Meliora - Extricate - 24

[lady_mab]

Lysander Stavros

For all the time that I’ve been here this evening, I’ve spoken to Ayn maybe twice. I’ve seen her a handful of times, but she’s always been just out of my reach.

And I get it. It’s her birthday party, and she’s surrounded by friends from both school and the ballet studio.

I spend most of the time nursing drinks and standing off to the side. Everyone knows someone else. I’m all alone, except for the girl who doesn’t have the time to see me.

Fletcher’s not here, and for that I am thankful. I don’t think I could stand to be gloomy when he’s also there being gloomy.

It’s getting late by the time I notice Ayn’s energy finally start to flag. She excuses herself from a cluster of friends to go join me at a table by the edge of the dance floor. “I’m sorry, this must be terribly boring for you.”

I watch her tug at the strands of red, combing through them with her fingers as she attempts to rebraid her hair. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so…” Words that don’t sound ridiculously sappy fail to come to mind. I’m not at that level with her anymore to use them, and I don’t think she would appreciate them coming from me anyway.

“Drunk?” She giggles, because she is, and I last saw her shortly after she turned thirteen.

Easy enough to play along with. I snap my fingers, her answer giving me the perfect lead in. “I was going to say relaxed, but that might explain it.”

Ayn continues to giggle and swipes my drink to take a sip. “It’s like ten-thirty and I have only seen you stand around.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder and sashays back a pace. “Do you want to dance?”

She’s been dancing all evening. Moving between the crowds, surrounded by her friends on the dance floor..

I consider her question, watch her start to get impatient and shift her weight from hip to hip. I make up my mind, but decide to wait longer.

It doesn’t take long before she breaks down into a whine and reaches out to tug my arm. “Lysander, c’mon. Come dance with me!”

“Alright,” I say, making it sound like she’s won some sort of great argument. She cheers as I get up, twisting her hand to grab mine. “But not here.”

She’s pulled back to the extent of our arms, a faint tug as she leans back in the direction of the dance floor. “No?”

“No.” This time, I tug her hand and she stumbles but maintains balance as she follows behind me. “I want to commandeer your attention.”

When I look back, her face flushes red -- though that could easily be a result of the drinks and her constant giggles. “Everyone is going to be mad that you’re whisking me away.”

I run her answer over in my head several times before I can parse the meaning of it. Maybe I’ve had a bit too much to drink, too. “As long as you’re not, that’s okay.”

She grins and lets me pull her through the crowds and out of the bar. We manage it without anyone noticing, but at this point, everyone is well into their cups and the lights in a dance club are designed to distract.

The wind has kicked up since this morning, and she shudders at a sudden gust. Her jacket is probably back in the club, and the warmth of movement fades as soon as the brisk early winter air hits.

“Where are we going?” Ayn picks up her pace to walk beside me, brushing the strands of hair out of her face as the wind picks them up and tosses them about. It does the same to her long skirt and to my hair.

I shrug out of my button down overshirt and drape it around her shoulders. My jacket is also back in the club, but it’s too late to go back now. She accepts it, but her hand catches my arm before I can pull back.

For a moment, I don’t know what she’s going to do. I’m distracted by her expression, the furrow of her brow and the way her eyes darken. But then her fingers trace down my forearm and it comes into focus all too quickly.

I snatch my arm from her grip and cross them over my chest. “I told you, I quit.”

“I know,” she says. “I believe you.” She adjusts the sleeves of the shirt to keep her hands tucked inside and picks up her pace to pull ahead of me. “It’s going to rain soon, I think.”

It’s a strange change in topic, but I’d much rather talk about the weather than about the scars on my arms. “Rain, huh?” I take a deep breath, but all I can pick up is the distant taint of the river and the familiar stale air of the city. How I managed to park myself here for so long without noticing all of these things is beyond me. It’s the same kind of stifling feeling that one gets when they’re in a closed room with too many people and no air flow. I need to get out, or I feel like I’ll go crazy. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Probably tomorrow. Definitely by Thursday.” Ayn clasps her hands behind her back and doesn’t turn to look at me.

“Are you predicting the weather now? Is this a thing?”

She laughs, and I watch her shoulders shake with the sound. “No. It’s a distinct smell, even here in Eminence.”

I hum in thought. “I wasn’t aware this city smelled like anything but trampled human spirit and concrete.” My footing slips when I’m not paying attention, and I stumble into the street.

Ayn finally turns to look back at me, maintaining her perch on the sidewalk. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just drunk walking.”

“Oh? Funny, I am drunk floating.” To prove a point, she spins about on her toes and traipses across the edge of the sidewalk -- arms out to help keep her balance. It’s remarkably childish, but at the same time, it’s exactly the way I remember her.

“Show off.”

“Dancer,” she corrects, and takes a turn at seemingly random down a side street.

