au archades, ffamran, after sleepless dreaming and not finished
Ffamran isn't Balthier until he is Balthier, until he cuts off ties from all who called him Ffamran; this is why I still call him Ffamran despite the fact that, by this time, he's already legally changed his name to Balthier.
He usually doesn't eat lunch at the stretch of time between twelve and thirteen o'clock; the cafeteria of Nalbina Technical Institute is too congested for Ffamran's preferences. He seeks solace in, of all places, the stranded weight room mottled with treadmills, lifting belts, barbells. The air conditioner is always on full blast, a useless waste of energy - Ffamran pushes himself past a normal sweat so not to shiver.
Today he told himself he'd work on biceps; Fran had suggested it last week and emailed him a strict, but pleasantly occupying workout routine. Standing barbell-curls were on the list for Wednesday, today.
It is half past noon and he's lifting, again. There's a television perched on the wall of the farthest corner; someone who had been there before didn't care to turn down the volume. Yet the sound of strain and heat in Ffamran's ears blocked out the drone of detergent commercials and soap-opera previews. Forty-one, forty-two-...forty-three...
And then the world comes back, rushes back, all dragged by the tailend of a name Ffamran was so close to forgetting.
Vossler York Azelas.
A bead of sweat runs down the proud slope of the young man's nose, and he immediately freezes despite the straining weight of the barbell. His eyes glued to the screen, his ears perked, he watches the sports channel unravel.
On the screen is a raven-haired woman, pale but refined - no doubt, she is Archadian. Her accent, familiar to Ffamran, confirms his suspicious. Usually Nalbina does not broadcast news from Archades, though as Ffamran looks closer at the screen, he sees the subject of the matter: National Blitzball Association - Final Four Countdown runs across the bottom of the screen. Ffamran continues to watch as more words slide on - Last-minute Forward Needed for Archades
But where-- Ffamran places the barbell down, gently, quietly, ears still straining to hear that name again. He grabs a white towel from his station and sits at the end of a weight bench.
On screen, the raven-haired newscaster appears to be at a pool. She is centered on screen, though her dark eyes cast frequently to the left; there is someone there, beyond the boundaries of the camera. Ffamran takes a swig of water and listens closely.
"And on the matter of Basch's torn Achilles Tendon, the Archades team faces the dilemma of who will take the Captain's place as left-forward, come the Final Four Tournament."
Ffamran's eyes widened - So, Basch was injured? An Achilles Tendon, ripped in a pool? No, the fool was fond of running triathalons, as well, Ffamran had to remind himself.
"Here we have a well-known member of the Archades blitz team, who may step up to take Basch's place for the upcoming games."
Here, the camera pans to the left, and the newscaster shares her screentime with...with...
Ffamran loses grip on his waterbottle, catches it just in time.
Vossler's hard gaze is looking right at him.
"Today we have Vossler York Azelas, number six and center defender for the Archades blitz team. Tell us, Vossler, what are your opinions on the future for your team, now that Basch's injury keeps him from playing the most important games of the season?" The woman's voice accented all of the right words, clearly and rather obnoxiously outlining the rather unfortunate problem put on the Archades team.
Ffamran's mouth is agape, his eyes not daring to blink but oh, oh how he wants to shut them so tight and smash the television with every ounce of strength harbored within his being!
Vossler's hair is wet, matted down and back, such a familiar look that Ffamran had been so used to seeing. There's a red towel around the hard line of his shoulders, too, and Ffamran doesn't even notice he's still gaping until he begins to choke - Vossler speaks.
His voice, dear Faram his voice is something Ffamran never thought, never wanted to hear again, he never wanted to hear again for Balthier's sake-- but Ffamran listens, because... because Balthier is not truly alive, not yet, especially not now.
"The team as a whole is disheartened, but we have outlined some strengths that will prove to be benevolent and compensate for our temporary loss."
Vossler's voice is hard... Harder than Ffamran remembers. He looks at Vossler's eyes; always there had been dissatisfaction lingering within his irises, and Ffamran knows more than anyone how much Vossler dislikes publicity on film. Yet, it is different now, than before
And Ffamran easily picks it up; heavy in Vossler's eyes is the weight of a loss. Ffamran recognizes it from his own reflection every morning.
His heart pounds, a double-beat where there should have been one. Ffamran blames it on the workout, and convinces himself that it's the air-conditioner causing him to shiver.
----
wow it's late, i'm tired, TBC tomorrow weee~