"So, what do you think?" he murmurs.

They ascend the stands of the stadium as the sun dips below the horizon. Through the vaulted ceiling that rises vastly like the crown of a diamond, a sunbeam splits and spills on to the bleachers. At the stadium's zenith, the newly refurbished executive box offers an encapsulating view.

There's that feline stretch again that she does, a languid cat relishing in the dying light as evening gathers round. Her peppy constant chatter wilts away on the climb. Silence poises between them and he finds himself leaning in to hear her.

"It's…" she starts. Her gaze sweeps over the balcony before her. Plush black velvet seats interspersed with simple golden side tables make up the viewing deck. A barely perceptible glass barrier affronts them offering an uncut view. Across the stadium, other smaller boxes mirror theirs, mounted strategically atop fluid video screens.

Almost tentatively, she caresses the velvet upholstery of the last row of seats. This is luxury that is not often found in Spira, even to the glittering guardian echelon. It's practically Bevellian in its opulence, but muted, somehow, modish.

New Luca.

A Leblancism she's embarrassed to find herself using, even internally.

"I have no words." she says quietly.

"That's a first." he teases. Rikku jolts from her silent admiration to pout at him, predictably.

"Ooh," her eyes alight upon the structure behind him, missed in her hasty exploration of the view, "there's a bar!"

Child in a candy shop, Rikku bounds up to the block of marble fashioned into a bar, an extension of the very floor. She vaults up, perching her weight on to her stomach to peek at the contents behind.

"Fully stocked!" she reports, then turns and leans back on her elbows. Ankles crossed, her well-loved, scuffed boots are incongruent to the gleaming marble floor. Pink cheeks and faint freckles, Rikku in her recovering hungover glory beckons him over, tendrils of hair again lost to all order and tickling her neck. Dishevelled, expectant, her posture invites him to drink with her. He accepts, already walking over, loosening his tie. He feels startlingly overdressed in answer to her scruffy lazy day glamour. Rikku steals his tie from where it spools on the bar, a scribble of ink on embossed writing paper. She twists it, wraps it, ties it round her fingers, her wrist. Kittenishly transfixed and poised on the barstool.

"A drink for the lady?" he offers. From nowhere Gippal has procured a napkin, which is now draped over his arm, chilled white wine in his other hand.

She giggles. He pours- flamboyant and clumsy- into large triangular stemless wine glasses. In the slight humidity, condensation swiftly appears.

"Won't you get in trouble?" she muses, after her first grateful gulp. Gippal shrugs.

The wine is a salve for the frayed edges of the day- the uncertainty that tripped her up on her way to his office, which still lingers even though it's been a few hours and they are settled into amiable silence. It dissipates as the sweet nectar of the wine infuses her.

Nineteen going on twenty, Rikku is lazily rotating her wine glass, reclining, perched on her other elbow. Watching the sunset with her legs crossed, prim, proper. Yet if she blinks too long, she is elsewhere, leaning against a hovercraft, guzzling warm beer, wishing it was cold. Legs crossed on the sand, bumping elbows with Gippal, laughing with Brother and Buddy. Those last days of friendship on Bikanel, fifteen going on hero.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. At once she's aware of his focus on her. Her loose grip on his discarded tie has allowed it to half unravel towards the floor. She scrunches it in her hand, winding it again around her spare wrist after placing her wine on the bar.

"Do you remember," she starts, grin creeping unbidden across her face.

She closes her eyes, and is transported back to Bikanel, the familiar weight of his bomber jacket on her shoulders. The unacknowledged ritual of friendship they fall into every time they stayed out too late, rummaging dusty and dirty in the sand for secrets. The moon creeps up on them after dusk; then night, and the inevitable chill of the dark desert. Waiting for Brother and Buddy, she drowns pleasantly in his jacket. She lights his cigarette. He always leaves them in his pocket with his father's lighter. Her delicate fingers fumble to flick the small fire into being; his lengthy exhale after the first drag is as clear as yesterday. The quiet gratitude of his conspiratorial smile triggering a curling heat in her stomach, back then, and it disappears with the snap shut of the lighter and her accompanying, contradictory lecture on the perils of smoking.

"Um, princess…" he waves his hand in front of her face. She is frozen in reverie, his tie pulled tight around her wrist.

"Sorry," she starts, "Remember that time I stole Pop's cigars, and you pretended it was you?"

