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“Jonathan . . .”
“Don’t you?”
O’Hara stepped toward him, arms opening as if to say here I am, take me as you need me. Throat tight, Jonathan slid an arm around O’Hara and clasped his long fingers, cooler than his own. Breezes pushed at the scarf and it fluttered toward Jonathan like it sought to connect them further. . . . two, three. One, two, three—
Their bodies met, a blazing connection down their right sides.
The Viennese Waltz was twice as fast as a traditional waltz, upbeat, purposeful. Musical notes shifted from long and heavy to melodic and light. It drove their steps into a forceful spin of rounded, flowing movement.
Forward, side and close. Forward, side and close.
Jonathan drove his leg forward between O’Hara’s, steering him until he pressed his thigh closer and they pivoted around and into a contra-check. A natural fleckerl.
It was automatic. Instinctual. Electric.
Their dance had become a conduit; he could feel the energising warmth of love, and his parents smiling down.
Forward, side and close. Another contra-check.
The music captured O’Hara, and he submitted to it. Nimble, strong, light on his feet. Every pivoting step, every quick rotation was perfectly synchronised, the line of his shoulders and neck gracefully dramatic, the billow of the scarf around his blindfolded face . . .
They swept around the dance area, crowd a blur of colour.
They’d always danced in the studio, before—O’Hara insisting on learning both roles, laughing as Jonathan gave him feedback. Elbow higher, chin up, tighter step on the turn . . .
They weren’t dancing as teacher and student anymore. They were dancing as partners. They were dancing as if there’d never been a seven-year hiatus between them.
“You’re good,” Jonathan murmured. “You kept practicing.”
The music came to an end and they finished with a flourish, Jonathan dipping O’Hara theatrically and pausing for long beats as their audience erupted into applause.
Slowly, he steered a smiling O’Hara upright. Cheeks flushed, he took a bow.
Jonathan shook his head amusedly and thanked the musicians.
“Sounds like we did okay,” O’Hara said.
More than okay.
If his parents had seen them, they’d . . . they’d have been impressed.
They’d have . . . encored.
Savvy caught Jonathan’s attention. Still recording. Jonathan swallowed; an unreasonable itch came over him to watch it.
O’Hara gripped his wrist, his watch. “Still there.”
“I won’t leave your side.”
“About that . . . so I wondered if you’d find me a bench and trot off for some water?”
“I’ll take you with me.”
“Jonathan.” O’Hara sounded serious. “I just need a moment.”
There was a darker shade to O’Hara’s cheeks; teeth pulled at his bottom lip before the edges once more quirked with a grin. “Pretty please?”
He led O’Hara to the gazebo—its raised platform meant Jonathan could spot him across the crowds. Instead of staying put with O’Hara, Savvy raced after him, gaping. A fair few questions brimmed in their gaze.
“Stop it, Savvy.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You won’t give me any explanation?”
“There’s none to give.”
“But . . .”
“No.”
“Fine. You guys should probably hurry up though.”
Jonathan looked at them sharply.
“To get today’s post in on time? You’ll have to edit it and it’s almost eleven.”
That happened with O’Hara. He had a way of occupying the spaces of Jonathan’s mind so that other realities around him blurred. Like time.
He borrowed money from Savvy for two bottles of water and rolled his shoulders as he walked back through the crowds with them, trying to release some of his tension. He couldn’t shake the knots. Or stop wondering precisely why O’Hara had needed a moment alone.
Their dance had been a whirlwind of intensity. Perhaps it’d stirred up old memories for him too. Their first time one-on-one in the ballroom, Jonathan had dropped his hand almost the moment he’d taken it. Those static-frissons between them had been too much, too unexpected. He’d chased Jonathan around the mirrored walls until he’d trapped him and made him do it again.
Maybe he had to sit or he’d have fallen laughing as he pictured how staunchly Jonathan had proceeded to teach him. How his mum and dad had come in at the tail end of it and chided him for his attitude. O’Hara had tried to jump in, he recalled. Had tried to tell them he’d goaded Jonathan, but his parents had been right. Jonathan could have been kinder.
He’d tried to be, after that. How successful he’d been . . . well. He had learned how to mask his emotions better. Made sure they only ever touched during dance sessions.
God, O’Hara had tested him.
Savvy was pointing across the crowd. “Is that O’Hara’s dad?”
Jonathan’s gaze shot to the gazebo. Playing at bottom the steps only a dozen paces from O’Hara, his father looking on, was Ben. Mr O’Hara might not be the wiser, but Jonathan could hear him teasing his son from here. O’Hara had to have recognised that voice.
