Dancing In The Moonlight
A Pokemon fanfiction by Kayley Laskitt
Disclaimer: Bust my legs and call me shorty, I don't own Pokemon. What? No way!
Author's Notes: This is a purely indulgent fic written for the sole reason that I love writing and I love dance and I wanted to combine the two. And it's my fic and not yours so there! And, just to add to my spoilt brat image I've drawn for myself – dancers have attitude! So there. :P
This is, like most of my fics, egoshippy. That is, Misty X Gary/Kasumi X Shigeru. You have a problem with that, don't read it. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Rating: Rated R for language.
Title Credits: Dancing In The Moonlight by Toploader
Dedications: For Robyn and Bronwyn and Jade and Emily and Joanne and Carly and Amanda and everyone else I've ever had the pleasure of dancing with.
-----------------------------------*---------------*----------------*
Misty
I was never good with words. I think that's why I loved dance. It's like writing poetry with your body. Every dance tells a story – some are of love, some of sadness, some of joy and some of life.
I took ballet and jazz ballet up until I was ten years old. I had to give up when my mom left because they needed me around the gym. I don't think I ever fully forgave her for making me give up dancing. Maybe I'd never have been a ballerina, but that was a decision that I should have made, not her.
I'm not sure why I'm thinking about it now. It's been nearly six whole years since I last had my ballet shoes on. I think it was talking to Brock's little sister, Tamara. She started dance when she was four, like me. But she never had to give up and now she's at the Indigo College of the Arts and she's practically got a walk-in into any ballet company when she graduates.
I'm so goddamn jealous of her I'd punch her if she wasn't so sweet.
Ash nearly laughed himself sick when I told him I wanted to be a dancer when I was little. He said dancers were supposed to be graceful and I pounded him good for it. His ribs are still bruised and that was almost two weeks ago.
Last summer Delia decided to rip up all the carpet in the house in favour of wooden floorboards and they're the perfect surface for dancing. I've been itching to try a pirouette for months, but I'm worried Ash'll walk in and he'll laugh and I'll end up in prison for manslaughter.
But Delia dragged Ash to the mall to get some new sneakers this morning and Brock went back to Pewter for a few weeks and aside from Mr. Mime I'm all alone.
I'm tempted, so, so tempted.
I push myself off the couch and stand in first position. Experimentally I point my toes against the wooden floor then draw my foot back. It's funny how I still remember everything. It's like riding a bike or something.
I plie slowly, still testing the waters. The stereo is playing some cheesy ballad and I slowly, carefully I repeat all the things I learnt when I was younger. Pirouettes and jetes and glissades and chasses . . . they all flow together and I forget everything but the music and the movements of my own body. The song stops and a new one starts – it happens more times than I remember and I dance the whole while.
It's when I try a jete developpe that I finally screw up. I haven't danced in like six years – I'm surprised I didn't screw up the second I stood up. I land hard and manage to right myself before I land on my ass. Breathing hard, I open my eyes, stand up and nearly land on my ass all over again.
"Oh my god!" I exclaim, my heart pounding and my cheeks flaming. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Gary holds his hands up defensively. "Hey, I just came over to talk to Ash. No one answered the door when I knocked but I could hear music so I just came in." He offered me a lopsided smile. "I didn't know you danced."
I cannot believe Gary Oak just saw me dance . . . I must suck after six years being out of training, and he got to witness every misstep.
I want to kill myself. Better yet, I want to kill him.
"Yeah, well . . ." I kick at the floor halfheartedly, embarrassed beyond belief but not sure whether I should act like I'm not or just threaten Gary. "I used to take lessons when I was kid. Like, six years ago." I offer a weak smile. "Reliving my youth."
Gary chuckles – it's a deep, throaty sound that is irritatingly sexy. Why is it that the most arrogant guys are always so damn sexy?
Stupid laws of guy physics.
"You love it," Gary says, his eyes meeting mine with boldness that seems like he knows me. "I can see it on your face."
I flush slightly. "Yeah, maybe," I admit, crossing my arms over my chest. "I never wanted to give up but I had to. It's too late for me to start again now."
Why, why, why am I telling him my life story instead of grabbing the collar of his Paul Frank shirt and throwing him out the door?
