#(( THIS READS AS MORE OF A SELF-PARA. IM SO SORRY. ITS SUPPOSED TO BE AN OPENER I SWEAR. IM SORRY

[terragro]

when kai was a young child of only three, dance had been all he'd ever wanted to do. two wide, doe-like eyes had gazed up at a television while ballerinas danced across the screen, foreign and otherworldly like swans descending from the heavens. "i want to do that," he told his mother, jittery with excitement and stammering over his own words. and when has her little boy shown such interest in something? of course she enrolls him in classes.

the three fates—clotho the severe, lachesis the inflexible, and atropos the stern—gave him only two years of true peace before tearing it from his still-child-shaped hands. at five years old, the purity and joy of ballet and free-form was taken by those around him: scoldings by teachers and other parents in his dance group, that kai will require plastic surgery, that he is unfit for being a dancer given the color of his caramel body. he will need skin bleaching, he will need rhinoplasty. his mother removes him from classes, upset by the bullying of those he cannot even recognize are bullying him at all; too young, too naive, barely more than a toddler.

and when he hits puberty, he was forced to dance in secret, away from judgemental eyes and the cruel, taunting jeers of his peers, lest fighting break out and he be required to defend himself physically against the cruelty of others. alone, in his room, old gnarled atropos the stern watches him dance in the milky florescent light of his desk table, and the wrinkled fate continues watching him—as he at twelve years old—climbs into bed to tear at his skin, raising red, welting scores across his flesh, wishing he could pry off what others loathe so much.

in his early twenties, he grew too sick to expend energy through exertion in any way. kai is bound to a bed, nasal cannula in his nostrils, wondering when his last breath would be just that: the last.

after his change, he toyed with the idea of doing it again. it was his passion; his long, dancer's legs stretch to the sky, nimble and elegant movements begging to be placed. tiny, delicate steps, ginger and slow, a pirouette, a shift of weight that makes him look as fluid as the sea he is named for. he could do it. even if he never goes further than for enjoyment in his own living room, he could do it. something he'd long given up on, unfurling in his chest like a sickly little rose, that hope. maybe, after so much time, he could do it again.

yet clotho—beautiful, young clotho, seductive and enchanting with her angelic visage and her euphonious voice, a songstress oracle that could be aphrodite's likeness with her hourglass body and ample bosom—tore from him that thought until it was crippled into the sands. laughing that bell-like laugh, plush, succulent lips showing white teeth that may as well be jagged canines. come here, crooked the finger of the most severe of the three fates, a manicured nail coyly curling with intent and promise. come here, it is predestined. has yong ever been able to ignore a pretty face? he rises to her call.

two dragons fight, storm versus earth, locked in airborne combat. before kai was able to end his ugly, too-long life, yong—older, weaker, prideful—sank his conical teeth into kai's bird-like femur, shattering it beyond repair. it heals this way: shattered.

kai has rarely danced again. even walking causes pain, shifting his leg in bed, adjusting his weight when standing too long. pain lances through his hip and down to his knee, and he tolerates it with the stoic mask he has worn his whole life: what else can he do? he masks his limp with the skill of only the best actors.

kai is an exemplary actor.

as kai opens the door to the bar—black velvet, it is named, with its lustrous black and gold walls, its posh decor and expensive air—he walks (ever hiding the limp, steps even, faultless, weaknesses eternally concealed) through the pathways between chairs and tables, and toward an oft-empty booth by the wall. the bar veneers its seedy reputation in luxurious interiors and a sultry disposition. it is late, later than he likes to be out and about seoul. particularly because it is a near twenty-minute drive back to his district, but also because he has to leave sejun with a trusted friend if he needs night trips. it is nearing zero hour in south korea, though itaewon never rests, its neon lights illuminating a never-sleeping machine of activity. kai works the next day, and even though he values sleep more than his own life, he sits on the plush velvet stool and waves away a helpful waitress. not with any rudeness—while perfunct, his actions are never dismissive or careless—but he does not plan to linger, and he does not often drink, so her services are unnecessary.

why is he here, at such a late hour? because in only a few minutes, a certain jazz singer will be walking her dark, elegant silhouette upon the stage, returning from one of her breaks. she will be crooning soulful, alluring intonations from those plush, crimson lips. dark, full, airy melodies, a lustrous, velvety tone more marvelous than the bar itself echoing through the din, soaking into the walls like a sponge. if you told a patron of the bar that the bar was named for ilana's compelling voice, they'd likely believe you.

he has not seen ilana in quite some time; a couple months, at least, he believes. his schedule makes dipping into the area and reuniting with friends a few and far between escapade, but he has found himself craving connection and intimacy as of late, and what better time to scratch the particular itch of intimacy than through dancing (arguably, one of the more intimate of art forms)? he has not done it in a very long time, but like sex or riding a bike, it is something the body never forgets.

kai knows it will be painful. he knows tomorrow he will be in agony, and the typical effort he goes through to mask this detestable weakness will have to be further amplified. expedited healing will never be able to erase damage done by another god to a god's body, when he had been unable to shift back in order to recalibrate it. he will suffer this injury the remainder of his long, long life, but there are some exacerbations that are worth it.

finally, the curtain parts, and before she has even reached the mic stand ilana is releasing a musical hymn that forces an instinctual hush to wash over the crowd, and causes kai's dark, serpentine eyes to level upon her. crimson satin cradles her body like a second skin, a mermaid-cut rolling veils of red fabric to spill over a waxed stage, giving the appearance she may have bled upwards like an wound directly from the wooden surface. it's interesting, he notes, that she is wearing his favorite color tonight: as if perhaps the inflexible lachesis herself had ordained them meeting, and bid his friend to don a color that naturally draws the gaze. a well-formed, slender thigh shines in the lowlights from a high slit in the gown, betraying shapely calves strapped in ruby-toned heels that grant her height.

this pleases him, inwardly, he won't have to stoop to take her into his arms. not that the bar-famous songstress knows he is here, obscured in the dark as he is. kai waits until she has taken her place upon the stage and begun her next number before he rises in the darkness and slips behind the curtain as well.

he is not one for the limelight, not really. his daily life is ever-surveilled in the terrible ordeal of publicity, and he takes this as the much more appealing kind. surrounded by denizens who fill the booths and tables purely to see her perform, kai is simply an accompaniment to the crimson star; nothing but a tool to amplify her own resplendence. it suits him much more.

as ilana's velvety purr lilts into the microphone kai walks slowly onto the stage until his form is illuminated behind her by the stage lighting. his steps are silent, they always are, but they are further hidden under the croon of her lilac tones. she likely does not know he is there at all, until a broad hand extends to rest against the silken fabric of her gown, tracing along her waist until it settles against her belly to guide her backwards against him.

there is no one who would dared to hurt the prized singer of the black velvet bar. and given that her listeners do not immediately rush the stage, furious at the trespass, he knows she suspects who's touch is upon her. kai's other hand slides oh-so-slowly along the bare skin of her arm, tracing feather-light against her elbow until he's finally taken her dainty wrist within his grasp. the body never forgets, recall: he has done this many times. his nose gently traces against the black hair spilling past her temple, and he extends ilana's captured arm out, palm up to the heavens to cradle it from underneath, moving into place behind her until his chest and stomach is pressed along her back. with a slow shifting motion, he pulls her away from the metal stand, the mic itself safe in her grip, and the two of them begin.

finally, for the first time in many moons, he dances.