Sweethearts Week Day Two
Title- Dancing in Circles
Rated/warnings- T for sexual references
Word Count- 2,005
Summary- In which dancing takes on two very different meanings which England has two very contrasting views concerning
A/N- running late again, but not as late as usual at least ): hope this is okay :)
|Dancing in Circles|
It was stifling.
England pulled the collar of his shirt down, just a tad, so he could breathe. There were far too many people and the heat of so many bodies stored into such a small venue made it hard for him to even see through the hazy fog they created, let alone breathe comfortably. The mask, an uncomfortable gaudy piece that covered the majority of his face, made it no easier for him, the piece narrowing at the bridge of his nose in a way that most certainly was meant to be a universally perfect fit for anyone who had not had their nose broken as many times as he.
He moved closer to the table, small and covered with white cloth that looked foreign, and blindly reached out for it in order to steady himself. He was not as drunk as he would like to be- almost need to be for this gathering- but he was still not sober. Regardless, he reached for another glass, his fifth. It was terrible wine, disgusting filth and was most certainly not at all alcoholic enough or else he would be already comatose; that, at this stage, would be preferred.
A masquerade ball; what a terrible idea. England had not attended one since they had been fashionable in the sixteenth century and, not finding it in him to care back then in his youthful naivety, he saw them no more entertaining now. He wasn't even quite sure why he had agreed to attend but he had and right now he didn't even have the warmth of a drunken haze to distract him from his momentary lapse in judgement.
People were dancing. England, to the sure surprise of many, wasn't one for dancing. He had learned and mastered the art but when it came to actually dancing at formal occasions, he most always declined. He hated the breathless small talk, the stares of others. He abhorred having to listen carefully to hear when each tune ended so he could pass his partner on to the next hopeful while at the same time trying to match his own footsteps to the time. It was so much easier to dance alone to a gramophone than to pirouette in a crowd.
But others naturally liked dancing and England could not fault them for it. It was a graceful art form that suited some more than others. It suited perfect gentleman and fine ladies; but being a gentleman did not mean he had to dance, not when the way he could fire a weapon, hold a machete or wield a sword was as much grace as he needed.
At his seventh wine glass, through a finally tipsy haze, England settled his gaze on the dancing couples, having finally lost the will to consistently ignore that the whole spiel of sociable interaction was happening elsewhere. There were many different pairings, often being swapped around with bows and tightly held hands and gazes. Particularly, he noticed that some were dancing more than others. Ladies usually took breaks, left to pamper themselves and fix up their petticoats and what not and men usually left to chatter and drink. However, some never did anything but dance in a constant fluid motion from one partner's hand to the next.
Which was why England was surprised when, after ladies were picking up their belongings and their relatives and the last few crooning stragglers were being ushered off the dance floor, that a constant reached for his elbow and then stretched over him to down what was left of the remaining glass on the table.
"You don't dance, I presume," he said, his breathing slightly caught up in a way that it too rightly should after dancing for three hours straight.
"I am capable, but not willing," England replied curtly.
The man's mouth twitched up, the skin around his lips crinkling slightly at the movement. "So I thought."
His mask was gaudy as well, a feathered attire that covered a good deal of his forehead and cheekbones. There was a stray dyed pink feather on his jacket, no doubt a calling card from some lady he had twirled.
England lamented the loss of the glass he had been planning to drink as the liquid was downed by the other in several gulps. The closer he got, he saw that he was flushed in a way that was like intoxication rather than exertion and England wondered where he had the time to drink enough alcohol to get reasonably drunk, what with all that dancing.
"So why not dance?"
England glanced up to see that the man had finished drinking and was now staring at him in a mildly intrigued manner, fiddling with the stem of the glass as he twisted it up and around in a circle, dripping some of the residue down the upper left leg of his trousers where it left a shiny mark that made England want to get on his knees and wipe it off with his thumb but he could see where that might give a wrong impression and, besides, he was not in the habit of doing strangers' laundry for them. However, he was a perfectionist so he did not hide his mild disgust.
"I do not care for it," he said, turning his head away with the pretence of fixing his mask but really just trying to break the uncomfortable eye contact. Even after half of the guests had left, the heat was still stifling it seemed.
"Why is that?"
England scoffed and turned back. "What business is that of yours?" he asked, sharp and abrupt.
But his lips crinkled upwards again and, although England usually never took note of the small details of strangers, his eyes practically twinkled like they were reflecting the light of every source in the room. "Dance with me then," he said.
