Shall We Dance?

Pierre was very insistent about his masquerade outfit, prattled off what he was looking for. "Make sure my tits will look good, I want to show at least some belly and leg, make sure I have the prettiest outfit there, you know what I like" and so on, so forth. While Pierre was picky, fussy, he did like surprises and knew giving Yama room for creativity would get him the best result. Once they'd completed the fitting and everything, Pierre found it hard to keep quiet about the party or try to keep an air of mystery about it. He does, though, although his pleasure with his ensemble was palpable and he often texted Yama photos of himself flaunting the outfit. Everything was butterflies and flower petals, complete with an extravagant chiffon coat that looked like layers and layers of petals fluttering and overlapping each other as the shape shifted with Pierre's movements like flowers in the breeze. Equal parts extravagant, sexy, and whimsical in motion. He loved it.

Still, Yama hovers the drink table while Pierre snags as many glasses of champagne as he can carry and downs them without any sense of decorum whatsoever. He didn't even wait to savor the flutes, just filled his cheeks and tossed back the contents with a satisfied sigh. That was already his fourth or fifth in a row and Pierre hadn't even been here for an hour. Though Pierre was not the type to shy from public intoxication, licking his lips as he leans into the wallflower tailor.

"Yama, dance with me," Pierre demands, not asks, he tugs lightly on Yama's lapel while his tail sways behind him in interest. "You seriously didn't show up in that classy getup to just stand here all night, did you?" A pout puffing his cheeks, Pierre nuzzles into Yama in what would appear intimate, but only so the he can feel the light brushing of sharp teeth. "C'mon, it's a party, live a little."

Of course, Yama was meticulous in putting their outfits together. He listened to Pierre's requests, even if they did annoy him. After all, Pierre was going to be in it all night; it should be to the sloth's liking. It was quite amusing to Yama when Pierre kept putting the damn thing on before the event.

Now that they're there, Yama isn't surprised by how much Pierre is drinking, though he was surprised at the timeframe. He hadn't expected Pierre to be throwing the drinks back as aggressively as he was. Yama had been nursing his second one at this point, not wanting to make a fool of himself in public. Pierre didn't have those same inhibitions. There was the desire to scold Pierre, to tell the other to slow it down, but all Yama really says on it is, "You'll vomit if you're not careful," in a tense voice with a pointed look.

If Pierre doesn't listen to Yama, it's not like there will be any consequence. Yama has said his piece; whatever Pierre does afterward is entirely on the sloth bun.

'Dance with me,' Pierre demands, yet as bratty as Pierre was being, the corner of Yama's lips tugged upward. He was always amused at these exchanges. "If it will get you away from the alcohol, fine," Yama comments, setting down his empty glass on the table. The lust bun moves in closer to his ex, extending a hand out to the other as Yama's other hand slides to rest on the opposite side of Pierre's hip to help guide the other to the dance floor.

Yama's warning about getting too drunk is brushed off with a dismissive and overacted flipping of Pierre's hand, but he quickly loses interest in the drinks the longer Yama keeps his attention focused on him. Pierre almost forgets why they broke things off in the first place— almost, but dancing like this makes everything easier to push aside. He only laughs at Yama's comment, playfully smacking Yama's arm for even suggesting such a thing. This sort of shit felt like old times—Yama the responsible voice of reason. Cool and clam and collected with his adorable sweet tooth and sexy voice that reverberated against Pierre's body in a way that couldn't be described.

"Better keep me busy then," the sloth succubun responds with an air of haughtiness but it's Pierre who eagerly lets himself fall into Yama's leading. Soon they're both on the dance floor, Yama's hands on his waist and Pierre rests his hands on the plane of Yama's chest. A familiar sturdiness, something about the lust bun that makes Yama feel so reliable. His hands slip around behind Yama's neck and he draws close, pressing close against the other and feeling every ridge of their body against his. The warmth of the other. Smell of the other. And that piercing glance that cuts straight through Pierre.

"You look good," Pierre admits, flush creeping up on his cheeks as his lashes fan on his cheeks from lowering his gaze while they dance. "I guess I really shouldn't be surprised. You always could clean up nice," Yama always had an air of polish about him that Pierre loved, no matter how unapproachable it might make him seem in public. "Still better dressed than you will ever be," Pierre continues, giving a light tug on Yama's lapel and mussing up his tie. God did he miss doing things like this, messing with Yama and making the other let out that tiny annoyed noise.

Yama is not a professional by any means when it comes to dancing. This should not come as a surprise considering that the act of dancing itself was typically a more social act, and Yama was almost anything but. Luckily, however, he wasn’t clumsy either. He could mimic the movements of the other dancers, the hand wrapped around Pierre’s waist holding the other close. He wasn’t too shy with their closeness; they’ve had several relations before. He’d keep spins minimal, not wanting to jostle Pierre too much with how much the other had been drinking.

With the compliment, Yama seems to stiffen a little, his gaze shifting to the other faceless dancers. He never was good at accepting compliments, but he wouldn’t have to mull on it for long as Pierre pays himself a compliment as well, indeed earning him a click of a tongue in reply.

“Did you conveniently forget that I put that together for you?” Yama quips as he dips his dance partner, holding Pierre in his arms with a firm grip for a few extra seconds so the other could feel the drag of gravity and perhaps a concern that Yama would drop Pierre in his annoyance. Of course, the lust bun had no plans on actually dropping Pierre. They were friends, for better or for worse. One of the only people in Burrowgatory that Yama held a closeness with, though the reasons for their departure in the romantic sense were entirely on Yama. He found he wasn’t really suited for a monogamous relationship; he couldn’t be the person that Pierre needed in that sense. While the breakup may have originally been rocky, Yama was sure he hurt some feelings there; the two were most certainly better now, on good terms despite how often Pierre would get on the tailor’s nerves. They still slept together as well, which may not be helping Pierre move on, if the sloth bun hadn’t already.

