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Pavel stood plastered to the back wall of the studio, arms crossed and pleather flats tapping over and over on the linoleum floor; except for Pavel he wasn’t tapping to the beat of Rick James’ Super Freak, he was tapping out his own frustration with being locked in a room with people that enjoyed listening to Rick James. How he’d been roped into attending a public ball, voluntarily even, he still couldn’t figure out. Hypnosis, probably, he thought. Pavel let out his 106th exasperated sigh of the night and decided to mix it up a little, and moved his hands from his chest to his pockets. Edgy, people would think. He was about try and leave again, despite knowing it was a lock-in (not that he hadn’t tested his luck 3 times already), when Pavel saw a familiar mug in the crowd, off to the left just below the DJ. He squinted and put his hand to his forehead to try and get a better look and, wouldn’t you know it, off in the distance waved a pair of beat-up converse, pre-ripped jeans and a blue pullover.
“Artyom?” Pavel’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. He waved weakly back, unsure of how to talk to his old friend. It’d been a few months, not too long but definitely a while. Artyom bounded over and completely ignored Pavel’s outstretched hand, instead going for a big bear hug.
“Pavel! It’s so good to see you, how did you know I’d be here?” Artyom let Pavel go and went to pour the both of them a glass of what looked like punch, but who knew.
“I uh, I didn’t actually.” Pavel admitted.
“You came to a dance alone? You, Pavel Morozov? When I saw you through the door I thought for sure you knew I was in the neighborhood, maybe wanted to catch up— but,” Artyom started to laugh, “you at a dance!” He handed Pavel the plastic cup of pink something and started to drink. Pavel frowned at the stuff and tried to change the subject.
“Well I honestly had no idea, I came becaus— wait what do you mean ‘saw you through the door’ the whole thing started an hour ago, how did you get in?” Pavel put his cup down and let his glare shoot straight through Artyom.
“Hm? Through the front door…?” Artyom bumbled out, wiping a stream of pink-whatever from his lip.
“It’s a lock-in I was dragged into, the doors lock from both sides until tomorrow morning.”
“Well,” Artyom chuckled before taking another swig of punch, “I dunno who told you that. The front door is completely unlocked, you can leave whenever.”
Pavel’s eyes grew wider and wider until he looked like he’d burst, and his signature pout was showing through, with gusto. Artyom could see him boiling up and clapped one hand onto his shoulder, drawing his attention back to reality.
“Well I don’t know who convinced you you couldn’t leave, but.... you could always stay, now that you have some company.” Artyom put his punch on the cheapo folding table and put his hands up infront of his chest in a sort of questioning, “How ‘bout it?” motion. Pavel thought about it for a moment, until the final verse of Super Freak’s bass hit his ears and struck up his headache again.
“No I think I’ll go home,” and he started to walk away.
“Whoa whoa whoa!” Artyom darted infront of Pavel and put a hand on his chest, pushing him back towards the table.
“Stay just a minute, one more minute. I asked them to put something else on!” Pavel rolled his eyes and sunk into the wall again, poutier than ever. What on earth could Artyom have planned… Pavel looked him over again, taking in his ironed yet pre-ripped jeans and tacky windbreaker-material pullover. It couldn’t be anything good. The final cadence of poorly-edited 80s synthpop faded out, and a dull hum fell over the studio comprised of at least some 50-odd voices. Everyone took the break to grab themselves some water, or run to the restroom, and Artyom took the chance to really talk to Pavel for the first time in almost half a year.
“So what’ve you been doing lately? Still running that focus group?” Artyom knew full-well Pavel never ran a focus group and Pavel laughed at the notion.
“Something like that. I’ve been around, doing a little of nothing mostly. Work, shopping. The party’s fallen into a bit of disarray lately, revisionist— nah you don’t want to talk politics. And you, d’Artagnan? How has life in the big city served a small-town porosenok?” Artyom went red at the fact that Pavel still used his old nickname and tried to laugh it off pretty horrendously; it was obvious.
“I’m loving Moscow! I haven’t been able to do much, I’ve been busy just trying to stay afloat, but it’s a gorgeous city really.” Pavel smiled and looked back at the dance floor, people were starting to congregate again.
“Oh boy here we go, eh.” he rolled his eyes for the hundredth time and nodded to Artyom. “What’d you request, something to match that outfit?”
“Well actually—” Artyom was cut off by the sudden buzzing of the speakers. Out lulled a soft and supple violin chord, followed by flute and something else Pavel didn’t recognize at first.
“What on earth is this, Artyomka?” Artyom stuck his hand out and glanced down at Pavel embarrassed.
“Dance?” Artyom shoved his other hand deep into his jean pockets and looked away pouting, unable to keep eye contact. Pavel just blinked.
“What?”
“Dance with me!” he coughed out.
“Aha um, I don’t really da—” Artyom grabbed Pavel’s hand in his own; it was big and rough, but warm. Pavel didn’t have time to object as Artyom dragged him to the center of the floor just as the song was entering its full throes, cello and violin blasting against a light overture of flutes. Artyom placed Pavel’s hands on his hips and put his own arms around his shoulders, pulling the two of them intimately close.
“Artyom, uh…”
“Is this not okay?” Artyom did his best to imitate Pavel’s own fat-lipped puppydog eyes, which earned him a laugh.
“It’s, fine. Bahaha it’s fine...” Pavel looked past Artyom and out into the crowd, which was virtually ignoring them; no piercing glares or any extra attention, just how Pavel liked it. As the music went on the two of them slowly started to sway back and forth, chatting it up and exchanging old jokes and memories; it was nice, to have someone who knew you so well to talk to. It’d been so long. After a few minutes passed, the two of them almost simultaneously knocked foreheads, looking up into eachothers’ eyes and grinned big toothy grins, like bumbling children. Artyom pulled Pavel closer to him, so their hips touched and their faces came closer together. He leaned in, tightening his grip on Pavel’s shoulders with his arms and the two of them came together into a childish, clumsy kiss. Pavel could feel his own heart explode against Artyom’s chest and he pulled back a bit, taken by surprise by what just happened.
“S-sorry, d’Artagn—”
“I wanted to, Athos.” Artyom put his forehead to Pavel’s again and let their gentle swaying continue for the final minute of Artyom’s request.
It was of course interrupted by the sudden blasting of Beat It (1982).