asoncalledgabriel | (no subject)

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Gabriel loves dancing. All kinds, really. The wild reels and steps of his childhood and the gyrating dances he'd learned in dark corners and even the foxtrot and waltz he'd been forced to learn with strict nuns keeping time.

There are no nuns tonight, though.

The semester has been a bear, with the only high point of his week sometimes being the class time he gets to spend with Anthony. And, maybe, the after-hours sessions they have together: he's an avid student, even half dressed and falling into bed he'll tease about grammar and conjugation. He'll hold little conversations in French as they lay together after, sharing cigarettes.

But not tonight. Tonight, they are both between projects and assignments and Gabriel wants to be out. He's texted Anthony, inviting (urging) him to come out for some fun while they both have the energy. Gabriel's been there for a little while, thoroughly enjoying himself while he waits for his--

Anthony.

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Anthony chuckles, his gaze sliding over the crowd of grinding bodies. Years ago, he learned to dance properly, of course, but he had never enjoyed the forced intimacy of it. And he certainly doesn't have an interest in joining the pulsing wildness they call 'dancing' here in Darrow. Anthony has no intention of joining in.

But Gabriel looks like he won't be taking no for an answer--at least not immediately.

Anthony lifts a brow. "There isn't enough alcohol in the entire world."

"Did you ever go reeling? Do the English do ceilidhs?"

He wonders, if they do, if they call it something else. He imagines, if they do, that the sort of reel dancing the upper class indulge in is nothing like the sweaty, smokey ceilidhs Gabriel attended since childhood. He'd had a blast on Saint Patrick's day: he'd danced with anyone that would have him. He'd also had quite a bit to drink that day.

Anthony scoffs, amused by the image of people he knows doing Irish reels. "God no. Not where I come from, certainly." He pauses thoughtfully, trying to remember when he last had reason to dance at all, and coming up blank. "I did learn how to dance--proper dancing, that is--when I was a child. But it's been years."

"Maybe the next time you get me into a suit, then, we'll do proper dancing. Since reels and whirling around like mad people isn't proper."

Gabriel manages to affect a convincing mimic of the British received accent that Guy and Anthony both have in different measures each time he says 'proper.' He nudges gently against Anthony and sips his drink.

He can't help but look fond when he meets Anthony's gaze again. No, he can't picture him indulging at a ceilidh, not the way Guy might. And Guy might be mocking while he was at it, depending on his mood.

"Christ, I want to kiss you," he laughs, feeling warmth in his face as he looks back down at his drink.

This time, Anthony actually laughs. Gabriel's mimicry is quite funny, but it's the thought of dancing--any time of dancing--that really amuses. "That is an absolutely terrible idea," he says. Anthony Blunt has managed to avoid most types of dancing since childhood and intends to keep it that way.

His expression softens when Gabriel speaks again. They are standing close to one another; they have to to hear each other over the din, though there is an intimacy in their closeness, too. Anthony doesn't answer, but he smiles and brushes the backs of his fingers on the younger man's cheek.

Gabriel turns his head toward Anthony's fingers and lets his lips brush against them. The ghost of a kiss, or the promise of one. He looks at Anthony, all coy and sweet.

"Maybe in the apartment, where no one is looking."

Well, if Anthony won't dance with him here, or in public, he's happy to start offering alternatives.

There is something a little bit electric, knowing he could kiss Gabriel to his heart’s content, right here, if he wanted to. Such places had existed in his London, too, but the threat of arrest had not gone away even in those secret bars.

Anthony is largely indifferent, even disdainful, of the new freedom Darrow offers. But now he finds himself smiling. He could do what he wanted, even if he doesn’t.

He lifts a brow. “Are you really going to be focused on dancing by then?"

"Is that a challenge? I think I'm game if it means getting you to foxtrot or something around the hazards in the living room," he quips. Gabriel shifts closer, eyes bright.

This sort of thing would never be allowed where he came from. He didn't know clubs for people like him even existed, anywhere, even when he was getting ready to leave Derry. London was full of possibilities he didn't even have names for. Darrow has just as many and far fewer laws regarding his conduct in public or in private. The freedom of it still feels like waiting to take a breath, like any moment it'll be taken away.

But Christ, he'd rather be daring than terrified.

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