A/n: Believe it or not, it's rude to read and run. In other words, have some consideration and review.

I don't own FFXII.

lxxxi - a place to belong

Home

He remembers gloved hands – cold, lined with leather and iron, dragging across his skin and digging into his flesh like a hot scalpel.

He remembers several pairs of these hands, and he remembers the dirtied gag choking through sobs threatening to overflow with the tiniest bit of provocation.

He remembers scathing laughs, barked orders and forced movements, and being watched by hungry yet apathetic eyes – eyes of the Empire.

He remembers being told shut your mouth you bastard of a churl, is this how you thank the Imperials who protect your city?

If Vaan hadn’t been gagged and overwhelmed with the permeating feeling of acrimony, he would have laughed in pure incredulity at the question. But he could not. Instead he could only whimper and flinch; the dirt and grime mingling with sweat and blood through the cuts on his body were barely acknowledged as his face was thrown against the floor, the walls, and the crates. Vaan’s gasps and groans were not heard over the chuckling of the spectators – laughs reverberated off the Lowtown walls.

Vaan’s fingers clenched and unclenched, leaving little crescent shaped cuts on his palms from the recklessly abandoned pressure.

Sometimes when Vaan looks closely enough, he can still see the marks on his palms.

The Empire took more than his mother, father, and brother.

The Empire took more than his friends and what little shred of freedom he could hold within his grasp in the small city of Rabanastre.

The Empire shattered his innocence by the age of fifteen with malevolent smirks, violence, and force.

Vaan remembers all too well the things he’d like to forget more than anything. Arcadia cannot measure the fiery passion of his hate, his bitterness and fear, or his yearning to avenge what he has lost and can never regain.

He remembers how he vowed, after every time they befowled him, that he would fight back. Because he was strong.

But every time, Vaan found the rough hands, the gag, the raspy voices and the cold knife against his burning skin all stronger than him.

Rabanstre was no longer a royal city filled with promises of safety and hope. That diminished a long time ago, with the death of peace, the death of hope itself, crushed in the unrelenting hands of war… of the Empire.

Vaan remembers how strongly he hated Arcadians; the men, at least. Their lack of normal morals any hume-being should uphold even in the innermost corners of their minds were diminished with insanely redundant superiority complexes, topped with a choppy accent that made Vaan’s ears sting. The children were spoiled brats, taking everything and everyone around them for granted, and the women came across as materialistic simpletons who would be wooed with the mere sight of gaudy jewels or the shining coins of Gil.

Vaan remembers how they looked at him with the apathetic gaze of one who has an air of superficial aristocracy held around them – no, in fact, they did not even look at Vaan, nor the rest of the Rabanastrans. They looked down on them. It made Vaan shudder with suppressed anger only Penelo soothed with her soft words. And at the same time, those miniscule glances the orphans received as they trekked around the cobblestone streets of their home hurt.

Vaan remembers how it hurt – it hurt just like the hands that came in contact with his jaw, the bullwhip against his back, and the repeated rape of his mind, body, and soul.

Overall, the Arcadians were despicable beings and they always would be

--.

But there is one… one Arcadian that holds no attributes relating to the people Vaan is so used to. His touch is soft, gentle. He maps out Vaan’s body with confident yet calloused hands, fingers grazing across scars the man’s own kind gave him years ago. He makes Vaan’s heart leap in such a way that contrasts strongly to how the orphan’s heart pounded erratically, when the other men had even looked at him with their condescending eyes years ago.

His lips are soft and warm, and they coax nothing from Vaan but acceptance, trust and compassion – it is not what Vaan is used to. He is used to demanding lips urging obedience and silence, he is used to rough nips and clacking teeth against his own, muffling his own sounds of discord.

But the pair against his relaxes Vaan, soothes him into a lulling state of safety and reassurance.

His skin resonates a welcoming scent and heat that Vaan would compare to home – for although he has never known a home, it is what the blonde could compare it to from what he has observed and yearned for.

Home… isn’t a home something that makes you feel welcome and safe? Doesn’t a home provide and protect?

Isn’t home where the heart is?

The sky pirate Vaan holds in his arms is nothing short of home, and the orphan who has never truly known such a thing tightens his grip around the Arcadian as tears filled with gratefulness coalesce down his cheeks.

This man, Balthier, is a treasure himself – one that Vaan could never look at with the disdain and fear he did towards the other Arcadians.

Home is a rarity that Vaan will never let go of now that he knows of its comfort.

The only hume Vaan will ever love is an Arcadian who left his city for the sky.