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The very first time Scott and Martyn dance, they’re children, ten and twelve respectively but thick as thieves despite the two years that separate them. There are paper lanterns shining in bright colors over their heads, twilight setting in and the square around them full of music and light and laughter. One of the many summer festivals, and Scott’s favorite—he likes the rainbow hues the world takes on in those golden hours from noon to midnight. Martyn knows it’s his favorite and he likes watching Scott, face lit up as he smiles something different from his usual curling grin. This is rarer, more genuine and open, and Martyn treasures it for reasons he doesn’t really know.
The small band strikes up a new tune, the notes vibrant as they echo across the space, and Scott turns to Martyn with one hand out. “Dance with me,” he says, a dare in his eyes and behind his words. Martyn freezes, caught in his gaze like a spider in a web.
“What?” His voice pitches up an octave but Scott either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care as he tilts his head closer, blue hair falling forward, still staring at Martyn with that clearwater blue. He’s smirking now, the sincerity leaving his expression for something almost wicked. It’s still pretty. Everything about Scott is pretty. He’s a pretty person, caught in the multicolored glow of the square.
“Dance with me,” Scott repeats. He’s daring him, Martyn realizes—pushing to see how far he’ll go before he backs out. Game fucking on, he thinks with a sudden competitiveness.
His palm falls into Scott’s with a sort of finality. Scott’s smile sharpens, and Martyn’s breath catches in his chest. His pulse increases. He might have made a mistake.
There’s no time to dwell on that thought, however, because Scott is tugging them both to the center of the square, the dancefloor. The melody speeds up, people twirling and stomping around them, and Martyn can do this, at the very least. He’s not going to lose so easily. Their other hands meet, and they move.
Scott shines brightly as he and Martyn swing each other along, a blur of motion through the crowd of dancers. Martyn can’t take his eyes off of him, face blazing with delight, and he’s looking back at him just as intensely. Martyn is beaming too, pulling Scott into a spin that has him laughing.
“You’re gonna trip me,” he says when he pulls back, dizzy even though it’s not him that was just spinning.
“If you trip, then you deserve it,” Scott says, trying to step on his feet now. Martyn steps back to get away, unintentionally dragging them into a turn. Scott goes along with it without resistance.
“I’m the one dancing with you, I’m being—”
“So mean to me,” he cuts in, yanking Martyn closer and letting him fall back the next second.
He feels hot as he protests, “What do you mean? I’m being so nice right now!”
“You didn’t offer! I had to ask! That’s such a terrible standard—”
“I will drop your hands and leave you on this dance floor.”
“No, you won’t,” Scott says easily, and Martyn hates that he’s correct. In revenge, he moves further into Scott’s space, forcing him into a dip that he yelps at. Martyn’s hands shift, supporting his shift in weight as he falls, and their faces are close as he leans down. Scott’s eyes dart from one side to another, watching Martyn; his nose is centimeters away from Martyn’s cheek. He can see every eyelash, the miniscule shifts to Scott’s expression. His lips are closer than they’ve ever been.
A moment later, he’s jolting back, letting Scott back into an upright position. No one around them seems to notice anything is off. Neither of them are smiling anymore; Martyn’s cheeks are flaming. He’s sure he’s bright red right now. He feels flushed and breathless, not from the dancing but how close they were pressed; he could feel the breath Scott drew, stuttering in his chest. The tips of Scott’s ears are pink as the crowd forces them along in the dance.
Later, a cupcake in one hand as he watches Scott laughing with another boy, Martyn thinks about it—the way his heart stopped instead of speeding up, the frantic thrumming of Scott’s pulse at his neck, the way his eyes widened. The grain of his lips, inches away.
Martyn doesn’t wonder what it would be like to close the distance, to feel them pressed against his own. What Scott would taste like. He doesn’t think about kissing him.
It’s five years later, a different setting on a different night, that Scott holds out his hand again. The low hills that their town is built on slope down into the water, pebbly dirt turning to rocks the closer it gets to the waves until it finally juts out into the sea in huge boulders. Martyn balances on a tall one, grinning down at Scott. “How does it feel to be short?”
Scott rolls his eyes. “I don’t know; you’re definitely more used to the feeling.” Martyn gasps in mock offense at that, hopping down and landing next to Scott with an impact that hurts his heels. “You’re going to break your leg one day.”
“Will not! I’m a great climber, excuse you. Mountain Climber Martyn, they call me.”
