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28th of Sydenstar, piano room, sometime before dinner
Valac
He missed the pie already. There were bound to be other slices, surely saved for everyone else. He wondered if he could rope someone into giving him theirs, but realistically Asriel was the only one he could see refusing a piece, and he wasn't about to ask him.
The only certain way to keep his mind of such schemes was the centerpiece of the room, and he knew it. Perhaps it was better to try his hand now, while he was alone, and any mistakes he made would be for his ears only.
He sat down and took a deep breath, then cracked his knuckles. He was blanking out right until his fingers grazed the keys, then it all came back to him. The melody carried for just a while, then he paused, his heart slamming against his chest.
A translucent frog appeared on top of the piano at the flick of a wrist, and he began playing again, the frog jumping on every high note. The last time he'd played he couldn't cast. Now he laughed, wholeheartedly, delighted by the silliness of it and fueled by how easy it was to both remember the keys and control the illusion.
And the melody carried, a bit more determined.
Kismet
Kismet had accepted a smaller slice of pie than perhaps he really wanted. Agatha had all but disappeared after distributing the steaming pastry around, so Kismet is alone, wandering the halls. His skin feels tight, like a strong wind had been blowing against it. His penalty for enjoying the sun and sand, he supposes.
Clean and with a fresh change of clothes, he's of half a mind to find a room to take a nap in when the soft tones of a melody reach his ears. Lilting and somehow light despite the minor key. Almost familiar. He quietens his steps, following the sound to one of the large sitting rooms in one of the wings. The door is closed, but he holds his breath, and silently thanks Acis' housekeepers, wherever they be, for oiling the hinges.
It's not exactly who he expects, and for a moment he is frozen halfway through the door. Valac, his fingers flying over the keys, oblivious to the world about him. Inexplicably, an illusory frog sits upon the lid, bouncing as Valac's hands travel toward the higher notes.
Before he can think, he's softly closing the door behind him, and watching, his arms folded, head turned slightly away. Trying to catch the melody he feels like he ought to know.
Valac slows his playing, trailing off. The tiefling's toe is pressed to one of the pedals, the last notes filling the quiet room with a soft hum. Kismet feels a pang of loss, as though he were about to remember a word that had escaped his tongue.
"You play beautifully," he says simply.
Valac
Several things happen at once when he pauses again.
First, the frog looks at him, as if with a mind of its own, silently judging for the lack of music to accompany its dances. Second, in the quiet, he hears the distant song a bird, almost mimicking the melody he played. And third, someone speaks behind him, and just heart lunges to his throat.
With the force of his surprise, his back and arms straighten and the piano keys under his fingers sing in disharmony. He flushes, both at being caught off-guard and at what he hears. It’s not the words themselves but the tone with which they are spoken that brings heat all the way up to the tips of his ears.
“Thank you,” it almost comes out as a question. He turns slowly, uncertain in the shape face has taken, and tries to keep a semblance of decorum. “I’ve been told before. Although it’s been a while, I wasn’t sure if I still… got it, so to speak.”
Kismet stands right by the door, just quietly looking at him. Valac opens and closes his mouth several times.
“How… I didn’t hear you at all, how are you so quiet?”
Kismet
Well. Seeing Valac blush is a rare sight indeed. He wonders if it was brought on by Kismet listening in without permission. He scratches at his cheek, then winces. Perhaps the sun actually managed to burn his skin after all.
He crosses the space slowly, watching their reflections in the polished surface of the piano, and reaches out to give a little scritch to the imaginary frog.
"I was always teased as a child for liking these sort of things. Frogs, insects, snakes. I used to catch tiny little skinks and try and show the other children." He makes a face. "They ran off, of course. They didn't see the beauty light casts on scales and beetle wings."
Only then he looks at Valac, the blush still radiating from chin to forehead. It almost makes him laugh aloud. "I've learned to tread quietly in my many years."
He wants to rest his hand on the side of the piano, but worries his calloused fingers will leave a smudge, so he just gestures at the keys. "I always envied those who have learned to play instruments. Despite years with nothing but myself and my thoughts I never did so much as hit a drum."
Hesitantly, almost as if asking permission, he extends a finger and presses down on one of the black keys. It has some weight behind it, landing with a very slight thunk. But the tone is clear. "There. I've played it." He stretches his hand wide, then speaks quietly. "These were never hands made for such delights. So my father decreed, at least."
It feels like walking on seashells, each word punctuated with the potential of something cracking beyond repair.
