The Dancing Boy

TITLE: The Dancing Boy
AUTHOR: Carmilla
EMAIL: carmilla99@hotmail.com
FANDOM: Final Fantasy IX
PAIRING: Kuja/Zidane, hints of Blank/Zidane
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: AU. Or more strictly Über, I guess. A young actor called Zidane has an encounter with an exotic dancer.
NOTES: For Emerald Embers, who requested a Christmas fic featuring my Kuja muse. This is what he came up with.
P.S. That was the original summary when I started writing this, over six months ago. The prolonged bout of block I had with this fic, and all the things in it that I hadn’t originally planned for, can be blamed on my Blank muse, who’s an unexpectedly stubborn and talkative little bugger.

*

Tantalus had had a hard year on the road; harder than most, because the harvest had been lean and people had little to spend on entertainment. In many villages where they had previously been welcomed with open arms, they were forced to pass through without even taking shelter for the night. A hard year it had been; but at last they were come back to the great city, the jewelled goblet into which all the riches of the land were drained, and here people always had money to spend on their pleasures. It was rumoured that the young Queen Garnet herself, crowned earlier that year when her mother had passed away of a fever, was fond of theatre.

For now, though, the troupe had to be satisfied with a less exalted audience. They were playing at Ruby’s, an inn that they had often made use of over the years, and while the crowds there could be rowdy, they were a generous lot, and tipped well; some even returned for several performances. The troupe was better fed than they had been in months, and well content.

Zidane was cooling down after the evening’s performance, stripped to his breeches, stretching the kinks out of his muscles before rubbing balm into the bruise he’d accidentally obtained in the sword fighting sequence. He was the youngest of the group, an orphan foundling they had adopted and brought up as their own. No one was sure of his origins; some of the actors thought that he might in fact have been fathered by Baku, the head of the troupe, on one of those village girls who were so fond of players; but no-one was sure. Certainly Zidane, with his blond hair worn shoulder-length and boyish good looks, bore little resemblance to their portly leader.

He reckoned his birthdays from the Midwinter Festival, as they were always in the city at that time of year and thus better able to celebrate. In a few days, then, he would officially turn eighteen. Over the last few months, the men in the troupe had at last begun to treat him as one of their own, giving him ale in the taverns and introducing him to the fine art of wenching. And one of them had promised him that that night, he should see something new, something that only the city had to offer. He felt a shiver of nervous anticipation at the thought of it.

As if on cue, Blank appeared, leaning on the door frame, arms crossed nonchalantly across his chest. His cool, ironic eyes raked Zidane, still shirtless as he finished his exercises, and he smirked.

“I was going to ask if you were ready to leave, but I see I shall have to allow you another few minutes to prepare yourself.”

Zidane shot his friend a rueful smile, and rummaged in his trunk for a clean shirt without too many creases in it. Blank, his best friend and five years his senior, always managed to make him feel like a scruffy little boy. Blank, ever cool and aloof, ever ready with a witticism or a cutting retort. Blank, who seemed to be above the shallow amusements that ale and women provided. As a young adolescent, before his voice had broken, Zidane had often played the girl to Blank’s young lover (Baku had declared it a boon to the whole troupe that he was pretty enough to do so). The costumes had been a constant source of discomfort, but they were more than compensated for by the intoxication of the stage, and the tingling warmth he felt flooding through his body when Blank had kissed him. He had had kisses since then, of course, many of them; actors were always popular. But, though they were pleasant enough, especially from pretty girls with sparkling eyes, none had ever quite matched up to the ones he had shared with Blank and a thousand appreciative audiences. He didn’t know why this should be. Maybe it was the stage; maybe something else. He hoped to find out tonight.

When at last he had tugged his boots on and satisfied himself that his shirt was buttoned straight, he turned back to Blank, still watching him from the doorway with the arched eyebrow and the slight upturn of one corner of the mouth that in him signified approval.

“You don’t scrub up badly for a bratling. Ready to go?”

Zidane nodded, trying to give no hint of his disordered nerves, and followed his friend out of the inn and down into the twisting backstreets of the city.

*

Zidane stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together, trying to regain some semblance of warmth, while Blank conferred with some unseen stranger through a speakhole in the door of a small, unremarkable looking building. It had been a longer walk than he’d anticipated, and colder, and his fingertips were growing numb. He’d given up hope of being able to feel his feet ten minutes back. But at last, Blank and his acquaintance seemed to have settled their differences, and the door creaked open, revealing a comfortingly warm glow from within.

