If someone should ask her a definition of allure, she’d say it’s the light of a thousand candles, burning in a ballroom and shining impossibly bright and pink through a flowing waltz.
It’s never on purpose that the amber of Robin’s eyes lingers, unconscious and yet too aware, on the woman dancing in her arms. The dance is anything but intimate, their bodies miles apart and bent under the formality of the music, but the few places where their touch unite them set Robin dangerously ablaze. To think it started as a silly request when they had shared a glass of wine, a simple spare me a dance, yes? while watching Chrom and Sumia sway earlier with the happiness of a newlywed couple - a small smirk on her lips as she teased the woman, cradling her known timidness with kind eyes. It was a trivial question, pointless in its end.
And yet.
And yet Olivia had stared at her for a few moments with an unprecedented expression, not bashful nor apprehensive. Just as she was ready to clear the air, declare the futility of her jest, Olivia nodded once, swiftly, as she responded of course.
Now, as the celebration has come almost to an end hours later, it’s Robin’s turn to stare as her feet pursue the soft music - the beat is easily followable, certainly meant to be as traditional as possible. Olivia, surprisingly, is not. Every step they take is audacious, the hand on Robin’s shoulder impossibly warm, and the dress under her fingertips unbearably thin. But it’s the softness of the other woman’s palm in hers, a contrast so boldly prominent if paired with the purpose in her eyes, that has Robin’s mind spinning in strange places. She wonders, for a second, how would it be to feel Olivia’s dancer muscles contract under her touch.
“It was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it?”
The tactician’s attention snaps back in place.
The other woman is watching her, curiously smiling at her hazy expression - a dimple on her left cheek brings Robin back on simpler grounds.
“The loveliest.”
A spin and her mind is clear again.
“Though I must say my opinion on the matter is inconsequential.”
Olivia’s hand secure its hold slightly on hers as she’s guided in a pirouette, the other leaving her shoulder only to resume delicately its place after - the image of a butterfly posing on a flower blooms briefly in Robin’s thoughts.
“How so?”
Her brows are furrowed and Robin wishes to smooth the wrinkle between them with her finger. But everything about her feels so callous, and Olivia doesn’t deserve to be tarnished by her dirty prints. So instead, she chuckles.
“I don’t remember participating in other celebrations such as this. My view is entirely subjective, as much as new I guess.”
In the background of their conversation, the music is coming to an end almost too soon - a shame, really, given how pleasant is to dance with her companion.
“Irrelevant, in other words.”
Her smile is light as Olivia watches her closely, performing the few steps left of the waltz like a second thought. In hindsight, Robin really shouldn’t be surprised. When the last note draws out in the air and they bow in courtesy, the dancer’s gaze is once again upon hers as she stand straight up - coral eyes pine her in a new way to her spot, so deliberate and alien that Robin’s eyebrow quirks up in question, helpless. The strangest feeling since she has awoken rides straight to her spine, taunting her muscles as if ready for battle and melting them altogether in a warm tremor.
“Olivia?”
Their hands are still lightly intertwined.
If the blush on Olivia’s cheeks is born from that shared awareness or something else, Robin can’t tell.
“I-I don’t think you should believe your opinion irrelevant, as silly as the the circumstances may be.”
A silent moment pass by. The ballroom is silent enough that she can hear the musicians tuning their instrument again for the next song.
“Oh?”
The grip on her fingers tightens as Olivia becomes more restless before her - her cheekbones afire as if she’s just being slapped.
“I-I mean... You... Oh, gods.”
Her other hand flies to hide her eyes as she groans, missing the worried look that Robin shots her. Was she feeling unwell? Before she could think of it, the tactician’s free hand comes to rest on the woman’s elbow, thumb pressing soothing circles on its inside - stroking and smothering the pulse underneath, molding softly the flesh under her touch.
She doesn’t question the small hitch in Olivia’s breath.
“It’s okay, Liv. Take your time.”
Liv.
The nickname that leave her lips startle them both - Robin images the air around it curling before exploding in every direction, expanding the syllable as far and as loud as a shout even if she only whispered it. Olivia’s hand falls slowly from her face then - her eyes, again, curious and surprised as they scan the tactician’s face.
Suddenly, Robin’s throat feels unusually tight.
The musicians start to play a few notes of the next song, a prelude to the actual beginning. It’s foreign to her, a melody she’s unfamiliar with and yet drawn to - soft, haunting. Olivia seems to catch the tune all to well on the contrary. Her blush subsides just barely as she averts her eyes, making Robin breathe freely again. She looks in the orchesta’s direction and her pink brows set in a familiar determination - the same as when she holds a sword, fighting next to Robin, always beside and never behind. It’s in those moments, just as when she dances, that Robin feels something change in the air around her, around them. A synergy so unlike the ones she has with the other Shepherds.
“Allow me to explain.”
Their eyes meet again just as Olivia guide her other hand back to her waist - their joined palms back in the air, skin mingling in a warm embrace.