Valac
Valac’s head follows Kismet as he approaches.
“In your many years huh,” he latches onto that, scrambling to get the proverbial upper hand in the situation, and cocks a playful eyebrow. “Well, then I’m surprised I didn’t hear the crackle of old bones as you stepped inside the room, o wise one.”
The elf extends a hand and hits an F sharp just for a second, then retreats. Valac’s palm immediately shoots up to occupy the same space where Kismet’s just was.
“That’s a start. Who’s to say you can’t continue. Other people don’t get to decide what you’re made for.”
He presses down until the melody is torn from under his fingers, and starts again where he left off before his own frog distracted him. After a couple of seconds it poofs out of existence, and he flicks a wrist to recast it.
“And that seems silly,” he looks up at Kismet to get his attention, remembering what he said earlier, “Getting teased about such a thing, I mean. Because to me, I’ve always been surrounded by all kinds of creatures.”
The tempo briefly picks up, then returns to a slow, almost walking pace. “I’m not one much for bugs, but I can appreciate beauty in all its forms.”
Kismet
No, he's long run from those who had any say over who he ought to be. So why has he waited so long? Idly playing with loom and thread.
Well, if he's honest with himself, there were a multitude of reasons.
He smiles at Valac's jest, but doesn't say anything as he watches his hands fly over the keys. Ah. He's heard of pianist's fingers. Far from Kismet's small hands, Valac's can easily span the octave. His neck grows hot, and he almost tuts at how quickly their places shifted in this strange dance they seem to keep finding themselves in.
Kismet chews his cheek for a moment. As tense as things were yesterday, this seems to be Valac's element. It looks familiar on him, the music and the quips. Perhaps it would pay to lean into that a little.
He makes eye contact with the frog. If I end up ass over tea kettle, he thinks at it, you saw nothing.
"Well, if I'm to start..." He places his arm just about flush with Valac's, and at the same time moves to sit in what little space there is on the bench. "You'd best move over."
If he were to move his hand a semitone along, his fingers would brush against Valac's, and for some reason that scares him more than the threat of being pushed to the ground.
Valac
His playing stops.
Kismet was not usually the one to initiate proximity like he just did, and Valac didn’t know what to make of it. People were… surely treating him differently today, it seemed. Perhaps it was the coastal air?
But he scoots to the left, leaving just enough space for the elf to sit, and returns his attention to the piano.
“The theoretical part of learning this is pretty tedious, so let’s throw you right in. You’ll help me play three keys, how about that? All of these”, his finger runs across every white key, from lowest to highest note, “play the notes A, B, C, D, E, F, and G, and they repeat. The black ones are semitones, but they’re called either sharp or flat. What you need to focus on is,” he leans right in Kismet’s space, placing a hand in-between where his currently lay. “Is the F right here, fourth key from the right. On my mark, hit that, then return to the first black key to its left, E flat, and then the one to its right, the F sharp.”
He points at all three then leans back away, making sure there was no point of contact between the two of them. Now to figure out how to let Kismet know when to actually play. He could just say it, or think it to him, as it would be quicker, but that could disrupt his conscious focus, and where was the fun in it anyway?
“As all my limbs will be occupied, you’ll have to play on a tap,” if the elf looked his way right now, he’d be met with a mostly innocent smile, betrayed only by the flash of fang that peeks through.
And to illustrate, Valac’s tail slithers between them and lands right in the middle of Kismet’s thigh, tapping him lightly.
Kismet
Three notes. That can’t be too hard. He presses down on the keys, one after the other, like Valac showed him. It feels a little awkward, and after a moment he realises he has the wrong fingers on the wrong keys. So he adjusts, placing his middle finger on the F. A bit easier.
He’s half listening to Valac, a decent chunk of his attention occupied by getting the order of the keys right.
And then Valac’s tail taps him on the thigh.
He jumps an inch in the air, his fingers pressing all three keys at once, and hurls an exasperated glare across to the Tiefling. After a few moments, his heart still in his throat, he straightens his back and returns to practicing.
“I’ll take your lead.” He can feel the blush working its way across most of his face. He sets his fingers lightly on his assigned keys, unsure whether to move his thumb out of the way. His nerves are bundling tighter, forming a pressure in his chest. Why is he nervous? There’s no audience. It’s just Valac.
He isn’t certain where to put his left hand. Valac’s tail has taken residence upon his thigh, and he doesn’t wish to fold his arm around himself. Awkwardly, trying to avoid too much contact, he sets it behind them, palm resting on the bench. It means he’s turned a little inward, but by the time Valac starts playing he’ll have more things to worry about.
