So, erm. I hope you're ready for something different. And lusty. And rather ancient since it is about school days. And not as proper as the 'God' story. I haven't seen the 'Drunk' movie yet, but the teaser inspired me this. Feel free to combust :p
She didn't like high school dances much; too loud, bad music and drunk students were not the ideal combination. Albeit she loved to dance, Frances wasn't the type to blend in much as she preferred to watch from afar. Give her ice skates and Hans Zimmer music and she would burst with joy. A salsa, a tango, a walz or rock'n'roll and a good partner just as well, even though she didn't master any of those disciplines as well as she would like to. She was too old – her soul didn't belong – for dance, techno and other horrendous stuff. With a little luck, the playlist would include some vintage music. The blues brothers, Sting, perhaps some Queen as well ? Those ones she could enjoy without a partner.
For the long, flaring dress of dark blue and the light make up she had conceded to apply weren't meant for a boyfriend; no time for that. Or rather, no space in her heart, for it was consumed by another. An unthinkable crush that could never become anything more than a fantasy. Yet, her eyes searched for his face whenever she passed the school doors. His tall frame, lithe and strang at the same time, his purposeful strides and chiselled features might have won on their own, but she also knew the warmth of his embrace, and the smell of his cologne. Knew the beauty of his secretive smile and how to read the gleam of interest that sometimes showed in his grey eyes. He was, to her, the most handsome man she'd ever met, with a magnetism that never fail to attract her. She was the iron to his magnetite.
And tonight would be the last time she saw him; tomorrow would come quickly enough. And while her eyes roamed the crowded gymnasium – left to her own devices – she missed the tall figure that watched her from afar, drinking in a flask that returned inside his vest pocket. The previous song ended merrily, couples and loners alike cheering, leaving space for a quick silence. Frances wondered what would come next, good or bad ? Danceable, or without spine ? A modern rhythm box with an equally talentless lady singing an easy tune ?
The first bars of Mark Knopfler's secondary waltz echoed in the gymnasium, earning a few disapproving frowns. A Waltz ! No one knew how to dance such a thing expect a few freaks and the teachers. A full smile bloomed upon Frances' rosy lips, wondering if her geography teacher had had a hand in choosing the music, or if it was pure coincidence. Yet… a waltz, sung by one of her favourite artists none the less ! This was her lucky day… she couldn't imagine how true this statement was. Suddenly, the dance floor cleared up; only a few couples remained, most of them not even following the steps but enjoying their time together. Frances remembered fondly the day her grandfather had taught her waltzing, feet naked, over the sand of southern Spain. She'd been twelve then; the best vacation of her life.
— "May I have this dance ?", a familiar voice echoed in her ear.
She whirled around in surprise, smacking into a dark shirted chest whose scent she would have recognised anywhere. Her little nose scrunched; alcohol mingled in the so cherished fragrance as a warm hand stabilised her.
— "Sorry", he said. "I didn't mean to startle you but the sound is rather loud."
Was it a good enough excuse to stand so close ? Probably not, but Frances was so overwhelmed by his presence that she barely nodded. Her geography teacher extended his hand, and the cogs in her mind started working again. Dance ? A waltz, with him ?
There were a thousand reasons why she shouldn't. The most obvious one; she was in love with this man… this very married man. The ring still shone upon his finger, the herald of doom stating that she could never have him. But hell, if he was going to leave her life for the rest of eternity, she was entitled to one last moment in his arms. His grey eyes watched her face, his posture straight enough; despite her fears, he wasn't too drunk. So she smiled, and slid her hand into his. Touching him, skin to skin, for the first time.
It felt like the last link of a chain snapping close, connecting both sides of a circle. A vibrant bond, as the heat of her fingers pulsated around his. And Mark Knopfler, oblivious to the war raging in her chest, went on. Talking of waltzing and high school girls. How strangely fitting.
Mr Kristiansen led her to the dance floor, leaving her hand until he turned around to face her. With the low lights, she had trouble reading his expressions. He stood tall now and pulled his arm aside to set the correct distance for a waltz. Then, flashing her a mischievious, he stepped a little closer. Frances gasped, feeling very much like Rose in Titanic, when, for the first time of her life, a man had invaded her space; his scent reached her anew, his body not touching hers, but a breath apart. She could feel the heat of his frame radiating, passing through the fabric of her dress so easily. Her head titled to the side; she just couldn't meet his gaze from that close. The man didn't protest, splaying his other hand on her upper back. She had to take a deep breath before she lifted her own limb to circle his lithe frame. There, there were intertwined now.
