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"I merely suggest," Al-Cid drawls, and it's a damnably good drawl, "that the position of the sun, if it is out, would give you a rough idea of the time." He gestures toward the ceiling, his hand turning elegantly. "Alternatively, the clock, if it is going, would give you a rough idea of the position of the sun." He smiles, and it's at once helpful and intensely condescending. "I forget which you're trying to establish."
Balthier glares. "I'm trying to establish the direction of the wind."
Al-Cid arches an eyebrow. "There isn't any wind." A pause, in which they both react. "Draught, yes."
"In that case, the origin," Balthier announces. He turns his back on Al-Cid, paces away from him. "Trace it to its source and it might give us a rough idea of the way we came in." He turns back, hands on his hips triumphantly. "Which might give us a rough idea of south, for further reference."
There's something intensely comical -- more comical than it's meant to be, even -- about Al-Cid making an attempting-to-be-helpful face. "It's coming up through the floor." He looks down, and grimaces. "That can't be south, can it?"
"That's not a direction," Balthier says briskly. He makes a dismissive gesture. "Lick your toe and wave it around a bit."
This is always the tricky bit. Al-Cid pulls a dismayed face, presumably at how far it is to his foot. "No, I think you'd have to lick it for me."
Balthier stares at him blankly for a good long moment. "I'm prepared to let the whole matter drop." He begins to turn, to pace back across the room.
"Or I could lick yours, of course," Al-Cid says, and there is no excuse for the way he purrs.
"No thank you," Balthier says.
Al-Cid takes a step closer. "I'll even wave it around for you."
Balthier rounds on him, grabs him by the collar of his shirt with both hands. The best part. "What in god's name is the matter with you?"
"Just being friendly," Al-Cid murmurs, and purses his lips in blatant invitation.
They've been down that road before -- last winter, the cast party after Picasso, and Balthier would have thought the obnoxious prick might have learned then that he's not that easy to panic, but apparently not. Still, if a reminder's what it takes --
Balthier closes the last of the distance between them and kisses Al-Cid for the second time in their acquaintance. He puts more effort into it this time, and more tongue, and it takes a good few seconds before Al-Cid manages to wrench away and say, "You're breaking character."
"You did it first," Balthier says, without backing off, without letting go. He takes a step forward, so Al-Cid has to back up, and lunges for another kiss. As long as he doesn't let Al-Cid talk, this is good, not like being with Basch or one of the other guys but good in totally different ways -- this time he's the one who knows what he's doing, the one who's making things happen.
And getting Al-Cid, mister fucking fabulous, backed up against the concrete wall of this dingy little rehearsal room and clearly completely unsure what to do with his hands, so that they hover uselessly in the vicinity of Balthier's waist -- well, that's priceless. If they're to be rivals, the way Al-Cid seems to want them to, then Balthier has no intention of letting himself be defeated. "You do it differently without an audience," he says.
"You think so?" Al-Cid says, and then his hands do come to rest against Balthier's hips, and he kisses back with a kind of extravagant sensuality, like he's used to seducing people who are if not unwilling then at least uncertain. Making a performance of it, even when it's only the two of them. Balthier takes hold of Al-Cid's hand and pulls it down between them to press against the front of his pants.
Al-Cid freezes, goes tense all over.
"Pushing you too far?" Balthier murmurs. "Can't handle it?"
"You'd like to think so," Al-Cid says. He cups his hand around Balthier's cock and squeezes. Balthier's breath catches in his throat, and he pushes into the touch. He's the one who takes it further, who tugs his buttons open and peels leather back, and he's pretty sure that Al-Cid wants to call this off except for the blind stupid bravado that keeps their 'rivalry' going.
It can't be all blind stupid bravado, though, unless Al-Cid enjoys that more than he generally lets on. When Balthier tugs open the buttons of Al-Cid's damnably tight jeans -- and discovers red silk boxers underneath, which he finds is no surprise at all -- and works his hand inside, Al-Cid is hard against his fingers. A little more pushing to get the silk out of the way and then they have their hands wrapped around each other's cocks and Al-Cid is far too awkward with the angle to have any experience with this and Balthier kisses him harder, bites, to keep him from trying to complain.
Still, experience or no, handjobs are hardly rocket science, and Balthier is man enough to admit that Al-Cid has always been talented at improvisation. Their knuckles brush awkwardly as Balthier rocks his hips, his other hand clenched in the front of Al-Cid's shirt to hold him where he is. The friction's rough and fast, the kiss sloppy, and when Balthier makes a noise, just a little accidental sound, Al-Cid answers with a moan so throaty it belongs in a porno. Showoff.
He probably takes it as another kind of applause, Balthier thinks, and if there's one thing that it's clear Al-Cid loves, it's applause. So he makes more noise, breathy hungry sounds when something feels right, and Al-Cid starts to actually push into his hand, tense now, breathing hard -- and then breaking the kiss, his head thrown back as he comes and it is almost irritating enough, the way even that motion looks like it's designed to be seen, to throw Balthier off -- but instead he just lets go of Al-Cid's cock and takes hold of Al-Cid's hand, instead, because there's no way he's going to let the bastard slack off and not finish him in turn -- and maybe there's something to the rivalry nonsense after all, because it's the idea that he's won that makes Balthier lose control at last and shudder through a come that is no less wrenching for being so abrupt.
Al-Cid lets go almost immediately, as soon as Balthier stops holding his hand where it is. The dismayed expression on his face when he looks down -- he's fared worse, of the two of them, come splattered on his belly and his fancy microfiber shirt -- is charming enough that it takes effort for Balthier not to smile. "This," Al-Cid pronounces, "is a disaster."
"I'll say." Balthier shakes his head. "We're not going to have any chemistry at all, come opening night."