“Alright.” His voice shakes a little. “Go ahead.”
Valac
Kismet actually jumps at the contact and it does something to Valac. He catches the glare but has to turn away shortly thereafter or he'll be the one jumping and it will be in his direction.
So instead he clasps his mouth shut, grits his teeth and channels all of his might into focusing on the piece. Regretfully, not but two seconds after his first keystrokes, he has to tap the elf's thigh.
Light, he's about to break out in sweat at the self-restraint. He stills his fingers enough to give Kismet time to react.
The next time he has to tap him, he doesn't, and instead plays it an octave lower. Maybe he should've given him a sequence that doesn't occur as often as this one, for his own sanity.
"Good, you're doing very good," he praises Kismet when he finally manages to focus on actually playing and listening to the music instead of going on pure instinct and muscle memory, and notices the elf has seamlessly played with him three times in a row now. "See? Not that hard once you put in the effort. Maybe it was your calling all along - Kismet, the bard-cleric of the Raven Queen! Officiator of parties!"
Kismet
It doesn’t take as long as he’d thought to fall into the rhythm. The tangled bundle of nerves between his ribs loosens, and as soon as the tension leaves him he finds it even easier to follow the melody. Though he’s not playing all of the notes, it still feels like he’s making something. That isn’t something he’s used to, creating something intangible.
His scowl softens, that permanent line of worry between his brow fading as they play. Unconsciously, he rocks in time, matching Valac, and doesn’t even register that he’s stopped prompting him.
At Valac’s words, his fingers finally trip. “Ah, oops.” He stretches his fingers out, rubbing a thumb along the calluses. “Perhaps I could spare a few decades to learn. Might be a bit of a struggle to drag a piano all the way into the woods.” He laughs softly. “And finding a place to store it would be an issue.”
He thinks about his small cottage, the walls overflowing with drying herbs and flowers, tapestries and framed needlework. Shelves collecting dust, a stove gone cold. The garden…well, the small part he still used, dried up.
“Do you know any waltzes?”
He’s not sure why he asks. It might throw him into a deep melancholy, or it could distract him. For some reason he thinks it could be different hearing that signature in so contrasting a setting.
Valac
His right ear twitches when Kismet finally slips, coincidentally just as Valac praises him, but he continues playing, now with free reign of the whole piano. "You plan on returning, then? Don't think city life will suit you after you're done?" He tilts his head in Kismet's direction but doesn't look away from the piano.
Momentarily he's lost in a reverie, and the pace picks up to a crescendo, fingers locked in a dance. He slams them all down at the very end, in high spirits after such a performance, and just in time to hear Kismet ask about... waltzes.
Huh. An interesting question, considering the elf's attitude towards formal dancing the last time Valac tried it with him. He slowly turns, finally taking Kismet's whole posture in. His eyes dart to the remnants of blush on his neck, the hand propped behind them on the bench, the one he played with, currently flexing, and the air of uncertainty that almost formed an aura.
"I... do," he squints, and moves with calculated precision, right hand falling on the bench next to Kismet's; his index finger lands on the elf's palm. To any onlooker it would seem like an accident. "And I thought you weren't "much for those".
Kismet
Kismet floats his fingers along the keys. Not pressing down, just giving himself something else to look at. Valac turns toward him, and the space compresses, the large sitting room unbearably confined. Can he call himself cornered if he was the one who closed that proximity first?
“It depends what happens when I find her, I suppose. If I find her.”
Perhaps it’s the memories crackling to the surface after being repressed for so long, but when he feels the brush of Valac’s finger on his hand he manages not to jerk away. An accident, probably. Pulling his hand back would be too obvious.
He opens his mouth at Valac’s question, then closes it again. He had said that, hadn't he? Well, it was the truth.
“More like…if I fall into those steps, I worry I’d turn about and be lost to a memory I’d rather not be in.” He closes his eyes, furrowing his brow. “That sounds dramatic. But I don’t think it would be fair on…anyone, should I dance and not be fully there.”
He’d almost said you.
“I like the tune of a waltz, though. Even if I will not dance.” He opens his eyes, attempting a smile that comes out as more of a grimace. “I don’t think I need to ask you not to pity me, so I won’t.”
Their contact remains, and Kismet doesn’t pull away. He should pull away. There’s a voice, far in the back of his mind, that tells him if he breaks the contact it will never come back. And that confuses him more than anything.
