⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟒𝟏 - 𝐉𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐬 𝐈𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭

She flushes, unwillingly and without her consent. "You could talk the devil out of a deal, I think, with that tongue of yours."

"You've seen very little of my tongue, darling."

A gasp falls from her lips; mouth agape, Elizabeth slaps his arm in admonishment, "Thomas!" She shouts. But that boyishly suggestive smirk remains on his face, that pride, she slaps his arm again for good measure. "You dick!"

He laughs. Genuine laughter.

For years, Elizabeth believed the only tender things in existence were bruises.

Thomas proves her wrong, again.

His laughter subsides in tandem with her fluttering heart, and Thomas gazes at her again with jewel-bright blue eyes – eager and hopeful, like the orphan girls she'd grown up with, when hefty wallets poked out of passing pockets.

"Will you teach me to fly?" he asks, "no broom, just this magic that you cast while you dance here so prettily. Please, Lilibet." His knuckles return to rub at her shoulder blade, as though to coach, or to search for wings – or the scars left in their absence. "I've always wished to fly."

"Thomas..." Elizabeth begins softly, pained by the want he displays for one of the things intrinsically wrong with her. "I don't control it, I don't- it happens on its own. This flight, it's not a spell that I cast consciously, it's not a string of words that I chant and then float up in the air."

'Vous étiez la meilleure danseuse, elles auraient dû vous mettre au premier rang.'

Jacques always complained about what a grave injustice it was to put her in the back during ballet recitals, how she seemed to stay in the air a second longer than everyone else with every jump and leap and twirl.

"Let us dance together, then. Perhaps, if we're lucky, this quirk of yours is infectious." Thomas stated resolutely, jaw set. As though it was the sensible and reasonable solution.

Elizabeth could name several things about herself that might be infectious, none were too pleasant.

She blinked, brows rising slowly as she computed what this godforsaken boy had just asked of her – sure, they had danced before at the bloody Yule ball, but this wasn't some public affair. At his proffered hand, Elizabeth couldn't help but stare blankly, stealing glances from the veins beneath the alabaster skin to the cerulean blues that silently crooned at her to take the leap.

And somehow that has made all the difference.

She puts her hand in his bigger one, their fingers intertwine like a weight settling upon the world.

The first step is taken forward – always forward – and ballroom dancing is somewhat harsh on silk and canvas shoes, but she lets him lead her around the room as the gramophone in the coner wakens on his command. Between lifts and spins, the ghostly Ravenclaw attempts to find that weightless state of mind, where gravity can no longer hold her captive.

But his warmth keeps her grounded. Paper skin kissing skin for the hours – or so it seems – that they spin around in silence. Elizabeth's mind is tethered to every moment, every movement; to each time he stares at her impatiently, waiting for the miracle to happen. It reminds her of Icarus, glaring down at Daedalus while he tends to his bleeding fingers, having cut himself while carving away at waxy feathers.

What a putrid feeling is inadequacy, acetic, like the aftertaste of devotion.

Thomas declares they'll try again tomorrow.