One, two, three beats and they were off waltzing. At first, little steps to let them adjust to each other. It wasn't difficult; Mr Kristiansen was a strong leader. Not forceful, but she found that she loved following him. Who would have known that their geography teacher enjoyed such an archaic thing as waltzing ? And she had no doubt that he enjoyed it, for after a while, she lifted her eyes to meet his and found pure delight blooming in his grey irises. He was so incredibly handsome, with this smile upon his face and mid long hair dancing about. And that little something, that gleam that passed in his gaze was so intense that she blushed and had to look away.
His hold upon her back shifted slightly, his fingers tightening ever so subtly that she doubted anything had happened at all until the music paused – a tiny second – before it picked up again. But her partner decided to sway backwards, a grin pulling at his lips. Frances almost stumbled; she had not been expecting such a break in the waltzing. His arms secured her instantly, pulling her a little closer as he imprinted slow sways, following the leisurely pace of the song for a few precious seconds. He marked a pause again, and resumed the proper direction.
Fortunately, the dance floor was nearly deserted, allowing some fantasy. His eyes twinkled in delight when, this time, she followed his lead without missing a beat. Like a leaf in the wind, desperately clinging to her branch, Frances swayed against him. Led by strong arms, lost in a warm embrace, unable to do anything but surrender to his will as her body enjoyed the exertion. She was dancing, flying, turning again and again, supported every step of the way by that man she so admired. Such an intimate embrace, yet all proper from the outside; despite the waltz position, she felt her body burn. Her heart beat in her palm, where her skin intertwined with his so easily. For a moment she just closed her eyes and abandoned all sense of control. He wouldn't lead her astray, would he ?
And when the song came to an end, she didn't expect him to twist around and bend at the waist playfully, sending her plummeting backwards. Yet, there was no stress when she should have jolted. Instead, Frances held onto his hand, trusting him to keep her from falling as she arched her back, unfurling like a cat, her only lifeline the geography teacher whose feet remained firmly planted in the ground. An infectious grin spread over his lips, the biggest smile she had ever witnessed on his usually reserved features; it left her too dazzled to speak. So when he set her onto her feet, Frances was entirely too flustered to realise her hand still clutched his, or that the next song was a rock'n'roll that she adored. Standing beside him, gazing in the most beautiful eyes, the world seemed to melt away.
— "You all right, Frances?"
Her name rolled off his lips so easily, if a bit slurred; could he be drunk ? It would certainly explain why he smiled that much, or why the lines of propriety seemed to blurr at his contact. His voice, though, awakened her frontal lobe and her wits returned full force. This is when she realised that the next song playing was 'Expresso love' from dire Straits. A sudden suspicion arose as she lifted an eyebrow to him.
— "Did you have a hand in …"
— "The playlist, yeah. I had to whine a bit but I needed something to dance to"
Her lips quirked up, amused by his not so innocent look – she knew he loved Dire Straits… and he knew she shared it. But when she attempted to retrieve her hand, his fingers only tightened around hers.
— "Dance that one with me"
His sultry tone caused her breath to hitch, and she had to shake herself out of the Tristan induced haze to respond.
— "You know what they said in Georgian times. Two dances with the same woman…"
— "You certainly know your history, Frances."
She was biting her lip now, undecided. He was a teacher, clearly a little inebriated, that she would kiss senseless at the first occasion. And even if he didn't realise it – or did he ? – he was clearly in a flirting mood. How would his reputation fare should people notice a second dance, a couple's dance, with a student ?
— "Frances ?"
His hand was tugging now, insistent, and she realised she just couldn't let go now. There would be time, once the song was finished, to accept her fate. But not now; if he intended to offer three more precious minutes in his arms, who was she to refuse ? For once, she was tired of being reasonable and denying her whims. So she nodded instead, and the beaming smile that bloomed on his face was so such worth it. It could have melted the Antarctic !
And so they faced each other again, soaking in the great riffs of 'Expresso Love' that only begged to be danced upon. And dance they did; a few basics steps, twice, then Mr Kristiansen started unleashing his talent. And God, he was good ! If waltzing had felt like a gentle carousel, a call to relax and enjoy simple swirls in his arms, Rock'n'roll with him was akin to climbing in a roller coaster. Frances' rock days were few, causing her to miss steps here and there but it didn't matter for his arms never faltered. She gravitated around him like the moon around earth. A planet to the sun. And what a sun ! Bright, and burning, feverish even as his long hands led her around him, twisting, turning, leaving her hand on one side and picking it up in the other. For a moment, the young woman was so overwhelmed that she could only follow.