I have to backtrack to catch her. “Wait-- Ayn!”

Either she doesn’t hear me or she doesn’t feel like listening because she keeps on walking. That’s definitely a trait she’s picked up from her mother.

She disappears from my line of sight for a moment as she takes another turn. When I finally catch up, she’s skipping down the cut out stone steps into a small amphitheater. She performs a small spin in front of the stage and waves me down.

I whistle as I look around. “What is this place?” It mimics the ancient Greek style with concrete columns spaced across the back of the stage, but it is obviously modern. There’s very little sign of wear and tear on the steps and the stage itself.

“We had a performance here once. Probably like two years ago now?” She balances on one foot, far better than anyone should be able to do while drunk, and slips off a shoe.

I snap my mouth shut and take my time descending the stairs to join her. “And what are you going to do now?”

Ayn levels me with a look as she slips off her other shoe. Her lips are pursed and cheeks flushed. “I’m going to dance, idiot.”

With this, she twists about and plants her palms against the stage. It’s at the level of her chest, and I expect her to struggle a bit or ask for help. Instead, I marvel as she lifts herself up effortlessly onto the cement platform.

Even though my shirt drapes her form, I can see the muscles in her arms and shoulders strain, defined in a way I hadn’t noticed previously. Her legs swing out and suddenly she’s sitting, graceful and delicate. “Is that alright with you?”

This time, I let my mouth hang open as I stare. “How buff are you?”

“Dance,” she says again, as if this answers everything.

“I didn’t think dancers had such nice arms.”

Ayn leans in and teases me with a wink. “We have a lot of very nice things.” She rolls to her knees and then to her feet. Her footsteps are light and measured as she paces the edge of the stage.

It slowly becomes obvious that she’s stretching as she moves. Her arms up over her head, then reaching down towards the ground as her legs slide gracefully from one form to the next. And then she moves to the middle of the stage and points a finger at me.

I wait for an explanation that doesn’t come. “What does that mean?”

She allows herself a roll of her eyes as her posture breaks from poise to an annoyed girl. “Play a song.”

I pat down my hips and she smothers a giggle. “I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten my fiddle in my other pants.”

“A rhythm is all I need. You used to play the drums.”

I’m flattered that she remembers that fact, because it was very early on in my time at her house that I entertained her with an impromptu drum solo against any sort of object I could beat my fingers against. “Hardly well enough to accompany a dancer.” Still, I obey as she shoots me another glare. I stretch my wrists, shake out my hands, and try to decide what to do for her.

She waits, patient and poised, in the center of the stage. I wonder when she started to stand like a ballerina even when she wasn’t preparing to dance.

I hum to myself, then my hands start to tap out a beat.

Ayn leans in towards the sound, eyes shut. She listens, lets the pulse of my hands wash over her, and starts to move.

Her foot slides out, and a sigh of skin over stone joins my steady drumbeat. Her hands lift of her head and her wrists flick in time. I’m struck, unable to look away.

It’s a lie that I’ve never seen her dance. I realized it a bit earlier tonight, but it becomes painfully obvious now that everything she does is a dance. The way she walks, the way she breathes. The way she rolls her head on her neck when trying to stretch her shoulders.

I see all of those little movements now.

Her body is fluid, long lines stretching beneath her skirt and the folds of my shirt. Her legs go on forever as she lifts onto her toes and spins. She doesn’t even seem to notice me as she moves across the stage, even when her feet carry her close enough to touch.

I keep my rhythm steady. She’s asked this much of me and I don’t want to disappoint.

She bends her back, the shirt slipping from her shoulder. Spine arching and hands stretching to keep her balance.

A wheeze leaves my lungs and I nearly fumble. Her lips crack into a smile as she rolls her torso, coming upright. She heard the extra beat.

I pull myself onto the edge of the stage as well and start to hum in time with my drumming. It’s a tune I remember from ages ago, back when I was young and there was such a thing as being too attached to one place.

I sing the melody line that my fiddle would have taken, a single voice when I’m used to many.

She doesn’t notice the difference. She keeps pace as my tempo increases -- as if able to predict the rise and fall of my cadence.

Minutes pass before I’m unable to keep up with her. I clamber to my feet, far less tactful than she had been, and waver on the edge as my world tilts around me. I’ve forgotten that I’m on the unsteady side of drunk.

Ayn continues to dance as I sing out the melody, my hands hanging uselessly at my side. I don’t dare move a step closer, not when I can’t trust my balance. I would trip and fall.

Or maybe I would just turn and walk away like I did before.

I can’t stop looking at her. At the university and at the coffee shop, I kept looking for traces of the girl I had known all those years ago.

The ways that her eyes pinch in the corner when she pretends to smile, forcing the fake expression all the way. The bloom of red in her cheeks when she’s embarrassed. The tiny quirks and habits, the smattering of freckles that no amount of foundation is able to hide.

