#x58

The building must have been someone's villa; the inside was spacious, filled with rotting furnishings half buried in debris and flora. The smell of mold was strong, even with the fresh scent of rain. Chunks of the roof were missing, and loud waterfalls of rain splashed from the holes onto moth-eaten carpet.

Squall trailed after Bartz as the slim young man threaded his way over rotting timber through the rooms.

"Think someone used to live here?" Bartz asked over his shoulder.

"Who knows," Squall said curtly, slightly tense. Manikins wouldn't need shelter from the heavy rain, but the labyrinth of corridors and rooms—made worse by the crumbling walls and sagging ceilings—would give them plenty of places to make an ambush.

"Huh... wonder where they went," the mime replied, rubbing his chin in thought.

Squall didn't bother to answer. The world they were on was strange anyway, a lonely place inhabited by only moogles and manikins. The only thinking, breathing people he had seen had either been a warrior of Cosmos or Chaos. The land itself seemed to carry only the ghosts of civilization—ruins of towns or towers, places like this villa which had evidence of life but none of the memories that gave it meaning.

(Like the manikins... or even ourselves...)

"Oh, here we go," Bartz said, veering sharply to the left through a hole in one of the hallways. "It's not so loud in here."

Squall followed, glancing around and privately agreeing. The entire room seemed fairly intact except for a collapsed partition, but water simply trickled down through the tall pile of mortar and wood. The glass windows lining the room's southern wall were all broken or missing; a soft breeze filled with humid rain tugged at the tattered, sun-bleached curtains shielding them.

Other than the broken windows and the hole from which they entered, there was no other entrance. The door was probably buried under the caved-in rubble. Squall approved. This room could be easily defended against ambush and there was enough room to maneuver for the two of them. The debris on the floor was minimal: broken picture frames, clocks, scattered piles of rubble and furniture, something that may have been a rug.

Bartz bounded into the middle of the chamber, rubbing the goosebumps on his arms. He looked about with a speculative eye.

The room probably served as a sitting chamber to some forgotten family. Now the floral patterned wallpaper was peeling and cracked, faded by time, revealing the plaster underneath. All the furniture was touched by decay, though not as poorly as the ones in the more damaged rooms. An upright piano set against a wall was sprouting hairs of fungi, the fabric upholstery of its bench bearing hints of former lavishness. A low floor table hunkered off-center in the room, still faithfully supporting the shattered remains of a china tea set.

Squall approached the table, examining it. The wood seemed dry enough, and while it may have been sturdy in the prime of its life, the toll of weather had turned it brittle. He swept the china off it onto the floor with a loud clatter and lifted a foot, smashing it solidly through the top.

Bartz jumped. "Yikes! Warn someone before you do that!"

"We need a fire." Squall felt that was explanation enough, breaking the splintered planks into sizable pieces. "Make a fire pit out of those rocks there."

"Oh, good idea! I'm on it!"

Gathering the most suitable pieces of wood, Squall dropped them beside the haphazard pit Bartz had made. Squall was eager to get dry, but he stacked the wood carefully, rearranging the pit as he had been trained. It wouldn't do to burn down their shelter.

"Wish we had some food though," Bartz said sadly, crouching by Squall and wringing the water from his cape. "Didn't find any when I first explored through here."

(Why did you expect to even find some?) "Make due until we can catch up with the others," Squall replied. Concentrating, he coaxed a flame from the aged wood with his magic.

"Man! I hope the rain stops soon..."

"You shouldn't have gone running off."

Bartz rocked back on his heels, shaking droplets from his unruly hair. "I was pretty sure I could have reached that chest. That would've put me one over on Zidane, you know."

There was nothing polite Squall could say to that, since he had spent a good hour extracting a panicking Bartz from the trap the mime had gotten entangled in—a trap which had dangled him off the edge of a cliff which terminated quite a ways below into a turbulent sea.

Squall fed sticks into the baby fire, lips pressed into a thin line. Bartz had been lucky that Laguna had badgered Squall to look for him when the mime hadn't rejoined the group after wandering off.

He barely registered Bartz getting to his feet, staring absently at the flicker of flames. Squall still remembered how white the mime's face had been when he saved him; there was something extremely unsettling about how frightened the almost stupidly fearless Bartz had been.

The growing campfire popped loudly, and Squall shook the image from his head, focusing on his fire. The flames were high now, adding a splash of color to a room washed grey from the weather. The dry heat clashed with the humid air, but it was better than nothing. Satisfied, Squall stood and stripped off his leather jacket, shaking the moisture from it, grateful it kept some of him dry.

A loud 'plunk' made him jump, and he whirled around with his gunblade flashing into form at the unseen threat, jacket dropping to his feet.