"Oh, Shiva, don't remind me. I swear he made me oil every hinge of every single piece of machina at Home for that," he despairs with his playful smile, "You still owe me for that one by the way."

"Is saving my father's life not enough reward?" she teases. He rolls his eyes.

"Fine," finger on her lips in thought, "how about… an invitation to Yunie's wedding?"

"Bold of you to assume that I haven't been invited."

"What!" she exclaims. "I don't even have one yet."

"Tidus invited me." He offers. Rikku scowls then.

"Since when are you secretly best friends with Tidus?

"Since we designed this place together," he explains and she quirks a disbelieving eyebrow. "Dream or not, he has first-hand experience of Zanarkand tech so made sense to pull him in. Most useful man in the world."

"Sounds like a great friendship." She quips drily. He explains how the initial meetings to pick his brains turned quickly to debates about Blitzball, then drinks over a game. Rikku can vividly imagine Tidus' infectious puppy dog enthusiasm, trying to help bring Spira in to the future.

"Hey," she pouts, "the other night you were acting like you had no idea how Tidus and Yunie ended up together."

"We don't talk about all the mushy stuff. Just Blitz, and tech, and fighting, and stuff."

"He doesn't talk about Yuna?" she presses.

"Ugh," he runs his hand through his hair, "That's not what I meant. We just don't really talk about love, princess."

Maybe he says this purposefully to distract her, she isn't sure. His new favourite pet name is niggling at her. She blushes.

"Stop calling me that. It's weird."

"I've always called you that."

"Yeah but people will hear you and think that I actually expect people to call me that, and they'll think I'm full of it, and-"

"What people?" he gestures wildly around them.

"Seriously, you don't know what these reporters are like. I swear they're everywhere." She drains the rest of her glass and shudders.

"Why do you play up to it then?" he asks, slight furrow between his brow, almost invisible beneath his eye patch.

"I do not!" she protests, hurt, "What else am I meant to do? It's worse if you try to ignore them, trust me. That's why Yuna hides away most of the year. She wants – no, deserves- peace and quiet and there's no reprieve here."

"Such a hard life for her."

Indignation fizzles between them.

"What do you have against Yuna?" she demands, eyes narrowing. Restlessly, she sips again from her glass but it's empty. He pours again.

"Nothing, honestly, we just don't-" pauses, grasping for the word, "gel. Come on, Rikku, you know that. Any small talk we have is a train wreck."

"You're just too…" she offers.

"What?" he interrupts before she can finish. She giggles.

"… uh, I don't know… flirtatious…" she instantly regrets the word as he smirks, "for your own good sometimes. Thought Yunie was gonna pass out first time she met you."

"I have that effect on women, princess."

She lightly jostles her leg against his then, and spins around on the stool.

"How come," she asks, softly kicking the marble bar- she quiets his restless leg with a firm delicate hand on his knee, "how come you're never in the magazines?"

He laughs then, half expecting something more serious from the lengthy silence preceding the question.

"I know secret fun places where the camera will never find me." He leans in, reclaims his stolen tie by untangling it carefully from her fingers and wrist.

"Creepy much?" but she is laughing, "if you mean you show all your friends up to this place and share out your own expensive wine stock, then, wow, I feel so special."

It's his turn to absentmindedly play with his tie, rolling it up into a tight coil, then letting it drop back out straight. It is black, cheaply made fake silk, reluctantly purchased to be up to date in the style of New Lucan business. It's a relief that it is not currently around his neck. Guado, Al Bhed, Hypello united supposedly by fashion, but it feels more like a uniform, in Luca. It doesn't matter here anymore. Clean colours, sharper lines, tasteful rejection of heavy pattern and colour clash has risen up on Luca's residents. By purpose, the very antithesis to Bevellian style, although the more fashionable and minimalistic, the more expensive the clothes, buildings, places paradoxically became.

"I'll take you there next time," he says quietly. Rikku is pitching his barstool from side to side with her foot.

"Good, because I'm feeling all left out." she moans but true good spirit is belied by her sweet smile. She stops pushing his stool then, pitches her tumbler of wine forward to clink with his.

"Next time," she confirms. They gulp from their glasses. There is a moment of weighty eye contact. Gippal leans toward her and suddenly grabs the side of her bar stool and spins her round. She yelps.

"Hey!"

A dramatic stream of Al Bhed erupts between them and she chases him around the plush seats. They settle into the front row, and bask the rest of the sunset away, deliciously sleepy from half a bottle of wine and the muted warmth of the day's last sunbeams.


