A/N: Yeah, like the... like the song.
...I'm sorry.
It's funny-sometimes you should go with your first instinct. Way back in chapter three I cut out a flashback between Blank and Zidane because I figured it wasn't relevant enough to the chapter at hand, and now I wish I had left it, because it's about to become very relevant to chapter ten. I went back and put it in, but now I feel silly for leaving it out in the first place. Ah well, hopefully not too big a deal. Thanks always to those who read and review!
Anyway, on to new stuff. Remember the warnings for chapter six? Yeah, it's about to get even worse.
Recommended (if irrelevant) reading: "Diary of Zidane Tribal" by The Tiny Pea (SakuraRibbons). Not to be read with a straight face. It's a quick, easy read, and if you're a fan of zany, immature parody, you'll probably get a good chuckle out of it.
edit 5/29/10: Never too late for a slight revision-language can be picky business.
("Get off my back, rat!")
The dwarves called it Grogfest.
("Not until you give it back!")
Though unorthodox, it surprised no one that the rustic, bibulous, revelry-loving dwarves of Conde Petie had a holiday dedicated solely to their favorite brew, gysahl grog.
("Ow! Goddamnit, I don't know what the hell you're talking about!")
The three-day celebration ("Two tae have fun, an' one tae clean up aftae!") was at its peak when the queen's company passed by, intrigued by the noisy festivities. Though originally drawn to the fireworks (which were contributed by friendly Black Mages), the group was persuaded to stay the night by Zidane, who asserted that they could all use a good excuse to relax and have fun.
Everyone complied reluctantly-Eiko, for one, was afraid of being recognized by the village watchmen. However, as they approached the front gate and witnessed the doorman tumbling down the steep earthen ramp, his head lodged in a wooden keg, the Genome flatly assured the little summoner, "I... wouldn't worry about it."
The arboreal village was an upheaved mess, partly due to the boisterous party and largely due to recent tremors along the roots that supported its freakish architecture. Bricks had been knocked free and strewn along corridors twisted to nearly impassable angles, stairways had crumbled, shops had collapsed and entire walls had been replaced by either an avalanche of vines or thin air. If one stood in the central gallery and looked through the open roof, it appeared as if a massive, verdant hawk had nested upon the town, Iifa's taloned roots sinking into the mortar while its branches unfurled into the heavens like wings.
Since the Mist's return, the group of adventurers had found similar handiwork all over Gaia, so the disheveled village was not a shocking sight. Unlike the rest of world, however, the dwarves considered the mayhem a blessing from the gods, bringing their revered "Sanctuary" closer to home (this belief was bolstered by the fact that the centerpiece of their chapel, the Kirkboat, was miraculously unscathed.) The misguided sentiment was disconcerting and hopeful at once-at least some people could still see light through the Mist.
"Ootsiders" who recalled the village's original condition agreed, anyway: Iifa couldn't make the place look worse.
The eight travelers paid for some lodgings in the top northeast corner, above the rabble in the plaza. They then dispersed to partake of the festival's customs, each in their own way. Quina tore into the banquet, hir obscenely long tongue polishing the tablecloth before anyone had the chance to inform hir that embroidered grapes don't taste like real ones. Vivi explored the grounds, tripping over every pothole. Dagger followed his lead a little more carefully, Steiner dutifully in tow, while Eiko preferred to stay hidden.
Zidane, however, went straight to the source of the party: the tables passing out free mugs of grog. Gysahl grog wasn't the most palatable beverage in the world (the dwarves preferred to say that, despite its chief ingredient, 'Nae even a chocobo kin stomach it!') but it did mellow the nerves the way any fine beer should-as well as a few other faculties.
He was on his third pint and rather giddy by the time Dagger rejoined him, just in time for another round of cards with a pair of locals: Robert Dogherder and Mr. 482. Though Her Highness was easily badgered into a game, her bodyguard remained leery of the tailed boy's ebullience, and his protests over the act of gambling were obnoxiously forthright.
It was Robert who finally turned the tables, shifting a brusque look from Dagger to Zidane and objecting, "Oi, why're ye lettin' yer wife take sae mooch wind from this ol' tin bag?"
