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Footsteps clashed against the waxed wooden floors, the music overpowering the creaks of an ancient building as fingers interlaced. Rhythmic movements followed each beat, the song’s slow melody lulling the dancers into security as they spun around each other, bright lights beating down from above. They shone like stars above the Earth, but rather, in front of the crowd, the stage their personal galaxy as they attempted with all their capabilities to dazzle the planets watching.
Onlookers sat still, nestled in cushioned theater seats as the dancers glided across the stage, black strands of hair blowing across one’s face while they focused on their assigned partner.
Any viewer would expect a climactic moment— the song’s tune peaking just as the performers pulled off a magnificent stunt, dazzling the audience with an unforgettable show. A couple to step out of the status quo; a couple to give in to their ego.
The song tapered off, with both performers panting, blue eyes shining beneath dark bangs as they bowed.
This show was not that show.
“Isagi Yoichi,” they called out, a booming voice overflowing from speakers across the auditorium. “7.9 out of 10. Please bring out the next contestants.”
That was that. Follow your routine, Isagi.
Contained egoism had left him mediocre among the sea of creativity.
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Isagi fell defeatedly onto his bed, still dressed in black-tie attire from his underwhelming competition. Ankles and feet ached, legs helplessly sore, although he was too exhausted to lift them up entirely onto the bed— rather, he threw a pillow over his face, hair frazzled from the static and sweat clinging to the strands.
“I can’t believe I lost ,” he groaned, the cushiony pillow muffling his words into incoherent nonsense. “We had choreographed it so perfectly.”
Mundanely, his mind mocked him, nestling himself further into his soft, welcoming grave, his pure intentions to do nothing more than rot for the night in his disappointingly-wasted outfit; at least, he saw it as wasted, without a win.
He couldn’t avoid the fact, his heart aching, held back in chains as he tended to do.
“Dance is an art, a strategy, a plan. You can’t go off script— remember that.”
He’d supposed he’d followed instructions— he thought about it more often than he wished he would.
Puppet strings tugged at his heart, his brain, his limbs, controlling each move on the stage according to a predetermined program, his freedoms drained as he claws for the prize. The prize, the glory, the excitement lies just beyond his reach, and frankly, out of sight; an image of potential greatness muddled beneath the faces of competition and judges alike, all aiming to stand in his way.
Something inside of him ached for more than that end.
A sigh parted Isagi’s lips, hair strands clinging with static to the pillowcase as he pulled away, sitting up on the edge of his bed. Fingers with finely-painted black nails interlaced with his matching tie, undoing the knot that held the accessory’s composure before slipping the smooth fabric across his hands. He found himself entirely consumed in thought, unaware of his own actions as he lost himself within his mind while continuing his post-competition routine.
Hot water splashed his hands, a wince escaping him as he pushed up just an inch on the dial in response, perfecting the temperature. Blue eyes blankly stared as the water collected, foaming up beneath the spout with the aggression at which the water flowed into the bath. A sprinkle of epsom salts and a short pour of bath oil splashed in, now-free hands carefully folding up removed clothing before lowering the man’s aching body into the sweet spa he’d created. He hissed as the scalding water brushed against bare skin, adjusting to the heat as it soothed his aching muscles and put his mind to ease.
As he settled into his newfound comfort, leaning forward just to turn off the faucet, a gentle but firm knock interrupted his peace.
“Yoichi?”
He groaned, sinking further into a watery escape; he obviously recognized the voice, even through the door.
“What’s up, mom?”
“The mail just came; you got this, uh—” He could hear her fidgeting with paper on the other end, along with the crinkling plastic of a letter window. “—this letter, it looks like it’s from a dance association!”
Isagi’s eyes lit up, his demeanor shifting instantly as energy overflowed within him. His mom could certainly hear the abrupt splash of water , squeaking footsteps attempting to crawl their way out of a slippery situation.
“Holy sh— I mean, wow, really?” A towel quickly found itself in his hands, wrapped around himself snugly before swinging open the door. Wet footsteps trailed behind him, soaked strands of hair leaving beads of water on his face. He found himself holding the letter before his mother could even formulate a response, dots soaking through the thin paper as he ripped it open.
Scanning over the page, he blinked wordlessly.
You are invited to the World’s End Dancehall.
. . . . . . .
“One night of ballroom dance… in hopes to ignite the Japanese dancing scene.”
