The Show Must Go On

Chapter Sixteen: Green Eyes

Chapter Sixteen Soundtrack: Green Eyes by JOSEPH

He reads my hesitation as though I've taught him the language, and he laughs, unbearably close still, so that I can almost feel his breath against my cheeks. 'Ah,' he murmurs. 'You can't dance.'

I can't, but I won't admit it. Maybe I'll get to step on his feet. Both of them. 'I can dance.'

'Hmm.'

'What the hell is "Hmm"?'

He leads me firmly to the middle of the room, where dozens of couples are awkwardly swaying to the DJ set, and I am so busy protesting that I let him hold my elbow as he escorts me, almost noticing how his fingers trace up and down my arm, but looking away when the feeling is too much, until we are trapped between the dancers and I have no way out.

Is this a good time to mention my shoes? Because my feet are absolutely killing me. I am convinced they are flashing bright red like in a cartoon, because nothing else could express how painful they are. I surreptitiously inspect them. Is that blood?

Nas must be worried too, because he's looking down too. Are his feet also sore? I follow his gaze and realise that he is staring at me: at my long red dress where it clings to my hip, where the ties against my waist graze my arms as I move, as the fabric sways as I breathe.

'Are we dancing then?' I ask him, desperate to escape his gaze. I don't know what he's seeing but I can't imagine he likes it.

His eyes snap up immediately. 'I'm dancing. I don't know what you're doing.' He gestures towards my awkward swaying.

'I'm dancing!'

He groans. 'Eleanor. You're killing me. Just... come here.'

Nas grabs my arm again, this time without warning, and yanks me against him. 'Nasir!' I protest. 'Stop it.'

'Just try to move your feet,' he says, and I start to explain about my shoes. He interrupts me. 'Never mind, I'll lead.'

'You are not my boss,' I snap. I am aware that this is childlike but he is being exceptionally irritating.

He pulls me closer. My cheek presses against his shoulder, my waist against his hips, and his hand spans my lower back, as he whispers in my ear, 'Eleanor, could you please shut up, just this once?'

My mouth snaps shut.

'Good girl.'

And, just as I am about to shout at him for this, or possibly moan, he pushes me out and spins me, once, twice, until my dress is twirling around my feet and I am laughing in surprise.

'See?' he asks as he pulls me in again. 'This is what we call "dancing".' I would love to argue but it's true that, in his arms, I am passably on tempo.

The music slows and his hand tightens around my back. My right hand is hovering above his shoulder and, gently, I lower it.

I am suddenly so aware of his hand on my waist. Has he always been this tall? Has he always smelled of smoke and cloves and warmth? My brain is collapsing. All it can think is NAS IS TOUCHING ME. His lips are coming down—or mine are coming up—

Does he want to kiss me? Even worse, do I want him to?

He whispers in my ear, 'Are you feeling alright? You aren't looking at me like you hate me.'

'I contain multitudes. I'm like an onion. Take your pick.'

'As always, I'm in awe of your intellectual references.'

His right hand, which is clasping my left, tenses softly. His fingers are so long, I notice, when I feel them against mine, like a musician's. Strange, how often we have sat beside each other or bumped past each other or glared at each other, and yet feeling his fingers against mine is the greatest intimacy I've known in years. It's like a dam has opened in my mind, now that I know how his hands feel, so that I can imagine how they would feel against my cheeks, my thighs, my chest: careful, like he always is, curious, but—

My eyes lock with his. He can read it all in my eyes.

He pulls back and shuts his eyes. His face is stony, tense, as though he has escaped this room in his mind. I count his breaths: one, two, three, before he looks at me again, this time with his trademark smirk.

Of course. He hates me. He's horrified by arousing me.

'Well, that's enough of that,' he snaps, dropping my hand. My fingers close around the air.

This rejection is awful. It's worse than getting my first period in year seven gym class, worse than being kicked out of my first one night stand. This is so personal.

He still won't look at me, but I know my hurt is written across my face.

'Nasir, I—'

I can't finish the sentence, but finally he glances back and his eyes soften. So I ask him, finally, the question I can't stop wondering. 

*

what do you want ellie to ask him? 

finally here is the story blurb! maybe it was unfair to put this scene in the story description since it will take her a loooong time to make a move, but also, let's be honest... she's been thinking about it a lot. 

hope you all had a wonderful weekend!