“Sorry about that, sirs,” said the doorman, a large, thickset man with a surprisingly genteel accent, “but we had some trouble a couple of months back. Have to be extra careful.” He politely ushered the pair in, and pointed them to the stairs at his back, before resuming his vigil at the door. Zidane hesitantly followed Blank up the stairs, hearing the sounds of music and chatter growing steadily louder as they approached the main body of the club. At last, they reached the door to the inner sanctum, and Blank, with an eloquently ironic raised eyebrow, held it open for Zidane and gestured him through.

Zidane had been trying to imagine what the place would look like ever since Blank had quietly, and with a surprising amount of tact and sympathy, invited him there a couple of weeks back. But nothing his mind could have conceived would have prepared him for the actuality. There was nothing seedy about the place; it was handsomely furnished, although admittedly the red velvet wall hangings were a little extravagant, no matter how well they complimented the upholstery of the divans scattered around the room. Seated on these, or standing in couples or small groups, men were talking. Only men, of course. The few who were alone were mainly to be found at the small bar tucked discreetly away in one corner of the room. In the opposite corner, a string quartet was providing some quiet background music. Zidane looked around with a certain amount of prurient curiosity, but saw nothing less innocent than a couple holding hands as they talked. Blank, with his usual ability to know exactly what his young friend was thinking, grinned down at him.

“You can calm your hopes on that front, I’m afraid. They have private rooms for that sort of thing here.” As Zidane blushed, he continued, “Come along. We’ll miss the show if we don’t hurry.”

“What show?” Zidane asked as Blank expertly steered him through the crowd to a door at the back of the room. His friend only smiled knowingly and placed a silencing finger on Zidane’s lips. He spoke quietly to the man guarding the door, and Zidane heard the clink of money changing hands. Then they were shown through into the adjoining room.

Where the previous chamber had been bright, and red, noisy and animated, this one was dim, hushed and still, lit only by faint blue lights. Zidane saw that it had been laid out like a miniature version of a theatre, with a stage and several rows of raked seats. Blank led him to a place right at the front; most of those further back had already been filled. Before five minutes had passed, the seats on either side of them were taken as well. Zidane wanted to ask Blank what was about to happen, but he found he didn’t dare break the anticipatory silence which had settled on the room. It had grown so still that when a voice spoke out from somewhere at the back of the stage, he jumped.

“And now, gentlemen, for your pleasure, we present the loveliest flower of our garden… Kuja.”

What Zidane had assumed to be a black backdrop now turned out to be gauze, and as the lamps behind it flared suddenly to life, he could see a figure behind it, standing perfectly still, side-on to the audience, with his head bowed. Some sort of elaborate headdress elongated his shape, making it strange, somehow alien. Then, as the veil in front of him slowly rose, music broke out, and he began to move.

Zidane had been bred on theatre, on spectacle, since before he could remember. He’d acted in hundreds of plays and watched thousands more. But he’d never seen anybody move the way this creature moved. And ‘creature’ was the right word. He didn’t look entirely human. His headdress was a glorious red, and stood out like flames around his face. His only clothing was a loincloth of a matching shade, short at the front and hanging down at the back like a tail. Each bolt of fabric swung individually, emphasising his every movement. His skin was luminously pale, taking on the blue tint of the lighting. His gestures seemed to tell a story in some language Zidane didn’t know. His hips moved sinuously to the rhythm of the music. The muscles in his torso rippled with each step and twirl. Zidane was enchanted.

And then the creature on the stage looked straight at him, and smiled – no, smirked – and that look made him at once entirely human, and Zidane was breathing like he’d been punched in the gut.

As the music swelled behind him, growing more excited, more frenzied, Kuja picked up the pace of his dance, swirling across the stage, his loincloth lifting slightly with the motion, revealing just a flash of inner thigh. He came to rest back in the centre, right in front of the footlights. Hands locked above his head, he undulated from head to toe, each muscle in his stomach rippling in one continuous movement. As the music reached its final triumphant peak, he dropped suddenly, knees spread wide, head and arms flung backwards, and with a crash of percussion the stage went black.

There was a moment of silence, then the audience erupted into applause, stamps and wolf whistles. Zidane, grinning from ear to ear and banging his hands together so hard that they stung, became abruptly aware that Blank was watching him. Had been watching him for some time. Clapping slowly and absently, his friend leaned over to speak in his ear.

