A/N: So I'm sick again (even though I was JUST sick a week or two ago) and it's causing me extreme lack of sleep. Combined with cough medication and boredom, I've become extremely slap-happy today. This is the result… Riley POV, slash.
Disclaimer: Ben and Riley aren't mine, sadly, but if they were… I would be a lot less bored right now =D Oh, and "Just Dance" isn't mine either.
Sometimes, when you feel frustrated or alone, or any feeling at all, the very best thing you can do is dance it out.
My mother instilled this belief into me long before I was old enough to realize that guys really don't dance. As a result, one of my favorite pastimes has always been to turn up my music and "dance it out."
It was one of those extremely long, unproductive days that could drive the most patient of people crazy. I felt that I had accomplished absolutely nothing—I'd spent seven hours on that stupid code, and it still wasn't working.
The code was a little ridiculous, actually. It was unimportant, but still I couldn't help but feel completely useless.
Frustrated, I shut my laptop and found my iPod in the mess of papers on the desk. I put it on shuffle and entered the kitchen.
At first, busying myself with the preparations for dinner, I wasn't really listening to the music. Once I'd gotten the skillet warmed up, however, the music was suddenly blaring in my ears.
"I've had a little bit too much/all of the people start to rush/Where does he twist the dance?/Can't find a drink, oh man…"
I pretend to glare at the voice in my head. "I will not just dance," I growled aloud, hoping that, by some strange force of nature, the song would change. But it didn't, and by the chorus, I just couldn't help myself.
I began to dance around the kitchen, singing the words I didn't really know. I was getting into the beat, and had almost completely forgotten about dinner.
"Just dance, it'll be okay… Isaac Newton, just dance!"
"What are you listening to?"
Freezing at the sound of his voice, I slowly turned around. I dropped the butter knife I had been using for a microphone on the counter and met his eyes.
"Hi, Ben," I greeted, trying to eliminate the awkwardness. "What's up?"
"Don't try to get around it," he said, dropping his keys on the counter next to the knife. "What are you doing?"
"Cooking dinner," I explained. It was the truth, really. "Actually, you're in the way."
He stepped aside so I could flip the grilled cheese in the skillet. The now-cooked side was a little too burnt for my taste. "Damn," I muttered.
"I meant with the knife," he said.
"Oh, um…" I trailed off. "Iwasjustdancing," I muttered in a tiny voice.
"You were… just dancing?" he asked, a little incredulous.
"Yeah. It's the name of the song," I explained, finally removing my headphones since the song had ended.
"And in this dancing song, they talk about Isaac Newton?" he asked.
"Is that what I said?" I asked myself in a whisper. Then, addressing him, I explained, "I don't really know the words."
"Your sandwich is burning," he said suddenly.
The acrid scent of burnt bread reached my nostrils, and I turned toward the skillet with a grimace. Both sides of my dinner were irrevocably burned. Frustrated, I threw it on the plate. "I really, really hate burned grilled cheese."
"I'll fix another one for you, and then I'll eat that one," he offered. "I like it burned. Besides, you're too distracted to make yourself dinner," he teased with a smile.
"That's not fair!" I accused. "You've never heard this song. It's addicting!"
"I highly doubt it's so addicting as to cause you to ruin your dinner," he said, eyebrows raised as he started making another sandwich.
"You wanna bet?" I asked. I was already turning to plug my iPod into the speakers in the living room.
"One-two-three-four!" shouted the rapper at the beginning. I hummed along, but Ben remained impervious to the effects of the hypnotic beat.
"You can't say this beat doesn't get to you," I said, swaying my hips just a bit as I got us drinks.
"Not at all," he said.
He was lying: although he wasn't flat-out dancing like me, he was moving in time to the rhythm and sort-of bobbing his head.
"You're a terrible dancer," I told him. "That's your problem."
"I am not!" he recoiled with a surprised look. He regained his composure and added, "Besides, what would it matter if I wasn't a good dancer?"
"You'd never have proper credibility with me," I told him. "My mother always said that you can express everything you feel through dancing if you do it right."
He raised an eyebrow as he placed my much less burnt grilled cheese on a plate. "I don't believe that either."
"Because you're a bad dancer," I explained, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the center of the kitchen. "It's easy enough, though. Just sway your hips in beat." I demonstrated my point by swaying and singing along, words improvised. He looked ridiculously embarrassed, and I couldn't help but laugh. "Try it!"
He rolled his eyes, but watched the moves I made, and soon enough we were both dancing around the kitchen. He kept bumping into me, which made me laugh, and by the end of the song we were laughing so hard we had to stop for air.
"Okay, so you were right about the song," he said, grabbing his plate with a smile.
"Aren't I always?" I asked with a proud grin as I sat down at the table
"Being right about one thing does not constitute constant correctness," he said with a grin, sitting down opposite me.
"Alliteration aside—" he grinned "—just because you're correct more often than I am doesn't mean I'm never correct."
"Very true," he answered. "But the way I recall it, my correct guess got us here in the first place."
I remembered that night with a grin. "True. Happy 6 month anniversary."
"The same to you," he said with a grin. "And guess what's for dessert?"
"Candy hearts?" I asked, excited.
"And a little more…"
A/N: I'll let you think what you will of that last line =D …review, please?