Page 9 of A Wistful Symphony
I run a trembling palm over my face and lean my back on the table. When I turn, you’re awfully quiet, looking down and hugging one of your arms. Not knowing what to do, I wait until you show a reaction.
“Now you know what I’ve been doing the past month,” you mutter, biting your lower lip. “Sure you want to hang with a cocksucker like me?”
“Yeah,” I answer without a hint of hesitation. “Never mind those wankers. Most times, I don’t bother listening to the gibberish they spew.”
You manage a dreary smile, and a tiny huff comes out of your nose. “Don’t know why they’re so interested in who we date.”
“Me neither. You think Benson is closeted? He did get awfully close to me.”
“Maybe.” You shrug, a tad more relaxed. “That would explain a lot.”
“I hope he’s not into me, because that ‘he’s mean because he likes you’ crap is so last century.” That makes you laugh, if a bit strained, and I feel pleased with myself.
“You made a joke; that’s an improvement.”
“Now who’s hallucinating?” I look away, my smile soon fading. “Do you want to get out of here?”
You think for a moment, then shake your head. “Nah. No point.”
“Okay. So, now what? What do we do in a place like this?”
“Someone with a social life would know.”
“Funny,” I retort, eyebrow raised. “But I’m serious.”
You shrug. “I usually dance or find a guy to kiss. You should try it.”
“Maybe.” I let my voice linger and glance at the crowd. We are safe-ish in our little spot by the table, vacant enough not to be jammed together and far from the speakers so we can have a decent conversation without screaming. I can handle that. But is it enough?
Without warning, you draw closer and say next to my ear, “You need to let someone get close to you if you want to do either of those things.” You pull back. “Or you can sit here in the corner. It’s up to you.”
My gaze boomerangs from you to the dance floor.
I would have to face the maddening mob of sweaty bodies, the deafening music, and the suffocating ambiance.
But I’d have the chance to dance for the first time with a handsome guy, one whose company I surprisingly enjoy.
With a deep breath, I declare, “I’ve been in the corner my whole life. That’s enough.”
The rush of courage fills me once again and I take the lead, pulling you to the middle of the crowd.
Not by your hand or your arm. I’ve noticed you reflexively jerk away when people touch you without your consent.
I hook my fingers on the hem of your bomber jacket and hope it won’t make you uncomfortable.
The glance you shoot is so curt I imagine you’ll take my hand away.
You don’t. Instead, a subtle smile takes your lips, and you follow me without a word.
We rupture the barrier of the crowd, and I hopelessly fight my drumming heart as their bodies rub against my skin.
I cringe and swallow hard, but don’t go back.
There’s a free spot where we can face each other without being crammed, even if people often brush against us.
It’s good enough for me. And judging by your playful grin while bobbing your head to the beat, you seem to enjoy it too.
Neither of us really know how to dance, and it’s fine.
We limit ourselves to an awkward side-to-side step and some head-banging that makes me dizzy, but I still laugh.
“Liking it?” you ask, or rather scream.
“Yes,” I shout back.
Everything around us is still the same, and yet, it’s all changed.
The deafening rave music now propels my steps, making my movements more daring as the excitement rises.
Thin smoke blurs everyone around us, turning everything into a myriad of motion, smells, and flashing lights.
I’m afloat, relentless, exhilarated. I’ve never felt so free.
I shut my eyelids and move where my instincts take me, brushing other bodies, feeling not disgust, but a fascinating sensitivity on my skin. My head sways like a ship adrift, until I have no sense of where or even who I am. When I open my eyes, giddy and disoriented, you’re not in front of me.
“Westcott?” I yell to the crowd, to no avail. Our spot is completely packed now, and I can barely see beyond my nose. I wedge myself through some girls who are less willing to move than stuck mules and finally spot you.
Your eyes are closed, and some guy has his arms around your shoulders. When he leans forward and kisses you, my stomach fills with gravel. What was I expecting? You said it yourself; you came here to dance and kiss guys . You never meant me.
I’m halfway turned around to get the hell out of here when you realise what’s happening. You push the bloke as hard as you can and flip him off.
“Eric?” you shout, bringing me back to reality. I can’t utter a reply or make a single move. You find me anyway, our eyes meeting for only a moment before you descend, pushing away everyone who stands in your way. You grab me by my collar and press your lips on mine without a word.
It takes me by surprise. Not the kiss itself.
I realise I’ve yearned for it since the night started, and apparently so did you.
What amazes me most is for the first time, I don’t consider if you’ve brushed your teeth, or if you’ll give me herpes or mono.
The only thing I can think of is , damn, he’s such a good kisser.
When our lips part, you glance up with the sexiest half-smile. “How d’you like it?”
My eyelids flutter in slow motion and I take a couple of seconds to answer. “Shut up, Andrew, and do it again.”
This time I take the lead, and my mouth seeks yours without hesitation.
All of my senses are amplified. Bittersweet remains of vodka cranberry and cigarettes smear your tongue, a tantalising mix of citric cologne and sweat exhales from your skin and I feel …
. Are your lips really this soft or is this another trick of the drugs?
My hands hover between us, unsure where they should settle.
I timidly place them on your chest, quivering with unsteady breaths.
Lusting to feel your bare skin with my heightened senses, my palms climb to the boundaries of your collar.
However, as soon as my fingers curl around your neck, you hold my wrists.
I know what it means. You don’t want me to touch you further than that.
It’s fine by me. Your arms envelop my waist, and we hold on to each other, tongues dancing together until we find ourselves short of breath.
I gasp for air with a silly smile on my face. You do the same, cheeks flushed as a soft giggle leaves your swollen lips and gets lost in the music. You look absolutely beautiful.
“Gosh, how can you kiss like that?” I ask in the silence between songs.
“Same way as you, I guess.”
You lead me to a corner near the balconies and before I can think, my back is against the wall. You attack my mouth once more, pressing your chest against mine. There’s no air between us. You took it all away. I go unconsciously for your hip, but you grab my wrist and pin it high up the wall.
“What is it with hands and the urge to touch?” You sound peeved, but your lips trace a path from my cheek to my neck.
“Sorry,” I murmur after a delighted sigh.
You kiss my skin, deep enough to leave a mark.
How can you be so different from what you seemed?
The pious and obedient son of the minister, talented and beautiful, role model for every mum in our county.
How could I never have noticed this kind of fire in you?
Perhaps I glimpsed something while you played your violin, but faint as it was, it barely made an impression.
Now you burn brighter than a napalm blast and seem willing to scorch me along with you.
Your thigh rubs between my legs, and I let out a muffled groan, immediately afraid my body will betray me in public. “Jesus, Andrew, do you really want to do this here?”
You raise your head and only then appear to notice where we are. A coy giggle escapes as you hide your face against my shoulder.
“Yeah, probably not the best place.”
I laugh along, but don’t dare to move away.
“What do you think of us going back to dancing?” you ask.
Despite my disappointment, I’m unable to stop smiling. “I’d like that.”
You stitch your hand to my arm as we walk, but somewhere along the path, your palm slides down my sleeve and catches my hand. I stare, astounded, as our fingers intertwine, caught between fear and bliss, wondering if I should do something about it.
I don’t.