“Absolutely no slouching, Ed. You're the frame. You're the stem to my flower. Quit giving me crooked pictures and wilted flowers.”
“Sorry.” Normally Ed would have cracked a joke about Laurie being a flower, but there was something about Laurie when he got serious about teaching that made Ed ten times more eager to please than he'd been with any coach. He cleared his throat and straightened his spine.
Laurie looked him directly in the eye, hands on his hips as he spoke. “I can't dance if you don't lead. Your job is to be strong and stable. Remember the steps, yes, but never forget you're the anchor. Your mistake will become mine.”
Jesus. Ed wiped sweat from his brow and nodded. “Okay. Let's do it again.”
It was work. It was fucking hard work. He went home sore most nights and usually so hungry he had to stop for two cheeseburgers on the way. And he fucked up a lot, even weeks into it. Eventually he took to practicing the steps in his living room, clearing space enough to dance on the ragged rug in front of the TV. When he confessed this to Laurie, Laurie nodded in an approval that made Ed's heart swell—then got a broom and showed him how to use it to perfect his balance and his frame. Unable to find his broom at home, Ed took to locking himself with contraband from the janitor's closet in one of the deserted offices at work over his lunch hour, dancing with an imaginary Laurie until he had to head to his one o'clock meeting.
Dancing was hard. But man, was it worth it.
Because every now and again, he'd do it right. Every so often the planets would line up, and he could feel he was getting it even before Laurie praised him, and then the game was to keep it going well as long as possible. When he got it right, it was as good as football: the world fell away, and it was just Ed, the music, and the dance.
And Laurie.
As he spun Laurie out into a turn and drew him back into the embrace, he didn't just see but felt Laurie's perfect form, his control, his utter beauty in a dance. As he danced with Laurie, Ed felt ashamed at how he'd written Laurie off as a poof. God yes, Laurie was feminine. And yet he was so very, very male, something Ed became exquisitely aware of as he held the other man in his arms. The arms that bent with such feminine grace were chiseled and muscled and strong under Ed's hands. Laurie was slight, but he was powerful in a way that made Ed think “man.”
Dancing with him made Ed want to be more graceful too. He found himself mirroring Laurie's style, letting his body give and slide the way Laurie's did. This earned him praise and a smile, so his mimicking became more conscious. But what he loved most was feeling he truly was Laurie's anchor, feeling the tension at their grip when Laurie turned or leaned or spun off the axis he provided. It gave him a thrill that felt so much like sex that twice he'd “fumbled” to keep Laurie from sliding up against his body and finding something that would embarrass them both.
And then one day they danced the milonga, and Ed discovered a whole new level of sexual tension.
“This is an older kind of tango,” Laurie explained. “It was danced in brothels quite a bit and then in clubs. The frame is very strong—almost all the movement is in the feet. Once again you are an anchor, but there is more play, more pitter-patter, more traveling and turning. The key is to remember the dance's roots: it was danced by the mountain men who had come to the city to work.” He held up his arms, and Ed followed his lead, creating a frame. Laurie took his hands and kept speaking. “You are a clumsy workman holding a prostitute in your arms. She is likely not pretty; neither are you. But you make a civilization here. You are a worker. I am a whore. But we will dance before we do what is expected of us, because it is a pleasure. We will dance, and in the dance we will have the beauty life has denied us.”
Ed's throat was so dry he had to clear it. “Okay,” he said, his voice cracking.
Laurie smiled. “Ready? And forward, and step, and slide, and step-step, slide, and step...”
At first it was awkward, Laurie calling out the steps, leading Ed in how to lead Laurie around the room. They moved slowly at first, Ed hulking and uncertain. But slowly the dance began to come together. Laurie stopped calling out steps unless Ed fumbled, and then he stopped calling them out altogether. At last, he broke gently away from the dance and went to the cabinet, where he started up some music.
“Lead in whenever you're ready.” He stepped into Ed's frame and waited.
