Time passes this way. Midweek takeouts at her apartment, he usually falls asleep on her couch, while she mindlessly watches the broadcasts. One time, she simply hands him her key on her way out of her front door, en route to a night shoot, then stumbles back in sleepy, drunk after a late nightcap with Leblanc. He's fallen asleep over the covers of her bed. Too exhausted to move him, she flicks the air conditioning off, bats a purring Lana away and she passes out on top too, face down, with the cat on her back.
Other times she drags him out for the night. He cooks them something quick, which she barely touches, and he watches her apply her make up. She perfects delicate brush strokes, biting her lip with concentration, the coquettish turn of her cheek to see how the light hits. He grouches at how long it's taking, or tries to distract her. Rarely, on his knees, he gently removes the brush from her fingers, turns her face to his and kisses her.
Sometimes times he's unzipping her from her dress as soon as she has slipped it on- gravity's pull between them so tight they don't make it out of the front door. All that make up, the intricacy of her hair, wasted. Mostly, though, they make it out to the exclusive parties and keep their hands to themselves for the entirety of the night. These nights he orbits her- the furthest planet, passing through phases, relying on the moon for light. That soft swish and click of the hovercar partition on the ride home becomes a starting gun- his fingers learn to curl habitually into her hair- a brief invitation- and he doesn't have to pull her in to kiss him. They stumble, a mess of limbs, through her front door, past midnight.
In the space of six months, he has kissed her lips in every shade of her lipstick, and they start to work their way through next season's samples. He knows every inch of her skin. He finds the knots of tension in her back; pinpoints every one of her moles; delights in the coming and going of freckles on her chest, shifting as continually as the back and forth of her tan. So familiar he becomes with her body that her birthmark emblazons itself in his mind as permanently as it is printed above her left hip.
She spends up to a week at a time on shoots elsewhere in Spira. When she is away, the cameras catch him. Dinner here with a model, leaving a party there with a sphere producer, brunch with another model. This was her idea to throw them off the scent. He can be back in Djose for a weeks at a time. The gradual dismantling of the work there. Dissemination of teams and projects between Luca and Bevelle. Rikku's turn then, and he can keep track of the parties she attends and her faux love interests in the magazines, and increasingly the new gossip broadcast the workers play in the background at the temple.
Most of their public appearances together costar Leblanc, Tidus, even Paine- her hit series of novels maintaining her celebrity status in its own right. Brother and Buddy make a name for themselves on the music scene- the alternative, dirty, underground music scene. An acquired Young Lucan taste. In between the brief speculative obsessions with her love life, the world obsesses over Rikku herself and her growing cabal of skinny, fashionable friends. At first, Calli with her burgeoning singing career- hair, always, a sleek sky high ponytail- and Sarra with her Old Lucan money and socialite status, rebelling against Daddy by working for the Machine Faction. Incidentally, she is Calli's best friend. The touch of any of Yuna's guardians transforms even the most unlikely of acquaintances into a brief celebrity; such as the one time Clasko had met Rikku on the Highroad with the new chocobo she'd purchased. Doing his job, but there was a week of speculation about who he was.
Brunch, lunch, dinner building to the impossible. Attempts to dine publicly increasingly less private. Rikku is stopped for autographs; the occasional person- usually female- asks Gippal. Throw Tidus or, Fayth forbid, Yuna in to the mix- unbearable. They start to meet for lunch in his office, or backstage at whatever venue she is shooting at. The glacial restaurant on the upper levels of the stadium becomes Luca's most exclusive spot- immacutely dressed Al Bhed bouncers and its strict no sphere policy easily bestowing it go-to status for Luca's high society. Untouchable here. That celebrity snow globe. Monthly, there is a large luncheon which can feature any combination of the Gullwings, guardians, political leaders and acquaintances-of-the-High-Summoner. More than once these lunches stretch into the evening, an untraceable amount of wine and champagne.
Summer bleeds in to winter. Blitz season ends. Yuna and Tidus settle back into bliss on Besaid. Winter gives Rikku busywork- countless photoshoots, fittings- the spreads the public will see in three months, already shot. Pre-emptive strike. Next season: new collections to showcase, new interviews to give, new clothes to fit in to, new make-up swatches to test. The lens of the public swivels back from Blitz to focus on her and her friends- the portrait's subject their mundane, hedonistic lives. The Speakeasy and the stadium's restaurant are the only places they let their hair down uninhibited.
The thrum and pressure and vibrancy of Luca's party scene fades to a muted undercurrent. The end of Blitz season lulls the city into a transient slumber, awaiting the announcement of the team player departures and exchanges. New recruits. Rikku and Gippal, still busy, fall into bed as frequently as once a week. Fewer parties. Fewer planned nights in. The fever pitch of Gippal's work crescendos- he answers her late night Comm calls- and she either lures him out of his den, so they can drink wine, or more often it lies forgotten on the kitchen counter.
