Summary: New Year's Eve. Dance? He's nearly drowned out by the music and she strains to hear. MarissaJohnny oneshot.
Disclaimer: Do not own O.C. You know the drill. Title is a song by The Faint (yes, Danse is supposed to be spelled with an 's').
A/N: It's the holidays. I was bored. Justification enough. Important: This is set before Johnny got hit by a car or told Marissa he was in love with her, but he did break up with Casey and whatnot. I hadn't seen really any MarissaJohnny stories, so I thought it'd be interesting. Please review, I'll love you forever and a day. Thanks, enjoy!
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New Year's Eve. Faint. Her knees are clasped together, suspending a dangerous heel over the floor, and she rotates her ankle in graceful loops. She's perfecting that bored to tears facial expression, sliver eyes and a side posed jaw, when really, no one takes a second glance at her. There's a chill in the evening air, a shiver beneath the sheer straps of her failing dress, and the silk lining of his suit coat brushes her shoulder blades. Slip.
The girls aren't moving particularly elegantly across the slick dance floor, thrashing their coiled arms in half rhythms against the pounding music, but she's entirely too intoxicated from this night to show them how it's done (a raised arm, fingers behind a boy's neck, liquid legs). A tipsy sensation overcomes her, though she's had very little to drink, and she brings the glass to her lips, bubbly champagne prickling her nose. She catches Ryan's eyes; he carefully winks from the opposite corner, lagging in his current conversation to be charmed by her partial smile. And it happens every time, his shallow breaths as she her mouth alters, a dream fixed behind his eyes.
They're on faulty ground, cracked ice, her and Ryan. Keeping a distance, and she's sitting in this impractically small chair, heaving tiny sighs in measured increments. It's Johnny she's watching, a lanky outline shuffling through the crowd. He reaches to sweep limp hair off his forehead, a fluid motion that's so automatic, he hardly thinks about it. Closer, now, his thin fingers dangling in front of her face, and she's frozen, for a moment, a lovely china doll with unblinking, marble eyes. Dance? He's nearly drowned out by the music, and she strains to hear. I—well…she uncrosses her legs, biting her lip in indecision. It's just a dance. Please say yes. 'Please' carries some weight with her, and her spine is rather contorted in this stiff seat, so she places her fingers in his.
Straightening out, she pulls her shoulder back, the V of her dress deepening (a lady does not fall into her dance partner). Johnny swallows noticeably, an urge threatening his lips, and this is what she does to boys. He lightly grasps her vanishing waist with one hand. His other hand is warm in hers, thin fingers wrapping around her knuckles, and he draws her to the left, the first of three steps. Left, back, right. Marissa wonders where he learned to waltz and she's oddly reminded of her debutante ball, Ryan's sturdy hand on the small of her back, that pure, white dress trailing on the floor. In the middle of two boys, again, and this is probably the story of her life.
The heat of her palm on his jacket penetrates his skin, a glimmering feeling residing in his stomach. She's used to dancing more closely than this, with pressed cheeks that sense every smile and soft eyelashes sleeping on her partner's face. But his arm remains rigid around her torso, and he's breathing soundlessly knowing she's so near. The tension is rising, the kind that bursts in her chest like urgent fireworks, and her eyes search frantically for Ryan. Marissa? Johnny whispers, hushed into the air, into her ear. Her lips almost crack as the words tumble, Johnny, I can't. Swiftly, he catches her arm, a quiet attempt as she'd whirled around. Stay, please. This song's almost over. He's quite fond of that word, 'please', and her features melt as she moves toward him.
Later, she slides into the passenger seat of his car, fixing her dress in place as he starts the engine. The gauges light up, static blue, marking strips of color on his hands around the steering wheel. The night is too still for her, and the windows are tightly rolled up, keeping outside air from her lungs. They drive by the beach, a back route to Summer's house, and she longs for the sand. Johnny tells her he's always wanted to surf at night, crash waves in midnight water, but he's afraid of getting hurt, and blood is invisible in pitch black.
Do you mind if I turn on the radio, she asks, and he shakes his head, securing his foot on the brake as the light changes. The ride is silent, besides the choppy radio songs, and he steals side cast glances at her at lulls in the traffic, her face masked by waves of hair. She's staring out the window, a palm pressed flat against the glass, leaving sticky fingerprints.
He walks her to her door, navigating the winding path and steps that create awkward breaths. Panic. The porch light flickers dimly, casting brief shadows on her skin, and he's rocking like a metronome on his feet, unsure of his hands and his shirt and perhaps the tiny specks in his eyes. Too late to run, and his fingers find her waist, cradling her sharp hipbones. The tide in her eyes rises, a daylight look for his nighttime lips. Wish.