Exclusive! Party Girl Riri snapped with machina tycoon boyfriend!

A few days later, Leblanc blusters in to the fitting room, quite late as usual, frosted coffee, oversized black cape, hair too big for a random weekday.

"Are you and Gippal dating?" she demands, in place of a simple greeting.

"What, no? Why?" Rikku spins herself from side to side, scowling at the cut of the gown which currently dwarfs her, wincing as a snugly placed pin nips at the skin of her stomach. Leblanc is frantically brandishing a magazine at her. Rikku almost topples forward to grasp it.

"Well, shit."

She hates this magazine. Luca loves this magazine. She particularly hates it in this moment. The photograph of her and Gippal on the front page embarrasses her. Rikku clutches his arm, laughing, breasts dangerously close to falling out of the ridiculously low cut dress she'd worn to Leblanc's party. Gippal simply looks drunk, loose tie and collar undone. And yes, she supposes she can begrudgingly admit that his blazer around her shoulders is suspicious.

"Ugh, I've told you not to believe anything you read in here!" she scolds. Leblanc shrugs.

"But, love, you two are very cute." She insists.

"You were there!" she whines, "we are not dating, promise!"

"How am I to know, Riri? I didn't see you all night!"

Leblanc takes social butterfly to new extremes. She always does this; laments the lack of quality time she spends with Ormi, Logos, Rikku at these ridiculous events. Leblanc, as she blazes the trail in all that is new and post-Sin in fashion, is from Old Luca money. Her designer career owes its initial success- pre-Calm when only Luca really had a fashion scene- to her relative fame as a socialite. Glittering high class women in their twenties. Leblanc had grown bored of the fusty and busy patterning, the suffocating, shapeless layers of material that would make them sweat. She'd taken scissors and pins to a disgusting gown her mother had once insisted she wear, and had never looked back. Leblanc is the sidekick in the magazines, but she is the centre of attention at every party Rikku attends with her. There are hundreds of people that Leblanc knows from her past as one of Luca's most eligible brides. Old Lucan society circles her parties, ready to swoop and swipe at her attention.

Gippal's company has been a refreshing reprieve from the near constant string of introductions these parties inevitably become whenever Rikku attempts to stick to Leblanc's side. Rikku's initial rose tinted lust for these parties, with their delicate crystal glasses of champagne and handsome wait staff always perfectly timed with the refills, has turned to a restless irritation at the rehearsed small talk and canned compliments, which were as expected as the double cheek kiss she had learned to greet all new acquaintances with.

"He's a childhood friend." She offers. This bores Leblanc who unceremoniously dumps her cape on the ground and shoos the seamtress away. She is tucking and tweaking and tearing strips out of her own design. She is firm with Rikku, pushing her this way and that to examine the dress from every conceivable angle.

"I hate it, don't you?" She finally says.

"It … isn't awful?" Rikku tries, more kindly than the ridiculous layered bronze gown deserves.

"You look like a Funguar on it's wedding day, love."

Rikku creases with laughter. Perhaps her favourite discovery about Leblanc- over the slow course of this strange friendship they've formed- is the woman's unmatched wit.

"You heard me! Get it off!"

Rikku isn't sure whether Leblanc yells at her or the seamstress. It truly is a two person job, though. Rikku becomes inextricably flustered as her and the seamstress pull gently and, eventually, frantically to unlace her. Leblanc has retreated to a clothing rack, frantically pulling garments onto the floor.

"Rikku!" she chimes, perfectly manicured fingers summoning her over.

"Um, you realise the event is in, like, a week, right?"

"Yes, I know that, love."

"Have we really got enough—" she starts. Futility because Leblanc is not listening.

"Hmm, you see, I was avoiding something so modern but maybe this is better suited. Silver, though, I thought this maybe wasn't your colour."

Rikku balks at the barely there shimmering number she unearths from one of the trunks towards the back of the warehouse.

"I made this when I was nineteen," Leblanc enthuses, "mainly to upset mother."

Leblanc and the seamstress work to pin Rikku in. Leblanc mutters about the bra cups, replacing them with something smaller to fit. Rikku swats her hands away when she is trying to pinch the fabric in at the top. The placement of exquisitely embroidered tulle over a similarly embellished bodice, silver iridescent beading on shimmering translucent silver netting, gives the illusion that the material allows a glimpse of her naked body. The length of the deconstructed chiffon skirt tricks the eye that this is in fact an elegant gown built over a slip of a a nude underdress. The skirt splits to reveal the entirety of her left leg. Rikku is speechless. She looks sultry and sophisticated, even without the make-up and hair.