“I’m glad you enjoy the outfit enough, however,” Yama sighs, guiding Pierre back up as they continue their glide around the ballroom floor. Yama would make sure they didn’t crash into any other couple.

Pierre laughs again, head tipped back as he's dipped. Though his fingers feel for the floor, they don't grasp for any desperately, knowing Yama won't drop him. If he did, it'd be funny anyway and he'd just rearrange and bounce his way back up, clobber Yama for it, and then immediately be back in the dancer's arms for more. Pierre's feelings for Yama still came and went, although they were around more often than they weren't these days. Pierre still slept around plenty, though, filling his hunger for touch in whichever ways it required whenever it occurred. So far, he hadn't settled on anyone again, which suited him just fine. He was free to sleep with whoever he liked without dealing with relationship commitments or whatever. A heart can't be broken if it's not attached to anybody.

"Well, it was inspired by me, so that counts for something," Pierre hums, his hips staying close and swaying against Yama's playfully. His head comes to rest against the tailor's shoulder, lashes fluttering with a warmth and soft intimacy settling in between the pair. With his tail curling like a vine around Yama's thigh, the rest of the guests seemed to blur away for a moment. The urge to drag Yama off to some more private corner of this fancy function was growing. "But I guess you deserve some credit too. After all, there's no one better at what you do, is there?" His compliments start turning syrupy sweet, breathy with wistfulness and a subtle flirty edge. Yama loves to be praised and Pierre knows this weakness. But so much of what he was saying was sincere. Yama was a great tailor and dressmaker, and if admitting it got Yama in bed faster, well, who could blame him?

The mask makes it easy to hide how doe-eyed he looks. Maybe he was still tipsy on champagne or how cozy the evening had felt; as it goes on, his heart strains against the walls he'd built up around it. Fondness and old attraction starting to wear them down. He wants Yama under the same roof as him again, to go about all the motions and habits they'd each grown used to once sharing space and schedules. Yama ensured he woke up at a decent hour, Pierre ensured Yama actually relaxed once in a blue moon. Naps together, snuggled up close, or running errands to ensure the household was properly maintained. But it wouldn't work again. So he shouldn't even try to.

As Pierre lays down the sweet words, as Yama always does, he stiffens, gaze flitting away, and the tailor makes a noise of embarrassment. It didn't matter that he heard compliments from Pierre often enough; Yama found he couldn't get used to it. It would always bring that pink flush to his cheeks, his grip on Pierre tightening as the two continued with their dance. He knew Pierre well enough, knew what the sloth bun was up to. How often had he used the same tricks to get into Yama's pants? Too many to count, but Yama would sink into those same feelings each and every time.

The only times he wouldn't indulge Pierre, at least not immediately, were situations like these. Surrounded by people and at risk of getting caught, it was simply not something Yama was comfortable with. The man was very private in more ways than one. "I appreciate the sentiment, Pierre. But I am not the best out there." Pierre had a bias, but Yama was not so arrogant to think he was the best in the field.

Yama can tell that Pierre is reminiscing on past affection; perhaps this whole ordeal wasn't a good idea.

No, it wasn't a good idea. It was a terrible idea, but Pierre and good ideas were not often together. As he reminisces, the time apart stings once more. It all stings—the lost time, the heartbreak, the long nights waking up in a cold, empty bed. Bitter feelings that become no easier to digest simply because they are old, and as they're rehashed by the evening, it becomes unbearable. His eyes drift down to the hand on Yama's chest and trails down it, he looks at his finger. A ring should be there. The apartment should be home. And for a moment in the ball, everything was so easy to wish for, his nails curling into the fabric with the mental image of a gold band around his finger.

"I haven't been happy since you left," Pierre confesses, the sudden ugly feeling of jealousy rises up like smoke. Worst of all Pierre knows he's the odd one. This isn't normal for their kind, open relationships are the norm, yet he felt so differently and desperately while everyone else was... casual. Feeling like he is in the wrong for being hurt makes it worse, and unfortunately, it results in misdirected anger. "Did it ever even mean anything to you? You seem to be doing fine," Pierre asks quietly, despite his anger he's moving in closer. There's always the chance this will be the last time they see each other and he selfishly never wants Yama to forget him.

The song has ended, Yama’s movements slowing before they completely stop moving.  He can hear the venom drop in Pierre’s tone, but this isn’t the place, nor the time.  Pulling away, Yama slips from Pierre’s hold, the tailor’s gaze holding sympathy for Pierre and his strife.  “Pierre...” He pauses and he thinks on what to say, not like anything he could say would nurse any of Pierre’s wounds.  

Yama sighs, combing a gloved hand through his hair as he does so.  “Go take a walk, we can’t do this here.”  He tries to keep his words from sounding harsh, but Yama had always been someone who was blunt.

"We can't do this here," Pierre mocks under his breath, annoyed. Of course not. They never could. Yama is right though, the last thing he wants is to cause a scene and Yama's hand in his hair gives him pause. It's a gesture that lets him know Yama's intentions aren't harsh, not something new. It was easier to tell how Yama felt by his actions, how warmly he held onto him, compared to his more clipped, blunt communication.

"You're right." Pierre concedes with a sigh, uncoiling his tail from Yama's leg. He slinks off to take a walk and sulk around outside and let the cold clear his head for a bit. He kicks off his heels and carries them outside, the sound of milling party-goers soon falling away. When he's ready, he'll go back in, go back in and try to salvage the rest of the evening but for now, he stands out in the cool night and sulks alone. He grabs a flower, pout on his lips, and starts to pluck the petals off for now and muse on his mistake of a confession. He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not...