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Diantha’s earrings catch the light so brightly that it nearly hurts in Cynthia’s eyes when she turns. Transparent, iridescent crystal with sharp edges and sparkling, starry constellations. A grey dress, glittery satin, shimmering white and blue and pink. Pure white elbow-length gloves.
She’s beautiful, needless to say. Moves with a calm grace that shows the strength of her character so very clearly, which is even more beautiful, still. Cynthia thinks she’s admired her for a long time, longer even than she was fully aware of.
Blue eyes crinkle at the corners, artfully braided hair shining in chandelier light. “There you are,” Diantha murmurs.
The mask that she’s wearing is crafted with pearls of differing sizes, forming a whole that is a little hard to look at; dizzying, perhaps, though she always is. Diantha looks like she belongs, looks perfectly put into scene—she’s an actress, of course she does—even at something as, hm, pompous as a charity masquerade ball. And charity is one thing, but this…
They don’t see each other very often, these days. Cynthia is deeply invested in the beauty that is strength and Diantha in the strength that is beauty, and together, they might form a whole that is really quite something, but, well… together is the difficult part, isn’t it?
Diantha laughs when Cynthia grabs for her hand, soft and feather-light and dense as steel; when Cynthia lifts it to her mouth, presses a kiss into the air above knuckles veiled in thin, soft fabric. A little bit of pretend has never hurt anyone, Cynthia thinks, and so much about the tangles and strings and dances they do and have is pretend. They’re friends—or something of the sort; some sort of solidarity had been there from the very beginning, and respect and admiration, too, given the steel in Diantha’s eyes, and yes, friendship, too, but beyond that, well—yet Cynthia doesn’t remember the last time they have been fully earnest.
It’s fun. There’s something very fun about it, when everyone knows the rules of the game. Or, well, at least, when everyone knows it is, in fact, a game.
(Does Cynthia know?)
They’re friends, these days. Once upon a time, they used to be more. Cynthia has always had an incredible interest in, an incredible weakness for things old and buried and ruined and gone.
“Grand Duchess,” she murmurs back. Diantha’s lips are glossy where her smile curls.
“My, my, don’t give me away, now.”
There’s no way everyone hasn’t already recognized you, Cynthia thinks. Out loud, she says: “We should have a battle.”
Diantha, naturally, doesn’t even look surprised. Amused would be the right word for this expression, rather; and it tugs at Cynthia’s sternum, the fact that she can tell that much even through the mask, that she’s likely as much of an open book—Sinnoh’s champion shrouded in mystery—to Diantha, too. Diantha squeezes her hand.
“Hmm,” she hums. “Either way, we should get out of here, then, right?”
And they should.
Cynthia doesn’t mind big events. On the contrary; as long as there is some intrigue about them—history conferences, dances and parties paired with battling like so many of the events champions are invited to are, banquets with food she’s never tried and sweets she can offer to Diantha, spending time with human and Pokémon friends alike—she quite loves them, though she does need her quiet time, too. For reading, for training, for research, for the touch of her palm to old rock, to feeling the reverberations of time.
Diantha loves performances, she always has. The glamour, the stage, the challenge of the spotlight. Standing in front of an audience without faltering. Cherishing and protecting the whole of her region, of Kalos, and beyond. She’s quite magical, in that way. There’s so much true love in it, is there not?
(Just as there is true love in Cynthia, too.)
And they should. Diantha’s hand gives Cynthia’s another squeeze, and it shakes her out of her shallow thoughts, makes her turn around and steal away, with Diantha steadily following behind. She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t giggle; Cynthia listens to the clinking of glasses and the murmur of soft chatter and the music—soft piano (piano!) and some string instrument she cannot quite place, but she doesn’t care enough to try and make out the live band among the crowd—and it does feel like something secret, right here, right now.
Diantha had a child, recently. Being seen with her ex—even when she is her close friend, too—alone like this, stealing away somewhere, might prove fatal, or, well, at least interesting to the media.