Rikku can tell that Gippal is overdoing it on these nights. When he's letting herself in through her door. He has her spare key. He must do. Sometimes, he kisses her with a hunger- a fervency. Before, often, he even says hello. He doesn't want to talk. Takes the wine bottle right out of her hand, and pushes her on to the kitchen counter instead. Then his mind gets the better of him, pulls away to murmur what she thinks is an apology, but she's too pissed off. Because she's neither seen nor heard nor really thought about him – honest!- for a week. Then, here, no manners, hands in her hair. Such familiarity. Exactly what she intended, if she's really honest. So she silences him, wrapping her legs around his waist, finger on his lips.
Call me princess.
He doesn't get the words out before she's pushing her tongue into his mouth. Then, he sighs, and it's as though his soul leaves him. The coiled, bruising tension of his fingers on her hip melts. Time slows down. They fuck until he passes out in her bed, and she's lighting one of the cigarettes she pilfers from his jacket, standing on her balcony, finally enjoying a glass of the red wine.
By sunrise, the lion is deep asleep. She awakens- needy, soft, moaning in protest when the usual call from, probably, Sarra drags her away to answer the Comm. Crestfallen, thirty minutes later, shirt buttoned up wrong, at the kitchen counter, Gippal glares into the bottom of the coffee mug she hands him. And this is the routine- they have less fun, talk less shit. She is the salve to the relentless stress of everyone wanting a piece of his time, and he is the thrill in the dreary routine of her glittering celebrity life. Her dirty little secret while she spins the magazines whichever way she wants.
"I have to go," he mutters one morning, in the nape of her neck, into a curl of soft hair. It's the tail end of winter, meaningless in Luca's constant heat.
"Mmm," she has fallen asleep again, glowing and sated, "go on then."
She draws the covers around, anticipating the absence of his body heat.
"No, Rikku," he groans, "I'm going for a while. To Djose. Bevelle."
She yawns, disgruntled, frazzled, but blearily turns her attention to him, "A while?"
"I don't know how long."
"Oh," doubtful, "really?"
"Four weeks?" he says.
"You don't sound so sure." she says. Gippal extricates himself from her, the blankets. There is a sobriety to his tone that is confusing this early. She still has that pre-caffeine, post-coital fog.
"No, I," he gestures, abruptly smiles, "just thought I'd let you know…"
He trails off. Rikku sits up straight, wrapping the blanket around her. Yawns once more to clear the fog and her eyes are brighter, more awake. She observes as he starts to dress. The deliberate care he is applying to each button. Silence hangs, pregnant and overdue. Something is unsaid, but it's eluding him.
"When are you leaving?"
"Tonight."
She opens her mouth. Annoyance jolts her awake more than coffee could. She starts to say something and stops herself. She tries not to scowl but he looks up too swiftly.
"What?"
"It's just," she says, sighs, softening, "you must have known you were going?"
"I couldn't find the right moment."
Rikku's face twists, briefly. Then it is gone.
"Well, at least, I'm getting a goodbye."
She feels nauseated the second she's said it.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks defensively, glaring.
Her eyes narrow at him and she shivers. The air conditioning. She really needs to sort that out. There is something crackling in the air- a pressure that could break in to a storm right here between them. She closes her eyes and breathes in. Laughs nervously. The unspoken hurt of it all is still a persistent ghost they can't exorcise. Because they won't talk about it.
"You call me when you're already in Djose over the Comm, you know? Or I find out when I call you and Sarra answers…"
She rambles until the tension melts from his shoulders. He throws her robe at her.
"Let's go for breakfast." He states. She hears Sorry, it's last minute, I'll miss you too.
Later, she leaves him outside the Faction's entrance. Rikku, childlike, scuffs one of her boots on the stone walkway. Ankle boots, plain summer dress, messy hair, giant sunglasses, even though she'd barely had to walk ten steps from the private hover. She starts depositing random items from her bomber jacket into his hands.
"Oh!" she exclaims, "and here's your special lighter!"
She drops the cool, metallic weight of it into his palm. He lost this three months ago.
"Some things never change," he grumbles.
"So," she smiles sweetly, pushes the frames up into her hair, "call me, okay?"
"I'll think about it," he shrugs, but grins at her.
He leans close to her, and Rikku momentarily stops breathing. She expects him to kiss her.
Come with me. But she can't. Fuck it, I'll stay. But he won't. The moment for last minute declarations passes.
Sometimes this is all so transactional. So professional. The imagined surveillance from the paparazzi never let this happen like something normal. She thinks vaguely that she's gone about this all wrong. Now they're saying goodbye on the street, like it's the end of one of his networking lunches. He should kiss her. Right now. No apology. But he won't. Because she's made it clear. No cameras. Their little exciting secret. No apology.
This doesn't have to mean anything.
The briefest moment of eye contact passes- in a parallel universe he kisses her, surely- and he embraces her. Quelling the pinprick burn of tears, she hugs him back fiercely.