“I’ve never heard anyone call you that. It’s a bad habit to tell lies.”
“BigB calls me that,” he responds smoothly, “but I guess you wouldn’t know, considering you always get distracted by him when he’s around.”
Scott’s face scrunches in confusion and something else. “I don’t think I’ve ever ‘gotten distracted’ by BigB. We are talking about the same BigB, right?”
“Oh, right,” Martyn agrees, “that was me. Staring at him whenever he’s around.”
Scott snorts lightly. “I don’t think you’ve ever stared at him.”
“Yes I have! Have you seen his arms? Muscles for days, I tell you.” He sighs dreamily, pressing a hand to his chest and pretending to swoon. “I bet he could lift me over his head.”
“Probably, you’re skin and bones. I bet you weigh the same as a bunch of grapes.”
Martyn scoffs, not offended but enjoying the bickering too much. “Skin and bones? I could lift a horse if I wanted to. Strongest person in town—”
“Besides BigB?”
“Besides BigB,” he finishes. Scott laughs softly, and Martyn pretends the sound doesn’t fill up his ears like white noise, warming him up from the inside. He likes Scott’s laughs, all of them—the muffled snicker he does when he’s trying to be quiet, the sleepy giggle he has when he’s too tired to really process a joke, the startled wheeze that happens when he doesn’t expect it.
Scott turns to look at him and in the faint moonlight, his face is a map of shadows, his eyes reflecting the gleam off the water as he meets Martyn’s gaze. They’re dark now, the night draining them of color, but he knows the clear blue they usually are—the color of the sky on a cloudless day, almost too perfect to exist in nature.
He holds out his hand, a silent question that he still whispers. “Dance with me?” Something about it is different from the festival all those years ago. This feels deeper, more intimate. Martyn wants to chase that feeling until he knows what it is. He takes Scott’s hand.
The air is charged between them as they fall into the steps easily, a routine that they both know well. No one leads—they swing each other into it, following motions they unintentionally remember. Martyn spins Scott, reveling in the genuine smile it draws from him.
“Don’t trip me,” he says and regrets it when Scott’s expression shifts into mischievous, foot striking out to hook around Martyn’s ankle. He retaliates with a kick that isn’t meant to hurt as they turn; Scott pulls Martyn close and lets him drift back. Martyn is desperately trying to pretend his heart is beating hard from the dancing. Scott has always been beautiful, but now he’s another thing entirely—an angel, face fluid in the darkness that shifts across it.
Martyn takes a breath, knowing what comes next.
When he dips Scott, it isn’t done in revenge this time. Scott doesn’t yelp; he trusts Martyn to hold him as he falls, and Martyn does. Martyn always will. He wishes someone would catch him, falling into a mistake he’s not sure he’s going to regret.
Like last time, they end up flush against each other. Martyn’s heart is slamming against his chest. Scott’s eyes are lidded as they trace over his face, not trying to hide what he’s doing. He’s all too aware of Scott’s lips.
He knows what’s going to happen a second before it does—Scott’s fingers are featherlight against his jaw as he tips Martyn’s face down, pulling him into a kiss. It takes only a moment for Martyn to register, something in his brain shorting out as he realizes that Scott is kissing him, and then he’s falling into it, Scott’s hands tugging at his shirt to bring him closer, and Martyn knows instantly that he loves Scott. That he has for a while, maybe. That he’s going to continue loving him for the rest of his life.
The building they’ve decided to sleep in tonight may have been a mason’s shop once, or perhaps a blacksmith; rusted cauldrons and old tools are still scattered about the old stone floor, and grass grows up between the cracks, but it’s the only building that doesn’t look in immediate danger of collapsing. Eighteen and twenty, always two years apart; but they’ve done everything else together so they left together too.
“You know, you didn’t have to come with me,” Martyn says into the comfortable silence. It’s only been a week, and so far the most they’ve seen is two squirrels fighting over a nut two days ago. He knows Scott is capable, probably more capable than Martyn in a lot of ways; but it was his choice to go.
Scott gives him a sideways look, one that Martyn’s well used to receiving: you cannot be this fucking dumb. “I know,” he says.
“It’s not the most glamorous thing in the world,” Martyn continues, looking around at the holes in the roof, the dirty floor, the two pallets on either side of a small fire. “Not some big adventure.”
