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Ignis adjusts his purple cravat and frowns at himself in the mirror.
He’s always put great care into his appearance. Every six weeks, like clockwork, he visits the hairdresser for a trim. His cologne—a delicate blend of sage, vanilla, and jasmine—was carefully selected years ago to enhance his natural scent. Most of his work clothes are made-to-measure at the tailor; his shirts are fitted at the waist and his slacks gently hug his rear end in a way he knows to be flattering.
The outfit he has on tonight, however, is a little much, even for him. The cravat is tucked into a grey silk vest, over which he’s layered a heavy black velvet tailcoat, the shoulders and lapels embroidered with sequins. His black trousers are indecently tight, clinging to his thighs, buttocks, and groin. They’re tucked into a pair of knee-high black leather boots that accentuate the shape of his calves.
Crowning it all is a silver hand-crafted spiracorn mask. He found it at a costume shop on a street off Mystic King’s Boulevard, after hours of searching for the perfect mask to maintain anonymity. Once it’s on, it will cover his entire face and much of his hair, leaving only his eyes and chin visible. Anyone who knows him in real life—particularly Gladio—will be hard-pressed to recognize him in this attire.
Or so he hopes.
Maintaining eye contact with himself in the mirror, he puts his shoulders back, clears his throat, and says, in a light Leiden accent he’s been practicing for weeks, “May I have this dance?”
It sounds forced, even clumsy. His lips and tongue can’t shape the vowels just right, and he can’t stop hearing himself, even when he raises the pitch of his voice. He shakes his head. This is utterly ridiculous. The instant he opens his mouth, Gladio will know it’s him, he’s certain of it.
Assuming he doesn’t just stammer and make an utter fool of himself first.
But there's no helping that now. The masquerade ball will go on with or without him, and missing it is out of the question. The only reason he went to the trouble of acquiring a ticket (at the exorbitant price of three-hundred crowns, from some huckster on the Eosweb classifieds) was because he knew Gladio would be there.
For months, he tried to deny his infatuation with the man. Gladio is impossible not to look at, he’d tell himself, even as his cheeks scalded at the sight of him whipping off his sweat-drenched tank top after a sparring match. He struts about half-naked because he wants everyone to stare. He’s desperate for attention. Really, who wouldn’t gawk? This is normal. Entirely normal…
But his preoccupation with Gladio’s sculpted pectorals was only the beginning. Before long, he found himself craving the sound of Gladio’s laugh, and the music of his voice, rough and honeyed and sensuous. The cinnamon and orange scent of Gladio’s aftershave made him weak in the knees, hungry to bury his face in his neck, if not kiss him outright. Their daily sparring sessions became a source of constant frustration. Even now, the mere act of sitting together on a bench in the Citadel courtyard, chatting as they eat lunch during a break in their duties, fills him with a longing that nothing can satisfy.
Three weeks ago, when Gladio said he was going to the masquerade, and without a date, Ignis shrugged it off, more for show than anything. But the thought of encountering Gladio there wouldn’t leave him be. Nor would fantasies of dancing in his arms. The possibility taunted him when he was in meetings with the king and tutoring Noct. It kept him awake at night, tossing and turning in a bed that suddenly felt much too empty, until he found himself on the classifieds at three in the morning, rationalizing that he at least had to try to make his desires a reality.
And now, here he is.
He smooths a few strands of hair back off his forehead and adjusts his cravat one more time before he shrugs into his jacket.
Right, then.
It’s time.
*
Strings of white fairy lights glimmer like constellations in the dome of the grand hall at the Lucian Natural History Museum.
Ignis pauses to admire them, his face turned upward, as other masquerade-goers flow around him, laughing and chatting, dressed in costumes more flamboyant than his own. He spots a cockatrice with electric blue plumage, a horned mesmenir, and a zu with a rig of rather convincing jet-black mechanical wings. In contrast, his costume seems reserved, even humble. He’ll recede in this crowd, but perhaps that won’t be such a bad thing. There’s only one person whose attention he craves.
