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Cyrus has his hands clasped politely behind his back, which is the the only hint he’s about to ask for something Therion gets before he proclaims, “I was wondering if you’d perhaps accompany me to a dance?”
“A dance?” Therion asks, eyes growing wide. “You want me to get out that outfit Prim got me?”
He hasn’t worn that outfit since they’d separated from their journeys and gone off to their homes once more, but he still has it. It hangs in their shared closet, clean and safe, beside Cyrus’ own similarly unused dancing garb. He liked it—liked the way the fabric hugged his skin, the way the ornaments sang as he moved. But he’d disliked the way it drew eyes to him, and there was no reason to wear something so flashy and impractical in a town like Atlasdam.
Cyrus sputters, turning a pleasant shade of pink as he waves his hands placatingly. Even still, his eyes flit over Therion’s form, and Therion is willing to bet a fair pile of leaves he can guess what exactly Cyrus sees when he does.
Well, he thinks, perhaps one reason.
“Not—” Cyrus finally manages, pausing only to take a calming breath before he continues, “—that type of dance. A ballroom dance. It’s for the academy, to welcome in the new headmaster and as such, all faculty are invited—and indeed, expected—to attend. I’ve even taken the liberty of having a suitable outfit procured for you,” he says, proud, and then immediately follows with, “but, ah, if you were uninterested it’d be alright, it’s still beneficial to have a formal outfit on hand.”
Therion hums, thoughtful. “I’m not really a good look in that type of crowd. Are you sure you want to walk in with a thief on your arm?”
Cyrus looks offended on his behalf, a hand shooting out to grab Therion’s arm as he proclaims, “of course! You’re more than welcome! You were there when we discovered the depths of Yvon and Lucia’s treachery, you deserve a spot here as much as any scholar or noble!” Therion smiles, amused, and Cyrus deflates as quickly as he’d puffed up, smiling sheepishly as he adds, “more importantly, I wouldn’t want to go without you. I don’t enjoy these events much on my own.”
“I don’t know how to dance,” Therion lies, because he’s slipped into the roll of honourable scoundrel more than once.
Cyrus squints at him. Squints harder when Therion laughs, read like an open book.
“If you don’t want to go you can say no!” Cyrus cries, petulant. He’s clearly not that upset though, especially when Therion leans up on his toes to pepper his pout with kisses, cherishing the way his face trembles to resist a smile.
“I never said that,” Therion states. “I’ll go on one condition.”
“Alright.”
“I want to plan our dates for the next two weeks.”
Cyrus’ face falls immediately.
In the months since they’d settled into their new life in Atlasdam, the two of them had worked out a routine. More often than not, they spend what free time they have in each other’s presence, but that doesn’t always mean they spend that time together. They’re both introverts at heart, and Therion cherishes that he’s found a life he can spend his evenings curled up on a couch, or in a bed, or even against a wall, and simply whittle himself a little duck or a spoon while Cyrus reads quietly a foot or inch away.
But they’re also both people who had gone on a grand adventure, and that itch to explore still burns hot in both their veins. So twice a week, they would take a date—a proper one, somewhere outside of their home and the academy—and be it an evening or a day they would spend it doing something. Visiting a gallery, or a new restaurant, or taking a walk in the nearby woods. And the whole while, they’ll talk, and talk, and talk. He thinks sometimes he might grow tired of it. The listening, maybe. The talking, mostly. But he never does.
What he does grow tired of is sometimes Cyrus’ idea of fun and interesting. That they’re so different only makes them a better fit—he can’t imagine trying to date someone with his own proclivities without one or both of them ending up stabbed for it—but their interests don’t always match. He can’t say he cares much for the opera, or the theatre in general (and no matter how many times he points out this defeats the point of talking, Cyrus will just remind him how little he cares when he spends the whole while whispering his plot predictions into his lover’s ear.) He knows Cyrus doesn’t care much for the trendy dessert bars he picks either, with their busy atmosphere and modern design.
He also knows that Cyrus has plans for their next date. That he’d gotten his hands on two tickets to a very limited museum showing on magical weaponry through the ages, and that there was said to be several newly uncovered pieces of ancient smithing present, and that in a university town like this such a thing was all but guaranteed to sell out within the first day.
Finally, he knows that Cyrus had mentioned the event offhandedly several weeks before, to which Therion had blithely responded, “who cares about some rusty old daggers?” Because he was in a foul mood after his favourite pan had gotten something burnt and stuck to the bottom of it.
All things considered, walking around a museum with Cyrus, holding his hand and looking at old blades and sipping champagne sounded like a wonderful date.
Of course, Cyrus does not know he knows all this, or that Therion is trying to discern really how badly Cyrus wants him to go to this ball, or that Therion also has every intention of doing both things regardless. He only knows Therion knows of the museum, and is weighing which event he is most willing to compromise on.
He pouts. Therion smiles at him, smug and fond in equal measure.
“I suppose it’s a fair trade,” Cyrus finally decides. “I must admit, not going alone is only part of it. I want badly to dance with you.”
Therion laughs, ducking forwards to press the lingering pout on his lips. “Guess we better start practicing then. Wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of all your colleagues.”
Cyrus finally smiles against his lips, arms wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.
