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The Annual Senatorial Ball. A time of warfare and bloodshed diluted into cocked champagne flutes and pointed glances. This strange, muted form of conflict was admittedly not to Din’s usual tastes. Where these politicians, in their golden gowns and powdered wigs, engaged each other on the battlefield of the stage; Din, even now - stood far out of range of their sights- would prefer to be thrown directly into the stomach of the Krayt Dragon twice over.
To say he was uncomfortable would be to call Tattooine ‘pleasantly warm’.
He’d long since slotted himself beside an extraordinarily over-the-top tower of wine glasses (somehow flowing Correllian vintage from seemingly no source), and the exit. From here his duties as the Mand’alor could be enacted by his overeager entourage. Din could stay the kriff put thank you very much.
He was here as a favour. The favour of a man currently sweeping across the dancefloor like he owned it- only holding himself less stiff, less formal, than many of those that would consider themselves the rightful proprietors.
He was easy to watch. He and his sister both.
Princess Organa belonged deeply to this environment. Her weapons were her words, honed sharp and fine. A deadly point should she need to stick someone with them. Her chin was ever-raised and defiant. ‘Come,’ her stance sang, ‘come face me in battle here. I would love the honour of slaying you openly.’
Her twin brother, on the other hand, drew his share of onlookers through sheer unorthodoxy alone.
The thought brought a smile to Din’s lips, safely hidden under his helmet.
Luke Skywalker danced a little like he was in Mos Espa’s Cantina.
He had earned the right, afterall. ‘Saviour’ they whispered around him, ‘hero’. Who would dare cast a doubt about Luke Skywalker? Poster boy of the Rebellion. Last of the Jedi.
The smile was bubbling into a laugh. He couldn’t help himself. Only hoping the noise would be drowned out by the obnoxious cascade of wine to his side.
As if sensing it, Luke looked up from where he was coaxing a Rodian into an uncouth sort of jig. There was a smile at his own lips, soft and surprised as he sought out Din’s gaze across the room.
Oh no. No, no. He knew that look. His ad ’s teacher-turned-unexpected ally was far, far more mischievous than Din had anticipated. The solemn, determined display upon the Moff’s ship merely the professional veneer of a young man with a propensity for gleeful chaos. He and Grogu got on like a ship on fire.
And now said man was stalking towards him like a Loth cat might its prey.
Sensing his impending doom, Din adjusted the red cape at his shoulder and stood a little taller. For all he knew Luke Skywalker spelled trouble, it warmed him quicker in the belly than any liquor could.
“You’ve been stood here all night, Mand’alor!” the Jedi laughed as he came to a stop before Din, bowing quickly, “I would have expected someone to snap you up for at least one dance by now.” The formality did nothing to dampen the amusement in his blue eyes, the honest smile at his lips.
“It’s uh…” Din clears his throat, nodding his chin into the crowd, “Not for lack of trying.” Which was true. He’d been asked.
At that, Luke’s expression softened into confusion, “Then why not? Forgive me for my assumptions but I had thought the Mandalorians fans of dance.” He was so genuine about it all. So sincere in such a way none other here was, it was like someone was pouring cool water over Din’s social sunburn. Easing the tension in his shoulders.
“Our… redalur is very different to the one here tonight.” Or any night in fact. The dancing of his people included great fires, open laughter. Clapping and singing. It also often devolved into real fighting and open sparring- of which the esteemed Galactic Senate might not appreciate within their elaborately decorated ballroom. It made him smile again to consider it. If they thought Luke was bad, they had no idea what a real group of rowdy verde could do to the place.
“Oh!” Luke gasped, leaning in conspiratorially, “You don’t know how .”
Well no, that wasn’t true. He knew the basic steps. Enough to pass off that he wasn’t the uncultured brute many within the Senate seemed to think he was. Nothing like the fancy spins and intricate movements exhibited sometimes to Coruscanta delight. But enough.
He opened his mouth to correct the Jedi as such but the man was already talking again,
“Do you trust me?”
His eyes glittered blue. There was that mischief again, that barely contained enjoyment Luke seemed to saturate everything in his contact with.
Staring down the Mudhorn hadn’t left Din so giddy. So strangely light and heavy all at the same time.
“Yes.” He mumbled, barely audible over the music. But quick, easy. He had trusted his ad’ika to this man. To trust Luke with himself was nothing in comparison.
And Luke beamed. The Galaxy narrowed to a single point, to that single moment. To Luke’s smile as he bowed widely and opened up his hand in offer to Din.
“Then, Mand’alor, would you do me the honour of a dance?”
Din’s answering groan of annoyance was only met with the widening of that grin. His hand stayed put like that, outstretched. What kind of man would Din be were he not to take it?
The Jedi lead the Mand’alor on to the dance floor, sweeping past his sister who shot him a look Din might have been able to read had he trained in the intricacies of politics like she had been. Alas, his forté lay elsewhere. Somewhere far, far away from Luke Skywalker’s hand clasped around his own and the parting of the dancers like a curtain of colour.
They turned to face one another, like they might were they about to spar.
“Just relax, okay? I know it’s difficult for you.” Luke squeezed his hand, voice pitched low and playful, openly teasing.
Din scowled behind the visor, “I’m trying.”
But Luke only laughed, calling him on his lie, “If you’re relaxed I’m the queen of Naboo.”
Din fell into awkward step with the Jedi as the music shifted to something relievingly easy-going. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your highness.” He bit back, his voice modulator ironing out the sarcasm in his tone. Luke tipped his head back anyway as he laughed. So emotive once you got close enough, so free.
Containing his laughter as the music stepped up, Luke took Din’s other hand, manoeuvring it to his hip. “Alright big guy, here’s where it gets interesting- just…let it happen, ‘kay? Don’t fight it.”
Din was far too jumbled by the sudden contact of his palm against the man’s hip to form conscious words anyway. Though his bemusement soon turned to surprise as he felt the world ripple around him.
There lacked a better word for it, as if the very air around him was twisting and reforming. Shaping into something tangible, though unseeable. Looking down to Luke with a quick snap of his head, the Jedi only winked.
The song was picking up and, with it, Luke’s footwork, swaying them to the side. For a moment Din was concerned he’d make a fool of himself after all- only the tangible air around him shifted and flowed, gently guiding him into step. Like hands tucking under his elbows, behind his thighs. Gentle and non-intrusive they coerced him into place, easing him down as he tipped Luke back with the gentle rhythm of the beat.
“This is your magic, isn’t it?” Din whispered, almost grateful the modulator smoothed out the genuine awe.
“How many times?” Luke smiled, though it was warm and soft. Teasing fading away to make room for something else. “It’s the Force, Din.”
His stomach flipped about listlessly even as the Force continued to usher him around, a spin here, a step there. He was a quick student and footwork was no new trial to him, be it dance floor or battlefield.
It almost felt like phantom touches, fingers ghosting over his clothes. Carefully, like he could break so easily under its touch. Reverently, as if Din were something to be cherished.
“People are staring.” Din whispered. He didn’t need magic to feel the eyes on the back of his head.
And Luke, warm, gentle, Luke only exhaled a soft laugh. “Good. They should be.” As the Force finally drifted free and the song tapered off into a lilting melody.
With a delighted laugh from the Jedi, Din spun him around one final time; no magic necessary to guide his hand.