fic; dance with me
Title: Dance with me
Pairing: Akame
Rating: PG
Summary: You’re practically unaware of everything except him and the way he feels against you, molding to your form so completely it’s like he was always meant to be there.
Author’s Note: 4018 words. AU. For changetje for my drabble request post from forever ago. The prompt was “nice and slow” and I have no idea where this came from in relation to that, but uhm. Yeah. >.> I realize this is a ridiculously cliched plot but I couldn't help it. D:
This is in wonky second person because that was all I could get myself to write for some reason. It's also the first time I’ve done second person, so if it’s weird, that is why. >.>
Cho, I hope you like this. ;__; I hope the AU thing was okay too. D: I probably should’ve asked first, huh…*fails*
He comes in alone, just twenty minutes before closing. It’s a Friday night and you are packing up, ready to go home, close early like you do some nights. But he stops you, the hesitant, cautious look in his eyes, the nervous wringing of his hands. You can’t turn him away, not like that, and something pulls at you anyway, like a magnet, towards him, until you finally say, “Can I help you?”
He jumps slightly, turns to face you, and nods a little. “I need lessons,” he replies, his voice much more steady than the look in his eyes.
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” you say, and grin, and instantly his whole being seems to soften, relaxing in front of you, and he smiles back, those frantic eyes from earlier giving way to a beautiful shine that strikes your heart.
Fuck, you think, because you know this won’t end well.
*
He’s engaged, and that’s your first clue. Stay the fuck away, Jin, you tell yourself, get Pi to teach him instead.
But yet you tell him you’ll be glad to help him surprise his fiancé on their wedding day because she claims he can’t dance worth a dime.
“I can dance,” he says petulantly, pouting his lips and reminding you of a small puppy. The kind you see in soggy, rain-soaked boxes on the side of the street, peeking up over the flaps with their small paws and begging you to take them home, and you’re always so tempted. “I can dance,” he repeats, “just not like this.”
The words are out of your mouth before your brain can fully process them: “Show me.”
He looks at you strangely so you rush to say, “So I can tell how you move and-and fid the best dance to match it for-for your wedding.” It’s a lame excuse and something you never really need to do, but he accepts without question.
Glancing around, he points to the stereo and the shelf of CDs beside it, and you nod. He grins, looking less and less like the man who’d walked in ten minutes ago and more and more like the man who is winning your heart.
The song he chooses is a little too flashy and upbeat for your usual R&B tastes, but you just step back, lean against the mirrored wall, and you watch.
You’re mesmerized. He moves with fluidity and grace. The curves of his hips rock from side to side, the jeans he wears accenting his lower body too perfectly. His eyes are closed and he feels the music, you know he does because you can almost see yourself in him, in the way he’s overcome by the sounds and the beats and the rhythm. It’s entrancing, beautiful, you’re sure you’ve never seen anyone dance like this before and you’ve seen your share of dances, from novice to expert.
Halfway through the song, he opens his eyes and finds yours, and it’s like that magnet again, pulling at you, compelling you to join him, a force so great you have no chance to deny it (not that you really would have anyway). His eyes widen a little when you move, but that’s all the reaction you get as you reach him. You’re hesitant now, because this probably breaks a hundred codes of conduct, plus he’s engaged, and your intentions are not entirely innocent, but when he put your hands on his hips and he doesn’t stop you, you remember your wont to break the rules anyway and you shut your eyes to the world and just give in.
You’re a good dancer if you say so yourself, and dancing is your life. But it’s been a long time since you’re felt like this when dancing, especially with another person. Like electricity is flowing in your veins instead of blood, like you’re breaking passion instead of air, like the entire universe has disappeared except for you, and him.
You don’t ignore how perfectly he fits against you, or how he adjusts to follow your lead without a word, or how his fingers feels against the small of your back.
The song ends soon yet neither of your let go right away. He’s warm, pressed up against you, and you have no desire to let him go, though you know you should, you know it is proper etiquette. So you do, let go first, even though it seems to physically pain you. You laugh awkwardly and grin a little crookedly. “You’re good,” you say, “really good.”
He smiles. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
You laugh again, genuinely, and glance at the clock on the wall. He follows your gaze and gasps. “Shit, I should’ve been home already,” he says and reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet.
You stop him instantly. “Tonight’s on me,” you say and when he insists, you shake your head and press, “It’s okay, really.”
He hesitates a while longer but eventually gives in. You wait until he puts his wallet away to ask, “When will you be coming back?”
“When is your next shift?” he returns.
“I’m not the only instructor here,” you say.
