well i was almost late to the party
happy 13th birthday kagamemes! here's to another year of living!
this fic is a mess of absolute proportions because i am a nerd who thrives off style over substance and this fic is very much that with some extended metaphors. could i have written it better? probably, but i was on a time crunch and i should've planned and written this months ago but life be like that, y'know?
written for gyoomie! this was originally your birthday fic - but life happened and once again i'm killing two birds with one stone for fics haha. hope you enjoy it despite how late it is!
also, just out of curiosity, review and tell me how long it takes y'all to read this fic without googling some of the more french terms i sprinkled around the fic
-x-
There is naught but silence in the moonlit night.
The ballad fades into being. There is a ball, the masks are on, and they are just two strangers looking for pleasant company and a little too much wine. It is a perfect picturesque meeting between two souls alike in nature.
He does not catch her eye as they simultaneously glide on the dance floor, their gazes bounded by faceless partners in unbecoming charades as they dance with their dolls. The dolls are but faceless mannequins on the stage of a lifetime, mere puppets pulled on strings as they dance idly with their partners.
But pleasantries and preparations must be made for the stage to be set.
She finally catches his eye, a lone figure pristinely dressed in white and he walks over to her. He leans on one knee and kisses her hand, his eyes sparkling at her like sapphire and glitter. Perhaps he would say something like may I have this dance, my dear and she of course takes his hand in hers, the smile on her face the perfect picture of grace as he leads her to the dance floor.
And then they dance together. His hand at her waist – her hand at his shoulder. It is a perfect picturesque meeting. They would perhaps dance together on that bright stage and shut out all mention of anyone else, their movements coordinated and almost choreographed as they dance beautifully together.
And perhaps they would retire a bit later, perhaps after taking off their masks and sharing a drink or two and then performing another act meant for two. She would laugh at the invitation, of the implication of an explicit liaison and perhaps note that they had both had too much to drink. But she would not protest as he carried her back to his room, her form as delicate and light as she appeared, and engaged each other in sordid motions of pleasure.
But now they dance.
Step against step they dance in harmony with one another, the gravitas of their waltz a sight to see. The dolls watch in intrigue as they spin around each other, the waltz morphing into ballet into bourrée and back into waltz as they move to the tune of each other's music.
They are not always perfectly equal.
The man moves in sonatas well maneuvered and flexible, eager to conform to whatever the lady in the pitch black dress and heels as long as knives move in her canta as resolute and firm as steel.
She moves with confidence above all, utter surety in every movement and step as their waltz culminates with a final fermata where she is dipped, her hand now settling on his back. It is a matter of trust; one small misstep from him would see her landing to the ground in a heap.
There is no misstep. How can there be, with their respective symphonies in silent pianissimo, the two of them playing the same tune ever silently in the stillness of the night.
She stands upright once more after the dip, their hands still together by something more than muscle and bone pulling them toward each other. He smiles, charming as ever as he leads the dance this time, the crescendo evident to the two of them as they move once more in circles in their waltz.
This time, it is he who takes the lead, an accelerando that he takes the two of them as they speed up, their steps hurried but not yet strained as their arms stretch out to one another in their own mutual dance.
They spin, quick and fanciful as he spins her around his arm and dances, moving his body against hers in quick, purposeful strides that would make any onlooker's head spin with the risque and sharp turns he is making. Once more, it is only one small misstep that would cause the two of them to fall down in a pile. And once more the misstep never comes.
After all, the reflection is always bound to the image.
They separate, for a time, on the opposite ends of their stage, all the lights on them as they prepare their enteré for their next dance. They enter simultaneously, mirror each other's movements - step by step by arm by leg in slow, languid movements.
Their adagio comes naturally, twisting and twirling their bodies in rapid succession as they move across the stage almost effortlessly, the sight of practiced routines and familiar verses. It is a dance that only the two of them can perform with limb after limb in sync with each other.
And then the music echoes the beats in their chest. Their heartbeats speeding up as the crescendos rise just above the overture. A thousand mirrors reflect endlessly into eternity, and they would still dance perfectly with each other.
And then the illusion shatters.
They move in different verses this time, these feats of agility and skill, leaping over each other with arms outstretched and open, motions of leaping and sliding across their grand stage. Even spinning different movements and variations, they somehow move in tune with one another. It is a strange sight, of afterimages and flesh bounding flesh bounding limb in swift symphony.
And as their pas de dux approaches their final act, there is nothing but the two of them left. Even the dolls have disappeared in some nebulous time before the now, and in the space between heartbeats, it is only the two of them in the entire world.
The lights dim.
They kiss, because there is no other ending for them. In the silence of the empty stage, there is the sensation of warmth, of the other person's presence and heartbeat in cold confines of the mirror. They both know it cannot last.
In time there will be another dance, another waltz and crescendo and music, but now they must depart, back into the mirror, back into the strict confines of reality. But now, in the moment, in the last throes of a shared dream, they kiss.
And then there is silence in the moonlit night.
-x-
big brain notes here at the end, so don't read unless you've finished the fic and remembered how long it takes y'all to read
i heard about 4'33'' recently, which is a brilliant symphony and idea btw, and decided to do smth with it that wasnt just incredible musical things in silence. The average number of words that a person reads per minute is 200-250 words and the wordcount of this fic excluding everything else is Exactly 1024 words. a nice even number, 2^10 and roughly 225 multiplied by 4.55 which is 4'33'' - or 4 minutes and 33 seconds - roughly. more or less hahahaha
i Also might do a follow up to this fic, well, at least 2 more followups, but maybe during next kagameme bday and i hope Next Time ill prepare the fic in advance instead of writing a good chunk of it during the kagameme bday