Summary: Tobirama is the dancing king and nobody puts Sakura in the corner.

Chapter 6: There's a Sense of Fondness and Love.

Tobirama is sitting at the dinner table, food prepared and served, just waiting on Sakura to join before starting. Following their first kiss plus declaration/conversation, the passing days had brought him a sense of distraction he hasn't known for a long time. His innate ability to channel his passions into useable deliverables is dashed to atomic particles. He is preoccupied by the ephemeral passing of her perfume, engrossed by memories, and downright besotted when she saunters through the room. His new Aphrodite, a perfect plum wine. Honeyed, yet subtle and still capable of getting him drunk.

It is atypical. And in excess, he would be disgusted with himself. And perhaps her as well, were it not so directly beneficial to him.

But for now, he owns it as it is. Fun. Exciting too. (And maybe a dash gushy.) It has been so long since he had a crush or been driven by infatuation, something to focus on that wasn't work or work related, something to enjoy, he sincerely felt he was gliding.

Her affectionate reflection of his silly behavior makes it that much sweeter. Stolen glances, soft moments, sly smiles. She is haughty and naughty with the newfound power she wields and yet bashful and hopeful when she sees him so affected. Sometimes it's all shyness and delicacy. He has caught her demurely looking at him from across the room and, even from a distance, he can see her flushed cheeks as she coyly looks away. Then other times she'll boldly sit on his lap, run her nails down the ridges of his stomach, or pull his face for a quick kiss.

It was all building, but with honesty following the milestones that were common in the beginning of relationships, as he promised.

Being thoughtless is one of the worst insults he could think of to be called, so he had to put aside both his books to do some light internet research on the opening of their relationship, specifically from platonic to romantic. To determine the best pathway with the least accidental inconsideration towards one another. He also found a chronicle on physical intimacy, mapping out exactly what is suitable and when.

He knew they were past the 'eye' and 'hand' phase. Now they were on the 'face' phase, discovering the acceptable types of kisses they wished to share. After that, the transition to 'touch,' and finally to variations of 'clothes' to 'genitals.' He also discovered that the order does not have to be sequential, or completed in totality. A breakthrough moment can combine all variations. Backtracking was also normative. A reassurance if he ever heard one as their development would track as well as a tangled ball of yarn.

If, pure lands forbid, things do not work out with Sakura, then he will still be glad to have started researching. To read about the stages that occur so clearly and naturally was informative. He was made better for the knowledge. And felt equipped with foresight on how to address her concerns.

"For me?" she asked with a humorous tone. Sitting down and kissing his cheek in thanks.

'For us,' was the more correct answer, it was his turn to make dinner for them. But if she is being cheeky, so can he.

"No, I'm famished. It's all mine." He pulled her plate to his side of the table without pause.

She laughed so genuinely; it warmed him tip to toe. Her moving to his lap made the warmth spread laterally to all his fingers.

"Guess I'll have to share off your plate then."

"Guess so."

If Sakura didn't represent the pinnacle of his capacity of tolerance and fondness, then he was not sure what would (perhaps some adorably fuzzy irresistible small animal; then again, he was fond of a good fur trim). He accepts all her silly quirks. Her propensity for rivalry, her tenacity for making him useful when he wants to sit and relax, and her forward nature disguised behind rigid and proper politeness.

But if she didn't stop creating situations of forced participation he was going to draw and quarter her.

Sakura has not caught the bouquet as many times as one would expect for as competitive as she can be. In fact, only two out of nth number of weddings did she even try (and successfully caught the two, the rabid beast) to catch the bridal flowers. Her third catch, the one causing his current palpitations, was with her on the sidelines acting a happy fool with her good natured excitement and hands raised in praise of the sky.

It's a surprise to both of them when the bundled flowers plop exactly into her stretched hands, as if ordained and blessed for the flawless landing. From his vantage he could see that there was a saboteur intent on preventing her mosh neighbor from getting the bouquet, a jump and swat causes the arrangement to hop away from the clawing center, skipping merrily past the grasping ladies and straight to Sakura's wiggling digits.

One would call it kismet; he would call it black luck.