“I’d rather you teach me though,” he replies and you feel suddenly hot all over.
“T-Tomorrow,” you answer when your mind starts to function again, “all day. I have a free hour at three if you’re available.”
He nods and says, “That’s perfect,” and then gives you a slight bow. “Thanks for today,” he adds, and then he leaves.
It’s not until after you’ve locked up and made it halfway home that you realize you forgot to ask for his name.
*
He’s there at three on the dot the next day and you nearly dance your current partner into the wall from your distraction. He just laughs at little and waits patiently for you to finish and you can feel his eyes on you for the next three minutes. It feels a lot longer, though, like an eternity passes before you turn to meet him in the middle of the dance floor.
“You came,” you say, and try not to look too excited.
“I said I would.”
“Well, I was wondering since you seemed so nervous when you came in last night.”
He laughs again and it reminds you of your favorite hot summer nights spent at the beach with fireworks, the sparks of which seem to glow in his eyes. “I just didn’t know what to expect, I guess,” he explains.
You nod and then clap your hands together, grin excitedly. “Are you ready to start, then?”
He nods slowly. “All right,” he replies and you laugh, pat him on the shoulder.
“Don’t look so nervous,” you say, “this is nothing. And for you it should be a piece of cake.”
He seems more confident from your words and it makes you smile; you like that part of this job, the building of courage and determination. It’s the most important part of dancing, you tell everyone that comes in, if you don’t think you can do it, you won’t.
He’s a horrible student, you learn after fifteen minutes. He tries to do things on his own too soon, tries to prove that he understands before he really gets it, tries to rush through it. But even though he drives you up the wall with his constant criticism (what gives him the right to contradict your methods anyway?), you’re amazed by his determination, and by the end of the hour, at how much he’s managed to learn.
He reminds you of you, you realize. Of when you were just learning dance yourself, and being scolded constantly by your teachers for putting too much personality into the moves. He’s like that; adding his own elements into each movement, making the dance his own. You tell him not to, but he does it anyway, and you just smile and watch, amused, at how he concentrates on the footing and the flow, his eyes wide open now, memorizing, and biting his lower lip.
You don’t want him to leave again, but the hour is up and you have more sessions. He pays for the time, and you remember, just before he vanishes from your sight, to ask him breathlessly, “What’s your name?”
He laughs, looks apologetic for not introducing himself sooner, and replies with a smile that makes your heart melt like molten chocolate, “Kamenashi Kazuya.”
*
He becomes a regular addition to your schedules. Usually twice a week, mostly weekends, he comes in, always on time, with that smile and those eyes and everything else that captivates you completely.
You don’t really understand why you like him; you think he’s a bit too tightly screwed sometimes, and since you’re just the opposite, you clash, and rub together the wrong way. But yet you can’t stop from being excited to see him, can’t ignore the way he makes you feel when he laughs at how you trip over your feet or accidentally give him the wrong instructions, can’t resist the press of his fingers on your hips when together you practice the dance.
“When is the wedding?” you dare to ask one day. It’s near closing on a Saturday, and besides the couple working with Pi, you two are the only ones left.
He takes a drink from his water bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks a little uncomfortable as he says, “In a month,” but you don’t question it.
You don’t want him to get married. You wish the circumstances were different, much different. You don’t have many scruples, and you don’t follow the rules, but this is one line you just won’t cross, no matter how much you like him, no matter how much you think you just might love him.
You keep telling yourself that, at least. It’s become a sort of mantra you with start every day you know you’ll see him, because if you don’t, you know you won’t be able to stop yourself. You won’t be able to end that dance.
*
“Okay,” you say, “nice and slow. You can do this.”
He nods once and you press the play button on the stereo. He takes a deep breath, his eyes closed, and he goes through the entire routine without one mistake. You love this part best, you think, watching the final product, the efforts of the past few weeks or months, sometimes years, put together. You feel proud. And right now, you just might feel the proudest, and yet, the saddest.
There’s only so much of the waltz that can be extended into more than a few sessions. And he’s more dedicated than your other students; he comes in prepared, remembers the lesson from the previous session and applies the new elements accordingly. There’s nothing left you can teach him and it just about breaks your heart because this is your last night.
He finishes right when the song ends, a small bow and then straightens up with a smile that’s brighter than the lights in the room. “Well?” he prompts instantly and you can’t help but laugh.
“Perfect,” you say, meeting his eyes directly, and it almost has nothing to do with his performance.
He looks positively delighted and you can’t stop your smile. “So you think I’m ready, then?”
You roll your eyes, exasperated. “That’s usually the implication perfect gives.”
