Pas de Deux

For Silver's prompt: 4. Revolutionshipping. "Do you...I mean...well...I could give you a massage?"

Inspiration: Paprika Brasil, Don Henley's Boys of Summer, and photos of sweltering summer days and crisp autumn nights at Central Park. And pink, fuzzy legwarmers. Do not own.

Disclaimer: Do not own YGO either.

...

Atem hated summer.

More specifically, he hated the heat.

Well, not the heat, necessarily. He was, after all, the supreme ruler of an equatorial nation in a past life, baked by sun and tradition.

No, what he hated was the sweltering New York City heat, a travesty much more endemic than the dry Saharan swell of burnt sand.

Specifically, he hated what Anzu wore in the humid, oppressive atmosphere that crushed moisture like a steamroller on caffeine. He didn't mind the pretty crowns that Anzu wove from the flowers they bought from the Sunday Farmer's Markets. What he did mind were the itty-bitty shrunken shorts and crop tops that went with them when the temperature swelled above a hundred. Or- worse- that miserable excuse of a dance leotard masquerading as exercise gear that she wore while bending in practically inhuman forms.

It wasn't even the leotard, really. It was the way people stared when she twirled and spun, blush pink ribbons fluttering in the breeze. He quite appreciated the way the waning dusk hit her form just so, the sparkle in her eyes swirling, especially when he leaned in to steal a kiss between pirouttes. Or five, or twenty, before she playfully swatted his arm and returned to using his shoulder as a human barre.

What Atem minded especially was the way tourists gaped and took pictures. Ooooh! They would always gasp, not quite bothering to dim their awe. It's Anzu Mazaki, the principal ballerina! Practicing in Central Park!

Must. Blog. Immediately. was the next logical step. Evidently.

Anzu didn't mind at all. She was too lost in choreography to notice the throng of gaping people throttling what used to be lonely evening practices outdoors, away from the glare of studio lights, basked in the natural glow of fall leaves and Atem's loving, if somewhat possessive gaze. The adoring fans, however, had no idea who the boyfriend even was, let alone what duel monsters were. Atem the stretching partner/purse carrier had been cropped out of so many blogposts that the only evidence he existed was the occasional spike of hair in the background, and even then he was often upstaged by squirrels with excellent photobombing skills.

Atem didn't mind the relative anonymity, either. Refreshing, really, to be known as Anzu's practice partner instead of the more regal, if somewhat vague, King of Games.

Then a video of the one time he tripped while attempting a pas de deux hit the blogosphere, inspiring overly enthusiastic ballet fans everywhere to mob their corner game shop like Kaiba Corp was going out of business. (Spoiler: it definitely wasn't, not by the way stock options skyrocketed after said fans discovered duel discs. Atem received a very enthusiastic phone call from Mokuba after the videos went viral, though it did take several minutes for Mokuba to explain that Atem did not, in fact, require vaccinations against the Internet obsessed.)

As for the video, well, whatever Anzu said, it was definitely not easy to spot another person several hours after eating. Or ever, for that matter. Tracking the ribbons around Anzu's waist was dizzying enough. Add to that the leaves blending into orange-y swirls of red and yellow, plus the psychedelically hypnotic sidewalk below. Small wonder Atem tripped on a particularly concave point and launched himself into Internet stardom via the neighboring pond.

When he finally extricated himself from the school of goldfish, Anzu had collapsed on the ground, shrunken into bundle of giggles and snorts. Atem tried- and failed- to glare. Then gave up at the reflection in her eyes.

He looked utterly ridiculous, hair inexplicably still jutting in every direction under the sun, clad in one of Joey's old work-out shirts, Yugi's old gym shorts, and Anzu's only pair of large-ish legwarmers. (In hot pink, no less, to match her leotard.)

Atem tried and failed to think of a witty retort. Instead, all he could manage was gaping, at the way the autumnal light framed Anzu's giggles, the way the goldfish fins tackled his forehead, and the way those eyes crinkled made him want to fall more often, just because...

Finally, the fish succeeded in its quest to extricate itself from its tri-colored prison, landing in the pond with a triumphant splash, silver scales torpedoing Atem's leg in protest. At that, Anzu wheezed for several more minutes, still hunched over, peals of giggles reverberating from tree to tree. The sound etched itself into his brain, rippling with the water as she jumped in, the shockwaves sending Atem headfirst into the water again.

When he surfaced a minute later, her eyes were still crinkled, this time accompanied by delicate fingers on his sore shoulder.

"Do you...er...I mean...well...I could give you a massage...if you don't mind the headlines?"

...

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