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The music in the room is not enough to drown out the chatter of the guests. Balls are always overwhelmed by people, even despite the selective invitations.
People seem to enjoy the same crowds over and over, however. They’ve made friends with each other after all the conversations they’ve been forced into while sharing evenings together—thus being invited to even more balls in the same company.
Diluc cannot say he is overjoyed to be in this situation again. Dressing up in clothes with itchy labels and accessories he can’t help but fiddle with isn’t what he would call his ideal night out.
But he has to be here, and not for himself; there are a few faces he’s eager to see again, for reasons other than simply exchanging stories that have piled.
One is staring at him now from across the room, littered with subtle freckles and hair tinged ginger on top.
There are many things to discuss. So much has happened since they were last able to glimpse each other on opposing ends of a room, to brush hands while having to walk past each other as though they are in the same place only by happenstance.
Diluc knows that if they want to swap sentences, now would be the time to step out and do so in the fresh evening air. The music is beginning to swell, and soon the chatter will be finally drowned out. The companion he seeks is already moving towards him, and if he doesn’t lead the two of them out of the ballroom—
“May I have this dance?”
Childe holds his hand out, eager to have Diluc take it. The waltz is about to begin.
He has taken too long to come to a decision on his own, and now any sort of conversation will have to wait if he accepts Childe’s waiting hand.
Diluc cannot help himself. He will always place his palm in Childe’s.
The music picks up to the familiar tune that always traps them in their thoughts, forced to focus on the movements of their feet and the steps that need to be made in order for the dance to continue.
The only true way to have a conversation with each other, if one is determined, is with one’s eyes.
Childe’s are blue, brilliant and bright, looking Diluc up and down with a slightly opened mouth, words on the tip of his tongue. Diluc’s are red, radiant and resplendent, looking away and desperate to focus on the floor.
Diluc raises his face and dares himself to look into eyes that should be reserved for rooms with doors that lock. I can’t say I wasn’t hoping to see you here instead of one of your colleagues.
I didn’t think you were capable of admitting that, Childe replies, with a raised eyebrow that disappears into his hair.
Childe wishes gloves did not confine their hands tonight, as he wishes they could clasp skin to skin. His eyes glance over to where they are joined, his heart hanging heavy. It seems that for now, they will only ever be able to do so in private.
My pride is not as tall as you imagine. Not always, Diluc says when they make eye contact again.
Not with me?
To this, Childe receives no answer, but that is an answer in and of itself.
They spin, adamant about being in sequence with the others on the floor. The jumps come, and they execute them flawlessly, with Diluc looking down at his partner with each of them.
“Gods,” Diluc manages to whisper when his feet touch the ground again, just before he’s forced to put the steps to the dance back to the forefront of his mind.
Childe makes sure the hand on his partner’s back is placed perfectly, blue meets red with a whisper of: I’ll always catch you. When will you stop worrying?
Diluc diverts his eyesight to the side. Never, it says, so Childe continues to lead them through the motions. As he turns Diluc out from him, he pulls him back with a sharpness none of the other couples do, because a second without the full closeness the waltz provides is devastating.
Diluc’s fingers dance on Childe’s shoulder blade, connecting them once more. He looks around the dance floor and then back at him. Are we drawing attention?
You’re you and I’m me. It’s sort of difficult not to draw attention.
Rolling his eyes, Diluc allows himself to be turned as the circle all the guests are dancing in turns into two lines that pause for just a moment, just a second.
“I’m wearing my Sunday best for you,” Childe murmurs into Diluc’s ear, just before they’re on the move again.
They cross through the couples that were on the other side, and Childe pulls Diluc close so that the only person touching him, even by a hair, is him. After how long he’s been waiting for another evening together, he’ll be damned if he has to share.
But then they’re in two lines again and Childe has to let him go, watching him dance with someone else’s partner as his fingers itch by his sides, heating up in his gloves. He waits, waits until he can follow, and then Diluc is walking back to him, once more placing his palm in his waiting hand.
Your jealousy can be sensed from metres away, Diluc warns him with a sharp look as the circle starts up again. Both of them are facing the crowds so for a few seconds, all that can be felt in the air is a dense weight of anger and thrill before Diluc is off to the centre again.
When Childe can place his hand firmly on Diluc’s waist again, he remembers what it is like to breathe. The dips and twirls keep going, they bow to the couples either side of them, they become a cog in the machine.
The waltz is no easy thing—it’s tiresome, long, with everyone watching at each step.
But when you’re doing it with someone who has become an extension of you, it’s easy beyond measure.
Throughout all the breaks and twists, their conversation continues.
Is it really just you tonight or are your other colleagues hidden in the shadows?
Oh no, if I’m coming to see you, I have to be alone.
So I’m just a secret for you to keep?
Now you’re just making things up. If anything, I’m the secret being kept.
Not very well then, given how many times we’ve been dance partners in public. I’m very often teased.
The band forces the music to swell, the pace to pick up. The spin and Diluc is picked up and then the tension ceases and there’s a moment, where the music is broken, and they’re forced to look at each other without speaking.
What’s the ulterior motive this time? Diluc asks, shaking off whatever feeling has creeped up on him.
Childe squints at him. Is that the only reason I might be here?
They’re criss-crossing now, which doesn’t leave room for an answer, and Diluc is thankful because he knows the answer he would have to give.
‘No,’ he would say. ‘No, because the last couple times there hasn’t been.’
The twirls make it even easier to avoid continuing the conversation they’ve started, though it means Diluc has no option but to focus on the whole of Childe’s body, to spin around it in a perfect circle.
He’s grown attached to the man he’s dancing with tonight, having danced with him every night since their first meeting. The initial hate has long-since simmered down, but the passion—the passion in his feelings has remained, for better or for worse.
The fast pace returns for the finale, forcing all the thoughts running through their minds to pick up too, running past each other in an unmatched fervour.
The dance is done. Diluc’s hair is brushing against the floor. Their hearts are racing.
They bow, separate, move into the crowd at a pace so slow it could be labelled as excruciating. He’s going for a drink initially, but at the last moment Diluc moves towards one of the doors that leads outside.
He’s halfway down the steps before he hears following footsteps, but he doesn’t stop; he keeps going, past the fountain and towards two of the very best dancers Teyvat has to remember.
Coppelia and Coppelius are quite the pair. Forever dancing, forever sharing the moment.
They do not speak, yet say so much.
Diluc takes a seat on the stone stairs, watching them go round in wonderful circles, trained as well as those who spend their lives on the stage.
In a few seconds, Childe is seated beside him. They can talk again. The waltz is not in the way.
Childe places his hand on Diluc’s thigh, flat and warm. Diluc rests his head against Childe’s shoulder, just barely.
They do not speak, yet say so much.