Bartz was standing innocently by the piano, raising his brows as Squall's flat stare settled on him. Then with exaggerated deliberateness, as if he knew he was doing something that would piss the younger man off, Bartz tapped another key.

Indulging in a sigh, Squall put away his weapon. "Quit it. And get over here before you catch a cold." Bartz's thin clothes were soaked through, sticking to his skin and dripping water onto the floor.

Instead of obeying (why did I think he would listen?), Bartz sat down on the bench before the piano. It creaked loudly under his slight frame, but didn't collapse the way Squall privately hoped it would. The mime pressed a few more keys. The plonks were harsh.

"It still works," he hummed.

"If you're going to fool around, you can take the first watch."

Bartz showed no indication that he had heard, leaping up to tinker with the piano with single-minded determination.

Squall gave up. Sometimes it was better just to chalk up certain things—and certain people—as lost causes.

Stripping off his gloves, the mercenary settled by the fire, pushing wet hair from his face. He could hear the rain still pounding at the roof overhead and hoped that the weight of the water wouldn't cause the rotting timbers to break.

He stretched, absently watching the firelight etch Bartz's shadow onto the walls, shade copying mime as Bartz muttered curses under his breath while he banged around inside the instrument. The contrast from the pale-faced young man clinging to Squall after he had pulled him to safety was as stark as night and day. He wasn't sure why the image had struck him so intensely.

Squall rested an elbow on a knee, chin in hand, feeling cocooned by the sticky air and steady sound of rain. Did Bartz really think he could fix that piano? It seemed as derelict as anything else on this world. Was it even worth saving?

'BLONK!'

Jolted out of his half-doze, Squall surged to his feet, Revolver flashing into his hand once more, ready to strike.

A few 'plinks' and 'donks' joined the first 'blonk' as Bartz, seated again at the piano, methodically tested every key and the two pedals at its base. A third pedal lay tossed to the side.

Squall was busy deciding the best way to destroy the instrument and incapacitate his companion that wouldn't be considered traitorous, when the random banging of keys abruptly transitioned into a lively, upbeat rhythm which shockingly resembled some form of music. Well-performed music, at that.

Squall's first instinct was to tell Bartz to stop; the music was loud, better suited for a party, and there was a likely chance it could draw unwanted attention from their enemies. But the mime seemed ridiculously happy as his fingers danced over the keys with gusto, and it was a far better image to see than the trembling, weak-kneed Bartz from a few hours ago. Was Bartz remembering something from his past?

"Didn't know you played," Squall finally said, relaxing but keeping his gunblade at hand.

"Huh?" Bartz tilted his head back and caught Squall's eyes with a crooked grin, his entire body swaying as he continued to play. "Me neither!"

(Typical.) "Maybe your heart remembers something your mind doesn't."

"Maybe." Bartz laughed. "I feel like I might remember something—it's really not a big deal though." The tune slowed then, notes cascading through a glissando before falling into the measured beat of a classic waltz. His face softened. "But it doesn't stop me from feeling good when I do remember."

(Feeling good to remember?) Squall's brows furrowed slightly. Did Squall remember anything? His name, sure, and how to fight. A few vague and unimportant details about himself. Was there anything worth remembering beyond that? Squall didn't even remember how he had received the scar that marred his face—and he didn't really care.

For some of the other warriors, it was just as important to remember as it was to win the war. But Squall agreed with Bartz—it just wasn't a big deal to remember.

But did it feel good to remember?

Squall blinked then, noticing Bartz's hazel gaze watching him intently. The mime's expression was as carefree as ever, but his look was knowing. Squall scowled, eliciting a gentle smile from Bartz before the latter closed his eyes and lost himself to the music.

(Whatever.) Squall didn't need to remember. He wasn't even sure if it would feel good to remember. The past was gone after all. With or without it, he was still Squall and he was still here, on this desolate battlefield fighting a war he didn't fully understand, surrounded by people he had no desire to know any more than necessary—because when it was all over, he'd never see them again. They'd either be dead or returned to their own worlds.

The fact was, in this strange world, the past was gone and the future was uncertain. There was no evidence there ever was a yesterday and tomorrow might never happen.

So that only left now. (... Heh. That busybody told me something similar, didn't he?)

With another ripple of notes, the waltz showered into a particularly difficult etude, drawing back Squall's attention. He had no real appreciation for music, but the way the harmony's notes pelted over each other in contrast to the powerful, staccato chords of the melody reminded him of the rain raging outside their musty, humid shelter.