Valac
Valac's face slightly falls at the mention of old, unwanted memories resurfacing. There's not much assurance he can give that it won't happen, or that it will be okay; he's seen and felt the blade of remembrance play at his own skin.
At the same time, he feels a tug. There's something about Kismet always out of reach, urging him to unravel him. It's unfamiliar; as this particular brand of curiousity was never his forte. Survival went hand in hand with detachment, almost, and calculation, so getting all up in people's business went directly against that.
"So say that I was to do this, theoretically," his hand moves until it fully covers Kismet's. Valac's face heats up - he could probably fit both of Kismet's hands in one of his own. "And then this," his free arm waves above the piano keys and almost blurs as a mirror image of his palm stays behind. Slowly, it presses translucent fingers, and a simple melody carries in the air. "Then you wouldn't dance with me?"
He swallows. There are so many things.
Kismet
Far from moving away, Valac only gets closer. Kismet can barely take a breath as the illusory hand dances over the keys, a simple rolling waltz unfolding effortlessly. In his mind, strings breathe life into the melody, echoing to vaulted ceilings. Valac's hand covers his, and his vision blurs for a heartbeat. He blinks.
This isn't a ballroom. This is a sitting room, far and away, where there's no one here to see.
He takes a calming breath through his nose, and immediately the scent of lilacs fills his head. It's dizzying, and all he can think to do is turn his hand, slipping easily into a ballroom hold. His thumb rests on Valac's knuckles, and how easy it would be to just brush them--
No. That train of thought leads nowhere but pain.
Instead, he casts his eyes down, and nods. "Alright," he breathes. Already his pulse is racing, but he can't place if it's from the thought of dancing like this again or something entirely different. "I may need to stop if...just. Have patience."
Standing slowly, he draws Valac with him, and his nerves compound as he realises how much taller the tiefling is.
He swallows. "Can you lead?"
Valac
He does not expect the acceptance, or the hand that stays in his, takes initiative, and drags him up with a feather light touch. He’s supposed to lead, yet he has no choice but to follow, and it’s all he can do but nod in return.
“That can be arranged,” he laughs and it comes out weak and uncertain, a stark contrast to how he imagines this going. Patience. Patience. Another newfound trait.
He picks up Kismet’s free hand into a hold and lets go with the other, instead bringing it to rest at the elf’s back. It’s too hard to tell if he misses the correct placement on accident, but he drags an open palm up just a little, until a shoulder blade beneath the fabric just fits the space between his index and thumb.
He keeps them like this for a moment, waiting for the bar, then brings his leg forward with it. His whole body is alight, mind split between keeping the mage hand going, falling into practiced steps, and looking for any signs of anything changing with Kismet. This, whatever they were doing, felt more dangerous than going blind in that Black Diamond hideout.
“Just tell me what you need if you do,” he half whispers, almost rambling. “There’s no one else here. I can make sure no one else comes.”
Kismet
Kismet holds his breath as Valac switches position, the elf deftly dancing his fingers the air in a somatic gesture. As they take the first step, he completes the spell, ghostly raven feathers falling soft upon their shoulders, tumbling about them. He feels the blessing take hold, and it calms him somewhat.
The first stanza is effortless. Valac steps surely, and Kismet trails just barely behind. The leather soles of his boots tap and spin on the marble tile, each movement dredged from long forgotten memory and placed like stained glass over this new one.
"Fine footwork," he notes. Why is he breathless? They'd barely begun. "I think I've remembered the basics." He risks a glance upward, catching Valac's gaze. "Dare to try something with a little more risk?"
Feathers blot the edges of the room, and it's as though they were spinning through a dream instead of a sitting room.
A little much, he thinks to the Matron, though he doubts she can hear him. And secretly he doesn't mind the flair.
Valac
Valac grins at Kismet and hopes it’s enough for a response, although the elf doesn’t really wait for one. In a second, the whole image of the room around them blurs. He feels a very distant presence envelop them, then it’s gone just as quick as it appeared, leaving a trace behind.
Kismet seems… alright so far, and if it was risks they’re taking, then perhaps this is the right moment for one. Valac spins them both around, using the momentum of his lead to recast the mage hand, then presses his hand at Kismet’s back with more determination. They end in a dip, eyes locked, and not even the whirlwind of feathers around them manages to take his attention off.
“What showmanship”, he breathes out, some confusion at the fact that has to catch his breath in the first place - he wasn’t even tired. “I’m telling you she’s one for music.”