Then, little by little, she started to let go. Let go of the steps which, in the end, could be mingled a little as long as she kept the trajectory. Let go of the weariness that told her to stay away. Let go of her principles as she enjoyed herself thoroughly, surrendering her body to a man that she trusted. Wherever he led, she went, whenever he twisted his hand, she would turn around; Whenever he smiled, her heart leapt in joy.
Until she missed a step, then another, and lost the rhythm entirely. Sheepish, she looked up, trying to attune herself to him once more. But instead, he gathered her into his arms and whispered in her ear.
— "Tired ?"
Frances nodded, helpless at repressing the shudder that ran up her spine. Damn that man with such a sensual voice. And those warms hands, mmm. And instead of starting the steps again, he just swayed them for a while, his heart beating so hard against his chest that she saw the vibration of his dark shirt. She so badly wanted to lay her hand upon it. He looked so incredibly gorgeous… Frances sighed, and eventually allowed her head to rest against his collarbone. She was sure that, for a few seconds, his cheek touched her hair. And while the beat of the rock remained unchanged, they both took a great breath of contentment.
— "I'm crazy about that girl", he murmured in her ear.
And despite the fact that those words came from the song, she couldn't help but feel that they were meant for her.
His spine suddenly stiffened and Frances pulled away immediately. But her teacher's gaze was fixed elsewhere, and when he returned his attention to her, it was to whisk his partner away in the dance again. Again and again, the same moves, more graceful now that she knew his patterns. More forceful, as he put more energy into it. Perhaps a little desperate, as the guitar riff sung and the ending came close. As the song picked up energy, so did they, mingling the steps as they circled against each other. Daring more, until he wound his arms around her and lifted her up entirely, turning and turning. Frances lifted one of her legs, like a skating porté, letting go as his strong arms encased her against his chest. She was truly flying this time, and it was exhilarating… so much that when he stumbled, she was almost sent sprawling to the ground.
His recovery didn't cover the fact that his equilibrium was all messed up, and Frances laughed it off.
— "That's it, you're drunk."
Her geography teacher gave her a sheepish smile, so boyish, so disappointed that it tugged at her heart. So, instead of kicking his ass away to his colleagues, she grabbed his arm and tugged.
— "Come, you need a glass of water and a little downtime"
And while they made it off the building, the music's end gathered a chorus of students who had enjoyed the song as much as they had; Rock'N'Roll wasn't dead after all. She led Tristan to the men's room, waiting for him to emerge as boys went to and fro, some underage and looking very smashed... and not necessarily with alcohol. Would the supervisors show up at any point ? This was bound to end up badly. Further away, she could hear a few couples giggle under the stairs.
Frowning, Frances realised that Mr Kristiansen had yet to show up, and each passing minute caused her worry to increase. Perhaps she would have to enlist some help to throw him into a taxi ? She was about to ask a boy of seventeen to tell her about the status inside when he emerged, his face washed off and droplets clinging to his lovely straight nose. His hair was damp in places, as if he had thrown his head into the sink directly. And his shoulders… far from the man that had asked her to dance so cheekily, he seemed defeated.
— "Will you be all right ?", she asked, concerned.
— "Yes… No. I … listen, can we talk ? Before …"
Before they had to say goodbye ? The very notion caused her stomach to clench painfully. Anything, anything to keep him to herself one more minute. Even if she had to write a thousand page essay on Louis the XVth. Anything.
— "OK", she shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant.
Her feelings must remain hidden at all costs. Something flickered behind his eyes, some kind of shadow for he did not come any closer. Instead, he seemed to grind his teeth together, as if considering the foolishness of his next request. Need eventually won the battle against reason as he whispered.
— "Not here. Meet me in my classroom"
Frances nodded, noticing a few glances were sent their way. High school girls, mainly, who probably had a crush on the infamous teacher. Yes, she understood the need to be away from this rapidly crowd. They separated, choosing different pathways. Frances' heels echoed in the deserted corridor, the darkness overwhelming as only emergency lights functioned. She nearly screamed when she stumbled upon a kissing couple on the second floor; they, in turn, were so startled that they ran away. With her heels and greater age, they might have taken her for a supervisor instead of a fellow student. A gentle smile quirked her lips; Mr Kristiansen might have unearthed a few of those just as well. No doubt the effect would be fearsome; that man had more presence than she, and possessed a strong build. Perfect for looming in corridors.
The young woman eventually removed her shoes; the floor was freezing, but didn't carry the sound of her steps anymore. She didn't hesitate to push the door that held so many fond memories; the classroom was bathed in moonrays, whisps of silver light that barely filtered through the icy clouds. And in the corner, sitting at his desk, was Tristan Krisiansen. The geography teacher that had shown, over time, so much more of the man than of the authority figure. Frances closed the door behind her then sat on a nearby table, putting her shoes anew because her poor toes were screaming bloody murder. The tiles were fu… cold !
