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Scheherazade in Blue Jeans
freelance alchemist
Blogathon: Cicatrix: Strange Turnings 
31st-Jul-2010 12:59 pm
Hearth
"You always watch," he says. "But you never dance."

You pull yourself out of your daydream and are startled to see him standing before you, leaning in, his hair almost brushing your hands. "What?"

"I've noticed you. You come here almost every weekend... I see you here or at the bar, watching the dancers, but you never actually dance yourself."

"You... noticed me?"

He grins, far more real than the half-smiles you've seen from him so far. "Of course."

You retreat a little - not visibly, not so he would notice, but you are taken aback. That you have been seen when you thought yourself invisible. "I didn't know."

"So why come here and not dance?"

"I just - I don't - I like watching. Being out there is too..."

"Vulnerable?"

"...yes." Like now, like him being so close you can feel his heat, and his hair does brush against your hand now. You look down. You were right about the charms woven into his hair. A spill of silver down his hair, tiny delicate silver wings and feathers. They probably jingle in the quiet; here they just shine, flash light in the darkness.

"We're all vulnerable," he says, only just loudly enough for you to hear, and you look back at him, really see him.

The scent of him coils around, silvershot with light, like sun illuminating deep water, and you inhale. He is daylight and starlight and motion, not static, never static, though he stands now as still as if he's waiting for a cat to come to his hand. Waiting, maybe for you. And you see it in him so sharply all of a sudden, that crack where he was broken once upon a time, the place his elsewhere was, and you hear a music that is not from here; it's gone before you can catch it.

But he's here.

"Aaron," he says.

"Ash."

"Will you dance with me, Ash?"

And you find yourself taking his hand, slender and warm, and he leads you around the railing and onto the floor. You flinch as the music hits you, and the press of bodies and the energy, and his hand does not tighten on yours. "I don't know - I can't -" But you don't let go.

"Why not?"

"I don't - it's not my music, I don't know how to dance to this, I don't know what to do!" You are both shouting now, and your heart is pounding, some terror locked in your chest like a panicked bird.

"Just listen."

"I-"

"Ash. Close your eyes. Okay?"

You look up at him, at his kind eyes, and to your surprise - you close your eyes.

Your hands are in his, his callused thumbs on your wrists, resting so lightly. "Listen," he says, and you feel him as much as hear him.

You let go, just a little.

There is just Aaron and just you and just the music, and though it is not your music you can make sense of it, a little; it is a different language, but you are picking it up here and there, and Aaron is with you, silent and still, just with you, and the music winds around you and holds you, coils, then spins you just a little and you find that you are spinning, that you are moving, that Aaron is moving with you; you open and let the music in and let it guide you, and you move with him as if you always have, eyes closed, learning all over again, your movement an afterimage in the air, a tiny scrap of grace.


"Strange Turnings" pendant by wytchchyld - Copper enameled with gold (color may chip but can be touched up with nail polish), two glass beads.


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Told you it's not going to be all dark all the time.

Also, things may differ between this and the final version of Cicatrix. This is me winging it!

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