"Let's get this hair out of the way," Leblanc is perched on tiptoes, and gathers Rikku's waves into a high ponytail. With her hair away from her collarbones, her eyes are drawn to the glittering straps that caress her right shoulder, and the straps on the other side, by design, dropping off the shoulder. She looks like Shiva- the feminine form clear to see but the opulence and construction of the dress is somehow neither too risqué nor inappropriate for the red carpet.

"I'm sure we can get this fitted by Saturday, love."


Like the lustrous surface of the waves beneath Luca's evening sun, the triangles of glass that form the stadium's geometric façade glitter. Glass and marble facets interplay to form the pavilion of a gargantuan diamond that looms brilliantly over the city. Vast gold brushed metal columns cushion it, solitaire, atop the harbour's waves. Luca's betrothal to progress bold and brazen.

A red carpet stretches from the atrium towards the harbour. Humidity sticks as close as the crowd to the barrier. There is a perceptible throb of pressure. Excitement presses in from all sides as sleek black hovercraft with covered passenger cabs approach. Screams erupt like rain from pregnant clouds- gleeful high pitched peals of thunder- to greet Spira's celebrities, whenever they deign to appear.

In the nearby hotel, Gippal quickly learns that with Leblanc, his life is easier when her orders are followed. He struggles to get his head round her master plan which involves all the guests of honour hiding here, only to take the long hovercars round the corner to walk into the new stadium. She says that the red carpet bit is more exciting than the event itself. He tries to softly tell her that she's put a lot of effort into the party and he's sure that will be the highlight.

"A blitz gala!" she had exclaimed, over a dizzying mood board at the initial planning session two months prior. Rin had laughed and patted him on the back, in his patronising way. Gippal had given in eventually, and let her plan, as doubts about her taste had long since faded with each progressively impressive magazine cover.

"I don't know why it takes them so long to get ready, ya?" Wakka shakes his head over a whiskey sour. Tidus chuckles, beckoning Gippal over. He has started to develop a taste for champagne- Rikku's fault. The glasses are different to the usual thin flutes. More like curved martini glasses, small wide lipped fishbowls.

Leblanc is however ready. Demure as always. Officially, he thinks, the fact she is not wearing black at a public event must mean something. Rikku has at least offered him her theories on her usually monochrome palette. She bustles around the hotel bar in a long burgundy velvet gown, with a plunging neckline supported by thin satin straps, her exposed back an alabaster canvas. Hair coiffed, pinned, a lighter blonde than when they had all saved the world together. There is a modest side split to its skirt, and she clatters authoritatively in her black stilettos.

"Boys!" she declares, "I have your pocket squares!"

She approaches Tidus first. A pale blue square of jacquard, embroidered with white thread, filigree clouds on a small cutting of sky. She folds it neatly and tucks it in to the pocket of his dinner jacket. And round the room she goes, with purposefully selected swatches of cloth, different for each gentleman. Kimahri simply raises his hand in polite decline as she approaches, the only member of their party not dressed in a dinner jacket, instead in a formal version of Ronso attire. Nooj perhaps looks the most uncomfortable, stiff in his slate grey suit. He is perplexed, as he always is where Leblanc is concerned, when she slots the black satin square into his pocket.

"And for you, Mr. Machina Tycoon!" she quips and Gippal frowns at the strange nickname. She approaches him last. The fabric is many folded layers of delicately beaded fabric, a glitzy silver square sitting boldly against the black of his jacket.

"I don't even know what Yuna is wearing." Tidus mutters. He's nursing a glass of water. "I have to take this off and change into Blitz gear anyway."

Gippal smirks and nods towards Leblanc, "It's all about the spectacle, she says."

"Used to be the best thing about Spira at first you know? No screaming fans."

Tidus grins sheepishly when Wakka and Gippal rip into him.

"Such a hard life, ya!"

Leblanc's hummingbird fervour settles. She applies dark red matte lipstick expertly, snapping her pocket mirror shut as the chauffeur appears.

"Ms. Leblanc?"