Mr Kristiansen watched her intently, making her self-conscious, yet delighted. To have his attention, fully, was a blessing. It didn't prevent the blush from creeping up her cheeks though, and she cleared her throat to shrug it off.
— "You wanted to talk to me, sir ?"
His hand cupped the air as if to brush a fly away.
— "Ah, none of this 'sir' nonsense. I'm Tristan now"
Frances bit her lip to prevent from answering "all right, sir", wondering what was the reasoning behind this. She was well aware of the intensity of his gaze as he stood up, of the slight swaying in his gait when he took a few steps towards her. How much did he drink, really, before asking her to dance ?
Yet, she didn't fear him, even when he approached. His tall frame, almost looming over her. His alpine cheekbones, sharply outlined in the moonlight.
— "I wanted to apologize for being too forward. And to thank you for humouring me"
Something plummeted in Frances' stomach. Hard. It almost sent her toppling to the ground such was its weight. Of course, what was she thinking ? That he would start kissing her senseless and make mad love to her in the classroom ? That he would divorce his wife, marry her instead to have babies and happily ever after ? What did she expect, really, when she climbed those steps and followed him there, unknown to anyone but her heart ? She hoped her friends were not looking for her… gosh. How stupid could she be, really ? She still didn't fear him though; her heart was already broken. What more harm could he possibly do ?
The need to flee and cry suddenly overwhelmed her and she stood, finding herself barely a foot away from him as her teeth ground against each other.
— "I understand", she sighed. "I enjoyed dancing properly, for once, and I think that your forwardness has something to do with the alcohol, right ?"
The bitterness in her words seemed to hit him hard as he flinched. Frances blinked, trying to detail his face. If he didn't care, why was his reaction so outwardly painful ? Her brain and her logic told her one thing, while her body and intuition believed otherwise. It was so confusing !
— "I needed liquid courage", he muttered.
— "Whatever for ? To go out and dance ?", she asked, shaking her head in disbelief.
What were they doing here, really ? She, trying to support and understand a man that should have been a sturdy rock, not the other way around. But he seemed… lost. Utterly, and completely lost.
The puzzling answer came in form of a great sigh as Tristan's gaze met hers, his stormy eyes set upon her face with an expression that made her legs tremble. He took one step forward, just one little step, and cupped her cheeks in his hands. Frances stopped breathing; she barely had time to open her mouth to protest, not even a tiny second for her brain to register how wonderful his hands felt upon her skin as his gaze dove into hers. Commanding, such heat swirling in their depth that her breath itched.
— "For that", he whispered.
He descended upon her like a fallen angel, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss, his hand burying in her hair. Her brain flatlined, hand grasping the lapel of his vest in a desperate attempt to keep upright. It wasn't gentle, neither tentative, nor any of those romantic kisses she'd fantasised about in the past months. But she'd be damned if it didn't feel good. His tongue swirled over her upper lips, alcohol and spices mingled in his breath, until she parted them to grant him access. Then he was invading her mouth, his own taste seeping through as she sucked at his tongue, his fingers tugging at the loose strands that surrounded them like a fiery halo.
Frances moaned, a sound that caught in her throat as her whole body searched more contact. He stood strong against her, his arm snaking around her waist to hold her close. So passionate, like great fire consuming her from head to toe. Frances' fingers roamed his wide shoulders, his tight waist, his muscular arms as she surrendered to his will. His skin alive below her fingers as she tugged his shirt off the slacks and dove under the cotton garment. Her core ignited as his tall frame moved against her, caution thrown to the wind when his hands reached under her dress and travelled up her thighs. Closer, and closer still, his calloused skin caressing the swell of her buttocks before diving down again. He didn't dare going there but hell… how she wanted him to !
Her moans filled the room, yet she couldn't detach her mouth from his. Like a starving woman granted her first bite, Frances refused to let go. If she did… she might never taste him again. Her lips danced with such heat, her body taut against him, melting around his muscles. Locked in their passionate embrace, they both staggered against the wall. Frances' back hit the surface with an 'oof'. It didn't deter him; Tristan pinned her against the hard surface, diving his hips into hers. This time, the young woman couldn't prevent the heavy whimper from escaping, her head falling backwards. His lips just latched at her pulse point, then dove to her collarbone. Her hands roamed his skull, playing with the silky strands of his mid long hair. How many times had she dreamt about it ?
