#Welcome to the useless bisexual Rye agenda. I hope he explodes a million times

[clownakai]

"Dance with me."

Shuuichi very nearly chokes on his drink. "Pardon?"

Scotch smiles beatifically back at him. Definitely tipsy, at least a little bit. "Dance with me."

"I can't dance," he blurts out, the lie slipping past his lips as smooth as breathing.

Silence falls over the flat, only broken by the sound of Mochi's hissing from inside Scotch's bedroom; Hana has probably been bothering him again.

"That's fine," Scotch eventually replies, "I'll just have to guide you." With all due respect, fuck that.

"Why?"

"Well, I obviously can't let you lead if you don't know how to dance." Scotch leans back against the couch, looking for all the world like someone who just cracked the Twin Prime Conjecture or some other equally convoluted math problem (thank you, Shuukichi).

Shuuichi scowls, bringing his drink to his lips only to realize that the glass is already empty, again. "Why would I want to?" he clarifies.

"Ugh." Scotch rolls his eyes, muttering something about all workaholics being the same. "Live a little, why don't you? We can even turn the lights off if you're that embarrassed."

Way more than slightly tipsy, Shuuichi corrects his previous assessment with a sigh. "I'd be stepping on your toes the entire time if we did that."

"You'd manage it even with the lights on."

Shuuichi's eyes narrow. For the sake of his lie, he doesn't correct Scotch's claim. Let the guy believe what he wants, so that proving him wrong will be that much— hm.

He glances critically at his empty glass. He'd better cut back on the drinking for tonight, lest he want to end up embarrassing himself for real.

Then again, if he doesn't dance at all, those chances will inevitably drop to zero, thus allowing for more drinks to be had. Who knows, he might even get something mildly useful out of his flatmate in that case.

Scotch shifts in his periphery, successfully drawing Shuuichi's gaze to himself. He knows exactly what he's doing: it's in his posture, so loose and relaxed it can be nothing but studiously arranged; in his hands— long, calloused fingers loosely holding up a crystal glass (and petting Hana and chopping vegetables and dancing on bass strings and carding through Shuuichi's hair); in his eyes, so very blue and positively smoldering (there's a sliver of ice in them, ready to pierce and tear and sink: Shuuichi pretends he doesn't see it).

Tipsy, but no less dangerous because of it: Shuuichi had better keep that in mind. He should tread carefully, play it safe— turn down the offer once and for all.

Oh, who is he kidding?

"Fine." He puts his glass down with a clink. "Show me how to dance."

Scotch looks, for lack of a better descriptor, absolutely delighted. Shuuichi suddenly regrets more than a few of his life choices.

The other man stands up with remarkable grace for someone who has been drinking for the past hour and a half; he waits for Shuuichi to do the same, and at no point does he stop looking at him— through him, digging and searching and for a weightless moment Shuuichi wonders—

"I set the music up, you get the lights?" Scotch asks, blinking it all away.

Shuuichi valiantly holds back a grimace, but nonetheless moves to comply. "If we fall and break something, do me a favor and shoot me before Bourbon comes back."

Scotch snorts, and Shuuichi's stomach most definitely does not do a little victory dance. It doesn't.

He flips the light switch, plunging the living room into darkness: the only remaining light sources are Scotch's phone and a stray ray of moonlight feebly peeking past the mostly-closed curtains. Shuuichi takes advantage of those to orient himself, smoothly padding past the couch with nary a sound; he's sadly not fast enough to catch a glimpse of Scotch's screen, instead finding himself being led to the emptiest part of the room as the first notes of a simple waltz begin to fill the air.

"Right. So, the first thing you want to do is—" Shuuichi only has an inch or so on Scotch, height wise; it's certainly not enough of a difference for him to successfully pretend not to be taken by the moonlight striking the man's features, only barely reflected in his eyes.

(There they are, those shards of ice. Primed and ready, a hair's breadth away.

Ever the fool, Shuuichi inches closer.)