That's not good. That means it is up to him to catch the garter belt or whatever ladies wedding adornment that gets tossed in order for them to be paired. When she bounds to his side, all saccharine smiles, he knows the game is on and he wastes no time in getting into position once the game is called.

He has to do it, if he misses the catch it means he lost to Sakura, not to mention the gentlemen competitors. He has height, reach, and speed advantage. His position is good too, centered enough to veer left or right, front or back, with ease. Maximizing his range.

But fierce is an underwhelming description of the savagery he is currently enduring with this crowd. Too many young men, all close in age. All painfully, (obviously), terminally single. Still new to the transition from college to work, energetic as a large puppy with characteristically paired clumsy physical considerations. Elbows are thrown, bodies checked, tackles push and sway the group. Thankfully, he has had recent training against such flailing, plus a lifetime of brotherly rough housing.

When his world turns and the air vacates his lungs, Tobirama considers; If he were a watcher rather than a partaker, such friendly comradery and fraternity would make him warm hearted, maybe even stimulate a smile. He appreciates wholesomeness, especially on young and carefree faces.

Instead, he is on the ground with a half dozen others the moment the bride's trinket flies. Mumph doesn't being to cover his discontent and discomfort, but it's the only sound he deigns worthy of vocalization. These fricking feral brutes.

Worse to his position on a germ riddled, sticky, hard floor; he missed catching the garter belt by miles and therefore lost to Sakura.

When he gets heftily pulled up by a familiar little hand, Sakura is gloriously sprouting a victorious smile of excessive teeth and cheek. The sting of failure is absent in face of the actual bodily pain, desensitization and all that. Still, she bounces with excitement as she sings her 'V-I-C-T-O-R-Y' and the less quick chant of 'hold on, wait a minute, Sakura put some boom into it! Helipad, Turboprop, Sakura always stay on top!'

She continues her good natured attitude when she dances with the catching winner. When her partner wasn't able to see, she goofily flashed Tobirama a secret thumbs up. When she loses sight of him, she reverts back to the charming, friendly, companionable dance partner. Tobirama contemplates the figure they cut, looking attractive and compatible with their complementary colors and styles, while he waits on the sidelines. Nursing his ego, but mostly his body.

About midway in the song, the floor is opened to other couples. Tobirama is ready to intercede should she signal for rescue, but their choreographed path treads her within his arm's reach organically, close enough for him to hear a blip of their conversation. Giving him a vantage of hearing her cry for help rather than interpreting from body language. Thank goodness, because he has been garbage at reading her lately.

He is not a naturally jealous person; reassurances were nice and completely unnecessary for his well being. But her twinkling laugh and the conversation carrying to his ears is a powerful affirmation of their connection and fills him with a sense of compersion (and a bit of trepidation as well, they only technically started dating a week ago).

"I would love to have three Tobirama juniors running around."

"You don't think that would be unpleasant, copies of your mean boyfriend?" The good looking guy who caught the garment with a flying leap of impressive athleticism sounds sincere, unmalicious. He appears genuinely curious about Sakura's relationship with Tobirama, asking questions as if her answers hold some secret to a lifetime of happiness. "Looking unhappy and grumpy at everything? Correcting you at every turn? Telling you to shut up?" He said with a finishing smile and a fun spin.

Sakura took it in stride, responding oh so sweetly in his defense, "Tobirama doesn't look unhappy, he just doesn't wastefully express his happiness. It's wrinkle prevention technique, if you must know." She gives her dance partner a look, contemplative enough to suggest 'perhaps you should try it,' without actually verbalizing the insult. Then to enunciate their purpose she sashays away and back to her partners arms. "And I like it when he corrects me. It means he is paying attention and cares enough to not let me make mistakes. If he didn't correct me, I would be worried." A small pause and then added afterthought, she says, "and he never tells me to shut up."

She gives another amused face, with matching musing eyes, politely and mutely suggesting that maybe he should shut up, and there may be a reason he has been told to shut up. There is a shared laugh between the two, and Tobirama wonders how she so easily manages people. He is certain that it is due to her tendency to smile, but it doesn't hurt that she is a beauty with a mean, mean, punch. Right and left, the chit was ambidextrous.