Words hung in the air as he reread over the letter, pacing back and forth in his room, hair still barely dry. His suit from earlier in the night was neatly folded atop his bed, the tie rolling from the pile to the floor as he sat down harshly beside it.
He grumbled as he continued muttering the instructions; “No bringing partners, come alone… How the hell does that make any sense?”
He set the paper frustratedly at his side, crinkling the page in his grip as his free hand pushed back his bangs, thumb rubbing over his temples to ease the tension.
“They just expect us to… click with someone?”
The formula wouldn’t like that. His freedom-driven heart would love that.
He straightened out the now-creased paper, studying the letter with thoughtful intent.
When’s the date? Tomorrow— Sunday night. Attire? Dress to impress. The only rule? Don’t be fucking boring.
“Harsh,” he muttered, hurt. It’s ballroom dancing— can it be anything but boring? His spiteful attitude fed into his body, tensing his grip as he scanned the words to read through the last bit.
A dancer is only as good as their partner— find one that sets your heart ablaze.
Half-crumpled paper fluttered to the floor as the young man stormed to his wardrobe, an aggressive touch rifling through outfits in sheer determination. His eyes seemed to shine a new emotion, feverish pupils darting across fabric, no piece seemingly good enough. A hand sunk into his hair, pushing it back with a rough grip atop his head. Isagi looked back to the letter he’d let fall to the ground, a newfound surge of energy.
“Fucking ridiculous. I’ll do it.”
════════════════
The seventeen-year-old found himself wandering, car keys rattling in his hand as the other held up a map— if the mindlessly scribbled directions on the bottom corner of an invitation could even be called that. Tall blades of grass and weeds that grew amongst them brushed against his wrists, the only skin at that height not hidden beneath a smooth, blue-black suit.
Black hair strands wisped out in front of his face, and he blew them away, the wind inevitably kicking them back moments later. Isagi, admittedly, was not one for fashion; this was not necessarily due to a disdain for it, but rather, a pure incompetence of the subject— how to accessorize properly, match colors, the like. It’s a fact he’d unfortunately accepted, struggling to find anything besides a standard outfit in his closet.
Still though, with a night of Google searches and an ounce of his own creativity, he’d added his own touch. A blue vest was tight above a white undershirt, while his deep navy jacket rested at the forefront. The ultramarine bowtie he’d fished from his closet tied it together well, the shade mimicking the colors swirling in his eyes. Faint second thoughts crossed through him, nervous hands fidgeting with golden cufflinks. The dusty path beneath his feet soon turned to shimmering concrete.
The once-distracted teenager glanced up, overgrown scenery flooding his vision, a grand hall in the center of an entirely abandoned area. Mind overcast with his own internal dialogue, he hadn’t even noticed the muttering of others, individuals all drawing closer to the location centered between them. Crowds gathered, pushing through the doors as if knowledgeable of their location— although, from more than just a second of observation, it was clear the masses were just as confused as he was. The moon granted the object of his curiosity a bit of light.
At first glance, the building that stood before him seemed a bit rickety and run-down, vines strewn along the supports as greenery overtook the bricks. It’d been painfully apparent the place was out of commission, at least until an odd party planner decided this to be the optimal hosting scene. He watched a number of attendees struggle over the cracked brick entryway, jagged rocks sticking out with weeds strewn about the concrete’s edges as the leading path broke off into the doorway. When it came his turn to walk through the passage, he made conscious note of the fractured spots beneath him, tip-toeing around them, for “a dancer with ruined shoes is no longer a dancer at all”.
Perhaps that’d just been the instructions of his mom, ensuring as a young kid he’d kept his wares in good shape. He’d supposed, though, as his feet glided across the slick wood flooring that now met his stride, that a shoe with merely a crack could not allow for such smooth movement. His focus on the niceties distracted him from the intricate interior he stepped foot in.
Gentle footsteps turned to screeching attempts to save balance as he felt himself meet the back of another, nearly toppling the both of them in the process. When he looked forward to apologize, he caught the cold glance of a black-haired boy nearly half a foot taller than him, and decided uttered words would be worse than simple silence to keep the peace. Though shaken, the incident turned his attention to the room expanding before him.