What creature has Gladio chosen for his disguise, he wonders? A catoblepas? Perhaps a behemoth?
Would he choose something so obvious?
Well, he’ll find out soon enough. Nervously touching his mask, ascertaining that it’s still in its proper place, Ignis ascends the grand staircase and enters the ballroom. Tonight, the crystal chandeliers that hang from the ceiling are dormant. The room is lit instead by sconces that line the gilded walls, lending the space a soft, romantic glow. Miniature artificial trees have been placed around the room, their boughs draped with more fairy lights. This is no longer a ballroom—it’s a woodland sanctuary.
Ignis takes a moment to observe the crowd, graciously accepting a flute of champagne when a member of the wait staff offers it. He takes a sip, and his nerves begin to settle as it warms his throat on the way down. In this dim lighting, and with everyone in costume, he’ll be hard-pressed to identify anyone he knows, which means no one will easily recognize him.
Perfect.
Now he just needs to find Gladio.
He weaves his way around the perimeter of the room, passing the bar and a small ensemble of musicians tucked into the corner, well out of the way of the party. They perform a pop song he’s heard before on the radio, but can’t name, the violins sweetly drawing out each note in minor key. A throng of human bodies gyrates to the music in the middle of it all, laughing as they spin each other around, while the chatter of the rest fills the ballroom with a din of voices. Ignis lets his gaze hop from one to the next, seeking Gladio’s familiar stature, if not his face.
It doesn’t take long to find him.
He’s impossible to miss, even in this glittering menagerie. Broad-shouldered, commanding, and clad in a jacket of royal blue velvet, Gladio towers over everyone else. He wears a golden eagle mask. It covers only his eyes, leaving his strong nose and jaw bare, his dark hair uncovered. Tonight, it’s oiled and secured with black ribbon in a knot at the base of his neck. He’s trimmed his beard close to his cheeks, though even from this distance, Ignis can see the dusting of stubble down his neck.
As always, he’s radiant.
He stands next to a pillar across the dance floor from Ignis, his arms folded as he observes the proceedings. Another man is with him, dressed in a yellow suit jacket and a coeurl mask, and Gladio smiles as they make conversation, their heads tilted toward each other to be heard over the music. Briefly, Ignis wonders what they could be discussing—the weather, the latest scandal in the papers, perhaps even Crownsguard business?—until they are interrupted by two women costumed as birds.
Ignis hangs back, sipping his champagne as he watches. The man in the yellow suit takes the hand of the one dressed as a cockatrice and leads her to the dance floor, while Gladio bends to kiss the hand of the one dressed as a raven. She simpers, fanning herself with a black paper hand fan, her ample cleavage nearly spilling from the black corset cinched around her waist. Jealously flickers hot in the pit of his stomach, though it swiftly extinguishes when Gladio shakes his head, clearly rejecting the woman’s invitation to dance. She gives him a tight-lipped smile and moves along, already seeking out a different quarry.
Nor is she the last to be turned away. As the band plays on, two more try their luck, only to receive the same response. Ignis begins to wonder what Gladio came here for, if not to dance. Now alone, he stands at the periphery of the dance floor, his eyes scanning the crowd, almost as if he’s searching for someone.
It’s now, Ignis thinks as he drains the rest of his glass and sets it on a nearby table, or perhaps never.
His heart thumping in the hollow of his throat, Ignis wipes his clammy palms on his trousers and begins his approach. No matter how many morning commutes he spent listening to Leiden radio stations and mimicking the accents of the hosts, he still feels unprepared for this. What if the accent isn’t enough? What if Gladio recognizes him?
Or what if Gladio doesn’t, and accepts his request to dance? What if he succeeds, against all odds, and finds himself in the arms of the man he’s longed for these past few months?
This is absurd. He’s entertained foreign dignitaries, spoken at meetings with the most powerful men in Insomnia, and delegated tasks to the Citadel’s heads of staff on behalf of the king. He can ask one man to dance, damn it.
Gathering his courage, he steps up next to Gladio and says, in the Leiden accent he’s been practicing, “Your plumage is magnificent.”