Kismet
The dance continues, Valac leading them in a graceful arc about the grand piano. Feathers eddy in their wake, the illusory hand never missing a note. Memories like bitter ichor threaten to claw up his throat, the surroundings flickering between Acis' estate and a more elaborate ballroom. The edges of Valac's form threaten to shift, the steps so similar.
He closes his eyes for a beat. Two. Moving on touch alone, trusting his feet to fall where Valac leads. Lilacs. A hand not roughened by the hilt of a blade.
Valac increases the pressure on his back, and Kismet opens his eyes in time to react to the dip, all his breath leaving him at once. The feathers fall to the floor about them, disappearing into vapour as the spell fades.
"I’m telling you she’s one for music."
He stays there, hand still in Valac's, his back supported against the tiefling's leg, the distance between them closer than he thought. Too close, probably.
"As are you," he breathes.
He can't help it. His eyes flicker down to Valac's lips, then back up. If he wasn't sure before, he's certain now. This is too dangerous.
From somewhere out in the manor a loud giggle breaks the silence, and Kismet just about leaps out of his skin. They aren't alone, and he's already treading too close to the fire's edge. He clears his throat, well aware his face must be fully red, and starts to pull on Valac's shoulder to exit the dance.
Valac
As are you.
It’s too much, this dance, literal and figurative, is slipping between his fingers. He cannot focus enough to think about the implications of it all, every new sensation, or even the intent behind it. He can’t bring himself to care if it’s all an elaborate plot, in the moment none of it matters.
There’s an invitation clear as day on Kismet’s face, the way his eyes dart - Valac’s seen it countless times before. Somewhere in the distance behind them, an illusory hand plays its last key and disappears, forgotten. He hesitates.
And just like that the moment is over. Something passes though the elf, an unseen sensation, and his eyes are no longer hazed, the pressure on Valac’s shoulder a clear sign of it. It was not enough. He hasn’t had enough.
It’s not enough.
He raises them both but doesn’t fully stand up, keeping his face mere inches from Kismet’s. “You’re one to talk,” their noses are nearly touching, and if he were to lose his footing right now… Instead, he turns and brings his lips to the elf’s ear. “I wonder if you know any other dances?”
He lets go, finally, and with a step back loses all contact, although every spot on his skin previously connected burns. Through the ashen undertone of his face shines an even darker color than usual, he’s sure of it, and he has to turn to the piano.
Kismet
Valac’s breath is hot against his neck, and panic grips him for a moment. The words that follow threaten to snap what tentative hold on reality he has. And then he’s stepping away, Kismet’s skin cold in his absence.
Kismet is playing a game along that razor’s edge he always walks, and now he’s stringing Valac along with him. A two-step along a threadbare wire. He turns quickly and slaps both hands against his cheeks, not caring if Valac can hear. Pull it together. It was just a dance.
Yet you didn’t freeze up.
He turns back, feigning composure, his cheeks red from what could be sunburn or the slap or plain old blush. There was something about the coastal air, or perhaps because it was the first time the whole group had been together without any immediate threat hanging over their heads. It scares him a little, how glad it makes him.
He walks to the piano, proud his legs shake only a little, and leans against it. “Thank you for that, truly. I think it helped that there were no onlookers. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to dance like that.”
As nerve-racking as it had been, he’s surprised to feel a warmth at the prospect of dancing again. Perhaps not in front of anyone yet, and perhaps not with anyone else yet.
He presses the flat of his palm to his chest, trying to slow his heart rate with pressure. “Your business in the Empire. Does it have a time limit?”
Valac
He feels like a child. Persuaded to go to bed with the promise of a treat that never comes.
Seconds, mere seconds ago, it seemed like he held the reigns, and now the illusion shattered. His own mistake, of course, falling for it, yet it still feels cruel. Memories of Kaulmyn's face when Valac dispels the miniscule cat come to mind, stuck between confusion and disappointment.
His hand comes to a fist, nails buried so deep that he feels one of them bend and snap at an impossible angle. He doesn't flinch, even as his face still burns, way too hot from earlier still and now with a fresh wave of embarrassment as well - stronger than the very real ones he swam in not but three hours prior. The blush Kismet has the audacity to wear could as well be a sunburn. Valac's mind skips over an image of tearing down fabric to see if it carries along his neck as well, if it's real.
He realizes he's staring when Kismet asks him a question, completely nonchalant, and he has to blink away. Has the room always been this bright? His eyes hurt, pupils surely contracted to a razor thin line.
