For TheGermann, who I believe needed something like this

Falling
Flirting, Friendship, First time

Darnassian:

Sar'thera: A pejorative, meant for someone who's considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: Sart(e).

Dorei: Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

Illidan

Fair enough, it can just be the fourth bottle of Nightwine speaking—and that stuff is tough, even for him—but after exchanging another fleeting look with Mylenne, Syrana barely attempts holding back a silly giggle. At that time of night, Illidan had already lost count of how many times his friend couldn't keep her amusement to herself, yet doesn't find it as nearly funny as she does so.

Besides, it's totally normal. They've been playing cards for the past two hours and he's teamed up with Mylenne, they must communicate somehow if either of them intends to keep their coins to themselves. Unlike his wealthy female friends, at least he knows he's not up to losing a year of savings, very much less so to Syrana, of all people.

Not when—knowing her as he does—she'd spend it all in a single morning to a couple of popular courtesans at the nearest brothel. And without inviting him, which is quite insulting.

As Mylenne saves the current round and mocks at Lothrius with a fancy pair of Magisters between her fingers, Illidan exhales softly and lowers his cards, doing a brief toast in her name and downing his glass with a single gulp. Something about the way she jests at the group reminds him of her uncle Silgryn, and he can't help with reminiscing some past times with the—then sorely missed—elder Stareye, the good memories eliciting a smile out of him.

While waiting for Lothrius to fold the cards and start the next round, Illidan's eyes linger on her wide grin, fully taking in the movement of her plump lilac lips and a cute wrinkle showing around the corner of her mouth. A thin strand of violet hair falls down her cheek and his hand moves forward like having a life of its own, determined to remove whatever would ruin the harmony of that beautiful and then slightly flustered face.

But Mylenne notices first, her grin faltering as she blows the hair away, his hand stopping midair and leaving him self-conscious of his silliness. With a quick thinking, he grabs her abandoned cards instead, shoving them at Lothrius across the table, returning to his glass of Nightwine afterwards.

A low groan escapes him after realizing he'd previously emptied his drink.

The women at the table give him a peeking glance and, out of nowhere, Illidan feels his face growing hot. He meets Mylenne's silver eyes, a gleam of amusement crossing them, and narrows his own in a challenge, internally bracing himself for a funny remark from her part.

"Alright, you can have mine…" She says instead, throwing him off, dragging her Nightwine glass with an index finger and before him. His fingertips barely touch her skin as he grabs the drink, but it's enough to send a jolt of electricity throughout all his extremities, heart missing a beat.

The exciting feeling gets cut off as fast as it came, though, his ears ringing with Syrana's single clap of her hands next to his face. "Chop, chop! Less flirting, more playing!" Syrana teases, tauntingly dropping more coins on the table.

A near dozen awful things to say cross Illidan's mind, but opts it out after a second thought, preferring to give Syrana one hell of an embarrassment after beating her at her own card game.

It may have come at a very high price; one that, given the chance, Illidan would surely take back without much reluctance. However, if anything fairly good came with Mylenne's engagement to Jarod, that's the impressive amount of party invitations she's gotten with the escalating status among her fellow aristocrats.

And given her sart of a father never attends them—unless being a good excuse for making business—Illidan gets to have a free pass to the fanciest parties thrown in Suramar.

He can't help but admit that Lord Stareye's absence is most likely a blessing from the Goddess, absolutely not looking forward to knowing his thoughts on his then smashed daughter, clinging to Illidan's sleeve and laughing hysterically, the two of them raving to the loud music like it's the last night of their lives. Certainly not the picture of elegance and decorum that's expected in a noble Lady such as her—even if the majority of the young nobles at the dancefloor aren't really staying behind.

Not like Illidan cares about it in the slightest when he has Mylenne in his arms, all to himself. Very much less so when she's looking as happy and exhilarated as he's ever seen her before, flustered and drunk as she is.

It also makes all the pain they've endured and the damage they've done completely worth it.

The music climbs into a faster rhythm and Illidan tries grabbing her by the waist to keep her on her feet, yet it doesn't work to his favor as a thick crowd of people jump and lunge their way; Mylenne's laughter dying off as she blends among the multitude and far away from him. A little too abruptly—and noticeably disappointing—for his liking, his new dancing partner happens to be Syrana, following her steps for a while although losing interest quite faster than anticipated, his attention focused elsewhere.

More precisely, glued to a violet mane swaying with the rhythm, dancing and laughing with the newly appointed member of her band, Thalrenus Rivertree. And the scene could have easily passed as two friends having a good time… if not for the young Sorcerer having the audacity of lying his hands where he shouldn't and pulling her close in the next minute.