Murmurs amongst the crowds bounced off the tall ceiling, a chandelier swinging with vibrations far above their heads. Odd knowledge of regalities told him it was Victorian – although it seemed to shine as if brand new, pulled out of the time from whence it was created to live out a life as an untimely, untouched masterpiece. Grand staircases curved in front of them, creating a cover around the doors standing far down the hall that well-dressed partygoers intermingled within. Royal red patterns detailed every wall, every crevice, every corner, with lengthy curtains draping over railings and empty wall space longing to hold windows. Nearly every intricate detail of the interior felt medieval, aside from one glaring difference that, quite literally, stared them down—
Cameras. Dome cameras, pointed cameras swiveling on hinges, on a hunt; for each spot you felt secure, a camera could locate you, pinning down your exact footsteps and following closer than your shadow. The most prominent entries of the surveillance system projected their vision on a screen, hanging just behind the chandelier and just low enough to remain uncovered, although still being double Isagi’s own height above the floor. You could see each person projected above as they slowly raised their heads, the sudden shock hitting them as they struggled to decide whether they were the exhibition or the voyeurs.
Isagi hadn’t noticed how thick the air grew as the crowd doubled, tripled, quadrupled into a horde. Shoulders bumped against each other, with little room but the alluring path that led down to the ballroom’s double-doors. Arms leaned on and hung over the railing’s edge above as they struggled finding space to fit into the decadent crowd.
“Welcome, you unmolded lumps of coal.”
. . . . . . .
Sudden silence fell over the crowd, the wind carrying whispers of spiteful remarks. Sharp hissing spat out from the speakers hidden amongst the walls, screens shifting from amorphous blobs of movement into a single view – one man, directing an expressionless glare at the lot below.
His hair was a blatant mess, bangs brushing across the top of glasses hiding pupils behind their reflections. When he pushed one side of hair back, the cast of a ringlight bounced off of jewelry spotted across his fingers, rings that looked much too big for the thin frame of his hands. His lips could only seem to curl further down as he scowled.
“Not used to disrespect, I see?” His voice was smooth, yet laced with an antagonizing bite. “Let’s keep in mind, the cameras do come with mics . Perhaps keep the bitterness to a minimum tonight.”
His instructions quelled the crowd, the previous complainers shutting their mouths as their pride was quickly stripped. A few attendees cleared their throats as they struggled to bite their tongues.
The man projected above leaned back, as if he’d been seated in a rather-flexible computer chair. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? My name is Ego. You’ve all gathered here because you’ve received an invite — from Japan’s Professional Ballroom Dancers Association, no?”
Listeners below nodded along rather slow, and he continued.
“Yes, that’s right. Although, I’d say it was more from me than from them. The professional scouts were merely my pawns in deciding who’d get to play.”
Isagi let his focus wander across the countless heads surrounding him, trapping him in by height with his own suffocating thoughts. Simple frustration told him to cut his losses and leave with what unwasted time he’d still had left – but deep-hidden intrigue compelled him to stay.
“You all read the letter,” Ego carried on, rolling his wrists as his hands spoke along with him. “We’re looking for a good duo, something that has to come naturally. If I saw you walk in with anyone,” his hands waved, as if shooing the crowd. “You’re disqualified. Get out.”
The organizer groaned in the back of his throat as he saw a couple miniscule figures shifting through the crowd on the cameras, his disappointment apparent; his eyes read, however, that this was at least less work on his end.
“Good. Carrying on— I had the Association’s scouts analyze you all individually. You’ve all presented in some sort of competition across the country; whether it was really an enjoyable performance or not is up for debate.”
Ouch. Isagi’s blank expression downturned into a frown.
The negativity was quickly put out by the continuing monologue. “You roughly one-hundred individuals have all shown some level of promise, but you’re held back by the standards of being proper and prissy . The chains of formality are holding you back , and for most of you, it will continue that way.”
Murmuring ensued. “Struck a nerve?” The host taunted on, and for a moment, the first grin of the night had spread across his face.
It was rather short-lived as he analyzed the reactions of his underlings. “It should have – unless your egos have all been replaced with a sorry excuse for people-pleasing.”
As he rambled on nonsensically about egoism and our supposedly pathetic talents, a figure stood half-visible beside the screen, just walking into frame and – assumably, based on his sudden shift and silence – mumbling something that held some level of importance. Her red-pink hair contrasted her highbrow appearance, a black suit top and long pencil skirt covered by a stack of carried papers. Ego nodded compliantly as a lanky, ring-adorned finger adjusted his glasses.
“Right, time constraints; thank you, Anri.”
Although apparently complaisant, a sigh slipped beneath his words. It’d seemed like he held an odd passion for this unusual competitive torment.