It always takes goodbye. These last few months. This ridiculous friendship. This- whatever this is.
She soaks up the warmth of him more readily than a cat caught in a sunbeam. Realisation dawns slowly upon her.
Whatever this is means everything.
Rikku and Paine take a muted lunch at the stadium a few days later. Other couples- business partners, lovers- pepper the space, while they settle into their usual black velvet booth. Champagne on ice, ready, waiting. The usual.
"Where have you been all winter?" Paine asks. A waiter pops the champagne.
"Leblanc keeps me busy," Rikku says, "but, hey! I saw you last week at lunch. Right here."
Paine smiles into her champagne glass, is about to say something. She takes a sip instead.
"Spit it out!" Rikku leans in. Paine clearly itches to talk.
"It's just," Paine ventures, that small smirk, "when you and Gippal are in the same room, the rest of us may as well not be here."
"What," she croaks, betrayed by the brazen blush she can't control, "What do you mean?"
"Ah," Paine exhales, "I thought so."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Rikku insists, frantically tapping her foot against the leg of the table.
"Minus fifty respect points."
"What!"
"For going there," Paine drops her voice to a whisper, "With Gippal."
"Is it that obvious?" Rikku mumbles. No use in pretending once insightful Dr. P has your number.
"I can ask the others if they've noticed if you want."
"No, please, don't." Rikku says queasily. Paine maintains that stoic silence, lets it stretch to its awkward breaking point, makes a meal out of refilling their champagne glasses to the top, and avoids looking at Rikku. One of them will crack first.
"Ugh, fine, so we made out at the Blitz gala-"
Rikku is off with the sordid details, sisterly relief at having another female's take. Paine's face at certain details- Stop. Gippal is like my brother- the eye rolls, impressed intrigue at the casualness of the whole situation.
"That was. A lot." She sips again, "I jusy thought you were both too dense to pick up on the mutual flirting-"
"Hey!"
"-not that you've been having a secret love affair this whole time."
"It's not a love affair." Rikku corrects, hastily, "We're like. Fuck buddies?"
"Minus ten more."
"Meanie!"
They both laugh, and conversations moves on. Paine tells her of the new novel she is working on. Fiction after her memoirs of the Crimson Squad and the Vegnagun were a hit. Where her portrayal of them all had been fair, she'd dished out enough wit and humour. Rikku likes to believe their characters had all been entertainingly embellished. Spira had loved the little access to their souls. Paine is working now on some deep sombre exploration of death, what it means then and now, post Sin. When Nooj is busy with the Youth League, Paine retreats to Luca. She owns a small house on the shoreline, with a comfortable desk affronting a large window- the perfect ocean vista.
Rikku talks about her contract ending soon with Leblanc and her decision not to renew it. She ventures a skeleton of a plan for her future endeavors to Paine- a trusted confidante who won't lie to preserve her feelings. Rikku plans to launch her own range of cosmetics. An unexpected passion of hers. She rarely requires a make-up artist anymore. She transforms herself into Leblanc's creative visions with relative ease now, and is as skilled when working on others. The modelling contract closes in a couple of weeks. Leblanc had tried to get her to stay, yet Rikku wants time away from the cameras, at least professionally.
"I think that's a great idea." Paine says after some consideration, "You'd have to start up in Bevelle, though."
"I know." She quips.
Beneath the high ceremonial layers of colourful historic buildings and the Grand Temple of Bevelle is a vast sprawling city of many districts. Yevon has long allowed the use of machina to support its industries; therefore manufacture, including cosmetics, still largely resides there, demand only building as they enter this new age of hedonism and longevity.
Paine says, "I'm sure Rin would help you out."
"You're not worried about the- hostility there?"
"You can handle it." Paine smiles at her. "You were the first Al Bhed guardian to a High Summoner, were you not?"
"I guess."
The Bevellian media is an entirely different beast. Where scandal, love affairs, best dressed were Luca's bread and butter, a large conservative news corporation dominates Bevelle. For the last one hundred years. The portrayal of the Al Bhed still lags in pre-Calm bigotry. Although the younger more liberal members of high society actively encourage and embrace the Al Bhed, the undercurrent of prejudice remains strong and dangerous.
Their conversation turns to Yuna's wedding, two months away now, and the provisional plans to land in Besaid early for the Bachelorette. To pamper the bride, calm her nerves.
"You sure you'll be okay in Bevelle, love?" Leblanc asks her on that final shoot. Four weeks later.
Rikku is touched when Leblanc hurries her usual dressing assistant away and helps her out of the gown herself. It is emerald green, large bell sleeves, precariously hung from a bardot neckline. The sleeves are longer than her arms, the skirt of the gown settling into a train. Somehow backless. Hair is tightly wound into a high bun. Her makeup is regal. Ruby red lips. Stark simple sweep of black eyeliner. A single, bloated emerald sits in the pocket of her throat. Rikku's goodbye shoot is a collection of inaccessible gowns, jewellery as old as Sin, and serious pensive looks beyond the camera lens. The most conservative selection of gowns Leblanc has given her yet. More mature. Demure. A retirement cover story. Farewell.
