Work Text:
The robe, Auron knows, is the first thing people see when they look at Braska; and most of them make the mistake of not looking any further.
Many have speculated on the reason for Lord Braska's unusual dress. Some say it reflects an uncommon degree of modesty; others that he covers himself out of shame. There are those who view it as an affront, an ostentatious display of piety by a heretic Summoner.
None of the rumors grasp the whole truth. Auron knows what few people know about Braska—that he lost a part of himself when he lost his wife, and that while he smiles and shows an open face to everyone they come across, he shows the whole of himself to no one. It's as if, one foot on the Farplane already, he is saving what he has left until the time is right to give the rest of himself away. Perhaps, then, the robe is his armor; his insulation against attachment.
The robe covers his body, but Auron knows that his body is the least of what Braska hides from the world.
---
From the start, Auron doesn't like Jecht. He doesn't like his loudness, his unruliness, his outrageous claims of being from Zanarkand. He especially doesn't like the way Jecht talks to Braska: casually, jokingly, as though Braska were an old friend. He doesn't seem put off by Braska's odd clothing; he doesn't seem to respect barriers of any kind, in fact.
He can tell Braska is a little taken aback by Jecht's exuberance, though he bears it with good humor. Auron cannot do the same. As they leave the vaulted halls of Bevelle on the first steps of their journey, Jecht throws an arm over Braska's shoulders, laughing uproariously at one of his own jokes. Braska jumps slightly at the unusual invasion of his space, but he laughs, too. Auron grits his teeth and stares with concentrated distaste at Jecht's back.
He tells himself it's concern for the respect Braska is due, both as a summoner and as the man to whom Jecht owes his freedom; he tells himself it's anger at Jecht's brash disregard for the sanctity of their mission.
He tells himself it's anything other than jealousy at Jecht's ability to so easily bridge the distance that he himself cannot.
---
In the forest outside Macalania, they make camp, huddled close together around the fire to ward off the cold. Braska's head droops with tiredness; with a sigh, he reaches up and removes his headdress, running his fingers through his hair. Auron cannot take his eyes off the pale strip of skin that peeks out of the high collar of the robe.
Jecht's eyes catch his across the fire, and he raises an eyebrow. Auron drops his gaze, face burning. He feels ashamed, and angry at his shame; what does this outsider know of what he feels for Braska?
It's not what you think, he wants to say. It isn't his body.
Instead, he says, "I'll take first watch," and walks away from the fire to where he has a good view of their surroundings; but even with his eyes open, all he can see is Braska's bowed head, and that bare, vulnerable inch of skin.
---
There are many fiends on the road to Djose. Together, he and Jecht handle most of them with their swords, and Braska heals them when necessary. By the end of the day, Auron's arms and legs alike are burning with fatigue; he is just about to suggest that they find a safe place for the night when Jecht stops them, one hand outstretched in warning.
"Wait."
Auron draws his sword a split second before three fiends fly out of the bushes on the side of the road, one of them nearly knocking him over. He raises his sword to block the fiend's tearing claws, but the fiend is fast and his sword feels suddenly slow and heavy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Braska begin to summon—he wishes he could turn his head and look—and then it is light and fire and a roaring that shakes him to his bones.
When he can raise his head again, it is over. Braska leans heavily against his staff, and, as Auron watches, stumbles forward.
"Lord Braska!" Auron shouts, running to him; Braska's weight takes them both down to the ground.
He looks up at Auron with a thin smile. "I guess we should call it a day," he says.
In the small clearing they will call home for the night, Auron lets his coat and sword fall to the ground. Braska sits down slowly, wincing, and it's only then that Auron notices the thin red ribbon trailing across the sleeve of his robe.
"My lord!" he says, rushing to his side. "You're injured; why didn't you say so earlier?"
Braska wipes at his sleeve. His hand comes away covered in blood, but he shakes his head. "It's only a scratch," he says. "Nothing a little bandaging won't fix."
As Auron begins rummaging through their supplies, Jecht speaks up.
"What do you need that stuff for? Can't you just magic it better?" he asks.
Auron doesn't bother replying, but Braska chuckles tiredly, his eyes sliding closed.
"Magic doesn't come cheaply," he says. "Every traveler should know a little first aid."
"Hn. Whatever," Jecht says, and stomps away to find more firewood, leaving Auron and Braska alone in the clearing.
Braska pushes his sleeve up so that Auron can tend to his arm. His skin, where it is untouched by the sun, is milk-pale. The red slash of the fiend's claws stands out in stark contrast. Auron works quickly and silently, but at the last moment he lingers, unwilling to let go of this rare moment of quiet intimacy.
Braska's hand covers his, and Auron looks up, surprised. Braska's eyes are weary but affectionate.
"Thank you," he says.
They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, Braska's hand on his hand on Braska's arm, until Jecht crashes back from out of the forest and Auron hastily finishes and puts their supplies back in order.
Sleep is a long time coming that night; Auron lies with his eyes open to the stars, silence all around him except for the crackling fire and the wild pounding of his own heart.
---
By the time they reach the small island of Besaid, Braska's Pilgrimage has received enough attention that there is a small crowd of supporters and well-wishers waiting at the dock to greet their arrival.
"Braska's real popular, huh?" says Jecht.
Auron grunts in reply, watching as Braska greets each of the villagers warmly. Some of them even reach out to touch his hand, or to grasp at his robe. Auron feels a hot rush of something inside him that he identifies, a shocked second later, as jealousy. He instantly reproaches himself; but no matter how he meditates all that night and into the morning, trying to rid himself of the unworthy feeling, he is forced to face the truth:
Braska is preparing to give all of himself to Spira, and Auron is selfish enough to want a part that is only his.
---
On the night after Braska successfully obtains the Aeon from Besaid's Fayth, the villagers have a feast for him. The wine flows freely and the festivities extend long into the night. Auron suspects the feast is more for the sake of the villagers, hungry for any reason to be cheerful, than for the Summoner himself, who must surely be tired after an arduous day. In fact, Auron realizes at some point that Braska is nowhere in sight, and he slips away from the celebration in search of him.
He finds Braska at the foot of a sandy slope, where gentle waves lick at the shore. His headdress is resting in the sand next to his feet, his face tilted upward into the cool night breeze. Auron permits himself a moment of silent voyeurism before he speaks.
"Is everything all right, my lord? Are you tired?"
Braska shakes his head, but which part of the question he is answering, Auron doesn't know.
"It really is a beautiful place," Braska says, after a moment. "Yes; a fine place for a child to grow up."
The waves are lapping more closely at their feet now, and as Auron watches, mesmerized, Braska lifts up the hem of his robe just slightly, letting the water splash against his bare feet and ankles.
"Thank you for being here to see it with me, my friend," Braska says; and there is something in the look Braska gives him then that makes Auron swallow, throat suddenly dry. He feels that everything must be writ plain on his face—his selfish hope, his desire—but Braska shows no sign of recoiling from what he sees. Instead, there is real warmth in his eyes, and Auron wonders if he is, at last, seeing beyond the robe to the man inside.
"The villagers will be wondering where you are," he says, when he can speak again.
They rejoin the celebration only to make their excuses and retire to bed. In the morning, they must set off again; Zanarkand is still a long way away.
Auron sleeps easily and deeply that night, and dreams of Braska dancing, feet and arms and laughing face uncovered, on the moonlit surface of the water.