"Come, Gippal." She motions him over, fellow gracious host. Ormi and Logos follow behind them. She links her arm through his and walks them to the hovercraft. He turns to wave goodbye to the others. He catches a glimpse of Paine's characteristic silhouette. Tall, in a heavy satin wide legged jumpsuit with a matching cape blazer. He nods and she smirks as he is whisked away.


"Yunie! We need you!" Rikku wails.

"I'm coming, one sec." she calls, muffled by the sound of a running tap.

The design of this dress, as ridiculous as it is stunning, had required an intense fitting session where Rikku had almost fallen asleep standing up. And the fit is tight, like a second skin. She feels as naked as though she had just changed into Lady Luck. Thankfully the overall effect was still more glamour than scandal. Lulu, long suffering and long since changed into her own deep purple evening gown was holding the two opposing sides of the fabric together while Rikku scrambled in futility to pull the tiny zipper up.

Yuna rushes over, hair longer after two years, and styled into soft romantic curls that brush her shoulders. She shivers in a pale pink silk slip of a bathrobe.

"Sorry! I forget I'm usually put in to these things by, like, a team of women."

"Breathe out." Lulu commands.

Lulu pulls the fabric tauter than seems physically safe, and Rikku opts out of breathing for a few seconds. There is a safe tight sense of relief when Yuna cleanly slides the zipper up. And Rikku relaxes then, jostling around and stretching to check in the mirror for any stray sightings of her naked breasts. With affection, Lulu shakes her head.

"Well," she muses, "It may not be practical but you look wonderful."

"Thanks." Rikku breathes.

"My turn!"

Designing Yuna's gown had been a longer process. It is in fact the only gown of the evening created especially for the event. Yuna had initially flat out refused to allow Leblanc to plan her outfit. It had taken Rikku weeks to convince Yuna to hear them out. Before the spa in Besaid had been opened to the public, Rikku and Leblanc had been invited by Yuna to experience the new resort exclusively, and early. Over a small tapas style lunch and a multitude of tropical cocktails, mutual distrust had melted its way to a tipsy companionship. Leblanc had sketched her vision for Yuna's dress on a napkin, and somehow with her penchant for dramatic and illustrious verbal theatrics, convinced her.

"Absolutely no feathers though and I mean it!"

Leblanc had been startingly affronted.

"How tacky do you think I am, darling?"

Rikku remembers giggling hysterically, as Yuna regaled Leblanc with the horror of the last gown she'd been forced to wear. In fact, in the tipsy heat of the afternoon Besaid sun, Yuna's sham wedding to Seymour was hilarious.

"Yes, well," Leblanc snaps, "these Bevellian wedding dress designers have no taste."

Now a mere hour before the Blitz stadium opening, Yuna's bespoke gown remains a mystery to Rikku. Somehow, she has missed each and every one of Yuna's fittings in Luca due to conflicting shoots and appearances.

Yuna unearths the beast with a painstakingly slow unzip. The dark garment cover parts to reveal a pale blue heavy satin gown. The material is not smooth but forms rhythmic ridges of texture; ripples frozen in time. A uniform pattern that forms the entirety of the dress, a full skirt, then the bodice gathers up on to the left shoulder. The satin is embroided with white silk thread, a delicate floral painting repeating over the gown so that the effect from a distance is that of clouds on a clear sky. A single black satin band encircles the waist, forming a stiff small squared bow, the tails of which drop down the right side of the skirt.

"Leblanc calls it something like- je-card?"

"Jacquard?" Rikku offers. Yuna nods fervently.

"Oh Yuna this is gorgeous." Lulu breathes.

"Who'd have guessed I'd be having Leblanc of all people as my personal stylist."

"It's so you." Rikku confirms.

Yuna's well trusted guardians manipulate her into the dress, albeit movements restricted by her own impractical garment.

"Okay, time to go!" Yuna exclaims as she slips her feet into heels, gripping Lulu's shoulder as she miraculously appears to grow by five inches.


Gippal slides with some grace into the sleek black carriage, and others soon join. Firstly Rin, Shinra and select aides. Then, Calli, drowing in a bardot puff of pink chiffon and murmuring excitedly to a friend, equally glamourous in emerald lace. She is vaguely familiar, but he can't quite place from where as their heads bow over a magazine.

There is sudden gasp as Calli's plus one looks up.

"Sarra?"

He instantly recognises the young girl- now she looks at him- from the daily grumbled greeting he gives her every morning.

"Sir-"

"Don't call me that-"

"-uh, hi!"

