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Concert strains filled the air, the exhibition's dancers gazing at each other as if there was no one else in the crowded hall. It was only natural that they would. They were professionals, and this was the tango. Sanada had never been allowed to study ballroom dance himself ("Scandalous, embracing in public like that," his father might have said, while his grandfather sighed over wasting his time when he could have been studying something useful) but the energy of two people perfectly in sync, reading each others' moves and working as one, was the sort of thing one didn't learn in his kendo dojo. You moved together, read each other, certainly, but not as allies. Only one person could wield a sword. The body on the other side if the duel was an opponent to counter, not a partner to trust. Perhaps in the old days, it would've been different, learning to fight as a unit, but today the sword was a sport, and alas, he was always alone.
He watched from the outside while the two dancers touched and flowed. Even when they separated, when the lady looked away to stretch into a pose and the gentleman stretched his arms and eyes upward in expression of utter longing, they were linked by the space between them. They were aware. Sanada could feel the electricity arching between them, of total awareness of their partner's totality. They had a gravity for each other. No, more powerful than that. They had a magnetism that not only drew their moves back together, always, inevitably, but that pulled them back together in perfect alignment that would fight any attempt at separation. They didn't 'happen' to fall together. This was a dance of inevitable attraction, in every form. Two inert bodies aroused to action by the presence of the other, senses racing with utter awareness of their match.
That was the tango.
He'd come here to understand that, and though he could feel the energy on stage pull him in, he was still on the outside. Just watching couldn't tell him everything he needed to know. He needed something more. Perhaps the second act would be different, he thought as he clapped for the performers. They bowed, the lights went up, and intermission began. Which, of course, meant that Sanada prepared to sit in his seat for fifteen minutes of solitude rather than mingling in the lobby. He was hardly one for small talk. But as he stretched his neck, he noticed something he hadn't expected, and perhaps he should have. Atobe was heading back through the aisles, with Kabaji trailing behind and discreet bodyguards having the other audience members stand out of his way.
"Ridiculous," he murmured. Atobe, sitting in the audience with the ordinary public? His family was sure to have owned a box at this theater! It couldn't be him! And yet Sanada knew the length and cocky sway of his stride, the absurd showiness of his attire, and even the hint of cologne in the air that he could hardly believe he'd overlooked before. Had Atobe been sitting that close the whole time?
As if on their own, his legs pushed him up. His row was empty now, so it was easy enough to move into the aisle -- not the same aisle as Atobe, but the parallel one -- and Sanada navigated the lined up crowd with his eyes on Atobe's back until his fellow tennis player disappeared out the door.
Locating him in the lobby was easy. His laugh was distinctive enough. Harder to accomplish was Sanada's attempt to understand why he had followed. He had no intention of interrupting the conversations Atobe was engaged in for the sake of saying, "Hello, I know you're here." There was nothing the two of them needed to say. Unnecessary small talk simply because two people happened to be in the same place was unsightly, wasteful... But he was intent. There was no explanation. He should have been focusing on his reason for attending this performance. Instead, he was here, watching Atobe hold court with unfamiliar faces. He was across the hall, but he felt like he could hear every word, sense every motion before it began. Atobe leaned on a table, at home in this festival mood, and turned his way. The electric shock of a locked gaze jumped out of Sanada's chest and across the room like a lightning bolt so suddenly, he couldn't tell if meeting Atobe's eyes caused it, or if Atobe looked over because he felt the shock, or even if they were one and the same.
If the Hyoutei student was surprised to see him so far from Kanagawa, he didn't betray it. He simply raised the glass in his hand like a toast, eyes never wavering. Sanada nodded his own greeting. It wasn't as if he had a glass of his own.
"Mr. Sanada Gen'ichirou, I presume?" called one of the ushers at this place. He was holding a tray with a single wine glass filled with something clear. Before Sanada could explain that he didn't drink (since no one ever believed that he was fourteen), the man made a small bow and explained, "Mineral water, sir, compliments of our young patron."
"Thank you," Sanada replied. He didn't ask the gentleman to convey his appreciation to Atobe. It wasn't necessary. All he had to do was lift his glass to match Atobe's own and drink the toast. No discussion needed. The hush of distance between them was like greeting and companionship all in one, each other's presences burned into the air they breathed from the moment their eyes met, until the last bow when they silently said good night.