Gary folds his arms over his shirt and leans against the wall, looking thoughtfully. This is the first time we've had a conversation that doesn't comprise of insults. It's throwing me off a little. He rakes a hand through his thick chestnut hair. "Yeah, you're a little older than some of the kids at your level, but I don't think it's ever too late."
His words were . . . unspeakably sweet. Misguided, but sweet. If he'd been Ash, he'd be on the floor laughing hysterically. Brock would tell me that it was nice to dream and then ask me what I wanted for dinner. But Gary . . . he didn't dismiss me or laugh.
And it was all I needed.
I could have kissed him.
I looked at him, angling my head. "You think?"
He smiled a little. "I know."
I smiled then – really smiled, a true expression of happiness. Then I crossed the space between me and him and threw my arms around his neck. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you so, so, so much."
Gary is taken aback at first – though who can blame him? It's not every day girls randomly attack him in hugs. But he puts his arms around me and hugs me back.
"Don't mention it."
Gary
News just in: I'm a fucking moron.
I mean, here I am, standing on the Ketchum's doorstep, shifting like a little kid that needs to go pee. Why does that make me a fucking moron? Because I've been standing around for fifteen minutes trying to decide whether I should knock.
I mean, Christ. I'm only going to see Misty. I don't know what my damage is.
I rap on the wooden door before I can chicken out and the door is pulled open the second I do. Ash is standing there, a half-eaten Twinkie in his hand. "'Bout time you knocked," he says around a mouthful of pseudo-cream. "She's upstairs."
I thank Ash and run upstairs to Misty's room. I find her sitting on her bed, her long legs outstretched as she wraps bandages around bleeding toes. She got on pointe a month or two ago. She's in agony 24/7 but she loves it. Go figure.
"Hey," she greets me with a huge smile. I love her smile – I still remember that first time I saw it, when I told her she should dance again. We've been pretty close since that day.
It pisses Ash off.
"Look," she says, extending her leg towards me. "I'm surprised I can still walk. Mme Peron worked us like dogs today."
I join her on the bed, lying beside her. "Oh, stop your bitching," I say. "You wouldn't have it any other way and you know it."
It's true. And I woudn't have her any other way. I love watching her dance. It's like she becomes this whole new person . . . this happy, light, beautiful angel.
Misty laughs merrily and squashes me in a hug. "And I can never thank you enough!" she crows happily like she does at least every week.
Having Misty wrapped around me like a pretzel when she's in a leotard is a sensation I'll never get tired of. And even though she's like my best friend and you should have only harmless, platonic thoughts about friends, it's just . . .
I push her off me, getting too close to concrete thoughts. "Eew, get off me!" I complain. "You're all sweaty!"
Misty laughs and shoves me. "So, what are you doing here, Oak?" she asks, rolling off the bed and wrapping a ballet skirt around her waist.
Ohhh . . . Why the hell is she so . . . damn . . . beautiful?
Now here's the part where I tell her why I'm here, and I don't even know why I'm here.
Oh, that's right. Because I'm a fucking moron.
"Okay, Waterflower," I say casually, sitting up and watching her plie. Damn, she's graceful. "Here's the deal. Gramps knows this guy who has a daughter who's in town for a week or so and it's my job to show her around."
"I'm with you so far," Misty says, turning out in third position.
"So . . . this Madeleine chick is a real crazy bitch," I continue. "And she's huge on clubbing. So I said I'd take her to QBH on Thursday night."
I'm doing pretty well. It actually sounds like I'm just showing an acquaintance around town, not like I picked her up at her dad's birthday last weekend.
"Uh huh . . ." Misty eyes me suspiciously. "So what's the problem?"
"I can't dance."
Misty stops mid-plie, then walks back the bed and sits, cross-legged. "Excuse me? How is it that you can't dance? You go clubbing all the time."
This is really embarrassing.
"I never dance," I explain, picking at the embroidered flowers on her bedspread. "I just . . . hang out in the lounge or by the bar and pick up chicks."
A stuffed rabbit hits me square in the face. "Gary Oak, you are such a sleaze," she scolded, her beautifully shaped eyebrows drawing together. I don't blink. She says that to me at least once a week. It's her mantra. She smiles, a dimple creasing her left cheek. "Say it. Say I, Gary Oak, am a sleaze'."
