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“What are you doing?”
Khadgar looks to his side and acknowledges that he is no longer alone. Grass tickles his bare feet, and blades of summer grass stick to his cloak, too warm to be wearing on a day like this but perfect for the night that is about to set in. Crickets chirp in the distance; once or twice a fly lands on his skin and he wriggles his toes to dislodge it, only to have the insect return time and again.
An orange warm light floods the scenery. He feels peaceful here, in the meadow by the pond. It is quiet. Hardly anybody knows to find him here, and as a result it is his favourite place to be when the sun is warm and he has a rare day off. Sometimes he just dozes off, only to wake hours later feeling revived. Those are the best days.
But duty seems to be knocking. And this week does not consist of good days. Not when it ends with a grand ball that Khadgar is expected to attend; not when literally everyone he has asked to help him out, because he cannot dance to save his life, has given him some sort of lame excuse as to why they have something better to do. So here he is, with some book that delves into the theory of courtly dances next to him, and he is desperately trying to forget that it exists. “Sitting,” he says. There is a sarcastic lilt to his smile. “Obviously.”
“Can you come?” Lothar says with as little patience as always. It is probably something about the festivities. Perhaps they need fireworks, or maybe they are more concerned about safety with a display of magic as big as what Khadgar has already proposed he is able to do. Peace will return as soon as that night is over.
So he puts his things in his bag and hoists himself up. “Whatfor?”
“Nothing.” Lothar is in his leather tunic and breeches, casual and informal. Khadgar likes it better on him. The armour makes him solid and gives him an edge, especially with how easy he moves in the added weight, but to Khadgar there is grace in the way Lothar uses his wit over his sword. He is as lethal in plain leather. So maybe him arriving here like this has already chipped the edge off Khadgar's resignment over his disturbed peace.
Of course, Lothar is as cunning as he is blunt. “You don't know how to dance,” he brings up with all the subtlety of a plated boulder in a field of daisies. “Callan told me. How do you not know how to dance?”
“Really?” Khadgar rolls his eyes and drops his bag. He sits back down in the grass, hell-bent on enjoying the last minutes of the light and the warmth before he is inevitably drawn back into the city. He isn't dancing during the ball. It is really as easy as that.
Lothar snorts and sits down next to him. “Fine. It's kind of hard to explain you the footwork while we are sitting, but if that is the way you want it.”
Khadgar stares at him for a good minute. But Lothar explains the principles of the four-beat base form, in all seriousness, and Khadgar doesn't bother hiding being utterly knocked off his horse.
It isn't that he doesn't expect Lothar to be able to dance. Far from it; Lothar was raised in court, and he would know all the forms to the grudging best of his ability, if only because his upbringing demanded it. He would find parallels with parrying in battle and discover fun in the formality. But what does surprise him is that Lothar is the most sought after man during the preparations of this ball—likely the most sought after for a match on the night itself, as well, now that he is Regent—and yet he spends his evening making sure Khadgar gets it right.
So Khadgar gives in with a laugh. He draws himself up and allows Lothar to nudge him in the right position with only mild embarrassment. “Am I the woman?” he asks, because he can't help it.
“Unless you want to learn how to lead,” says Lothar. There is merriment to his actions. He is, Khadgar realises, enjoying this. Not in mockery; not even in expectation. He is simply here, teaching Khadgar baby steps in what they both know will not get him to more than one proper dance in the time they are given. But they don't care, either.
“Next dance,” he asks.
“Get this one under control first,” grins Lothar. “You're stepping on my toe.”
“You're—”
“—Again.”
“Do we have to hold hands?”
“How many dances have you been to in your life?” Lothar questions in honesty. His hand is firm in Khadgar's admittedly rather sweaty one. Unfamiliar with the closeness, it is made worse by the fact that this is Lothar, gruff Lothar, and that Khadgar finds to his surprise that he likes seeing this unexpected side of him.
But he is positively sure that his books never described being this close.
It takes them until the moon has chased away the last of the sun before they complete a full form without trouble. Khadgar can barely see a hand before his eyes, despite the few small blue flames that hover in the air—over the pond, so they know where not to step—mildly disturbing Lothar when Khadgar cast them mid-dance. He should have perhaps announced that beforehand.
He keeps his focus throughout their practice, utters a few words to maintain control of the light. It should be distracting. But Lothar leads well, and Khadgar finds that he is good at following when he stops over-analysing his movements and just goes with it.