Their bodies were so close, and from the waist up they barely moved, Laurie's cheek nearly resting against Ed's. He could smell Laurie's detergent, deodorant, and the sharp, sweet smell of his sweat. The music was strange—it wasn't tango at all but some electronica number with a percussive beat that lent itself well to the steps Laurie had taught him. It bore Ed up as he drove them around the room, as he held Laurie so close that sometimes when he inhaled through his mouth, he felt like he could taste him.
He had to keep his mind on the steps and on his form, but as the music wrapped around him and his feet began to learn the dance on their own, his thoughts began to wander into daydreams. A dance from a brothel, Laurie had said. A clumsy working man coming to dance with a whore, first on the floor, then in a bed. Well, Ed could play that role well enough. Laurie was no whore, though. Ed wondered if the working men ever thought that about the women. If one of them ever fell in love with a beautiful prostitute, if, as he danced, he felt like he was dancing with a goddess.
Ed wondered if any of those brothels had been full of men waiting for men.
A scene played out in his mind's eye: Ed came into a dark, dirty bar, gaslight flickering above. Across the room he saw Laurie standing in a line of men, painted, groomed, dressed in hand-me-down finery. He saw Laurie cross to him, saw him smile as he paced a graceful circle around Ed, toying with him, pretending he might not accept his invitation to dance. Ed imagined taking Laurie into his arms, knowing what the dance would lead to, knowing that when the songs were over, they would go up the stairs, where he would dance a different dance with Laurie in bed. Laurie, so beautiful, Laurie, so graceful, so strong, Laurie who smelled so good it was all Ed could do not to bury his face in his neck. Laurie, who he wanted to bury himself inside.
Oh God!
The dizziness hit Ed like a truck. He stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and pitched backward onto the floor, bringing Laurie tumbling down on top of him.
Laurie, sliding over him, Laurie's open mouth on his chest, his tongue snaking out and sliding into his belly button before traveling down, down—
“Are you okay?”
Laurie loomed over him, half-sprawled across his chest, his hands braced on either side of Ed's head. The lower half of his body was draped over Ed's left leg, which was good because otherwise he'd be lying directly over top of Ed's raging hard-on. Laurie wasn't aroused, though. He was worried.
“Ed?” He leaned in closer. “Ed?”
Ed blinked. The Laurie in front of him and the Laurie in his daydream mingled, then merged, and it was like the tights all over again, except this time it was more than just nice legs. He was hard for Laurie because he looked good, yeah, but also because he was such a hard-ass teacher, because he was so beautiful, because Ed's whole body lit up when he saw him. And he realized, finally, what that meant.
And Ed felt confused. Really, really confused.
When Laurie's hand cupped his cheek, Ed shut his eyes and turned his face into his palm.
“Ed.” The voice was sharp, as was the grip on his face. “Stay with me, Ed.”
Ed blinked again and frowned. What? And then the worry in Laurie's face registered, and he felt his face heat.
Laurie wasn't coming on to him. Laurie thought he'd hit his head.
“I'm fine,” he murmured, shutting his eyes tighter in embarrassment.
“Your neck—is it...?”
“I'm fine.” Ed lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just clumsy.”
A clumsy worker, trying to dance with the beautiful whore.
Except there was nothing, absolutely n
othing whorish about Laurie. He was high-class all the way.
Laurie tried to fuss over him again, but Ed shoved him back and rolled to a sitting position. Despite what he'd said to Laurie, he reached up and felt tentatively at his neck. A little tender. He'd take a pill and ice it and be fine.
Got a pill you can take to stop you from falling for Laurie?
He pushed to his feet, feeling rattled.
Laurie hovered, looking suspicious. “You hit your head so hard. Are you sure you're okay?”
No, but not for the reason you think. Ed felt so strange, so exposed. Like he was naked in the high school hallway with everyone giggling. “I think I should just go home and rest.”
The crestfallen look on Laurie's face soothed him a little. “We have ice in the fridge. And I have some Tylenol in my bag.”
Ed wanted to say no and just get the hell out, but actually, icing now wouldn't be a bad idea. “Sure. Thanks.”
