Ah, he'd expected as much, although perhaps more owing to Lune finding dancing to be a 'pointless waste of time' rather than parental disapproval. She might not have meant for it to be, but the admission is illuminating. So she'd wanted to learn—it's only because of their scolding looks that she chose not to.
Oof. Not like that's relatable or anything. Well, it makes him feel the urge to give her the dance lessons she never got to have, ones with a teacher who not only tolerates but encourages frivolity. The impending doom will still be there tomorrow. For tonight, they can waltz.
"You're in luck, then," he says as the record begins to spin. "You've just gotten yourself an exclusive lesson with the Continent's best waltzer sixty-seven years running."
A joke. The Gestrals dance, but in a far less elegant way. And Esquie— well, he's certainly a contender, but he's not much for partner dancing given his size. He was a shoe-in for the title.
Although, admittedly, Verso has not actually danced in decades. Not much impetus to. Surely, though, it'll come back without much difficulty. After all, he'd been a real delight at the Dessendre soirees once upon a time.
"To start, you'll put your left hand here"—indicating his shoulder—"and your right hand in mine." He's patient, letting her figure out the stance without moving her hands or putting his own anywhere near her yet. "I'll be the leader, and you'll be the follower."
There's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes at that. Pretty sure Lune has never been a follower in her life.
There’s the brief fleeting thought of have I made a huge mistake?, because there’s something so uniquely aggravating about handing control over to Verso in particular —
But he’s being polite, at least, and not rubbing it in too much (yet), and not maneuvering her like a human doll. Being somewhat demure, as much as a man like him can be. So Lune takes a breath and leans up on slight tiptoe and obligingly takes his shoulder, and his hand. Her palm is cool in his. Although her body language is stiff around him in a way that she very much isn’t around Sciel; there’s evidently another version of Lune which doesn’t mind casual unthinking affectionate touch, hands in hands, head tilted against a shoulder, and so it must be possible to find one’s way to that eventually.
Maybe it just takes time. And a bit less lying.
“Where did you rank as a waltzer before the Continent?” she asks. It’s an innocent enough question, prying into his pre-Fracture history without, she hopes, sinking her teeth too deep into the bone. Their time together on the Expedition has been such a delicate balancing act, seeing what details she can manage to subtly wring out of him.
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Oof. Not like that's relatable or anything. Well, it makes him feel the urge to give her the dance lessons she never got to have, ones with a teacher who not only tolerates but encourages frivolity. The impending doom will still be there tomorrow. For tonight, they can waltz.
"You're in luck, then," he says as the record begins to spin. "You've just gotten yourself an exclusive lesson with the Continent's best waltzer sixty-seven years running."
A joke. The Gestrals dance, but in a far less elegant way. And Esquie— well, he's certainly a contender, but he's not much for partner dancing given his size. He was a shoe-in for the title.
Although, admittedly, Verso has not actually danced in decades. Not much impetus to. Surely, though, it'll come back without much difficulty. After all, he'd been a real delight at the Dessendre soirees once upon a time.
"To start, you'll put your left hand here"—indicating his shoulder—"and your right hand in mine." He's patient, letting her figure out the stance without moving her hands or putting his own anywhere near her yet. "I'll be the leader, and you'll be the follower."
There's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes at that. Pretty sure Lune has never been a follower in her life.
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But he’s being polite, at least, and not rubbing it in too much (yet), and not maneuvering her like a human doll. Being somewhat demure, as much as a man like him can be. So Lune takes a breath and leans up on slight tiptoe and obligingly takes his shoulder, and his hand. Her palm is cool in his. Although her body language is stiff around him in a way that she very much isn’t around Sciel; there’s evidently another version of Lune which doesn’t mind casual unthinking affectionate touch, hands in hands, head tilted against a shoulder, and so it must be possible to find one’s way to that eventually.
Maybe it just takes time. And a bit less lying.
“Where did you rank as a waltzer before the Continent?” she asks. It’s an innocent enough question, prying into his pre-Fracture history without, she hopes, sinking her teeth too deep into the bone. Their time together on the Expedition has been such a delicate balancing act, seeing what details she can manage to subtly wring out of him.