aorin: (Basch/Noah: Double Trouble)
[personal profile] aorin
Housekeeping on Livejournal and shoving an old fic out of the way to pave road for new (possible) ones. I haven't updated my LJ for so long that it feels somewhat foreign to do so now. Well, it's not that I've been neglecting fandom actually, in fact, I have been producing and writing on an almost daily basis. It's just that, all the fics and vids projects that I've undertaken are god-awful long and complicated and I couldn't find time to actually complete it. Which leads to no fic, no vids (someone on youtube thought I've fallen off the face of the planet), no icons... T__T

That, and I'm wading into a new fandom recently. Nothing new or special about it, just that it is a far cry from FFXII and its fandom. Why halo thar D.Gray-Man, welcome aboard! XD

Title: Boys Will Be Boys
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Character(s): Basch, Noah
Rating: G
Summary: Ronsenburg twins have peculiar ways in spending summer
A/N: A fairly old, musty, dusty piece written for [personal profile] sarasa_catat the wet!naked!Basch challenge sometime ago, the original prompt being: childhood, summertime. Just one of those atypical hot Landis summers with some semi nude Ronsenburg frolicking in blue, clear, transparent waters. Well, sort of?


“It’s all your bloody fault,” muttered Noah accusingly, as he snatched the infuriatingly wet bundle from Basch’s outstretched hand, holding the wet garment as far away as he could from himself, his face contorting in disgust, before forcefully wringing out the water. Then, he picked up the cudgel lying beside him and started pounding the piece of tattered, moth-eaten (and suspiciously stained) chemise with the same ferocity he used to slay monsters.
 
“My fault?” breathed Basch testily upon hearing the unjustified accusation thrown at him. His hand reached for another dirty garment, and quickly, he doused it into the quick-flowing stream, before his nose could take in the smell, or before his eyes could notice the strange stains. Holding his breath, he began scrubbing, trying his best to ignore the change of colour pervading the surface of the water around him. “You were the one who came up with the brilliantly foolish idea of stealing roses from an old lady’s garden.”
 
-- It all began when Noah was in one of his skirt-chasing moods again. Basch didn’t know where did the fault lie: whether if it was the summer heat that had, unfortunately, fried the better part of Noah’s brains; or was it the battering eyelashes that had, predictably, weakened the better of his twin’s senses; or perhaps, it was that ridiculous childish pride that had, sadly, won over his idiotic brother’s better judgments.
 
Basch deduced it was a mad combination of all three.
 
But, whatever it was, Basch was certainly assured that his twin had finally lost his marbles when he proposed to maraud the town-witch’s garden for a bouquet of fresh flowers for his latest pursuit. Admittedly, the old woman might have the ugliest face ever known to hume-kind, but she was also famous for cultivating the most beautiful and sweet-smelling flowers within the hundred miles radius. Not to mention, she was further renowned for keeping those treasures for no one save herself.
 
Every girl in town would give anything to own a blossom to her name, and every boy in town would do anything to present one as a token of his heart. Many of the young, brave and folly had taken their chances, but there had never been a tale of success, only a long series of ill-fated endings with shameful heads hung low.
 
At the age of fourteen – a time when most boys had prized brawn over brains – Noah decided that he would make history, but he wasn’t about to do it alone.
 
Now, Noah might not be the brightest bulb in the box in many things, but whenever it comes to persuading Basch to do his bidding – however unreasonable, preposterous and life-threatening it was – he was an exceptional expert. For three days, the younger Ronsenburg twin had whined, dogged his brother’s footsteps, and whined, shed an inappropriate amount of kicked-puppy eyes, and whined some more, sang (or croaked like a dying dog, in Basch’s opinion) cheesy love songs all through the night, and possibly, whined even more, until Basch finally consented to his demands, and prepared for the worst.
 
Surprisingly, Noah’s plan was relatively simple: You watch for knives, I seize the prize, and we run for our lives.
 