He looks a little uncertain, that nervous gleam in his eyes from the first night they’d met, that night you haven’t forgotten, the night that plays over and over in your mind constantly.
“Kame,” you say, the nickname you started calling him a few sessions in, which made him blush prettily with embarrassment but didn’t stop you, “you’ll be fine. Your-Your fiancé will be thrilled.”
He bites his lower lip, something you’ve noticed he does when confused, but nods slowly a few moments later. Then he smiles at you and says, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
You assess him, you try to ignore the voice in your head, the one that says just take this chance, it’s the last one you have, just do it now. You fail. You say, “I do.”
He makes an interested noise, tilts his head. “What?”
You smile secretively and head to the stereo, change CDs quickly. There’s no one left but you and him, a Friday night so similar to the one a few weeks ago. You dim the lights to a soft, orange glow, and the windowed walls provide the rest, Tokyo’s sparkling skyline stunning, and when you turn back to him, seem to make him shimmer. He looks at you carefully, but when you walk up to him and pull him close and whisper in his ear, “Dance with me,” you feel his smile against your neck and his fingers press into your hips and know its okay. Your heart beats correctly again.
You’re practically unaware of everything except him and the way he feels against you, molding to your form so completely it’s like he was always meant to be there. You close your eyes and tuck your head a bit, and you can smell the citrus from his shampoo, the soft strands of his light hair tickling your cheeks. Every move he makes has your blood flowing faster, so much you think by the end of the song, by the end of this night you won’t last. At the end of this relationship is your end, too.
You only meant for one song, just the one, because any more than that is asking too much. There’s nothing you can give him he doesn’t already have, besides he’s getting married, in less than three weeks. Why would he want you over the girl he’s already chosen? You know it all and yet you don’t stop, and the first song flows into the next and into the next and soon you’re both lost to the rest of the world.
Time seems to melt into oblivion but you’re barely concerned. He doesn’t seem in a rush to leave and you have no where to be, no where you could even fathom being except here, right now, with him in your arms. You rock your hips together, move slowly from side to side, create your own rhythm, make up your own song, a musical masterpiece for just the two of you. His fingers curl into the back of your sweat-dampened shirt, and you hook your thumbs into the loops of his jeans. He breathes just behind your ear, a soft exhale of pleasure that makes stars appear in your eyes. And you dip your head just a bit, and just barely press your lips to his neck. He doesn’t stop you. You trace your mouth up and along his jaw. He draws you even closer, you can practically hear his heart beat alongside your own, the pounding doubled in the cave of your mind, and resonating in deep, dark echoes throughout your veins. You reach the corner of his mouth. You hesitate. You know you shouldn’t, you know its wrong, and yet -
He turns first, before you can decide. He turns, and touches your lips with his own.
*
It would be the worst lie you’ve ever given to say you haven’t thought about him. Everyday since then, wondering what if, over and over again.
What if you hadn’t stopped it? What if you’d let it go? What if you’d just crossed that line you said you wouldn’t cross?
It’s over now, though. It’s pointless to think about. You have to push it into the back of your mind and concentrate on everything else, the rest of the world finally coming back into focus.
Yesterday was his wedding day. And now, you think, he’s off somewhere else, on a honeymoon with his wife, smiling and laughing - that smile you love, and that laugh that makes you warm all over.
You can’t forget about him, but you try. You drown in work, in the dance and the music, the only things that keep you focused. Today you have a hip hop dance class to teach, but the majority of the class consists of giggling love-struck high school girls who only enroll to watch you dance. Normally you wouldn’t mind. Normally you’d flirt and get their hopes up. Normally you’d laugh inside at the way they try hard to impress you. But today your spirits are low and even the gaggling girls can tell, and for kicks, you tell them its love problems and call for a break.
While they gasp and converse in hushed tones over your acclaimed love problems, you sigh and head for the counter, grab your water bottle and take a long sip, your eyes closed. And when you look out again it’s straight at the door and straight at the man standing there, with that smile that makes your heart melt like molten chocolate.
You drop your water bottle. You don’t notice. Not until one of the girls comes up and shakes your shoulder, waves a hand in front of your face and says, “Jin-sensei?”
You jolt out of your thoughts and look away quickly, berating your mind for playing tricks on you. Of course he’s not there. Why would he be? He’s off on a golden beach somewhere with his wife, drinking pina coladas in the soft sand. You laugh at yourself, a short chuckle for your stupidity, as you wipe down the mess you’ve made. You’re losing it now.
“Jin?” says a voice just above your shoulder. You freeze. You know that voice. His voice.