"— even listening to me?" Scotch asks, sounding torn between amusement and mild annoyance.

"My right hand in your left," Shuuichi absentmindedly parrots, "my left on your shoulder. You go left foot forward, the other to the right, close with the left, then right foot backwards, the other to the left, and close with the right. I just mirror you."

"... Okay, good." Scotch doesn't sound baffled, but Shuuichi is pretty sure he went a little overboard and recited something the other hadn't said yet. God fucking dammit.

"I know what a waltz is," he tries to salvage, "I've just never tried dancing it." For his own sake, Shuuichi prays that all the drinks he had tonight will help him sell the beginner act he talked himself into.

Scotch gives him no verbal answer; nonetheless, the silence feels as loud as a blaring horn to Shuuichi. Then there are hands on him, one coaxing his own upward while the other slips under his arm and comes to rest on his back, miraculously avoiding getting caught in his hair at it splays right beneath his shoulder blades, and Shuuichi almost forgets to let Scotch guide his hand into the correct position rather than doing it himself.

Right now, he might hate his own shirt more than anything.

"Alright." Scotch is... close. Not quite chest to chest, but still enough for Shuuichi to smell a hint of alcohol when he speaks. "Waltzes are in three quarters, so we're just going to— one, two, three."

Shuuichi doesn't even need to pretend: he stumbles through the first few rounds, the hand on his back burning like a brand. He wonders if Scotch can feel Shuuichi's heart jackrabbiting beneath his fingers, a caged beast in its own right.

(It sure feels to Shuuichi like it's trying to claw its way out of his chest.)

The waltz eventually gives way to a slow song Shuuichi doesn't recognize but is still aware enough to know how to adapt to: he doesn't startle when all of a sudden Scotch is everywhere, chest pressed against his and arm dipping to Shuuichi's waist and face so close the tips of their noses almost touch— yet he's deafened by his own heartbeat, a relentless drumming in his ears as Scotch meets his eyes and smiles.

"So you did lie to me," Scotch murmurs, smile widening when Shuuichi freezes. "This one's in four quarters, so it's no longer a waltz. But you didn't need me to tell you that, did you?"

Shuuichi swallows dryly. With how they're standing— with how Scotch is holding him—, the flush he can feel creeping onto his cheeks is just about the only thing he can feasibly keep to himself; everything else is fair game, from twitching hands and shallow breathing to faltering steps and a heartbeat so loud he struggles to convince himself that the other still can't hear it.

"No," he admits, and watches the ice spin in Scotch's eyes. "I didn't."

Shuuichi almost expects the operative to let go, to step back and put a healthy distance between them; what he gets is Scotch's fingers drumming a silent tune on his waist and one of the guy's legs moving forward in a tacit bid to keep dancing. Shuuichi obligingly follows, happy enough to let the other lead while he gets his shit together, although he puts his foot down the moment Scotch tries to raise their clasped hands above their heads.

"You're not turning me," he huffs, then curses himself for speaking up when Scotch's breathy laugh warms his lips.

"Next time, then." The weight around Shuuichi's waist disappears, and this time Scotch steps away for good, leaving him cold, adrift and hungry for something he can't quite place.

Shuuichi stares at his retreating form— what little he can distinguish of it in the dark, at least—, then sets out to distract himself by clearing the low table of all evidence of their drinking. It'll certainly not be enough to fool someone like Bourbon, but it'll knock 'leaving a mess for others to clean up' off the list of complaints he might receive tomorrow.

He knows what this— all of this— was. He's been taught how to do the same himself and he can't afford to fall for it.

(He thinks of those eyes, dark waters waiting to drown him.)

He really, really can't.

(Scotch took his phone with him, but Shuuichi still hears something: one-two, three-four; one-two, three-four. It's nothing like the all-encompassing drumming from before, and it makes him wonder...

Maybe his heart had felt so loud because it wasn't the only one he'd been hearing.)