I really need to stop taking her abuse. But I need her help. And she's my best friend. And she's so sexy in her leotard. I honestly think if she said to me, in the exact same voice she just used, Gary. Shave your head, get your eyebrow pierced, change your name to Heidi and move to Switzerland to become a goat herder', I would have done it.
"I, Gary Oak, am a sleaze."
"Very good. Admittance is the first step on the road to recovery."
A stuffed rabbit hits her in the head and she laughs.
"Okay, okay. I'm guessing you want me to teach some funky moves to woo your bitch," Misty says, her face so deadpan I nearly choke to death laughing. "So get off your ass." She sticks a CD in the stereo and a smooth R&B tune pulses out of the speakers. Misty grabs my hands and pulls me up with her. "They place this stuff at QBH, yeah?"
I nod, and she smiles. "Awesome." She moves behind me and gently rubs my shoulders. "First you gotta get these shoulders lose," she breathes into my ear. "Yeah? Roll them back . . . like that. That's it. Just go with the music."
Ohh . . . kayyy. This is not good . . .
She moves around to face me and rolls her own shoulders back. "Yeah . . . now do one at a time. Now just move them up and down one at a time . . . see how your body gets into it?"
No, I see how her body gets into it and it's driving me crazy.
"Okay," she breathes. "Slide to the right . . . okay, now like pump your chest in and out."
I need to get out of here . . .
"Now," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. She moves closer to me. "Just . . . go with it. Let the music take you and just . . . move."
And I do. I move, not thinking about what I'm doing but thinking about the music. Our bodies are are moving and swaying and barely touching and the moment is so . . . unbelievably . . . magical.
"Hey, Misty, do you have my Urban CD?"
And the magic is broken. Misty and I jump apart. My cheeks are flaming and my adrenaline is pumping like I just ran twenty laps around the Indigo Stadium.
Ash is eyeing us like he's just busted something.
Misty walks over and takes the CD out of the stereo, puts it in its case and hands it to Ash. She turns to me, brushing back a loose strand of hair. "You should probably get going," she advises, her voice low.
"Yeah," I respond, my voice equally low. "I'll catch you later, okay?"
As I leave, I brush past Ash, who's looking at me like I microwave kittens for kicks. He says something to me under his breath, and it takes me the entire time it takes to get downstairs before I figure it out.
"You hurt her and I'll kill you, Oak."
Misty
"Do you want a drink?"
I do not believe I am here . . . at QBH . . . on Thursday night . . . with Brock, the guy who thinks he's my surrogate father. I swear he's the oldest nineteen year old I know. Aside from that, I am so very underage . . . I still can't believe the guy didn't ask me for ID.
"Uh, yeah," I reply over the loud music. "I'll just have whatever you have, okay?"
Brock shrugs and heads off to the bar. He's cool, Brock. He doesn't mind me drinking as long as he's there to keep an eye on me. Ash, he doesn't let drink. One shot of tequila has Ash crawling on the floor looking for his marbles.
As I wait for Brock to return, I look around the crowded club. Just general curious looking – it's not like I'm looking for Gary and his chick-of-the-evening.
Okay . . . so I am looking for Gary. But only so I can see how his moves have developed.
A cold glass is pressed into my hand; I look up to see Brock. I look at the glass in my hand and frown. "You got me beer?" I ask, incredulous. What am I, one of the guys?
Brock shrugs and sips his own beer. "Hey, you said whatever I was having."
Christ . . . I sip my beer. It's not bad, actually. It's better on tap than the total crap that comes in cans.
"Has he come in yet?" Brock asks casually, swilling half his beer in one go.
I blush to match the hot-pink lycra midriff the chick beside me is wearing. One thing about Brock is that he sees through me like I'm made out of cling wrap. Stupid perceptive jerk. I should kick his ass.
Then I think about what Brock just said. And I think about what I'm doing here. And I think about the fact that I'm wearing Daisy's totally bare Glo-mesh top and that I'm drinking beer all because I want to see Gary.
And I think I'm really, really sad.
"Misty?"
