(2022-07-17) The Dance

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Author:	Mishell
Summary:	Gethennis and his former best friend dance the tango.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

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unrequited love

As they pass into the ballroom, all eyes turn to them, and he can feel the conversation shift. He wishes it were on his account, but it isn’t. Everyone is hoping to speak with her, hoping they might get to move in her circles, might get to meet her Close Personal Friend Kael’Thas.

It’s a good thing for Geth, and for the tattered remains of his lifelong friendship with Kaliszandra Thas’alanar, that the Prince of Quel’Thalas doesn’t dance.

A space on the floor begins to clear for them as though of its own accord. Six months they’ve been at this, gradually escalating from being the most skilled dancers on a crowded floor to becoming an attraction in their own right. Tonight, it seems they are the show.

The band knows their favored rhythm by now. The crowd shifts to one side of the room, letting the dancers present the best picture. She stands behind him, so slender in her scraps of black dress that she disappears. He seems to be standing alone, staring at the crowd, tense and expectant.

Then he feels her hand, slowly snaking from behind him to lie flat against his collarbone. These are the only times that she ever touches him of her own accord: on nights like this, with dozens of eyes on them. Maybe hundreds, tonight. Her other hand claims his ribcage. He forgets that his best friend is ill, that he has sung his mother off to the Shadowlands. There is only the crowd, and Kaliszandra.

He steps aside, revealing her to the crowd like the Event that she is. He swiftly moves behind her: her support, her shadow. For a moment he feels something novel and not altogether delightful: a cold flutter of nerves. The audience is larger than usual. And unlike them, she isn’t fooled by charm and pizzazz and clever sleight-of-hand. He must be perfect, or he will ruin her hard work.

His hand stutters slightly on the bare curve of her waist, but then he finds the nape of her neck, the flat of her belly, exerts just the right pressure as she lifts her chin, arches her back, leans forward… then swiftly as heat lightning pivots and falls back, Light, so perfect, her bare knee reaching for the vaulted ceiling, his hand covering her exposed throat. He feels it then — the collective indrawn breath of the audience — their admiration, their desire — and his confidence returns.

Elation. There is no other word for it, as he interlocks effortlessly with her steps, focuses on the art they are creating. She has always understood music — embodies it — and so he uses her as his guide. So long as he is in sync with her, he is the greatest dancer who ever lived.

There is a sort of flow state that he enters when they dance; everything disappears. The ghosts of Kirin Var, his worries about the man who has replaced this woman as his best friend, the ruins of Dalaran - they all melt away. There is nothing but the music and the lightness of their perfectly-matched steps, the weight of her body as she gives herself over to him, trusting him to support her exquisite contortions. She trusts him as she would trust finely crafted furniture — but it is trust all the same, and it moves something in him, deep and visceral. Whom else does she trust? For anything?

And then she leans into him, her cheek nuzzling against his in a perfect facsimile of amorous entreaty, and every hair on his body stands on end. It’s for the crowd of course, and he knows they all have the same response. But Light. It’s better than any of the drugs Dr. Salt gives him.

Bodies locked together, cheek to cheek, they sweep in elegant circles across the floor, at the same time swift and perfectly still. He gives her bare shoulder blade a caress just subtle enough to be clearly visible to the audience but to appear as though he is stealing it, as though it is something secret and intimate, rather than part of the show. And when she finally draws back he can see in her wicked smile that she appreciates his showmanship.

We have them in the palm of our hand, darling, that smirk says. And then she moves her gaze to the audience, looking at them as if to say, it’s you I really want, darling, yes you, in the front row there. And he drinks in the exquisite angle of her cheekbone, the cold unkissed perfection of her mouth.

Perfectly matched steps, ankles crossing and uncrossing, turning, turning, devouring the dance floor. Tradition demands that she gaze demurely downward, but she refuses, chin tilted up, radiant with coy self-satisfaction. It verges on scandalous.

He only falters once more — when he lifts her completely, when she arches back over his shoulder and he feels the entirety of her weight on him. A sudden wave of dizziness assaults him, and he doesn’t stumble exactly, but suddenly the ice-water wash of nerves seizes him and he is no longer enjoying himself; it takes all of his focus just to keep to the routine. For a moment, he fails to smile, fails to enchant the crowd, and he hopes that she was too distracted by her momentary suspension to notice.

Ah, she must not have noticed; her smile is dazzling when she descends, and they move into the slow, liquid part of the dance that ironically takes the most iron-hard strength. He finds his flow again, assisting her body into the perfect shapes, displaying her beauty to the crowd.

Then the music picks up, the bass strings thrumming, growling aggressively, and his energy to match. He powerfully moves her across the floor, for just a moment creating the perfect, exhilarating illusion that he is the driving force of this spectacle, she the delicate leaf blown by the winds of his passion.

But she looks into his eyes, smug and on the verge of a mocking laugh, and the illusion is shattered.

He lifts her again, almost violently, pressing her back hard against his chest. She throws her head back, clamps her calves around his waist. For a moment they are suspended there, and the audience holds its breath. Then slowly, he lets her unfold herself and lower to the ground, and the dance is formal again, almost stiff.

Her eyes are on the crowd, not him.

With a sudden wringing sensation, he draws her close by a hand at her nape, raises his other hand to her cheek. He feels her body tense; she senses something in him she does not like. But he can’t let go. He clasps her close for just a moment longer, then lets the hand at her cheek slide slowly down her bare arm. Someone in the audience lets out an appreciative, agonized moan, and that pleases her; she relaxes. He releases her, and the brightness of her eyes, her edged, satisfied smile, tells him he is forgiven.

And then they are in the homestretch of the race, all quick steps, her silken legs flashing like daggers. One last lift, and then she sinks into a final pose, arched back with him looming over her, as though on the threshold of a kiss.

The music stops, and the crowd explodes with applause and cheers. She breaks the pose effortlessly and takes a bow, and he knows the routine well enough to know it is the last he will see of her tonight. She is surrounded by admirers, and those few who do not move straight into her orbit move into his. He greets them with a brilliant smile, still feeling the ghosts of her hands at his back.

“Stunning as always, Lord Gethennis,” says a sweet little slip of a redhead.

“Do you know what I adore?” says the blond man next to her. “You have the most wicked, devilish smiles as you stare at one another… but the moment she looks away, you look positively tormented.”

Geth’s heart skips a beat. He hadn’t been aware. He will have to be more careful. But he laughs, making his eyes sparkle, and pats the man on the shoulder with just a touch of condescension.

“All part of the show, darling,” he says lightly. “All part of the show.”

Inspiration: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qvnei5JKGVs