He'd been about to make a short remark about the Grand Kiltias' demise when, suddenly, a hand was messing up his hair and Balthier batted at him like an irritated kitten, pulling his head away from his father's grasp, sliding both hands through his hair to get it to settle right.

"Must you always go for the hair, Cid? Honestly, things never change..." He'd styled his hair similarly (if a little less audacious) when he was a young teenager and Cid had ruffled at it often. Too damn often.

Brushing his fingertip against the corner of his eye, Balthier sighed slightly. Cid always remarked about his appearance because the older man knew how vain his son was. Balthier would admit he was a narcisist. "I won't get wrinkles like yours, old man."