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The sky has been steadily darkening for the past quarter hour when Basch finally says what they are all thinking. "Snow is on the way," he murmurs, reigning in his borrowed chocobo and looking up.
"Perhaps a detour is in order?" Balthier brings his frozen hands to his mouth, breathing warmth on them. Despite the layers the Viera had been so kind as to grudgingly offer, the Rift is too cold to comfortably travel.
There is a reason Mt. Bur-Omisace is considered a pilgrimage, after all. It is damn cold in the mountain pass, even with bits of fire stones strewn through clever pockets inside their cloaks.
There are three chocobos between the six of them. One has been commandeered for the princess, though she is apt to slide from its back at every sign of a battle. The other two have been rotated between the remainder of them; currently, Basch is on one and Vaan and Penelo share the other.
Their two orphan stowaways are tangled as close together as they can be, arms wrapped around each other for warmth even with the threat of attack looming over them all. Balthier has tolerated the occasional bruise from over exuberant beasts because he finds it less irksome to deal with monsters in close quarters than to listen to the desert children whimper over the cold.
He is taking the opportunity to dust off skills that have long since rusted, left behind in Archades with heavy armor and Cid's expanding madness. Vaan's unwieldy sword is sharp enough on all its great many edges to slide through yeti and slavern like butter.
The princess herself is just ahead of their youngest members, attempting to relearn the savage weight of a war axe instead of a sword. Fran is vanguard, looking no more comfortable than the lot of them.
Balthier is rather concerned that her toes will freeze completely off, though Fran believes Viera are better suited to the cold than humes.
"We are not turning about," Ashe says. "A day's delay is one our task can ill afford."
"To become icebound corpses would be more delay still." Fran brushes early snowflakes from her hood, ears pressed protectively to her skull. "The mountain slopes ahead."
He is sure Fran remembers the months ago sandstorm, Dalmascan sensibilities keeping them safe in spite of the desert's hospitality. Of course, the white landscape seems to have completely destroyed those selfsame Dalmascan sensibilities.
"Why're we stopping?" Vaan asks, finally lifting his head from Penelo's shoulder. The churl is useless with this particular chocobo, enough so that even his stung dignity will not force him to steer the beast himself. He seems quite happy riding behind Penelo.
Penelo herself is leant so far forward on the chocobo that she is virtually horizontal on its neck. "It's cold," she says mournfully.
Balthier presses one gloved hand to his forehead, trying to massage away the headache and the chill. "So you've said."
"Shouldn't we be moving faster, then?"
"The Stilshrine will be chill as well," Balthier says. There is a slope to the mountain, an overhang of boulder that sharply hollows into a space large enough to comfortably hold them all. "There, I think," he tells Basch.
"There what?" Vaan asks.
Basch slides from his chocobo and says, "We'll sleep warmer with the chocobos in the shelter."
It is not his first or even second inclination, but the good captain is certainly the most experienced at enforced marches with very few supplies. "And rise up smelling of feces, no doubt," Balthier says with a sigh.
This is not what he had in mind when he deigned to steal a dethroned princess.
"Would you prefer not to rise at all?" Basch queries.
Balthier raises his hands into the air.
"We're to wait out the snowstorm," Fran says, reaching up to help Vaan off the chocobo when he nearly tumbles. "Come, you shall help."
Between the six of them, they manage to wrest their packs from the chocobo's backs and herd the beasts in close to the mountain side. Fran clears snow from the ground with a wave of her clawed hand, fire magicks creating meltwater and then steam that is distinctly at odds with the fat snowflakes beginning to fall.
Ashe stalks the perimeter, kicking rocks and other assorted annoyances out of their camp. "Such indignities," she mutters. Balthier does her the courtesy of pretending she is out of earshot.
"It could be worse," Vaan says. He is wrestling one of their innumerable tanned giantskins into place, seemingly heedless of the increasing stench as the hide traps the scent of chocobo into their alcove.
Fran's eyes are already watery and reddened from the combined odors.
"Please Vaan, tell us how it could be worse," Penelo says cheerfully. The movement seems to be doing her good, though her hands are still hidden in her tightly fastened coat.
