It began as if the chandeliers themselves dimmed in reverence for the spectacle that was Adal and T.M. Opera O reunited.
"Ahhh! T.M. Opera!" Adal cried, flinging his arms open as though the entire ballroom stage was meant only for their reunion. His white suit shimmered with golden trim, catching the candlelight as he leaned forward dramatically. "The radiant jewel of Rigel! The flame that has yet to burn out! How long has it been since fate last allowed our paths to cross?"
"Adal!" Opera returned with a flourish, her cape fanning behind her like a curtain rising on a grand act. Her smile shone, dazzling, exaggerated, and every bit as sincere as it was theatrical. "My kindred star! The wind of flamboyance has carried me across continents, but only tonight do I feel as though the opera is truly whole!"
The nobles, unused to such flamboyance, whispered amongst themselves. A few chuckled behind their fans; others simply gawked as though watching a duel of actors instead of trainers.
Opera leaned close, clasping Adal's hand with almost reverent force. "Still the same as ever, I see! Your voice carries like a trumpet, your spirit still outshines the chandeliers themselves!"
"And you!" Adal declared, pressing his free hand to his chest as if struck by divine lightning. "To hold in your arms not just one, not two, but three prodigies of the track! Your brilliance, Opera, is enough to blind the sun and shame the moon! Marvelous! Simply marvelous!"
Their laughter roared through the room, a duet of extravagant mirth. Adal's gaudy chuckle mixed with Opera's resounding "Ho-ho-ho-ho!" until even Gold Ship paused mid-antics to blink at them.
The laughter faded eventually, but not into silence. Instead, into a fragile note, trembling with something unspoken.
Opera's grip softened. Her smile, though still radiant, tilted with the faintest shadow. "...It has been too long, hasn't it?"
Adal, for once, did not immediately answer with grandeur. His flamboyant grin quivered. His chest swelled with words he couldn't declare before an audience. "Too long…" he whispered, voice lowered so only Opera could hear. "Far too long, my star."
For a heartbeat, it seemed as if the opera would turn into a confession. But both of them, veterans of drama, masked themselves at once.
Opera released his hand with a flourish, spinning away to let her cape catch the air. "Alas! Duty calls me! The stage awaits!" She bowed deeply, then crossed the ballroom with the graceful authority of a man born for the spotlight, rejoining Lucien and Rudolf at the far end.
Adal remained behind, laughter hollow in his throat, his gaudy mask cracking into something softer. For the first time that evening, his flamboyance dimmed, replaced by a quiet ache.
It was then a small hand tugged gently at his sleeve.
Rice Shower, dressed in midnight black with subtle blue lace, looked up at him with hesitant eyes. "Um… Adal-san…" she murmured, her voice soft but steady, "w-would you… dance with me?"
Adal blinked. Of all the forces that could shake him, it was always this girl's quiet courage. "M-me? With you?" His voice cracked before he cleared his throat, snapping instantly back into showmanship, though his cheeks betrayed him with color. "Of course! Of course, my dear Rice! To deny you would be a crime greater than treason!"
Rice giggled softly at his overblown declaration, though her cheeks also flushed crimson. She slipped her hand into his. Despite his bravado, his palm trembled slightly as he escorted her onto the dance floor.
The orchestra seemed to sense the moment. The violins softened, a new melody blossoming — not loud, not commanding, but tender. A waltz, slow and deliberate. The chandeliers glowed warmer, candlelight swaying in rhythm as couples gathered on the floor.
Adal guided Rice carefully, his hand at her waist tentative, protective. She stumbled at first, nearly stepping on his foot, but his booming laugh rose, not mocking but encouraging. "Marvelous recovery! A stumble only sharpens the next step!"
Rice's laugh rang quietly, her nerves easing. Her steps grew steadier, her gaze rising from the floor to meet his.
"You're… smiling again," she whispered.
Adal blinked, his mask slipping once more. He hadn't realized — but indeed, the weight Opera left behind was lifting, replaced by something lighter. "That is because you," he said, his voice softer than his theatrics ever allowed, "give me reason to."
Her blush deepened, but she didn't look away. Instead, she held onto him tighter, her confidence growing with each turn of the dance. The grand ballroom, the whispers of nobles, even the extravagant shadows of Opera O — all of it faded.
For Rice Shower, there was only the music. Only the warmth of her trainer's hand. Only the joy of seeing him smile, not for the world, not for the stage — but for her.