The song was ending, and that was as good a time to take her away from her new friend. Tobirama steps forward and offers his arm with a nod to her partner, and pulls her to dance. As an unexpected but welcomed farewell parting gift, the fella she danced with says that the two of them make a great couple, shaking Tobirama's hand with friendly cordiality and a popping smile. The action evaporates any malice he may have felt at hearing the stranger's unpleasant perception of his character.

They fall into their standard form, moving with the perfection of people who have practiced their routine a hundred times more than required. This crowd is closer to their age than what they normally attend, meaning the music is modern and the layout… well it was not lacking in taste, but was bold and vibrant in a way that made his sensitive retinas burn and water when making direct and prolonged eye contact. Of course, Sakura loved it to pieces as it was her favorite color as the main motif (if a color could be a theme), and subsequently she was virtually glowing with delight.

The combination was… enticing. The energy of the room was different from the usual, Sakura's affirmation, her dress, the crowd. It was open, freer and, truthfully, it made him want to try a different kind of dance. A less than virtuous kind. Something they have never done before, and something he only tried fleetingly in his young adult life. The sway they've adopted was soothing, comfortable and familiar, but a bit boring on occasion. Certainly, an occasion like this.

Her arms were (surprise!) around his neck, gently pulling him down, just a little, while his hands were wrapped around her waist. He straightened the curve in his posture to look around, compare what others were doing to blend more seamlessly. He wanted to try more, but it was still early in the night. An unintended benefit of his visual assessment was that it caused Sakura to more fully extend her reach and become flush with his body, with a cute little squeak.

He ruefully smiled in response, lowering back down for her comfort and using a harder touch to ease the weight off her feet and his neck. Fondness radiating out of his pours.

So strange the difference a kiss could make. She was hanging off his neck three weeks ago similarly hugging him close, and no cryptic meanings. But the addition of intent, the promises, meant everywhere she touched lit him up and simmered his skin into goosebumps.

His heart rate was picking up quickly, beating rapidly in a tempo so fast he knows prolonged excitement would cause him to end up on the floor, fainting like a ninny. From being held and thinking about holding a girl. Or grinding on a girl. Or was the more appropriate term dirty dancing?

Or was it thinking about her becoming his girl? Urg.

How old was he? Getting excited over this?

Worse, getting confused over this.

There was a little pinch at the base of his neck followed by little caresses, soothing the pain to nothingness. It pulls him, attention and mindless tangential thinking and all, downwards to the mischievous minx with devilish eyes.

"Nothing to say about the T-Baby's juniors comment?"

"Absolutely not."

They shared a subdued laugh.

"Pretty sure you told him, and I'm quoting him here, to 'shut the eff up,' sometime in the past."

"He is probably mistaken, that particular phrase is reserved for a limited number of…" oh hey, now that he was thinking about it, that guy was the assistant or junior or colleague to his best frenemy. "Never mind, I did say that to him. I remember now."

Tobirama gave her his absolute best version of a rakish smile following his declaration, not really sure how to respond expect to laugh. What a small world.

"Oh my god, he was right. My boyfriend is mean!" she said with a smile, accepting his twirl and falling back into his arms with pleasure. His attempted rakish smile morphed into a regular smile at the 'boyfriend' title before he completely sterilized his face of emotion.

"Relax, I need to save my smiles for more important events," he said with stoicism a marbled bust could envy.

With faux shock, Sakura escapes his arms and dramatically drops into a vacant chair close to the dance floor, ready for a break. "No, I'm not worthy of a wrinkle? The future mother of your children?"

"I don't recall baby making activities." He said while dropping into the next chair closest to her, losing the expressionless face and adopting a more relaxed and neutral countenance. Her hands reached toward him, and he accepts the hold from one while she picks fuzz or lint from his opposite shoulder.

The leaning in creating a bubble of intimacy. Their hands always finding a home or in synchronistic orbit of each other. Her eyebrows wiggle. "Baby making lite activities?"

He accidentally stretches the moment, thinking about the best way to respond. In the end, he opted for honesty. "I want to make a comment about sparing you a potential wrinkle once we move onto baby making activities, but I think it'll come off as disgusting. Help me out?"