“You all have one-hundred and eighty minutes — that’s roughly three hours, for those of you ill-educated. Two of you will go on to participate together with the Association— the rest of you are as good as dead. A majority of you here are coal, stuck to their destiny buried in some shitty kid’s stocking; but it takes immense pressure to turn near-coal into diamonds. If you’re not yet entirely molded, if your carbon molecules are still free enough to change, now is your time to shine. Or I suppose, if you’re all beyond saving, at least stoke a fire worth watching.”
Isagi felt the stilling of the crowd around him, following suit with his own mind. He couldn’t quite pinpoint when the words of the bastard behind the screen began to seem so appealing – but the silence only filled with harsh breathing led him to believe they all felt the same.
“Your time starts now. Burn out, or burn bright. ”
The mesmerizing display fizzled away.
Seconds of confused glances were quickly met with answers, the doors down the hall swinging wide as the ballroom beckoned them in. The teen would say it seemed like magic, had his eye not caught the pass of a red hair wisp.
A ticking above them caught his ear, and for a second, his focus shifted — a timer. One-hundred and eighty minutes. He’d hardly taken in the sight of it before the crowd’s forward movements swept him in.
Time to make the most of it.
════════════════
The ballroom had been detailed just as decadent as the entryway, with the addition of marble arches patterned along the walls. The peculiar artistry had seemed to twist the room’s dimensions, the ceiling seeming to reach far into the sky with painted stars peppered across the sleek material. It’s as close as one could get to the outside, without (most) the disturbances of a modern reality.
Tall windows stretched from top to bottom corners, although whatever reflected moonlight could be let in was blocked by the thick curtains strewn about; they’d been practically tied shut as to graciously remind attendees of their purpose, locking them into the intimidating atmosphere that’d determine their livelihood.
That’s how Isagi saw it, at least. He didn’t quite consider the potential that others didn’t take it so seriously. The concept of a dancer not fully enveloping themselves within the act was entirely alien to him — he’d sooner engulf himself in the flames of devoted disaster before being remotely inattentive towards his craft.
A familiar sharp tone pierced his ears, a low hiss in the background as notes enunciated themselves through the audible shroud. Speakers clicked on one by one, following the first, a sickening harmonious whine throwing a number of attendees off their balance. The pace was slow, lagging and intense; a horrendous first dance for new partnerships, Isagi’d thought.
The dancers seemed to mix glances between each other, eyes all glazed over and empty with thoughtless confusion. Such a melodious tone required passion, but not so much to be uncomfortably forward amongst a sea of unfamiliar faces. Stand out, sure, but not out of form —that was the basis of a well-scripted ballroom masterpiece.
Scripted being the key, here. The word made Isagi drag his head back in discontent.
His heels scraped against the waxed floors, which would provide perfect traction had they not been obviously recently done. Planted too hard against the ground, his shoes lifted up with a gluey schlick . Avoiding overcompensating his steps, for fear of overapplied pressure, was not something he could easily do in a high-strung state.
His persistent-yet-failing attempts of flagging down a partner with merely his burning (realistically, dull) gaze had been met unrewarded. For the first time since he could remember, he was frozen , each puzzle piece of formulated strategy struggling to fall into place with the inconsistencies, the requirements for improvisation, the pure incoherency of everything—
The pieces crashed to his mind’s floor as the crowd pushed back suddenly.
Nearly lost beneath him, his feet shifted to hold balance as his attention shot back, watching intermingled groups spread apart as a gap widened itself between the mass. Footsteps clicked against disagreeable flooring, a combination of the crowd’s stumbling, Isagi’s curious stride, and the sounds amidst the group he was so drawn towards.
“–ahaha! Come on, guys! You’re no fun!”
Isagi refused to admit that he’d shoved his way through rather rudely, wedging himself between mingling potential-partners as the sound called him in. Each clack of movement from the undesignated source was simultaneously unrhythmic and in-step, as if following a tune entirely separate to the screeching hums surrounding them. Obscene on the ears as it was, it was intriguing , a term Isagi’d long learned to disassociate from dance entirely. To lack direction was to lose yourself, and to lose yourself was to lose focus— “one mustn't lose focus, or you’ll lose the beat!” or so they’d drilled into him.
So why was this entirely self-gratifying cacophony of steps so satisfying?
He found himself promptly at the forefront of the congestion, which had still been shifting to avoid the centerpiece’s path.