In the lead up to her departure, Rikku has been mentoring Sarra and manages to subtly introduce her to Leblanc, planting the seed of her modeling career. She tests well in front of the camera. As Rikku transitions out of the limelight, and Sarra starts to appear in the occasional magazine spread. The magazines increasingly obsess over Calli and Sarra. Calli with her powerful voice and appeal to the younger generation, and her best model friend Sarra. Two new rising stars with their own solar system of intrigue.
"Drinks!" Leblanc says, and they retreat to the bar of the hotel. Rikku in her bomber jacket, a short simple black dress, unremarkable, but made of some of the finest cotton. The Al Bhed Psyches logo blazes on the back of her jacket. The customary sunglasses atop her head. That familiar half-cocked disguise, even though it is dark outside.
"Don't forget about me!" Leblanc says as she secures them a bottle of champagne. They perch at the bar. The shiny black bartop is pristine. Clean, potentially underused. She stops the bartener from popping it for them, and instead hands it to Rikku.
"Isn't this hotel where I had my very first shoot?" she giggles, as froth spills from the lip of the bottle.
"It is. Well noticed." She says.
Her friendship with Leblanc has blossomed, and she has a sense of sadness that she won't see her as often. For old time's sake, they pre-drink before the usual wrap party. They go back up to Rikku's hotel room, trying on all her dresses. Leblanc borrows one of Rikku's black numbers, of which she owns a few, but rarely wears to events. Black feels off limits to her, still. Too sombre, and she prefers bright, light, vibrant. For Rikku a dress of champagne gold. It is the finest plated chain mail, as delicate as silk. The dress dips into a cowl between her breasts. Backless, which is easily a hallmark of her fashion now, and a long thin chain forms the straps of a halter neck, which she knots at the nape of her neck. The metal is icy cold as she slips into it.
They venture back down to the bar, now decked out and ready for the party. They've shared another bottle between them whilst getting ready. Rikku's hair, released from its tightly coiled bun, settles into soft waves after she brushes the tangles out. They bounce around her shoulders, one of these rare times she wears it down and unadorned in public. Leblanc and Rikku are the most tipsy they've been in a long while. She allows herself to be led around the room, Leblanc introducing her to all her eligible male acquaintances. She presents Rikku like a new diamond necklace, glittering in her hand, gingerly placing her in front of potentially buyers.
Some of the Luca Goers are in attendance. Calli is on the arm of one of the younger new players, both of them barely sixteen. Rikku spots Sarra, hugging and air kissing her in no time, admiring the girl's pink satin jumpsuit, which is usually Calli's colour. Today Calli's sleek dark ponytail is complimented by a deep ruby red figure hugging minidress, a sweetheart neckline, small bardot cap sleeves.
"How did Gippal take it?" Rikku asks politely, referring to Sarra's plan to change career. Leblanc has offered a modelling contract.
"You know, he's so busy right now. I just can't get hold of him. I've just handed my notice in to Nhadala instead." Sarra shrugs.
"What is he even up to?" Rikku says. Sarra catches the flicker of concern in her voice.
"You haven't heard from him either?"
"Why would I?" Rikku says quickly. Truthfully, he doesn't call, and neither does she. She refuses to dial through to Djose. Or Bevelle. Chasing him around Spira when he knows exactly where her Commsphere lies. He's busy. Maybe he's forgotten about her now that she is too far to exert her draw on him. This is what he does. Disappears. Into the desert at night with his more fun, more dangerous friends. To the Crimson Squad with his delusions of glory. Off the airship post Calm to mastermind the Machine Faction. Alone.
The truth is that she pulls his focus. He pulls her focus. And now he is gone for however-long and can work on whatever life-altering plans he has in peace. No pesky Cid's Girl, crawling on to his lap in his office, creeping out in the early morning because of her insistence on secrecy. No early hours Comm calls when she knows he is still at his desk. Seducing him by eating ice cream slowly off her spoon on camera, until he tells her to wait. Thirty minutes. No more accidental early nights on her sofa with Lana settled on his chest.
She squeezes her eyes shut, a wobble of emotion sparking behind her eyelids. This first moment of fun in the last few weeks, after endless shoots, and his absence spoils it. This isn't fun without him. She is drunk. Without him. The first time since she last saw him. She wants to cry. She gulps the last of her champagne down.
"Are you okay?" Sarra asks, as Rikku sways slightly, insecure in her gleaming heels.
"I'm fine." Rikku beams falsely, "Who's that, with Calli?"
"Oh," Sarra waves casually towards them, "That's Gillisk, the Goers' latest recruit."