Of course, if only things were so simple --
 
“And you were suppose to keep a lookout for me while I’m risking my life,” snarled Noah, as he continued to pummel the clothes with a vicious might, not knowing where else to channel his frustration. He only stopped short when Basch interjected his actions by tossing another wet pile into his arms; Noah could only cringe at the sight.
 
“I did!” Basch cried in defense, an unexplainable chill skidded over his body which had nothing to do with their damp shirts and wet hands. “But how was I to know that she could appear out of thin air and outrun the both of us.”
 
-- The owner of the fair garden, the infamous witch-woman, who looked ten times older than their own parents, apparently did materialise from no where. Basch swore that the house was empty when he last checked. Though, when he saw fit to glance again, he found the old woman speeding towards them (at an incredible pace which didn’t match her age), waving a menacing walking stick in her hand.
 
As of norm, the twins would sprint to different directions when they were cornered, in an attempt to confuse the enemy. But, thinking they could outlast an old lady, both boys took off to the same course, only to be caught subsequently, to their horror, by the scruff of their necks.
 
What came afterwards was a chain of choked apologies, enthusiastic agreement of free labour, four buckets of filthy, foul-smelling clothes shoved to their chests, and a commanding finger pointed first to their noses, and then, to the river.
 
And they had nobody to blame but each other --
 
“You could have been more alert of the surroundings. She’s a witch, of course, she comes and goes as she pleases,” grumbled Noah, not feeling a bit remorseful for trespassing and thieving from other people’s private property. Truthfully, Basch didn’t think it was a very nice thing to say about a lonely old woman, but then again, neither of them has any other explanation for the peculiar nauseating stench that rose from the few buckets of clothes they were forced to wash. So, he did what he always did in such situations, he shrugged.
 
And as usual, Noah didn’t seem to notice his lack of response and took his brother’s silence for agreement. “I just hope that one of the girls doesn’t walk into us – me – right now, washing the old hag’s undergarments. My reputation will be soiled beyond reparation,” he continued, peering nervously behind his shoulder to ensure that they were alone, as the thought struck him.
 
“If it hasn’t already,” Basch snorted, thinly amused, his mind concluding the reason why most young men couldn’t lift their chin and refused to share their daring experience of raiding the old woman’s garden.
 
Noah turned his head and shot a dirty glare at his twin, his temper flared at the sight of the mocking half-grin plastered across that identical face. Nothing could incense Noah more than seeing his own face laughing at him and even worse, when he saw a third smug image reflected upon the water’s surface.
 
In retaliation, he grabbed the nearest rag to him and aimed it deliberately at Basch’s face. Shocked at the unexpected attack, but swift enough to react, Basch dodged sideways, only to lose his balance and fell into the river.
 
Noah bolted up, wide-eyed and stunned, then, burst into loud unrepressed laughter that sent the surrounding birds to take flight to the skies. His mirth ceased, when he felt two hands latched onto his feet and pulled him underwater.
 
There was a moment of tranquil peace reigning over the river, disrupted first by some small ripples, followed by some bubbling, which eventually erupted into a splash. Both boys resurfaced with their face red, spluttering, coughing, and inhaling much needed air.
 
Basch recuperated faster; he stood up and pulled his damp shirt over his head, tossing it onto the banks. A couple of seconds later, Noah did the same. The twins glowered at each other, identical in countenance and expression, both stripped to the waist, their pants clinging to their skin, revealing the contours of firm muscles.
 
Then, Basch shook his head, and dragged a hand through his hair to push back the streaks covering his eyes. Noah read it as his cue to move, he lunged forward and tackled his brother, caught him by the waist, knocked him down, and both boys tumbled back into the river depths.
 
The summer noon had lingered on with the boys thrashing about the river, getting themselves drowned; their washing duties long forgotten.
 
------
 
“It’s all your bloody fault,” groaned Noah from the lower bunk the next morning, his voice assertive but soft from fever. To emphasize his point, he gave a sharp kick to the bed above him.
 
In return, Basch replied by hurling a deserving hard pillow down at Noah’s face.

October 2012

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