A man– no, he had to be just his age, — pivoted on the ball of his foot, landing harsh on the other end with an outstretched hand. Breathless, his chest rose prominently with each desperate inhale that propelled him another step. Feathered strands of hair blew from his face, the majority of yellow bangs tied up just above his forehead, drops of sweat shimmering on exposed skin. Had the eccentricity of his movements not set him apart, his attire could easily do the job; White ruffles of a shirt hung from his chest, the buttoned center the only attempt at holding together an image amongst the sea of suits and ties. A belt, closer defined as a corset, held the fabric tightly to his waist, cinching off the flowy top to taper off into classic black pants, freshly-shined shoes already scuffed along their yellow trim.
Something of the boy reminded him of a medieval mystery— perhaps a pirate, even, in attendance solely to pillage their prospect of normalcy.
“It’s your loss; me and my monster are more than capable!”
He pivoted once more, hand drawn close to his chest before holding them out, grasping invisible hands of a partner nonexistent. Each footstep methodically followed the typical in-tandem moveset, a simple tango seeming so different with just the difference of one participant. That, and perhaps, the flair the demented dancer added along, his own steps in-time with what Isagi’d assumed was an internal rhythm.
The display of oddity had at least spurred on some movement, other timid attendees coupling up as groups sectioned off. Floorspace grew wider as dancers ventured out of the herd— but perhaps this newfound confidence was only brought on by the collective still observing the questionably-solo performance.
“Move over! Here comes the–”
Golden eyes burned with newfound passion as sensible, timed movements built up to grand measures. His multi-step movements quickly launched into a rotation, spinning himself before scratching heels against the fresh floor in an abrupt stop. His hand held out, not as if reaching, but as if guided by a partner in spirit, a ghostly hand the only separation between him and a cold, rough tumble to bystanders’ feet. Puzzled exchanges from onlookers seemed to miss a core detail: the way his arm tugged back in preparation.
As immersed as he’d let himself become with his craft, Isagi took notice of the slight change. A particular move he dared not practice alone, not just for safety, but physical inability— you can’t exactly be caught by air, and so there’s no way–
He’d pivoted sharply on his feet, pushing all his weight into a falling-back motion.
Click.
Click, click, click.
The first footstep matched puzzle pieces convening; the rest met his heartbeat as he shot forward subconsciously.
Barely-unfinished wax kept him from slipping, locking himself in place and thanking whatever minimum-wage janitor they’d hired for saving him from overshooting. The landing weight threw off his balance, legs shuffling beneath him in ill-preparation as he kept the young man firmly in his grasp. Wisps of hair fell from tied-up bangs, blown away with pursed lips as innocently playful eyes shone up at him. The golden-eyed expression quickly turned devilish as he laid in Isagi’s arms.
“ Monster, ” he bit down a sharp grin.
. . . . . . .
Isagi’d not considered himself landing in this situation – sure, he was there to draw attention, that was this haphazardly-created game’s whole purpose; he’d just anticipated stares of awe over the gawks of judgement piercing his skin, a screwball dancer in delirium splayed across his arms. The tied-up tail of yellow bangs fell back atop his head, the few free strands of hair falling back to leave his sinister face in full display, giggling on an emotional high. It sort of made the blue-suited savior smile.
Dragging his feet on the floor for traction, Isagi could sense the other’s attempt at pushing up, and he lifted him the remainder of the way to his feet. A heavy sigh of relief slipped through just barely parted lips, and the eccentric young man looked down to brush the wrinkles from his shirt — an impossible task for such a flowing garment, but it was the formality of it that mattered.
“You should be more careful next time,” Isagi’s awkward ahem echoed as if there weren’t masses of dancers to muddle the sounds. His hands were trembling, twitching muscles a result of coursing adrenaline accumulating in his bloodstream without an outlet. The physiological response seemed purely reflexive, every cell in his body screaming out to dive in; he couldn’t quite explain, though, his lack of irritation. He’d expect to feel some sort of frustration from the circumstance he was in, the stupidity of another to dive backwards and risk injury in a competition so unusually selective and fickle. It was entirely reckless – risking the chance of a lifetime on some silly escapade.
It was different. He loved that.
“I’m—”
“ Isagi ,” the name seemed to slip from his tongue too naturally. He’d outstretched an arm, pointing directly in the face of Yoichi himself, lips upturned with a gentle laugh. Monstrous eyes held a shine not before present on his own. “You’re Yoichi Isagi.”