“Has that cleared a couple of things up for you?”

Zidane looked at him thoughtfully. “One or two, yes.”

~

Back in the main area of the club, the night was picking up. Most of the seating had been cleared to one side, and the band was playing louder and livelier, providing music for the couples and groups of men were dancing. Ignoring these, and Zidane’s clear desire to join them, Blank installed them at a table in the corner by the bar and got them both a pint of ale. One or two of the lone men looked over at them with obvious interest, and Zidane was amazed by how little he minded. He did move his seat a little closer to Blank’s, however, when one of them smiled at him and made as if to get up. They drank in silence for a few minutes. It was Zidane who eventually broke it.

“There aren’t – places like this everywhere we go?”

Blank smiled, and shook his head. “Not that I know of. I’ve only seen one outside the city, much smaller and cruder than here. Of course, knowing of places like this isn’t easy, if you’ve no-one to introduce you. They’re careful – you saw that at the door.”

Zidane didn’t ask why. The short answer was that they had to be. The long one – well, it wasn’t right for a place like this, a time like this, a mood like his now; for he found he was really enjoying himself. He asked instead, a little shyly: “So, what do you do the rest of the time, when we’re on the road?”

There was that ironic eyebrow again, and Zidane blushed for the implication. Blank relented.

“It depends. Even out in the country, there are signs that one gets to pick up on. Signals. You notice the kerchiefs some of these men are wearing round their necks? That’s one of them. Of course,” he smiled, bitterly, “things can turn a little ugly if one is wrong. Fortunately that doesn’t happen very often.” Zidane thought of the handful of times Blank had come back to their camp bruised, or with a bloodied lip or nose (and always with bloodied knuckles), and how Baku seldom scolded him for brawling as he sometimes scolded the others. He said nothing. Blank was continuing, “And naturally, now and again there are like-minded people in the troupe. And no, I shan’t tell you who they were,” he said with a grin, forestalling Zidane’s next question, “but I will tell you there are none at the moment.”

“Well, not quite none,” said Zidane, and his smile was shy and wicked in equal proportions.

*

They’d been in the club for maybe an hour, and it had gradually filled until there was barely a seat to be had in the place. Blank was elbowing his way through the crush that had formed around the bar. Zidane was contemplating the dregs of his drink, and feeling a little light-headed, when he noticed someone making their way towards his table. His hair shone silver in the club lights, but he didn’t look old; barely older than Zidane himself, in fact. His hips swayed a little as he walked, as if well aware that there were eyes on them; he was wearing some kind of sarong that swung from side to side with his movement. He carried himself with a confidence and a hint of self-consciousness that Zidane, an actor himself, recognised and admired. All the same, he wasn’t about to let this stranger sit down in Blank’s seat. Not until he was standing in front of him, smirking, and Zidane abruptly realised who he was.

“Kuja,” he breathed, half to himself, and the smirk deepened into a real smile.

“My, my,” Kuja drawled. “Full marks to you. You wouldn’t believe how few people recognise me outside the costume.”

“My friend and I are actors. I make my living with people in costumes. There’s a knack to seeing through them. I’m Zidane, by the way.” With an effort of will, he managed to check himself mid-babble, and held out his hand. Kuja took it. Squeezed it. Held onto it rather longer than necessary, tracing his thumb over the knuckles.

“Well,” he said, “a young man who can see through my costume. How intriguing. I hope you like the view.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Zidane was utterly incapable of speech.

By the time Blank got back to the table with the drinks, Kuja had ascertained that he was Zidane’s friend (no more and no less), had pulled up another seat for himself, and had managed to take hold of Zidane’s hand again. Zidane was looking at him, the kind of look Blank had often seen him give on the stage - sometimes he’d been on the receiving end of it there - but never in real life. He recognised the mix of lust and incredulous joy, remembered what it was like the first time he came here. He made his decision.

“Zidane,” he said, dumping the glasses on the table, “I’ve run into a couple of old friends at the bar.” That at least was true. “Why don’t you two have these, and I’ll go and talk with them for a little while.” He leaned close to Zidane. “They ring a bell when the place closes. Meet me at the top of the stairs then.” He then turned to Kuja, and softly murmured something into his ear, before turning and heading towards the bar again.

“What did he say?” asked Zidane, intrigued by the look he’d seen cross the other’s face.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Kuja answered, but he watched Blank’s retreating back with a measure of respect.

