goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"Nah, there are like three times I would've elbowed someone in the face if you hadn't given me a heads up." He downs most of his water in a long swallow before hooking a hand around Malcolm's wrist. "He's gonna rest up a bit before the next dance. Wanna go for this song?"

He starts a little at the touch. "Me?" he asks, blinking stupidly. "Us? Dance? Is he going to get, ah, jealous?" Malcolm adds with a little laugh.

"Nah. Come on, Mal. You need to loosen up a little." He gives Mal's wrist a little tug. "Besides, he's drinking."

"I don't really--" Oh, but Taylor's tugging him along. "--dance. I don't dance. I'm not any good at it, honestly. I'm going to look like an awkward teenager vaguely bopping along."

"Try to have some fun, alright? Just move with me." It's a little like sparring, the give and take- at least once they hit the floor.

"This isn't exactly a session," he grouses. But all right. He can try and go to a club and actually act like he's in a club rather than hang about like a wallflower.

"Nope, but you can still dance." There's some space when they finally hit the dancefloor and the beat is strong, rolling through York's bones as he steps up into Malcolm's space. "I bet you got some moves."

Malcolm takes half a step back, but space is usually at a premium at places like these. He tries to feel out the beat, sort of. A kind of tap, a small awkward bop in his knees. Lord, he will never get any numbers or one nights out of this. At least York's getting play. "I have moves that could clear this dance floor, yes, but they'll cause quite a bit of injury. And nobody wants the authorities called."

"You're thinking too hard." He snorts, stepping in to hook his arm around Malcolm's waist and tug him close. "Just- roll with it. Lean a little and-"

Less a demonstration and more of a full body walkthrough, nudging Malcolm's legs in the right position, showing him how to lean and roll.

This is embarrassing, he starts to think. And it is, it is very much so. But he's also in far too close proximity to Taylor, their bodies rolling together. Malcolm is a quick enough study in combat, which is just a way to move the body. This isn't so different, save for how it isn't meant to defend, no offense, no evasion or striking. There's something else, too. He's just not sure what it is.

"I think I get the idea, Mr. Murray."

"See? You got it." He takes the half step back to give them both their own room, rolling with the beat, leaning and rocking and twisting more than he did with any other dancer- but Mal will keep him from hitting anyone, or getting hit in return.

He trusts Malcolm to have his back out here.

He's not just copying York, is he? He's worried that he is. Should be able to pull his own damn moves together, right? But no, he can complement the moves. Predict what's coming even if he can't quite predict the music. Yes. This can work. He finds a place to toss his jacket (hell, he doesn't wear it that often that he can't just get it dry cleaned) and moves.

In fact, he moves to tug York's arm, to spin them around to avoid smacking some half-drunk dancer, and he makes it look like just another dance move rather than something that belongs more on the training room floor. He can learn. Pick up a few things, incorporate others.

A spin that he twists into a pirouette of sorts, darting back into Malcolm's space for the next line of base banging through. It's like sparring and it's not- for the first time since they fell? York feels like himself. Like Taylor. Like the cocky jackass that met Carolina in a club. The weight's lifted and the year melts away leaving him bright and young and grinning.

No backing down now. His body moves more smoothly than expected, given how he doesn't dance. Matching and assisting York with his own style, the look that they know what they're doing, together, rather than two random souls that happened to drift by each other. There's even a smile on his face when he tries to stop concentrating so much. Stop thinking. Thinking too much. Feel it, or try to, and feel his lighthearted partner have years of pain lifted from him.

Now that's a good look for Mal. Taylor grins and hooks an arm around his waist to draw him in close for the next turn, somehow avoiding whacking anyone around them or making shit, well, awkward. They're just- dancing. In synch.

York leads, but Malcolm is right there with him, in time. York avoids collisions by being aware, and part from Malcolm inching them one way or another. Here they are. There is a moment where it is them, enjoying the music and each other and them, only them, close heat and synchronous rhythm. They haven't quite reached that point in sparring, though they're getting there. Here is different. Here they move together as two halves of a whole.

It's enough to feel Taylor's pulse, in time with his own, and that alone is...different. Not wrong. He can't say wrong, but it's different, and he's becoming aware of this. He has the good sense enough to wait until the familiar beat dies down for a different one to wind up before he pulls himself away and says nothing, just makes a straight line for the bar.

It feels right. There's no logic to it, no reason, it just- they fit. THey fit here like they don't on the mat and Taylor doesn't think a damn thing of it other than Mal can really move when he wants to, Mal's got a good swing to his step and it doesn't click as anything odd. Even when he eases away to- well. York just keeps dancing because the music's good, the company is fine, and that pretty blonde from before is wandering his way back.

It's fine. They don't need to fit here, he and hte blond, they can fit somewhere else.

His skin feels like it's vibrating, a vague buzz that has nothing to do with sweat or with the music jolting his bones. And it already feels like he's coming down off of some kind of very small high. Another drink will steady him, ease him back into...into normalcy.

From afar, he eyeballs York and that hot little number he'd picked up. Good. Good for him. Better that way, maybe.

It's not quite the same, dancing with the blond. Something's missing- but then there are hands on his shoulders and lips on his neck and damn that's nice, that's good. THey manage to stumble back to the bar long enough for him to wave to Mal- let him know where he's headed before he's dragged out into the night.

He feels human again for the first time in months that night.

Good wingman. Mal should follow suit. Find a pretty number himself to spend time with. But he finds that he's distracted, and after some only meager and mostly abortive attempts, he calls it a night. The air is better, helps clear him up, and the longer he's away, the better he feels. (No. Not the right phrase, not better. Normal. More normal.)

Still, sleep isn't going to come easily tonight, so he works out instead, beating a bag until he's pretty sure he'll have bruises, a long shower (as long as he thinks he can get away with, anyway), and settling into sleep. He's actually anxious to see Taylor when they next meet. Like he isn't sure if something's going to be changed between them or not, or if he's just...crazy, somehow. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe there was something in his drink. Still, he'll stick to being his stern and stiff teacher side than the dancing wingman, especially on base. Easier to slip back into that.

Best wingman. Apparently dancing with Mal got the blond riled up a little and now he's walking back home in the morning bright and early, bruise blooming on his jaw and a new set of lines down his back. He'd been a bitter and York? Does not mind. Quick shower to get the funk off and then he's there, stripped down and ready for his first session with Malcolm.

"Morning, Reed." Even he knows that things are different on the mats. Here he's the student.

Right. Maybe he's crazy, then. Malcolm takes a look at his student up and down, trying not to smirk. "I hope you're well rested after the night you've apparently had." Maybe this can be normal. There's nothing out of place here. Nothing happened.

He hadn't had a chance to really notice how it felt- since the blond slipped right in after Malcolm slipped away and then he, later, slipped into the blond but there was this odd sensation of-

Rightness.

The guy last night had been fun but here? In the dome, on the mat, that's where he belonged. For him he tries to write it off as renewing his desire to be a pilot again. Not Mal.

Even if Mal's a big part of why he's feeling up to it. "Not as much as I usually get, but still plenty to kick your ass, sir."

"It looks like you're the one whose ass got kicked. I'll not judge what anyone is into," he adds with an actual smirk this time.

"All right, let's see how you're doing with that eye when you don't have anyone to warn you what's coming. We'll start with routine three pins, then we'll move on from there. Ready?"

"Ready." God he can't wait to get to the staff work- at first he'd been dreading it but after last night? He feels like maybe this can work. That he can manage to do this with the right partner. The right eyes on his bad side. "Bring it."

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