“I'll be right back,” Laurie promised and hurried from the room.
Ed paced idly as he waited, trying to talk some sense into himself. He wasn't falling for Laurie. It was probably something that happened to all dancers. Like the Florence Nightingale syndrome with nurses and patients. They probably covered this in first-year dance or something. Laurie would laugh, probably.
It didn't have anything to do with the fact that just thinking about Laurie made him happy. And the fact that he hadn't so much as considered hitting a bar for a hookup in weeks was just coincidence.
Oh fuck.
“Here.” Laurie was back in the room, coming toward him with a cold pack in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He handed the latter to Ed and held out his palm to reveal two white tablets tucked inside. As Ed swallowed them, he dragged over a stool and made Ed sit on it. “Where do you need the ice?”
“I can do it,” Ed insisted.
Laurie wouldn't budge. “Where?”
Ed pointed at the center of his neck. “There, but—”
Grabbing a towel from the barre, Laurie wrapped up the pack and pressed it gently against Ed's neck. “You can't hold it well on your own. Just relax and let me do it.”
Ed felt himself blushing again. “Sorry I was so clumsy.”
Laurie laughed. “This? This was nothing. Once I injured three ballerinas, brought down two backdrops and gave myself a concussion, all by lunging left instead of right because I was so nervous.”
In the mirror, Ed watched their reflections. Laurie stood straight and tall while Ed slumped in his seat. Reflexively, he straightened, but he still looked like a hulking beast next to a beauty.
Laurie's reflection stared down at his reflection's head. “You're such a natural at dancing, Ed. You have such strength in your form. It's so easy to dance with you. Which is hard to admit, because you're destroying all my stereotypes about football players.”
“That was the plan. I learned how to dance to make you mad,” Ed quipped. But it was halfhearted. He couldn't look at Laurie now without part of him whispering, “You like Laurie. You want him.”
Still smiling, Laurie shook his head. “Sorry, didn't work. I'm not mad.”
But he's not smitten either.
The thought was like a knife in Ed's chest. He watched Laurie's face, studied it, and what he saw drove the blade deeper. Laurie looked friendly. Concerned. Relaxed. But not turned on.
Because he didn't like Ed, not like that. As Laurie held the cold pack to Ed's neck, he chatted idly about the dance, giving Ed gentle feedback about how he could improve, praising what he'd done well, and it might as well have been him giving feedback to Duon about his weight training. Whatever euphoria Ed had felt, whatever emotions had come in revelation, none of it was reciprocated. Not like that.
Which didn't matter, Ed scolded himself. It didn't matter because he wasn't going to fuck this up, wasn't going to lose dancing by being stupid and making a pass. It was probably just what he'd initially thought. Some kind of puppy love for his dance partner. His teacher. Which was why Laurie looked at him like he was Duon. Because to Laurie, he was.
So why did he feel like somebody had kicked him?
Clearing his throat, Ed rose. “Thanks, but I should head out. It's getting late.”
Laurie frowned. “We've only been working for half an hour.”
“Yeah, well, I got—I forgot. This meeting. In the morning. Remembered it while I sat here. Gotta go home and get to bed.”
The lie probably sounded as bald as it felt, but he didn't care. Well, he did, but he had to get out of there. He had a lot worse problems just now than his neck. He needed to stick his head in a toilet and flush until he had some sense.
He cleared his throat again and offered Laurie a weak smile. “Thanks again.”
“Okay.” Laurie looked bewildered. “So—next week, I guess?”
“Yeah,” Ed agreed, heading for the door. “See you then.”
“It's the last class.”
Ed stopped and turned around, ignoring the twinge in his neck. “What?”
“It's the last class.” Laurie looked slightly awkward, but Ed couldn't read him. “I just—thought you should know. Beginning Ballroom ends after next Tuesday.” He smiled wanly. “I won't need you after that, sadly.”
Slash, slash, slash. Ed swallowed against a dry throat. “A relief for you, I guess.”
“We can still do private lessons, if you want,” Laurie said.