Sarra and Rikku join them at the large table. A handful of the other players are out too. Graav, Bickson, the same team from four years ago. Rikku, Sarra and Calli sink another bottle of fizz between them, and as the champagne flows, Rikku's mouth runs away with her. She becomes quickly acquainted with the rest of the table. The speed at which she consumes the alcohol causes the night to blur into a quick hour. Forgotten small talk, sloppy dancing, flashing lights- from the dancefloor, maybe a photographer. She kisses someone. Maybe more than one person. Stumbles into Leblanc with a full glass of white wine, someone else's sunglasses on, talking shit.
"Best get you home, love." Leblanc ushers her to the door. Glad of the sunglasses to shield her from the flashing lights of the paparazzi, Rikku clings for dear life to Leblanc's arm, the other hand still clutches the wine glass.
"Why are we going?" Rikku whines, as the clamber in to the back of the hover, "I was having fun."
"I could see that." Leblanc has a hazy look of concern, "Is everything alright, love?"
"Suuuurree." Rikku slurs. Leblanc gently relinquishes the wine glass from her hand, against weak-willed, wasted protest. Rikku perches precariously on her seat, almost flying when the hover takes a corner at a reasonable pace but it feels blindingly fast in her drunken state, "Why wouldn't I be? I'm single, and I don't need to wait around for assholes to call me."
"What are you talking about?" Leblanc asks.
"He just disappeared. Again." Rikku mumbles. She isn't making much sense after that. Leblanc gently guides her into the guest bedroom of her vast three storey Lucan townhouse. Fuchsia, embroidered silk sheets and panelled walls. Sobered slightly from her tears, Rikku sinks in to the bedsheets, despite Leblanc throwing pyjamas her way.
"Sorry," she mumbles. She is wiping her make up away with a cloth Leblanc hands her. The wine glass is long forgotten. A tall drink of water on her bedside.
"What's going on?" She asks gently.
"I was seeing someone- kind of -"
"What?"
"But he, ugh, I don't know, it's complicated."
"I've got time."
"I just. It's a casual thing but I miss him. We're friends. I think?" She closes her eyes. Nausea rushes to her as she feels herself spin on the spot. A staff member knocks lightly at the door. Leblanc asks for tea to be brought up.
"Friends with benefits?" Leblanc asks. Rikku shivers slightly at the term. Putting it that way simplifies it. That isn't how they define it. They don't talk about it. Usually he is back after only a week, and so frequent their contact that she barely has chance to miss him. He's burrowed into her skin and her heart and her memories. He is her best friend. Her lover. The person she thought she'd lost forever when he left to be a Crusader. She has grieved him already this lifetime. She hated him for two years, for not finding her at the start of the Calm, for him letting her think he was dead. She'd rejoiced, despite that, that he treated her the same as ever when they run into one another in Djose.
"You should tell him how you feel." Leblanc declares, matter-of-fact, "That you love-"
Rikku shakes her head vigorously, "I don't love him."
"It won't do to be crying in the middle of the night about a man you don't even love." Leblanc says, kindly, laying her hand on Rikku's shoulder.
Then Rikku sobs- small gasps, and then the tears flow freely, streaming down her cheeks. A knock on the door- tea is here. Rikku shakily changes into Leblanc's ridiculously plush pyjamas. The metal dress pools heavily into a heap on the ground. Rikku ties her hair into a messy bun, mascara long wiped away.
"I'm listening, love." Leblanc says quietly. Rikku pours her heart out while Leblanc pours the tea.
Gippal despairs when Rin insists- four weeks after he leaves Luca- that he travels to Bevelle, too. He hates the place. The stench of corruption makes his skin crawl. The thinly veiled bigotry of the older generation of council members. The colourful grandeur of the Temple City. To say nothing of the time he literally jumped into hell here, the place gives him bad vibes. Rin insists that he comes to settle the workforce in, show his face and accept the false niceties the Temple's council barely muster at these diplomatic meetings. His patience for politics has always been low, but he acknowledges it as a necessary evil, and the cost he pays for progress.
He arrives in the city late the night before the formal welcome breakfast. A redhaired woman, who introduces herself as Rin's secretary, escorts him to the Bevelle headquarters.
"Ah Gippal," Rin says as he enters. It is a large colourful space. A vast bookshelf lines the entirety of one wall and is packed with books, plants, antiques and oddities. He feels as though he has stepped in to a travel agency.
"Hey," he says, rubbing his temple, tired from the journey. The oil lamp on Rin's desk unnerves him, when the office is fitted with electric lighting.
"It's been a few months, Gippal."
"Yeah, sorry," he says, "I trust you to handle things this side."
"Noted." Rin pauses, leans back in his chair. He gestures at the empty chair opposite. Gippal feels a sense of disappointment from his uncle, as he sinks down.
"Thank you for putting up with things here." Gippal says sincerely.
"I need to talk to you about something," Rin says, "It's about the Farplane."
