~*~ Respective Viewpoints ~*~
Sitting silently as always, nursing a drink with casual indifference, he watched the dancer amidst a crowd of others on the floor with no expression to betray his thoughts to anyone watching. His eyes drank in the sight of the man's fingers sliding through his long, dark hair with unconscious grace, of those same fingers splayed, sliding down his chest to the waistband of the black leather trousers that hugged his form like a lover's embrace.
Shaking his head he glanced at his drink and took another sip. He couldn't think now how many nights he'd come here since the first, when he'd unexpectedly seen him in the crowd. After he'd watched him dance though, he continued to return on the off-chance of seeing him, and finally worked out the pattern of his appearances. It was a drug, an addiction, one he didn't want to break.
Glancing up as the music finished, he watched as the man ran his fingers through his hair again then left the floor for a dark corner not far away, signaling a nearby waitress. He'd chosen this spot purposely, he always did, knowing he could watch every move in comfort, without straining. Silently he watched, dreaming of a day when his shore might border that of another world.
~*~
The beat was hard and strong, perfectly matching that of his heart as he danced in solitude, in his own little world. Nothing mattered here but the song and the movement. He never noticed the people who watched him, never noticed the lustful stares, the envy, and in some cases the awe -- it'd happened so many times before that it had ceased to have meaning for him. This was his release from it all, his escape, a place where nobody knew him and nobody cared what he'd done, only what he might do. He didn't mind the hands that brushed against him and he didn't acknowledge them, causing no end of suffering in those who kept trying to draw him from his dream-like state. The beat ground on, and him with it, to an explosive finale that left him gasping. One more time he ran his fingers through his hair, then retreated to a dark corner and signaled a waitress for his usual.
He shook a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it from the candle nearby, leaning back as he exhaled slowly at the ceiling. A soft clink signaled the arrival of his order and he grabbed it without looking, the weight of the cool, heavy glass comforting in his grip. He knew he was being watched now. He recognized the burning intensity of the gaze from years past, the gaze of his former enemy.
Lazy streams of blue-grey smoke coiled up into the dark above, floating effortlessly. It reminded him of how it felt when he danced, free and unfettered. By and large, people here knew to leave him alone, knew that he would not respond to anything but the music. He wondered, idly, why his former rival never spoke to him on these nights, after all these months of simply watching. Perhaps soon he would trouble himself to find out. He inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke draw into his lungs like mist to be cooled in his apparent indifference, then watched again as the curls wafted ever upward into the darkness.