"Why should I?" England replied, "The music has finished."
But, inconspicuously covered by the foreign fabric of the table cloth, England jolted at the feel of fingers entwining around his wrist and he was not being ushered towards the dance floor at all but to the side, into the cut off hallway where it became apparent that dancing had several different meanings that England had never seen it used for in his language.
Had he one, maybe two, more glasses of wine in him he could have used the excuse of intoxication. Had he known the man more than ten minutes at the very most he could have used attraction, knowledge or even interest as an excuse. But the simple truth was that, no matter how many times he was asked (and he declined) to dance, it had been a long time since someone had asked him to dance and his pulse had elevated far too quickly when the man's hand had enclosed upon it and he had been far too docile in letting himself get pushed up against the wall in a hallway and he had been far too lenient in himself when he allowed his hands to wander and he was so very very depraved.
And in fairness, he allowed himself to reason as he was quickly-even quicker than before- ushered to the door, guided due to the mask now blocking his sight, it was hard in the city. You could find pretty boys easily, so very easily, but it was harder to find someone willing, someone who so very much wanted to be there. Which was naturally the only reason he allowed himself to be pushed up against the door the minute it was locked, the reason he allowed his pants to be kicked around his ankles.
He moved forward, attempting to blindly take off his own mask before his wrists were caught and he was silenced in his protests. Once released, he tried to go for the man's own mask, blindly. Once again he was stopped. "Leave it on," he heard and he obliged.
It wasn't unusual. Very few people actually wished to be pulled up in court on a sodomy charge, wanted the ridicule of neighbours and the alienation of friends and family. England did not have that to worry about so he often forgot that others did. Of course, he was mildly irritated that he, who did not care for another dropped sodomy charge but didn't feel it mattered anyway, was left blinded by his mask but at the same time it was better than not having the heated kisses that were pressed to his mouth every so often as clothing rustled around him and off of him.
(But lying down later, sleepless and wide-eyed in the dim lighting, he was not as keen on the mask that still hung lopsided to the other man's face. He reached for it, felt it coarse over his fingertips, but let it go. It didn't matter at all)
---
Dancing became more common for England than he ever thought it would have.
He found himself anticipating invitations that he usually would have dreaded, refused even, and he found himself relishing the fact that costume balls appeared to once again be coming back in fashion and too right too, weren't they just admirable?
However, he was never asked to dance. Not by a man in a suspiciously feathered eyepiece anyway. He had many women glance over at him, all alone by the drinks stand, but reuse to disobey social protocol and many who threw honour away in order to ask for a dance. He did not refuse them, however he knew that dancing pretty with some lady in a crowd was not more interesting than dancing with a stranger in an abandoned hallway.
He had practically given up, resigned himself to believing that it was a fluke, a sudden one night fit of desperation, when, one night, he glanced across the room to see the top of a feathered mask. He despised the way his heart thudded and the way he automatically stood on the tips of his toes to see the rest of the figure monopolising the dance floor and its inhabitants. He caught his gaze and England made no mistake in registering yet another twinkle before he managed to translate the mouthed words to 'dance with me' accompanied by a wide grin and crinkled dimples.
(And for some reason, later on, England found that he couldn't sleep once again, plagued by the mask that still clung to the other's face. But he didn't dare remove it.)
---
It became a pattern. It was now a pre-established fact that if one were attending a masquerade, the other would too be there and England had invested himself in a new mask, one that made easy access. Every night the words, those damned words, 'dance with me' would be echoed until there came a time when a simple crinkled of the man's lips was all that was needed for England to know exactly what he would say if he needed to clarify; he never did.
Dancing came in many shapes and forms, in many locations, with many a voiced note but with no logical background music to accompany them. It was a surprise they were never caught; never careful, but seemingly too sly or too inconspicuous to notice regardless.
(However, England was never one to allow himself to settle into routine, not after routines he had been so accustomed to falling into gracefully had always been shattered, leaving him in withdrawal and a desperate need to wake up in the morning to slave to another pathetic routine. Which was why, in another sleepless, tipsy haze, he pulled off his own mask and set it on the locker across from him in the rickety inn bedroom. Why he leaned ever so slightly forward and held his breath, so as not to let it out and disturb his sleeping partner, as he pulled off the other's mask carefully, untying the string at the back before tugging it.
And so, the dancing halted. )
|END|