Of Proximity and Panache

Sif hated dancing.

That was at least what she told people.

Really, she hated dancing with men. Letting them lead her and steer her and touch her . . . it was all dreadfully unappealing to her.

Somehow, she had managed to avoid dancing at every social function thus far. She and the princes had always hung back, entertaining themselves in other ways – ways that generally resulted in a scolding. Recently, though, Thor and Loki had taken to spending more time out on the floor, much to her annoyance. And then, when Sigyn had made some quip about Sif's reluctance to dance, she had begrudgingly decided that it was time she learned.

Formal dancing lessons were out of the question; her pride cringed at the merest idea of anyone knowing of her efforts. She had seen the princes dance before, and, while Thor had plenty of enthusiasm, she just couldn't picture herself keeping pace with him. He would likely inadvertently end up dragging her along instead.

Meanwhile, Loki . . .

He had always shown a rather unprecedented grace in the training ring – one that, to her observation, was only ever augmented on the dance floor. Not to mention that he was something of a steel trap when it came to secrets, and he wouldn't give her a lengthy diatribe when she brought it up. Besides, he was her best friend.

She found him in the library, lounging in his usual armchair, long legs kicked over the side, a stack of books within arm's reach. "Loki, I need a favor," she said in lieu of a greeting.

He glanced up at her from his thick volume and cocked an eyebrow, inviting her to elaborate.

She sighed. "I need your help." Her cheeks were already reddening.

Slowly, he closed his book, setting it on top of the stack. Something tangy sparkled in his eyes, telling her what she already knew – he wasn't going to make this easy on her. "The Lady Sif is asking for help," he drawled. "This must be a momentous occasion indeed."

"Oh shut up, Loki," she said, crossing her arms – and then immediately uncrossing them once she realized just how childish she likely looked. If she hadn't been absolutely certain that getting him to aid her would be entirely worth it, she would have backed away right then and saved her dignity from further groveling. But she stood up straighter, looking down her nose at him, daring him to refuse her.

He stared at her for a moment. "Well then, what can I do for you?" he asked, spreading his hands.

"You can teach me something," she said.

"What sort of something?"

"Something secret."

He raised his eyebrows, intrigued. Then, smoothly, he swung his legs around and rose from his chair. "Alright, my lady, you have my attention," he said.

"I am not your lady," she said sternly. For some reason, the title made her bristle more than usual; perhaps, she reasoned, it was because he had never called her such before. Others, namely Fandral, made a habit of teasing her this way. But Loki hadn't been saying it in jest – nor had he been overtly serious. Still, she didn't like the idea of being any man's lady. Least of all Loki's.

He blinked at her. "No, of course not," he replied. "I'm sorry; I don't know –" he cleared his throat, distracting her from the slight flush that had risen in his cheeks. "Please, go on."

She wanted to ask him what had just happened. To read the answer on his face. But he didn't give her enough time. "It has become necessary as late for me to learn to dance," she snipped.

"Dance?" He cocked his head. "And so you come to me . . . why?"

She huffed out a sigh. "Because you are the best dancer I know. And I trust you."

A tiny smirk cut across his face. She had just earned his help. "When do we start?" he said.

They had been working for almost a week, hidden away in his chambers where there was a realistic amount of room for them to move. Loki had explained at their first lesson that dance floors were generally crowded, and learning in a more restricted space would prepare her better.

Every day, Sif was reminded of why she had chosen him to help her learn. He was light and fluid when he moved, yet, when he led her through a pattern, he was assertive enough for her to follow with little confusion. If he was graceful to watch, he was wonderful to follow, almost floating through the steps in a way that she hadn't thought possible, what with his long limbs and general lankiness.

"Shall we?" he asked, holding out his hand. He always asked her permission before pulling her into frame; she originally hadn't known how to feel about that. Now, however, she secretly enjoyed it. It made her feel like such a lady. Not a girl, mind. A real, proper Lady of the Court, as was befitting of her title.

She placed her hand into his, and he gently drew her closer, laying his other hand on her back. "Today," he said, "I am going to teach you some of the more poetic steps that partners can execute once they understand one another."

"And we understand one another?" she asked teasingly.

"In terms of dance, at least," he replied, only vaguely joking back. Slowly, he guided her to move closer to him – so close, in fact, that she wondered if any substantial amount of daylight could shine between them. When she knit her brow, confused, he just said, "Trust me."

His hand crept down her back to settle at her waist, and – Sif blinked. He was blushing. Actually blushing. He was so fair that any sort of flush hardly showed through. But now, he had a soft rose color in his cheeks, tinting them in a way that Sif found oddly flattering.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, looking up a bit so she could catch his eyes.

He gave a small grin, and she felt her own cheeks go warm. "We start with the basic step that I showed you—" he said, ignoring her question and stepping forward on his right foot while she stepped back with her left. The motion was smooth and easy; to think that a matter of days ago, she had had to think very carefully about this.

They danced a few patterns of this, working their way around their dance space, defining it as he had taught her during their first lesson. "We need to claim our perimeter before others get the idea that they can encroach on us," he had said.

"If I may say so, Sif," he told her now, working her through one more round of the basic combination, "you have improved exponentially since we started."

