Title: Conducive Rhythm
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Joey x Tristan

Summary: Tristan hasn't danced all night. Joey's about to change that.

Notes: Blame Stuart Dybek. I read his work again tonight, and it causes this stuff, I swear. You can't read a guy talking about how neon glints on the surface of a cup of coffee and not want to write about glowing things. Though I really have no good reason for who I chose, except that Tristan insists on being in everything. Geez. But who can resist those big brown eyes?

"Can I have this dance?"

Tristan looked up. Stranded in the corner of the nightclub for the better part of the evening, his mood was hardly conducive to dancing. So forgive his surprise when someone approached him despite his scowl.

Of course, this someone was immune to his scowl by now.

"Oh, come on, you know I can't dance."

"You're so full of shit, man," the other snorted, "you and I learned to dance together, and god help me, you're gonna dance!"

"I'm NOT dancing with you." Tristan replied flatly.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Are."

"Not."

"Fuck."

"What?"

"You!"

"Not interested, thanks," Tristan smirked, spreading his hands. First mistake. A hand as roughly callused as his own clamped a vise grip around his wrist and yanked him out of his seat.

"We are GONNA dance."

"Fine. But if I kill myself, your ass is MINE."

Joey only smirked over his shoulder at Tristan and hauled him forcibly into the mob. A space widened around them, as Joey threw Tristan out in a dizzying spin.

But despite Tristan's protests, the brunette did know how to dance, just as well as Joey. He caught himself before he fell, and whipped around to face his partner, glaring. Joey's smile was as unconcerned as always; overconfident and unpredictable.

Red lights from overhead stopped Tristan as they caught on the individual blonde hairs feathering against his best friend's cheeks. Glowing a little in the pit of sweat, Joey looked like fire itself. The other bodies seemed to separate from his a little. His open shirt billowed in the warm air; white wings of a phoenix opening for flight. The red light and the spangles of the disco ball washed over and dyed him the flickering acid pink of a raging gas fire, and he beckoned to Tristan, crooking his index finger archly.

Tristan shook his head, suddenly mute, trying to look uninviting and failing. Joey tossed his head with the snort of an unruly colt, and caught his hand this time, waiting for the rhythm of the music to catch up with him before circling his best friend.

When Tristan spun to follow him dubiously, he felt the tension pulling its fishhooks out of his spine. Joey had pulled away – his body was arched now in clumsy mockery of a toreador, one arm stretched high above his head.

"Toro!"

He gave Tristan a maniacal grin and dove for him, shoving both hands against his chest, dancing him backwards with a positively illegal hip-swivel. Tristan fumbled back, caught himself, snickered, and fell into the pull of the music, as quickly as that. The snap of his concentration settling into place was almost audible. He knew how to do this.

They backed to the edge of their tiny space, and then Tristan spun away, slipping out of Joey's reach as though no more than smoke. Joey laughed, pivoted and charged after him. They met aggressively head on, Joey's palm laid stiffly against his partner's cheek in the mime of a slap. His arm curled up the length of Tristan's neck and shoulder. In the wild lights, his skin glowed pink, orange, green and blue. He spangled and changed like fire; like water.

The floor shimmered with heat, Tristan thought, and the shimmers sparked green behind his lids every time he closed his eyes. After a time, he felt the floor rocking under his shoes and aching calves more than he heard the heated latin music. Whatever happened next no longer mattered. This freedom in matching paces with his best friend was so much fun that he dreaded the major shift in the music when it came at last, signaling the bridge and the eventual end.

The two boys learned together, learned how to lead and not how to follow. So they led together, touching only occasionally and moving side by side instead. Tristan wanted to do this again…dance with just his friend, in the studio, maybe. Not worrying about proper form, or how to frame a partner, but how it felt to compete over just how wild they could be, showing off for one another…showing off to one another. How it felt to have the arches of his feet ache, and not care.

They were both wet with sweat, and it was harder to touch Joey because of it. His arms and chest, laid naked by his open shirt, felt more real than ever. Sticky and warm.

But Joey was forcing him, egging him into dancing closer, as naturally as if he were asking Tristan to get a soda out of the fridge.

Tristan tried to get away at first.

Until he stopped trying.

Until the music was over.

Until they were necking in the middle of a mosh pit, hanging onto each other, both of Tristan's hands under Joey's shirt.

The white wings folded over his arms, burning with heat, whispering against the soft hair velveting his skin while Joey laughed at him through the kiss.

12.25.04 - Spellcheck and general cleanup. Happy holidays!