His hands were sure and steady, as she leaned into his lead. Zen moved steadily across the floor, and when he let go of her side to spin her in a circle, it was a thrill. Her off-white dress seemed to spin of its own volition around her, and then she was back in his arms: a warm and wonderful place to be.
It's as if he'd been born to lead, graceful as a swan before her, leading her as elegantly as if this is what Zen did in his spare time. Shirayuki was too drawn into the blue of his eyes, bright and gleaming back at her like the ocean in a rare moment of calm, where waves weren't licking the shore, and the way that every step seemed to come with practiced ease from Zen to even notice the nerves that had seemed to tempt her heart since he'd asked her to dance.
She follows; her dress spinning out around her as Zen's hand rests gently on her back, applying ever so slight pressure when they moved across the floor, as if a reminder, a featherlight touch to tell her that it was time to step across the floor as if she owned it.
It's a romantic dance. That's what they'd told her when she'd taken lessons, trying to bleed aching feet and hours of work into something that flowed steadily from her, and still feeling like the steps are unnatural, the flow interrupted, and then Zen's asking her to dance and every step is marked with a kind of grace that she'd forgotten her boyfriend could possess.
Then, she lets him lead her out in another spin, feeling the room go blurry in an instant, dress moving as if of it's own will around her, wrapped snugly over her chest but flowing out like a waterfall around her legs. Shirayuki's grateful to be back in Zen's arms, his hand gently on her back once more, his blue eyes calling her to look up at him.
He's dressed splendidly tonight, looking ever like the prince prepared for a ball, but it's his eyes tonight that draw her in, again and again, as if Clarines Blue suits were not the most beautiful sight to look at in the room. Instead, it's a different sort of Clarines Blue that takes her gaze in, that steals her breath, making every glance feel like a private moment just between them.
As she follows, trying to make her arms as light as 'bird wings,' or so her dance instructor had told her once, somehow letting the words slip over her head and out her ears, unable to be retrieved again. How exactly was she supposed to move like she was flying? How was she supposed to just follow and not trip over the heels that line her feet?
But, she can't look away from Zen, not away from the gentle blue of his eyes, the way he gazes at her as if she were the whole reason, the whole joy that leads to balls, the whole delight that allows a kingdom to prosper and to flourish, as if she were somehow the one that made this kingdom into the incredible home that she's glad to call it now.
If Shirayuki ever were to doubt herself, to tear herself apart, piece by piece, one look, soft as it is, from Zen should do the trick to remind her that in someone's eyes, she's more incredible than she has ever seen. Just, she feels as if her skin is aflutter, as if her heart has decided her whole body needs to be as warm as summer in an instant, as if she were merely responding to the words that his gaze seems to tell her.
Shirayuki would have to agree with her dance instructor; it is a romantic dance, but she's entirely sure that the only reason it is so, is because Zen is the one dancing it with her now. It doesn't matter that the movements are slow and elegant, drawing upon each other, or that the dance, itself, is traditionally beautiful. All that matters, is that Zen's eyes are holding her in place, and his hands are warm.
She's unsure that a dance has ever felt this warm before, this delicate, and yet, all that she can do is lean into his lead, trust him, trust him with the silence that needs no pressure, each and every step, that without Zen in front of her, she'd be worrying over. She trusts him to lead her, and where he'll lead, she'll follow.
So, Shirayuki mirrors the steps, without seeing anything in the ballroom that isn't coated in a pretty shade of Clarinesian Blue or as soft and warm as love is, when it is spoken without any words needed.