Oh, no. Mother Moon be fucking damned if he'd allow another Hargo'then on the rising.

Illidan's mouth curls into a fierce sneer, already pushing whoever gets in his way to Mylenne before Rivertree leans further closer to her and to, from what it blatantly seems like, steal a kiss from her.

"I don't think so." It's all Illidan growls as he grabs her by the arm and effectively snatches her away from those filthy hands. Mylenne doesn't seem to mind, however, only yelping at the sudden change of partner yet returning to her careless dancing, a lavender arm sneaking its way across his shoulder in a natural manner.

Thalrenus merely snickers, quite amused for Illidan's liking, acting almost as if he's looking forward to getting a punch in that smug face of his. "Careful, Stormrage. Your jealousy is showing…" Gladly so, he knows when to put a stop to his bantering as Illidan glares furiously at him, sparks of purplish-blue flashing menacingly across his eyes.

Mylenne's hand on Illidan's chest somehow soothes his livid state, yet doesn't precisely direct her incoming scold at him. "Stop teasing him, Ren. He just has a bit of a temper, that's all…"

Eventually, the man complies and leaves them be. However, as a slower song begins playing and the two of them are left swaying idly to the music—dancing in each other's arms until dawn as they always do—Thalrenus' last four words keep repeating over and over in Illidan's mind.

Thalrenus is wrong, though. Mylenne just said so, and she knows him better, matter of factly—it's not jealousy, just his bad temper. That's all there is.

It has to be.

Even without streetlights nearby, the night can't be any clearer with a Full Moon and a starry sky looming over Suramar's outskirts. Although it's not like Illidan is able to really appreciate the beauty of the landscape displayed before him and his friends; his eyes glossy and sight quite blurry, the several amounts of Cider he had definitely going over his head this time.

But Mylenne and her godlike splendor, oh, he can see that in every possible detail.

He can't help the pang of envy that surges through him at the moonlight caressing her lavender skin so shamelessly, her loose silken shirt revealing a portion of her stomach as she lies over the cerulean grass without any care in the world. Her chest heaves as she rehearses her vocals and Illidan's gaze is glued to her, transfixed, not even daring to take his eyes away from her.

"Kiss while your lips are still well, while he's still silent. Rest, while bosom is still untouched, unveiled…" Mylenne sings softly—near shyly if he didn't know her as much as he does—eyes closed and lyrics rolling through her tongue. "Hold another hand while the hand's still without a tool. Drown into eyes while they're still blind. Love while the night still hides the withering dawn…"

Resting his weight on his elbows, Illidan opts for just savoring the moment, basking in the feeling of her voice warming him from the inside out—something that not even the summer breeze brushing against him can really accomplish as much. Not all of them seem to agree with the sentiment, however, as Thalrenus clicks his tongue in disapproval.

"I thought we've agreed Lothrius will sing that one," The man remarks and Mylenne cracks one eye open in his direction. "Besides, we're a year away from performing it."

While his comment makes Illidan's blood boil with sheer annoyance—how dare he ruin the melody or even question the very main singer of their band, who does he think he is—Lothrius just shrugs it off. "For what is worth, I'm not apologizing for writing such a good song that makes Mylie practice it beforehand," An amused smirk shows on Mylenne's face, gladly taking a Nightwine bottle off Lothrius' hands. "Don't listen to Ren, dear, you're doing great as always!"

Mylenne just smiles and shrugs, as soft and easygoing as Illidan knows her to be when she's somewhat tipsy. To a certain extent, how he'd rather always wants her to be; careless of opinions and appearances, enjoying the simple pleasures of life such as having a good, meaningless time with friends. Although that pondering doesn't exactly convey Illidan's delight towards her state of mind, actually feeling more privileged to witness and share her happy moments rather than anything else.

But what he knows for certain is that there's nothing he wouldn't give just to make her crack that soft smile every night of her existence.

A giggle from her part takes him out of his reverie. "You're staring at me like that. Again," Mylenne takes a gulp of her bottle, but her eyes never leave his. His mouth imitates the movement of her lilac lips, giving her a soft smile of his own.

"I guess I am, yeah…" His words slur faintly, not finding the energy to make a real conversation.

She tilts her head, arching a brow in curiosity. "Should I assume I have something on my face, then?"

His stare doesn't falter, taking all of her in without remorse, selfishly even. From the moonlight haloing her violet mane, to the tempting biting of her lower lip, to the appealing sight of her collarbones showing under her loose shirt, the alluring cleavage the fabric leaves in its way, and down to the endearing curl of her toes with the cerulean grass tickling her feet.