Air caught in his throat, his own introduction stripped from his tongue. Black bangs blew forward with each shallow breath, an empty-headed glaze over blue eyes. He nodded.
“Do I know you..?” Who the fuck is this guy?
The respondent giggled. “No, I don’t think so!”
His arm retracted fast, painted nails hiding away as hands curled into balls and pushed against naturally-flushed cheeks.
(Isagi’d assumed it was natural; or perhaps the oddball had been well-versed in makeup.)
“Meguru Bachira,” he beamed, and free yellow-and-brown strands fell past his lips. “I’ve seen you perform!”
He wasn’t some big performer — that left more questions than answers. Bachira seemed to read well the confusion written across him.
“I go to all the shows I can,” The oddity further explained himself, each word enunciated with a playful undertone, even as he eased Isagi’s confused concern. “Gotta know my competition, y’know?”
For as short as he’d known the man, the other couldn’t help but smirk. “And for me, you took conscious note?”
“Oh, well your dance was pretty average.”
Isagi’s smug smile was quickly replaced by defensiveness, posture sealing himself off. A mental brick wall constructed instantaneously as forgotten guards replaced themselves. Right– competition. We’re here to judge and be judged, aren’t we?
One could call it a rash response, but frankly, he owed no niceties to a could-be stalker. His arms crossed in pout.
He’d expected Bachira to pick up on his tonal shift, to redirect, or perhaps overcompensate and fawn him up. Rather, he seemed aloof, bouncing up on his toes as arms swung behind his neck, extending one into a cat-like stretch that rattled his body. He didn’t seem the most socially apt, but something about this observation eased the sting of his affront.
“It wasn’t bad,” his words were elongated as his muscles released their tensions, falling back to his sides after with a huff. “Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mean anything. You just seemed…”
The shorter (which Isagi grumbled about silently— he always seemed to be the shorter) softened, willing and curious to listen. Bachira’s hand revolved at the joint in circles as he struggled to find the proper words.
“...Bored. Withdrawn. And that’s just no fun, is it, huh?”
“Bored?”
“Yeah,” the barely-taller let his head weigh to the side. “Like ‘ya were following some script or something, I guess.”
Quite rude of him to clock me so easily . Or to act like that isn’t the norm.
“You don’t?” Isagi scoffed.
Bachira’s expression seemed blank, nonplussed, but shifted with intrigue as he spoke. “No. I dance with my monster. It says to dance the way I want to.”
They’d caught each other off guard, heavy stares into eyes that were slowly understanding each other. A brick loosened from that mental guard wall, crashing to the floor, only the view of each other’s gaze, the window to their souls, left in the open space. Bachira found himself extending an upturned hand without thought. The other needn’t look to know.
“You could try… dancing with a monster, too?”
There’s that familiar click again.
Perhaps it’d been the pieces snapping into place, or maybe it’d been the sound of their heels against the ground, hand in hand as he dragged Isagi along. The tappings of what’d been set in motion were the only noise audible to their ears, centering themselves amidst the sea of dancers that had finally been majority paired up.The music that played had long shifted from achingly slow, a pace more akin to each loud thump of Yoichi’s heart. Their fingers had interlaced long before they’d thought to ask, and so, they’d indirectly acknowledged, this was okay. This meetcute was unconventional— but Isagi craved unconventional. It was certainly something they shared, reveling in a need for defiance and egoism. It was simply a possibility he’d never been presented before—
Not until Meguru Bachira.
Their heels had dug into the somewhat-sticky wax of the floors, thwack ing as they lifted into smoother, softer strides. Their steps danced around each other, never overtaking the other; rather, each movement seemed to fuel the other, catapulting them into new possibilities. A simple counting tango spun around on its head; the golden-eyed teen’s feet in-count with the other’s as he encapsulated him from behind, hands holding his partner’s from behind and arms folded into an “x” before releasing Isagi from the contained space, pivoting on the ball of his foot with each an outstretched arm barely holding on to one another. When Bachira pulled him back in, he’d lift his arms just too high up, forcing Isagi onto his toes so he could more easily glide him across ill-prepared floors.
“Don’t let me have all the fun,” the tone was low, laced with mischief and underlying laughter; Bachira’d leaned in just beside his ear, black locks brushing against brown-and-yellow wisps of hair as his breath warmed him, bringing sensation back to the surreal. “Take over, monster.”
