To Kell and Holland, would you ever ask the other to dance? And would you even want to?
Holland looks sidelong at the redhead at the other end of the heavy wooden bar in a dark tavern down towards the docks in Arnesian London. A small crowd pretends they don't know there is a prince in their midst. They pretend badly.
About as badly as Kell is pretending he doesn't see Holland. Almost as badly as he is pretending he isn't headed this way.
"I wouldn't ask him any such thing," Holland says, voice flat. He waits a beat, pretending with equal fervor he doesn't see Kell. "He's an atrocious dancer."
"I'm a fine dancer and you know it," Kell says, voice sharp, appearing over Holland's shoulder.
Holland drops a coin onto the bar and stands, turning slowly. For a moment, he and Kell are nearly nose to nose.
Or, well, nose to chin. Kell Maresh and his damnable height.
"And how would I know, exactly?" Holland's expression doesn't change. "You've never asked."
Kell's mouth drops open, and Holland relishes the way the Maresh prince can't think of a single retort before Holland walks away.