"H-His wife?" Steiner screeched, thunderstruck, while the bride in question turned an unholy shade of red. Zidane could have blown the situation over if he weren't seized with hysterical, braying laughter, and Dagger's stammering excuses were hardly adequate. Luckily Vivi showed up to the rescue, pacifying the knight with a simple, innocent explanation. The party resumed while Steiner stood down, at heel though not at rest.
"An' thin last year, Ah dared Willie tae jump the canyon in a barrel," Robert regaled his fellow card-players with tales of previous Grogfests.
Mr. 482 squeamishly adjusted the brim of his hat, fanning himself with the cards in his other hand. "Goodness, sounds dangerous. Did he really do it?"
"Aye, the drunk bastard fell for it! Literally, Ah suppose. Dunnae worry, he survived. Sortae."
Their game took place in a cozy parlour beneath a stairwell, where moonlight poured in through a broken corner and mixed agreeably with a string of floral lamps. Everyone parked on frilly cushions around a squat table, the festival's bawdy murmurs filling an unseen background while Zidane eagerly laid down the rules of "spider poker" to the newcomers.
Dagger seemed to genuinely appreciate the lesson, and that always gave him a little thrill-teaching her something new (and maybe impressing her with his "worldly" knowledge!) He monitored her progress with a player's shrewd eye, sometimes admiring a little more than her game. He even fancied that her occasional, quaint blushes and coy glances were owed to more than embarrassment over losing a hand, and when he reached close to offer pointers, he could swear she...
Well, maybe it was just the grog giving him notions, but Dagger didn't object once, and Zidane secretly delighted in every second near her. All the same, Vivi was more interested in conversation with Mr. 482, and the way Steiner kept staring malignantly at Zidane's drink made it look like he was trying to poison it with his eyes.
Fed up at length with the knight's brooding, the boy admonished, "Rusty, you seriously need to lighten up, just this once. In fact, I double-dog dare you to have a pint."
Steiner scoffed, "Hrmph! Your childish tricks won't sway me from my post! Only a dog would take such a dare!"
At that declaration, Robert's gullet swelled and his eyes bugged out, like a perturbed frog. Lime spittle jetted across the table as he spewed in the knight's direction, "Ach! Are ye disrespectin' the spirit o' the brew?"
Dagger dropped her soiled cards while the others recoiled from the outburst, though before Steiner could recover from his faux pas, a shrill cry chilled the room. Everyone stopped and tipped wide, startled looks to the ceiling, straining to decipher the source.
("You, you big, red snake! Snake-headed... scoundrel! I'll see to it you lose more than that if you don't give it back!")
Mr. 482 soberly enquired, "Oh my. Was that one of your friends?"
"It sounded like Freya..." Dagger whispered. The clatter of footsteps and glass from the room above punctuated her observation, followed by a harpy's medley of insults.
("...immoral, boorish, blue-arsed baboon! You fecking arsehole!")
Zidane winced. "I've never heard Freya sound like that."
Gritty baritone answered the abuse. ("So help me gods, woman, if you touch my hair again-")
("You'll what, Coral? Flash your big ugly mug at me?")
("That's it. Downstairs. Now.")
("Noooo! Put me down, you brute! I'll get-you-stop it!")
("Ow! Let go, you crazy bitch!")
("I'll crazy you... ow! Quit-you-ahhhh!")
"Och! A domestic!" Robert belted with inapt excitement; the cryptic expression garnered a few confused blinks from the white and black mages around him. Meanwhile the scuffle escalated to a din, wood clapping and grating over limestone as heavy objects-possibly furniture-were batted about like toys in a typhoon.
Vivi huddled behind Zidane. "W-What's going on? I'm scared..."
The Genome stared fecklessly at the bricks overhead, his slack-jawed consolation no help to anyone. "Me too, Vivi. Me too."
No one had the sense to get up and assess the quarrel, much less intervene, before a red-cloaked blur was hurled into the room, like an angel cast down from on high. It landed on a gnoll-skinned rug, skinny arms and legs churning the air like an overturned ladybug. A familiar face eventually bolted upright, long hair scattered before a wild, growling visage and ears folded to insane degrees. Freya snorted once, clearing her equilibrium, and then pitched a nasty glare back up the stairs, to the large man looming in the shadows.