I hear my name and turn reflexively. Gary – looking so unbelievably sexy in baggy jeans and a white t-shirt – weaves through the crowd towards me, a chick in pants baggier than Gary's and a bandanna in tow. She looks bored. He looks pained.
I can't help but be relieved.
"Hey, chica!" he exclaims, wrapping his arms around me. I never get tired of him doing that. He pulls away. "You're looking hot, girl. What the hell are you doing here?"
Checking up on you, why?
"Just hanging out with B," I say casually. I see Brock roll his eyes and it's so tempting to plant my foot square in his stomach. "I forgot you were coming here tonight."
Madeleine, Gary's date, stretches. "Gary, I'm gonna go get a drink," she says, sounding bored. "You want?"
He shakes his head distractedly, not taking his eyes off me. Brock smirks then follows Madeleine, probably to go hit on her. It's just me and Gary.
"How's the date?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Torturous," Gary responds, his voice so low I strain to hear him over the music. "You want to dance?"
I nod wordlessly and we head out to the dance floor. Ironically, the same song we danced to in my room the other day is playing. Lily would say that was fate.
Gary grins at me and starts the shoulder thing I made him do the other night. I laugh and copy him. We mess around for a little while, laughing at each other. Then he steps towards me and it's like he's not in control anymore, like the music has taken him over. He moves towards me then moves back, rolling his body in the sexiest way possible. I match him move for move, and we're touching and we're not and it's driving me so crazy . . .
I'm barely breathing. There's so much magic between us that other people can feel it and they're stopping to watch. It's sexy, but it's not sleazy because we're still dancing and it's so beautiful.
The song ends and we both slow to a stop. My eyes lift to meet his and they're beautiful, dark and liquid and full of too many thoughts for me to catalogue.
"I better go back," I whisper, still barely breathing. "Brock's probably wondering where I am."'
"Madeleine's probably wondering where I am."
Slowly, we head back to the bar, my fingers lightly wrapped around his wrist. It takes us a few seconds to find Brock and Madeleine. She's leaning against a wall, his arm is braced on the wall above her and he's clearly in the process of picking her up. He's gotten better at it since his days as a hormonally-charged teenager.
"Guess he's not wondering where I am," I reflect.
"Guess not," Gary confirms.
We look at each other. Then we both start laughing. I rest my head against his chest and I can feel it shaking with laughter.
"I guess your date didn't go to plan," I comment, turning and leaning back into him. I don't even think about it. I'm just so . . . on level with him.
His hand skates over my hair and onto my bare shoulders. "Nope." He pauses and gently rubs my shoulders. "No way could I have planned something as good as this."
Gary
"Fuck you! No, fuck you! No, you shut the hell up! You're not having this conversation with me? Screw you, asshole, I'm not having this conversation with you!"
A cell phone flies through the air, a string of curses following it.
"Hey," I say, out of a lack of anything better to say.
Misty turns to face me, and I expect her to start ranting and raving as she usually does. Instead, her lower lip trembles and she bursts into tears.
"Whoa!" I exclaim, gathering her in my arms. "What's wrong? What happened?"
She sniffles and her lower lip sticks out in an adorable pout. "Where did my phone go?" she whimpers, burying her face in my chest.
I resist the urge to laugh at her out of a desire to keep my appendages, and run a comforting hand over her hair pulled into a bun, over her denim jacket covering her leotard, over her ballet skirt. "I think it landed behind my car," I assure her. "Now tell me why you're crying like a baby."
Her indignation stops her tears slightly. "I am not crying like a baby." Then she breaks into a fresh round of tears. "That was Anthony, my deb partner. He bailed on me." She choked on a sob. "And my dad made me promise to do my deb when he was dying and now . . . and now . . . " She bursts into fresh tears, and they soak through my shirt.
That's right. Her debutante ball. I was hoping she'd ask me to be her partner, but her sisters already organised for this Anthony jerk to do it with her. And now he'd bailed on her.
I'll kill him.
"And it's in two weeks!" she wailed. "I already have my dress and my shoes and my tiara and I don't have a fucking partner!"
She starts crying again and I pull away from her so I can look at her tearstained face. "Hey . . . calm down. I'll be your partner. Okay?"
She's so surprised she stops crying all together and looks up at me with quivering eyes. "What?"