She giggled and leaned in to press a small kiss to his mouth. The tenderness of the gesture accented by the tentative nature of her exploration. "You can't even make your own jokes now?"

His attitude made affectionate and softer after the kiss, tension in his jaw releasing. Scooting his chair, a little closer so his knees encompass hers. He takes hold of her other hand to gently cradle them between their bodies. His face, grave, as if telling her terrible, terrible news. "I never joke. I say things and you laugh."

Of course, that caused her to laugh until she chortles. Out of control long enough that he starts laughing too. When she catches her breath, she ruefully admits to him, "That's kind of true. I think you could say anything and make it funny."

He deadpans at her, summoning the driest of dry voices and thinks of the most random word he can, inspiration from the table. "Spoon?"

"No." She folded in half laughing, gripping his hands in a white knuckled hold. She is down so long he starts to fold with her, his chest gently pressing on her back as his laugh gains a heartier quality. When she returns to an erect position, uncrimping together, she is shaking her head in exacerbation at her own weakness. "How was that funny? How?"

He shakes his head in return, his own smile larger than he can ever remember. He takes a moment to observe her, before reaching out to gently touch her chin, delicate and light. An almost moment of special romantic intent. Another serious moment. That is, until his response, "I've wondered that about you before. Perhaps a defect?" and she is back to her hysterics. A wheezing 'stop' intermittently spicing up her cackling.

Tobirama returns to shaking his head and motions to the bar area and receiving a nod of approval from her, he gets up to grab them drinks. He is parched, so much laughing, too much jolly strain. He pilfers a few snacks on route back as well, already sensing that this would be one of the longer nights.

She readily accepts all treats and is prepped with her response, patiently waiting for him to resettle next to her before delivering. "Hopefully resulting from environmental influences, would be a shame for it to be genetic."

"Indeed, can you imagine little TJ laughing and smiling?"

"No! He would naturally age? Do you have a manual for the no smiling thing? No child of mine is going to get laugh lines at a completely reasonable age. Mine are atrocious, I hate them!"

Takes extraordinarily little for him to reach out to her face, hardly anything with how close they are all the time. His caresses her chin again with his blunt nails and the fatty tips of his fingers, delicate and sweet just as before, but without the comical follow-up. His thumb, traveling near the skin of her mouth. He can see the raise of her skin and hair in response as her eyes adopt a touch of seriousness. No, he would not joke about that. Because the laugh lines just starting to make indents on her cheeks represent one of his favorite qualities about her, her expressiveness. Her openness. Her smiles. "They aren't that bad."

Her sigh fills the space between them, a contented and comfortable sound if he ever heard one. The sound of coming home after a long day and sinking into your favorite chair. "Working on that meanness already, nice. Nice. But stop trying to distract me, the manual sir? Do you have one?"

Her inquisitive face, much too serious for their larking, drives him into being contrary. He drops his hand from her face to eat and drink. Taking his time with slow chewing and languid sipping, watching her watch him in some mild behavioral study. Her cheeks glow when he licks a finger suggestively, although it was only suggestive because of the intense eye contact, otherwise it would be regular finger licking.

She eventually prompts him again, with a blushing 'well?' And he is reminded of a distant rumor about his family guarding the fountain of youth, or some such nonsense because they are less prone to permanent facial creases.

"Family secret."

With the animateness of her eye roll, he thinks she probably saw her frontal lobe in unique detail. "Of course! I bet if we got married, it would suddenly be a trade secret too."

He rubs his thumb over the tip of the index finger and middle finger, dusting crumbs off his hands before replying, "And if you somehow got a job with the family company, I should warn you it's also a states secret."

Sakura's head is already shaking side-to-side, smile still present, but more in control of her mirthful demeanor. "Damn, that is a lot of hurdles. The topest of secrets."

"Indeed," was his simple answer, standing and offering his hand to help her rise. She accepts, coyly sliding her hand in his, her four fingers filling less than half his larger palm. When he pulls her up, back towards the dance floor, she becomes confused.

"We can leave now, we've done out quota," she asks and states in equal measures of bewilderment.