Calli snatches the zine from Sarra's hand and shoves it down next to her.

"What are you reading?"

"Um, nothing," Calli chirps.

Leblanc pounces across the car and snatches it from its place next to Calli.

"Oh!" she exclaims gleefully, "It's this awful gossip magazine that has been planning your wedding to our dear Rikku!"

"Give me that!" he snatches it, "For fuck- oh- well this is bullshit."

He frowns, mutters to himself – machina tycoon, really!- and yet inexplicably transfixed all the same.

He looks up eventually. Calli, Sarra and Leblanc have all leaned towards him, moon-eyed.

"We are not dating!"

"But what about when she brought you lunch, the other day, and you went off for the whole—"

Sarra stutters into silence at the sheer warning painted over Gippal's features.

Calli and Leblanc collapse into giggles. Sarra blushes.

"Sorry, sir."

Gippal laughs. Because she is mortified, a solemn hand covering her mouth.

"Do we have any champagne?" he asks, and someone presses a bottle into his hand from the front of the car. There are playful shrieks as he pops the cork. He pours clumsily into fresh plastic flutes, as the hover jolts into action.

Gippal and Leblanc's walk from the hover to the atrium is a flurry of flashing bulbs; a cacophony of cheers and chatter that merge along the crowd. He barely blinks before they are swept through the doors, wait staff on tenterhooks and buzzing, instantly on hand to pull them away and towards the executive box.

"How lovely to have the hard bit out of the way." Leblanc declares. She prowls the viewing deck and murmurs delighted appreciation as her hands touch the black velvet seats, the cool gilded side tables.

Leblanc knocks her first glass of champagne back, in such a startlingly similar gesture to how Rikku did almost a week ago now. Gippal goes to light his first cigarette then checks himself, and instead takes up one of the full glasses for himself. Other guests who had in fact shared the hovercraft with him now start to filter in behind them. Calli; the powder pink childish chiffon dress styled into something sickeningly candy vibrant yet on trend; her sleek long brown hair is gathered up into a long ponytail. Her look is completed with the wonder barely hidden on her face. In fact, Gippal isn't entirely sure why she's there but this becomes apparent when Leblanc sweeps the girl up to her side and settles her- and Sarra- in one of the seats next to her. New protégé, then, he suspects. He isn't sure if Leblanc is exercising generosity or just the next calculated step in her master plan to take over Spira's celebrity empire.

Maybe she is an age old sorceress drawing off the energy of the young and beautiful. He laughs to himself. He puts it down to the blood red palette of her overall look tonight. He can see the headline.

Queen of fashion Leblanc EXPOSED as century old vampire.

Rin strides in shortly after Calli is scooped under the mother hen's wing. He is after all a main machine faction partner, or rather main benefactor of the whole shebang.

"Gippal," says Rin. There is an eternal hint of mirth lacing everything the man says and it dogs Gippal's every venture. As though the whole operation is a joke to him. The way he sips his champagne and playfully surveys the entire room, its inhabitants. The infinitesimal crease between his eyes, the barely percepitble twitch at the corner of his mouth. Gippal leans in slightly for the verdict.

"Now THIS is what I'm talking about!"

Cid's circus boom of a voice snaps his attention away from Rin's scrutiny.

"Shiva!" Gippal murmurs, as some of his champagne spills from the ridiculously wide rimmed glass that holds it.

Rin chuckles, somehow spilling nothing, as Cid claps him violently on the back. Brother and Buddy slink in to the room, heads bowed towards each other in quiet heated conversation.

"You've done good, boy!" Cid blusters, "Al Bhed making mark on this damn planet!"

Cid is vigorously shaking Gippal's hand then. He is discomfited immediately. He's barely speaks to Cid; in fact he lets Rin handle any and all communication with him. The man absolutely terrifies and inspires him, or at least did, as a teenager, and part of him will never shake that cowed respect. There is the air of one too many beverages already in the clumsiness of Cid's grip, confirmed by his brusque, mild tearfulness.

"Your mother would be so pro-"

"Ah Cid, let's pay our respects to the lovely lady responsible for tonight's event." Gippal's wide silent plea for rescue in the glare he shoots at Rin is received. Rin steers him away into the vicinity of Leblanc.

Buddy doesn't speak when they approach, barely suppressed mirth preventing him from being able to drink from his glass. Brother pats Gippal on the back, unspoken appreciation and acknowledgment.

"How much has he had?"