You turn around slowly and your eyes go wide. He’s really there, standing right before you, just as you remember him. Lithe and beautiful, with that light hair that falls into his eyes, the ones that glimmer with sparks of fireworks, and the smile you love more than anything. He looks amused at your surprise, his lips quirking at the corners until you break out of your trance and jump to your feet.
“W-What’re you doing here?” you manage to ask, surprising yourself because what you really want to do involves no words and pressing him up against the closest wall.
He looks embarrassed, glances around the studio nervously, at the group of girls huddled together and staring at the two of them intently. You notice and grab his elbow, pull him even further into the far corner, turning his back towards the girls. He relaxes a little and you try not to think of how warm he feels beneath your fingers.
He still won’t say anything after a few moments and you assess him, take him in, all of him, every bit of him like you hadn’t already memorized his whole being. The slope of his neck and the jut of his collarbones, just visible through the collar of his buttoned white shirt. The slim shoulders and slender arms, the curve of his hips. And then you notice it: his hand and the lack of a ring that should be there, adorning his slim finger.
You squash down the sudden bubbling of hope in the pit of your belly; you don’t want to get ahead of yourself, not with this. So you let him go, your fingers slipping off his elbow. You shove your hands into your pockets and rock on your feet a bit, and after a moment, finally get the courage to ask, “So, how was the wedding? It was yesterday, wasn’t it? I guess congratulations are in-”
“It didn’t happen,” he interrupts quickly and you look up from the floor to meet his gaze. All you see there is honesty and you can practically feel your veins searing with excitement.
“W-What?” you say.
“I couldn’t do it,” he replies and gives a half-hearted shrug.
“After all of that time I spent teaching you that dance?” you tease.
He smiles. “It’s because of all that time,” he replies quietly.
You blink at him, not wanting to jump to conclusions, and give him a lost look, even though you’re certain now, certain that all that you’ve hoped for in the past few weeks was coming true.
He laughs and steps up closer to you, so close you can almost count his eyelashes and can just barely make out the musky scent of his cologne, so close you feel the fabric of his shirt brush against yours.
Then, he says, “I realized the person I wanted to dance with wasn’t her.”
“O-Oh, re-really?” you say lightly, smile a little crookedly, uncertain even though you feel about ready to fly right now. “W-Who is it, then?”
He grins. “Do I really need to spell that out for you?”
You match his grin. “Well, it would be nice,” you say. “How else can I be sure that you mean-”
Your eyes widen as you find you can’t speak anymore because he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth and kissing you like there is nothing else in the world more important. Your heart is soaring and you pull him closer, forgetting completely about the class you’re supposed to be teaching and the girls who are probably watching, uncaring about what anyone who walks in might think, because right now, you can’t think of anything you’d rather be doing than this.
He tastes like caffeine and toothpaste and you’re instantly enraptured, pressing in for more, so much more, as much as he can give you, and willing to take it all. His lips are smooth against yours and his tongue slides along yours in such a sweet sensation you can barely think straight anymore. You wrap your arms around his slender form and feel him curl his fingers into your hair, tilting his head to allow you better access.
He pulls away first, gasping for breath and chuckling when you make a whine of protest and try to keep him close. He smiles at your pout and whispers, “We’re being watched.”
You glance over his shoulder at your class, huddled together with identical looks of shock on their faces. You laugh and look back at him. “Let them,” you reply but when he smacks you, looking embarrassed, you turn back to your students and say quite seriously, “Class dismissed.”
The girls just laugh and do as they’re told, packing up with giggles. You look at him and grin triumphantly but he just smacks you again and says, “Don’t do that. Your class isn’t done yet, is it?”
“It is if I say it is,” you reply cheekily. “And I say it is.” You give him a smoldering look and smirk. “I have better things to do now, anyway.”
He raises a brow skeptically. “Oh? Like what?”
You let him go with a wink and wait until the class clears, glad that the next session isn’t scheduled for another hour (though you think you might have to postpone that one as well), and then dim the lights. He’s grinning now, watching you, as you head for the stereo and put on a song, then turn back to him as the music floods the room in a low, rhythmic melody.
You hold out a hand and his smile widens as he takes your hand. His skin is hot against yours, and his hand fits so perfectly in yours. You pull him close by the hips, pressed up against each other so amazingly, you can feel every inch of him against you and your heart is loud in your eyes.
Grinning so much you think your jaw may break, you shut your eyes and breathe into his ear, “Dance with me.” And he reaches up a hand, cups your cheek and turns your head, kisses you soundly on the mouth, and, together, you move to the music.
end.
note: a;lskdg D: I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading~ ♥
Pairing: Akame
Rating: PG
Summary: You’re practically unaware of everything except him and the way he feels against you, molding to your form so completely it’s like he was always meant to be there.
