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Jamil offers his hand, palm open, like an unspoken invitation.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Azul settles on playing clueless, despite the jarring obviousness of the situation. There's no room for interpretation left in the gesture, but the real intention behind it stays questionable. As always, he's wiser than to agree to a contract without knowing all its terms.
Jamil raises an eyebrow. "An offer? While the music is still playing? I wonder what it could be."
"I don't dance," Azul tells him curtly, ignoring the remark. "I've been walking on the ground for barely two years, that's enough leg work I need for now and, by all means, I intend to keep it this way."
"Good thing slow dancing is closer to a refined stroll than an actual dance," Jamil says, not bothering to hide the amusement creeping into his words. He sees a shortcoming in Azul's facade, an unfinished stroke in his perfect painting, and he's not willing to give a chance like that slip away. Maybe it's petty revenge: after all the times Azul pushed him to reveal his true potential finally comes a moment to repay by exposing his imperfections, or maybe he's testing the waters between them to see how far Azul is willing to go to play along.
"Then it's not your style, either." A heartbeat passes before he adds, "What would you get out of it if I agreed?"
"It's not my preferred type of dance, but there isn't a dance I'm not at least decent at." Jamil's smile is lopsided, a perfect match for his teasing tone, and everything about the image makes Azul's head spin, just a little, just the right amount to know that he's already a goner. "I taught you how to fly, this can't possibly be more challenging. And I would enjoy watching you struggle."
"Absolutely not."
"Let's make it a business transaction if that's what you want. I make sure you're not going to embarrass our school at the banquet and you learn a fairly useful social skill, everybody wins," Jamil offers.
"That is not how my trades work," Azul hears himself say, but his hand moves like it hasn't heard a word from his mouth; it settles neatly into Jamil's own as if it has done so a million times.
There's a brief pause as Jamil blinks in surprise – surely, he hasn't expected things to go so smoothly, or to even work out at all – but then he shakes his head slightly, chasing the feeling away, and leads them towards the dancefloor, away from its center and the spinning pairs.
They pass Kalim who's twirling graciously with much less agile and much more flustered Yuu. The careless smile he sends to Jamil is wide and shining like the crescent moon decorating the ballroom's vault.
The moon can't shine by itself, you're the stars who'll accompany it, the teacher had said in an overly exalted tone the first time their class stepped into the ballroom. Needless to say, his enthusiasm and flowery words didn't last long with how utterly untalented half of his students turned out to be. Jamil was one of the best ones back then; with his skillful technique and precise movements he kept himself little above the average, but the bare minimum of emotional investment he put into his dance managed to keep him under the radar.
Looking back, it makes Azul wonder how well he would have performed with all of his potential laid bare in front of everyone's eyes.
The place Jamil chooses gives them enough distance from the rest of the practising students to converse freely without worrying about being overheard. Unfortunately, it invites a couple of indiscreetly curious stares their way. Jamil doesn't notice, or doesn't care enough to acknowledge the looks – and Azul swallows his complaints before they make their way onto his lips.
"You're familiar with the basics, right?" Jamil asks, turning around and letting go of the hand he's been leading Azul by.
"Of course."
"But you suck at executing the steps."
"That's a very harsh way of putting it," Azul protests out of prideful necessity. If anything, it's a kind way of describing how much he botches the dance whenever someone tries to fix his lack of skill.
"With what I've seen from you so far it should be considered an euphemism," Jamil retorts harshly. "You stumble as if you were walking on hot coal, have an absolutely terrible sense of rhythm, can't remember the directions correctly–"
"I appreciate your input, although I didn't ask for a review."
He must be making a particularly disgruntled expression, because the second Jamil stops counting out his flaws and looks back at him, the corners of his eyes crease, betraying his amusement at the sight. He recovers quickly, but Azul's heart needs a moment longer than that to regain its steady beat.
"Let's start from a simple box step," he orders, reaching out for Azul's hand again.
They manage to position themselves without as much as a stumble on Azul's part; he's got that part down to perfection.
