wednesday doesn’t like how other people dance. she thinks that the frenzied gyrating and the fist pumping and the stomping of feet is disrespectful to the art form dance used to be. she ignored the stares other people at the rave’n gave her, because she knew she was simply better.
however, as wednesday watched you dance with abandon, lights illuminating your figure, she couldn’t help the cold, gripping intensity that took hold over her heart.
previously, offhandedly mentioned that you did ballet, almost embarrassed at the prospect of being recognized. “i’m not any good,” you insisted. “you don’t have to come watch me.”
wednesday is glad she stuck to her stubborn instincts as she stands against the wall, almost invisible, as you glide through the air and go through complicated motions. she recognizes some it. penche en pointe. chainé turns, fondue and adagio in centre.
she watches the strain of your legs, the muscles taut and the strength it takes for you to leap across the room. focus beading at your forehead, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. she imagines that this is what she must look like when she’s deep into her thoughts, funneling words and sentences into her latest viper novel.
when you finally notice her presence, you almost fall to your knees. in the history of your relationship with her, she has never once looked at you like this. so much awe, so much need. it only takes her a few seconds to reach you, her hand coming up to graze your cheek.
slowly, she looks down at your worn pointe shoes, long dark lashes grazing the pale skin of her cheeks. for once, she’s grateful for the frump family genetics abolishing something so arbitrary like blushing, because she knows her face would be in flames right now. you rarely see wednesday so tongue tied, and when she reaches up to kiss you, you let her.
she pulls away with a gasp, forehead pressing against yours. “don’t stop on my account. keep dancing for me.”