Author’s Note: 4018 words. AU. For changetje for my drabble request post from forever ago. The prompt was “nice and slow” and I have no idea where this came from in relation to that, but uhm. Yeah. >.> I realize this is a ridiculously cliched plot but I couldn't help it. D:
This is in wonky second person because that was all I could get myself to write for some reason. It's also the first time I’ve done second person, so if it’s weird, that is why. >.>
Cho, I hope you like this. ;__; I hope the AU thing was okay too. D: I probably should’ve asked first, huh…*fails*
He comes in alone, just twenty minutes before closing. It’s a Friday night and you are packing up, ready to go home, close early like you do some nights. But he stops you, the hesitant, cautious look in his eyes, the nervous wringing of his hands. You can’t turn him away, not like that, and something pulls at you anyway, like a magnet, towards him, until you finally say, “Can I help you?”
He jumps slightly, turns to face you, and nods a little. “I need lessons,” he replies, his voice much more steady than the look in his eyes.
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” you say, and grin, and instantly his whole being seems to soften, relaxing in front of you, and he smiles back, those frantic eyes from earlier giving way to a beautiful shine that strikes your heart.
Fuck, you think, because you know this won’t end well.
*
He’s engaged, and that’s your first clue. Stay the fuck away, Jin, you tell yourself, get Pi to teach him instead.
But yet you tell him you’ll be glad to help him surprise his fiancé on their wedding day because she claims he can’t dance worth a dime.
“I can dance,” he says petulantly, pouting his lips and reminding you of a small puppy. The kind you see in soggy, rain-soaked boxes on the side of the street, peeking up over the flaps with their small paws and begging you to take them home, and you’re always so tempted. “I can dance,” he repeats, “just not like this.”
The words are out of your mouth before your brain can fully process them: “Show me.”
He looks at you strangely so you rush to say, “So I can tell how you move and-and fid the best dance to match it for-for your wedding.” It’s a lame excuse and something you never really need to do, but he accepts without question.
Glancing around, he points to the stereo and the shelf of CDs beside it, and you nod. He grins, looking less and less like the man who’d walked in ten minutes ago and more and more like the man who is winning your heart.
The song he chooses is a little too flashy and upbeat for your usual R&B tastes, but you just step back, lean against the mirrored wall, and you watch.
You’re mesmerized. He moves with fluidity and grace. The curves of his hips rock from side to side, the jeans he wears accenting his lower body too perfectly. His eyes are closed and he feels the music, you know he does because you can almost see yourself in him, in the way he’s overcome by the sounds and the beats and the rhythm. It’s entrancing, beautiful, you’re sure you’ve never seen anyone dance like this before and you’ve seen your share of dances, from novice to expert.
Halfway through the song, he opens his eyes and finds yours, and it’s like that magnet again, pulling at you, compelling you to join him, a force so great you have no chance to deny it (not that you really would have anyway). His eyes widen a little when you move, but that’s all the reaction you get as you reach him. You’re hesitant now, because this probably breaks a hundred codes of conduct, plus he’s engaged, and your intentions are not entirely innocent, but when he put your hands on his hips and he doesn’t stop you, you remember your wont to break the rules anyway and you shut your eyes to the world and just give in.
You’re a good dancer if you say so yourself, and dancing is your life. But it’s been a long time since you’re felt like this when dancing, especially with another person. Like electricity is flowing in your veins instead of blood, like you’re breaking passion instead of air, like the entire universe has disappeared except for you, and him.
You don’t ignore how perfectly he fits against you, or how he adjusts to follow your lead without a word, or how his fingers feels against the small of your back.
The song ends soon yet neither of your let go right away. He’s warm, pressed up against you, and you have no desire to let him go, though you know you should, you know it is proper etiquette. So you do, let go first, even though it seems to physically pain you. You laugh awkwardly and grin a little crookedly. “You’re good,” you say, “really good.”
He smiles. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
You laugh again, genuinely, and glance at the clock on the wall. He follows your gaze and gasps. “Shit, I should’ve been home already,” he says and reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet.
You stop him instantly. “Tonight’s on me,” you say and when he insists, you shake your head and press, “It’s okay, really.”
He hesitates a while longer but eventually gives in. You wait until he puts his wallet away to ask, “When will you be coming back?”
“When is your next shift?” he returns.
“I’m not the only instructor here,” you say.
“I’d rather you teach me though,” he replies and you feel suddenly hot all over.