Though he's already used to dancing with a partner, usually a classmate who had drawn the short straw, Jamil being himself drastically changes the entire experience. From the way Jamil's bare hand rests firmly in his gloved one to the soft material of his hoodie where Azul's other hand is placed on his waist, all of it leaves a buzzing sensation right under Azul's skin. It's loud and treacherous like a swarm of bees ready to sting for one wrong move.
Jamil flicks loose strands of hair away from his face in a swift motion and straightens his back, chin up and shoulders square. "Left foot forward, right foot forward and to the right, slide left back to the right on three. Then the same but to the back on four, five, and six."
"That much is clear, thank you." Azul knows the theory by heart, all the placements, all the turns and the timing he's supposed to follow isn't a mystery either. The difficulty lies in how he's supposed to make his feet cooperate in the rhythm his mind imagines so vividly when his moves feel like played in slow tempo.
"Let's see."
And then Jamil starts counting to the rhythm of their footsteps. One, two, three, one, two three, repeat, redo, retry.
It doesn't go as bad as it could have. Azul doesn't trip, mostly, and stops himself from stepping on Jamil's shoes, usually, and even, although not without staring at the ground, manages to somehow keep up with his partner.
Jamil is a patient teacher, though that much Azul has known beforehand, but he's not one to keep himself from expressing his annoyance. It's in the way his fingers twitch when Azul missteps and in the soft exhale, almost a sigh, when they fall out of sync, yet again. But his voice is even as he instructs, pointing out wrongs and giving tips, the same words and the same steps again and again and again until they're both dizzy and bored, until they finish another routine, this time expanded to spin turns, and their moves come to a halt.
"You should be leading me, not the other way around," Jamil says.
"How should I lead if you're controlling my moves?"
"I'm guiding you because you keep staring down at your feet like I'm about to kick you in the shin."
"That's certainly not true." Azul feels his head snap up and maybe, after all, he has been looking down more than necessary. It's easier that way. When he looks up those insignificant thoughts and reminders pop up in his mind like little red warning lights: how up close he can notice the two centimeters he has over Jamil or how easy it is to get used to the weight of another person's hand settled on his shoulder. It's distancing in its own way that has nothing to do with his lack of physical coordination.
"That's more like it. Now keep it that way. Again."
"Again?" Azul sighs. "I believe we've done the routine enough times already. I need not be a dancer, it's not an ability I'm obligated to muster to perfection."
"I doubt you'd succeed even if you genuinely wanted to." Jamil rolls his eyes. "But as a person who has agreed to teach you what even our teacher gave up on, I'm not done until your skills are at least passable."
"But you do find enjoyment in this, don't you?" The words don't slip out, Azul is too well-tailored to let a mishap like that occur, but the shape they take on his lips hits much too close to an accusation than a casual remark. "Why?" he adds quickly to soothe the atmosphere.
Jamil tilts his head to the side, pondering the question, but instead of an answer he gives Azul a tug, relapsing into the dance once again, this time without counting out loud, this time with eyes cast aside like the awkward silence is too heavy to even stare back.
It catches Azul off guard for a moment, but he regains his composure quickly. Without Jamil's eyes burning holes through him it feels easier to breathe, and with each breath easier to snap out of the venomous numbness that seems to have been paralyzing his limbs.
"It's the same as with everything else," Jamil finally says. "It's a skill I was allowed to enjoy and practice with Kalim, but nothing beyond that." He swallows and finally lets his eyes wander back to Azul. "You can imagine how grand the banquets the Asim family hosts are. Scarabia's parties are only a shadow of their lavishness. Personal servants can attend, but we aren't allowed to participate in any of the activities reserved for the guests, not even with the heir's permission. So, in a way, I don't dance either." He smiles easily saying that, but it's a smile framed in the resignation of a person long used to the unfairness of their circumstances. "But practising like this is not so bad, even with a partner who doesn't know left from right."
"We don't dance like this in my homeland," Azul points out. "Our way of dancing is much more liberal, not bound by strict rules and outdated etiquettes."
"Because you can't execute the steps when you don't have two feet?"
"That too, yes."
