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blank-potato · 14 days ago

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Waltz For Sweatpants

Pairing: Maxon Schreave x Aspen Leger

Summary:

“But you don’t know how to, do you?” Maxon asks again, his teasing softening just slightly, as though trying to understand the situation rather than mock it. “It's okay if you don't.” “Dance lessons aren't exactly high priorities for Sixes.” Aspen’s voice is sharp, his words laced with that familiar edge of bitterness. Maxon nods slowly, sensing the prickly tone in Aspen's response, then again, most of what the guard said to him was prickly. Aspen wouldn't even be caught dead learning to waltz, but the production crew insisted that some guards learn to dance so they can dance with the remaining selected girls while Maxon dances with each one for one of their stupid challenges. Yet another way, Maxon Schreave was screwing him over. Or Maxon teaches Aspen how to dance, and feelings are caught.

A/N: This is random af, but I had the urge to write this even though there's barely any fics on ao3, so I don't even know if anyone's going to read this. Also I'm just missing The Selection because I loved it as a kid and mourning the fact that there's never going to be a TV series or if there is I'll be 40 or some shit when it comes out. Title from Waltz For Sweatpants by Cody Fry.

♕🗡♕🗡

The faint notes of music make Maxon rise from his sleep. He groggily sits up, running his fingers through his blonde hair, looking more like a regular man just trying to shake off sleep than his usual manicured, royal self. His gaze is still hazy as he blinks his eyes open, squinting against the soft light of the early morning.

Maxon drags himself out of bed, stretching and yawning as he makes his way through his suite, moving toward the conjoined doors where the music is drifting in from the other side. It’s a familiar sound, a song that Maxon would’ve had to dance to during his etiquette lessons as a child. The soft, flowing rhythm of the waltz had been drilled into him from an early age, part of the endless list of things a prince must master.

Maxon peeks his head through the conjoined doors to quite the sight.

Aspen was stumbling around the room, trying to remember the moves, his feet awkwardly shuffling as he attempted to follow the rhythm. Aspen had become Maxon's guard after the recent rebel attacks, and had been moved into the suite next to his, ensuring the prince's safety 24/7. The transition had been difficult. The constant presence of the other man was never easy to ignore, and the glaring fact that they didn’t like each other or rather, that Aspen hated his guts, hung between them like a thick fog.

“Do you not know how to dance?” Maxon asks, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.

Aspen whips around to see Maxon, aka the bane of his existence, the permanent thorn in his side. In a hurry, he turns off the music, frustration flashing in his eyes.

“Ever heard of knocking? What are you doing up anyway?” Aspen snaps, trying to regain some sense of control over the situation.

“The music woke me up,” Maxon responds coolly, leaning against the doorframe with an amused glint in his eyes. “And you are doing what exactly?”

A silence falls in the room, and Aspen looks away, embarrassed. He was already not fond of Maxon, considering their complicated history and the fact that they both had feelings for America. Aspen’s jaw tightens slightly, the tension in the room palpable. He hadn’t expected to be caught in such a vulnerable moment, especially by someone who always seemed to have everything figured out.

“Dancing, or at least trying to,” Aspen mutters, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface.

“But you don’t know how to, do you?” Maxon asks again, his teasing softening just slightly, as though trying to understand the situation rather than mock it. “It's okay if you don't.”

“Dance lessons aren't exactly high priorities for Sixes.” Aspen’s voice is sharp, his words laced with that familiar edge of bitterness.

Maxon nods slowly, sensing the prickly tone in Aspen's response, then again, most of what the guard said to him was prickly.

Aspen wouldn't even be caught dead learning to waltz, but the production crew insisted that some guards learn to dance so they can dance with the remaining selected girls while Maxon dances with each one for one of their stupid challenges.

Yet another way, Maxon Schreave was screwing him over.

Maxon moves from the doorway, entering Aspen’s space fully. The prince never found himself in Aspen’s suite; it was sparse, clean, and meticulously organised, just like Aspen.