“T-Tomorrow,” you answer when your mind starts to function again, “all day. I have a free hour at three if you’re available.”
He nods and says, “That’s perfect,” and then gives you a slight bow. “Thanks for today,” he adds, and then he leaves.
It’s not until after you’ve locked up and made it halfway home that you realize you forgot to ask for his name.
*
He’s there at three on the dot the next day and you nearly dance your current partner into the wall from your distraction. He just laughs at little and waits patiently for you to finish and you can feel his eyes on you for the next three minutes. It feels a lot longer, though, like an eternity passes before you turn to meet him in the middle of the dance floor.
“You came,” you say, and try not to look too excited.
“I said I would.”
“Well, I was wondering since you seemed so nervous when you came in last night.”
He laughs again and it reminds you of your favorite hot summer nights spent at the beach with fireworks, the sparks of which seem to glow in his eyes. “I just didn’t know what to expect, I guess,” he explains.
You nod and then clap your hands together, grin excitedly. “Are you ready to start, then?”
He nods slowly. “All right,” he replies and you laugh, pat him on the shoulder.
“Don’t look so nervous,” you say, “this is nothing. And for you it should be a piece of cake.”
He seems more confident from your words and it makes you smile; you like that part of this job, the building of courage and determination. It’s the most important part of dancing, you tell everyone that comes in, if you don’t think you can do it, you won’t.
He’s a horrible student, you learn after fifteen minutes. He tries to do things on his own too soon, tries to prove that he understands before he really gets it, tries to rush through it. But even though he drives you up the wall with his constant criticism (what gives him the right to contradict your methods anyway?), you’re amazed by his determination, and by the end of the hour, at how much he’s managed to learn.
He reminds you of you, you realize. Of when you were just learning dance yourself, and being scolded constantly by your teachers for putting too much personality into the moves. He’s like that; adding his own elements into each movement, making the dance his own. You tell him not to, but he does it anyway, and you just smile and watch, amused, at how he concentrates on the footing and the flow, his eyes wide open now, memorizing, and biting his lower lip.
You don’t want him to leave again, but the hour is up and you have more sessions. He pays for the time, and you remember, just before he vanishes from your sight, to ask him breathlessly, “What’s your name?”
He laughs, looks apologetic for not introducing himself sooner, and replies with a smile that makes your heart melt like molten chocolate, “Kamenashi Kazuya.”
*
He becomes a regular addition to your schedules. Usually twice a week, mostly weekends, he comes in, always on time, with that smile and those eyes and everything else that captivates you completely.
You don’t really understand why you like him; you think he’s a bit too tightly screwed sometimes, and since you’re just the opposite, you clash, and rub together the wrong way. But yet you can’t stop from being excited to see him, can’t ignore the way he makes you feel when he laughs at how you trip over your feet or accidentally give him the wrong instructions, can’t resist the press of his fingers on your hips when together you practice the dance.
“When is the wedding?” you dare to ask one day. It’s near closing on a Saturday, and besides the couple working with Pi, you two are the only ones left.
He takes a drink from his water bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks a little uncomfortable as he says, “In a month,” but you don’t question it.
You don’t want him to get married. You wish the circumstances were different, much different. You don’t have many scruples, and you don’t follow the rules, but this is one line you just won’t cross, no matter how much you like him, no matter how much you think you just might love him.
You keep telling yourself that, at least. It’s become a sort of mantra you with start every day you know you’ll see him, because if you don’t, you know you won’t be able to stop yourself. You won’t be able to end that dance.
*
“Okay,” you say, “nice and slow. You can do this.”
He nods once and you press the play button on the stereo. He takes a deep breath, his eyes closed, and he goes through the entire routine without one mistake. You love this part best, you think, watching the final product, the efforts of the past few weeks or months, sometimes years, put together. You feel proud. And right now, you just might feel the proudest, and yet, the saddest.
There’s only so much of the waltz that can be extended into more than a few sessions. And he’s more dedicated than your other students; he comes in prepared, remembers the lesson from the previous session and applies the new elements accordingly. There’s nothing left you can teach him and it just about breaks your heart because this is your last night.
He finishes right when the song ends, a small bow and then straightens up with a smile that’s brighter than the lights in the room. “Well?” he prompts instantly and you can’t help but laugh.
“Perfect,” you say, meeting his eyes directly, and it almost has nothing to do with his performance.
He looks positively delighted and you can’t stop your smile. “So you think I’m ready, then?”
You roll your eyes, exasperated. “That’s usually the implication perfect gives.”
