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Nick’s always been a more private kind of guy.
Is that the right word? I mean yeah, his hair might scream ‘I’m a walking disaster’ and he’s always embarrassing us in court, but he’s actually not out for the attention. You’d think lawyers are all about confrontation, but one glare from the prosecution and I know that if we didn’t have a client on the line, Nick would rather be shovelling manure. He keeps his snarky comebacks to himself, or at least when beyond the office walls. He’s low-key like that. Or at least, he likes to be.
That’s also why everybody walks all over him. Sometimes literally, as a random passenger steps on Nick’s foot, and he just shoots a dirty look their way.
The bus is packed like a tin of sardines. I can’t hear much past the honking and grumbling engines and coughing people. Nick’s ushered me into the nearest free seat in the middle of the aisle, opting to stand in front of me. Sandwiched between an old lady and some sleeping dude, I balance Nick’s briefcase on my lap and settle into the plastic seat. I watch Nick fidget, flex his fingers on the ceiling hold, then scowl through the window at passing traffic.
Today’s trial was bad, to put things lightly. We’d ended up in a situation so bad, it was just short of ‘guilty verdict’ bad. Our client’s husband’s cousin’s mailman had burst into the courtroom with new evidence— except that this mailman has a grudge against our client’s daughter, so said evidence ended up helping the prosecution’s case… and screwing us over. Nick spazzed out. I honestly thought he was choking, so I performed the Heimlich manoeuvre for the first time in the field. (Long story short, we got a penalty.)
By that point, the Judge was tired of everyone’s garbage. Not to mention the old crone had a medical appointment in an hour because he was scared he’d caught that one virus. Boom, trial extended by another day. Not that either me or Nick were super hopeful about tomorrow; we’re not really sure where to go from here investigation-wise. I suggested we just regroup at home, have a snack, chill. Think for a bit.
Maybe to some music. I fish out my phone and earphones. I offer Nick one earbud, maybe just for the sake of making him look at me. But he just glances at it, then shakes his head, looking off again. I pout. But he was never into the stuff I listen to, anyway, so I crank up the volume and listen on by myself. I turn the volume up high (probably too high) so I can hear the lyrics over the rumbling bus and distant traffic; except, I dunno, maybe the streets are extra bad today because the traffic wins out. So much for distractions.
I pretend like I can hear the song, though. Nodding my head, tapping a foot. But the bus is seriously packed and I don’t have enough space to move much else. Sucks. Good songs are good and I feel like moving— anything to work off the awfulness that was today’s trial. I have to go back to Kurain tomorrow night, so I was hoping we could’ve ended today on a high note.
Looking at the slouching lawyer standing over me, I know Nick could use a break, too. He’s been mostly quiet since we left the courthouse. I’d ask him to talk to me, but I can barely hear myself think on this bus. Not to mention it’s times like these I know words won't help. Not really. He's been hurling words and objections all day in court and I guess he burns out on them sometimes.
Maybe I’m just the one not used to keeping almost everything to myself. I don’t expect Nick to come at me with his autobiography, or the other way 'round. But if all we had was a bad day in court, I feel like he’d be better off if he just… talked about it. I dunno. Too much pent-up feelings can’t be very good for anyone.
Nick included.
Which is why when we get home and he’s dumped his jacket over his chair, trudging over to the kitchen to make some Grumpy Nick Coffee, I bounce over to the TV and turn to one of the radio channels.
Yeah, radio channels, on TV. Nick didn’t see the point of having a TV just to stare at a blank screen with music, either. Like, why, y’know? So we never bothered with them. The radio channels just came with the subscription package that had the anime. But today, the otherwise useless channels would redeem themselves, because I’ve got an idea. A weird one, but an idea nonetheless.
I don’t really know my music too well. I mean, I know what I like, and how to download songs kind-of-not-really-legally from the internet. And I can tell apart the modern pop songs from, say, heavy metal stuff. But I’ll struggle putting a name to anything in-between. I mean, can you blame me? Kurain doesn’t usually have music in the air; it really ruins meditation and messes up mantras when song lyrics creep into your head, so music’s really not recommended. But whenever someone does turn on the radio— a grimy old box with those knob things— it’s often some fuzzy Japanese love song from the 60s. Maybe earlier, but I wouldn’t know.