"We've already been there and I don't think-"
"You mistake me," Rin says, "I agree, we would be wasting our time assisting the Guado in their restoration."
"Okay." Gippal says, uncertainly.
"However, Shinra is working on a solution to a problem that we will run into sooner or later."
"I'm hoping later," Gippal groans.
"There are areas of Spira where we've picked up dense pyrefly activity, far below the surface of the earth," Rin continues.
Gippal listens, uneasily. He doesn't doubt Shinra's ingenuity, but more the unprecedented nature of what Rin and Shinra consistently propose to him at the annual meetings. He deflects them every year. This need to find a more innovative way to power Spira's technology hasn't been, still isn't, that pressing in his mind. Outside of Luca and Bevelle, however, the gap between the rural settlements and cities is growing, along with resentment of the populations there. The technology they are creating is moving faster than the limited energy they have. Luca and Bevelle benefit from the their oceanside locations and the natural power of the tide.
"All we want is to try, Gippal."
"I just," he relents, "I'll let you put it to them tomorrow, and they can have the final say."
The silence settles between, still frosty. Gippal yawns, and Rin's secretary shows him to the guest quarters. He sleeps fitfully.
He is relieved to find Rin in the shirt, tie, trouser custom of Luca when he enters his office the next morning. Where Baralai has also adopted this more modern style, albeit with the decorative accents to remind all that he is of New Yevon, the older members belligerently don the traditional garb.
Rin is finishing up on the Commsphere as he walks through the door.
"Let's get this over with," Gippal mutters. He craves a cigarette but has not found the opportunity since arriving the day before.
The rest of the morning is spent at a large round table in one the grand temple's dining halls. He pulls Baralai in to a friendly hug. Both of them far too busy in the preceding few months to have spent any social time together. The service is silent, professional, pre-empting every time they need a refill of water, more bread. He is seated next to Baralai, with Rin on his other side, and the opposite crescent of the table, the more elderly contigent. One of them in particular, the Yevonite mirror of Cid. Opinionated, derisive, silver black hair glinting across the table. Gippal recalls that his name is Boyka. Fat cat springs to mind. He is influential, from ancient family stock in Bevelle, present here at this table for his wealth, rather than his shining example of upholding Yevon's values.
"Aha! I always look forward to the latest magic tricks you Al Bhed cook up."
Gippal bristles. Baralai politely agrees with Boyka's sentiment, but with a more subtle statement welcoming them to Bevelle. Nooj clears his throat during the tense silence that stretches.
"To think we'd have Al Bhed at this table. I just can't get used to it." Boyka says jovially.
Gippal doesn't respond. He is expected to, he thinks. He knows Rin will see the colour rising in his cheeks. Rin cuts in.
"A pleasure to enjoy Spira's prosperous future together. United in purpose, if not belief."
"Ha! Let's not mix business with pleasure. Eat up!"
Boyka greedily drinks from his glass and clicks his fingers rudely at the waitress for a refill. She scuttles over and he grumbles when the barest tremor in her grip causes minor spillage.
"Watch it, woman."
Relief comes at the end of the meal when the plates are cleared around them, and they begin proceedings. Rin begins a convincing monologue about the untapped potential of the large concentrations of pyreflies, and the potential to utilise its flow for energy, and not in any way interfere with it. Purely experimental, currently, but this may allow them to advance to the greatness of the past- cities that never sleep. Boyka leans in with greedy interest, an opportunity for wealth, although there is a murmuring of unrest amongst the eldest two members. Baralai, most diplomatically, proposes that they be allow to bring a detailed proposal back to them, and allow full supervision of Youth League and New Yevon representatives- full transparency. Gippal is still unsure.
The rest of the meeting passes uneventfully. Baralai and he retire to the Praetor's quarters to catch up. Duties parked for the day, they break in to his whiskey, which he serves him in an ornate crystal tumbler.
"Apologies for Boyka's overzealousness," Baralai says, "He carries a lot of influence with the media here and, as much as he is a hindrance, it is necessary to keep him on side."
"I guess it would be too easy if anti Al Bhed sentiment were to just disappear overnight."
"We are working on it," Baralai says sadly, "but these older generations are stubborn. They respect Rin. At least, I think they do."
Boyka personifies Old Yevon corruption. His name is synonymous with the Bevelle Post, the dominant newspaper and sphere broadcaster. Although his fortune comes from inheritence, he is not of Bevellian clergy descent, but rather the heir to one of the oldest families to settle in Bevelle. Feudal leaders, later arms dealers, with ties all the way back to prominent political, warmongering figures of the Bevelle-Zanarkand war 1000 years ago. When war had wrought Sin, his ancestors had ventured into sowing seeds of anti-machina sentiment. There is particular distaste in his mouth, since discovering Boyka's key investment in the whole Crimson Squad operation (and also Operation Mi'hen). A particularly disgusting letter arguing for the inclusion of the Al Bhed into the ranks of the crusaders to pad the ranks and ensure the Al Bhed finally shoulder their part in atonement still haunts him. Boyka had argued that keeping the Al Bhed where they could see them would allow greater control over the heathens. Gippal hates himself for his previously honeyed aspirations to military service and glory.
