A/N: Reviews are always much appreciated, but please no spoilers for anything beyond the Bahamut fight. Clive and Jill and this adorable but tortured slow burn are absolutely killing me. Disclaimer: I can't claim that the Renaissance dances referenced here resemble in any way their real world namesakes; I just needed something plausible sounding to call them.
Jill feels very grown up in her gown of gold, with its bouffant sleeves and satin bodice mimicking the styles of the ladies around her, even if she lacks the shape for it to hang quite so elegantly on her own frame just yet. None of the adults save for Lord Byron have engaged her in conversation, which she doesn't mind, but there are polite nods and smiles enough that she can almost believe she belongs here as a fine lady in her own right rather than a glorified political hostage.
Clive often makes her feel like that. She wishes he were not at this moment busy with whatever ceremonial duty his role as Shield has demanded, and that he could be there now to admire her in her finery. Perhaps, just maybe, he has in fact been stationed atop one of the balconies, commanded to keep watch for trouble from above, but his eye instead has been caught by the Lady of Gold and Silver. For many minutes his gaze has followed her, wondering at the identity of the mysterious woman who shines like the rarest jewel even in a sea of splendour, until by chance she should look up and across the room their eyes would meet like the blue and grey of a clear sky touching the restless sea…
The actual guard stationed on the mezzanine, when she looks, is a dour man with a red beard, eyes fixed on the ducal dias and paying no heed to a child wandering among the crowd at all. Jill moves to circle around the dancefloor and tries to rid herself of the silly thought.
Such balls in the Duchy of Rosaria are not rare, but that the children should be in attendance certainly is. Joshua has recently turned six and his health has shown signs of improvement, and so the Archduke and Duchess have decided now to be the time at which he can formally be presented to the Duchy's nobility as the Dominant of the Phoenix. He's been beside the throne for over an hour now, flanked by his parents while receiving the guests, and Jill has to wonder at his endurance that he hasn't fallen asleep on the spot.
Clive, of course, won't be presented to anyone. He is nonetheless expected to behave like a Lord. To him she would gladly be—
"My lady, may I have this next dance?"
That she hears the words not in her imagination, but from a real, familiar voice off to her left, takes her by surprise. When she turns to look, her shock doubles to the extent she forgets the composure of a sophisticated lady she'd been coveting and finds herself once more a gawking child. "Clive?"
Relieved of military duty it seems, he's wearing not the ceremonial armour of a Shield, but a fine velvet tunic the perfect colour inverse of Joshua's: all black save for the red silk lining the cuffs and the brocade of roses across the shoulders, with a high collar and square neckline that laces just below his clavicle. There's a hint of red in his cheeks too, if she's not mistaken, his eyes shyly avoiding her face, but the hand he offers is gentlemanly and proper as he dutifully upholds the expectations of a Lord of House Rosfield.
Jill clears her throat, remembers her own duty to respectably represent her homeland, and curtseys politely. "I am not yet spoken for, Lord Rosfield. I would be honoured." The words feel strange coming from her lips, but she embraces them as though the dancefloor were a stage and the two of them actors upon it.
Encouraged, he smiles, and she sees the tension visibly seep from his shoulders as she reaches for his hand.
His fingers are warm. There are times before she's held his hand and thought nothing of it, but they were younger then, society's scrutinising gaze not turned so intently their way, and the sensation quickly turns to self-consciousness as they take their place on the floor.
A few strums of a lute to begin the music, and with a sudden horror Jill realises she can't recall what the dance is.
"A galliard, right?" she whispers.
"A canario, I think," Clive whispers back, and places his hand on her waist. Jill hurries to wrangle her brain into remembering the steps.
Clive's footwork, as she'd expect of a swordsman, is impeccable. She herself missteps a few times, blushing and mumbling "sorry", but he mutters back a kind "it's okay" and corrects her so smoothly she thinks even were their dance tutor watching he'd have saved her from rebuke.
It isn't just his hands. All of him is warm.
She's aware of little else as her left hand rests on his shoulder and she feels the fire of it along her arm, heat radiating from his torso where they're close enough for poise but never close enough to touch. Jill doesn't know if he's trying to look at her face, but the thought of meeting his eyes right now has her stomach doing somersaults, and so she drops her gaze and stares in the direction of his throat instead.
It catches her attention when the muscles there ripple and ease as he swallows, then in the wake of the action, Jill notices a pulse thrumming in the hollow at the base of his throat.
Oh…
Another wrong footing. Clive rescues her. She blushes and doesn't look up to see his expression.
It's so fast…
Unbidden, she finds her thoughts wandering to the heart that must be driving it, hardly racing from exertion when this dance must pale in effort against the fencing drills he does each morning. Is he nervous, then? Afraid to make a mistake and face their audience's judgement? But he isn't making any mistakes and cares so little about hers…
So…could it really just be that she's set his heart aflutter the way he has done to her?
Jill doesn't want to presume. But in her own mind, she allows herself to be fanciful.
She wonders at his heart, thinks of the strength it must have that it can push blood to raise the surface of his skin, yet even standing so close to him now she cannot hear it. She wonders too at the gentleness of it, the kindness and nobility that even if she cannot see through his chest she can see plain as day. If she were to move her hand, she wonders, just a few inches lower, would she feel it then?
She doesn't dare find out. The next step of the dance demands that they part; Clive raises their hands and Jill turns under their arch before returning to his hold. She doesn't catch sight of his pulse again.
Only when the music comes to a close and the two of them step apart does she find the courage to meet his eyes. He returns the gaze, eyes brimming with words that got lost on their way to his lips, and she sees him inhale and for a long moment hold his breath as though he were a clockwork toy wound and held in place before being released.
She hopes when he unwinds he might take her hand and kiss her knuckles like a prince to a princess from a fairytale. He does not.
Clive retreats another pace and bows formally. "My Lady."
"Lord Rosfield." Masking her disappointment, Jill smiles and curtseys again. If she remains his lady, she will be content.