He watched Bartz mimic the storm with the old instrument as Bartz's shadow mimicked Bartz. And Squall realized the warmth he was feeling wasn't from dredged up memories or nostalgia sitting out of his reach, but the here and now. It wasn't about feeling good from remembering memories... it was about the moment of remembrance—the now, spent with the people who triggered the memories and the bond forged from it.

This feeling Bartz was trying to share with him... Squall felt he understood it—just a little.

Bartz's hands suddenly crashed down on the keys, startling Squall out of his reverie as a fit of sneezing shook the mime's slight frame.

In all fairness, there was nothing really spectacular about him, no one trait that could be definitive of his sex god status. If an objective breakdown could be made, this dancer of the wanton was rather ordinary in looks and build. Cute would be a generous conclusion; 'stick boy' would be a more derisive one.

But how the clothes made the man! And how the man wore the clothes! The garment was tailored to enhance every swish and step, to accentuate curves where there were none, and to exaggerate size in areas that could benefit from a little exaggeration. It was a holy garment, he was sure, a blessed gift from Cosmos herself.

Despite his comrades dry-humping him for his attention and his foes kidnapping him for deliciously erotic purposes, this snake-hipped thirst trap was more interested in dancing his way into the heart—and pants—of only one person.

---

To the uninitiated, Number Five was just a goofy, skinny kid with a perchance for oversized, stinky yellow fowl and gung-ho grandpas. His personality was easy-going, best characterized as 'mostly harmless,' and no one really took him very seriously.

He certainly wasn't a serious threat when it came to rating polls concerning the ability to send someone into orgasmic throes with just a look alone.

That is, until the fateful day when Bartz had been engaged in another treasure hunting competition with his bestest non-bird buddy, Zidane, around the crumbled foundations of what had once been a sprawling temple. Zidane had the lead, that bastard, but Bartz wasn't one to give up. And there, half buried in the silt, he had found his greatest treasure yet...

Resting within the shard, a warrior's spirit...

---

Bartz waited until their little band of plucky heroes (and anti-heroes) stopped for the evening, moving away from the main camp once he was sure no one was watching. The last time he had changed into a new job before doing the research resulted in Zidane never letting him live down the sheep costume.

After double-checking that he was definitely alone among the stunted trees, Bartz changed into his newly acquired job in a burst of sparkles. However, once the twinkles faded, he found himself profoundly disappointed by the change. This new class didn't afford him any cool armor like Kain's or an amazing BFS like Cloud's. He didn't even get a nice hat.

"Borrrrrring," Bartz sighed aloud, plucking at the green sash around his waist with disinterest.

At least, that's what he thought, until he returned to the camp still wearing his new clothes.

---

Once he realized that his new job's abilities were pretty much "smooth moves confuse enemies, leave blood on the dance floor," all sorts of possibilities opened up for Bartz. Not that he had too much of a choice about it—returning to camp the first night resulted in a number of pleas, propositions, and the trauma of seeing Laguna strip himself naked, begging for Bartz's cock. (Not that the guy wasn't that bad looking, but it was Laguna, who acted more like a dad than a potential playmate.)

Chaos's warriors weren't that much better, as "confuse enemies" apparently meant "make them totally horny for you" and sorry sir, but the Emperor was a bit too kinky for Bartz's tastes. (The sun-kissed, shirtless athlete with the feathered bleached hair and the large-eyed slight of a magician with the even more slight clothing would have been a different matter though...)

Still, it wasn't all that bad. It was now easy to charm his way out of cooking the camp meal, and any time Vaan started up with that "I asked her old she was" story again, Bartz could swoon him into silence with a flick of a wrist. Manikins became just a routine annoyance so he and Zidane were able to focus on more important things—like treasure hunting. (Bartz was always careful to change back to his boring ol' mime job during those times, else they'd never get anything done.)

Such was the power of the Clothes. He absolutely couldn't wait until they met up with the other team again! Oh, the plan he had. The plan he had! (It seemed appropriate to do a good mimic of that insane clown's laughter here, but Bartz wondered if maybe that would've been just a little too creepy...)

So he was pretty stoked. He danced a bit in glee—and spent the next twenty minutes running from his lust-crazed teammates.

---

Thankfully, Bartz didn't have to wait long before he got his chance to use his moves on the one person that really mattered.

---

Smoothing the front of his pants, Bartz was ready to put Mission: Tempting Tango into motion.

Actually, should he call it that? He didn't really have any tango plans—well, not the vertical kind, anyway.

Whatever. Either way, he was ready. The power of the Clothes could not be denied, and though he wasn't really sure what would happen when they came off for the Horizontal Tango, it was something he figured he'd worry about later rather than now.

