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Spend too many years in an abusive relationship, and you might start to believe that the emotional highs and lows were normal and any new relationships were dull in comparison for their stability—enough to leave a person searching for that energy that had done so much damage already.
Learning to not associate those highs with love was a significant step towards healing, or Malva had heard.
Abusive relationships were likely very different from the tightrope she was walking, and any time she wanted, she knew that there was a door that she could leave through. Besides, she hardly loved Lysandre. She wasn’t emotionally compelled to stay; she had more skill as a trainer and higher status in the public eye—she could leave Team Flare any time she wanted.
But she remained balancing on her toes, rope unsteadily shivering below her, movement familiar as a friend, because where was the fun in making things easier on yourself. She’d walk this rope in high heels if she wanted to, just because she liked the challenge of causally and gracefully keeping her footing in her many roles, waltzing above the flames.
How did normal people keep from dying of boredom?
Journalist, member of the Elite Four, admin, friend, concerned citizen, saboteur, betrayer, loyal minion, respectable colleague—a little of each, as a treat.
So what if she didn’t know which was real anymore? Shells of yourself weren’t something to mourn—find a face and fit it into the space! Everyone did it; she just did it better. Change up beliefs and morals, humour and speech, how she stood and smiled and fit them back together like puzzles until she could slide under someone’s skin and become the shell until the conversation ended or the camera’s light flickered out again.
It was all part of the game.
Where was the need to keep herself above Lysandre’s worst habits? She wasn’t Sycamore who had this pathetic need to be in the right, to be good, even though there was no reason for it.
Good and evil—Lysandre and Sycamore were wrong about their nature.
Neither truly existed.
Any consequence of a good action might as easily lead to a greater evil, and an evil deed might be warped in so much love and good intent that even a judge would be forced to wipe away a tear of regret as he sentenced the criminal. Have fun with your morality! Treat it like a dance where the joke was that everyone else could have these intense and deeply felt beliefs about themselves and their partner, and all of them were wrong.
The whole thing was adorable.
Waltz about the destruction of the end of the world in between the charity dinners that Lysandre hosted. Tap dance, intentions and motivations flashing between beliefs that she kept liquid to always match her story as she gave the evening news reading.
Tell Lysandre he was right, and the world was evil—hum along with Sycamore’s never-ending fight to make the world better despite itself.
Back and forth between the fools.
…Ten years old.
Old enough to live on your own two feet.
Ten years old and desperately in need of someone to lean against and tell her what was right.
Sycamore had said it was no wonder she’d fallen in with a villain being so young and in need of support, and she’d agreed with him. Lysandre had said that she should have been bright to know what was implied by the weapons she’d been given, and she’d agreed with him too.
They were both a little right and a little wrong—but that was always true. Those two had been her friends long enough that she suspected they knew her better than anyone else, but both thought she was more like them than the other.
Evil.
Good.
Why chose?
Both were but fabric to drape about yourself as you danced, and if you wanted black and white—blue and red—what was the harm?
So what if a few people were hurt from her inattention from time to time; Lysandre had done worse than she ever could. So what if sometimes she risked her life and limb to save someone; Sycamore had done more than she ever would. Keep her coloured glasses between her and the world, stay light on her feet and never care much for anything because if you cared, it could be ripped away as quickly as a breath.
If ten had been old enough to live alone, what did that say about thirty-five?
Make sure you never cared that deeply for your tools, or else you’d only cry when they were broken and crying never did anything but block up your nose and give you a headache. But care a little, or else you’d find your dance partners awful dull, and if you let that feeling of detached not-caring grow too much—
Well.
Then she might start listening to Lysandre and his silly rambling, which would be a foolish thing to do.
The ballroom glowed tonight, and all of the best of Kalos was here, and the charity function being held here. A good night to fall in love or to see how many of the fancy little delicacies you could eat before you danced until your feet ached. Beautiful women in low-cut dresses that showed their shoulders, men in lovely tight-fitted suits with throats just visible above their cravats—food, drink and music that played like a holy choir—it was a good night to throw all the switches and become a hedonist just for a little.
You never knew when the world would end.
Eat, drink and see how much she could find to fill the scandal columns for the week and reveal in being alive.
The blackbird on her arm, blue eyes cold as they’d frozen years ago, stared at the floor with nothing but distaste and disregard, but Malva had never let Lysandre’s mood affect hers. He could only be dragged along by her as much as Sycamore could be dragged by him.
Round and round to see who’d be the one that could control the other—
The dance floor compelled tonight
She could have near any partner she chose (but for one that she wanted rather than merely converted, but that woman was a little beyond such petty interests as her, so Malva was determined to be patient in that hunt), but tonight she’d bring Lysandre along regardless of whether he cared to dance.
Flicker the arm linked through hers, resting heavy against her side but still distant with how stiffly Lysandre stood, head and body turned just a little away, Malva looked towards the dance floor. She felt the grunt of disinterest grumble through him, but that was just another part of the game.
