[ CRIMEA ] - A traditional dance that requires quite a bit of athleticism to pull off. In addition to keeping up with fast-paced music, the dancers must perform a variety of leaps and flips.
Laslow bows to his previous partner, spinning around to either grab his date for another dance or make a break for the snack table--he's waiting for the next song to begin before making his choice.
A flash of silk catches his eye. Beads click together, and there's a faint chime of jewelry as well. Not unusual sounds for an event like this, but the rhythm of it, the airy way the silk moves, is familiar. Laslow turns, again, eyes landing on a figure draped in dancing attire.
He blinks. Scoots a little closer, pausing all together when he realizes the dancer is a man. So rarely has he met fellow male dancers; it always gives him a brief jolt to realize he's not as alone in his pursuit of the art as he thinks.
The orchestra starts up, reminding Laslow this is not the time to stare. "Ah, good evening," he greets hurriedly. "My name is Laslow. Your silks are beautiful!" Someone bumps into his shoulder in their haste to find a partner. "...would you care to dance with me?"
Is it vanity or self-awareness, knowing that the aesthetic he creates with his dance will inevitably draw eyes? Seadall is used to the pinprick of awareness that zaps across his skin, a clear sign that someone is watching him. He’s a dancer, so this kind of attention is more the expectation than it is unusual.
Perhaps it’s both, heart racing as one dance bleeds into the next. “Seadall!” He only has time to give the stranger his name, the sudden, intense swell of new music nearly swallows the breathless wreck that his voice has become.
He accepts, of course he does. Why would he be out on the dance floor if not to meet others, to skip all introductions in favor of showing the heart of who he is?
Immediately, he realizes this dance is different. Or rather, his partner is different, with eyes that sear his soul with the intensity of their movements. “Hah,” He hums a low note, twisting into an easy backbend before pushing upright again, a bit of shock filtering through his breathes as his partner arcs into a flawless jump–
Seadall catches him and again, he’s aware of the attention. Not all for him, but from the joyous cacophony of applause from the impromptu audience that has stopped to observe their improvisation. It’s good, because the audience gives Seadall the extra strength he needs not to stagger under the weight - unsure which of them initiates a tight spin but all-too eager to follow it.
It lasts forever. It’s over too soon.
Nonetheless, Seadall finds himself leaning on Laslow’s shoulder, the spill of his hair caught in dark fabric, threatening to tangle. “You’re skilled!” He says, shock and awe floating over the slower song that’s starting. “More than that, are you a dancer?” If he isn’t Seadall will be fixing that immediately. Preferably after their next dance.