At first, she didn't know how to respond. He so rarely complimented her – or anybody, for that matter – that she found herself staring at him, probing his comment for hidden barbs. "You're serious," she realized.

"Absolutely."

"Well then, thank you," she stammered.

He nodded, turning her once under his arm. "You are still fighting me a bit on the spins," he noted. "Loosen your hand. Let me hold it." They stopped, and he took their joined hands. "See this?" He tried to rotate her hand inside of his. "It's stiff. Relax it." She did; he turned it again. "That's it. Let it flip as you turn – front to back to front again." He took her back into their close frame and put her through a set of the basic steps before turning her again. "Much better," he praised.

"It feels better," she acknowledged, coming full circle and finding herself in his arms once more.

They danced a set or two more before he tried something new. "Follow me," he said, releasing one of her hands and spinning her out from him. He didn't give her much momentum, so she moved slowly, careful not to jerk on his hand. "Good." He tugged her back in, and she turned back to him, trying to come back into frame. Their arms tangled. "No; your back will be to me when you stop. See?" He turned her around and reached in front of her waist, taking her hand. She could feel his breath tickle her ear as he softly said, "This is where we end. From here, I can –" He drew his arm over her, turning her in the process. "And let my hand go –" She did, just enough for it to rotate so that he could take her back into standard frame. "There. Shall we try that again?"

"Yes," she replied, and he took her off once more, working through their steps. This time, she got it. When she looked up at him, he was eyeing her curiously. "What?"

"It surprises me is all," he said, shaking his head. "For railing against dancing for so long, you are actually rather good."

She shrugged, though inside, she was preening at his compliment. "I suppose all the training might help," she said.

He hummed in agreement, very slowly leaning over her, pushing her back into a dip. They had only tried this move once before, but it hadn't ended well. Instead of achieving a pleasant little lean backward, Sif had lost her balance, collapsing to the ground and dragging him with her. "Bend over my arm – lean on it. Use me as support," he instructed softly, and she did, arching her back and letting her head succumb to gravity. "Keep your core tight, and hold on at my shoulder." He laid her back even further, and she felt her knees wanting to bend. "Legs straight," he said, and she fought it. "Let me do all the work. That's it." She did her best to listen, and she found it strangely easy to look up at him. A gentle squeeze of her hand was a signal for her to roll back up; he helped her along with his hand at her back.

"Very good," he said, a teasing glint shining in his eyes. "It's actually quite nice when we stay on our feet. Now spin out."

Sif rolled her eyes as she repeated the spin from earlier—the one where she wound up with her back pressed lightly against his chest. Perhaps it was his quip that made her so determined not to execute the maneuver poorly—whatever it was, she was careful to follow all of his earlier instructions, and the spin combination worked itself out beautifully.

"Lovely," he complimented, his voice quiet and husky in her ear. His breath tickled her neck, and she, for the first time, felt viscerally the warmth of his chest against her back, the line of his arm as it laid in the crook of her waist.

She blinked up at him, his face only a breath away from hers. Her cheeks went warm, and she felt her heart hammering abnormally inside her chest. It suddenly occurred to her that she had never kissed anybody before.

He was watching her closely, face still just as flushed as it had been at the start of their lesson. She had never truly looked at him before. He was Loki. Her best friend. But he had also grown up so much. Where he had been a cute child – if very unusual in appearance for the Aesir – he was now becoming handsome. Very few probably considered him thus, as his dark hair and fair skin were not largely considered beautiful; Sif, however –

"Loki," she breathed.

"Yes?"

She didn't know what to say. Inside her head were screaming a thousand and one different replies, but every one of them sounded quite stupid. She wondered if Loki ever found himself in situations like this, even with his way with words. Sif herself preferred to err more on the side of action.

When she never responded, a look of confusion crossed over his face. Then, she inched closer to him. That, he understood. He leaned down just enough to meet her mouth halfway, and, when she kissed him, he kissed her back.

At the touch of his lips, she felt a euphoria like she had never known – an inexplicable and unprecedented pleasure that pounded in her ears in time with her sporadically-beating heart. His mouth was gentle and soft on hers, and she caught herself wanting more.

Instead, she pulled away.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them entirely sure as to what had just happened. All the warmth that had washed over her seconds ago dripped away as the silence between them stretched. Eventually, he opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I should not have done that."

He didn't move for a moment; then, he closed his mouth and his eyes slipped away from hers. Immediately, she felt like she had just lost something, though she knew not what. "Don't apologize," he told her, collecting her back into frame. "It was my fault. Shall we continue?" She wasn't sure how it was his fault, but they were already off once more, moving gracefully in time to music that was only there in his head.

As he put her through combinations and steps both new and old, she found herself to be distracted; her lips still tingled with the memory of his, and she could still feel him so close that his eyelashes brushed the top of her cheekbone. She wished that she had pulled herself to him when she had had the chance, opening her mouth to let him do what he may. The idea of kissing him again thrilled her more than she was ready to admit – a thing that she found to be more frightening than she had ever imagined.

But she felt everything. His hand at her waist, his easy breathing, his intentions as he guided her. So it did not escape her notice, then, that he had put more space between them than they had had before.

She refused to call that coincidence.