Always, Robin thinks, before the music starts to fill the room. Its tempo it’s similar albeit softer to the one of a waltz, as well as their stances, and yet Olivia starts to move her arms in a uncommon way - her palm leaving Robin’s, back circling slowly the tactician’s wrist before guiding it into an arc and accompanying her fingers on her bare shoulder. Olivia’s other hand flutters on Robin’s shoulder in two strokes before landing on her forearm, prompting them into a spin. She leads their bodies in the motions, teaching Robin with innate patience - fluttering touches, soft caresses, a finger under her chin as she lets her amber gaze fall for a fleeting moment on their feet - until the white haired woman grasps the basics enough to manage on her own. And then, Olivia starts to dare. Her steps becomes bolder, suaver, filling the blank spots of their dance like ink on a page of Robin’s journal. It’s after a particular move - their hand clasped together as she turns, baring her unclothed back for Robin to see, admiremuscles and skin and bone - that she speaks again, rose eyes leveling tenderly with hers.
“You are allowed to have opinions, even if they are not influenced by experience.”
There are no pauses, nor stuttered word in her simple phrases, but the thing that strikes Robin the most is the kind resolve set in her face.
“They feel more...real, somehow.”
Olivia guides her in another step, eyes never wavering under hers.
A snowy eyebrow raises in confusion.
“Real?”
How can they be if she has nothing to compared them to? They just feels like lies in Robin’s mind, constructions made to lessen her inadequacy and born from a silly desire of longing.
Olivia nods, head moving subconsciously to the rhythm of the song.
“Because they are entirely yours, Robin.”
Robin slips, feet stilling on the dance floor for a moment as her body grows stiff - a voice strangely close to hers whispers are they? as she looks at the woman before her. A hand poses on her shoulder, grasping her coat in a surprisingly firm way. It lead her back to the dance and, strangely, to the present.
“Every thought coming from you it’s unique and important to m-us. To us.”
Olivia’s cheeks flame up for whatever reason, but she doesn’t relent, eyes as grounding as her hand. Robin stares, for a moment, grasping blindly the woman’s world with a heavy uncertainness in her stomach. She often wonders, in the loneliness of her study, how much her amnesia took from her - has she always been like this? Or is she just a piece of wet clay, shaped by the circumstances she’s found herself in?
She looks at the blush on Olivia’s skin.
There are some thoughts, strange ones, that she’s sure are hers, coming from something within her at least - for she doesn’t recall anyone pondering how long Olivia’s hair must be freed from her ponitail and braids, or how revealing would it be to know why her face goes from hard to soft so puzzlingly slow after a battle.
“I...suppose you are right.” Robin murmurs.
Her grip tightens slightly.
Yes, of course she is. Olivia is anything but a liar, almost too sincere at times - like when she said Robin was reckless at best and a dumbass at worst while tending to her wounds after an encounter with a pack of Risens. She has charged to protect Olivia from a sentinel, the arrow aimed at her piercing her shoulder before she could cast a spell.
It was the first time she heard Olivia scream.
Robin shakes the memory away as the dancer’s expression grows concerned.
“Robin, are you...”
The phrase is lost in a gasp as the tactician suddenly takes the lead, guiding them through the dance with swift movement - both bodies gliding above the music, spinning endlessly in the intricate style. She trust Olivia’s judgment, trust her skills in battle to aid her, so it’s Robin’s own mind that murmurs, in a determinated demand, to trust her - a leap where she already see Olivia, dazed and softly smiling, waiting for her on the other side.
The music is coming to an end as if on purpose, and in a surge of gratitude and excitement and fondness, her palms slide up Olivia’s arms to rest on her ribcage. She lifts her frame and chuckles as the woman yelp, surprised - a beautiful weight straining her muscles in the sweetest of way as soft hands seems to burn the cloth on her shoulders.
Olivia’s hair catch all the light of the ballroom in the air, her eyes fiery like her cheeks.
“R-Robin!”
She smiles and lets the woman down - their bodies sliding briefly against each other, a friction so alive that she fears it would ignite a spark. Olivia stands with her, hands still on shoulders, eyes looking up at her in an odd way and pulling a strange beat in Robin’s chest.
“Thank you, Olivia.”
Her fingers, still resting on bone, stroke briefly silky fabric - she thinks of hydrangeas and fine sand. The warm breaths on her face falter for a second, and Olivia’s lips part slightly as she grips her shoulders with each digit, enough to feel their pressure even under all the layers she’s wearing.
They both linger.
Robin knows she should release her, bow, or maybe say a compliment, but there’s something that prevents her from doing so while watching the other woman so close to her. It’s in the way she’s gazing at her, she decides - how Olivia seems to be waiting for something that Robin can’t catch.
“Robin.” She whispers, then, ever so gently - a sweet exhale, as if exasperated or elated or both at the same time. “Can I k...”
An echoing slap makes them jump, Olivia’s scream prompting her to drop her hold in danger. Twirling around, hand involuntary flying to her empty sword side, Robin spots a musician yelling at another, a cracked violin case between their feet. It’s only then that she notices how the royal ballroom is empty, devoid from the few guest that had been there, save from the musicians taking a break before the stage.
Where did everyone go?
She turns back then, the question ready on her lips, but there’s nothing greeting her in the place Olivia was moments ago - a flock of pink hair crossing the doorway in a hurry is all that’s left of her.
How...strange.
Just as she was reading to call the dancer’s name, an explosion of colors irradiates trough glass, making the marble floor shine in a wonderful way - the soft rumors of fireworks lessened by the thick walls. Robin hurries toward a tall window, watching, for maybe the first time, shapes and tones twisting in the sky before collapsing into smoke.
She smiles softly - it has been the loviest marriage she’s been to so far.
She doesn’t have any doubts, now.