A/n- The second FFVII variation of my latest cross-fandom themefic. 12 songfics revolving around dancing and the song Brokedown Palace by Jimmy’s Chicken Shack. The song has been butchered. All characters copyright their respected owners.

-pip

Pip Malloy

The rain quietly dropped, unnoticed by any in the elegant ballroom, utterly devoid of the lavish furnishings that had been so typical of the first Shinra. Instead, the understated elegance that was Rufus’s style, everything perfectly beautiful and harsh. The music was the most melodic, the food was the most delicious, the people the most beautiful, the clothes the most expensive, the very breaths drawn were diamond encrusted. Expense lingered on every word. Everything was perfect.

The moon shone coolly, a woman’s pale face turned to a sleeping sun for comfort. The ballroom hung with diamonds, the music a tad loud, the women a tad underdressed, the money a tad inconspicuous. Everywhere, something happened, money exchanged hands, souls were traded, lives were bought. Everything in the room held a price, and the one man who had the money to buy it was content to watch it sell itself.

He killed for a living, cold and heartless as the man who ruled him, more so, for he did the dirty work the pristine prince needed done. He was the iron grip with which Rufus ruled, and there were rumors he was not born, but sprung from shadows fully formed. And on the dance floor he was a killer, moving quietly, lightly, spinning, stepping, one could easily imagine his hands holding swords, knives, guns, instead of a totally focused blonde.

She was beautiful, smart, and well respected. He was dangerous, dark, quiet, and brooding. In his hands, she felt like silk, molded up against him while she whispered terribly indecent things in his ears. Her hair, flowing, black, melded with his, shorn short. The blue suit he wore complimented the deep red of her gown, and they spun over the dance floor, the only tastefully elegant creatures in the room. Eyes were drawn to her, but stayed on him.

The blonde was dressed in a serviceable dark blue gown, which matched his own suit, and she danced with the grace of someone who had many, many instructors. Steps were ingrained into her breeding, and while she did not move with the lethal grace he possessed, she was marked a killer as surely as he was. Dark blue, one of the four people in the room wearing such a taboo colour.

And dark brown eyes slid shut, in his mind, he went back to earlier that night, to frantically stolen kisses and his own fierce denials. He went back to possessive hands, hands he himself had taught to kill, maim, ruin, he went back to a flat, broad chest, to a tapered waist, to black hair growing out like the wings of a raven. He went back to the unmarred skin, porcelain fine, to blacker than black eyes and softer than soft lips. Demanding, gentle, loving lips, lips of which the woman in his arms did not possess. Uncontrollable fire in his arms so unlike the calculated passion of the woman.

And he dipped the woman back, his eyes unfocused, his mind in another realm. In his eyes, he saw dark hair, dark eyes, poet’s skin, a muse’s lips. He saw artist hands, as they gripped arms and pushed away, then drew him back for the next stolen touch of lips. He heard whispered words instead of the beautiful music, he felt fire through his veins for that one moment, and for a second, the man who had given new meaning to the word icy wasteland felt as if he’d burn away. He was again a troubled child, grasping for the love offered to him, real, pure love such as he’d never had, and he had responded as he’d done on the streets, offering up himself in its stead.

He began to move quicker, leaving the dark, beautiful woman stumbling in his wake, dancing as he would fight, smoothly, quickly, as a machine does, every step executed as if planned, the imaginary foe, the imaginary partner following every move, he did not hear the whispers as the others watched this display, confused, drawing back. But in his eye, he only saw the other man, hair like wings of a raven, eyes like iced over passion.

She could keep up, she was a Turk after all, but she did not move with the quick grace he did, as he began a fighting dance, every step as if he expected to be dodging bullets. She clung and tried to move as quickly, but he did not notice, he was locked in his head with that deadly poet, the words he mouthed were never for her benefit, he knew that now. Those poems were his.

And he fell back into step with the woman as the music fell away, he let his arms fall away and allowed her to kiss his cheek and tell him he was acting a little tired. He allowed her to pull him from the room, and he pushed the man out of his mind.

And she could only watch as he abruptly dropped his arms from her, turned and left the elegant room, only pausing to snag a glass of wine. The room watched, silent, but no one stopped him, no one questioned.

And he slept, alone with his memories.