"Or we could dance some more?" He had not lost hope about the saucy dancing. And now that more time has passed, the variation of dancers on the floor gives him hope of blending.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Her smile gains as he pulls her towards the center, squeezing her flush with hands griping, the push pull of a lively social dance directing the couple throughout the remainder of the night.

In the end, he could not do it at the reception with the garish red décor. Gothic vampire seduction was not his style, no matter how pale he appeared when compared to his tanned outdoorsy brothers. He tried asking, seeing if she could help him along. She was exceptionally good at assisting him in social situations that required more tact than bluntness. But he felt too uncomfortable about having their first… sensual dance displayed out in the open.

Plus, it was still technically a family function.

When they entered their room and their excursion accessories dropped in the foyer alcove, he grabs her hand for attention. He has had one too many hours and nearly-there with attempts to wait any longer.

"Can I…" he stutters to a stop; how does he even ask her for this?

"Is it about the book?" Her tone is cryptic, and if he were to guess, she seemed put out by the prospect of another test. And he feels guilt or, perhaps, some ownership of her discomfort. But butterflied excitement is playing ping pong on his guts and as well. And that easiness that she brings out in him revitalizes his confidence to ask.

"In a sense," he gives her a teasing smirk, trying to lighten the mood now that they were alone, "I want to hold you while dancing."

By all the gods, he is not an expressive man, that is his established norm. He may have discovered that he repressed his personal goals and desires, but he has never repressed his character. Tobirama is introverted, withdrawn, and taciturn. It's not an abnormality or survival method from traumatization, it was who he was. The relativeness of his personality is proportional to the surrounding company. He can be chatty and open, with the right company. He can also say nothing and glare nonstop, with the wrong company. But with most company, he shares his thoughts when prompted and remains silent when not prompted.

Tobirama has always been self-aware of his strengths and his faults. Facial expression is a failing area, an area without exploration, testing. A blank slate clean of brushed away text for deductive cluing.

So, when Sakura gives him that doubtful, questioning face, wordlessly asking why does he want to dance more after an entire night of it, he knows he failed to clearly translate his request. And what he is lacking in words, he attempts to make up with projection, hoping that he has spontaneously absorbed Sakura's natural talent for expression via osmotic touch and is able to capitalize on the talent at will. Without training.

Her countenance; her affable patience emboldens him to try at the very least. He trusts her not to laugh if he bungles or falls. A deep breath and the picture forms in his mind, his intentions molding and forming until he can see it clearly. It inspires. He can feel the smolders igniting behind his eyes, his hands become molting heat from the superheated alloy coursing in his veins.

The air feels ignited, sweltering. Sweat is beading on his brow and palms, like waylaid slag dripping away from his center, compliments of his hammering heart.

And even with the awkward prolonged silence following his internal calibration, the sensual imagination running amuck, when he gazes longingly into her eyes, she looks back with a prism of reflection, with want and intrigue. The stalled words glide out without pause.

"I want to practice dirty dancing." There is a timber to his voice, a roughness that manifested involuntarily.

When she nods her head in compliance, dazed and affect by him, he feels a quenching and tempering of his muscles.

The way she looks up at him reminds him of a baby doll, the eyes are disproportionally large compared to the cheeks, with perfectly sculpted face of smooth porcelain. In the low light of the entrance, her skin looks strikingly white, and her hair looks contrastingly dark, yet still, her verdant green eyes lose none of their vibrancy. Sparkling and dancing. Somehow, she looks ethereal with the washing tone, particularly with her wide eye surprise look. She moves to their standard starting position and then allows him to maneuver her to his satisfaction.

They sway gently, easily, to start.

He takes his time changing his grasp, waiting to see her reaction, ready to pull back and apologize if needed. The changes are small to start, but it fills him with some foreign sense, primal and deep. Commanding and demanding. Then the hand that would respectfully rest on her mid back migrates to wrap around her lower back. The shift brings his shoulders level with hers, his knees are bent, one leg slowly wedging its way between hers.

Face to face, breath to breath, his forearm is wide enough to cover the entirety of her lower back and more. His fingers reaching so wide that he touches the dip in her stomach when he curves his wrist, where her taut muscles twitch and jump at the grip.

