Two Eyes Cenote [ap] A wallflower, mind the thorns

please forgive my text walls

The regret is almost immediate as she takes him from the safety of the wall; her hand his only tether within unfamiliar waters. The dance floor is a blur of movement. While the choreography may be known to Eset, it is a foreign language to him. Broad gestures made the letters, measures steps the grammar, and graceful swings the sweeps of a pen upon paper. All recognizable as a message—a physical embodiment of song—but one that could not be discerned by his own eyes.

His ears splayed slightly, two-toned eyes shifting between Eset and the dancers that glided by. The whole event reminiscent of schooling fish; the way couples parted and rejoined whilst traveling around the circle. Individual thought coalesced into uniform movement. Stalling meant collision, and he is nearly swept away until Eset stood firm and claimed her own space on the floor. Commanding her own rhythm within the structured flow of the round dance, much to his surprise—and dismay.

He wishes that he had finished his drink. That he maintained his commitment to the cold stone wall in the shadows of a corner only to slink off to a dark, lonely chamber to sleep off the buzz.

But Eset laughs as she pulls for him to join her, and through his uncertainty there is a resurgence in the same envy from moments prior. The joy. The laughter. How terribly he wished to feel the same. How deeply he believed he could not. The self-loathing as he continued to waste this woman's time. Oh, but he had already taken her hand. Then he could commit to trying. He would commit to trying.

Wildfire eyes rose to meet his and he motioned for her to continue, he would be there.

Her's is a dance of anger and fire. There is comfort in both, so he would strive to keep the little desert flame from being doused by the current of gentility. And while strive he did, he was still operating on rusted joints and stilted limbs. To tend of fire is not without risk: a well-fed blaze can crackle and spit embers to smolder those closest. Briar was not coordinated enough to keep from being underfoot as she leapt or from misjudging her path as she spun. Still, he would suffer the burns to allow for her to glow.

His arm would aid her into her spins until he felt comfortable enough to spin with her. He would—attempt to—steer clear of her paws with each jump until he could marginally match her footwork. He was bumbling about in comparison, and perhaps he would have learned faster had he watched his own paws. But he kept his gaze high to meet her own. He was trying for her, he really was.