Boyka continues to poison the water with the insidious narrative that spews forth from the papers he publishes- the Post, Bevelle's broadsheet, and its lesser, trashier, tabloid cousin, The Express. The Al Bhed should set up their own central home, and not integrate themselves so readily. They should overturn their technology completely to Bevelle to ensure there is no risk of war. The Al Bhed are a reckless, hedonistic, promiscuous, uncivilised bunch with a penchant for loud, disruptive parties; for laziness due to machina making their lives cushy; that all this communication tech lets them eavesdrop on the conversations of normal Spirans. Boyka denies that these are things that he believes himself- his journalists have freedom of speech, he has no control over what they say, they merely reflect the sentiment of the average Bevellian. That sly smile- we all still hate you, deep down.
Gippal does not feel remorse for the scarcity of his visits. His skin crawls at the memory of Vegnagun, the history of Yevon's corruption, and the racist hangover that persists, funded by years of blood money. Boyka brings out Gippal's temper, which he hasn't let control him since his teenage years. He is glad to leave the political navigation to Rin. Mild-mannered, unflappable, get-along-with-everyone Rin.
"Rin is very persuasive" Gippal says.
"You didn't seem as excited about his proposal."
Gippal leans back in his chair, taking a long sip of the neat whiskey, "A small bundle of pyreflies almost destroyed the world two years ago."
"Touché."
"Just don't think we should go messing around in the Farplane so readily."
"I'll keep an open mind," Baralai says, diplomatic, "I'm sure we can come to understand it better if we work together- Yevon, Al Bhed, Guado."
"It's just-" he starts, "It's got to go well. The blame will fall to us if it doesn't."
"That's the risk we take-"
"Not us," he interrupts, "the Al Bhed."
"I see," Baralai pauses for a hot moment to consider this concern, "I'd be interested to hear Cid's take on this."
"Lady Yuna, too."
"Naturally. I'll make sure they are here when Rin and Shinra bring it to board." He pauses, then adds, "After her wedding."
"Hoping to have Djose fully shut down by then," he grumbles. It has taken almost six months of on and off visits to have any sense of how to divide his workforce, as Bevelle and Luca had fought over which contracts they'd wanted. Then, somehow having to split individual teams in two, to work at both sites, and then build new teams from that. His engineers are brilliant. At machina. They can sweet talk any bolt into compliance, tenderly caress any mess of a circuitboard into the right configuration, but managing other engineers and technicians, sticking to deadlines, has required much more mentoring and careful forethought than anticipated.
He recalls Rin laughing at him. Chiding him, Rin reminds him that he is blessed with an accessible charisma that alludes most of his peers who learned to machina before they could speak.
"I can't remember the last time I got to actually work on something."
"The stadium?" Baralai ventures.
"This close," he gestures with his fingers, "to building a workshop on Gagazet and locking myself in there for ten years."
"For someone who hates leadership you strangely excel at it."
"I don't know how you haven't murdered most of your colleagues." Gippal murmurs.
"It's not my style." Baralai laughs.
The next few weeks are a blur. Two weeks supervising the teams in Bevelle, ensuring the flow and direction of the projects are just right. Attending meetings with Rin, he makes his yearly round of networking. They also manage to attract the investment of a younger group of rich Bevellians, socialites after a piece of Luca living, and property developers looking to modernise their style but sorely needing Faction tech to achieve Lucan standard. Two further weeks to travel to Djose, wrap up the projects there and check that the communication systems between Luca, Bevelle and Bikanel were sound. Which they were, and he would video in to every meeting, at least twice daily fielding questions and queries. The majority of the last week involves the travel to Besaid. His friendship with Tidus- shared vision for Spira's future fostering a close friendship- has progressed. He is ring bearer for the wedding.
Rikku crosses his mind often, usually in the early morning, or late at night. The opportunity to call her eludes him. He tells himself he is too busy. She is too, he imagines. On those evenings when he almost seeks her out on the Comm, the news broadcast is timely with the speculation of a new relationship between her and Graav, the Goers star player. The headlines stretch all the way to Bevelle.
Party girl Ri Ri locks lips with Goers' greatest.
Blurry pictures of Rikku in a pale glimmering dress, hair dishevelled and down. The way he's only seen in her apartment. Sharing a drunken kiss with Graav, then another picture, kissing Bickson. Gippal falters. For the first time, he picks up the trashy paper. A pang of worry- definitely just worry. Concern creeps in at the pictures of her outside wine glass in hand and sunglasses on. Clearly wasted.