At the moment though, he needed a special touch... This was a very special person, after all. No one would call Boko's feather very sexy (quite the opposite), so that was out, but as Bartz scanned the camp, an idea came to him that was just perfect.

Taking a deep breath, Bartz clapped his cheeks a few times to psyche himself up and bore down on his victim, Flirt Mode On, backed by the 100% Seduction Guarantee of his awesome outfit.

---

Cecil, Firion, and the Onion Knight were standing together by the pitched tents, talking shop. If Firion had any type of spider sense of the incoming danger, he might've been able to run, but by the time he heard Cecil's warning intake of breath, it was too late.

Firion's wide-eyed stare was immediately captured by Bartz's smoldering blue gaze filled with promise, a proper deer-in-headlights expression which spoke volumes of Firion's inexperience. The younger man's dark skin flushed almost as red as Bartz's shirt as the dancer approached with deliberate steps. Beside Firion, Cecil quickly averted his gaze as he understood the peril, reaching over to cover the Onion Knight's own with a hand, much to the confused boy's protest.

Snapping his fingers as he swished, Bartz boldly sidled right up against the weaponsmaster with a knowing smile. Firion's breath hitched as he licked dry lips, eyes darting this way and that, but they always found their way back to Bartz.

"May I borrow this?" Bartz asked in his best mimic of Kain's baritone, even as his hand slid teasingly around Firion's waist to pluck the wild rose from his belt.

A soft 'ah' escaped Firion even as Bartz slithered away, leaving only the lingering presence of his heat seeping through Firion's armor and clothes.

The Onion Knight pried Cecil's fingers from his face, shooting the paladin an irritated glare. "What's going on?"

Cecil let out a long, shaky breath (using Kain's voice was a dirty trick on top of everything else!), glancing at the blankly staring Firion. Or more specifically, glancing at Firion's pants. "A... premature conclusion, it seems..."

---

The objective of Mission: Tempting Tango was sitting on the other side of camp, scraping a whetstone along the gleaming blade of his weapon as Zidane prattled his ear off.

Brimming with all the sexual confidence his amazing outfit from his amazing job gave him, Bartz approached the duo slowly, waiting to draw their attention. It was Zidane that noticed him at first, the genome's welcoming grin freezing in place at the sight of the red shirt and bared skin. Bartz could almost hear the 'oh shit' running through his friend's head.

Squall, rather surprised at the thief's sudden silence, looked up from his gunblade with bemused curiosity, and that was Bartz's cue to get his show on the road.

Bartz's characteristic relaxed posture snapped into a proud puff of his chest, shoulders thrown back as his gaze fixed on Squall's face, using all the Power of the Clothes to hold the younger man's attention. Because this was It, this was all his flirting, his seduction, his confession, all in one, and he'd be damned if Squall would dare look away.

With a faintly naughty smile, Bartz gently settled Firion's rose between his teeth, arms curving above his head as his hips began to gyrate, lifting the heels of his feet to tap a steady staccato beat on the ground. The red-shirted sex god dormant within growled in need and Bartz abandoned himself into that passion as he started to dance, a carnal undulation of limbs caressing the air and each other. As he whirled and swayed his way over to the pair, the claps of his hands and the stamps of his feet rose in intensity and speed, music not unlike the thrust and take of sex.

Zidane watched open-mouthed with undisguised want as the tempo of Bartz's rhythm began to slow as he stopped before Squall, a hand settling on a rocking hip as the other reached out to press against the front of Squall's chest in a possessive gesture.

Bartz was mentally ecstatic at how Squall wasn't protesting at the clear invasion of his personal space and this encouraged him ever further. Slipping forward, he pushed a leg between Squall's knees, sliding them apart even as he slid between them. Still moving to that languorous, unheard beat, Bartz's hands settled on Squall's broad shoulders, sliding over the furred collar and along the man's neck, thumbs curling along his jaw to turn the scarred face upward.

The smile on Bartz's face was confident and inviting behind the shadow of the rose, his body rolling against Squall's in flagrant invitation, thumbs stroking Squall's skin. Zidane moaned, but it sounded so faraway to the mime, so focused was he on the lines of Squall's body pressing through the thin fabric between them.

The tension was palpable between them and it was all Bartz could do to wait for Squall's reaction, for the mercenary to give in to the Power of the Clothes the way everyone else inevitably did.

After a moment of eternity, Squall reached up, fingers brushing against Bartz's lips as he took the rose from the other's teeth. Squall twirled the flower stem between his fingers, watching the dancer from beneath smoky lashes in what Bartz could only call a coy expression. It thrilled him straight to the groin.

Squall's lips parted, a soft inhale. Bartz's hands, stomach, and cock tightened in anticipation.

"... You realize you look like an idiot, right?"

---