But Ed could not for the life of him tell what Laurie wanted. Except that he didn't want Ed that way.
“You're probably busy,” Ed said. Tell me you're not that busy.
“Well.” Laurie laced his hands in front of himself and gave Ed a polite smile. “We'll just see, then, I guess. Let me know next week.” He paused, his smile fading to concern again. “Do you need me to drive you home?”
The pity in his voice grated on Ed almost worse than the politeness. “I'm fine. Thanks.” He tossed a salute. “See you next week, boss.”
For what might be our last dance, the voice in his head whispered as he grabbed his coat and shrugged into it, and Ed slumped forward and stuck his hands in his pockets, huddling against the wind as he hurried out to his car.
The following Monday there was another staff cut at work.
Ed was lucky yet again and wasn't cut, but he felt lousy for it, especially when the woman with three kids in the cubicle across the hall turned out to be one on the list. He could tell she was trying not to cry as she packed up her desk under the watchful eye of security. He felt horrible, felt like he should offer to have his position cut instead. Except technically they were different departments, so even if he'd have found the guts to offer, it wouldn't have worked.
He felt empty and morose all the way home, so much so that he stayed in his apartment only long enough to find some workout clothes and head down to the center. He couldn't bear the thought of sitting in his apartment alone, thinking about how much he hated work, how much he needed work, how bad he felt for Mary. Of course, heading to the center made him think of Laurie, of how they were about to maybe have their last dance, about how even if they weren't, he had a crush on him he couldn't seem to shake and that Laurie absolutely didn't return. Fuck. He needed to work his body and shut off his mind. So he went to the weight room, put Britney in his headphones, and pumped iron like he hadn't for weeks. He ran on the treadmill, did squats until his calves were on fire, and worked for an hour on the Smith press. When he finally got back to his apartment, he was dripping with sweat, his body was aching, and after a hot shower, he fell into bed, physically and mentally exhausted.
He woke in the middle of the night with his neck on fire.
Ibuprofen worked this time, sort of, with help from some ice, but he was up half the night, and when his alarm went off at five, he felt like someone had hit him in the head with a hammer. His body ached all over, but his neck was the worst, throbbing at him in a very worrying way. By the time he pulled into his parking spot at work, he was cranky and perfectly p
ositioned to have a complete fuck of a day in an environment already rife with tension. As the day wore on past noon, it didn't improve.
He wished to God the supervisors would figure out that when you cut the staff in half and upped the workload, it did not get done faster just because you yelled a lot and threatened to cut the coffee budget. The thought of slogging through to the end of the day was bad enough, but the thought of doing this until he was sixty-five was even worse.
He couldn't let himself think about seven o'clock.
When Liam called him at four thirty, meeting the guys at Matt's Bar after work for a few pitchers and a couple of Jucy Lucys sounded so good he agreed. It was a long way from Eden Prairie, but kicking back a little, hanging with the guys before he headed back to dance class with Laurie was probably the best thing for him. Tease, laugh, have a drink or two before he headed over—perfect.
Big. Fucking. Mistake.
Why the hell he'd thought for two minutes that it would be a good idea to sit and listen to his former teammates brag about how far they'd gotten in their training, he couldn't say. He hadn't been thinking about that when Liam had called. He'd just thought about seeing the guys again, about sitting in the corner booth in the back eating greasy burgers stuffed with cheese, about baskets of fries you could drown in, and about chugging cheap beer while the guys made dirty jokes. He'd told himself it didn't matter, that he'd made his peace about football and being with the guys at a bar wouldn't bother him. But one hour and one pitcher later, he realized he'd been completely wrong. He was not over football. Not at all.
It hurt. It hurt a lot to listen to them plan, to know he wasn't going to be a part of it, not just this year but ever again. It hurt to watch them cram down as much fattening food as they wanted, knowing they would burn it off in training and on the field, knowing he had to back off unless he planned on spending the entirety of his Saturday on the treadmill. It hurt like somebody had cut him.
It hurt most of all when he realized he couldn't tell them how much it hurt, that he couldn't ever let them see.
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