But now, she’s grown.

She’s a woman I don’t know. So I try to commit this new woman to memory.

The line of her shoulders as she dips and teases the surface of the stage with her fingers. The way my shirt hangs loose on her frame. The beads of sweat that prickle her brow and the lines of her neck.

The way she licks her lips, catches her breath, slowly exhales as she moves.

Every little sound she makes pierces straight through the haze in my head and I know that I’m fucked.

I would be better off just walking away.

Ayn twirls to a stop, toe to toe with me. Her eyelashes flutter against the swells of her cheekbones before opening. The dark and challenging gaze of her eyes pins me in place.

I was born to dig myself into holes.

I reach out and wrap my arms around her.

The amusement quickly gives way to shock. “Lysander--” she starts, but the rest of whatever she wants to say is cut off as I press my mouth against hers.

There’s a moment, a pause, a slight hesitation before her hands find my shoulders and she pushes me back. She’s stronger than I thought. Dancer, I can hear her tease. “I don’t think--”

This time, a squeak of surprise leaves her as I kiss her again.

It takes several seconds before her hands still. Her fingers hover over my neck, not landing, but not putting space between us. My hand curls around the back of her head, fingers tangling in the strands of hair, keeping her close. I breathe in her scent, the subtle spice of her perfume and the heady tang of sweat.

She tastes like the rain that she spoke of.

I can feel the tickle of her eyelashes against my cheek, and the swell of her chest as her lungs expand and she tries to catch her breath.

I’ve chased the memory of her ever since I left New Oxford. I didn’t kiss her then, because she was young and I knew better than to consider it.

This is altogether different. She’s different. And every fiber of my body reacts to her.

When she finally pushes, I relinquish my grip. Ayn takes a step back, lips parted, chest heaving as she struggles to make it look like she’s in control.

She takes another step back and swallows. “Next time you want to kiss me, I’d appreciate it if you weren’t drunk.” Her gaze is pointed towards the floor, so I can’t see what sort of expression she’s making.

“So are you.”

She licks her lips, brushes her fingers against the corners of her mouth, and when she finally looks up, she pins me with her dark gaze. Again, again, again. Every time she looks at me, I freeze. She takes a breath, and I brace for whatever she’s going to say. “We can’t just pick up where we left off.”

“That never was an option. Because that would mean I would go back to being a druggie and you’d have to keep your opinions to yourself.” I try to pass it off as a joke, but her glare silences the laughter before it can make its way out. “Alright, fine. Go out with me.”

This catches her by surprise and she lets her guard down for a second. It’s back up a beat later and her shock gives way to frustration. “I’m not going to be your girlfriend because you asked--”

“No,” I cut in. “I mean, like… on a date. Just go to dinner with me or something. We’ll start over again.” I can’t believe this. I’m twenty-five and blabbering to a pretty girl while trying to disguise how much she affects me.

Again the surprise. I try not to feel insulted -- perhaps I’ll aim for amused. At the idea that I can still find ways to surprise her. We’re both shocked by the way the other has grown. “You do dates?”

“I do dates when the occasion calls for it.” I don’t add that I haven’t actually dated in ages. It’s hard to maintain a relationship when you’re on drugs, and it’s hard when you’re trying to make yourself a better person for someone you think you’ll never see again. “If you’ll accept.”

Her reaction this time is a laugh. It’s short, a burst of sound, but it’s genuine. “Alright. You can start by walking me back to the club.”

This isn’t the answer I wanted, but I try to keep the disappointment from my face. “Why? I thought we were having a moment here.” I don’t want to head back to join everyone else just yet. I want it to keep being the two of us for just a bit longer.

Ayn’s smile pinches at the corners. “I’m tired, Lysander. I didn’t get to bed until like 2:30 yesterday, and I had class all afternoon. I want to get my phone that I’m pretty sure Lindsay stole from me at some during the night and go home.”

“Well there goes my suggestion of trying to find some late-night diner so we can eat away our future hangovers.” But at her words, I suddenly realize how tired I am. I stayed up until Jun and Zoné texted me they reached home okay, and then I had to deal with students hyped up on Halloween candy all day. I move to hop off the stage and groan as my feet hit the ground. “I just had the very painful realization that I have to teach tomorrow.”

Her expression softens and she accepts my hand to help her down. “How does it feel to have responsibilities?”

“I hate it. But at the same time, I really enjoy teaching?” I shrug and wait for her to slip her shoes back on.

Ayn pauses long enough to look up into my eyes. She’s searching for something, and I don’t know if she finds it or not. But she presses a hand to my cheek and says, “Oh, how the years have changed us.”

She pulls away, and I let her lead. Partly because I don’t think I’ll be able to get us back without getting lost. Partly because I can watch her hand and marvel at how easily I had been able to hold it earlier.

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