"For the last time," Amarant boomed quietly, his voice that of a dark, old, tired god. "I don't know where your stupid hat is. Why don't you harass the monkey about it? He's the goddamn thief."
Zidane jumped in his seat, slighted more by the burden than the accusation. "Hey, don't drag me into this!"
Before he had to answer for anything, Amarant was gone. Dagger swiftly attended Freya's side, her magic subtly scanning for damage. "Are you all right?"
Freya clumsily swung an arm towards the girl, urging her away. "I'm bloody fine, that stupid, miserable..." Her curses fizzled out as she staggered up and fixed her coat.
"Geez, are you sure?" Zidane tested, though he instantly regretted drawing attention to himself. Vivi scurried out of her path as Freya plodded to the table and leaned over the Genome's ear, beseeching with vitriolic sweetness, "Zidaaane, have you seen my helmet? I do believe a certain red-headed, no-good charlatan has purloined it."
Zidane ducked out of her clutches, gagging over the acute stench of alcohol. "Wow, you are very, very drunk. Why don't you go lie down and maybe it'll turn up in the morning?"
The inebriated dragon knight backed off, seeming to heed him, though her parting shot as she toddled down the opposite staircase was, "Fine, but it won't be my fault when someone gets... hurt... themself."
Astounded by the dramatic, uncharacteristic display, the room was bereft of comment until Vivi tugged on one of the Genome's cuffs. "Zidane, I'm tired..."
"Hmm? You wanna go to bed already?"
A sleepy nod confirmed it, and the other players forfeited their cards and grog with similar apologies. Thus stymied, Zidane rolled to his feet and ushered the child-mage along. "Oh, all right... I'll help you find a bed, okay? Off we go."
The amount of grog Zidane had consumed didn't really sink in until he was attempting the stairs to their rooms-suddenly they were a lot less straight and short than he remembered. The halls were paved with rubble and sandstone lit merely by moonbeams, making the trek even more difficult, though Vivi exhibited saintly patience as he followed Zidane with tiny, hesitant steps.
The headstrong Genome wasn't going to admit he was impaired at all, until he stumbled over an obtuse block and skidded three steps backwards before catching the wall and his bearings. "Ah, son of a-! Damnit... I meant to do that."
Vivi crouched next to him, appraising his bruised shin and shambling manner with a fretful crinkle to his eyes. "Are you drunk?" he asked with his usual, quiet honesty, stirring Zidane's latent scruples.
"Uh... maybe," his pride yielded to the very astute nine-year-old.
Vivi shook his head, wondering, "Why do grown-ups drink that stuff...?"
"Ah, why?" The blonde scratched his head and looked for his feet, working back towards the top of the stairs. "Oh, I don't-well? It's just fun, Vivi. Makes some people have a, uh, good feelin'-puts 'em in a good mood-whoops, gotta watch my step. Anyway, all the best parties have beer."
He then directed a sour, sidelong look at an invisible target. "It's just some people don't know how to pull the cork out of their ass and have a good time withou-" A low-hanging dwarven doorframe broke his tirade, knocking him upside the head. "Ah! Gods, damn it...!" He listed dangerously, about to plunge down the way he came, but Vivi quickly yanked him to safe ground.
"Woo... okay." Zidane rubbed the fresh knot under his bangs and proffered a lame smile, trying to sound reassuring. "Ahaha, I'm cool. Totally gonna... probably feel that in the morning."
Not convinced, Vivi pressed, "Are you okay?"
He waited for the hallway to quit rolling like a tide-racked boat before responding. "Yeah, just... had a bit too much, I guess. No problem. I've gotten way, way more shit-faced than this before-ask Blank." Zidane squinted through the dark, spotting a shaft of soporific light before a distant, open door. A place to rest wasn't far now, though just to be safe...
"Hmm, gimmie your hand, Vivi." Anxious little fingers obediently twined around his own, and Zidane squeezed them with a droll chuckle as they moved on. "Heh. Maybe you should help tuck me in bed."