Somehow not having her here, where they'd usually laugh at the latest man the magazines had caught her with, there in the bed with him, or the couch. So often were they together he doubts she's had someone else on the scene this whole time. And even if she does, they hadn't talked about it. This indefinable thing had no rules- maybe just unspoken ones. Her strategizing, the heads up she always gives, those diamond precise predictions of what the magazines would single her out for, always assuage his misplaced jealousy. But unannounced, the gleeful commentators, the candid photos, drew an envy out of him he wasn't proud of. Her masterful manipulation of the media beast that stalks her unsettles him. Now he is too far away to see the logic behind it. Then, uncharitably, he thinks she's been doing the same to him.
These latest pictures. Rikku sloppy drunk. Rikku refused entry to the next club. Rikku making out on camera with other celebrities. This is practically a scandal. According to Rikku's strict criteria of the image she is trying to curate. Or, so she tells him, constantly. The criteria where her private life is speculation only. No proof. He fumes.
He isn't sure if he can talk to her in those moments.
So he doesn't.
She doesn't call him, either, though, adding fuel to the fire. That fire of suspicion that she's bored grows, because she is bound to be sooner or later. He knows Rikku well. Since, well, forever. Her steely romantic aspirations: the soulmate; the many children; the true love she covets- envies- in her peers. Off the table. Because he can't give her that. Because she hasn't forgiven him for leaving. At least, it feels like she hasn't forgiven him for leaving. He doesn't bring it up and neither does she. In fact, the closest they've come to quarreling was just as he left – her misplaced quip about goodbye. The letter he sent her is never discussed, alluded to, hinted at. He starts to wonder if it ever even existed. Rikku wears her heart on her sleeve, where his was enclosed in that wax sealed envelope. Too much time passed with her never seeking him out after the Calm. Rikku's anger is two years of silent treatment. The slam of the door. That he has inched it open this far again astounds him. Rikku controls this situation.
So he waits for her cue.
It never comes.
He ends up on the same ship to Besaid as Cid. Considerably warmer to him following the stadium opening. The man greets him with an expression of pride, instantly gushing, still, about the stadium. Growing up on Bikanel, those long summers in his house, Cid's unwanted attempts at fathering him, expecting the same compliance and discipline from him that Rikku and Brother had. Between his mother's death and his father's negligence, Gippal was an argumentative, stubborn and difficult teenager. The drinking, partying, dating and acting out was not well tolerated. His relationship with Cid in the lead up to his injury was one of yelling, kicking him out, threatening to ship him back to Luca at the earliest opportunity. The same cycle. Every time. Then, at whatever time of the night, Cid would come find him and drag him back home, on his custom sand buggy. That stony, remorseful silence in response to Cid's easy forgiveness. He hated Cid's pity, which his anger always melted to after the fever breaks. And because he doesn't remember compassion, it can only be pity. Brother's resentment grew the older they got. Cid's expectations, tolerance, so different for the two of them.
"Join me for a drink boy!" that familiar boom of his voice. They sit in a small booth of the bar on board. A small part of him reflects at how once Cid admonished his drinking, yet they now settle to it like old buddies.
"Don't you have your own airship?" Gippal asks, although he hasn't seen the Fahrenheit himself since Sin fell.
"It's a hunk of junk!" Cid says sadly, "Between you and Rin keeping them all busy, I can't get a good mechanic to look at it."
"Ah, shit," he swallows his drink, "Sorry."
"I want to make more."
"More?"
"Airships."
"It is on my list somewhere, too," Gippal grumbles.
"If you can get someone out to work on the Fahrenheit we can start there."
"Deal." Gippal says, aware of how valuable unfettered access to one of the only airships in Spira is. This is a far better use of their time than chasing pyreflies around underground.
"I'm too old to be tinkering with things I don't understand."
Gippal scoffs at this. Cid knows more about machina than he likely ever will. Admittedly, the weapon kind of machina.
And, that, is how the Al Bhed make deals. Done before they even finish their first beer. Cid reminisces about Home, though his ambition to rebuild, after he himself blew it to smithereens, has faded with time. The Al Bhed population settled mainly in Luca, Kilika and small villages in and around the Moonflow. They had been quick to redefine Home on their own terms. Sadly, Cid remains nomadic, the airship more of a curse than a blessing.
"You see a lot of that daughter of mine?" Cid asks casually.
Gippal swallows another sip of his beer, carefully.
"A bit."
"She doing okay?" he asks, "She got herself a boyfriend?"
"I, uh," he clears his throat nervously. Cid clearly doesn't watch the broadcasts, "Don't think so."
"I'll have to give her a piece of my mind." Cid grumbles, then mutters something about kids these days. And Gippal laughs.
"We're not all bad." He says.
"Aha! Now you want me to treat you like a kid," Cid guffaws, "how things change!"
They drink in to the early hours, talking shop, mutually youthful in their excitement. They disembark, matching in sunglasses, mutually hungover onto Besaid's promenade, bristling at Tidus' shit-eating grin when he sees the sorry state they're in.
