from Zecht's office made the young Judge smirk, and walk as quietly as possible into the large room, navigating the scattered files on the ground as carefully as he could. There had been some commendable effort to straighten up Zecht's office: Ffamran had heard it was one of Gabranth's ongoing and futile projects. Documents and tomes had been mostly piled on the desk, and many of the coffee cups stacked against the window seat; Zecht's scribbles had been balled up in the waste bin, and his many airship catalogues stacked discreetly in a corner of the room. The shelves of the wall-length bookcase that stretched one side of the wall had been dusted, even if scrolls still littered the ground.

Gabranth was sprawled on the white couch at the other end of the room, a book still on his lap and blanketed in his aide's cloak, already sliding down towards his waist, sound asleep. His shirt was unbuttoned to show a very unbecoming amount of flesh: the Judge Chambers tended to get stiflingly hot during the nights. A guttering candle provided further illumination, dancing shadows over the scattered folders, books and documents scattered next to the couch. Gabranth had evidently been in the midst of doing work that was undoubtedly truly Zecht's responsibility.

Ffamran gently prised the yellow folder that was slowly slipping out of Gabranth's grasp. The other Judge's breathing immediately changed, and Ffamran found himself looking into gray-blue eyes unfocused from sleep. Gabranth took a moment to recognize him, then he flushed slightly, as though in embarrassment, and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Late enough that Zecht is worried about your state of sobriety," Ffamran grinned. He couldn't help it: as much as he knew mischief annoyed Gabranth, as much as he also knew that he wanted to be in the other Judge's favor, his tongue tended to run a little out of control in the other man's presence. Zargabaath had already guessed as much what that meant, his eyes occasionally running between the Aides when they bickered thoughtfully, but had thankfully not made any comment. Yet.

"I am sober." Gabranth's voice was husky from sleep, and Ffamran fought the urge to purr in response. Another yawn, and long fingers were scratching absently at the stubble over his jaw.

"That is precisely why he is worried," Ffamran drawled. To distract his tongue further before yet another quarrel began, he opened the file, affecting curiosity.

"Don't," Gabranth warned, making an uncoordinated grab for the folder that caught Ffamran's wrist instead, making the younger Judge yelp in surprise as he lost balance, sprawling over the other man's lap. Gabranth cursed, startled, then stiffened under him as Ffamran's automatic rearrangement to regain equilibrium saw the younger Judge more or less straddling muscular thighs over the cloak. The file was forgotten between their bodies and the back of the couch, as Ffamran's heartbeat quickened.

He was sure that he was blushing, and was about to apologize, but Gabranth's breathing abruptly took on a strained note. Expecting an incipient outburst, Ffamran looked up quickly, just in time to catch Gabranth's eyes smolder with such heat that his breath caught in his throat, eyes widening with sudden realizations. And yes, he could feel the other man stir, under him, hardening, and any uncertainty he had ever harbored about how this could be wrong was chased away in a primal, irrational sense of right.

It seemed appropriate to lean closer, lips parted, to beg silently for a first kiss that would change everything between them, but he met fingers roughened from sword-practice instead.

Gabranth's eyes were closed now, his breathing labored for a moment, before smoothening back under control. When he spoke, his voice was tightly flat. "Judge… Judge Ffamran. I apologize for the accident. Please inform Judge-Magister Zecht that I will be on my way down as soon as I finish the work that he was meant to have done yesterday."

Dismissal was clear in Gabranth's tone, but Ffamran could pick up a hint of desperation that the other man was unable to hide completely. Besides, the forced, even breaths were equally unable to still Gabranth's arousal. Ffamran grasped the hand against his lips with both hands, half-lidded his eyes, and began to lick the forefinger, deliberately, from the root to the tip.

There, again that sudden heat in the other man's gaze, but shuttered away even more quickly, this time. Gabranth jerked his hand away, hissing, "What are you doing, boy? Get off me."

"No," Ffamran grinned impishly, and pushed back his hips against the ridge he could feel against his rump. Gabranth shuddered, with a groan, then bit his lip sharply, looking away and taking harsh, short breaths. Since that seemed to be going well, Ffamran ground his hips back again. This time, there was a little buck that made him gasp, and his own breeches began to feel somewhat restrictive.

Before he could try it again Gabranth's fingers were wrapped around his hips, preventing him from moving, and the other man's eyes were a little wild. "No, no, no. Ffamran, you are fifteen. And I can tell, you have never done this before. 'Tis wrong-"

Annoyed by the constant influence his age had him on having any sort of fun, Ffamran growled. Taking advantage of the preoccupation of Gabranth's fingers, he leaned forward to press lips against the other man's, if in obvious inexperience. The stubble felt a little ticklish under his chin, and as lips parted in shock, Ffamran's tongue darted forward for a little taste, as he wrapped arms around Gabranth's neck and molded himself close.

