Kiss on the hand + bonus dancing, because context and despair
The evening ballroom was softly glittering, a convoluted and theatrical penumbra artificially combining with the golden neon-lights floating from the high ceiling. The dark simile-glass flooring, embedded by shards of shining stones, reflected opaque shapes, emulating the ongoing dancing as if an unclear vision, drowned in a sea of glittering sprites. Illyrio feels the foreign eyes of the guests surrounding him, boring into the back of his head. He feels the glances, the badly hidden glimpses staring at his everything, at his face, his body, his clothes, his moves, his dancing partner; he feels them like a physical thing, like a spectral hand caressing his naked skin. A spectrum of emotions fights inside of him, battling between his preening for attention and his undying paranoia.
The couples swirl on the dance floor and Illyrio imitates them, imperceptibly late. Dancing is not his forte, but the spinning allows him to distract himself from his surrounding for a moment, to let the other’s silhouettes disappear in a whirlpool of tame colors, and he can focus back on Muhren, who is obediently following him in every step on the dance.
The man looks perfect in his grey suit, the color shading into a dark smoke shade under the soffuse lighting. The artificial dusk paints beautiful shades on the agent’s visage, and reflects metallic gradations into his pale eyes. Illyrio shamelessly wears his robes in black, red and gold, combined in geometrical shapes and decorative layers of silks. The Sith leads the dance with as much elegance as he can muster, but he can tell Muhren is better versed on his feet in these kind of ceremonies.
The small orchestra plays a regal symphony, unobtrusively accompanied by the gurgling flowing of water coming from the numerous decorative fountains flanking the walls. The music reverberates softly, hiding the hushed whispers that make the conversation of the other guests.
The dance touches its end and the polite clapping coming from the surrounding bystanders implicitly signals the end of this round of dancing. Illyrio barely has the time to recompose himself, to fully prepare for his hidden public, before Muhren surprises him by depositing an elegant kiss on his hand, culminating the dance in a smooth maneuver.
For an instant the Sith feels like the spinning has never ended, feels the world around him unfocus, degrade. Muhren has bowed his back perfectly, his eyes respectfully casted low, his entire self devoted to the grace of the gesture. Illyrio is deafened by the rush of adrenaline he feels burning into his blood, by the power that the public gesture of deference carve into his skin. He feels divided into two, the soft need to praise the docility of the agent, fighting against the possessive growl that grows into his mind.
Then the burning is coldly tamed by his self-control, shut down but still carefully protected inside his inner mind. They have other places and other times for that.
Once Muhn carefully raises his eyes Illyrio answers with an elegant and approving tilt of the head, indifferent to their public. The Sith offers him the crook of his elbow, ready to delve into the more dangerous depths of the night.
Half of me wants to live in a cozy rustic cabin, with shelves filled with knicknacks and books, hidden in the woods; the other half wants a high rise apartment in a luxiorious city, with a mix of industrial and modern style and an open concept throughout.