goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

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."

Oh the staff work is coming. This is just a quick warmup match. Some days are quick, some days are a struggle, but at the same time it feels like it's all getting easier, smoother between them. That they're flowing between moves better. Reading one another better. The first pin is hard won, and it feels good. It even feels good to be this close to him. A heat, closeness, moving together with each other. Malcolm barely remembers to get up and offer his hand. Don't get distracted now.

Better. He's better every day, taking each hit and rolling into the next and there's a moment when he almost has Mal before he's pinned. Laughing just like the first time. Laughing and grinning because this? This feels good. This fits like they had on the dancefloor. "godamn. One day I will see that coming, you cheat."

"I think that day is fast approaching, young grasshopper." So much for super stern and strict teacher. He still has a loose feeling from the night before, but only around Taylor, apparently. Thank god nobody else is here to see this.

Maybe he's getting soft. No, that's not it. He's just a little tired and distracted, and that's why York pins him down next. It's a nice dance they have going. Call and reply. He's slightly dazed for it. "Excellent form," he compliments all the same, because it's true.

The next round is quicker- both of them pretty well warmed up, both of them loose and easy. But it feels right, every move, every form, the trick he pulled one he learned from watching Malcolm, actually. "It should be."

Drawling as he offers Malcolm a hand up. "It's your form."

"Seems you've actually been picking up a few things from watching me, and I am not, in fact, teaching thin air." He laughs a little. "Maybe we should skip straight to the stickwork, see just how you are with a versatile melee weapon, since I know how good you are hand to hand."

"I told you my skull wasn't that thick." Hauling Mal up leaves them a little closer than normal and sure, he lingers but- he kind of. Wants to linger. "Um...sure. Stickwork."

"I don't know, we still might want to get an xray to make sure of that." Malcolm pulls himself away, feeling like he can breathe a little easier once he does, to retrieve the short poles. "We could always try fencing sometime. More strict, more finesse, not your style at all. Maybe I just want to laugh at you to make me feel better about myself." He tosses one over.

"I dunno, I might surprise you." He steps back and strips off his tanktop, mopping his forehead with it. Never let it be said a few rounds with Malcolm isn't a workout. "Now that's juts mean, man. I thought my improving spoke well of you."

"It does, but I still have my pride. Easily bruised, you see." He feels the weight in one hand, slow dip one way, then the other. A short twirl.

"Obviously the point isn't to smack each other silly. I don't think I have to explain how this works to someone as experienced as you. I certainly wouldn't let some of the kids try to fight with these yet when they still can't quite grasp the idea of physical communication rather than absolute dominance. Ha, although, given our conversation, it sounds like I haven't quite learned that, either." Good thing terribly bruised egos is just a joke.

"Nope. It's a dialogue, not a fight." So he'll have to dial up into whatever Mal's thinking of. He takes the stick as it's offered and it's like he'd never put the damn things down. For half a second he's twirling it on his hand, slipping back into a stance that's not his. Lighter, leaner, hips cocked just so, head and shoulders braced.

Carolina's stance.

"It's different when you're teaching than when you're looking for a partner, you'll be fine. I trust you."

He has to stop and watch Taylor slide into a somewhat feminine pose, something that doesn't really look like his, as easy as breathing. It's impressive, and he knows the answer before he even asks the question, but it comes out anyway. "What is that all about?"

"what is what?" He's not even thinking about it- this is what feels right. The balance, the weight- none of it is how he'd normally hold himself but it-s

It just fits.

"...Hm." Well, if it fits, he can't knock it. Malcolm would rather York gain a posture and style of his own, but he'll work with what he's got. "Very well. Hit me with your best shot."

He didn't need to be told twice, darting in and swinging the stick high and hard. Carolina never held back with him and neither, honestly, had Malcolm. It's something he's always appreciated in the man.

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