‘hey, let’s dance again. follow my lead!’
𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱. the insomnian assemble and the same scores, feet shuffling, a clink of champagne flutes. it’s part of his upbringing, undeniably. it’s the regal flush of opulence. it’s where you find proposals to the dance floor, the angels of the paintings looking in.
𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.
there’s no chandelier looming over their heads, or a reminder there’s people waiting, expecting. but those two could very well be the stars, a conglomerate above, watching, so why be shy of giving them a show ?
‘‘ of course. ’’ he predicts with senses, mostly. a visualization of her voice, and the hyper - awareness of his steps. for a language like dancing, you only need for someone else to speak it with. he complies, follows her steps, and speaks up only after he’s made her twirl, returning to her place between his arms, ‘‘ we would’ve had a riveting time at insomnian balls, 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘳. a partner like you would’ve made them feel less of a formality, ’’ these hypotheticals, as do the mental images, come like visions, come naturally. another twirl then. he’s keeping the tempo to the songs he couldn’t think of forgetting.
‘‘ but, in that case, ’’ he’s slowing the waltz, each thing left its time and place. the now, the night. ignis smiles. ‘‘ 𝐰𝐞’𝐥𝐥 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝’𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝. ’’
@arustel. ♡