"I'll be your partner," I repeat, wiping tears from her face with my thumb. "I'll learn all those stupid dances and I'll get all dressed up and I'll make small talk with people I don't know."
She sniffles. "Why?"
"Because I care about you, Mist. You're my best friend." I pause thoughtfully. "That, and I look damn hot in a tux."
She lights up, despite the tearstains streaking her cheeks. "Oh, you're the best!" she cries, jumping up to kiss me on the cheek. She grabs my hand and tugs me in the opposite direction to my car,
"Hey," I protest. "Where are we going?"
She twirls, her ballet skirt flowing with her. "Studio 3 is empty right now," she informs me excitedly as she drags me though the glass door of Bartuccio's Dance Academy. "We're going to go do some of those stupid dances."
I love the way she can go from being so miserable to so happy in seconds.
She drags me up a flight of stairs and pushes open the door to Studio 3, which is lined with mirrors and barres and is decidedly empty. "Do you know how to waltz?" she asks, throwing her denim jacket off and resting her hands on her hips.
I cringe. "Uh, kind of. I learnt a couple of dances when I was a kid. The waltz, the Pride of Erin, all that crap."
She claps happily. "Excellent. So you know it for the most part, we just need to polish you off and make you fit for public consumption."
I laugh. She's so funny when she's excited. She says things without thinking and the funniest things come out of her mouth.
"Come on," she says, throwing her arms out. "Lead me."
Slowly, we work through the waltz, Misty offering encouragement the whole time. It takes me awhile to warm up, but before long we're waltzing together, completely in time and it's like we're not even touching the floor.
We've danced before but this is different. This isn't sexy or charged with chemistry. It's just . . . beautiful.
We glide together effortlessly, our eyes locked the entire time. The air between us full of uncertainty and the air grows considerably less as she moves closer to me and our dancing slows, slows . . . slows.
She's so close to me, so close I could just move forward and brush my lips against hers and kiss her.
She's so close . . . closer . . .
"Mademoiselle Waterflower?"
Misty springs away from me, her cheeks red. "Madame Peron!" she exclaims, putting her hand to her chest the way she always does when she's startled.
Madame Peron, an older woman oozing elegance moves into the room, her skirt flowing around her. "Are your classes not finished for the day?" she asks in mildly accented English.
Misty nods. "Yes, Madame. But my partner for my debutante ball cancelled on me and my friend Gary offered to be my partner. I only have two weeks to teach him the dances."
"Ah." Madame Peron smiles a complex smile. "I have heard much about you, Gary. Mademoiselle Waterflower tells me you are responsible for her returning to dance."
I smile a little. "I don't know about that. I just said the right thing at the right time."
Madame Peron nods gracefully. "I wish you both the best of luck for this debutante ball. Be sure to turn out the lights when you leave, Mademoiselle."
"Yes, Madame," Misty responds, nodding.
Madame Peron leaves and Misty turns to me. "You want to try the Pride of Erin?"
The moment, for now, is gone.
I force a smile. "Yeah, sure. Why not?"
Misty
"You look like an angel."
So many people have said that to me tonight. But when Gary says it, it means more than anything anyone's ever said to me. I look up at him clasping his hand so tightly I can't believe he's not crying.
"So do you."
It sounds cheesy, I know. Telling a guy he looks like an angel? But Gary truly does. I'm not sure why. The way he's looking at me, maybe. The way he's smiling. Maybe the way he looks damn hot in a tux.
He reaches up and fixes my tiara so gently I nearly burst into tears. The couple ahead of us, Juliet Markess and Ray Biatta head out and we moved forward, clutching each others hands.
"We're going to fucking rock this joint," Gary assures me, less than poetic but convincing. "I promise."
Our names are announced and we walk out the way we practiced, my left arm and Gary's right forming a delicate bridge between us. We walk to the end of the aisle and I curtsy for the Mayor and his wife, the skirt of my dress sprawling around my on the ground. I rise, then Gary and I move to the edge of the floor where the other couples are standing.
"Are you ready?" he asks, his lips barely moving.
I nod slightly and the band starts playing. We begin to waltz, something we've perfected in the past two weeks. I can feel the warmth of Gary's hand through the fabric of my dress as we glide through the room. My sisters, Ash and Delia, Brock and Tamara, Professor Oak and May are all watching us but all I notice is Gary.
