Lead & Follow

Step 4, Tango

In-Between 4/5
Summer 4 | Step 4, Tango

"Morning, [Nickname]!"

The blackout curtains are still drawn in the tiny living room, but the chipper expression of your best friend lights up the space no differently than the morning sun.

"Morning, Covey," your morning voice is scratchy and lethargic as you traverse the distance from the hallway to the open concept mash-up of your kitchen and living room. 

"Working late again?" he asks, and the smile he equips is warm, sparkling.

You don't have to ask how he knows–your current demeanor makes it fairly obvious. Your bedhead remains untamed, the bags under your eyes are not carry-on material, and you skulk through the house in slippered-feet and flanked by the ripples of a cutesy-dolphin blanket which drapes from your shoulders like a cape.

"Yeah," you croak just as you reach the fridge; you pull it open and blink wearily at the unnecessary brightness inside. "Wracking my brain all night for something interesting to feature."

"I thought you were gonna write about that card trick guy on the boardwalk?" your best friend of forever and roommate of a little under a year queries. He sits comfortably at the cafe-style kitchen table in your apartment, nursing the remnants of fluffy pancakes. When he notices you rifling through the fridge in pursuit of food, he adds, "There's another plate in the microwave for you, and there's some leftover banana smoothie in the fridge–I added protein powder, so it should give you tons of energy!"

Your hand grasps a lidded mason jar full of thick, chocolate brown liquid. You give it an apprehensive shake, "What flavor is it today?"

"Peanut butter-banana-chocolate-hemp," he lists, and he counts off each ingredient in his slim fingers. "Tastes a lot better than it looks!"

Though you are a normal human who requires caffeine to function, and not a self-sustaining tiny sun like him, you gratefully accept the free beverage. "Thank you, Cove. I swear you're always doting on me."

"A-Am not! It's just convenient to go ahead and make double." His expression is earnest, and his cheeks are dusted a faint pink. "Anyway, about the Alexander guy?"

You resist the urge to giggle at his evident fluster as you busy yourself with gathering up the things your bestie has prepared for you.

"He had a family emergency this week, so I had to push the feature back," you sigh, pressing a few buttons on the microwave above the stove to reheat your pancakes. "Nothing else lined up for the summer is really catching my eye, honestly."

"That's gotta be frustrating," he replies, and his bright expression mellows. "But I think you're right. The only thing that stands out in my schedule is the annual fundraiser thing, and even that kinda feels mundane by now."

The microwave beeps, but it's Cove's words which peak your attention. "Oh! Yeah, the ORCA dinner, right?"

"Yep," he remarks, and he takes a hearty swig of what little smoothie remains in his glass. "So I guess my most exciting plans are to feel guilty about eating seafood in front of the aquarium fish again."

"Y'know, I think it's great that you still find time to volunteer," you muse, you retrieve your breakfast goodies and drag your feet towards the table. "And I'm honestly impressed that you willingly do the whole black-tie thing every year."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he shoots back, feigning slight. "I can do black tie."

"Cove Holden," you reply with a playful roll of your eyes. You tuck into the chair across from him. "Last time I dragged you to a formal setting you definitely hated it."

"I-I did not!" he squeaks, slapping a hand down on the table. "I danced and ate the baby samples and everything! I even wore fancy stuff."

"The baby samples?" you snort, beginning to cut up your pancakes and slather them in syrup. "The h'orderves you mean, and actually you left me hanging on the dance floor."

"W-Well, I–uhm," his expression wobbles, and his flush darkens. "I wanted to dance with you then! I can handle that sort of thing better now, really! W-What–"

Your expression is veritably nonplussed, save for the slightest upturn of your lips, and it spurs his rant along.

"Y-You should come with me this year!" he stammers, though his voice carries determination. "See for yourself that I'm, um, totally fancy guy material now."

Your mouth drops, and your fork scrapes against the stoneware plate. Suddenly, it seems the conversation has taken a weird turn.

How did we get here? you think, and you chew the inside of your cheek. You were just supposed to be making small talk over breakfast–like friends, casual roommates do.

"A-Are you–" you swallow thickly, "Are you asking me to be your date…? To prove me wrong?"

Cove freezes, and his hands fly up to conceal his scarlet cheeks from further scrutiny. "No? Well, it's not not a date? I-It doesn't have to be! O-Oh my God, I…"

Whether or not he's adapted better to formal settings remains to be seen, but what you're certain of is the fact that big topics are still overwhelming for him.

You reach across the table to pat his hand, and you affix a reassuring grin across your face. "It's okay, Cove. I didn't think you were trying to put the moves on me or anything. I guess ' plus-one' would have been a better label. And, you know, maybe I could write about the fundraiser and get your insider insight on all the great work ORCA does here in the city, anyway!"

"Y-Yeah," he replies, and he takes several deep, calming breaths. "That was the plan all along! S-See, problem solved!"

The grin he flashes you is a lot more tight around the edges than his usual 'golden-retriever' chique, but you let it slide. 

"Problem solved," you echo, resuming your meal. You've been down this road before, and know better than to make a mile out of a molehill. If Cove were interested in you romantically, you remind yourself, something would have happened by now.

"So, y-you definitely want to go?" Cove asks when you've finished your breakfast, and he'd begun to clear away the plates. He doesn't meet your gaze, but the red which tinges his ears is obvious against his backdrop of seafoam locks.

"Sure," you shrug, looking to contain your excitement with feigned nonchalance. "You said you dance now, right? And it takes two to tango."

"G-Great," he mumbles, and his posture stiffens. He resists the urge to glimpse your expression. "B-But keep in mind that, out of the two of us, I'm not the one with dance lessons under my belt, s-so…"