Dancing in the Dust
Quatre remembered this room. The familiar smells of the wood, the sound of the third floorboard when you stepped on it, and the mirrors, the dizzying reflections of yourself were all so real…so home. This was were he belonged.
This room was special. Quatre had been alone most of his life. Physically he was surrounded by people laughing and talking but mentally he was alone, often much younger then anyone else who was around. This room was where he had learned that being alone wasn't so bad, wasn't so hard.
This is where he had learned how to dance.
It had been his twelfth summer, a time between being a child and a teenager. She was a crush, a ballet dancer. She showed him the first moves, the first stems of the dance. She taught him not only how to dance but how to find himself in it. She brought him to her dance classes and he learned quickly, repeating the steps with grace and elegance.
Then one day she died, hit by a car on the way home from a dance class he was unable to attend. He had never forgiven himself for not going with her, not being there, as if he could have reached out his hand and stopped the car before it hit her.
He knew the memories that hung here, their webs tangled into his heart. He knew what it meant to be back here. He had never danced since then but now, when his heart was beginning to feel that certain away again, he knew. He had to dance.
Everything was dusty, the bar, the CD player, and the floor like no one had touched it for years and years. The rays of sun coming from the windows made the dust seem to spin and fly. He dusted off the stack of CDs and picked one, sliding it into the player. He listened to the first bars of music, humming the tune to himself.
It was one of his own collections of pieces, mostly duets between flute and piano that used melody to make the emotions flow through the music. It was his favorite thing that he had written. He stretched, closing his eyes and rolling his head around on his neck. He pulled off his shirt, letting the warm sun soak into his chest.
He was built with a small frame, accounting for the reasons he was taken for a girl quite often. He was muscular, lean arms and legs that portrayed some kind of almost unearthly grace about him.
Quatre stood at the bar, silently going through the positions as a new piece started. He remembered this piece, the way she had choreographed it, showing him the steps patiently. It was the first piece he had learned.
He began the steps, counting the beats in his head. He had forgotten the concentration it took, the way you became lost in the music, in the moment. He whirled around the room, seeing his reflection pass by him. The reflection seemed to change, growing younger, growing older at the same time.
He stopped as the piece did, breathing heavily as he stared into his reflection's eyes. What secrets did it keep from him, mocking him from behind the mirror? His reflection was safe there, safe from what hindering life here?
His reflection frowned at him, light eyes growing darker as Quatre looked away. He couldn't face himself, couldn't see what the mirror saw.
Another reflection joined his, a quiet reflection. This one was taller and dark, a slim young man watching with dark green eyes. The first reflection turned away, turning back to its regular form, the dancer in the dust.
The tall young man looked around, drawing the memories of the place to him. He needed this place, needed to understand Quatre's reasons for being here. He needed the pieces of Quatre he didn't understand. He did not speak, he had no words to say, there were no needed.
The music stopped, Quatre's fingers brushing the pause button. He needed silence to match the other man's, a serenity he couldn't find inside himself. The other man shook his head, walking over to the CD player, and choosing a different track.
He took Quatre's hands, leading him into the waltz. They swirled around the room, letting the music speak for them, its tones and rhythms matching with their hearts. There were no words needed so none were said. Even when the song ended they kept on dancing in the dust of the room, stirring the fires left years ago by another love and another time.
*
Oh...that was sappy too...but not so much...ah well...whatever. Oh hey! You should be so proud of me! I resist killing somebody! MWAHHHH!!!
ahem...I'll shut up now...(if you write me a review that is! ^.^)
Quatre remembered this room. The familiar smells of the wood, the sound of the third floorboard when you stepped on it, and the mirrors, the dizzying reflections of yourself were all so real…so home. This was were he belonged.
This room was special. Quatre had been alone most of his life. Physically he was surrounded by people laughing and talking but mentally he was alone, often much younger then anyone else who was around. This room was where he had learned that being alone wasn't so bad, wasn't so hard.
This is where he had learned how to dance.
It had been his twelfth summer, a time between being a child and a teenager. She was a crush, a ballet dancer. She showed him the first moves, the first stems of the dance. She taught him not only how to dance but how to find himself in it. She brought him to her dance classes and he learned quickly, repeating the steps with grace and elegance.
Then one day she died, hit by a car on the way home from a dance class he was unable to attend. He had never forgiven himself for not going with her, not being there, as if he could have reached out his hand and stopped the car before it hit her.
He knew the memories that hung here, their webs tangled into his heart. He knew what it meant to be back here. He had never danced since then but now, when his heart was beginning to feel that certain away again, he knew. He had to dance.
Everything was dusty, the bar, the CD player, and the floor like no one had touched it for years and years. The rays of sun coming from the windows made the dust seem to spin and fly. He dusted off the stack of CDs and picked one, sliding it into the player. He listened to the first bars of music, humming the tune to himself.
It was one of his own collections of pieces, mostly duets between flute and piano that used melody to make the emotions flow through the music. It was his favorite thing that he had written. He stretched, closing his eyes and rolling his head around on his neck. He pulled off his shirt, letting the warm sun soak into his chest.
He was built with a small frame, accounting for the reasons he was taken for a girl quite often. He was muscular, lean arms and legs that portrayed some kind of almost unearthly grace about him.
Quatre stood at the bar, silently going through the positions as a new piece started. He remembered this piece, the way she had choreographed it, showing him the steps patiently. It was the first piece he had learned.
He began the steps, counting the beats in his head. He had forgotten the concentration it took, the way you became lost in the music, in the moment. He whirled around the room, seeing his reflection pass by him. The reflection seemed to change, growing younger, growing older at the same time.
He stopped as the piece did, breathing heavily as he stared into his reflection's eyes. What secrets did it keep from him, mocking him from behind the mirror? His reflection was safe there, safe from what hindering life here?
His reflection frowned at him, light eyes growing darker as Quatre looked away. He couldn't face himself, couldn't see what the mirror saw.
Another reflection joined his, a quiet reflection. This one was taller and dark, a slim young man watching with dark green eyes. The first reflection turned away, turning back to its regular form, the dancer in the dust.
The tall young man looked around, drawing the memories of the place to him. He needed this place, needed to understand Quatre's reasons for being here. He needed the pieces of Quatre he didn't understand. He did not speak, he had no words to say, there were no needed.
The music stopped, Quatre's fingers brushing the pause button. He needed silence to match the other man's, a serenity he couldn't find inside himself. The other man shook his head, walking over to the CD player, and choosing a different track.
He took Quatre's hands, leading him into the waltz. They swirled around the room, letting the music speak for them, its tones and rhythms matching with their hearts. There were no words needed so none were said. Even when the song ended they kept on dancing in the dust of the room, stirring the fires left years ago by another love and another time.
*
Oh...that was sappy too...but not so much...ah well...whatever. Oh hey! You should be so proud of me! I resist killing somebody! MWAHHHH!!!
ahem...I'll shut up now...(if you write me a review that is! ^.^)