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Edgar sprawled on his throne, long legs crossed, booted foot tapping lazily in the air.
His mind had wandered more than usual during negotiations, and though he had begged for a few hours reprieve while the sun was at its highest, the sand was nearly out of the glass and his thoughts remained far from orderly.
He'd been prepared to stand firm when Gestahl's man came calling, but the Emperor's new envoy had proven to be devastatingly charming. Kefka Palazzo was all silk and grace and honeyed words, his painted face delicately pretty, deceptively sweet.
He had run circles around Edgar with courtly pleasantries, all the while offering the most subtle of hints about the benefits of joining the Empire as more than mere ally. Hints that came in such a veiled form that Edgar was hard-pressed to find ways to deny them without denying everything that Kefka had said.
Unease burrowed into his skin like cactuar spines. Edgar was accustomed to being the one with the upper hand when it came to verbal sparring, and it was his smile, his rank, and his fair hair that turned the heads of all the ladies.
"Did you have time enough to think?" Kefka whispered straight into his ear.
Edgar nearly lost his seat. "Brigadier General!" he said, and hastily apologised as he sat up straight and turned his face to Kefka.
"Didn't I already ask you to call me by my given name?" Kefka propped an elbow on the back of Edgar's throne and hung there like he owned it. Plucking an errant thread on Edgar's cloak, he smiled prettily. "Just as our countries are allies, I'd like us to be friends, Edgar."
No acknowledgment of his title. No concern for courtly appearances or circuitous words with only his personal guardsmen around. The spines dug a little deeper.
"Friends," Edgar repeated.
"Yes, friends... pals... buddies!" Kefka said. He stifled a giggle—a giggle—and Edgar found a slim-fingered hand cradling his cheek. "Or, more than that, perhaps? I could be your lover."
A thumb swiped over his lip, and Edgar half-choked on his tongue as sharp nails dug into the flesh beneath his ear. He muffled a cry of surprise when Kefka's painted lips crushed against his own, and a tongue that tasted of berries flicked against his teeth.
Kefka pulled away with a lazy gasp, and slowly licked his lips as if he were savouring the taste of Edgar's reluctant mouth. "You can resist the Empire, or you can resist me," he said, pale eyes alight with a terrifying sort of glee. "Make your choice, King of Figaro."
"What if I refuse both?" Edgar asked, fear and anger snaking along his spine.
"If you refuse both?" Kefka laughed as if it were absurd and stepped back. Raising thin arms clad in colourful silk, he twirled around gracefully. Something flickered in his palms, and when he stopped, Edgar smelled sulphur.
"I'll burn your wretched little castle to the ground."