And for Adal, in that quiet waltz, there was no regret. No ache of the past. Only the future — and the small girl before him who had once been afraid of every gaze, now asking him for a dance before the entire ballroom.
The music swelled, the dance slowed, and as the final note lingered in the air, Adal bowed with exaggerated flourish, drawing laughter from Rice as she curtseyed back.
The orchestra swelled into its next number, a stately waltz that carried both weight and grace. At the edge of the floor, Lucien adjusted his cuffs with casual elegance. Then, with a slight bow, he extended his hand toward the regal figure standing near him — Symboli Rudolf.
Rudolf, ever poised in her emerald military-styled dress adorned with gilded trim, gave him a small, knowing smile. Her gloved hand slid into his, her every movement deliberate, as though acknowledging the weight of eyes upon her. Together, they stepped into the swirl of dancers.
Their movements were impeccable, textbook in execution yet effortlessly fluid. Where Adal and Rice radiated warmth and vulnerability, Lucien and Rudolf embodied dignity — every twirl and step a proclamation of control. When Lucien guided her into a turn, she did not simply spin; she commanded the air, her cape-like train trailing behind her as though she were a general striding across a battlefield.
"Still ever the perfectionist, Mon Roi," Lucien said smoothly, his smile tinged with fondness.
"And you," Rudolf replied, her violet eyes sharp yet softened at their edges, "still find joy in making light of discipline. But I admit…" she leaned closer, her voice dropping just enough to be heard only by him, "it is refreshing to dance with you again."
Lucien's chuckle was low, genuine. Their steps tightened, no wasted motion, a rhythm as natural as breathing. Around them, whispers spread — admiration for their precision, their aura. The room seemed to hold its breath.
It was in this contrast that Akuma's quiet chuckle slipped out. He leaned against the wall behind him slightly, watching Lucien and Rudolf swirl together like an old married couple of royalty.. Then, his gaze drifted across the dance floor — and found McQueen besides her.
She stood at the edge of the floor, her hands clasped before her gown. Her pale lavender dress, embroidered with silver threads, shimmered like moonlight made fabric. Yet her ears drooped slightly, betraying the disappointment she tried to mask. She met Akuma's eyes — just for a second — before glancing away quickly, pretending to be too absorbed in the crowd.
Akuma blinked. Then he sighed, muttering to himself with a half-smile. "…She's terrible at hiding it."
Straightening his coat, he crossed the floor until he stood before her. For once, his words did not come sharp or teasing. Instead, he coughed into his hand and, with an awkward tilt of his lips, extended the other toward her.
"McQueen," he said, his voice firmer than his heart felt. "Would you do me the honor of a dance?"
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she almost succeeded in feigning surprise. But the joy that lit her face betrayed her entirely. "I… I suppose, if you insist," she murmured, though her hand reached out eagerly to clasp his.
The instant their fingers touched, warmth surged between them.
He led her onto the floor, careful with his steps. McQueen, however, moved with practiced grace, her long years of noble upbringing guiding her effortlessly. She took the lead for a moment without realizing it — until Akuma chuckled, adjusting his stance to match hers.
"Careful," he teased softly. "You'll make me look bad."
Her lips curled into a smile, her cheeks tinged pink. "Then keep up… Akuma."
The orchestra lifted, violins weaving a melody that seemed made for them. They moved in unison — Akuma's steady grip and quiet lead complementing McQueen's natural poise. With each step, each turn, they found a rhythm not unlike racing — reading one another, adjusting instinctively.
McQueen's eyes never left his. "You're… better at this than I expected."
He smirked. "You sound surprised."
"I am." She laughed softly, the sound delicate yet full of warmth. "But… pleasantly so."
He spun her gently, her lavender gown flaring like petals in bloom. When she returned to his hold, her hand lingered in his a fraction longer than necessary. Their steps slowed, the world around them blurring into a haze of chandeliers and murmurs, until it felt as though only the two of them existed in the ballroom.
For McQueen, it was a dream made real — to dance not as the Mejiro heir, but as herself, with someone who saw her not for her name but for who she was. For Akuma, it was an odd, quiet realization — that guiding her through this dance felt as natural as breathing, as though they had been moving together for years.
As the final note lingered in the air, Akuma dipped her slightly, his eyes meeting hers once more. "Not bad," he whispered, his smirk softening into something fonder.
McQueen's cheeks burned, but her smile was radiant. "Not bad at all."
When he pulled her back upright, neither released the other's hand right away.