“Martyn,” Scott says gently, going to his side. Martyn looks up at him, and he smiles. It’s small and sweet, reserved only for him. He holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”
Martyn lets Scott pull him to his feet, tug him closer than they need to be. He hums softly as they move around the space, moving out and together like moons, caught in each others’ gravity. It’s always so easy to be with him, no words needed to fill the silence, just the two of them. Scott tucks his head under Martyn’s chin, fingers slipping up to hold his wrists loosely, and even if it’s selfish of him, Martyn is so happy he’s there.
He hums the final notes of the song that played so long ago in the square, their first time dancing together, and Scott pulls back to let Martyn dip him. When he kisses him, his fingers lace into blond hair, a reassuring touch.
“Gonna have to work a little harder to get rid of me,” Scott murmurs when they separate.
“Can’t blame a man for trying,” Martyn responds, but he knows he’s grinning, and Scott knows it too.
Warm yellow light is cast over both of them from the hundreds of lanterns strung overhead, glowing throughout the village like fireflies. Originally, they’d only planned to stop here for one night, but Scott had begged to stay longer with a pout that said he knew Martyn would cave, and Martyn is incredibly weak to Scott, so he’d caved.
It’s a festival of some kind, like the one they first danced at together all those years ago, in another small town worlds removed from this one. Martyn hasn’t even had to ask if Scott sees the resemblance; he’d caught the look on his face their first night here. They both see it. They both miss home a little, too.
Scott hums along to the music, swaying slightly on his feet like he wants to join the other people twirling along to the song in the village square. Beside him, Martyn tries not to be too obvious in his staring, but Scott is…pretty, always pretty, and often downright angelic when the light hits his face right, but in the golden glow of the square he looks like a gilded painting. A holy relic of some sort.
Martyn feels a little dizzy just seeing it.
“So I asked our landlady,” he says, and Scott’s humming stops as he listens, “and apparently this is a harvest festival.”
“That explains the food,” Scott says, nodding to a nearby table covered entirely in apple-themed desserts. “Did you know apple doughnuts were a thing?”
A smile tugs at Martyn’s lips. “Where would I have learned that? Sneaking off to doughnut classes in the middle of the woods?”
“Exactly. I can’t believe you’ve been keeping such a secret from me for so long. How is our relationship meant to last when you hide things from me?” He gives Martyn the half-smile he has when he’s teasing and reaches out, tugging his hand. “Don’t worry, you can make it up to me.”
“Can I?” Martyn asks, playing along. “How?”
He already knows the answer that’s going to come out of Scott’s mouth, he can hear it before the words are spoken; his heart still gives a little jolt as Scott says, “Dance with me.”
This time, Martyn is the one to lead them both out to the makeshift dance floor, already filled with people, skirts flaring out and boots striking the paving stones as they all follow the music’s rhythm. Neither Martyn nor Scott are concerned with the song playing, however. They have a different one in their ears, a distant echo of a similar scene years and miles away.
No one leads in their dance. Scott swings them into it, the initiator as always, and Martyn follows like he tends to when it comes to his companion. He spins Scott around, savoring the way his face lights up in a genuine smile as they turn. They don’t need any melody; the steps are ingrained in their minds.
Scott drags Martyn closer to him, lets him move back just as easily. Martyn knows what’s coming next. Scott’s gaze on his is endless, endless blue, practically a dare. He quirks one brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Are you or aren’t you?
Martyn dips him, presses a quick kiss to his lips just as the song ends and applause fills the square. When he pulls away, Scott’s features are still golden in the lanterns’ gentle glow. He has a self-satisfied look on his face, like the cat who got the canary, as his eyes drag over Martyn.
And Martyn…Martyn is so in love he thinks he could die from it. It doesn’t sound like such a bad way to go, either.
The inn room is quiet, firelight casting shifting shadows over the furniture. Martyn doesn’t know where Scott is; his heart aches at the thought of leaving him, but the woman had told Martyn he would be a good fit, given him the address to show up at tomorrow. Not Scott.
Scott had told him it was alright, had insisted he didn’t want to stop traveling just yet, had cut off Martyn’s continued protests with a quick kiss and a lidded smirk that made his stomach do a backflip. “I’ll be fine,” he’d said. “I can handle myself.”
Now the door opens behind him, careful footsteps Martyn would recognize anywhere. They’ve always done everything together. He’s not sure he wants to stop just yet.
