In the Moment (Final Fantasy IX, Blank/Zidane)
His character slips enough for a cocky grin and Cinna cuffs him lightly on the shoulder before turning, lumbering back onto the stage as only a wicked king’s manservant can lumber. Blank makes a face at his retreating back, rubbing his shoulder where the armour chafes as he watches light flash off his sword with every sweep of Marcus’ hand.
“Nicely done, Sir Hero,” Zidane says from behind him, and Blank turns to find the young thief sprawled lazily across a tumble of shipping crates, a smirk on his face and his petticoats swaying prettily several inches above the dirty floor.
Blank sweeps into a low stage bow. “All in a day’s work, Sir Damsel,” he says, heroically self-assured. “You should try it sometime.”
“An honest job? Me?” An eyebrow arches eloquently. “Surely you jest.”
Half of Blank’s attention is on the noise from the stage, the play unrolling in his mind in time with the pulsing ebbs of thunderous applause, the rest captivated by the way Zidane’s chin tips up as Blank moves up beside him, blue eyes peering coyly up at him through darkened lashes.
So Blank smirks and leans in close. “Why not? Afraid of mussing your makeup?”
Zidane’s perfectly painted face distorts into an exaggerated scowl. “Hardly.”
“Good.” Blank allows himself a secretive smirk. “I prefer my damsels a little mussed.”
“Sir Hero!” Zidane flutes, body angling upwards even as his eyes widen in shock. He tilts his head and surprisingly convincing brown curls tumble artfully against his neck. “That is a most ungentlemanly thing to suggest!”
“I mean no dishonour to you, Sir Damsel,” Blank declares. His expression slips into fatuousness as he adds, “And surely no man would censure me for thinking the sight of you disheveled a most delightful distraction.”
“You speak quite prettily, my lord,” Zidane observes, eyes batting coyly, “Why should I listen?”
Blank smoothes a hand down Zidane’s flank, just to hear him purr. “Why, lady mine, for the very fact that you enjoy being thus disheveled.” Blank’s other hand cups Zidane’s chin intimately and he flashes his best rakish smile. “And surely thou knowest that heroes are excellent dishevelers.”
The building surge of applause crashes into the scant emptiness between them and Blank restrains himself with a sigh.
He straightens and offers a hand. “Your cue I believe,” he observes, gravely solicitous.
Zidane scowls in an entirely unladylike manner. “Just when it was getting good.”
Zidane’s calloused hand slips into Blank’s own and Blank only has a moment to appreciate the wicked gleam that sparks in Zidane’s eyes before he is being tugged forward and down, Zidane’s mouth meeting his in a hungry tangle of lips and teeth and tongues.
“Mmm,” he manages, sliding his hands around Zidane’s corseted waist rather than risking tangling the wig. Zidane’s fingers are cupping his face, warm and fearless, the excited press of his body nothing at all like his delicate swoon in Act two. Blank enjoys the contrast.
The unceasing tumult of the crowd is a warning all its own, breathless anticipation that has them both pulling back far earlier than they’d like, Zidane’s lipstick smeared on Blank’s face and Blank’s hands making wrinkles in Zidane’s dress.
They straighten each other’s costumes in quick, coordinated efficiency, matching smirks fading as characters resurface and their cues approach.
“Till we meet again,” Blank calls as Zidane swishes away, and it is the Damsel who answers him, lovely and gentle.
“My heart yearns for it, Sir Hero,” and then a wink, pure impudence as Zidane tilts a grin over his shoulder. “See you in Act five.”
The crowd roars its approval as Zidane glides onstage, voice dancing off the rafters with trained finesse. Blank listens to him go as he settles down to wait, perfectly content wearing the mantle of a hero and the grin of a thief.
Moments are for enjoying after all, and he finds his moments offstage nearly as inspiring as those on.
~owari
“Nicely done, Sir Hero,” Zidane says from behind him, and Blank turns to find the young thief sprawled lazily across a tumble of shipping crates, a smirk on his face and his petticoats swaying prettily several inches above the dirty floor.
Blank sweeps into a low stage bow. “All in a day’s work, Sir Damsel,” he says, heroically self-assured. “You should try it sometime.”
“An honest job? Me?” An eyebrow arches eloquently. “Surely you jest.”
Half of Blank’s attention is on the noise from the stage, the play unrolling in his mind in time with the pulsing ebbs of thunderous applause, the rest captivated by the way Zidane’s chin tips up as Blank moves up beside him, blue eyes peering coyly up at him through darkened lashes.
So Blank smirks and leans in close. “Why not? Afraid of mussing your makeup?”
Zidane’s perfectly painted face distorts into an exaggerated scowl. “Hardly.”
“Good.” Blank allows himself a secretive smirk. “I prefer my damsels a little mussed.”
“Sir Hero!” Zidane flutes, body angling upwards even as his eyes widen in shock. He tilts his head and surprisingly convincing brown curls tumble artfully against his neck. “That is a most ungentlemanly thing to suggest!”
“I mean no dishonour to you, Sir Damsel,” Blank declares. His expression slips into fatuousness as he adds, “And surely no man would censure me for thinking the sight of you disheveled a most delightful distraction.”
“You speak quite prettily, my lord,” Zidane observes, eyes batting coyly, “Why should I listen?”
Blank smoothes a hand down Zidane’s flank, just to hear him purr. “Why, lady mine, for the very fact that you enjoy being thus disheveled.” Blank’s other hand cups Zidane’s chin intimately and he flashes his best rakish smile. “And surely thou knowest that heroes are excellent dishevelers.”
The building surge of applause crashes into the scant emptiness between them and Blank restrains himself with a sigh.
He straightens and offers a hand. “Your cue I believe,” he observes, gravely solicitous.
Zidane scowls in an entirely unladylike manner. “Just when it was getting good.”
Zidane’s calloused hand slips into Blank’s own and Blank only has a moment to appreciate the wicked gleam that sparks in Zidane’s eyes before he is being tugged forward and down, Zidane’s mouth meeting his in a hungry tangle of lips and teeth and tongues.
“Mmm,” he manages, sliding his hands around Zidane’s corseted waist rather than risking tangling the wig. Zidane’s fingers are cupping his face, warm and fearless, the excited press of his body nothing at all like his delicate swoon in Act two. Blank enjoys the contrast.
The unceasing tumult of the crowd is a warning all its own, breathless anticipation that has them both pulling back far earlier than they’d like, Zidane’s lipstick smeared on Blank’s face and Blank’s hands making wrinkles in Zidane’s dress.
They straighten each other’s costumes in quick, coordinated efficiency, matching smirks fading as characters resurface and their cues approach.
“Till we meet again,” Blank calls as Zidane swishes away, and it is the Damsel who answers him, lovely and gentle.
“My heart yearns for it, Sir Hero,” and then a wink, pure impudence as Zidane tilts a grin over his shoulder. “See you in Act five.”
The crowd roars its approval as Zidane glides onstage, voice dancing off the rafters with trained finesse. Blank listens to him go as he settles down to wait, perfectly content wearing the mantle of a hero and the grin of a thief.
Moments are for enjoying after all, and he finds his moments offstage nearly as inspiring as those on.
~owari