Gabranth's answering moan was more like a growl, and Ffamran found himself flipped onto his back, pinned to the couch and kissed both expertly and thoroughly, tangled in the cloak, able only to concentrate on not biting down on the new sensation of invading tongues stroking his, dizzy and arching helplessly as hands all but tore his shirt open to splay and stroke over his ribs, and oh, between his thighs, that heat…

Sweet desperation written into fingers tensed over his skin, the little rumbling growls from the back of the other man's throat, in how Ffamran's lips were beginning to swell from the novel assault. Ffamran was aware that his inexperience was far too telling: his hands seemed frozen to broad shoulders, and his bucks in response to grinding rocks were out of synch, his breathing released in sharp gasps for air between kisses.

All too soon, Gabranth reared back with a choked sound, scrambling backwards to the end of the couch, the blue cloak in valleys over his thighs. His skin was flushed pink, and the hasty jerk of blue cloth over his hips was not quick enough to hide the very obvious bulge.

Ffamran fought the urge to pout. That had been getting fun, too, more than he had imagined that it would be. He sat up, hands behind his back, his shirt open to the navel, chin resting on the knot of his scarf. "Why stop?"

"You are too young. 'Tis not even legal, and I am fourteen years your senior." Gabranth spoke too fast, and he was staring at the jumble of documents and books at his feet. "I apologize for the lack of control on my part. Please, go."

"Not too young to like you, surely," Ffamran's sudden spark of ire made difficult words easy to voice. "Nor too young to find you handsome."

Gabranth blinked at him, at that, then looked away, his blush deepening. Lips quirked into a quick, self-conscious smile before being forced back into a thin line. "Nevertheless."

"Too young to play? Then I can wait until you think otherwise," Ffamran retorted, angry and crossing his arms. "But you'll still be mine."

Gabranth let out a startled chuckle. The ice was faltering, even as the other Judge asked wryly, "And you just decided that, did you?"

Ffamran glared at the other man and dared him to gainsay his words. He was not quite sure what he would do were Gabranth simply to laugh things off and worse, ruffle his hair. He was sure he had read the other man correctly. Such a break in Gabranth's famed icy control could only logically be explained on a period of time of silent longing, and not just the fog of sleep. There was, however, little comfort to be derived from deductions, and as the silence stretched, Ffamran began to feel doubt rust into the armor of his ego.

It took several heartbeats before the amusement in Gabranth's sculpted features faded into something warm. Affection. The change was startling: it softened the cold cast to the other man's jaw, loosened the tension in the brow, warmed gray-blue eyes that had always previously held a habitual hint of ice. If Ffamran had thought Gabranth handsome before, he was stunning now, a winter's sun.

"Something tells me I may quite regret this," Gabranth commented dryly as he pulled Ffamran up against his side, to cradle him a little hesitantly against his chest, with a lover's sensitivity to his comfort. Ffamran rubbed his cheek against the hard muscle, and turned his face to chase Gabranth's scent: metal, ink, musk, leather.

--

Gabranth looked startled to see Ffamran cross-legged on a very familiar white couch, that now adorned the center of the living room of their shared apartment. The younger Judge grinned, hair still dewed from the shower, dressed only with a blue flannel towel around his waist, reading a novel. "Ho, Gabranth. How fared your day?"

"Passable," Gabranth tried hard not to stare too obviously at the towel as he removed his cloak and began the laborious process of unbuckling the elaborate dress armor of a Judge-Magister. "How did you get that?"

"What?" Ffamran asked innocently, then held up the novel he was reading. "This? 'Tis a new literary work from Shaer. Your chief aide Meridian recommended the volume to me. Seems 'tis fairly well-regarded."

Meridian was a single child, and she adored the seventeen-year-old like a long-lost younger brother, always plying him with sweets, books and her remarkable cooking. If she wasn't also concurrently attached and devoted to a Judge from Satre's bureau, Gabranth could have been worried.

"I meant the couch."

"Oh, this old thing? A gift from Zecht." At Gabranth's blink, Ffamran added slyly, "Remember him? Your mentor? Possibly balding, cantankerous, and already on his second girlfriend of the month?"

Gabranth grimaced. Angry phonecalls would soon be forwarded to Zecht's office, no doubt. He rather pitied his replacement as Chief Aide, a gentle soul of a woman who did not have the unbending will and patience required to deal with Zecht's many eccentricities. He had heard that she was going to flee to private practice anytime soon, and made a mental note to put in a word for her discreetly with the partners of some of the firms he was acquainted with.

"It was his favorite couch." The white couch had been in Zecht's office for longer than Gabranth could remember, and was the only thing in the office that was lovingly maintained. The soft white fur covering of the couch was rare, he had gathered, and besides, Zecht enjoyed sleeping on it, often far more than he enjoyed actually doing any work at all.

"I told him it had sentimental value to us," Ffamran's grin was still too innocent.

"He values it very highly," Gabranth said dryly, already on his greaves. Leaning the plates on the stand, he began to tug off his boots.

"I also suggested that he might as well give it to us, since we have had occasion to put it to good use several times in the past." Ffamran's grin was now really a smirk, and his tone was salacious.