Though slumber came easily for Vivi, a vague, restless thrum in his veins drove Zidane back downstairs within the hour. He was feeling much lighter and spryer as the night wore on, and he couldn't decide if he was looking for more games, more drink or more trouble in general-he simply figured one would buy the rest.
He crept down some more stairs, ones buried behind a wall in a fashion that reminded him of the secret passages around Alexandria Castle. They made him feel like he was illicitly sneaking around-always a fun pastime for a bandit-and he wondered if Eiko had ever employed them when stealing food from the village. Zidane eventually stopped at an odd break in the wall, compelled to spy on the rooms beyond (reconnaissance was important to a master thief!) It was a small, jagged vent that intersected the floor, and when he peered below he found...
"...Quina?"
A surprisingly speedy, pale, apron-clad blob was barreling across a bridge, decked in sundry fruit and vegetables. A pair of dwarves hounded the Qu, their words harried and garbled (though decidedly profane), while Quina raved with obscene intent and volume, "I REQUIRE MORE YUMMY-YUMMIES!"
"Okay, that's a little scary..." Zidane remarked out loud, and then another event crossed his attention, in the room on top.
"Don't Ah make a foin pyntie-hat?"
A couple of dwarves turned towards the speaker, who donned a suspicious cap with a flourish. Zidane hunched over the peephole, angling for a better look. "Hey, isn't that...?"
"Tha's nae pyntie-hat! It's awl th' wrong shaip n' colah! It's mair like soom brand o' helm!"
"Feuch, whar'd ye nick that thing froom? Straight awf a dragon's scalp, looks it."
"Ach, Ah foond it! 'twas jes lyin' aroon'!" The dwarf pedaled backwards as he justified his claim, and that was when Zidane got a clear view of the headgear, its tapering, crimson crown affixed with a pair of miniature dragon wings.
"Hey!" Zidane squirmed through the skinny opening. The dwarves, catching sight of the intruder, simply raised their mugs in greeting. "Ah, rally-ho!"
"Rally-ho, stranger!"
"Rally-ho, floor moonkeh!"
Picking himself up from the graceless entrance, Zidane grimaced, dusted off his pants and accosted the group. "Ugh, yeah, rally-whore. Hey, do you guys mind if I take that helmet back? It belongs to my friend."
The matron of the lot whirled to the offending dwarf. "So ye did nick it!"
"No, Ah swear!"
"Ye're a roottin' liar!"
Robert, a witless audience to the dispute, belched merrily, "Och! A domestic!"
The woman gruffly snatched the helmet off the imposter 'pyntie-hat's head and passed it to Zidane. "'ere ye go, lad."
"Thanks." The Genome took it and abandoned the scene as quickly as possible. The dwarves raised their mugs to him once more in farewell.
"Cheers!"
"Happy Grogfest!"
"Och!"
Zidane didn't have much trouble finding the helmet's owner; she was already in her room, a few doors down the hall from Vivi's. A thin cloth curtain was fastened over the threshold for privacy, timorous candlelight lapping at its frayed hem. He stalked towards the doorway, sampling the sticky Grogfest atmosphere for signs of trouble. His drink-addled senses were too dim for his own good, however, and he was already committed to carrying out the perilous delivery.
The only thing that made him hesitate was the loud, wailing voice behind the curtain.
"I dun care what he thinks!" It was Freya. Her slurred, abrasive words suggested she was still drunk, though it was the shaken, injured quality to her tone that unnerved him even more. Although he couldn't see through the curtain, his ears also picked out rustling fabric, jingling buckles, a slamming drawer and a stifled sob. "...not good 'nuff to remember, so be it."
"Freya...?" Zidane sidled into the room, waving the helmet before him like a white flag. As he glanced around the quarters, several portentous details buzzed on the fringe of his mind: the dreary, inadequate illumination cast by two estranged candles; the oozing puddle under a shattered vase; the prevalent scent of grog; the linens tossed haphazardly over the floor, and the disquieting lack of company for the lamenting dragon knight.
Freya was perched on a tree stump the dwarves had carved for a chair, her armor dismantled around her feet. She spun towards him, right eye narrowing into focus while the left was veiled by a swath of fine, silvery hair. For a bleary second she looked near of kin to Beatrix, though the facade fell to pieces the moment she stood up and blurted, "Ah! You!" like a spitting cobra.