But that’s not true, is it? Even the rumor mill is ever gracious to Diantha; the people love her, and the people tend to view Cynthia quite charitably, too. Even then, it’s enough for an excuse. Even then, the secrecy, the illicit way Cynthia squeezes Diantha’s hand, all of it prickles inside of Cynthia like it does whenever she’s gearing up for battle.
She is, in a way.
They slip out of the main hall and steal down a hall of the chateau wordlessly. Neither of them exactly knows the way, Cynthia thinks—though Diantha most definitely knows her way around here much better than Cynthia, for Cynthia is sure she’s been here before—but it doesn’t really matter. There’s nowhere to be, tonight. There’s never anywhere to be when it’s like this, when there’s Diantha’s hand in hers.
Diantha tugs her into a side turn, then into the first door, and Cynthia lets her. The floor is carpeted here, too, like the hallway had been, but it seems to be some sort of conference room: a wide, big polished table with lots of spinning chairs drawing a circle around it stands in the middle, and the blinds over the huge windows are pulled open, incongruous against the modern-looking furniture. Cynthia steps in and crouches down to see if anyone’s already hiding out here, if anyone has already stolen away—not for battle, not in a room like this, but for a special kind of entanglement, indeed—but there’s nobody. The lock clicks, and when Cynthia turns back around, straightens out, Diantha has taken off her mask.
“Oh, good,” Cynthia says, smiling. “Glad to see I did not kidnap a random woman.”
Diantha rolls her eyes, but there is no heat behind it.
“You are so ridiculous. May I see your face, then, you dark knight? To make sure you are my one and only?”
Cynthia glances down at herself. She’s in a suit: midnight black, with the lapels of her blazer glittering much like Diantha’s dress does. Her hair is tied up in a low ponytail, her usual accessories fastened to her black-lace mask, and her earrings are dull onyx, her fingernails dull black, too. It’s nothing special; simple and elegant. Dark knight, Diantha says, looking regal like a queen. The Grand Duchess through and through.
She humors her, takes her mask off, too, sets it aside on the table. Diantha gasps.
“Oh! I was expecting someone else!”
This time, it’s Cynthia’s turn to roll her eyes, but Diantha is not finished yet.
“Who could have seen coming that my dark knight is such a beautiful, refined woman! One so strong at battling, too! With the grit and wit of a researcher, of an archeologist!”
“Oh, be quiet,” Cynthia laughs.
They do fall quiet, then, both of them. There’s no space in here to battle, and in light of everything (and nothing), Cynthia isn’t quite sure what else there is to do. She’s almost about to suggest they get out of the building entirely; take a walk in the big gardens, or find a field for battling, after all. She’s itching inside, after all, itching all over.
That is until Diantha takes one, two, steps closer, until she tugs softly at the lapels of Cynthia’s blazer, seemingly admiring the texture of it, even under the fabric of her gloves. Drawing little curlicues into it with her thumb. Even through the fabric, Cynthia swears she can feel it.
“I really do mean it, though,” Diantha says. “You look incredible, as always. You’re so intimidating… I remember meeting for the first time, when we were still so young. Oh, how cool I thought you were! Oh, how happy I was to be noticed by you! Do you know how the people talk about you? Like you’re the coolest woman that has ever lived? If only they knew what a dork you can be…”
Noticed, she says. How happy I was to be noticed by you. As if Cynthia wasn’t eager to meet an incredibly strong, young and upcoming actress, too. As if… As if she hasn’t always…
Well, whatever. Cynthia leans in until their breaths mingle, anyway. Lingers and lingers and lingers, eyes half-lidded, and up close, Diantha’s face blurs so that it doesn’t matter if she’s wearing her mask or not. Diantha doesn’t move away any, either. She’s shorter than Cynthia. It hurts in Cynthia’s neck to tilt her head down like this, but up close, Diantha smells of jasmine and something crystal-sharp, something Cynthia could cut her palms on. She’s not even wearing fancy gloves like Diantha is, after all!