Gabranth arched an eyebrow, even as he shrugged out of the padded undershirt. "Wait. We never used it in any, er, way that could even have-"

"He did not need to know that, did he?" Ffamran's eyes were busily raking bared shoulders and biceps with undisguised hunger. "Besides, we could rectify that right now."

"We could," Gabranth smirked then, walking barefoot to the couch and clad only in breeches. Ffamran dropped the book over the side and stretched out his arms.

Kissing Ffamran till lips and cheeks were reddened was pleasant work; marking the white neck with licks and bites, then shoulders, until Ffamran was writhing beneath him, a welcome task. Gabranth ignored the boy's impatience, rolling and lapping at one nipple with his tongue until it was flushed and pebbled, then he began to suck and nip until Ffamran had fingers clawed in his hair, his beautiful back curved in a bow, begging. "Gabranth, please."

He ignored that, giving flesh a final kiss before moving to do exactly the same thing to the other nipple. This time, whilst he suckled, Ffamran was gasping, chest heaving, fingers clawing at his back. So impatient, his love. Relenting a little, he pushed fingers past the hem of the towel, to fondle the slender, thickened shaft between thumb and fingers. Ffamran whined.

Gabranth paused then, levering himself up onto his elbow. Ffamran frowned, eyes dark and narrowed with lust. "What?"

"Oil," Gabranth explained, preparing to get up to locate the bottle in their bedroom. Ffamran, however, merely smirked, and grabbed his free hand, pulling it between his legs. The tips of Gabranth's fingers felt the slick around the pucker, and he took in a breath sharply, harshly, even as his arousal began to throb with an insistent pulse. His "Turn around" was more a snarl than a request.

Indeed, the brat was laughing, pure mischief, up until Gabranth began to pound him into the couch in earnest, making sure the towel was between his lover and the white fur. He bit the shell of Ffamran's ear and ground in deeper yet, when Ffamran first cried out his name and shook beneath him, keeping himself buried to the hilt with an arm wrapped around a slender waist, until fingers wet from his lover's seed stroked Ffamran's limp prick back to attention.

--

"Is there something about this that I should know about?" Basch inquired, patting the white fur of the couch.

Balthier was seated primly in the armchair beside it, reading a newspaper. He peered up at Basch when spoken to, and smirked. "Why do you ask?"

Basch reflected wryly that he was getting better at telling when Balthier was evading: his tone would be a little different, a little higher, and his eyes would be slightly narrowed. "Because you have avoided even looking at it each time you come to this apartment, and because Meridian told me to get rid of it."

"She did, did she," Balthier murmured, turning his gaze back to the paper.

"And I am not quite sure why," Basch persisted, sitting down on the couch in question. "For if 'tis because it belonged to my brother, this is his apartment. Everything in it belonged to him."

Balthier stared at him for a moment, then dragged his gaze away again. "So it did. But the couch was also Zecht's, for a time."

There was certainly something Balthier was not telling him, but Basch decided to accept the explanation for now. There was another thing in the apartment that Meridian had advised him to destroy, but this, he had no doubt as to her meaning.

Balthier glanced up again at the click of a jewelry box opening, and Basch turned the black velvet box to him. Within it was a plain red gold ring, which had not been engraved. His brother romantic nature was only minimal.

The sky pirate's expression seemed to freeze, then he turned back to the paper. "I discarded that years ago, Basch. Get rid of it if you wish; 'tis no longer mine." Balthier's beringed left hand seemed more tightly curled: certainly Basch could feel his tension. Old wounds.

"I just thought I would keep it as a reference," Basch said, as mildly as he could, though he closed the box. "Until I find something of similar beauty that you may fancy."

He opened the box again, ostensibly to look at the ring, running his fingers over the polished surface, crimson veins chased with gold. Red gold was a rare and exceedingly expensive commodity: the Gods only knew how his brother had gotten his hands on a ring, even with a Judge-Magister's pay.

There was a chuckle from the armchair. Basch looked up to Balthier's open, genuine amusement. "What is it about me, that causes me to attract unromantic people? I am not sure if that was more unromantic than your brother's 'here, do you want this?'"

"I will keep that in mind when I find something," Basch said dryly, amused at the thought. He could just imagine Gabranth doing so. In their defence, their father had never been a romantic, either, despite their mother's complaints.

"Meridian can no doubt advise you. She was deeply mortified by Gabranth's aforementioned actions, at the time."

"If I listened to her, I would no doubt be giving you a ring on some sort of flowered meadow, with a band of musicians hidden tastefully behind a tree and the sun fresh in the sky."

"Well, then make sure you do," Balthier said archly, his grin mischievous but the smile in his eyes, genuine.

-fin-

[Re: 'here, do you want this' I am sad to say that I know an instance where this happened in real life. My friend's sister was proposed to in this manner: 'this ring you want or not?' (excuse the Singlish). She did marry the person, and they now have a kid whom they are naming (father's name)son. Written humor can never trump real life.