She couldn't believe what was happening. Her whole body on fire, her core begging for more, reacting like a wanton girl… she had dreamt of him so often, persuaded that those fantasies would never happen. She wasn't about to turn him down, even if he was drunk. Even if it wasn't her he wanted specifically. The feeling of his body against hers, of his hips trapping her against the wall nearly set her off. His arms around her, his muscles against her chest, his mouth suckling, nibbling, kissing her into oblivion. No, she couldn't say no. So instead, she reached for his vest and threw it off his shoulders. Then, her little fingers dove to his slacks and unbuttoned them. He was too far gone to care as he let her pull at the waistband of his boxers, freeing him entirely.
Her own underwear was discarded in a frenzy, and as soon as her cotton panty touched the ground, his hand hoisted her legs up. He latched upon her lips once more – perhaps an attempt to stifle her moans – before his hard, throbbing member slid into her...so easily. Frances cried out against his mouth; from pleasure and surprise alike. From completude of having him all around her, his arms lifting her thighs, his strength supporting her while his virility filled her entirely. Her head swam in ecstasy; she couldn't remember feeling so light headed, so utterly complete with another of her boyfriends.
But then, they had been boys, merely twenty years of age. Meek. Here, filling her up with hard thrusts was a man. A man with passion, and experience. A strong man, who deployed his energy to bang her against the wall as he grunted against her mouth. It was exhilarating…
A man that she loved, ignorant of her feelings as he fucked her in a drunken haze.
A man that would disappear from her life tomorrow…
Four months earlier…
He liked them, this post high school class that he only saw an hour a week. He knew geography was far from their priorities; this particular class studied 8 hours of maths, physics and biology, had two oral interrogations and a 3 hours test on Saturday morning. A crazy schedule, but such was the way of the French elite. While he abhorred the bad ambiance in the Math Specialty class, he held much fondness for the Biology section.
Why ? Because they stuck together in those difficult times; they had no clans, no rift, no competition. 45 students, twenty-one years old in average, and lots of wit and sarcasm flying around the classroom. They entertained him, keeping the sadness at bay for an hour a week. His best hour, for they absorbed his teachings with glee and no little amount of relief. Compared to the usual strain of scientific workload, Geography was an easy subject; one that took them out of their zone of comfort but their curiosity was thoroughly fed.
Head buried in maps, they spoke of history and culture, from the way middle age forests were tended to by serfs to the making of wool and butter. Tristan had anecdotes aplenty to share; they soaked it in like childbed stories. She, most of all; the little fairy. Why the nickname? Because she looked thoroughly magic, like one of those princesses of his childhood stories. He could see how her hazel eyes unfocused whenever he spoke, travelling with him to distant places and past lives.
Sometimes, their French teacher came about in the staff room and they debated, for hours, on Plato and Kant, Voltaire and other classical authors. Exchanging spoonerisms that made them both snigger. Once in a while, said teacher came to his class and they bantered on a subject that could fit both their subjects; the students were all too eager to share in the fun. And she smiled, the corner of her rosy lips lifting in an amused, but reserved expression. The twinkle in her eye was there, though, even when she didn't laugh out loud.
They were his recreational class, the one that reminded him why he enjoyed teaching so much.
And there was her. His little muse that adored maps and never failed at quipping back on any of his hints. Her gaze was always so eager; she made him laugh and gave him confidence. Always sitting next to Alexander, a cute guy with a southern accent so pronounced that it felt like singing. Her boyfriend, probably ? Lucky guy.
Well, who cared. It didn't prevent him from admiring her lovely almond eyes, the high cheekbones and long, very long hair that twisted in ringlets to her hips. He had so rarely seen hair that long, or with that peculiar reddish color. A dark hue, as if blood had seeped through. Very different from his wife's short hair and blond eyebrows. He had his own internal bet whenever Thursday came: would she wear her hair down, or tied up in a bun ? Who would ever guess that such long strands could fit in such a tight knot anyway ?
Tristan was glad he'd accepted to cover for the missing teacher – on maternity leave – until Christmas. Of course, it also meant he now lived four hours away from his wife. It also gave him more space to reflect on whatever they had done wrong. Perhaps the distance would give him perspective to fix it… Seven years of marriage, and already crashing. Yes, four months away would give him a solution to mend the gap between them. If they could fix their relationship, perhaps his wife would be amenable to set her career aside and grace him with children. They would be a happy family once more, like those he saw on Sundays on the Bellecour place or in Parc de la tête d'or.
It sounded like a plan.
Tristan lifted his gaze to his class, now studying the map of Fontainebleau and its calcite outcrops where rock climbers enjoyed playing spider. His grey eyes encountered a set of warm chocolate. She smiled at him, slightly bashful at being caught staring.
Tristan smirked.
To hell with the wife, he had a class to teach.
