Work Text:
Bartel has been in love with Balthus for years. As long as he can remember knowing him. His whole life maybe. It is not a secret to anyone except perhaps the man himself.
Bartel knows, logically, that there is no longer any pressure on him to marry a wealthy noblewoman. A noblewoman whom he is sure would be lovely and intellectual and dreadfully boring. Here in Abyss he is free from that burden. He also knows, logically, that there is no need for him to court the object of his affections. He may simply simply be in love, and if he is lucky, his partner will reciprocate.
This in no way makes him feel any better about his chances of getting Balthus to reciprocate his feelings. Sure he may logistically have a chance with him, but there is simply no way Balthus, easy-going, sturdy, simple-pleasures Balthus, would ever love anyone like Bartel. He is too dramatic, too moody, too temperamental, too much for anyone to love.
So he has resigned to himself that he will never have Balthus, and it’s fine. He’s okay with it, mostly. Occasionally something will happen to make him wish he had the comfort of a lover to ease his woes, but for the most part he can handle himself. He has to after all.
His birthday has been a point of stress and hardship for him since he left The Alliance. For a day on which he is supposed to be celebrating his life, he always seems to find himself devastatingly alone.
No one in Abyss knows his birth date except Balthus. He doesn’t want anyone to know, because he doesn’t want anyone in Abyss burdening themselves on his account. Resources and free time are hard to come by in Abyss; he’d rather no one wasted either on something as trivial as his birthday, especially when it never fails to put him in a foul mood.
All that to say: it is currently late evening on the sixth day of the pegasus moon, and Bartel is freshly thirty. Unsurprisingly, he is in a horrendous mood.
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t want people to celebrate his birthday. He hasn’t told anyone when his birthday is specifically because he does not want to celebrate it. And yet, he can’t help but feel abandoned and lonely.
Usually on his birthday, despite his protests, Balthus will scrounge together some sort of small gift for him, and will present it to him early in the morning. He always complains that Balthus shouldn’t be wasting his money on him, but the other man always laughs it off, wraps a strong arm around his shoulders, and grins that big, goofy grin of his. However, today Balthus is out on some mission for Yuri. He had left a few days ago, and Bartel, despite himself, is starting to worry. It should not be taking this long.
After some prodding from Yuri, Hapi, and Constance, he relays his concerns to the rest of the Ashen Wolves.
“It is a bit unusual,” Constance agrees.
Yuri is quiet, but he doesn’t seem too concerned. This does nothing to ease Bartel’s anxieties. It should. Bartel trusts Yuri and his judgement, far more than he trusts even his own. Yuri probably knows something he doesn’t. Yuri usually does.
“He’ll be alright,” Yuri says after a while, “this is Balthus we’re talking about after all.”
It’s not until Bartel is alone, sulking in his bunk, and starting to seriously consider the merits of getting drunk when he is already down, that Balthus returns. He slides into their shared quarters quieter than he normally would, probably assuming Bartel is asleep and trying not to wake him. Unfortunately for Balthus, Bartel is very much awake, and very much on the verge of exploding.
Bartel’s eyes snap onto Balthus the second the door cracks open, and he has his mouth open and ready to start questioning him, or yelling at him, or crying, when Balthus pulls a small parcel from behind his back.
“Happy birthday,” Balthus says before Bartel can process what he’s seeing enough to respond.
When his mind, and body finally catch up with one another and the situation, Bartel is on his feet and pulling Balthus into his chest before he can think better of it.
“You oaf,” he mutters into Balthus’ shoulder, “if you took longer on this mission just to waste your money on a gift for me I’ll skin you.”
The threat has no real heat behind it, and Balthus only chuckles as he wraps one of his arms around Bartel in return.
“Yeah, yeah, you gonna open it princess?”
For a few moments Bartel doesn’t move. He keeps Balthus wrapped tightly in his arms, as though if he loosens his grip for even a second the man will disappear. When he finally pulls back his eyes are a bit red and shiny, but Balthus doesn’t say anything about it. Instead he gently, so gently, in contrast to his build, presses the parcel into Bartel’s hands.
When Bartel unwraps the paper, he is met with three items: a sachet of honeyed-fruit blend tea, an adornment made from dried flowers, and a small metal broach. For a long moment he just stares at the gift, stunned into silence as Balthus shifts almost nervously in front of him.
“I know I don’t have to do this here, but I saw this broach on the surface and thought you might appreciate it anyway,” Balthus begins, and Bartel has to be dreaming.
There is no way Balthus means what Bartel thinks he means. It just can’t be happening.
“Bartel Fodes Albany, it would be my pleasure to formally court you, if you’ll have me.”
Bartel feels the wetness in his eyes back with a vengeance, and he crushes himself back against Balthus with shaking hands. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be anything but honest when he whispers:
“Nothing would make me happier.”
After a moment he feels a strong hand on his jaw, drawing his head up to look at his companion. For a moment he holds eye contact with Balthus, and then, slowly, gently, reverently, Balthus presses his lips to Bartel’s.
The kiss is soft, and chaste, and tender, and everything Bartel had ever hoped it would be. He almost drops the gift in his hands when he reaches up to wind his arms around Balthus’ neck, kissing him until he can’t breathe.
When they pull away from each other, Balthus takes the gift and sets it on Bartel’s bunk, before returning his arms to wrap around the shorter man’s waist.
Some time later, when Balthus has coaxed Bartel into laying against his sleeping chest so he may finally relax, Bartel looks up at his companion, and feels his heart swell.
“I love you,” he murmurs, quiet, like a secret.
It isn’t a secret though, not anymore.