“I’m no monster ,” Isagi scoffed, eyes rolling in diffidence. No, that was a title reserved for Bachira, or whatever voice he had whispering in the winds around him, the one only he could hear. That was a name, based off what he’d witnessed, reserved solely for one who’d step out from the status quo, and Yoichi Isagi was not that one, no matter how much he’d like to be. He couldn’t help but analyze each precarious step he made, desperate to keep in-line with the other. How could movements so spontaneous be so skillful, as if the concepts were premeditated within an instant of a second?
“Sure you are— in there, ” A rough arm tug pulled the doubtful dancer in, stumbling over his own feet and landing inches away from Bachira’s index finger, yellow nail polish filling half of his vision as the boy pointed to his eye. Isagi released a tense breath as he caught his balance and felt confident he wasn’t about to get his eye poked out.
“There’s a fire inside of you. I see it.”
God, this guy is fucking insane. He didn’t feel knowing that was any more practical for bringing out his “monster”.
“No, really,” He continued, giggles easing Isagi’s apprehension. “Your eyes sparkle a lil’ different when we dance together. I pay a lot of attention to eyes, y’know.”
Isagi snickered. “You get off on them?”
“Mhm.”
“Gross,” He laughed, but his shameless demeanor read that he wasn’t lying – maybe he shouldn’t lock eyes with the psycho so much.
But he couldn’t deny the way he burned up looking at him.
Isagi blinked away illicit ideas, ones of which towed the line between dance, and matters more personal. When their hands met back-to-back, knuckles tough against soft skin, invisible needles pricked his skin with warmth as hair stood on end. They paced circles around each other, and, although his mind was just as clouded as before, perhaps it’d helped that his dancing capabilities were no longer alone at the forefront. Maybe it’d been shameful to admit that his focus had progressively shifted since the other had landed in his arms.
Too enveloped in his own mind, his foot swept out from under him. A kick to his heels, he fell backward, a sneer just above him as the harsh thud of wooden floors never met him.
What a bastard. “You—”
“Kicked your feet out,” Bachira shone. At least he was honest, and for that fact, quite blunt. Isagi’d started to wonder if he was consciously ill-socialized— but he took a liking to that, matched with the playful attitude. Within-the-box thinking was such a bore.
Gold eyes burned holes in the other’s inhibition, each taunt returned with a touch more confidence in his moves. Bachira’d stopped leading alone some time ago, Isagi’s own fire stoked with each prod from the monster. For as much as he was a rule-follower, it was clear— there was an ego buried beneath that front, simply never allowed to breathe.
And by God, was Bachira one to fan the flames; even if they’d become explosive.
Isagi beared intense pressure into his heels, lifting himself up with precarious footfall with pants hidden beneath hardly-parted lips. The challenge presented by such an eccentric dancer only fueled egoistic behavior, determined to match— no, that wasn’t enough; devour — his partner, to chew him up and spit him back out so long as he’d resurrect better again and again.
Does that even make sense? Did it need to make sense? At least, to anyone but them?
Someone so attuned to their own ego like Bachira could read the scrawl of arrogance in just half a second.
Tight grip tugged at the monster’s hands, lacing fingers in an instant as eyes widened, stupefied. A wicked grin twisted Bachira’s lips, canines dragging against the soft skin of his bottom lip in an anticipation for Isagi’s explosive reaction. Dragged back, he launched into Isagi’s arm, dipped just to the brink of hitting the solid floor before being thrown back into movement and spun on an axis. Heavy pants preceded sincere smiles as the two met, painted nails fidgeting against the hands of their partners as their breath mingled within just an inch of each others’ face. They dared not feed the flicker that led their eyes astray to parted lips, a certain level of intimacy begging to be achieved with the intensity of their movement and the conveining of their thought processes — so focused on the moment, acting of pure reflex, that they’d not paid any attention to their partner’s identical lingering thoughts.
Their footsteps careened along with the rhythmic thumps of the beat, shifting regularly but never throwing the couple off-pace. Seamless transitions from swift movements to tender, patient steps would have normally caught either of the two off-guard, surprised in their own capability, had it not been for the distraction that was their competition.
For a moment, he’d thought, competition was an odd word to use — the goal was to create partners , was it not? Partners , a designated duo that could only flourish with the proper preparation, with staying in-line and in-rule of the other’s limitations and following a script designated by them both.
No script followed their moves, but oddly, they met at the crossroads of perfection together. Their formula made zero sense, didn’t line up; was it supposed to? Was everything about dance supposed to be so formulaic, so proper?