Gladio glances at him. His lips part, and one eyebrow rises as those honey-coloured eyes, somehow bright even in the shadow of his mask, slowly look him up and down. “Thanks,” he says. There’s a beat of silence before he adds: “Yours ain’t so bad either.”
“I was wondering,” Ignis says, his gaze fixed on the couples swirling in the middle of the ballroom, his cheeks warm under his mask, “if you have the dancing skill to match it.”
Gladio laughs, unfolding his arms and turning fully toward Ignis. “Yeah? That a challenge or an invitation?”
“That depends.” Ignis meets his eyes, his heart doing somersaults, wondering what on Eos ever made him think Gladio would accept his overtures when he’s already turned away three others before him. But at least it seems he hasn’t been recognized. “Which is more likely to win me a dance with you?”
With a smirk, Gladio gives him another once-over, his heated gaze spurring Ignis’s pulse into a gallop, until his eyes finally come to rest on Ignis’s face. “A little bit of both, I guess.” Then he holds out his hand, palm up, and looks at Ignis expectantly. When Ignis only stares at it, his skin prickling and ears ringing, Gladio says, “You wanna lead, or leave it to me?”
Ignis licks his lips and takes the proffered hand. Gladio is wearing gloves, and the pressure of his grip feels unreal, as if Ignis has left his own body, as if this entire masquerade is a product of his dreaming mind.
But it isn’t a dream. As they step together onto the dance floor, Gladio’s other hand rests on his hip, just below the hem of his tailcoat, tugging him just a hair closer. His touch sends a shiver of longing through Ignis, makes his breath catch in his throat. They’re standing so close he can feel the warmth radiating off Gladio’s body, can see the stubble on his cheeks and smell the cinnamon of his aftershave. Everything about him is intoxicating. Ignis can look at nothing else. They might as well be the only ones in the room.
He places his hand on Gladio’s shoulder, unconsciously squeezing the muscle through the thick fabric of his coat. It’s impossible to forget how powerful Gladio is, that he’s several hundred pounds of pure muscle, but the way he holds Ignis is gentle. Considerate. His hand slides up to Ignis’s shoulder blade, and before Ignis knows it, he’s being led in a simple box step, fluid and graceful, in time with the soaring violins. This isn’t what he expected, but perhaps he should have known Gladio’s confident physicality would extend beyond bench presses and swordplay.
“Well, we’ve established you can dance,” Ignis says, laughing breathlessly, and digs his fingers into Gladio’s coat as the other man spins him with the agility of a ballet dancer. “Do you have any other talents I should be aware of? Singing, perhaps?”
“Only in the shower,” Gladio answers with a grin. “My kid sister says I sound like two cats fighting.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yeah. Guess I’m just not destined for the stage.” The tempo of the music softens into something more sultry, and Gladio matches it with his footwork, pulling Ignis against his chest as he leads him into a tango. “You’re not such a bad dancer yourself.”
“I’ve had some practice,” Ignis says, wondering if Gladio can feel the wild beating of his heart between them. “Where did you learn…?”
“I’ve been taking lessons since I was a kid,” Gladio says. “My dad made me go. Said any good Lucian gentleman should know how to dance.”
“Well, I suppose he had a point.” Ignis can hardly think straight, can hardly keep pace with Gladio’s steps, not when their faces are so close together, Gladio’s lips mere inches from his own. “But fancy footwork doesn’t make you a gentleman.”
“Yeah?” Gladio dips him suddenly, laughing as Ignis gasps, his hand scrabbling around Gladio’s neck for purchase. “You gonna tell me where you learned your moves? Didn’t think there were too many courtiers out in Leide.”
Ignis flushes, his hand sliding down to rest on Gladio’s broad chest as he’s guided upright again. He didn’t think this part through, back when he was planning his disguise. He never imagined he’d get this far with his ruse, never imagined Gladio would ask questions. This Leiden persona he’s adopted begins and ends with the accent. He hasn’t even come up with a false name for himself.