*

Zidane was warm. It was a warmth that started curled in his belly and wrapped tendrils around his limbs, that settled in his fingertips and lent them and extraordinary sensitivity. Intellectually, he knew he must be drunk; his memories of how he’d got from the red heart of the club to the clean white sheets of the bed on which he was currently lying were a little hazy, for example. But he didn’t feel drunk. All he felt was the silk of Kuja’s hair running through his fingers (and he imagined he could differentiate each individual strand), the heat rising from Kuja’s bare skin, the vague shudder of a pulse under his lips as he mouthed at the exposed throat.

His shirt had got lost somewhere by the door, his boots by the foot of the bed, but he hadn’t been quite brave enough to remove his breeches yet and they were growing uncomfortably tight. Kuja was naked. When they’d reached the bed he’d simply shrugged out of his clothes, and they fell off him as if they’d been made to, fluttering downwards to pool in a silver-lilac heap at his feet. Then he’d lain down on the bed, impossibly pale skin almost disappearing into the white of the sheets, and beckoned Zidane to join him. He’d hardly dared to do so – Kuja seemed to glow like the smokeless lamps that lit the room, and Zidane felt to touch his skin might be as dangerous as touching their glass – it would either be stained, or shatter, or burn your fingers. But when Kuja’s hands locked around his wrists and pulled him onto the bed, and Kuja’s mouth claimed his for their first real kiss, warm and wet and full of promise like the spring fields after the rain, none of those things happened – though Zidane wondered whether he might have shattered instead.

His hands drifted down Kuja’s back and then pressed him tighter as he claimed another kiss, the simple contact of their bare chests pressing together hotter than Zidane could ever have anticipated. He groaned into Kuja’s mouth, hips thrusting involuntarily, and that was all the encouragement Kuja needed to attack the fastenings of his breeches. Zidane gasped as clever fingers freed his cock and stroked up and down its length, whilst another hand slid into the back of his breeches, and cupped his arse briefly before tugging them down. He broke the kiss to bite frantically at Kuja’s neck, his ear, his shoulder. Kuja chuckled indulgently and pulled away so as to dispose completely of his breeches, and Zidane arched his back and wriggled and kicked until he was free of them. Before he had time to think, Kuja’s hands had clamped down on his hips, forcing them back to the mattress. Then Kuja’s mouth closed over his cock, and thought abruptly became a complete impossibility.

Hot. Wet. Perfect. Zidane bucked his hips, helplessly seeking more contact, but Kuja’s surprisingly strong hands kept him firmly in place. Zidane made a sound very much like a sob when Kuja pulled his mouth off him, which transmuted into a groan as Kuja’s tongue laved up and down his shaft, circling the head and teasing the tiny slit. Then the wet hotness engulfed him in again, deeper this time, and there were hands as well, squeezing the base of his cock, ghosting over his balls, a thumb pressing wickedly against his perineum and making him squirm. But all too soon, Kuja took his mouth away again, and this time he made no move to continue.

Zidane forced his eyes open, tried to remember how speaking worked. “Kuja… please?” he managed, his voice hoarse.

Kuja smiled at him. “Oh no, my beauty, I don’t think so. That’s not how I want you to come. I’ve got a far better idea than that.” And he took one of Zidane’s hands again, kissed it, darted his tongue over the fingertips, and guided it over his chest, along his side, and down to cup his arse. Zidane watched, his eyes very wide. “That is… unless you’d rather not?” And for the first time, his supreme self-confidence seemed to waver a little.

It took Zidane longer to find his tongue this time, but when he did, he was emphatic. “No – I mean, yes. Yes, I want to. God, yes. You don’t even know how much.” And Kuja’s arousal jumped a little as he said it, and that had to be the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Thus far, at least.