"We could be out of fire stones." Vaan empties the pouches on his belt, gleefully dumping handfuls of fire stones onto the ground. "It's cold but it could be colder, right? We've got the chocobos too."
"Which smell," says Penelo, still cheerful, "So bad that it's almost like being home in Lowtown during the high summer."
"Must you prattle?" Ashe asks as she joins them. The final hide falls into place, trapping them all in darkness only marginally lightened by the glow of feystones Vaan promptly brandishes in his gloved hands.
The sheer amount of loot the thief has been keeping from them is slightly worrisome; on his worse days, Balthier finds it somewhat charming. "We could have sold those in town," Ashe sighs but it is an idle complaint, one without even the memory of teeth. Even she has given up on demanding Vaan supplies everything he liberates.
It is enough that he will contribute to the bazaar when asked.
Vaan’s hands are still busy in his pockets; a moment later, Vaan has pulled one of Balthier's own handkerchiefs from their depths. Balthier is amused despite himself. The churl has a deft touch if he's managed to lift that out of one of his pouches without Balthier knowing of it.
Vaan slides him a sly grin in the darkening gloom. "Thanks for this," he says. He ties it about his face a moment later, hiding his nose and mouth in the cloth.
Balthier is quick to follow suit. He offers first Penelo and then Fran a handkerchief, and finally Ashe. Basch already has a scrap of cloth covering his nose and seems to be snoring gently on the ground wrapped in his cloak.
"Ah, to be a soldier," Balthier comments. "Shall I take first watch, then?"
"No," Fran says, "I shall, from outside this accursed shelter. The stench burns."
"Mind the elementals," Balthier advises.
Fran spares him a glance. "I have been minding elementals for longer than you have been a sky pirate," she pauses and her eyes are amused when they turn to Vaan, "Longer, even, than you have been alive."
The wind howls when she pushes aside the hide. Even that brief moment is enough to chill their little shelter. He was not aware of how warm it had gotten until the cold air came shrieking in.
"How old are you?" Vaan shouts after her.
"Vaan," Penelo sighs. Her handkerchief flutters with the force of her breath.
"What? She brought it up again!"
Balthier ignores them as they begin to squabble good-naturedly. He finds the most amiable chocobo and leans against its side. He is not averse to sharing heat, even if the heat source stinks like it makes a habit of rolling in its own feces.
If he were in Archades, he would never have been made to cope with chocobo feces and snow. Balthier takes a moment to savor the thought of fine clothes and warm hearthfires, but Cid’s maniac laughter manages to intrude on even his idle fancies.
It takes longer than he would like to rid himself of the memory of Cid’s raucous mirth. The gloom does not help, though, curiously, Vaan’s strident tones do.
Eventually, even Vaan and Penelo quiet. From the sound of the snores, Ashe has fallen asleep as well. Balthier envies her: he himself can't imagine falling asleep while chill in a space that reeks of feathers and dead things.
He sighs.
"Are you brooding?" Vaan's voice comes out of the dark.
"A leading man is allowed his excesses."
"Sure." Vaan comes close enough to throw himself to the ground next to Balthier. Between the very sharp weapon at Balthier's side and the very questionable chocobo at his back, it's a wonder Vaan doesn't wound himself doing so. "You can brood all you want. Leading men are always staring off into space and thinking about things, right?"
Even in the near pitch of their cave, Balthier catches the edge of amusement in Vaan’s eyes. "Oh, certainly," he says, flopping his wrist delicately even though the motion is apt to be lost in his cloak, "Though weary anguish has never looked well on my features."
"What's to be anguished about anyway? We're mostly warm and dry."
"Sky pirates," Balthier says with great dignity, "Should not have to deal with messes such as these."
The chocobo he's leaning against chooses that moment to defecate. The smell increases exponentially.
Someone stirs further in the hollow. "Are we sure freezing to death is worse than this?" Penelo asks faintly. "I think we should take a vote."
"It gives Balthier something to brood about," says Vaan.
