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“This drink tastes strange,” Lio said with wonder, sipping adamantly as he was pulled away.
“It’s called liquor, love,” Tarick cooed. But then Salas could hear them no more as they drifted off through the swaying, giggling crowd.
Salas turned back to the man that held all of his attention to find that he had offered his own hand, extruding it before Salas with the common body language. Salas knew the gesture well, and took the hand, smiling a little as he was led to the dance floor and pulled straight into a fast-paced Diagorian ballroom dance that he wouldn’t even begin to know the steps of, yet laughed along anyways as he attempted to copy what he saw.
“For a party planner, you seemed to have forgotten to train yourself in the most important part,” the King mused, his eyes sparkling with laughter as Salas stumbled, once again, when he did not stop on the fourth beat of every bar, “How to dance.”
“I know how to dance!” Salas said defensively. “It’s when everyone all of a sudden stops dancing…” The last part was said in a low mutter as the King grabbed his arm to keep him from swaying into an unsuspecting party-goer once again.
The next song involved even more stopping, if one was so inclined to believe, paired with what Salas assumed, was random clapping between the lyrics of the bellowing opera singer. Nearly each time, Salas would clap once after the beat, causing the King to laugh hysterically, and Salas would swat him until he silenced himself.
But the third dance was one he knew well, no matter which country he was in. He was pulled into a waltz, King Jareth’s hand wrapping around his waist and resting near the small of his back. The other, clasped in his, tight.
Salas couldn’t reach high enough to wrap his arms around the King’s neck, so he settled for resting his free hand against the King’s firm chest.
The King took one in his great palm, brought it to his lips, and kissed the soft part of his palm in an endearing, intimate gesture that Salas barely knew what to do with.
“I thought you did not want people to see us that way,” Salas said softly, so only Jareth would hear.
“I did not want you to be seen as a spoil of war. That was for your own protection. I have no qualms with them believing I am courting you to your little heart’s content.” He grinned down teasingly.
“My little heart?” Salas raged, affronted. “Yourlittle heart.”
The melody to the song in the background was dripping with romance, though sadly forlorn, like the ending of a bittersweet fairy-tale that one was not quite sure how to feel about after consumption.
“Salas,” the King said suddenly, and when Salas looked up, there were only his eyes; dark and dangerous, yet at the moment, exquisitely soft as he peered down at Salas as though he were staring at the last sunset he would ever see. Like Salas held the entire world in his palm, and with one thought, could make it gilded. “There is something that I want to offer you.”
“Offer?” Salas considered delicately, confused.
“Yes, I’ve thought about what you said,” the King said hesitantly, as though considering his words carefully. “About what this kingdom needs. Balls. Entertainment. It needs you, Salas. Take a look around you.” The King gently took Salas’ jaw to have him peer around. Salas wondered if the King was seeing the room the same as he was: happy Diagorians, jovial with integrity, as though the icy tundra was not just a ways away and a war on the horizon. “You did this. My Kingdom has not celebrated in ages. They’ve had no reason to. But I believe now they have cause for happiness.” He paused, tilting his head a bit to smile crookedly down at the smaller man. “When this war is over, I would like to make you a royal council member, Salas. When I come back home, I would like to make you a master of games.”
Salas froze, immediately forgetting the dance his body was supposed to be moving in time to, to stare up at the King. “You…” he couldn’t finish the sentence; not that he had a fully formed one to begin with. It was ridiculous, even to Salas’ ears. To make a mere palace whore, slave to the enemy, part of the royal council? It was laughable, and the King must have known that.
Yet there was no amusement in the King’s eyes. Only sincerity.
Salas had always secretly desired a place among a palace, with a real title and true responsibilities. He knew he was inadequate, and that he thought differently from others, no matter how much he hated to admit the embarrassing truth. Yet still, he had always wanted his actions to mean something, and here the King was, finally offering a way in which they could.
The Emperor would have thought it was a joke, to give him a title, and yet this King…
This King acknowledged his importance. “Yes,” Salas whispered, wiping his cheeks, which he realized were wet with the swell of appreciation he felt.
“Good,” the King chuckled, pulling him close to kiss his forehead. “That’s settled.”
It was then that Newt came along and wordlessly tugged upon her father’s sleeve to pull him into a dance.
Salas watched them become engulfed in an upbeat number, laughing from the sidelines at the little princess’s enthusiasm.
He felt a tap on his shoulder, and glanced over to see the Malthenian dignitary, come to hold out his hand to Salas in an offer to join him on the dance floor.
The man’s eyes weren’t on his, but rather on the rest of him, lingering on the bare slits of his attire as they swept up him. “Did you dress to seduce me, little bird?” the man asked in Susconian, the words coming out in a gravelly purr that sent uncomfortable shivers down Salas’ spine. He couldn’t help but to think of the last time they’d met, when the man had insulted the King and had grotesquely spit into Salas’ offered cup.
Salas was about to back away, but then the man, without waiting for agreement on Salas’ part, grabbed Salas’ arm and pulled him into a dance, pressing their bodies close enough so that they were flushed chest to chest, as well as nearly causing friction in lower places.
Salas squirmed, yet there were too many bodies moving around him for anyone to notice his current predicament, and in a sea of lovers locked in similar embraces, it would appear that he and the man simply looked like one of the many joined couples.
“Tell me,” the man continued, his voice just above a whisper as his lips pressed to Salas’ ear, his breath hot on his neck. “What is your name, little one?”
Salas swallowed. “Salas,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation.
