InsaneJournal

Fic: Camping Out (Horsepower 'verse, Basch/Balthier)
Title: Camping Out
'Verse: Horsepower
Characters: Basch/Balthier
Rating: PG-13-ish
Length: 2190
A/N: Takes place a little less than two months after Grocery Run.



Balthier isn’t sure why this seemed like a good idea. His motorcycle doesn’t think it’s a good idea at all, picking down a half-overgrown dirt road so slowly he hasn’t even got his feet up on the pegs, but somewhere at the end of it is Basch’s campsite, that’s what the ranger said, and it’s circled on the map. He’s only seen one other camper, way back near the ranger station, because who camps at Christmas? Basch, apparently. And Noah will be here at the end of tomorrow, and Vossler a day after that, and the three of them will go fishing until New Year’s. Something like that. Balthier’s only sleeping out here for one night, because there’s a transmission job coming in tomorrow night. When he gets to a place where he actually has to get off and walk the bike because he doesn’t fancy knocking her over tree-roots, he’s not sure he wants to do that much. But Basch asked if he’d like to meet his horse, asked if he’d come camping, and though Balthier’s never spent a night in a tent, Basch made it sound really nice. Peaceful. But all he can hear is creepy banjos in his mind and the far-too-few RPMs of the engine. He cuts the gas completely, just puts it in neutral, and walking a Harley is so many kinds of humiliating. At least there’s no one here to see.

He smells the campfire before he sees anything, but before long, there’s a tent, and a fire, and a thin curl of smoke rising from the iron grate. And then there’s a whooshing snort, a stompy sound, and Basch appears as if from nowhere. He has his hat on. The motorcycle, whose unhappy lean has been weighing on his wrists, suddenly weighs nothing. And Basch is smiling.

“You found it.” And he comes closer, right up to Balthier, takes advantage of the fact that Balthier’s hands are full with the bike, and Balthier is still trying not to fall for Basch’s kissing, for the way he can turn everything to Jell-o without so much as a decent grope, for the way his own damn eyes close like it’s prom, and he’s bracing for it, but the kiss never lands. Basch gets pulled up short and his hat falls forward so the brim of it hits Balthier in the nose.

Balthier looks, and once there’s no more brown leather in the way, there’s the long, latte-colored muzzle of a horse right there. The whiskery softness of it tickles, and it just keeps getting closer, until Balthier has to lean back. He can’t step away, not without dropping his bike, and he’ll die before he does that. Before that happens, though, Basch fights his hat back up off his eyes, and he pushes the horse back.

“Trick. Be nice.” Basch has his back against the horse’s chest, and there are big brown eyes right there next to his head, nose just about touching Balthier’s, and it snorts again, like half of a sneeze. His face is damp from the grassy-smelling breath, and Basch is laughing harder. Balthier bats at his own nose, doesn’t want to wipe his face on his sleeve, and Basch is actually pulling a big paisley handkerchief from his pocket and brushing at Balthier’s cheeks and lips. And then he’s kissing Balthier, close and wet, despite the fact that there’s horse-spit on his face. The horse—Trick—is still right there, but Basch doesn’t seem to care one bit, because he does that thing that Balthier has come to hate because he loves it so much, curling his hand around the back of Balthier’s neck, so his fingers brush through the short hair at the nape of his neck. It makes him shiver, the kind he can’t help, and he’s trying to get it together enough to push away, but then there’s a velvety fuzz rubbing on the back of his neck and around to his ear and he’s trying to get closer to Basch without dropping his bike, until it registers just what that feeling is. Trick’s lips close on his ear and Balthier yelps, right there against Basch’s mouth.

“Basch!” He doesn’t really think this is a good idea, but he shoves at the horse with one arm, and the horse shies away just half a step, and Basch is laughing again. He backs up now, too, his arm around the sleek, curved neck, and Balthier swears the horse is looking at him.

Balthier gets a better hold on his bike, and Basch backs Trick up, and they get settled into the campsite properly, which really only involves Balthier finding a secure place to put his bike, puts the rain fly over her, and he tosses his saddlebags in Basch’s tent. The sun’s going down, there’s enough breeze and woodsy smoke to keep the worst of the mosquitoes off, and there’s already fresh fish cooked and waiting. Balthier is certain it’s better than anything he ever had in New England, no matter that they’re eating off tin mess kits instead of four-star restaurant china, the fish flavored by nothing more than butter and woodsmoke and a little splash of whiskey from the flask sitting out. Basch says beer’s too bulky for the trip on horseback, and Balthier sees just how spare the camp is.

“Could get kind of hungry if the fish don’t bite,” Basch says, and he smiles, entirely serious and completely okay with that. The kind of smile that would coax fish right up on shore, Balthier’s certain.

Balthier ducks his head a little bit, jerks his thumb at his saddlebags in the tent. “Not that I don’t have confidence in your fishing,” he says, “but the left one’s full of granola and Snickers bars.”

Basch’s eyes light up. “Are you serious?”

He looks so happy that Balthier doesn’t even think too hard about how much he should be blushing for squirreling away junk food like it’s summer camp. “As a heart attack. Help yourself.”