The problem is that when he finally gets it right, fully right, a full form in the meadow without stepping onto Lothar's feet or plunging into the pond, and Lothar groans out an over-exaggerated but proud, “Finally,” and claps a hand on his shoulder, Khadgar is not mentally there yet and the sudden movement breaks his concentration.
The first flame bursts into a powerful blast that floors them. The second and third, well, Khadgar imagines that they must have been worse, but he can't tell from where he is covered under a mount of Lothar.
“That was a bad choice,” he mumbles helplessly. Don't get up. “Are you alright?”
“This is why I asked you to come back with me,” mutters Lothar.
“Are you hurt?”
“Really, one would think I'd learn to expect this from your magic.”
By the sound of his complaints, Khadgar reasons that Lothar is more than fine. He snorts. That's how it begins, at least, until he dissolves into small huffs and eventually what he thinks likely to be terribly unflattering peels of laughter. It's not like he can make it very dignified while Lothar's weight is still on him, at any rate. In the new dark, they have to focus to see more than just each other's basic shapes, so at least the colour on his cheeks remains hidden. “Are you getting up at some point?”
“The world could be burning with your unruly magic,” Lothar points out. “Do I want to get up?”
“Probably best not to,” says Khadgar. “You make a fine shield.”
Lothar snorts and cuffs him on the shoulder for that. “I will leave you on your own at the ball.”
“I will show no one what skills you've taught me. What a waste of good time.”
Lothar above him shakes his head in amusement. “You showed someone, didn't you?” he says as he offers him a hand to crawl up. “You showed me.”
That much is true. Khadgar settles into the grass, and doesn't really mind that Lothar has been on top of him longer than is strictly required of him. He likes the weight, and he likes the person. “So now that I mastered this dance, can I lead?”
“You have completed it once and already you believe you have mastered it?”
Well. Khadgar is no connoisseur. He prods Lothar in the side. “That's a no?”
In hindsight, it might have been better not to go for that when he is still somewhat pinned underneath the man. Even in the dark, it hard to miss the glint that crosses Lothar's eyes. Then he pokes him back, and Khadgar squirms. Shit.
“No, alright,” he tries to concede quickly. “More practice. Let's get right to it.”
But he isn't left alone. Lothar grins when he notices the response, and pokes him again.
Khadgar's legs twitch and his arms flail. “Stop that.”
He receives another tickle for it. This time, it is soft, barely there over the too thin fabric of his own shirt where his jerkin gives way, and he can barely contain himself. There is no other way, then. The only way to go is to give as good as he gets.
They end up rolling and tumbling through the grass in bouts of laughter, indignation and literal shrieks. If anyone is to ever know of this, Khadgar—and he suspects Lothar equally—will hunt them down and force them never to speak a word. The Guardian Novitiate and the Regent, in a tussle in the meadow until one gives.
“Surrender,” Lothar pants.
Khadgar is exhausted; he tries to turn them over half-assed anyway.
“Surrender.”
“This is so unfair.”
The fingers digging into his sides are relentless. "Surrender, Khadgar."
So in the end, with no other option available to him, he does. Above him, Lothar is equal parts smug and out of breath, and something else. He stares down at Khadgar while continuing to easily pin his two hands above his head with one—a brute, Khadgar would attest, if he did not possibly like it a little—and suddenly the air is laden. Heavy.
Khadgar stares up with parted lips. He knows that Lothar is looking down at him equally breathless.
Then he pulls away, offers a hand. But somehow that doesn't do anything for their mutual quietude. “Next dance,” Lothar promises in a whisper, “you lead.”
With his feet in the cold grass and his jerkin tugged back into place, Khadgar nods. He prepares himself to be instructed; he stands straight, keeps his eyes on Lothar, and waits for the explanations of the first steps.
“It's late.” Lothar is already packing up.
Stormwind shines bright in the distance, where there is light. Perhaps they should have really gone there. They would still be practising. It is all ending too soon for Khadgar's liking. He will be at the grand ball with clumsy beginner's steps. There is so much to learn, and there has been so little time. “You promised me a next dance. Come on.”
“Yes,” laughs Lothar, “and we've got two nights left ahead of ourselves. In the castle. Where I can see you.”
“Oh.” A pleasant warmth threatens to break in his chest.
Well, that changes things.