But it’s 2019 and we’re not in Kurain anymore, and one of the TV’s radio channels happens to be on an old-timey music kick. Western, jazzy, soulful-y-ish, a guy in a cowboy hat playing the sax. I’ve probably got my stereotypes mixed up. Either way, Aunt Morgan hated this kind of music. She was convinced it’d slowly eat away at Kurain culture, or something. All the more reason to turn up the volume, right?
The singer sounds far away, and the age of the recording reminds me that the guy’s probably dead. The tune’s charming, but not overbearing. Something I could dance to.
And I do, twirling and letting my hair fly in my wake, throwing my arms out in some weak imitation of what I think could be a graceful swan, going slower at the long notes and changing poses when the singer goes through the lyrics faster. That’s basically how you’re supposed to dance, right? It’s not like everybody who goes partying at clubs is a dance expert, either. Dancing’s an art! An expression of the soul, about letting go, something something I heard in talent show sob stories.
Letting go is just what I need right now, though. The bus ride left me with at least five cramps in four places, so I take the opportunity stretch out the protesting muscles. Okay, stretched too far, nearly tore something. Maybe I should exercise more. I mean, right now all I can think is what a shame it is that I never really dance. It’s fun. And the music is nice.
My spins create a nice breeze across my face. My foot brushes the back of the couch, and I nearly knock over Nick’s desk lamp with my hair.
Yeah, I don’t know any more about dancing than I do music. All I know is how it makes me feel when I hear it, when I gravitate to it.
Just… moving.
Nick comes into the main room with his grumpy coffee and pauses when he sees me, incredulous. He just stands there. Probably to make sure I’m aware of his incredulous-ness, because man, Maya, what are you doing now?
If it were anyone else, I might’ve gone shy. But it’s Nick, so I just keep hopping around and shoot him my best smile. I’m cute, Nick, I can do whatever I want! And I mean, he’s got a little smile pulling at the corners of his lips himself.
I learned a while back that I can't turn off my spontaneity. My mind works in tangents and Nick knows that. Not that he necessarily ever understands what I’m doing, or that I even want him to. It’s the acceptance that yeah, Maya’s like that, no big deal, what are you gonna do. The kind of resignation that comes with best-friendship. Trust.
I hop over to him, rocking on my heels to the gentle beat of the TV-radio. He looks down at me, kinda curious, and I smile again. I take his coffee out of his hand, placing it on his desk. Then I take both his hands in mine.
I get no resistance as I pull him to the centre of the room and make him go spinning with me to the music.
He’s taller than me, and his hands are so much bigger than mine. He’s also damn heavy, feet thudding on the floor with the grace of an elephant having a mid-life crisis as he tries to keep up with me. Slowpoke. His foot brushes Charley’s leaves once, and the plant sways in the wake of our movements. While I can barely focus on the song right now, I look into Nick’s eyes and try to hum along to the chorus. He just smiles, and it’s not long before the sourpuss isn’t so sour anymore and he barks a laugh at what we’re doing and my heart just… soars.
One thing I love about Nick? He listens to me. Even if I haven’t said anything. It probably helps that there’s no one else but us in the office— and the blinds are drawn to deter any nosy Gatewater Hotel guests— so he doesn’t have to feel nervous about looking super dumb, or the fact that our dance-thing barely even matches the music. The beads in my hair whack him whenever we twirl; he makes a face and pretends to dodge them. I just pull him in more dizzying circles until he’s laughing again, eyes bright.
(I’d always thought he was very pretty, y’know, for a guy.)
My cheeks are warm and our breaths come out in sporadic pants. Something electric runs through my hands where we’re touching and shoots up my arms, leaving me winded for more reasons than one. Time doesn’t exist.
Just as I’m considering channeling the inevitably-dead vocalist of the song to thank the guy, the music ends.
We slow to a stop ourselves, still connected at the hands, eyes locked. Neither of us bother to let go. It’s nice, because I like holding his hand, at least, whenever I can get away with it anyway. I usually just chicken out. Grab his arm instead.
Nick’s tie had long flown over his shoulder, his collar rumpled, and even his dumb hair’s a bit of a mess. And yet, he's just smiling softly at me. I can hear my heart in my ears.