Diantha takes the last step. Lifts off on her tiptoes, lips brushing ever so softly—and sticky, from the lip-gloss—against Cynthia’s; and Cynthia then, in turn, cups the nape of Diantha’s neck and deepens the kiss, leaning in further, pressing closer and closer, until her nose presses flat into Diantha’s cheek. Diantha’s laugh bubbles muffled against Cynthia’s mouth, until she’s sure she can taste it.
“Silly,” Diantha says. Or something like that—their mouths are pressed together, and Cynthia nudges at Diantha’s teeth with her tongue, so she isn’t quite sure. She doesn’t feel silly. What she feels like is…
Well, who knows. They’re both champions, they’re both women, they’re both so strong. Diantha had a child with someone who isn’t Cynthia, and though she’s neither married nor taken, though Cynthia doesn’t exactly want to be a mother—she would not mind being a father, however, she thinks—though they weren’t together (seriously, that is) or anything close to it when Diantha got pregnant, this lingers, too. It’s really quite stupid. Perhaps that is silly.
Cynthia steers them around, walks Diantha into the table. Even then, Diantha doesn’t falter; presses her palms flat to the edge and hops onto it with such elegant ease that it makes Cynthia ache. She’s gorgeous. She has always been so, so gorgeous.
Together, they linger. Breath intertwining, skin brushing skin. The back of Diantha’s dress at the dip of her spine, the small of her back, is so soft under Cynthia’s palm when she grabs it, when she squeezes Diantha just a bit closer, that she gasps. Diantha gasps in turn; gasps more roughly when Cynthia pulls at her bottom lip with her teeth. Presses closer, closer, closer, until Cynthia is sure both of their napes are aching with it. Her breasts press right below Cynthia’s with the movement. Closer, closer, closer.
“I think you’re cool, too,” Cynthia says when she leans back a little, when she shifts to lean her forehead against Diantha’s, when her hand joins the other to wrap around Diantha’s narrow waist. Even blurred she can see how Diantha’s thick, mascara-dark lashes flutter as she closes her eyes. Cynthia, wide-eyed, stares. “Always have.”
“Hmm,” hums Diantha, smile audible in her tone. Together, they linger.
There’s something on the very tip of Cynthia’s tongue, just out of reach. Something she’s been trying to get her hands on for years and years and years, she thinks; something she has never, ever reached thus far. Something she hasn’t been trying hard enough for. Something she’s danced around, something she’s inched closer and then away from.
Right on cue, Diantha says, “You didn’t even dance with me tonight,” her breath hot against Cynthia’s wet mouth, sticky with smeared lip-gloss. They’re already ruined for tonight; Cynthia’s hands itch to undo Diantha’s carefully crafted hairstyle, to touch and touch and touch.
“We can dance here,” Cynthia offers, for some reason.
In this conference room, there is no room for battling, and no room for dancing, either. The flooring is carpet, and while it is thin carpet, it is not one that is good for dancing, at all, not one where their shoes—Cynthia’s polished dress shoes and Diantha’s pale, pearly heels—can find good grip.
There is no room for battling, and there is no room for dancing, either, and still, Diantha takes Cynthia’s hand, hops off the ledge of the table, takes one, two steps in the direction of Cynthia’s pull.
“You’re not wearing white today,” Cynthia comments. “No angel wings, either.”
Diantha laughs. Steps away, and arm’s length, then leans back until Cynthia has to hold her up. “I’m hardly an angel,” she says. And then, when Cynthia pulls her close and she goes with, when Cynthia wraps an arm loosely around her waist to spin her, then dip her in the small space they have available, “And I am wearing white, my dear.”
And she is. The gloves are white, the heels are white, the discarded mask is white. And still, the tight gown is not, and it shimmers beautifully even in the dim light of this deserted conference room when Cynthia spins her an arm’s length away, and then back again.
Together, they linger.
“I heard about the child,” Cynthia says next. Diantha sways perfectly to a nonexistent rhythm, to a music that is too far away to be heard. “I’m glad everything went well. You look healthy.”
