Five breaths between the invitation, and the first sip.

Their chests rise and fall in patient unison. They breathe the same blend of steeping tea, plum blossoms, and delicate perfumes. They sit in the same hut, sit upright in the same pink glow. They rest in the embrace of the same music. All that differs is the view they savor. For even the love in their eyes is one and the same.

Dolce sits in his same outfit, minus only the boots. Ember herself had removed them, one by one, that her guest of high honor could sit more comfortably. His fan sits safe in his pocket. There is no need for it here. The table, the tea, the breaths, they are barrier enough.

Vasilia wears a suit sharp enough to duel with, elegant enough to dance with. The shirt beneath, closest to her heart, is a creamy white. The color of his wool.

Five breaths end far too soon. Five breaths end precisely on time.

They take the same cups. Slowly, deeply, the same drink dances on their tongues, and leaves behind the same complex, bitter notes.

Dolce sets his cup down. Vasilia sets hers next to his. One breath passes.

“Sweeten my tea for me, darling.”

It is all she need say. He takes her cup, and no finer treasure has this precious sheep held in his soft hands. A ripple in the tea would be as devastating as a crack in the glass. Up, up, up, until the steam tickles his nose. Until he can lean in, and press a kiss to the rim, as gentle and lingering as a butterfly perched on a blossom. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. He parts, leaving the faintest memory of pink behind. And then. He. And then he…

Oh, how he wishes, with all his heart, to get up and carry the cup back to her. Let him sit on her lap; there is a perfect spot for him, he knows it. Let him raise the tea to her lips, that her arms may be free. Let her take his softness. Let her take his loveliness. Let her take his flowers. Let her smell them, so deeply, so sweetly! All of this is for her, is hers, let him give it to her at last! 

He sets the cup down, precisely where she placed it. Bows his head. Flutters his eyelashes, and smiles with all the sweetness she could ever ask for. “Your tea, [i]Mistress[/i] Vasilia.” 

No makeup could make his cheeks glow so beautifully.