Author's Note: To morbidGenocide, who asked when they would kiss: you're welcome. Kind of. (Psst, also, thanks for 100 followers!)
It's well after midnight when you and John stumble from the dance floor and collapse into your seats. You're both breathing heavily, and are in various stages of undress. Personally, your shirt is untucked with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and an unbuttoned collar. You discarded your tie and vest on top of your jacket about an hour ago. John is in a similar state, which allows you to appreciate how his dress shirt hugs his chest.
With some effort, you stand, crossing over to the refreshments table and returning with two cups of water. John takes one happily, chugging its contents. After hours of dancing, the cool liquid feels heavenly rushing down your parched throat.
Together, you and John decide to take a few more minutes to catch your breath before standing and beginning to put yourselves back together. You need to look presentable enough to exit through the ballroom dancing room, but neither of you really care that much. In the end, you button your vest and do your tie loosely, leaving your jacket open. John tucks his bowtie into his coat pocket, and you head out.
The beat is still pounding in your ears when you leave, but you're exhausted enough to be relieved when the door shuts behind you. The ballroom dancing has more or less come to an end, with the light strains of a slow ballad drifting across the floor. There are only a few couples left, so you and John are able to slip out without bothering anyone. The doorman (or bouncer, or whatever) retrieves your bike from the coatroom, so you thank him and bid him a good night.
"More like good morning," John jokes, glancing at his watch as you step out into the cool night air. A woman in a red dress sits on a wooden bench right outside, one arm flung over the back of the bench while her other hand delicately raises a cigarette to her face. Cars fly by, casting fleeting circles of light on the pavement and splashing water onto the sidewalk.
You walk along quietly for a few minutes, wheeling your bicycle at your left side. John is at your right, skipping along happily, a silly little grin on his face. He hums a little, and you join in, because when John is really, truly enjoying himself, it's easy to feel the same way.
There's no pressing urge to get home right away, so when John begs to stop for a while and watch the stars, you relent. He beams, taking your bike from you and balancing it carefully against the brick wall of a café you're passing. You lean back, pressing your back and the bottom of one foot to the hard surface. John does the same, his flyaway hair flattening itself against the wall.
He starts to whistle cheerfully, looking up at the night sky. You try to relax and enjoy yourself, but despite your fatigue, the sense of freedom that comes from being out at night with your best friend is invigorating. You glance over at John, taking in his silhouetted profile. The slope of his nose, the light in his eyes; it's all so perfect. It becomes hard to resist leaning over and capturing his lips in a kiss.
And when you're tired, it's so very difficult to resist much of anything.
John is very clearly shocked when he feels you pressing him back into the brick wall, but something causes him to let his eyes flutter closed. He places his hands on your waist, and to your astonishment, begins to return to kiss. You're more than a little surprised, to be honest, but it's just so wonderful that you don't think to question it. Moments later, John grips your tie and tugs on it, pulling you closer, and can you just say how fucking sexy that is?
So fucking sexy, in fact, that when he suddenly freezes up, you don't notice. Not until he shrinks away from you and quietly murmurs, "stop."
Per John's request, you step back immediately, examining his face. He looks embarrassed and conflicted, but most of all, he looks confused. Keeping his eyes downcast, he pushes off from the wall, slipping past you and continuing down the sidewalk. You snatch up your bike and roll it toward him, taking long steps until you pull up at his side.
"John, I'm sorry," you blurt, because it's the only phrase, of all those rushing through your head, that seems appropriate to vocalize. He shakes his head slowly.
"No, I'm sorry," he replies softly, voice cracking a bit like he's about to cry. You feel absolutely terrible, consumed with a deep sense of guilt. John was having such a great time, and it's unmistakably your fault for ruining it. You're also horribly confused. You were sure that John was kissing you back, so why is he upset? Yet it remains undoubtable that it was the kiss that caused his distress.
Unfortunately, John doesn't offer any explanation for the entire walk home. It's a long and awkward journey. He stops when you reach his house, facing you, but not speaking or meeting your eyes.
"I'll come pick up the suit tomorrow," is all you can think to say. John nods somberly and turns away, dragging his feet a little as he makes the trek up to his front door. You're reminded of how those same feet bounced eagerly on the curb earlier that night, and are struck with just how different those two images are.
You watch him wrench open the door and close it behind him before straddling your bike and starting home. Up until the last part of the night, you were sure that today's surprise had been a complete success. Great outfits, great dancing, and a lot of fun.
So why do you feel like such a failure?