“Do you… want help?” Maxon asks, his tone casual but with a trace of genuine concern.

“I’m capable of learning a few steps,” Aspen replies quickly, his pride flaring even though he knew it was true.

“I’m sure you are, but a little help can go a long way.” Maxon gestures to his feet, a playful yet knowing look in his eyes. "I’ve got some experience."

It’s clear the guard wants to say yes, his frustration evident in the tension of his shoulders, but his pride won’t let him. The thought of accepting help from Maxon, of allowing him into this vulnerable moment, feels like too much.

“I can’t sleep knowing you’re falling around like a fawn to the sound of Illéan classical music,” Maxon teases, the familiar traditional waltz music softly drifting from the speakers. “Let me at least make sure you don’t break something or yourself.”

Aspen hesitates, the offer dangling between them like a challenge. He knows Maxon isn’t entirely teasing, but still… the last thing he wants is to owe the prince anything.

Gritting his teeth, Aspen’s eyes are cast downward, the weight of Maxon’s words settling deep in his chest. If Maxon wasn’t the Prince, Aspen might have gotten a punch to the face for that comment, but for now, he’ll have to settle for a scathing look that could cut through glass.

His “treasonous” thoughts are interrupted when a hand suddenly comes into view, offering him something he wasn’t sure he wanted: a lifeline.

“Trust me, it’ll be a lot easier to learn if I teach you. I’m somewhat of an expert.” Maxon’s voice is calm, but there’s a quiet confidence in it that Aspen can’t ignore.

Aspen hesitates, glaring at the hand for a moment, the inner conflict clear on his face. He could refuse, he could walk away, but for some reason, his pride gives way just enough. Slowly, he takes the hand, his grip firm but reluctant.

“Fine,” he mutters under his breath, “but don’t expect me to thank you for this.”

Maxon simply smiles, his eyes lighting up with the quiet triumph of knowing he’d gotten Aspen to accept his help.

“Put your hands on my waist like this,” Maxon says, guiding his strong hands to him.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

They sway with each other, the room quiet except for the faint sound of the music playing. Aspen catches a whiff of Maxon’s shampoo — it’s subtle but clean, the kind of scent that clings to fine fabrics and expensive skin care, the sort of luxury a Six like him could only dream of. Materials and comforts that had always been out of reach.

Maxon, on the other hand, is focusing on Aspen’s tall, solid form. They were close in height, but Aspen had him beat by just a hair. The way he moves is controlled, sharp in places, but not without effort; it’s obvious he had been practicing for a while. His hair was wild and tousled from running his hands through it in frustration.

The two moved quite smoothly, and it was going great until Aspen stepped onto Maxon's foot…hard.

“Sorry, I'm not exactly known for being graceful.”

“It’s fine,” Maxon groans out, forcing a small, strained smile as he lifts his foot slightly, trying to shake off the sting. “I’ve had worse,” he adds with a light chuckle, though the wince betrays him.

Aspen lowers his gaze, embarrassed. “You sure about that? I think I might’ve just shattered your royal foot.”

Maxon huffs a quiet laugh, nudging Aspen’s shoulder playfully. “You’ll have to try harder than that to break me, officer.”

There’s a pause, the air still lingering between teasing and something softer, and Maxon quietly extends his hand again. “Come on. Let’s try it once more.”

And Aspen accepts his hand.

♕🗡♕🗡

They continue dancing together the next night, and the next, and the next. Aspen is slowly getting better, but the lessons were starting to feel like more than just lessons. The giant ice wall between the two of them had started to thaw, piece by piece, until all that tension was replaced by something unfamiliar, easy, unspoken understanding.

At first, the silences between them had been sharp and cold, full of everything unsaid. Now they were quiet, but comfortable. The music would fade out, but neither of them would move away, lingering there like the moment itself could stretch forever.

