do they cease to exist when you stop being missed

[mightyfallen]

Who: Jack and Balthier
What: Some fussing and recuperating. Also, dinner.
Where: Jack's ridiculous apartment in West Gidd.
When: Tuesday Misdi evening.
Warnings: Food details, otherwise nothing much.

Despite what he said in his text, it might be better if Balthier doesn't hurry over. The contents of Jack's fridge being well above your usual bachelor fodder of condiments and old bread (he is, after all, a bachelor raised to ridiculous culinary standards), what he throws together is somewhat involved, including not only both meat and vegetables but actual herbs and spices. A little pepper the steaks, parsley and tarragon with the root vegetables, and he refrains from glazing anything out of vague recollection of the other man's tastes.

The activity helps him process – which is what he calls it in his mind, not think or feel, like he's some kind of machine that should be able to take the lingering echos of so many souls lost under his command (and more, closer to him) and arrive at a neat, clean explanation for why he's been so irritated at the thought of losing anyone else.

But he didn't lose anyone, this time. He has to remind himself of that, and there'd be relief in the thought if he was willing to acknowledge having anything to be relived over, which naturally he isn't. Instead, he's chopping too many carrots and cussing at the stove and will generally feel a lot better when he can actually see his friend in one piece.

Comments

[nojudge.livejournal.com]

"Don't mistake me for royalty," he says, and now he's wearing a faint smile that's more wry than anything. "I'm sure that I could have been, had I fought for it in the senate. But I've always preferred the beasts in the wild to those particular monsters."

How annoyed must his superiors have been, when he left - every time Balthier has lent his insight to Jack's political notions, it's been with a keen eye. Effortless, almost. (Then again, that could easily be why he so badly wanted to run from it.)

[mightyfallen]

Jack has shared what he has of his politics with Balthier because of that aptitude, and has himself considered – fleetingly, but still considered – how the pirate could be of more use to him in an official capacity. He can imagine how irritating it would be to be denied that insight altogether.

"And yet you keep company with one of the worst." Monsters, that is, and yes he means himself, if the cynicism in his voice is any indication. (He has no illusions about his own righteousness, only his ability to do good despite it.) He swirls his wine in his glass. "You don't miss it? The lures of power and influence never tempt you?"

[nojudge.livejournal.com]

His expression turns a little more sad - like colors fading in the sunset, just another subtle hint, here and there. Not for himself, or for Jack. Some great thing beyond the both of them.

"Am I so powerless?" He's not a politician; he'll never again be a Judge, and he'd rather send himself to his own, true death than ever act as even a shade of one. He has no country and no home and a price on his head... and it is beautiful. Balthier has no need of Imperial power and influence. If he wants either, all he has to do is walk out on his stage. He turns it on and off at will, and he lives his life without chains - without so much as a string.

Balthier takes another swallow of his wine and then reaches out, his fingertips brushing Jack's elbow, connective, maybe a little wistful. There's something hollow behind his eyes. "That you think of yourself as such," and he drops his hands, goes back to his dinner, "Gives me hope for your world."

[mightyfallen]

Jack tilts his head, but nods, as if agreeing up to a point. "A different kind of power," murmured. It's a difficult thing to acknowledge, that Balthier could shed the binds that Jack has come to know like a second skin, and without cost, without sacrificing the right to shape the world around him. But it is different. The power Jack amasses so desperately is constant and steady as he can make it. It doesn't matter that he can't turn it off because he wouldn't, because he doesn't know what he'd be without it.

(Happier, maybe.)

The touch, however, that gives him pause – the words that follow, more so, but his smile flinches and twists like it can't settle on an expression. His teeth digging into his lip, shaking his head, "You'll doom them all, treating me like that." Like what, Jack, nicely?

Rather than specify, he downs what's left in his glass and pushes off from the counter, his dinner left half finished. Not going anywhere in particular, just– look, he can't just sit here and feel.