"Nope. You're just as gorgeous as ever," Illidan replies, fully aware it's impossible to explain her breathtaking beauty with mere words only. At moments like these, though, he can't really wrap his head about how nobody but him seems to notice that outstanding fact in her—even if that's precisely what he takes some pride for, feeling somewhat special about being capable enough to perceive it.

A blush creeps over Mylenne's cheeks and Syrana chokes on her drink, leaving Illidan to mull over having said something wrong. Lothrius, on the other part, fakes a coughing. "Getagripbuddy—ahem!"

Mylenne gives Lothrius a dubious look but Illidan waves him off before giving the rest a chance to ponder about it. "It's not a secret either way. I could stare at you for hours and never get bored of it," Illidan says nonchalantly, crossing his feet and relaxing furthermore over the grass. "What can I say, I just like the view…"

Syrana's goodhearted cackle startles him slightly, however. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! But he's just hilarious when he's drunk!" She apologizes in advance, wiping some tears of laughter off her face.

Apparently so, he did say something wrong, for in the next minute Lothrius can't help with making quite the mocking show of singing a serenade to Syrana. "Kiiiiiss while your lips are still well, while he's still siiiiilent. Rest, while bosom is still untouched, unveeeeeiled…" He brings Syrana's hand to his heart in an exaggerated manner, goading her to join in his presuming teasing—which she does without hesitation, much to Illidan's irritation.

"I'm not getting—" He tries to object, sadly to no avail.

"Loooove while the night still hides the withering daaaaaawn!" Syrana and Lothrius chant in unison, arms linked and swaying side to side, too much into their banter to acknowledge him.

Mylenne brings a fist to her mouth in attempts to keep herself from bursting into laughter, yet can't seem to help giving Illidan a skeptical glance. It's not of much help, for the matter.

"Did I say something funny?" He opts to ask Mylenne instead, although it doesn't take long for him to notice everyone's eyes on him, staring as if expecting something. "Come on, what is it?" Illidan tries again with the entire group, hoping any of them would enlighten him on how he's suddenly become the laughingstock of the evening. "I mean it, I'm actually—no."

It can't be. No, no, no, no…

It's the very instant he meets Syrana's all-knowing eyes when realization hits him in full strength, blood draining out of his body in the course of a second, eyes wide. Terror shoots up his spine—was that what Syrana's been meaning to point on for years, was Thalrenus really teasing him months back, did Lothrius know before himself?

But the unexpected revelation that truly makes him go pale from head to toe is that, of all people, Silgryn fucking Stareye knew it all along. Of course he did, and the fact of it explaining absolutely everything the elder Stareye has ever done to keep Illidan at his niece's reach is enough for Illidan's stomach to twist, feeling sick all of a sudden.

"Lid? Illidan, what's wrong?" He finds a pair of big and bright silver eyes staring at him with sheer concern, yet when mere moments ago he could say for certain that Mylenne's voice has been the sweet balm that always soothed his temper, Illidan can't help with taking it as something terrifying as of then. "Are you okay? You-you're scaring me…"

He jumps away before Mylenne touches him, getting on his feet quite too fast for his admittedly drunken state—although sobering up just as fast. "Yes, yes, I'm fine! I just, uh…" He stammers and swallows hard, mortified as ever, noticing the rest of his friends doing an awful job on keeping their amusement to themselves.

Shit, shit, shit.

Unable to come up with any petty excuse, the next thing Illidan realizes are his feet leading him to Meredil, running away like the fucking coward he is.

How in Elune's fucking sake could this happen?

He knocks the wooden door once, twice, thrice; sure he'd lose his mind if he doesn't get an answer. "Mal? Mal! You there?" After hearing a muffled ruffle behind the entrance, Illidan rests his weight on his knees as he waits, trying his best to ease his racing heart somehow.

The only dorei in the world he can currently rely on meets him past the open door. "Brother? What brings you here this late?" Meeting his silver eyes and panting softly, apparently Malfurion is in no need of any words whatsoever. "Well, don't stay there, come in! Tyrande and I were just about to have some tea," He goads Illidan inside after giving him a worried once over.

The mention of Tyrande makes him hesitate somehow. "I wouldn't want to, you know… I can come back another time if I'm—"

His ramble comes to a stop after another pair of bright silver eyes acknowledges him behind Malfurion's shoulder. "Not with that face, you're not." Tyrande says somewhat scornfully, beckoning him in with an inviting hand on his shoulder. "Whoa, you reek of Cider. Are you drunk? Feeling ill?"

Illidan shakes his head and makes a vague gesture with his hand. "Just have a seat, brother. I'm pouring you a cup," His twin insists, pointing inside his small living room.