Zidane braced for an attack, wary of what the dragon knight could do in such a state, though Freya's venomous countenance dissolved into relief once she realized her helmet was being returned. "Oh, you did find it. How gracious of you," she drawled with an ungainly curtsy, and the boy noticed two things awry at once: her coat was unclasped.
And she was naked under it.
There was probably some kind of perverse logic behind this, but Zidane really didn't want to dwell on it. He stood dumbfounded while Freya swiped the helmet from his frozen fingers, sniffed it once and then immediately discarded it. She didn't seem to mind the indecency, much less the draught, and an awkward situation advanced into a calamitous one as she lurched forward and shoved Zidane into the corner, one outstretched arm barring his exit and the other pinning his shoulder to the wall.
"H-Hey!" he yelped, overwhelmed by the undressed dame. Freya leaned oppressively close, the lush, pruinose hairs of her bosom grazing his nose as her husky whisper shot sparks down his tail. "I want to thank you proper..."
Zidane's thoughts scrambled. 'Boobs boobs boobs right there in my face hooooly shit man I could lick one of those nipples they're so close and fuzzy I wonder if they taste like peaches oh man what the hell's going on this is trouble, this is bad. Boobs belong to Freya, no touchie.'
"Uh, no, that's okay, really, I'll just-it's-I gotta go now," he eventually stammered, distressed by the carnal electricity. He direly wished he could push her off or even divert his gaze from the nectarean buttons peeking beneath the flaps of her coat, but it just wasn't happening.
To make matters worse, she wasn't listening. "Com'ere, you, you..." Her speech evaporated into dregs of longing as she roved his body, pawing his clothes and combing his hair.
'She's so drunk she doesn't even know who I am,' he thought fleetly, and he wasn't sure whether to feel horrified or sorry for her. One hand kneaded his side, roiling the fermenting juices in his belly, while the other untied his collar and massaged his neck, firm pads and claws tangling in the tender hairs along his nape. An astringent shiver loosened the muscles from his bones while tightening his loins, and he sagged against the wall with a moan.
'Oh gods, please don't get up for this,' he petitioned the fates and his own unsavoury urges. Something was egregiously wrong here, and he had to snap Freya out of it, before it was too late.
Before she-before they-
There was only a flash of fur and teeth and a gasp wide enough to penetrate, and before he knew better he was marveling at how long and virile Freya's tongue was. The dragon lady breathed grog down his throat like a disease, its fever draining all the cool, rational blood from his brain while she strangled him with an ill-fitting kiss, too tall and sharp for the small, smooth Genome. Never before in Zidane's life did a kiss feel like an ambush-a battle he was losing-and he wondered where Burmecians taught their knights how to do that.
He wasn't sure if he was about to die of shock, suffocation, alcohol poisoning-by-proxy or all of the above, but eventually she let him drink some real air. "I... whuh..." He feebly tried to form a sentence, some adept reaction, an excuse, an apology-anything at all, really, it was way past his turn to speak-but unfortunately the siren in his head screeching, 'Say something, you idiot!' was not forthcoming with suggestions.
He finally uttered, hopelessly, breathlessly, the taste of her yet tingling on his lips, "I am so confused right now."
Freya took that as a cue, drawing him in and nibbling on his collarbone, and he writhed under her prickly, blind affection. One hand played a titillating chord at the base of his tail while the other cupped his groin roughly, claws biting through the suddenly taut fabric, and he squeaked so loudly it was a wonder no one overheard outside (hopefully not, since that wasn't exactly the most manly reaction.) Pain and arousal congealed in his throat, nearly choking him, and when she seized his hand and planted it on one of her breasts, filling his palm with warm, supple, kitten-soft flesh, Zidane instantly forgot what he was supposed to be doing. He was helpless to resist, supine reflexes trailing his fingers over the sleek fur and learning her slender, lithe shape by touch.
She was so close and hot and real that he could hardly tell her pulse apart from his own. Soon all he could cling to were starved, primal thoughts, torn between 'this is a sexy beast and I want inside' and, and... what was the other side of the argument, again?