He looks a little uncertain, that nervous gleam in his eyes from the first night they’d met, that night you haven’t forgotten, the night that plays over and over in your mind constantly.
“Kame,” you say, the nickname you started calling him a few sessions in, which made him blush prettily with embarrassment but didn’t stop you, “you’ll be fine. Your-Your fiancé will be thrilled.”
He bites his lower lip, something you’ve noticed he does when confused, but nods slowly a few moments later. Then he smiles at you and says, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
You assess him, you try to ignore the voice in your head, the one that says just take this chance, it’s the last one you have, just do it now. You fail. You say, “I do.”
He makes an interested noise, tilts his head. “What?”
You smile secretively and head to the stereo, change CDs quickly. There’s no one left but you and him, a Friday night so similar to the one a few weeks ago. You dim the lights to a soft, orange glow, and the windowed walls provide the rest, Tokyo’s sparkling skyline stunning, and when you turn back to him, seem to make him shimmer. He looks at you carefully, but when you walk up to him and pull him close and whisper in his ear, “Dance with me,” you feel his smile against your neck and his fingers press into your hips and know its okay. Your heart beats correctly again.
You’re practically unaware of everything except him and the way he feels against you, molding to your form so completely it’s like he was always meant to be there. You close your eyes and tuck your head a bit, and you can smell the citrus from his shampoo, the soft strands of his light hair tickling your cheeks. Every move he makes has your blood flowing faster, so much you think by the end of the song, by the end of this night you won’t last. At the end of this relationship is your end, too.
You only meant for one song, just the one, because any more than that is asking too much. There’s nothing you can give him he doesn’t already have, besides he’s getting married, in less than three weeks. Why would he want you over the girl he’s already chosen? You know it all and yet you don’t stop, and the first song flows into the next and into the next and soon you’re both lost to the rest of the world.
Time seems to melt into oblivion but you’re barely concerned. He doesn’t seem in a rush to leave and you have no where to be, no where you could even fathom being except here, right now, with him in your arms. You rock your hips together, move slowly from side to side, create your own rhythm, make up your own song, a musical masterpiece for just the two of you. His fingers curl into the back of your sweat-dampened shirt, and you hook your thumbs into the loops of his jeans. He breathes just behind your ear, a soft exhale of pleasure that makes stars appear in your eyes. And you dip your head just a bit, and just barely press your lips to his neck. He doesn’t stop you. You trace your mouth up and along his jaw. He draws you even closer, you can practically hear his heart beat alongside your own, the pounding doubled in the cave of your mind, and resonating in deep, dark echoes throughout your veins. You reach the corner of his mouth. You hesitate. You know you shouldn’t, you know its wrong, and yet -
He turns first, before you can decide. He turns, and touches your lips with his own.
*
It would be the worst lie you’ve ever given to say you haven’t thought about him. Everyday since then, wondering what if, over and over again.
What if you hadn’t stopped it? What if you’d let it go? What if you’d just crossed that line you said you wouldn’t cross?
It’s over now, though. It’s pointless to think about. You have to push it into the back of your mind and concentrate on everything else, the rest of the world finally coming back into focus.
Yesterday was his wedding day. And now, you think, he’s off somewhere else, on a honeymoon with his wife, smiling and laughing - that smile you love, and that laugh that makes you warm all over.
You can’t forget about him, but you try. You drown in work, in the dance and the music, the only things that keep you focused. Today you have a hip hop dance class to teach, but the majority of the class consists of giggling love-struck high school girls who only enroll to watch you dance. Normally you wouldn’t mind. Normally you’d flirt and get their hopes up. Normally you’d laugh inside at the way they try hard to impress you. But today your spirits are low and even the gaggling girls can tell, and for kicks, you tell them its love problems and call for a break.
While they gasp and converse in hushed tones over your acclaimed love problems, you sigh and head for the counter, grab your water bottle and take a long sip, your eyes closed. And when you look out again it’s straight at the door and straight at the man standing there, with that smile that makes your heart melt like molten chocolate.
You drop your water bottle. You don’t notice. Not until one of the girls comes up and shakes your shoulder, waves a hand in front of your face and says, “Jin-sensei?”
You jolt out of your thoughts and look away quickly, berating your mind for playing tricks on you. Of course he’s not there. Why would he be? He’s off on a golden beach somewhere with his wife, drinking pina coladas in the soft sand. You laugh at yourself, a short chuckle for your stupidity, as you wipe down the mess you’ve made. You’re losing it now.
“Jin?” says a voice just above your shoulder. You freeze. You know that voice. His voice.