The Pride of Erin follows, and the tangoette follows that.
I love the tangoette.
It's a more contemporary dance when compared to the others, and it's beautiful. Romantic and liquid and really sexy. And because it's so romantic and liquid and sexy, dancing the tangoette with Gary is dangerous.
My hips sway with his, and the fact that my back is to him and I can't see the look on his face is both intriguing and frustrating. He moves beautifully – like he doesn't even have to think twice about it.
My heart is pounding like crazy when we finish the tangoette, and we're given a break before the next dance set. Before I can head to our table so I can talk to Ash and Brock, Gary wraps his arms around me. I melt into his arms, still reeling from the tangoette and we gently sway to the very bad elevator music the band is playing.
"You're so beautiful," Gary murmurs into my hair.
It's sweet and heart-stopping but it's uncharacteristic for Gary to be so reflective and emotional. I wonder where this is headed.
"You dance like an angel," he continues, his voice soft and hard to hear. "Everybody here wants you, you know that?"
I wonder if he's referring to himself, but I'm too afraid to ask.
"We should go talk to people," I manage to breathe, kicking myself as I say it. Why am I always compelled to break the moment?
Our swaying slows and eventually stops. We part and he takes my hand, leading me towards our table, seeming to have forgotten what he was saying to me.
I sigh quietly as Tamara gushes over my dress.
I'm such an idiot sometimes.
Gary
"I thought I'd find you out here."
I don't bother looking up because I recognise Misty's voice straight away. She makes her way across the terracotta tiles and sits beside me by the edge of the pool.
The deb ball was weeks ago, almost a month, and there's been a difference between us since then. Misty's been so much quieter, and I could punch myself for saying all those things I said to her that night.
Well, Oak, you sure know how to fuck things up.
"It's pretty," she comments, looking up at the sky. It's a clear night and the stars are bright as diamonds.
I nod silenty.
Misty stands up and at first I think she's leaving. Then she offers her hand to me. My eyes travel up her slender arm, across her bare shoulder and to her blue-green eyes which are openly solemn.
"Dance with me," she instructs softly.
I take her hand and stand up. She puts her arms around my neck and I follow by putting mine around her slender waist. Slowly, she sways with me, remaining silent.
Not looking me in the eyes, Misty speaks. "You said all these beautiful things to me at the debutante ball, and now you're so closed off. I'm not what to make of that."
She's so honest, sometimes. So in-your-face that I can't help but admire her. I love the way she's younger than me and smaller but has more guts than I probably ever will.
"I said those things without thinking," I tell her honestly, looking over her head at a jacaranda tree in our yard.
Misty looks at me then, her boldness nearly knocking me over. "Did you mean them?"
Oh, god. Don't ask me that, Misty. Don't ask me questions like whether I think you're beautiful or whether I think you dance like an angel or whether I want you.
If her eyes weren't so confronting I'd evade the question. I pull her to me and we dance silently for long seconds before I speak.
"I don't want to lose you, Mist. I don't want to change anything between us because I'm scared it'll never be the same."
"What if there's something better?" she asks quietly.
What if there's something better? I've thought about it – thought about since that first day I saw her dance. What if she loved me as much as I love her and we were the same as always only better?
What if . . .
"You're so beautiful," I murmur into her red-gold hair, ignoring the way my heart is thumping almost painfully. "You dance like an angel. Everybody here wants you, you know that?"
Slowly, Misty lifts her eyes to meet mine and they're open and wide and full of emotion, and there's one simple moment of true happiness as I realise that there is something better and that now I have it.
I do the one thing I've wanted to do for months and I lean forward and kiss her, revelling in the way she kisses me back like she really does love me as much as I love her.
We're dancing in the moonlight to music that's ours and I hope that this moment never, ever ends.
End
--------------------
Author's Notes: Just as a bit of trivia, I really had fun writing this - it's a concept I've been wanting to see through for months. And I'm sorry if my ballet terminology is rusty - I'm a jazz girl, not a ballet girl.
Comments and constructive criticism are welcome -
callmeprincess@optusnet.com.auKissez
K a y l e y