Basch scrambles for the tent, and he comes back with a Snickers in his shirt pocket and a granola bar hanging from his teeth. Balthier is suddenly glad he went for the real stuff, the kind that’s just oats and some honey and dried apple bits, because Basch is tilting the wrapper toward the campfire, reading carefully.

He has to ask. “Are…is it an allergy or something?” At least it can’t be a peanut thing, or he wouldn’t have a Snickers in his pocket.

It’s Basch’s turn to blush a little. “No—it’s—” The foil crinkles a little, and immediately, there’s Trick’s whole head pushing into Basch’s chest, her nostrils flared and whuffling at his pockets, his neck, his hair. He gets his arm up over her neck again, holds her back. “She likes them,” he says. “But she shouldn’t have too much of the processed sugar—” He snatches his hat back, because she’s chewing on it now, and when he takes it, she goes for his hair, mouthing at the yellow strands, while Basch tries to open the granola bar and juggle his hat and avoid squirming too much, and Balthier laughs.

He reaches, takes it from Basch, and opens it. Trick’s big brown eyes are right on him now, and she stops tormenting Basch to take a step toward him.

“Can she have it?” Balthier breaks a third of the bar off, and he knows to hold his hand flat.

Basch nods, watching his hand, and he nods again as Balthier holds his palm out. Trick lips it up daintily for a creature that size, and while she’s distracted with her pleased chewing, Basch comes to stand beside Balthier and he breaks off a smaller chunk, puts it on Balthier’s shoulder. Trick takes that one, too, snuffles at his ear, and Balthier only barely manages to stifle the little yip. Basch grins broadly, all mischief, and that, Balthier decides, is when Basch and Noah really look like twins. But Trick is less amused, because her bite got smaller, and she stamps her hoof a little impatiently at them both and snorts.

“Your horse wishes you would stop picking on me.” Balthier holds out another piece, and her whiskers really do tickle a little, and that’s just on his palm.

“I am so sorry,” Basch says, and he leans in, kisses Balthier’s neck, just under his ear, and Balthier thinks his knees might buckle. While he’s trying to keep from flinging himself at Basch, Trick gets fed up with their getting distracted and steals the rest of the granola from Balthier’s hand. She crunches, tail swishing, and she puts her whole tongue into the wrapper. At the crinkle, Basch lifts his head, and Balthier isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed, but Basch folds the foil up, tucks it deep into his pocket. Then he puts both hands on her smooth cheeks, puts his forehead against hers.

“Bedtime, pretty lady.” He walks her a little ways off, where there’s a bit of a clearing just visible in the dimming light, and he gives her a generous lead. The sound of her teeth cropping the grass blends with the night.

It’s somehow cozy, then, despite how strange it all is, sitting in front of the fire. Basch is using his saddle as a backrest, and Balthier spends a lot less time than he means to sitting straight up beside him before he finally relaxes against Basch’s shoulder, slouches down until he’s pretty much lying on him. They share the Snickers bar, the chocolate gone melty from the closeness of the fire and Basch’s hand, and Balthier takes the last bite of sticky, chewy candy, but he keeps hold of Basch’s wrist, scraping the chocolate from the pads of his fingers with his teeth. The salt of Basch’s skin makes it even better, and Balthier would like nothing more than to roll over, tug Basch’s jeans open, and find more of that saltiness on the head of Basch’s cock, but he wants something else, too. Something that worries him more than the fact that he’s lying mostly in the dirt, that he’s so far out in the country there aren’t even proper roads for his bike. He tucks the candy bar wrapper into his pocket and turns over, so he’s facing Basch.

Basch has his hat tipped back, and now he puts one hand right on Balthier’s ass, squeezes a little and grins. Yeah, right about now is when Balthier usually goes for Basch’s zipper, for the buttons on his shirt, and while Balthier’s distracted by Basch’s hand on his ass or his cock, Basch will manage to sneak another mind-bending kiss, and then another one after. But Balthier—even though they’ve slept together often enough since that night at the beginning of November—has perfected the art of letting Basch curl up around his back, so that the sweet scrape of Basch’s stubble and the softness of his lips falls mostly harmlessly on the nape of Balthier’s neck. Well. His cock never thinks it’s harmless, but Basch is just as good for round two, so that’s all right. All Balthier has to do is take Basch’s hand, push it down the slightest bit, and Basch is always happy to comply, and why shouldn’t he be? Balthier makes sure he gets his, too.

But now, Balthier doesn’t reach for anything. He just stays there, his hands on the sides of the saddle, holding himself over Basch, and he’s looking at Basch’s mouth, and Basch is looking at him, smiling, but when Balthier doesn’t move, he looks a little puzzled.

“Everything all right?” Basch’s hand slides up, warm and slow, to the middle of Balthier’s back.

Balthier shakes his head. No. It’s really not. And Basch’s eyes lose their lazy ease, and he starts to sit up a little more, but Balthier’s not moving. He’s not moving at all. Until he does, bending his elbows just enough that his whole body lowers, and his mouth slants across Basch’s. Both of Basch’s hands are on his back, just holding steady, not pulling him down, though Basch’s mouth opens easily to his, and then Balthier feels himself sinking, his arms giving way little by little, until he’s resting fully against Basch’s chest, their mouths together and the fire warm on his back.