I wish he was always this relaxed. Heck, I wish I was always this relaxed, and excited at the same time, my face warm and chest full of hopes of… stuff. It’s like we’re kids without responsibilities who can have dumb dance parties all the time because the future’s just so far away that you never even think about it.
But we’re not kids, not even me, not anymore. Adulting sucks. Learning that I can’t just do whatever I want, forever, was a tough pill to swallow. The traffic’s gonna drown out my song. I wonder if Nick ever had to learn that, too. I mean, it must suck to go into court and declare with all your heart that you believe the person you’re defending is innocent, only for everyone to make fun of you and try to take you down.
I guess that’s the nature of court, too, but whatever.
I also forgot that the TV was still on. I mean, the screen’s all dark.
So when a new song starts up—a tune just as old and melodic as the last— I start to panic. Me and Nick, we’re still just sort of standing and looking at each other and I was busy monologuing internally and it’s getting awkward for him too, now, going by the look on his face. Crap.
I look at anything but him, palms sweating. Hi Charley. Maybe I should let go of Nick’s hands now? Probably. But does he want to let go? I’m not that insecure, I know he likes touching me too, except that sounded wrong, nevermind. Ignoring all that, he seems like he’s been cheered up, and we’ve never really done the whole impromptu ‘dancing together’ thing before, so I’m not exactly sure about the protocol.
All I know is that it’s over. Nick will let go, and we’ll be back to business. We’ve got an investigation for tomorrow, after all...
But as I quietly sink into despair, staring at our feet, and a new song begins, Nick makes a decision for us.
All of a sudden, I’m no longer the one dragging his weight around— because he’s in the lead, pulling me into a second dance.
It turns out Nick, unlike me, does know a thing or two about dancing. This dance is slower, more graceful. Careful, educated steps, the fancy kind of dancing, slow ballroom stuff. Guess this is something else he’d never told me about before. He leads me in small circles and my feet follow him nervously, awkwardly, sometimes nearly tripping over each other. But he takes my uselessness in stride, pun not intended, taking me for another slow spin. He’s probably no professional himself, because his eyes are narrowed in I’m-trying-to-remember-the-steps concentration, but he might’ve dipped his toes in long enough to know how to pull me around.
I kinda want to laugh. Don’t you need to take lessons for this kind of thing? Nick’s such a nerd. In a nice way, of course. But I’m suddenly too distracted by the warm hand suddenly resting in the curve of my hip. Um, red alert. Mayday. Wait, is this even the right kind of music?
I chance a look at his face, but he’s busy staring at our feet. Yeah, I know that look from court: he’s freaking out on the inside, too. I almost laugh again. But for once, he’s not freaking out enough to run away from me when things get… awkward. I guess today’s been a couple firsts for us. So I swallow my surprise, going along with this, hoping that in our silence he’ll show me more.
We trod across the carpet, but as far as I care, it’s the marble floors of a ballroom. Everything’s gold and shiny and we’re like, these super rich people with rich clothes who actually get invited to balls and galas in the first place. What a picture. I always figured Nick wasn’t really into music, since I never really see him listening to anything, and he gets annoyed whenever he’s trying to get my attention and I’ve got earbuds in. But the thought of him unironically listening to violins and orchestral stuff in a fancy dance class? Wow, not anything I’d ever imagined him being into. I’d say something if my heart wasn’t going a mile a minute. I wonder why he ever stopped the dancing thing, because I have to assume he likes dancing if he’s pulling me into it.
Suddenly his hand’s on my back— how’d it get there?— the other remaining on my hip. He might as well have punched me in the stomach instead because my insides are going haywire. I move my hands but then don’t know where to put them, and then I’ve got my arms in front of me like a frozen T-rex until he manually coaxes my hands to rest on his shoulders. Then he moves, pulling me with him. This is almost too much to take in. How haven’t I stumbled yet?
I should be focusing on my feet, but I’m more concerned with my body temperature and whether my skin’s turning pink or not, because things get pretty weird when you start blushing around your best friend. Things are already kinda weird, sometimes.