You turn around slowly and your eyes go wide. He’s really there, standing right before you, just as you remember him. Lithe and beautiful, with that light hair that falls into his eyes, the ones that glimmer with sparks of fireworks, and the smile you love more than anything. He looks amused at your surprise, his lips quirking at the corners until you break out of your trance and jump to your feet.
“W-What’re you doing here?” you manage to ask, surprising yourself because what you really want to do involves no words and pressing him up against the closest wall.
He looks embarrassed, glances around the studio nervously, at the group of girls huddled together and staring at the two of them intently. You notice and grab his elbow, pull him even further into the far corner, turning his back towards the girls. He relaxes a little and you try not to think of how warm he feels beneath your fingers.
He still won’t say anything after a few moments and you assess him, take him in, all of him, every bit of him like you hadn’t already memorized his whole being. The slope of his neck and the jut of his collarbones, just visible through the collar of his buttoned white shirt. The slim shoulders and slender arms, the curve of his hips. And then you notice it: his hand and the lack of a ring that should be there, adorning his slim finger.
You squash down the sudden bubbling of hope in the pit of your belly; you don’t want to get ahead of yourself, not with this. So you let him go, your fingers slipping off his elbow. You shove your hands into your pockets and rock on your feet a bit, and after a moment, finally get the courage to ask, “So, how was the wedding? It was yesterday, wasn’t it? I guess congratulations are in-”
“It didn’t happen,” he interrupts quickly and you look up from the floor to meet his gaze. All you see there is honesty and you can practically feel your veins searing with excitement.
“W-What?” you say.
“I couldn’t do it,” he replies and gives a half-hearted shrug.
“After all of that time I spent teaching you that dance?” you tease.
He smiles. “It’s because of all that time,” he replies quietly.
You blink at him, not wanting to jump to conclusions, and give him a lost look, even though you’re certain now, certain that all that you’ve hoped for in the past few weeks was coming true.
He laughs and steps up closer to you, so close you can almost count his eyelashes and can just barely make out the musky scent of his cologne, so close you feel the fabric of his shirt brush against yours.
Then, he says, “I realized the person I wanted to dance with wasn’t her.”
“O-Oh, re-really?” you say lightly, smile a little crookedly, uncertain even though you feel about ready to fly right now. “W-Who is it, then?”
He grins. “Do I really need to spell that out for you?”
You match his grin. “Well, it would be nice,” you say. “How else can I be sure that you mean-”
Your eyes widen as you find you can’t speak anymore because he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth and kissing you like there is nothing else in the world more important. Your heart is soaring and you pull him closer, forgetting completely about the class you’re supposed to be teaching and the girls who are probably watching, uncaring about what anyone who walks in might think, because right now, you can’t think of anything you’d rather be doing than this.
He tastes like caffeine and toothpaste and you’re instantly enraptured, pressing in for more, so much more, as much as he can give you, and willing to take it all. His lips are smooth against yours and his tongue slides along yours in such a sweet sensation you can barely think straight anymore. You wrap your arms around his slender form and feel him curl his fingers into your hair, tilting his head to allow you better access.
He pulls away first, gasping for breath and chuckling when you make a whine of protest and try to keep him close. He smiles at your pout and whispers, “We’re being watched.”
You glance over his shoulder at your class, huddled together with identical looks of shock on their faces. You laugh and look back at him. “Let them,” you reply but when he smacks you, looking embarrassed, you turn back to your students and say quite seriously, “Class dismissed.”
The girls just laugh and do as they’re told, packing up with giggles. You look at him and grin triumphantly but he just smacks you again and says, “Don’t do that. Your class isn’t done yet, is it?”
“It is if I say it is,” you reply cheekily. “And I say it is.” You give him a smoldering look and smirk. “I have better things to do now, anyway.”
He raises a brow skeptically. “Oh? Like what?”
You let him go with a wink and wait until the class clears, glad that the next session isn’t scheduled for another hour (though you think you might have to postpone that one as well), and then dim the lights. He’s grinning now, watching you, as you head for the stereo and put on a song, then turn back to him as the music floods the room in a low, rhythmic melody.
You hold out a hand and his smile widens as he takes your hand. His skin is hot against yours, and his hand fits so perfectly in yours. You pull him close by the hips, pressed up against each other so amazingly, you can feel every inch of him against you and your heart is loud in your eyes.
Grinning so much you think your jaw may break, you shut your eyes and breathe into his ear, “Dance with me.” And he reaches up a hand, cups your cheek and turns your head, kisses you soundly on the mouth, and, together, you move to the music.
end.
note: a;lskdg D: I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading~ ♥