“My aunt taught me,” he says vaguely. It’s not entirely true, but it’s close enough that the answer comes easily. “Her reasoning was similar to your father’s. She thought I’d have an easier time attracting a wife if I could sweep her off her feet, so to speak.”
Gladio’s lips quirk in a half smile. “Sounds like we have something in common, then. Family who won’t leave well enough alone.”
“And perhaps a shared interest in…plumage,” Ignis says. Boldly, he reaches up to trace the feathers embossed in Gladio’s mask, marvelling at the contrast of gold against his sun-kissed skin. “It’s beautiful. Did you have it made for the occasion?”
“Yeah. Guess you could say that,” Gladio says, turning them nimbly before herding Ignis backward with another series of box steps. And without a second thought, Ignis cedes control to him—the control he’s always clung to so fiercely—if only so he can have more of Gladio’s touch. “So we’ve covered dancing and singing, and now we’re on to plumage. I’m sensing a theme.”
Ignis bites his lip. He hasn’t studied birds, at least not as much as Gladio, a consummate outdoorsman who knows more about wildlife than anyone he’s ever met. Perhaps Gladio is testing him. Perhaps he wants to ascertain whether the mystery man in his arms is as learned about the avian world as he claims to be.
“Are you familiar with the mating habits of eagles?” Ignis asks, drawing on one of the few facts he knows.
“A bit,” Gladio says, his eyebrow rising again, ”but go on. Tell me.”
“They lock talons and spiral toward earth before breaking free at the last moment,” Ignis says. “Some ornithologists say it looks like a dance. A deadly dance, of course, but a dance all the same.”
“Yeah?”
“Others say it looks like fighting.” He swallows, fingering a button on Gladio’s epaulette as he looks away, the intensity of Gladio’s gaze suddenly too much. Despite this dance they share, Gladio will never belong to him. To him, Ignis is just a stranger from Leide, and so he shall always be, unless he finds the courage to unmask himself. “Fighting as a prelude to mating. Have you ever heard something so absurd?”
A few beats of silence follow, filled by the dulcet strains of violins and the dull thumping of Ignis’s pulse in his own ears.
Then Gladio chuckles and draws him close, his hand a steady pressure between his shoulder blades. “What do you think we’ve been doing in the gym all these months, Iggy?” he murmurs, his lips brushing Ignis’s ear.
Ignis’s heart fairly stops, then kicks into double-time, his body prickling with embarrassment. “You knew?” he breathes.
Gladio laughs, his lips grazing his cheek as he draws back to meet Ignis’s eyes. “Well, yeah. I knew it the minute you asked me to dance.”
“Was it the accent?”
“Nah. Your accent was perfect.” They aren’t dancing anymore, only holding each other in the middle of the ballroom, chest to chest, as immovable as ancient stones in a rushing river. “But I know the way you talk, Iggy. The way you move, the way you smell. Can't help it when you’re all I can think about.”
“I am?” Ignis says faintly.
Gladio nods. “I hoped you’d come tonight. Even thought about asking you to be my date, but I was too scared you’d say no.”
“So that day in the locker room, when you told me about the masquerade…?”
“Yeah.” Gladio’s smile transforms into a mischievous grin. “Figured if anyone was smart enough to take the hint, or brave enough to take the risk, it’d be you. And I was right.”
Gods help him. Gods help him, this is real. Gladio returns his affections.
He watches dumbly as Gladio lifts his hand and presses a lingering kiss to his knuckles, never breaking eye contact. His lips feel impossibly soft and warm. Somehow, that’s more intimate than any of the dancing they’ve done tonight. More intimate than any of the thousands of ways Gladio has touched him in his imagination. Above them, the twinkling fairy lights seem somehow more magical, as if an entire universe of possibilities has opened up for them.
“May I have another dance?” Gladio asks, as the band starts up a new song.
“Yes,” Ignis says, placing his hand on Gladio’s shoulder. This is where he belongs—right here, in Gladio’s arms—and he never wants to leave them again. “You may have as many as you wish.”