Work Text:
Gylaw Aeducan used to dance.
It had never really been for fun, not during the days in Orzammar when they were a prince and Trian the heir presumptive. All three of the Aeducan children had been bound by stricture then, and dancing had been just another responsibility, balls and courtships to secure alliances and court favor.
Gylaw hadn’t danced since their exile. Why would they? The politics here were a strange, human affair, the Wardens technically outlaws since the betrayal at Ostagar, and neither civil war nor Blight were likely to be ended in a ballroom.
But now Leliana was singing, and Zevran’s hands were warm around Gylaw’s own.
The former bard’s music bore little resemblance to the tunes Gylaw was familiar with, the beat faster and unfamiliar. The steps, meanwhile, were even stranger, and even as light on their feet as the rogue was, Gylaw stumbled over foreign steps.
Zevran didn’t seem to mind. The former assassin held Gylaw close as he moved - almost indecently close, and Gylaw didn’t know if that was a surface thing or a Zevran thing, but they found little cause for complaint. And so they moved, a twirl, a stumble, feet tripping over each other and hands shifting and reclasping. Elf and dwarf, refamiliarizing themselves with each other’s bodies.
Gylaw could hardly imagine a more undignified affair. But as the song ended, as they held each other, flushed and panting for breath, as Zevran leaned over to capture Gylaw’s lips in his own, Gylaw thought that this, perhaps, was the first time they had really danced.
“Again?” Zevran offered.
“Again.”