This is actually the first part of a trilogy of stories--each separate part told from a different character's POV, all describing the same events (for some reason, I like to do that kind of thing). No names are ever mentioned in any of the stories, but it's *real* easy to figure out who's who (though the "he" pronouns might get a little confusing at times, hint hint). The other two parts can really be read in whatever order you feel I suppose, but I wrote them with the intention that "The Dance" ought to be read first to set up the other two, then "Fire and Ice," and last but not least "Suspended." Anyway, I don't own the nameless characters and I make no profit off this story...reviews are welcome.

The Dance

The steps are complicated. He isn't used to dancing.

The couples move together, swirling around the brightly lit room in brightly false colors. There seems to be a haze in the air, giving the room a dreamlike quality, which is only enhanced by the oppressive heat of the crowd crammed into the grand space. He feels disconnected from it all, as if he is viewing the scene from outside a window. It all feels unreal.

He concentrates on the steps, watching his feet, holding her hands in the proper positions, watching the couples around him out of the corner of his eye so he won't lead his partner into someone else, so he won't trip over someone else's foot. He is losing the thread of the beat he realizes with a trickle of panic; it's buried beneath the music, buried beneath his frantic concentration on all the other niggling little details of this complex formalized dance that he must keep in mind.

He bows when the song is over, excusing himself from the next dance gratefully if not necessarily gracefully, and stumbles out of the other couples' way, finding a niche in which to stand and watch without being bothered, without bothering anyone else. His eyes roam the large room, paying particular attention to the dancers, until at last he finds her. He knows who he has been looking for; he was even fairly sure where to look. He knows her well enough by now.

He is dancing with her, he is surprised to note and tries to recall ever seeing the other man dance before. He can't. Normally at these balls the older man is standing in an elegant pose, glass in hand, talking wittily while a group of people egg him on or charming somebody else (female of course), his eyes always eventually straying to her, to watch who she is dancing with or talking to this time, as he is doing now. Only he has no elegant pose, no glass to hold, no witty remarks to make to a captive crowd. He wonders if she realizes how much she is watched every day, how often the two men's eyes stray to follow her every movement.

He looks slightly stiff, not his usual loose self, as he dances, as if he too isn't used to these strange movements. They don't look at each other as they dance, looking over each other's shoulders instead, their faces still, a slight smile on hers, the possibility of the beginning of a smile lurking on his. He knows that they are content, happy, that they are communicating with each other even without words or looks. He wonders if they wish the song would go on forever, so they won't have to stop the dance. She is obviously caught up in the dance and music, exhilarating in the free and easy movement. He isn't so sure about the other man.

He follows their swift, silent movements around the dance floor. He tries to take his eyes away, to look elsewhere around the room, perhaps find someone he can talk to, even though he always feels awkward and out of place around these people. Even another dance partner if all else fails him. But his eyes refuse to move. Still he feels the outsider at the window looking in. Her feet can't be touching the ground, she moves so lightly and gracefully. He has always loved her grace, her strength, her dazzling beauty.

The partners' lives are a dance; he knows this after having watched them both for so long. Complicated, dangerous moves, stepping lightly and delicately around any feelings they don't want to or can't admit to, afraid lest they tread on each other's toes. Still they keep dancing, changing the steps when the music changes, changing the pace when the beat and rhythm changes. He knows she will never trip and fall, but he isn't so sure about the other man.

The song ends.

They clap, they bow, they look around for acquaintances with which to occupy themselves now that their dance is over, and her eyes fall upon him, as they always somehow manage to do at these occasions, no matter how insignificant and overlooked he might be considered by everyone else at the party, no matter how insignificant and overlooked he might feel. She is always looking out for him, taking care of him like a mother or older sister would, wherever they go. At these functions that he so rarely attends, she has a dance or two with him; she introduces him to people and makes sure a conversation is comfortably started before slipping away to one of her numerous friends, enemies, or mere acquaintances, reasonably certain he can now fend for himself without being too unbearably gauche or rude.

She smiles when she sees him, and immediately she begins threading her way toward him, maneuvering easily around the crowds of people with years of practice in her cumbersome (if gorgeous and expensive) ball gown. Her hair falls down past her shoulders, curling in what seems an utterly perfect and natural way. She is always beautiful.

He finds himself smiling reflexively back and waiting politely for her to join him, acting for all the world as if his thoughts are idle, unimportant fancies and appropriate for anyone to hear. Sometimes his face knows exactly what mask to wear, knows exactly what friendly but completely disinterested look to keep in place so that no one knows what he is truly thinking and feeling. He looks around for her cousin, but the older man has melted into the crowd.

"Dance with me?" she asks expectantly, still with that beautifully ignorant smile on her face. Perhaps she isn't completely ignorant--how could she be? She knows him too well; he can be too obvious, too expressive of his emotions--but his mask is still working in his favor at this moment, and she doesn't know what he has been thinking or that he has been watching her dance all this time.

He shakes his head shyly, trying to make his excuses--she knows how bad a dancer he is--but as always, she will have none of it, dragging him into a free space amongst the other dancing couples. He doubts anyone can refuse her when she sets her mind to something. She guides his hands to the right places but waits for him to begin their movement around the floor. He wants to tell her she might as well lead too, but of course he doesn't.

The song is slow, haunting. He finds himself responding to the music in a way he never could before while dancing, the song gripping him. After a while, his eyes even leave his feet and he lets himself merely move to the music, unworried by the thought of anyone's feet getting in the way. Unworried by the thought of tripping and falling.

His eyes fall onto her face now that he is looking away from his feet, and he gladly takes the chance to watch her, take note of the lines around her mouth caused by the slight smile curving her lips softly up. She is staring into space dreamily, allowing herself to be led around the floor by him. He wishes he knew what could make her smile like that. He notices the loosened curl hanging ticklishly close to her ear, wishing he could brush it away; he sees the way her bangs fall almost into her clear blue eyes, shading them; he memorizes the color of her skin under this light, this close to his face, and only hopes he can hold onto the memory. The rest of the room falls away; he exists in his own world with only his dancing partner and the melancholy music. Even the music is elusive, dreamlike, not entirely connected to his world. She is the only reality that matters.

She wakes from whatever reverie she is having and glances at him, an affectionate and indulgent smile on her face for a split second, altering to slight startlement when she realizes his eyes aren't safely on his feet for once. He has never had such close direct eye contact with her before.

And for once, he doesn't look away in awkward embarrassment, doesn't blush and cringe inwardly at himself for being such a hopelessly romantic ass. He holds her gaze. It isn't a conscious decision; he is barely aware of what he is trying to show her, as if he is now an outsider to his own body and can only watch what he himself does. And he finds he doesn't care that he isn't in charge of himself at the moment.

She frowns in bemusement, then studies his face thoughtfully, his eyes especially, until finally a slight beginning of some realization dawns on her face. Something slams down over her eyes, a barrier, and she looks away, over his shoulder, an impassive if stiff look on her face. She seems to straighten, to pull herself away from him though she can't very well go far while still dancing with him.

He has no choice but to look away as well.

He keeps the dance going because the song is not finished. And he knows they have their own complicated dance as well, and he will have to be careful not to trip and fall. He knows she never will.