Freya continued to lead him by the reins, unraveling his belt a little more deftly than he'd normally credit a drunk woman, and her gravelly purr resonated over the pounding in his ears. "Mmm, you're a big boy now, huh?" Zidane couldn't tell if she was making fun of him or what, but he was about to lose it. Her hand dipped inside his pants, feeling him out and taking him in, and his knees would have given out completely if she weren't holding him up by his-oh dear gods
"Freya!" he screamed, every last, pathetic fiber of willpower steeling his composure.
She withdrew her errant hands and leaned back, granting him precious room to think, though her hips still rocked into his with distracting persistence. His tail beat a skittish tattoo against the wall as he wrestled down the impulse to thrust into her coaxing cadence, and the boy swallowed, a potent spirit burning his stomach. He was worse than drunk. They were worse than drunk, and his voice was faster than his mind, words desperately running away without him.
"Oh, geez... As much as I actually kinda really want to right now..." What was he saying? "...I can't do this."
She tilted a strange, reserved look at him, her brow draped in the shadows of sickly candles. The midnight glow smeared her eyes with golden-black oil and Mist, like the cogs of an old, worn-down engine, and he almost imagined them leaking. "Why?"
Why? There was probably a multitude of very good reasons, but every one slipped out of his grasp, like scrambling for purchase on thin ice. He nearly convinced himself that there was nothing wrong with two drunk, horny people coming together in the middle of the night, if only he let it happen, but none of this was in his control-or hers-and maybe that's what bothered him the most. Maybe he couldn't figure out if she was taking advantage of him or he was taking advantage of her, but there was only one sure way not to feel like a total bastard in the morning, and that was if he... because he couldn't... because...
"Because I... it's just, I... Dagger..."
Because of Dagger. There, he realized, out of the blue, he actually said it. Out of the unmentionable fathoms of his heart, he'd said what he could hardly even think: he was saving himself for Dagger. He'd never saved himself any trouble when it came to sex before-if he could get it, he got it, pesky social hiccups (like, say, friendship) be damned. The epiphany stunned them both into silence, and at that moment he arrived at the hard truth: he was in love.
He was in deep trouble.
He wilted on the spot, suddenly feeling as green as the liquor he'd been imbibing all night. "...I think I'm gonna be sick."
Zidane got the impression that was the wrong thing to say. Freya cracked a grisly expression, nostrils flared and eyes fiery like opals, and there was something darker in her savage grip and surly sneer that he couldn't put his finger on until it was too late.
Rejection.
"Ohgeddout," was the last thing he heard as she took him by the scruff and tossed him outside with enough force to tear down the curtain. It fell over the Genome like an absurd net. Freya stormed out of sight, leaving the stripped door as it was, and then everything was quiet and lonesome.
His sanity recurred to him in wretched pieces, and Zidane crawled onto his hands and knees, manhood hurting like a kicked puppy. "Shut up, I know..." he groaned, cradling the heavy ache in his trousers. He only wished this was the first conversation like this he's had with his... anyway.
He shrugged the curtain off, secured his belt and surveyed the hallway; no one else was around. Good. He didn't know how much more embarrassment he could take tonight.
'Well, that was a disaster. Nice going, Zidane.' The boy sighed, more defeated than ever, and limped away.
Zidane didn't quite remember passing out on the floor at the foot of some random bed-while sitting up, no less-but he awoke that morning beneath a big, rumpled quilt, Vivi under his arm and Eiko in his lap. He roused the kids with tickles, and after a "pillow fight rematch" (he let Eiko win, too groggy to put up a contest), he sent them out to rally the others. His heart was lifted by their bright, cheery giggles, even if his head was throbbing like a drum.
He washed up in a fountain downstairs (the plumbing of the village was as mystifying as the rest of its design), the cold water clearing his mind and reviving some very strange memories from last night. Zidane had to admit: despite the shame and trauma, it was pretty funny, in retrospect. Hilarious, really. No one would ever believe it. As he finished getting dressed he debated on whether to be a gentleman and keep the incident to himself, or to share his amusement and refresh Freya's memory over breakfast.
Well, Grogfest wasn't officially over yet. He still had time for some fun.
Zidane strolled into town, cackling to himself.
"I did what last night?"