By the fourth night, Aspen didn’t even need to glance down at his feet. His body moved on instinct, his focus entirely on Maxon.

They bump foreheads, a soft, unexpected thud, and Maxon immediately starts to pull back, ready to apologise. But instead of the sharp, snappy retort he expected, Aspen lets out a quiet laugh.

It’s warm, real, the kind of laugh that doesn’t sound weighed down by rank or rivalry.

Maxon pauses, caught off guard, watching him with wide eyes. It was rare, seeing Aspen so unguarded, even rarer for it to be directed at him.

“What?” Aspen says, still grinning, breathless from the moment. “You looked like I was about to hit you.”

“I just… I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh,” Maxon comments almost reverently.

“Is my laughing a problem?” Aspen snaps, and Maxon’s heart pounds in his chest that much faster. He saw his facial expression sour a little, as if retreating back to his defensive ways, and he couldn’t let that happen. “No, no. I like—” he pauses, catching himself before he says something he regrets, “It’s good.”

Aspen arches a brow, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t think you were the type to care about something like that.”

Maxon swallows, his throat suddenly dry. His heart was pounding so loud he was sure Aspen could hear it. “I’m not,” he lies, the words fumbling out too quickly. “I just meant... it suits you.”

Maxon shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking away. His usual smooth composure had gone entirely out the window, and he just hoped Aspen hadn’t noticed the flush creeping up his neck.

But Aspen did notice. And for once, he didn’t call him out on it.

“Thanks,” Aspen says quietly, voice low but sincere. “Guess I’ll try to do it more often.”

Maxon knows he’s joking, but he does hope he laughs more often; it’s sweet.

From that night on, it was like something had changed. At least for Maxon, he found himself looking for Aspen in crowded rooms, yearning to get him alone so they could dance together, needing to be close to him.

♕🗡♕🗡

The night drifted on, the palace buzzing with light and music as the long-awaited ball finally unfolded. Aspen had been paired with Natalie Luca; she was nice, easy to talk to, and light on her feet, but it wasn’t the same.

As they moved across the floor, Aspen found his gaze slipping downward, focusing on her shoes or the hem of her dress rather than her face. Her hands were small and delicate, resting neatly in his, so different to Maxon’s. His hands were still delicate, but they were bigger and broader. He almost misses the way Maxon’s hands would tighten around his, just slightly, whenever he notices Aspen fidgeting or losing rhythm to steady him.

It felt different. All of it.

He looks up briefly to see America and Maxon now dancing together, and they looked good together; they looked natural. He saw what the whole nation did, that connection that none of the other girls seemed to have.

He feels his chest tighten, a confusing ache blooming deep in his ribs. Watching America slip further and further away, knowing she was choosing someone else, was a burning pain that he had become accustomed to, but the part that unsettled him most wasn’t the usual heartbreak.

It was the quiet, lingering thought that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t only miss her hand in his. Because when his eyes shift from her to Maxon, guiding her around the dance floor, he feels that same tug.

That same longing.

And it terrifies him.

The dance finishes, the music fading into polite applause. Maxon doesn’t look at him once. Not even a glance.

Aspen holds his posture, the perfect image of a disciplined guard, but inside there’s a hollow weight that settles in his chest.

At the end of the night, when the palace finally quiets and the halls fall still, Maxon doesn’t come to his room. Their lessons, their late-night practices, the quiet moments where the space between them had felt so small, it was over.

But Aspen can’t stop thinking about it. About him. His soft blonde curls, the little crowns printed on his pyjamas, the way his eyes would crinkle when he’d laugh too hard.

Meanwhile, Maxon lies awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the same moments in his mind. He gets up, walks to the conjoined door, and hesitates. His hand hovers above the wood, heart unsteady.

Just to talk, he tells himself. That’s all.

But he never knocks.

And on the other side of the door, Aspen stays awake, waiting for a sound that never comes.

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