The press of the crowd, unwilling to part despite the announcement. No time to check my appearance – no chance of finding her. Hands suddenly shaking, I banished the threat of humiliation, gasps and feminine admiration filling my ears. The sting of bile, anxiety coiling–
Why now, of all times?
My eyes closed of their own accord, focus shifting to simply breathing. Both palms remained damp, slick with sweat, an almost foreign sensation. Another breath and I was in her home, tripping over my feet, enjoying her laughter.
One-two-three, one-two-three.
How many times had I fallen before her, flaunting weakness? How many hours did she spend in my arms, correcting form and posture, lips trailing my ear? How often had I clasped her hand, spinning along with the music, praying she would never let go? Of course, the time always came; too short, too near:
The memory of her touch branded on my skin.
One-two-three, one-two-three.
When she suggested the local competitions, I did not argue. My companion did not understand baseless fear; Yusuke thought the whole affair hilarious. I could not say no to her, not for this, not for anything. Downy lips pressed to my shoulder, thunderclouds flashing in her eyes:
I was helpless in her hands.
"Ready?"
Her voice, the softest of whispers. A vision in black, her teeth flashed a smile, hand slipping into mine. She did not flinch from the moist flesh, refused to note the trembling fingers laced with her own. Rather, she gave a gentle squeeze, my only warning before being pulled onto the dance floor.
Minute applause at our names though mostly the onlookers stared, curious, appalled. Skirt flowing about our legs, Azumi turned, back flush with my abdomen, face buried in my neck. One hand grasped my hair, though the other held me still, palm pressed to her stomach. Breathing in her scent, I relished her nails at my nape, hand navigating her hip, her navel.
A path committed to memory.
We swayed with the music, a song several centuries old. She floated about, fingers trailing, dress clouds drifting about us. Dark things rested in her steps, her eyes, solicitous promises of the night. If she was the night, I was the moon. Her lover–
Her slave.
I followed without question, adoring starlit skin and raven tresses. On impulse, I pulled her close, nose burying in her hair. Sage and mint; the softest of sounds in her throat:
One I would grow used to.
One-two-three, one-two-three.
Fingers drifted to my chin, my shoulder, played with the buttons at my chest. I recognized the act – we'd rehearsed it countless times – yet the sight of her hand over my heart, golden skin atop white cloth an offering:
Could she hear what beat for her?
The final notes faded, my palm at her nape, the barest of inches between us. If I wished, I could close the distance, claim her lips – show her just what these hands could do. Such was excusable; the music would be blamed, passion inherent to the art.
Before I could decide, applause erupted, shattering the fantasy. Her eyes shone, twin opals twinkling and I could not help but smile. A grateful bow and we retreated, the onlookers eagerly making way. Soon enough, their attention drifted to the next couple and we were forgotten, mere shadows in the corner of the room.
This was the moment I dreaded most, for when the crowd lost interest, she always let go, eager to reclaim solidarity. No excuse remained for her touch so I'd learned to accept it. After all, we were nothing more than teacher and student, two adults linked by a minuscule sum. I was nothing to her–
Only this time, she did not let go.
No, her fingers remained curled around mine, tiny; warm. I did not question her moving closer but when her head fell upon my shoulder, I stiffened, fearing something was wrong.
"Azumi–"
But she shook her head, not bothering to cover a yawn. Another soon followed and I chuckled, leading her to a pair of chairs. She sat without prompting and I slouched, allowing her to use me as a human pillow. Work had been hectic for her – we'd rescheduled lessons several times because of night-time shoots – though I somehow overlooked her lack of energy, the circles beneath her eyes hidden by the barest touch of makeup:
The sluggishness rivaling her ordinary grace.
Without a second thought, I rose, gathering her in my arms. She protested but didn't fight, listening to simple reason. The results would find their way to us and if they did not, just as well. There would be other contests, more opportunities to give the world a spectacle. I could not tell whether she heard the entire explanation, head resting against my chest.
Just as well.
Leaving word with a staff member, I took to the streets, calling a taxi service. Thankfully, we did not draw much attention there, one in a thousand couples enjoying the night air. A soft murmur as the cab pulled up, a single word I almost missed. Grip never wavering, I set her inside the car before slipping in, giving the driver her address.
Azumi slept the entire drive, cheek falling once more upon me, mouth tracing syllables I could not hear. That word again and her breath hitched, lips trembling. Pulling her close, I rubbed her hair, her back, soothing her as one would a child. At some point, she awoke – evidenced by a quickened pulse, a change of breath – though she gave no indication of it, content to feign sleep.
Even then, she never released my hand.
September 2020 OTP Drabbles.
Prompt 1: Holding hands