"No, it does not. It's just where I'm supposed to be," he answers simply, voice a little distant, and almost has a mind to not fire back a question immediately. "Why do you ask?"
Patience. Patience. Seems like it was temporary.
Kismet
Kismet knows the mood in the room has shifted, thanks to his attempt at regular conversation. It’s for the best. He can only hurt himself entertaining the thought that Valac—flawless, inscrutable Valac—would spare more than a fleeting dance with him. Kismet, an elf more used to digging hands into soil and running thread through fingers and easing the pain of those who suffer.
A flight of fancy.
He swallows, curses his own cowardice. “It seems we might be on the Coast a little longer. I suppose I wanted to know if you had any plans of leaving.”
What a foolish, desperate-sounding plea. One dance and you want to trip over your feet to spend even an hour more in his company.
He blinks rapidly, sure his thoughts are plain as day across his face. “What I mean is, I’ve thought about what I have to do in the Empire. And that my sister might still be there. But really, I don’t know for certain.” He hugs his arms, looking out the large glass windows, the haze from sea spray pressing close. “But being forcibly moved here has made me…scared, again. Almost like I’ve been given an excuse not to keep looking for her. Almost like I don’t want to go back just yet.”
It felt wrong to say it out loud like that. To admit to such a flaw.
“If you returned, though, I’d…”
What? What would he do? Follow like a lost puppy? If he were torn in two directions, one with Valac and the Empire and his sister, the other with the rest of the party, and the fate the Raven Queen has laid clear as a red ribbon, which path would he take?
He bites his lip to stop himself rambling.
Valac
"We're days, even weeks away from Rexxentrum. So I suppose better get used to feeling scared for as long as our ride stays here."
His gaze falls on the piano and his heart skips a beat. There is another melody he remembers, another he wishes to play, but it seems futile now. Instead he approaches, brushing right past Kismet, and lets his hand fall on the keys one last time before closing the fall board on them. His fingers ache, be it for music or something else, perhaps even from holding a fist for too long, but he pays it no mind.
"By the way," he looks up somewhere above the piano, a nameless spot in the back of the room, and the entrance to the room behind his back slams open. "These doors can close just as easily as they open. If onlookers were a problem, I could've locked them as well."
Kismet
The door swings open on its own, the invitation to leave as clear as day. Then Valac mentions locked doors, and Kismet’s mind blanks, the blush faintly colouring his cheeks now spreading in a wave up to his hairline.
“For—for a dance. Right.” He tries not to think about what might have happened had he closed that hairs-breadth of distance between them. Fails miserably.
He sneaks a glance at Valac from under his lashes, but the tiefling is staring over the piano at some point on the wall. Realistically, nothing would have happened. Because Kismet would never make that move, not so early. Not with so many unknowns.
We barely know each other. You barely know me.
He pushes off the piano and steps toward the door, pausing where Valac stands. “If ever you feel the urge to play again, let me know. I make a good audience.”
He traces Valac’s hands with his gaze where they rest, noting the bent nail. That’s new. He has the sudden, ridiculous urge to brush it with a knuckle.
That’s when he knows he has to leave.
With a hesitant smile and a fading blush, he makes for the door.
Valac
Two heartbeats after Kismet's back is turned, the copper piece is in his hand.
It's overwhelming. Even as he doesn't dare go deeper, too scared that Kismet would feel it, it's overwhelming. With a horror, he realizes for all the times he's done this before, he's never cared what he finds.
He turns his head back, eyes just above his shoulder and boring through Kismet's form. Reassurance and uncertainty flood him at the same time, and they water down to a single question: Who's Sarran?
Valac bites the inside of his cheek, as if to make sure his mouth won't open on its own to ask. Eyebrows locked in a quiet fury, he keeps his voice light. "Yes, for the dance. What else did you think?" is all he says as he watches the elf disappear in the hallway.
The doors slam closed behind him.
Kismet
The sharp rapport of the doors slamming echoes down the lonely hall.
”What else did you think?”
What else indeed. He’s of half a mind to throw a quip back in response, match the light tone. But the doors are shut, and the physical barrier is as good as a doorstop in the conversation. Still, he rests his fingers on the handle for a moment. He fears if he tries to open the door, he’d find it locked, and he isn’t sure he’d be able to handle that.
So he tucks his arms around himself, plays the dance over and over in his head as he walks away. Memorises the expression on Valac’s face and the thrill of the steps. He’s almost certain it won’t happen again.
The sliver of pain to his heart at the thought catches him off guard.