I gasp when he dips me, my hair brushing the floor, and when I come up again my cheeks are burning. It’s a struggle not to swoon. Nick’s steps are measured, and I stumble around trying to mimic them, and then a laugh bubbles up from his chest; he catches my eye and looks at me so fondly that I don’t even remember to get embarrassed when I step on his foot.
We continue to twirl. I feel graceful for a good three seconds this time before I almost trip again, only for strong hands to catch me under my ribs and pull me back. I’d even call it romantic if he wasn’t just kinda dragging me and my two left feet around.
(I wonder; you need a partner to practice this kind of dance, right? Bet he doesn’t even think about her anymore.
(Not that I know it was a her, but like… y’know.)
But nothing lasts forever, as much as I wish they would. The song ends as soon as it began. Radio announcers take over, laughing and sharing forced conversation.
Without the music, we find ourselves coming to a stop— and, ah, eye contact. Does he really have to stare at me so intensely? It’s like I’m a witness again. I swallow.
His hands are back on my waist, while mine are up on his shoulders, and it’s real warm where he’s holding me, and I’m sure friends do this all the time. Yeah.
Sound falls away, and he’s watching me. Why? We’ve stopped, why’s the room spinning?
He’s so close, so warm. I bask in it. I’m hyper-aware that something’s happening, or going to happen, and the blazing question is what, and I don’t know, because I couldn’t ask him if I wanted to. I’m just stock still, frozen. Turned to ice and putty at the same time by his stare.
Another moment passes. Hesitation colors his eyes. And then… there.
Nick’s pecked me on the lips.
My heart grinds to a halt.
Lip pecks from Nick are rarer than the cheeks or forehead or nose. Lips usually mean something along the lines of a heartfelt ‘thanks, I’m really grateful for that’— and it’s really too quick for me to even dream of it being anything else. I mean, I’ve done plenty of web searches, but Google’s answer to “is lip kissing platonic” turned out to be as varied and mixed as the feelings in my head.
He’s pulling away, taking his thoughts and his heart and his kisses with him. The little world we’d built— this air of fantasy and music and stupid slow dances— begins to crumble like thin ice, our ballroom falling apart. My body grows cold with the realization that if I don’t do something now, we’ll never listen to the radio channels ever again and it’d be a waste of money and I’d hate myself forever because this was never about the stupid radio to begin with.
I think of today’s awful trial, the investigation we’ve gotta return to, and our client’s husband’s cousin’s mailman, that jerk. I think about being on the train home tomorrow, at a window seat with only my playlist for company, looking back on this moment and regretting not taking this chance because I won’t see Nick again for a month— because by then, we’d already be pretending this never happened.
There’s a timer on us now, a song only halfway through.
No, screw this.
I lunge forward— my arms looping round his neck as I drag him back down with my weight— going in for my proper kiss. Well, 'proper' as in noses crashing, lips smashed together, his eyes impossibly wide in shock as I nearly knock him over. His lips are warm, though something in his neck pops, I hope he doesn’t die. And I bite my tongue. I'm a smooth player, what can I say?
(I consider breaking the kiss to do a traditional Kurain backflip out the open window before he can respond.)
It’s over pretty quickly, though that’s probably my fault. I think my lips are gonna bruise, and judging by the crease in his brow, so will his. Yeah, our friendship’s dead. My eyes drop to the floor. Wonderful. Congratulations, Maya, on your incredible failure. Time to bolt.
Except his hands are clutching my upper arms, cutting short any potential plans for escape. Oh no.
Out of either fear or terror, I sneak a glance at his face. Weirdly enough, Nick’s got this clear look about him. Like he’s seeing something new— or maybe he’s just seeing me?— and with eyes so bright staring into mine, I forget to breathe. What is that? That look? Those stupid eyes of his? Is it just my wishful thinking?
I clutch tighter at his shirt, leaning in again, desperate, hopeful, hopeless over this sliver of potential, this second chance he’s given me. My tongue’s stinging, heart pounding simultaneously out of excitement and dread.
Maybe?
He doesn’t move, though I do, ever closer. I stand on the tips of my toes, as if I could ever reach his height, and hold his gaze.
Trust me, Nick.
The radio commentary fades away.
A little smile appears on his face, sending my heart beating in triplicate.
A melody picks up again.
We dance.
It turns out Nick, unlike me, does know a thing or two about making out.