Add a little more pressure, and shifting to lean into his side, Malva smiled at him from behind her glasses that turned the world a little more golden. “Come, or is the great Lysandre too above me now to even spare a dance?”
“It is a foolish waste of—”
Malva’s teeth flashed as her smile widened a little more. “Waste? Is that how you see me? Cruel man, and after I agreed to be your shield against the others who’d try to take far more than just a dance. Or should I leave and let someone better than me take your arm?”
A hiss as he noted the verbal misstep—never stop paying attention to how you spoke because a clever person could always turn them back on you.
This time when she applied pressure, he followed, and she only just tapped down on the urge to say ‘good boy’ because that would unbalance them again, and he might just decide to stalk off even if he still needed her to be his shield.
His feet knew to follow her, as even now she was still more fond of leading their dances them him.
Step forward and back at an even pace, pick the path between the other pairs, judge the moment to turn and let people see her coat tails billow out to show the vibrate red skin with its golden flames embroidered into it along with the subtly deep red bralette. With the touches of Lysandre’s red shirt and trim against the black and the ribbon holding the braids in his hair back, they must look quite the pair.
Lysandre’s eyes were dead as he stared at her, but he never compromised the dance as he followed her lead. Was he thinking of the corruption that these people indulged in? The money wasted that might have been put to better use? The endless consumption and burning of resources that was quietly killing the planet for nothing but to make the line of the stock market go up?
Engineers saw the world in such technical detail. They knew there was limited energy, and as it burned the closer, everything danced to the edge of destruction—but that was equally true for people.
Spin, bow and switch so that Lysandre led and while he created the illusion of control for the audience, she kept up the movement so that he’d know to lift and spin her again.
Journalists saw those ‘inevitable’ evils too. The companies that would spill death on people and never pay a cent for their crimes. The little, tiny evils of policy that pretended to be unstoppable but were really just a few hateful souls who’d made their own beliefs law. Things same to be ‘unchangeable’ but hadn’t even been thought of fifty years before.
It was all so funny—one couldn’t help but laugh at those who took it so seriously.
Oh, it was real, of course. People died for those made-up realities—but that just made it all the funnier when Lysandre spoke of it in such dramatic tones.
Evil wasn’t real.
It was all just…people.
Tiny, petty, pathetic little people who’d be dead one day, but that had convinced the world this was just…how it all worked.
“—What’s so amusing to you now, Malva?” Lysandre asked, just loud enough for her to catch.
Painting a subtle smile into place, Malva pulled Lysandre closer to better whisper back so they might share this sweet moment together. “Thinking that it would be so very easy to empty the duke and duchess’s pockets and then offer to help them look for their lost wallets after I did it.”
The sigh she got in return was a delight for being genuinely tired. “Malva, you are not going to rob anyone tonight.”
“Ah, I’d give them back later. Just a little fun—that woman over there? That diamond on her hand is a treasure unique, found in Alola and from an owner sadly lost to time. Surely, she’d be fine with seeing that ring find another owner in the same way,” Malva replied and let Lysandre decide for her if this was another joke.
“Malva.”
Malva twisted their fingers together tight and pulled Lysandre along after her, the click of shoes echoing with the music singing.
Which did Lysandre see her as? Like the ones with their gems and those with their companies built for a system that was nothing but smoke and mirrors, or had he made the mistake of believing her a friend as loyal as Sycamore?
Was she his tool?
Which of them would show their hand first—now that was the question.
Ten years old, enough to have joined a team and been handed a weapon that could do so much harm. Old enough to know it was wrong and young enough to be excused by a court. Ah, it had been such a surprise to that boss when the tool he’d found, the girl so desperate that she’d joined despite all the things that should have pushed her to flee, hadn’t been as loyal as advertised.
Music fading, steps slowing, but there was always times for another dance and if your partner wasn’t ready for you, that just made them easier to control.
Malva smiled as she and Lysandre exchanged bows.
There was no way to know what he wanted to do with this little team he’d started, but that was fine. Rich boys liked their toys—Sycamore would never let himself see anything wrong with Lysandre, but she was better than him.
What would Lysandre do with the corrupt and ugly world he’d taken so very personally?
…Who’s to say.
There was no need to pry when it would all come out in time. If Lysandre’s plans were ‘evil’? Well, that would be no surprise to her. The dance between them was one where each had a knife held to the other’s throat because she couldn’t envision a way to trust someone without such insurance.
Trust a begging man to lie.
Trust a good man to preach.
Trust an evil man to cut you.
Wherever the dance went, Malva would fight to always be a step ahead of it, fight to lead and set the fire they danced above—sit back and keep her tools sharp even if there was a risk of them cutting her in turn.
So long as they all bled…then it was all still fair, wasn’t it?
Life would be dull if they stopped dancing, so it was a better step up and dance faster and fill in the gaps with sweet hedonism.