He didn't understand the first time she told him what she found arousing, it seemed inconsequential, being held. With everything changing, and his hand wide and arm possessive on her waist, he was enchanted and illuminated. And he now understood the other side, his gain. Power embraced and power surrendered.

He has also come to realize there is a distinct difference in their sizes. With her heeled shoes and the confidence that stands her above their peers, he sometimes forgets that she is fair and feminine with a delicate structure. A visage that he is privileged to see, because it behooves him to remember, she may allow him to see her weaknesses, that does not mean she is weak. Another charming trait, her dichotomy. To be self sufficient to the point of ridiculous independence, yet willing to rely on and be vulnerable.

There was no music to indicate a flow, but he knows that the only thing he needed to follow was her cues. The grind was small, exploratory. Simple push and pull, give and take. A soft simile to more carnal movements. When she leans into his groin, lifting her leg to a tight bend, dragging it the whole way up his outer thigh, he understands the tempo has changed. His one hand was homeless, but now it seemed perfect to grip her neck, to guide and support in harmony with the flow of her hips.

He always felt like she was glued to him before, he did not realize the sticky medium created stability, holding them steady. Now, they are two pieces of material slipping and sliding, trying to friction weld together with active passion, rather than a passive solace of companionship. Holding her waist with his fingers spread and compressing the layers of skin, fat, and muscle, felt inspiring. Exciting. Controlling her neck felt empowering. Dancing in the dark corridor felt primal.

Partnering with her was easier than he thought it would be, there was no shame in his own hip sway, his own clumsy moves. He could vaguely recall his teenage attempts at such dancing were less than successful, his own nerves and the newness and the crowd making it a bust. But in a dark corridor, with a trusted companion, and with more confidence too. He had no trouble with finding his rhythm. Mating their synergy.

They continued with the illicit dance, finding more patterns or pairings to grind. Finding increased skill and confidence too.

At one point her hands pulled around his neck to press him against her bosom, giving her more freedom of range to swell and ungulate her hips. Over the fabric layers, there are no details except warm and soft and savory. He could take a bite out of it; it is so temptingly wrapped and offered.

He lowers himself more, bathing in the warmth of her muscled stomach. Her sirens sway bringing him down to his knees while he receives her lavish attention. When he rises again, he holds her waist and pulls until he is cupping both her rear, lifting her up enough that his bend is less pronounced, but the contact is harsher.

She responds by booty hopping higher onto his chest, her thighs wrapping and flexing to keep herself suspended in the air.

He lightly caressed one hand up her back, relishing each bump as his hand climbed up her spine. With the intention of holding her head and angling her head in an aligned slant, but those babydoll eyes shining in the darkness made him stop to appreciate. Appreciate the moment, the indulgence. She certainly tolerated him and his strange asks and somehow made the world less foolish.

A man of his word, he pulls her in for a kiss, modest and fast. Even leapfrogging over milestones and breaking past thresholds, he knew that five days was not enough time to assure that all of her paranoia and anxiety was baseless. Actions are loudest, he just needed to compound the evidence and respect her boundaries.

Holding her against his chest, rising and falling with racing breath, he sincerely says, "Thank you."

She is a vision of excitement and open invitation, accented with the vulnerability she carries in her compassionate heart. His connection and affection grow after ever encounter and encouragement. But most importantly, when she and he are intertwined in their interests, he feels absolute elation.

"I can honestly say, that was pretty hot," she pauses to plant a small, sweet kiss on his lips, "and anytime."

Their dance was ended with him lowering her back to the floor.

The rest of the evening was less frivolous and more grounded. Chats, snacks, and hygiene routines all for bedtime. Another hug, another small sway, another sweet and tender kiss. And they deviate, retiring separately in their own rooms, one more day propelling him to paradise. After that, it took him much too long a time to go to sleep, alone in his own room. Just too happy to sleep, but too sleepy to do much else.

A/N: "Compersion is related to 'sympathetic joy,' which is our wholehearted participation in the happiness of others. It includes the positive thoughts, emotions, and sensations derived from knowing of another person's gratifying experience, even when this experience does not involve or benefit us directly."