"Ah, not much," Brother sheepishly rubs the back of his head, "I forgot. Whiskey. Wine. He mixes, badly."

"We'll sober him up with a cigar in a bit." Buddy finally offers, shrugging.

Barely twenty minutes later he is leaning over the balcony, chatting to Baralai about the skeleton of a plan for renovating Bevelle's stadium, when Leblanc pinchingly accosts him.

"Here they are!" she enthuses, pulling his attention to the vast screen on the other side of the stadium, running Luca's local news broadcast, for now.

He turns to the screen. The red carpet arrivals are being shown systematically on the screen. First, Lulu and Wakka emerge hand in hand. Wakka, unable to contain his gleeful smile whilst simultaneously abashed. Lulu's conspiratorial smile, and firm loop with his arm, is keeps him on track. He is practically an excitable puppy on a leash. The camera cuts then.

Rikku emerges with unforeseen grace. Far removed from the clumsy heap she had curled herself into on these very chairs six days before, she draws herself up with a precise collectedness. Reserved, serious; an emergent secretive smile is caught on camera at the opportune moment where she glances over her shoulder. She makes intermittent blazing eye contact with the lens. Illusory, sharp, artistic make up, she embodies the very fashion magazine covers she is now known for. Her face mesmorises him, but he follows the slick subtle shimmer on her collarbones, bare, tanned. The camera is not close enough but if he closes his eyes and imagines that she is just there, he can see the dusting of freckles on her chest. And then, the dress. At first he thinks she has sprayed her naked body with glitter, so snug is the fit of her gown. Intricate lines of beading and silver thread playfully pattern the bodice and leotard. One shoulder is held with four glistening beaded straps, and on the other side the fall lazily off and carress her arm. Her right leg is almost entirely exposed, the other covered obliquely- skirt of the gown in the same glittering fabric. In this beaded armour, she prowls down the red carpet with airy warrior poise.

He can already see the headline tomorrow.

Bad girl Riri bares all in barely-there dress.

He gulps. Right there on the screen, Rikku reactivates a teenaged version of himself. In denial about his attraction to her; waking up intractably hot and stifling frustrated moans; recurring dreams of her unzipping herself from her machina worksuit, again, and again in his mind. Now here in her full womanhood and Gippal is helplessly snagged again in her web. If she looks at him the way she looks at the cameras he might come apart. He wants to pull her hair. He wants to rip her dress off.

He doesn't even see Yuna and Tidus emerge, the final guests of honour before the night can begin. He quashes any hint of his attraction as Leblanc is asking his opinion. He murmurs what he thinks is adequate praise and retreats towards the bar.

He is relieved to see Buddy sat there. He'd followed the same images on the much smaller screen suspended above the bar.

"I actually kinda forget Rikku is a girl sometimes." Buddy says as he sinks in to the seat next to him. Gippal is slightly vindicated that he hadn't been the only one mesmerized.

"No mistaking it tonight." Gippal murmurs. Buddy smiles to himself then, silently starts to form some kind of retort, then thinks better of it.

"Best keep her away from Brother and Cid in that get up. Wouldn't want any public fireworks amongst the Al Bhed royals. They are hella overprotective."

"Well, fuck, keep them away from the magazines." He groans.

Buddy claps him on the back. He changes the subject, trying to reel Gippal in to some strange party he and Brother have planned in the coming weeks. He is skeptical then he mentions the venue.

"Come on, man. We know you love the place. Be rude to miss it."

He is assured that the transport will be discreet and head off any stray cameras, so they could all let their hair down and debauch in security. Like old times. He nods. A few more glasses of champagne and he knows he will be easily swayed, swept along in the glamour and buzz of the company. The princess and her three horsemen. He vividly remembers the silly nickname his mother had for the four of them, her strict orders that he play nice. Rikku, the tag along, that unfortunate younger sister, straggling along behind them.


It takes the next two hours but the stands fill with spectators. The round of small talk, drink, air kisses, constant compliments. Gippal, definitely, avoiding her. The buzz builds in the stadium, and Rikku can tell the game is soon to start. She glances towards the bar, mid laugh. Gippal stands alone resting on his elbows. She catches him nodding to the bartender- non verbal permission to view the festivities. He appears distracted, wistfully staring into the depths of his champagne glass. Words die on her lips.

"I'll catch up with you properly later," she touches Paine on the arm, who nods and turns her attention back to Baralai.