Penelo makes an unflattering, unattractive noise in the dark. Balthier contemplates saying as much, but decides against it after a moment; Penelo is sweet and innocent and entirely vicious when crossed. He has seen the righteous blows she deals Vaan on a semi-regular basis and has no desire to have that ire turned on himself.
“Do you vote for freezing to death, then?” Balthier asks.
“No,” Penelo says with a deep sigh.
“It’d be really cold,” Vaan volunteers as he knocks the toes of one clunky boot against Balthier’s refined footwear. “Me? I’d rather go by sandstorm any day. You might lose your face or die of dehydration, but at least you can feel your toes.”
“You remember that Imperial officer?” Penelo says.
Balthier watches with a judicial eye as Vaan squirms beside him, plucking at his own cloak and then Balthier’s when that obviously does not satisfy. “There’s been a lot of ‘Imperial officers,’ Penelo,” Vaan mutters.
Balthier should be concerned that the churl is liberating ever more of his belongings, but Vaan is warm in his nearness and so Balthier lets those clever fingers insinuate themselves into his cloak, despite his vague misgivings.
“You know the one,” says Penelo, “The sandstorm one.” A noise like an orphan with very bad breeding has yawned expansively into her hands. “Come on, you almost laughed yourself sick about it.”
Vaan’s hands still. There is a trail of warmth in their wake; Balthier shifts to confirm the presence of new fire stones in herebefore unearthed pockets. “Oh,” Vaan says, “That idiot.”
“You called him ‘Archadian jerky, extra dried.’”
There is a moment that Balthier uses to think about just how shrivelled a corpse has to be to earn the title, “extra dried.”
“Still rather go by heat,” Vaan says into the quiet. One hand leaves Balthier’s cloak, briefly, before it returns to its brethren.
The silence stretches again. “‘Extra dried?’” Balthier repeats.
“Not a drop of water in him,” Vaan confirms, “He looked like one of the corpses you dig out of the sand caves. The really old ones.”
“Charming,” says Balthier.
Penelo laughs. It is both slower and deeper than her previous hilarity; it sounds as though she is drowsing again, now that they have begun to acclimate to the smell. “Aren’t you glad it’s cold and not hot?”
“I would certainly leave a more attractive corpse in this clime.” Balthier has vague memories of Vaan stripping him of his raiments in the shadow of a giant metal walkway. He can’t say that this is materially worse than being stripped like a babe and made to endure Fran’s wretched teasing even now, when she knows he has no memory of it. “The phrase ‘extra dried’ would likely never cross anyone’s lips.”
“You’d be blue though,” Vaan says. His fingers linger against Balthier’s flank for a brief moment, only long enough for Balthier to feel their weight before they are moving. He is trying very hard not to concentrate on the feel of them, on the way Vaan is leant close enough that the edges of his hair are lying on Balthier’s shoulder.
The chocobo shifts. The movement jostles them enough that Vaan bumps against Balthier, his head briefly disturbing Balthier’s handkerchief.
Cidolfus laughs derisively in his memories.
Clever fingers trace across Balthier’s sides again before they retreat altogether, leaving hard bits of fast warming stones in Balthier’s cloak and tucked up under his waistcoat, against his shirt. How he managed it, Balthier has not the faintest clue.
He finds himself at a loss, unsure what to do with his own limbs and grateful that the handkerchief obscures enough of Vaan’s face that he cannot clearly see the expression on his face.
Vaan, for all that he is usually inept at social niceties, must see more in Balthier’s own shrouded features for he says, “So you don’t have to brood as much,” and touches his fingertips to one of the warm lumps against Balthier’s chest.
“Thank you,” Balthier says, startled for a moment into the sincere politeness he thought he had left behind in Archades.
Vaan hums vaguely back at him. He settles half against the chocobo, turned so that his back is resting against Balthier's side. Balthier can just make out the way he flings out a hand to settle on the chocobo's back and leans his head on the beast's feathers with a sigh.
His back is very warm against Balthier's arm, warmer even than the stones he had secreted into Balthier’s garments. "And what do you think you're doing?"
"Gave you most of my stones," Vaan mutters, “So you can share some of the heat.”
"Does Penelo not warrant your sharing?"