And she does look healthy. She looks beautiful, and healthy, and the dress she’s wearing isn’t white.
Diantha is radiant when she smiles. After another twirl, her hair becomes undone, falls loose at the sides just a bit, and she grins with too many teeth, her forehead growing a little dewy as they dance. She’s beautiful and glaringly bright and they take up too much space, the both of them, because there’s no way to dance in this room, and no way to battle, either. They have to admit this when Diantha’s heel clicks into a chair, then gets stuck on another, when she stumbles, when Cynthia catches her just so that Diantha topples back into the table very slowly, and very softly, and also traps Cynthia’s hand between her back and the wood.
“Thank you,” says Diantha, breathless, and Cynthia isn’t sure if it’s for the catch or the well-wishes or the dance or the fact Cynthia came here tonight in the first place. “She’s incredible. I’d like for you to meet her one day.”
They’ve stopped spinning by now, Cynthia is in fact pinning Diantha into the table, quite steady with one hand trapped under Diantha’s body and the other pressed into wood next to Diantha’s shoulder for balance, but her insides haven’t quite gotten the memo yet. Vertigo courses through her, almost gently, spinning her around and around and around. She looks at Diantha so hard she blurs around the edges, and doesn’t stop blurring after.
They’re panting, both of them, chest heaving. Diantha’s back arches as she stretches in a curve, until she throws her head back with a groan, more of her hair coming loose. She laughs again, just a little, then swallows so hard it’s audible.
Cynthia can’t stop staring. Diantha lifts a hand, drapes her forearm over her eyes, swallows again. The edges of her mouth twitch like she’s trying not to laugh, or something else, something worse, then they curl into a smile. Her lip-gloss—rosy-pink and transparent with opaline glitter—is smeared, messed up, ruined. Staining Cynthia’s mouth, too.
“Say something,” she says, hoarse.
“I’ll come by,” falls from Cynthia’s lips before she can help it. “I’ll come… visit. And then we can…”
Diantha laughs again when Cynthia trails off, this time through her nose, nostrils flaring with it. She wets her lips with her tongue. Cynthia stares, stares, stares, she can’t help it. She’s always had an incredible interest in, an incredible weakness for things old and buried and ruined and gone, after all.
“Yeah,” Diantha says, then. “Yeah, that’d be nice. I’ll introduce you. She’s the smallest baby ever, you know? I know—I know every mother feels that way, but she’s the prettiest one in the whole world.”
Cynthia’s mouth is dry. “Well, with you as the mother, it’s hard for anything else to be the case.”
Together, they linger. It’s not so bad, Cynthia thinks. Tastes just a little stale in her mouth—though that might also just be because she’s not actively kissing Diantha anymore—but it’s not so bad. Underneath her, Diantha is warm, chest lifting and rising faster than it usually does, bird-bones trembling ever so slightly, barely noticeable.
“You’re beautiful,” Cynthia offers. “I missed you.”
Finally, Diantha unravels again, like a flower. Her forearm slips off her face once more, revealing mascara that is just a little smudged, eyeliner that is nonetheless so very sharp. Revealing eyes crinkled with a smile, thick eyebrows knitted just barely together, like they’re not quite sure what to do with themselves.
“I’ve missed you too, Cynthia,” says Diantha.
Together, they linger. It doesn’t really matter, Cynthia decides, any of it. They’re friends, and she doesn’t remember the last time they’ve been fully honest with each other—they still aren’t, not exactly, not even right here, right now—but there’s a package arriving at her home every month with this and that Kalosian delicacy that Diantha wants her to try, and she sends sweets from Sinnoh in exchange, too. They’re friends, and they used to be more, and it’s a little bitter, the taste of it in Cynthia’s mouth, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?
Right here, right now, Diantha’s hair is just a little messed up, but her eyes are sparkling, mask discarded. She’s beautiful and warm.
Cynthia leans down, down, down to kiss her again, and Diantha’s head lifts off the surface of the table to meet her, eagerly.