She approaches him. He doesn't acknowledge her at first. The general buzz of noise emanating from the lower stadium, the crystalline commentary breaking out over the speakers, drowns out her hello. Blitz off is soon, and excitement is almost palpable in the air around them.

"I don't think you'll see much standing there." She says, resting herself against the bar in a mirror of his slouch. He slowly looks up to meet her eyes. Weariness is replaced with a soft smile.

"Distracted." He murmurs, breaking eye contact as his face settles back in to neutrality. He drains the last morsel of his drink.

"Gippal," Rikku grips his forearm; she thinks he should be having more fun. She gestures swiftly at him to come close so she can whisper. There is that familiar scent he now carries, over the last week it has become etched in to her mind. A signature scent, although it does not remind her of Bikanel, but instead recalls their last two rendezvous, as alcohol addled as they had been.

"We need more champagne." She whispers it urgently. At first she thinks he shivers as her breath lightly ghosts over his ear lobe. She realizes in fact his shoulders are shaking with laughter.

"You're insatiable," he mutters hopelessly, "You know that?"

She shrugs innocently. Flutters her eyelashes.

"Well, I am Spira's Al Bhed princess," she leans into the tease, "I demand nothing short of the best."

"Take your pick." He gestures over the bar at the selection on offer. She hesitates.

"Really?"

"Pretty sure there is only one type of champagne back there."

"Serve myself then, shall I?" she grumbles, but the grin betrays her.

She makes a show of rummaging around in the refrigerated section of the bar, quickly locating a matte gold metal ice bucket, and two fresh crystal gold rimmed glasses. Her discarded glass a few inches away with the imprint of her lipstick, nude tonight, still blemishing the clear glass.

"Aha!" she suddenly exclaims, pooping up like a cork herself from behind the bar. Gippal shakes his head as she places the bottle down with a shrill clang as it catches the ice bucket. He opens the bottle as she carries herself back to the front of the bar. She adjusts the bodice of her dress. Imperceptible shift of the material, inching it up.

"This is a lovely dress but it's driving me mad!" she grouses.

"Rikku…" he murmurs. Her newly refilled glass awaits.

"Hmm?" she is preoccupied, trying to smooth imaginary creases from the gown. She slowly pulls her gaze up, blinks once at his expectant hold on his own glass.

"A toast," he starts. She takes up her own glass, genuine smile gracing her features.

"To what?" she asks innocently.

"To making headlines."

She sips sooner than his words sink in, almost chokes. She places her glass down in panic. Liquid spills over her lips, a single sparkling thread of champagne weaves down her chin. It streaks down the curve of her neck to collect in the hollow between her collarbones. Her hand moves swiftly to wipe the moisture from her lips. Gippal intercepts before she makes it. He swipes it away with his thumb and brackets her face; fingertips resting softly at the edge of her jaw, the side of her neck. She leans in to his touch involuntarily- a shiver races through her- and the warmth of his fingers alights a reactive thirsty chill in every nerve ending of her body. Perhaps an hour passes as she holds the inhale of her breath. She is aware of how close they are standing, the focused soft sweep of his eyes over her features. Sudden unexpected proximity.

Tonight, a leonine queen; bold curt lines of eyeliner cut over dazzling layers of rusted gold eyeshadow- a genius clash with the green of her eyes. A single long blonde braid coils predatory over her shoulder, tumbling from on high. As she tilts in to his touch, the light slides like rain over the slick shimmer that highlights her cheekbones, and a darker shadow of make up below this chases this irradiant line. His attention is drawn- and some distant voice in his mind chimes that it's about time- to her lips- now slack, surrendered, seductive, expectant, numb. The kittenish smile playing on her features only moments before, gone.

At this moment, an impressive bang and flash of light erupts above them. Fireworks. Rikku releases her held breath. Startled, she draws closer. Her fingers find purchase with a soft caress to the underside of his lapel.

"Do you know how fucking beautiful you are."

It certainly isn't a question.

Lust thrums from the corner of her lips, where he sweeps his thumb across them, and swoops straight and sharp as an arrow down the valley between her breasts to settle sweetly and unspeakably low between her hips. Reflexively her grip on his jacket tightens. She can't be certain whether she hears or feels his words. The fireworks crackle and burst above them, sudden splashes of rainbowed light dancing in the sky. She pulls him closer. She is flush against him. As everyone around is transfixed with the skies above, she instead gives in to the gravity of his kiss.