Because it only got better. “You’ve not done this before?” Kuja asked, and Zidane shook his head. “Perhaps I should do the preparation, then. Would you like to see that?” Zidane licked his lips, swallowed, and nodded. Kuja leaned across to the bedside table for a little glass jar, eliciting another shiver and gasp from Zidane as their cocks brushed together, from a movement too deliberately casual to have been accidental. Then he leaned back on the bed, legs spread, erection resting heavily against his stomach. Two of his fingers, slick with whatever was in the jar, teased around his opening, then pushed in, a little at a time. When they were two knuckles deep, he began to twist them, scissoring them apart a little, pulling them out and then pushing them back again. Kuja’s eyes fluttered closed and his head lolled back as he penetrated himself even deeper, and before he knew he had moved Zidane was on him, kissing his thighs, his balls, and yes, those maddening, teasing fingers as they withdrew again. The lube tasted foul, oily and sour, and he spluttered a little and wiped his mouth even as Kuja’s hand slid into the hair at the back of his neck, and Kuja’s legs locked around his back, pulling him forward, and the sudden loss of balance almost made him fall on top of his bed mate. Kuja smiled up at him and kissed him again, before bucking his hips in a manner that could only be described as pornographic, and Zidane felt his cock nudge against the slick entrance. Gripping himself in one hand, he slowly pushed in.

It was all he could do not to thrust again immediately, the pressure around his cock was so wonderful, so intense. But he remembered the village girls he’d been with, and how the first one had cried even though she hadn’t wanted to, and the thought of those tears, of anything other than where he actually was and what he was actually doing, gave him another moment of self-control. Kuja’s beautiful features were contorted, but with something that didn’t quite look like pain, and the noises he made as Zidane began to move on him, slowly as he could, were nothing like sobs. They were shuddering gasps, but gasps with something else underneath them, and as Zidane slid his hands under Kuja’s shoulders and kissed along the length of his collarbone, he realised what it was.

Poetry. The great love speech from ‘The Final Kingdom’. Unconsciously, he began to adopt the speech’s rhythm and then to recite the lines himself: “For my lover is like the cloud in the heavens, that will not be pinned down; For he is like the squall at sea that sports with the waves and wrecks the tallest boats; For that when he touches me I shiver like a lake touched by the wind…” It was nonsense, of course, but every Player in the land had it by heart. It was therefore all the more gratifying for Zidane, when, as he closed his hand around Kuja’s cock and began to stroke him in time with his thrusts, Kuja not only broke the passage up with his gasping, but began to skip lines, repeat them, go back on himself, until the whole dissolved into a series of moans and gasps and grunts, and he spent all over Zidane’s hand and his own stomach. The sight of that alone was nearly enough to send Zidane over the edge, and he came a few moments later, thrusting as deep as he could go and shuddering all over as Kuja petted his back and made soothing noises.

*

It seemed an eternity later when the bell that Blank had warned him of rang, an eternity spent lying side by side with Kuja, touching him softly, watching his face. Zidane rolled gracelessly out of comfort, bed and Kuja’s arms. He was beginning to feel drunk now as he hadn’t before; buttoning his shirt proved and impossible task, so Kuja did it for him. It was suddenly hard to meet his eyes.

“Can I – I mean, will I -” Kuja’s finger on his lips forestalled the question Zidane was going to ask before he was quite sure what it was.

“Zidane, my dear, I’m a sprite, a wraith. This is the only place I exist. You might see me here, if you come back. If you’re a good boy.”

Zidane nodded, and managed a smile. It was less than he’d hoped for, but more than he’d feared.

Kuja kissed him again, lingering and affectionate. “Run along now. Your friend is waiting for you.” He swatted him on the arse, just for emphasis, and as Zidane closed the door of the room behind him he caught a glimpse of Kuja beginning to pick up his clothes.

Somehow, he navigated the mess of corridors that housed the club’s private rooms, and found his way back to the main chamber. Blank was waiting for him by the door. They were almost the last to leave.

“So,” Blank said, as they began the long trek back towards the inn, “you had a good time?” Zidane attempted his own version of the Eyebrow, and it was clearly successful enough to make Blank look away, muttering, “Alright! No details!” After a minute he added, “Do you want to go back again?”

Zidane paused for a moment. “Not for a little while, maybe, but at least once before we leave would be good. It was fun. Provided you had a good time too?” It suddenly struck him that he’d pretty much abandoned his friend to his own devices.

Blank shook his head. “Arrogant young pup, aren’t you? I’ve been going alone for years, I know perfectly well how to enjoy the place without you.”

Zidane smiled. “But you’ll enjoy it more with me, won’t you?” Blank didn’t see fit to dignify that with an answer. Zidane smiled, and slipped his arm through Blank’s. “Next time, you’ll show me how else to have fun there.”

Blank glanced down with rueful affection. “I suppose I shall.”

Zidane grinned up at him. “Does that mean you’ll dance with me?”

Blank didn’t answer, but Zidane knew he’d already won.

END