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Narinder had not been to a party in centuries.
At first, it had been the lack of invitations– his siblings’ feeble excuses still rung in the back of his head sometimes (“our Followers are uncomfortable with you, you were busy anyway–”)
Then, it had been being chained– and that, of course, was self-explanatory.
So when the handwritten note from the Lamb inviting him to the Wintertide Festival was slipped under his door, he thought it a cruel practical joke.
(“Who would want the God of Death at such a lively event, after all?”)
But it was not, in fact, some cruel prank from the new God of Death– as he discovered when he cornered them inside the confessional and snarled at them, demanding to know what the meaning of this was.
“Good morning to you too, Narinder,” they’d replied with a laugh, unperturbed by the hints of a roar lurking in the back of his throat or by the black cat pinning them against a wall.
“You surely cannot have meant to invite me to your damned festival,” he’d growled in lieu of a greeting.
The Lamb had laughed again, the hints of a stupid, annoying bleat in the back of their throat. “Whyever not?”
He’d failed to come up with a good response before he got shooed out again.
So here he was, in a dark corner away from most of the revelry and watching the Lamb’s followers dancing.
“There you are!”
Narinder’s ears twitched towards the sound of a single approaching bell before his eyes even knew where to look.
The Lamb was not dressed particularly differently from usual– well, besides a sprig of mistletoe, threaded carefully through their collar– but beyond that, this could have been any other night, where they came trotting up to him while he was trying to eat in peace to chatter away about whatever inane nonsense had transpired during the day.
“It is too damned loud,” he growled back. “Did you order your musicians to play their instruments as loudly as possible?”
“Yeah, figured the Mystic Seller could use some entertainment.”
Despite himself, Narinder gave a snort at the idea of the Mystic Seller, listening to the distant ruckus of the instruments with its usual deadpan gaze– then hated himself a little for it; and hated himself even more when they grinned back and it sent a little swarm of what mortals liked to call butterflies through the pit of his stomach.
Surely, this was one of the damned side effects of becoming mortal.
Surely.
He could feel heat rising to his face, and so chose to avert his eyes to glower at the makeshift dance floor.
“I would have thought you’d ask me to dance,” Narinder muttered, after a moments’ pause.
The Lamb turned to look at him, the bell around their neck jingling. “Did you want to dance?”
His ear flicked irritably. “No.”
“Then why even mention it…?”
Narinder found he had no proper reply to this rebuttal, and so grumbled “be quiet, Lamb” and turned his head to glower at the festivities, raucous and hectic.
The Lamb did not pull away, as he expected them to– he had seen them flitting about, after all, cheerfully checking in on those lurking at the sidelines or seated at the tables, or throwing up in a corner behind one of the many statues of the Lamb dotted about the cult.
(They’d offered a brief amount of comfort, a light pat on the back; before cheerfully offering the afflicted Follower a broom to clean up the mess.)
He fully expected them to just trot off again– but instead they reached down and took his paw, tugging his hand politely.
(He hated that he did not yank his paw away.)
“What? What do you want?” he grumbled.
“Well, you said you expected me to ask you to dance,” the Lamb responded, bright as usual.
Narinder glared up at them. He still did not pull his hand away, to the displeasure of something in the back of his head. “And then I said I did not want to dance, vile wretch. I quite literally haven’t danced in centuries.”
“That’s a new insult,” they chuckled, giving his hand another gentle tug. They were becoming less and less responsive to his insults.
If anything, he was fairly certain they were starting to find amusement in them.
“And that’s precisely why you should dance with me.”
“Are you drunk?” he asked, flatly.
They gave an irritating, bleating little laugh that made something in his chest jump a little bit. “Just one. I promise I won’t step on your feet.”
“What an enticing offer,” he snarked in response; but let them pull him into a standing position, towering over them as usual. “You get two minutes.”
“How generous.”
Narinder was used to watching the Lamb (through the Crown, when it had still been his) match the energy of their Followers when they danced. Often, it was some kind of energetic thing where they would practically skip around in circles, and he fully expected his dance with them to have him winded and breathless in an instant.
But instead, despite the rapid pace of the song the musicians were playing, they laced their fingers with his and began to slowly sway him around in a clumsy little circle– a slow dance.
Narinder awkwardly shuffled his own feet– he’d long forgotten how to dance, let alone slow dance; but the Lamb didn’t seem annoyed by how awkward the movements were– if anything, they seemed to find it a little charming.
How stupid.
He could feel his heartbeat (he had a heartbeat) pulse against their interlocked hands; the way that even though the pace of their dance didn’t match the music at all, the swaying still fell on the beats.
Narinder half-expected the Lamb to make some stupid quip or pun that would make him want to pull away in disgust– but instead, they were gazing up at him, eyes softer than he’d ever seen. It was a little awkward, and he could feel heat rising into his face again.
Perhaps he was befuddled.
(He ignored the fact that he’d had exactly one singular glass of wine this entire night so far– the drinkhouse was simply too crowded for him to want to bother.)
And yet, despite the awkwardness of it all, there was also a gentle sort of peace that settled over their dark nook; barely lit by the light of the bonfire and accompanied with music that was far too fast-paced for a slow dance between the former and current Gods of Death.
They swayed together in slightly-awkward-but-still-peaceful silence for a moment longer– and then whatever this ‘moment’ was was broken as the Lamb abruptly tripped.
Instinctively, their hands released, there was a clumsy flailing of limbs from the Lamb and a half-lunge forward from Narinder– and suddenly, he was awkwardly gripping them in what could only be described as a hug, one of their hooves awkwardly suspended in the air and one hand gripping the front of his robe.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t step on my feet,” Narinder shot at them, when his heart had stopped pounding enough for him to think coherently.
“Never said anything about tripping over my own. I’m not exactly a dancer,” the Lamb laughed.
He didn’t have an adequate response– partially because he’d suddenly noticed the distance (well, the lack thereof) between his and the Lamb’s faces. He was so close that he could see every eyelash, the small scars hidden by gray fur, scattered across their nose, their eyebrows…
“Hey, there’s mistletoe above us,” they suddenly said cheerfully.
Narinder’s neck practically cricked as he whipped his head to look up at the rafter above them– to spot a sprig of mistletoe that he’d apparently just been sat under this whole time.
(Thank Gods some befuddled Follower hadn’t approached him and kissed him on the mouth. He got the feeling his siblings would have had a field day with that.)
“You don’t have to kiss me, by the way,” the Lamb was joking, still practically cradled in his arms. “I know I’m a ‘vile wretch’ or–”
He promptly dropped them into the dirt.
Despite himself, despite all logic, his heart had started racing in his chest, so fast that it practically fluttered against his rib cage, and at the words kiss me a huge storm of butterflies had exploded in the pit of his stomach.
“Damn you, Lamb,” he spat, desperate to get away all of a sudden, because Oh Gods he could feel heat rising to his face; and he was already storming away, halfway across the cult.
The Lamb blinked slowly after him, propped up on their elbows and watching him practically flee, ears pinned back and tail thrashing back and forth in indignance.
Their mouth slowly twisted up at the corners, trying to fight a grin.
“Who would’ve thought? Leshy was on the right track calling Nari ‘emotionally constipated.’”