Laedea

By StarWolf

2/14/2006

Title: Laedea
Author: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo dot com)
Fandom: Final Fantasy IX
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Weirdo atmospheric...thing. Or romance, I guess.
Pairing: Kuja x Zidane
Warnings: Slashy, kind of incest, A/U
Disclaimer: Square-Enix owns them, not me.
Distribution: Please don't archive this.
Summary: The past is all that's gone, the future is yet to come.
Author's Notes: Set in the Desert Palace again. A bit o' strange almost-fluff for VDAY LOL. Written while listening to "The Chosen Summoner" from the soundtrack. Summary from Eiffel 65's "Now Is Forever."


During all his adventures, Zidane's never been in a place like this before.

Meticulously detailed carpets adorn the marble floors of lamplit hallways, firelight flickering across an endless sea of shimmering tile as his boots send echoes reverberating through the open space. The sheer vastness of the palace astounds him; for something masked underground, built in secrecy with massive funds, it's... he's not sure that he knows an appropriate adjective.

In a hazy delirium he feels himself being led towards a smaller room, the humidity a stark contrast with the desert winds. Somehow he's made it into a spotless ceramic bathtub, and hot water -- hot water, right there and easily accessible -- rinses away all the dirt and grime and sand embedded in his tangled, matted hair. He immerses himself in scalding, liquid catharsis and breathes soap-scented steam.

When the air's dry again, he finds himself dressed in smooth, sheer fabrics that must be worth an asinine amount of gil; the cloth is light and comfortable against his skin, so exquisite that he has trouble remembering what leather and cotton feel like. Sinking back against the cool sheets and infinitely accommodating mattress, he stretches and sprawls out on his back. The somewhere-bed is wide enough to fit all of Tantalus without a problem.

After an eternity of drowsy drifting in and out of sleep, the heady, wispy smoke of incense too exotic to name wafts past him, fully captivating his easily-pleased senses until a warm weight settles itself atop him. He manages to glance up through his now knotless bangs and half-closed, painted eyelids to see him.

"You...?" he asks, raising loose, bellsleeved arms to hold him -- whether away or close, he's not yet sure.

"You," Kuja replies, leaning forward to speak quietly next to his ear, "have always wanted to meet your family."

Zidane nods, vision swimming and shifting like the area surrounding a flame; is there something he's forgetting...? No. Nothing at all, he's almost sure.

Nothing matters, because Kuja is warm and soft and smells like things Zidane can't even try to pinpoint. Languid, indulgent; featherkisses on his collarbone and callusless hands against his chest. His tail undulates aimlessly atop the bedlinens and his fingers thread through lavender-tinted hair. Kuja's tail (...Kuja has a tail? ) finds his, entwines with it. Inhaling deeply, Zidane rolls them onto their sides and curls against that steady, accepting warmth. It's not arousing -- just reassuring. He wants to rest and recover from the remnants of all that's damaged him.

Kuja glides his palms up Zidane's back, fastening a gold-and-ruby choker around his neck. He smiles in the barely-candlelit darkness.

"You belong nowhere else."

"Yes."

"You need nothing else."

"Yes."

"You are Ours."

"Yours."

Kuja presses his lips to his brother's forehead.

"Good."