shiva_dancing_backup

For Kuja, entering the splendor of the waterfront was like slipping into a hot bath at the end of a very long, cold day. More than one Espan poet had written at length about the Dark City, and with good reason; to the upper crust who dwelt there, and the nouveau riche who came simply because they could, Treno held a certain kind of magic. It was full of the heady vitality that only comes from people who are drunk on their own existence, and Kuja appreciated that all the more these days. Treno was not simply a place to see and be seen now. The energy surrounding him made him feel so alive that he feared he'd burst at the seams.

"It always is," he breathed, and the smile he wore was not the studied, faintly predatory expression he usually donned. It reached his eyes and lit up his entire face, producing a flicker of a much different man--anyone who knew him even passingly, let alone a closer "acquaintance" like Zidane or Garnet, would likely have been puzzled by it at the very least. This was not the aristocratic, patronizing thespian that the world had seen for the past two-and-some decades; this Kuja was almost giddy with excitement. "Come on, then! I believe I'll get you two drinks. Mm? I'm sure somebody around here can make a daiquiri..."

And on that note, he seized Maria's hand without preamble and tried to drag her off, presumably to whatever overpriced restaurant he was thinking of.

Pushy? Him? Noo.