Work Text:
It was a clear weathered evening for the annual bonfire night. The festivities commenced in full swing as dusk settled into night. The aroma of roasted meat, vegetables and baked sweets hung heavily in the air from the kitchens to the cleared out training grounds.
Music floated in from the open window. Opera Cake’s soulful baritone accompanied it with a cautionary yet humorous tale of love lost and found, with Mousse and Surströmming weaving their verses in and out. There was laughter and conversations intermingled with the music, swelling and riding on high spirits fueled by food and good cheer.
Spaghetti didn’t care for the revelry that he was missing out on. What mattered to him is despite the claim that his Master Attendant couldn’t dance, they had accepted his hand in invitation anyway.
Peixes noted the mute adoration that lit up his face as he instructed and teased them, the way his mouth quirked, and the sound of his quiet chuckles when they retorted or completed a step perfectly. There were a few Food Souls who would react in such a way. They could think of several who would, but the way Spaghetti does it is inherently unique amongst that numbered few.
Or… perhaps it was them simply being biased. It’s no secret he was favored, after all.
The song ended, but a new more upbeat one immediately started, the opening bars a vibrant violin solo played by Blue Cheese. A guitar follows suit, followed seamlessly by the drums and recorder.
Spaghetti had his hand on their back, leading them in this impromptu dance. They’re both careful not to bump against the shelves and table of the tiny study.
“Good, you’re learning. A skillful toy is better appreciated.” The redhead pretended to sound dismissive as the dance carried on. The attentive glint in his eyes and hold he has said otherwise.
It was cute, like a cat wanting attention but in a specific way. Good thing Spaghetti is not a frail animal, or else they’d actually feel bad about purposefully stepping on his shoe when the teasing started to get mildly annoying. Spaghetti’s expression did not change except for a tiny eye twitch.
In fact, it goaded him more to the Master Attendant’s exasperation and dismay. As the song progressed and leaped into a faster tempo, Spaghetti’s steps quickened and Peixes was at his mercy.
“Tyrant! I can’t dance this fast! Slow down!”
“Nonsense, my precious toy moves faster than this on the battlefield~”
“That’s two different things!”
Somewhere between several bouts of half-hearted protests and laughter, the redhead had wrapped his arm securely around their waist. His steps slowed a notch, enough for them to not be dragging their feet after him. Peixes was almost out of breath, dizzy, but the heady rush of excitement had them laughing at Spaghetti’s cheekiness.
The song ended with a round of wild applause. In the dimly lit study, the out-of-breath Master Attendant flopped on the nearest chair, with Spaghetti barely exhausted standing nearby.
They should head down to the festivities soon and join the others. For certain someone’s looking for them. But it was difficult, not when Spaghetti looked happier than he has been in a while, not when they too, wanted to have this moment last as long as possible.
What prompted him to ask for this dance? They asked. In the distance, fireworks lit up the night sky. He smiled, any traces of arrogance hidden by the colorful lights illuminated on his face— or perhaps, in this moment there was none?
“As you said my master,” He spoked, spreading his arms wide. “I’m making memories.”