No, the monologue spat out Isagi’s perturbed thoughts, the ones he struggled to accept on his own accord. That’s where you failed— there’s no enjoyment this way.
Fuck the rulebook. This is my version of dance.
His gaze flickered off of the movements he made, up to the face of his partner, flushed with fervor and a passion that hung in the air. His yellow bangs were still mostly tied up, free strands feathering across a sweat-glistened face and across lashes that fluttered shut with bliss. It’s as if he could feel Isagi’s admiration, and when eyes opened up to meet his own, they burned with a fury even stronger than before— moreso, it’d felt like his previous fire held deep in his soul had reached new possibilities, a new chemical in the mix creating a catastrophic, beautiful explosion.
The version I perform with my monster.
A final spin launched Isagi into a slide, grip digging into the ground to catch himself. His arm desperately outstretched to reach his partner, the silence highlighting the way Bachira squeezed onto his hand, as if emotional at the concept of letting go. The gentle yet secure grip left Isagi with a lump in his throat, swallowing down emotions that bubbled up deep within.
Maybe the whirling footsteps weren’t the only reason his head spun, the fast-paced footfall not the reason his heart raced with freshly-ignited ferocity. His stomach turned upside-down when Bachira pulled him back up, and he stumbled, the shorter’s foot trampling the taller’s as he steadied him in his arms.
Maybe it’d been the thrum of his heart that’d prevented the realization — the fact that the music stopped, speakers silenced as the crowd surrounding them was no longer. The flood of faces previously observing them had thinned all to none, the sharp whine of a shifting screen not enough to draw them apart. Their footsteps had sounded loud on their own, tuned-in to themselves, no, to each other . Bachira giggled, awkward enjoyment hidden beneath hot air, and the vibrations of his partner’s laughter pressed against his chest only made it harder for Isagi to still his heart. They didn’t dare discuss their inability to pry their eyes off of each other as the speakers rattled with a voice painfully familiar.
“ Time’s up, you unmolded lumps of coal. ” His tone was hoarse, and the two wouldn’t doubt he’d been screaming at them to stop. It couldn’t have been long, or he’d have sent the red-headed girl in– what was her name? “Anri”?
The blunt-banged planner leaned back, likely still seated in an unpictured computer chair, filtered out by the camera in place of shoddy backdrop graphics. His lanky arms folded behind his head, a deep groan escaping him as if he’d exhausted himself.
“You’ll notice we’ve removed everyone else from the room,” Ego spoke matter-of-factly, although additional words followed in a low, almost-whispering grumble.
“ If you’d’ve bothered to look up, outside of your damn selves. ”
Bachira snickered, sharp canines teasing his tongue as his gaze scanned Isagi not-so-subtly, obviously playing it up. It was hard to tell how serious his out-of-pocket actions were, and the concept of legitimacy sent Isagi into turmoil; he especially didn’t want to admit his racing thoughts were far from anger-fueled.
“We’ve thinned our competitors down to the cream-of-the-crop; sad to say, most others just couldn’t keep up. Snivelish as they are, their ego never seemed to take precedent over egregious rules.”
Isagi blinked mindlessly. How he’d nearly forgotten the competition they took part in actively was beyond him — he’d found his mind locked onto a different driving force.
There was something more that led him further now.
“Congratulations, unmolded lumps of coal— ”
His words muffled in the background. Isagi could lip-read, had he bothered to look— had his eyes not remained on his new object of burning desire.
The rules were no longer what drove him, they were no longer the perfection he strove for.
He watched as eyes crinkled up in excitement, Bachira’s joy beaming off his face as he turned to pull Isagi into a threateningly-tight hug. Something deep in the teen’s mind begged for the subject’s further praise and approval, but the squeeze of his muscles underneath intense strength would have to suffice. He’d have plenty of time to sort out emotions with his new goalpost—
His perfect partner, Bachira. His monster.
Isagi paid no attention to the competition’s close, aside from his success alongside his other, the prospect of a future they were destined to chase together. He’d expected his heart to slow when stakes were gone, but it’d kept intensity even long after. Enveloped in sheets that night, he was near-restless, a constant replay of the day looping in his thoughts. Ironically, he couldn’t seem to remember a single dance move, a single strain of steps he’d taken to achieve his goal— all that remained was reflex and invigoration flowing through veins, newfound fervor he couldn’t explain at the presence of the monster met today.
His face softened into a smile. This is the version of dance he’d craved.
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