"She doesn't want it," Vaan says, sighing again. His spine presses readily against Balthier as he breathes, curiously warm for all that he has been complaining incessantly of the cold for the last week.
Balthier raises his arm and drapes it across the chocobo's side to free it of Vaan’s weight. The beast utters a quiet, slightly exasperated wark and resettles its weight before tucking its head back underneath one scrawny wing. "Is there some secret Penelo knows that I am not privy to?"
"No," Vaan shifts again. Balthier feels his head settle somewhere in the vicinity of his underarm and then the long warm line of him is pressed against Balthier’s side again as though he had not moved to shake Vaan off at all. "She said I was making her too hot, though."
"In the snowstorm."
"I don't try to understand her."
"The most intelligent statement I've ever heard you utter," Balthier says. "Now, if you would just extend that intelligence to Fran as well…"
If Vaan has a response to that, he does not deign to share it.
Balthier inches away from Vaan’s heat only to be rewarded with a backwards kick to his ankle that has him biting back a curse. “Stop moving,” Vaan says and rearranges until he is firmly against Balthier again. “I’m gonna lay on you if you move again.”
Ah. Balthier understands the lesser of two evils. He reclines back against the chocobo and then lays still.
Somehow, Vaan manages to cleave even more tightly to Balthier’s side
Cid would be ashamed to see his son brought so low as to be nestled with both a chocobo and a churl. It cheers him somewhat, though there is, as always, a traitorous part of him that winces like a scolded child at the thought.
He can feel Vaan’s heartbeat through his back. It quiets the memories inside of Balthier; his heart is an expanding warmth in his chest, at odds with the way his hands have gone clammy with nerves in his gloves. He resolves to ignore both with all his rather formidable willpower.
He allows his head to fall to rest on the chocobo’s grimy feathers.
The beast smells as abysmal close up as it does far away.
Balthier startles awake at a sudden rush of cold air. He can make out the shock of Fran’s pale hair in the dim light, the amused cock of one ear as she crouches beside him to say, “Basch has the next watch. Do not trouble yourself to move.”
There is a wealth of merriment and condescension in her voice. He is not awake enough to understand the reason and then suddenly he is.
Vaan stirs briefly against his chest, makes a single complaining noise, and settles again. His deep sigh flutters his handkerchief against Balthier’s throat.
Balthier is… unsure how he ended up in this position, how he went from enduring to embracing. One arm encircles the churl’s grimy head, gloved fingertips buried in the chocobo’s feathers beside it. The other has somehow snuck into Vaan’s cloak and is resting against a warm patch of stones at the boy’s hip.
His own cloak has migrated to pool across Vaan’s thighs. Fran tucks the edges in around the back of Vaan’s knees before reaching to thread her claws into Balthier’s hair. “Your body betrays you,” she says.
Balthier burns in mortification at the thought of anyone observing the fruit of his treacherous emotions, at the thought of the sneer on his father’s face if he ever discovered how Ffamran has huddled on the dim floor of some chill shelter with a desert orphan.
“And now your mind betrays your heart,” says Fran. Her claws curl to dig uncomfortably into the short hair at the nape of his neck and she gives a shake. It is, he knows, the Viera way of disciplining a disobedient kit. His teeth rattle in his skull. “Are you still so encumbered, even with your pirate wings?”
Is he? Is there any reason he should care what Cid thinks, what Cid’s madness will make of his unseemly attachment to a peasant thief? There is naught he can say to Fran - there is naught he can think to say. He is a pirate of the skies; his father’s thoughts and opinions should not have a hold on him.
He thought it would take courage. It doesn't. All it takes is the almost negligible movement of his hand and he finds himself cradling the back of Vaan’s skull. The gloves don't allow him to feel Vaan's hair, which is just as well. It is like to be greasy and filthy.
Fran releases his hair and moves away.
Vaan sighs again in his sleep. Balthier supposes it will take actual courage to do this when the churl is aware enough to stare at him with those eyes, the ones that expect and want, the ones that dare him to live up to a legend he knows naught about.
Still. It is a beginning. He hitches closer to Vaan and resolutely pretends he cannot hear Fran chortling.