Neither of them say a word, but when Scott taps Martyn on the shoulder and he turns to see a hand extended with a questioning look, he takes it. Dance with me?
Scott is always pretty, has been since he was nine and Martyn got a funny feeling in his chest looking at him. He’s intimately familiar to Martyn, every single expression and laugh, every smile and tone, the cadence of his voice when he’s tired or amused or wants to play a game. The way he moves is like light on water, fast and languid at the same time, always graceful.
Martyn doesn’t want to leave him. The dance comes to an end all too quickly, and he dips Scott, kissing him like he’ll die if he stops. He can’t leave him. He can’t leave someone who is such an intrinsic part of himself; it would be like losing his heart.
Not like. It would be losing his heart, the heart that’s belonged to Scott since he was nine and he noticed the way his best friend looked when laughing in the sun.
“I can’t ask you to go with me,” Scott says softly, breaking them apart. Martyn allows him to right himself but keeps a hand on him so he won’t leave.
“Ask,” he says, only half desperate. If Scott asks him, he’ll go. He would do anything for Scott. They both know it.
“I won’t be that selfish.”
That’s always been the problem: Martyn would do anything for Scott, but Scott won’t let him. Instead, he presses another searing kiss to Martyn’s lips, hard and gentle at the same time, a hello and a goodbye.
“You don’t have to go yet,” Martyn whispers. Scott smiles. It’s one he only sees rarely, in truly bad moments: small, not reaching his eyes. He prefers it when Scott is teasing him or egging him on; he prefers it when Scott is angry at him. Anything is better than Scott being sad. “Please don’t cry,” Martyn begs.
“I won’t,” he says, and kisses him again, fleeting and light. “As long as you promise not to miss me.”
“It’s like you don’t know me,” Martyn says, trying weakly to break the tension in the room. Scott huffs a laugh, staring at him with something unbearably fond. His eyes are blue, always so blue. His hair is a shade lighter, somehow softer than it looks, always messy when he first wakes up. It would take a miracle for Martyn not to miss him. Maybe not even that.
Scott runs a hand through blond hair, eyes crinkling as he tilts into the touch. “I’ll find you again soon. I promise. Bet you’ll be rich by then, living in a big house with piles of money you don’t know what to do with.”
“You can be my trophy husband,” Martyn says, and then realizes that he’s technically just proposed. Scott’s eyes crinkle even more, squinting through the tears in them.
“Is that a promise?”
“Of course.” This time he leans forward, connects their lips, hands coming up to cradle Scott’s face. One of them pulls back with a quiet gasp and his hands fall. There are tears on Scott’s cheeks. “You promised you wouldn’t cry.”
“Sorry,” Scott murmurs. And then, “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He wishes it didn’t sound like goodbye.
Scott gives him another light kiss, and Martyn chases his lips. Scott lets him stop their talk, touches getting more desperate, trying to memorize him with his hands as the night falls away from them, too long and too short at the same time.
The next morning, Scott leaves before dawn. Martyn pretends to be asleep as he kisses him for a final time, just the barest brush of lips against a forehead before he’s gone, and pretends his heart doesn’t fracture in two.
There can be silent tragedies, existing without anyone wiser to them, harbored deep inside by those that lived them. There can be a young man with a sharp smile and even sharper walls around his heart, risen above his station to stand at the right hand of a lord. There can be a young man with a pretty face and sugar sweet words, finding friends along the road and a place to belong at road’s end. There can be an old love that once grew between two, before they went their separate ways with tears that got easier to ignore as time went on, but never fully dried. There can be new love that buds to fill a hole the old left, new love that pools oddly in the corners and can never fully extinguish the buried pain.
There can be memories of dancing in thousands of different places, echoes of steps never forgotten that will reverb sometimes, late at night when no one is around to see. There can be young men who are not so young anymore, who used to be the closest of friends, and then closer, and are now nothing at all.
There can be the loss of love, old and never quite forgotten now, faded with time and the comfort of power and a new lover; family and a home. There can be remembrances of moonlight on blue curls, firelight in golden hair, the steps of a dance now done without a partner. For the memory of them, perhaps; for what they used to be, or for the two lovestruck teens who had thought they’d never be separated. Maybe only for the wish of the young men they once were.
They dance, and pretend their heart doesn’t ache all the while, and never know that another dances, in a distant room, reliving the same memories and wishing they’d had a better ending.