Collapsing in the closest chair—without any strength for proper manners—Illidan attempts for untying his ponytail, feeling a headache coming while his thoughts begin racing once again. Tyrande offers to help and he leaves her be without much of a fight, appreciating the feeling of her long fingers massaging his scalp, yet can't help but selfishly wish for them to belong to another woman entirely.

The picture of her lavender face invades every corner of Illidan's mind, almost hauntingly, recalling every single past conversation as best as he can. How did that happen? Since when? How did he possibly allow screwing everything up so badly? What did Mylenne fucking Stareye do to him?

Could it really be what Silgryn meant with his stupid tales all along? It's not fair or even healthy for him to fall in—

With somewhat shaking hands, he procures a pipe he'd—appropriately so, given the timing—borrowed from Silgryn's abandoned room at the bar. "You mind?" He glances at his brother, lighting it up with a snap of his glowing fingers after being allowed, taking a long, slow drag in the best attempts to soothe his nerves.

Tendrils of smoke swirl around the silent living room and some minutes later, Malfurion joins him and Tyrande with steaming cups of tea, taking a seat in front of him. Tyrande opts for staying close, bringing a comforting hand to Illidan's knee. "Alright, we're all ears. Is something wrong?" She wonders, voice soft.

What is not wrong at this point?

"Yes. Um, no, no!" Illidan tries taking it back, only to choke on his own hot smoke, coughing awkwardly. "Well, maybe? I don't… know?"

Malfurion frowns in deep concern. "Are you sure you're not drunk?"

He sends a glare his brother's way, ready to protest and bark something back, although regretting it after a second thought. "… Maybe so," Illidan grumbles, eyes dropping to the steaming mug in his hands, reconsidering his words. However, no matter how hard he tries, he can't find the will or the proper way to convey everything that crosses his mind. "Ugh, this is just ridiculous," He drops his mug and rubs his face harshly, the arrived headache making everything worse.

"You think so? Because you look rather… terrible," Tyrande clearly takes mind of her words, yet never leaves his side, taking his free hand in both of hers. "Illidan, you know you can tell us anything, right? We're willing to listen, if you'd like to talk about it,"

After giving his friend a dubious look, he's willing to admit he's to blame for resorting to visit his brother in the first place—the least he could do as of then is try talking it out. "Well, I… may have something," It becomes a very hard thing to do so, though, taking a sip of his tea in attempts to clear his mind somehow. "I think I… I believe… um, I've come with a sudden realization I… ugh!" But Illidan gives up faster than he'd have liked, holding his head between his hands.

Could it possibly be, dare he finally say it, love? It's the most plausible explanation, though, whether he's okay with it or not. It hurts and shames him to believe so, but it has to be—and not even his past feelings for the woman right before him are comparable in the slightest to the surging torrent of emotions he gets when Mylenne crosses his mind.

He never felt something like that in his entire life, but is it truly supposed to trouble him this deeply? And regardless of it all, how could he have the audacity of falling for the most wrong person in the Empire he could have possibly fallen for? No matter if they had their sorts of back and forth and also even kissed—twice—it's plainly impossible for him to really do something about it.

In fact, whatever opportunity he once could have had, it's certainly long gone by then. She's engaged, and to her childhood friend, of all people. There's absolutely no way he can stand a chance against that. Nope, not a single one.

… He's doomed.

"Just spill it out, brother. I'm sure we'll get it," Malfurion gives him a reassuring nod.

To some extent, his twin is right and he should, though. And if he truly is doomed, then what else does he have to lose?

Taking a peeking glance at the pair, Illidan takes a long breath, trying not to think of the possible avalanche of consequences that voicing out his concerns would give him.

"I've… fallen for Mylenne Stareye."

Saying it in the open doesn't help as much as he thought so, making him cringe at how horrible and ominous those five words just sounded. His heart tries hammering its way out of his chest, expectant, as lost and vulnerable as he'd ever felt in his life—not even centuries of self-control, magic training and meditation preparing him for such an unexpected thing.

But ever so slowly, Tyrande's face fully brightens with the widest of grins, irradiating joy. Malfurion, however, blinks several times in sheer confusion, looking back and forth at the two of them.

"Oh? But… that's nothing new. We knew that already," His brother tilts his head, apparently expecting something else.

A tense silence falls over the trio. "What."

In an awkward manner—and most likely due to Illidan glaring at him heatedly—Malfurion scratches his green mane. "Well, yeah. In fact, I assumed you two were a thing by now…"

"WHAT."

A-N: Mylenne and Lothrius' song: Kiss while your lips are still red, by Nightwish (slightly modified).