His exasperation makes Jamil laugh a little; it's soft, barely audible in the noise of the other students' chatter, but he moves his hand away from Azul's shoulder and brings it to his lips to muffle the sound. "So, do you participate in dances back at home?"
"No, of course not. I find much more entertainment in playing music rather than dancing to it." Were the Leech twins nearby, they'd surely not miss the opportunity to point out how his ungraceful moves on land don't differ that much from his lack of skills underwater. Thankfully, they're nowhere to be seen, and Jamil doesn't need to know all the embarrassing details.
Jamil frowns. "That's unusual."
"Unusual how?"
"You play the piano, right?" Azul nods. "It has always been clear to me that music and dance are, for the most part, inseparable. You can't truly dance without music, and each musical piece inspires a movement of some sort, even if it's just a subtle sway. How is it possible to enjoy one without appreciating the other?"
"I can't see the appeal of it as a participant, but I wouldn't say I don't appreciate the art of it." Azul puts on his most professional smile and adds, "It allows a semi-private conversation during large social gatherings, which means it makes for a decent environment to discuss business matters."
Jamil's grip on his hand twitches, though this time he didn't misstep. "Sometimes I really can't tell if you're joking."
"I, too, am having fun right now, if that is what you wished to hear," he admits, to his own surprise, not entirely untruthfully. Swaying in a carefully calculated motion with planned and sketched out moves, it's all not as bad as it appeared to be when they started. It still demands too much proximity for his comfort, too many unnecessary touches, but when Jamil's hands gently guide him through the figures it almost feels like he knows what he's doing, and when they exchange words in hushed voices, it's almost like meeting in the middle of the road to a mutual understanding of some kind.
"I didn't," Jamil admits simply. It makes Azul think that maybe conversations are a bit like a dance in their own way; when one person takes a step forward, the other moves back. "But you haven't looked down at all this time, so I'm glad that you do." And sometimes the roles reverse.
For Azul's sake, he really shouldn't be so nice so suddenly. Jamil is a kind person at heart, even if many collateral victims of his Overblot would disagree, but he's also a meticulous one who allows himself to speak his mind only where duties don't bind him. It just so happens that Azul has a habit of annoying the genuine reactions out of him. And sometimes, on rare occasions, it backfires spectacularly.
Alas, he trips over his own foot and forces them to stop with hands still clasped together midair and a sentence hung midconversation.
"Did I distract you?" Jamil asks, visibly nonplussed.
"No, of course, you didn't." Though the minuscule tremble of his fingers now tightly clasped around the soft material of Jamil's hoodie to keep himself steady indicates otherwise. "I must be dizzy from the spinning."
Jamil simply stares back at him, examining Azul's expression like he's searching for a clue or a sign of– something. It doesn't last long, but from the way he hurriedly steps away, hand slipping away from Azul's grasp and into a pocket of his hoodie, Azul can't decipher whether he has found something he didn't like or didn't like not having found anything.
"That must be it. It's enough for today." Jamil corrects himself hurriedly, "It's enough altogether.”
"Yes, it appears so." Azul offers a small smile, forced through the nervousness that has settled within his body. It's different than the buzzing anticipation just before they started dancing. This is something closer to disappointment, a want to preserve the moment for a second longer, it's like taking a deep breath when turning the last page of an excellent book. "I appreciate your help," he adds because it feels like the right thing to say at the moment.
"It's not–" Jamil cuts himself off and shakes his head. "Nevermind. This will do for now, though you'd better not let anyone experienced ask you at the official thing."
The official thing, also known as the incoming ball, with actual music and dances everyone has only one chance to get right, and the sole reason why Jamil even bothered to offer to teach him.
The remainder of it gives Azul a stupidly forward idea. "Does that rule include you?"
"Me?"
"Yes."
It takes Jamil three excruciating seconds to formulate a response and then, partly baffled, partly curious, he says, "You said you don't like dancing. Twice, if I remember correctly."
"I still don't."
"Then what's changed?"
Azul just looks at him pointedly without another word.
The answer should be clear enough for a person as bright as Jamil. And, from the way his mouth opens and closes in hesitancy before breaking into a small, private smile, it is.
"I can be the exception," Jamil says.