Altair and Malik watched as she walked over, forcibly taking a startled Kadar by the arms. It was hardly a match made in heaven, but eventually the two students were laughing at each other, fumbling over their own feet and bumping into other couples.
“Kadar is a horrible dancer,” Altair observed. “Haven’t you been teaching him?”
“No, of course not,” Malik said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to see him flail around like that.”
Altair smirked. “Well, I don’t think it would have made a difference, even if you did.”
“Is that so?” Malik said with a sidelong glance. “I think I could show you a thing or two.”
Altair looked up at the gym’s ceiling, suddenly very interested in the dusty, old beams. “Are you asking me to dance?”
“No,” Malik said, grabbing Altair by the wrist and tugging him away from the table. “I’m going to prove you wrong.”
+
The air outside the gym was refreshingly cool. There was a ringing in Altair’s ears the moment the doors closed behind them, and somehow during the quick walk out of the gym, Malik’s hand had slid down from his wrist so that their fingers were loosely twined together.
The hallway was empty and the florescent lights dimmed, but Malik dragged him over to a gap between two rows of lockers, not exactly hidden, but dark enough to avoid any immediate attention from any unsuspecting passerby.
“That punch fountain won’t be filled with punch by the time we get back,” Altair said, placing his hand on Malik’s waist, the muffled music still thrumming through his body.
Malik made a noncommittal noise, pressing against him in a way that made Altair almost forget what he was about to say next. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, giving some semblance to a swaying motion.
“This is hardly dancing,” Altair muttered into Malik’s neck.
Malik chuckled, his breath warm against his cheek. “I blame the song. It’s awful.”
“It’s Bruno Mars. Talking to the Moon,” he hummed. “And it’s not awful.”
“How do you even know this?”
“I confiscated an iPod last week,” Altair said defensively. He tilted his head, listening as the last of the verses faded away and turned into a fast-paced pop song—Ke$ha, though Altair wasn’t going to admit that he knew. “Not all the new stuff is terrible.”
Malik snorted, stepping back and letting go of their hands.
“Well, it wasn’t so bad,” he conceded, looking up the mounted clock on the wall. “One more hour.”
“I’m sure they’ll play songs more to your taste,” Altair grinned, and opened the gym doors.
Malik’s reply was drowned out by the music, but as the dance lights passed over them Altair caught sight of his smirk before he disappeared into a crowd of mingling students.
And next time, Altair thought, he was going to be the one to ask Malik to dance.
And suddenly Altair and Malik are prom chaperones [2/2]
“Kadar is a horrible dancer,” Altair observed. “Haven’t you been teaching him?”
“No, of course not,” Malik said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to see him flail around like that.”
Altair smirked. “Well, I don’t think it would have made a difference, even if you did.”
“Is that so?” Malik said with a sidelong glance. “I think I could show you a thing or two.”
Altair looked up at the gym’s ceiling, suddenly very interested in the dusty, old beams. “Are you asking me to dance?”
“No,” Malik said, grabbing Altair by the wrist and tugging him away from the table. “I’m going to prove you wrong.”
+
The air outside the gym was refreshingly cool. There was a ringing in Altair’s ears the moment the doors closed behind them, and somehow during the quick walk out of the gym, Malik’s hand had slid down from his wrist so that their fingers were loosely twined together.
The hallway was empty and the florescent lights dimmed, but Malik dragged him over to a gap between two rows of lockers, not exactly hidden, but dark enough to avoid any immediate attention from any unsuspecting passerby.
“That punch fountain won’t be filled with punch by the time we get back,” Altair said, placing his hand on Malik’s waist, the muffled music still thrumming through his body.
Malik made a noncommittal noise, pressing against him in a way that made Altair almost forget what he was about to say next. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, giving some semblance to a swaying motion.
“This is hardly dancing,” Altair muttered into Malik’s neck.
Malik chuckled, his breath warm against his cheek. “I blame the song. It’s awful.”
“It’s Bruno Mars. Talking to the Moon,” he hummed. “And it’s not awful.”
“How do you even know this?”
“I confiscated an iPod last week,” Altair said defensively. He tilted his head, listening as the last of the verses faded away and turned into a fast-paced pop song—Ke$ha, though Altair wasn’t going to admit that he knew. “Not all the new stuff is terrible.”
Malik snorted, stepping back and letting go of their hands.
“Well, it wasn’t so bad,” he conceded, looking up the mounted clock on the wall. “One more hour.”
“I’m sure they’ll play songs more to your taste,” Altair grinned, and opened the gym doors.
Malik’s reply was drowned out by the music, but as the dance lights passed over them Altair caught sight of his smirk before he disappeared into a crowd of mingling students.
And next time, Altair thought, he was going to be the one to ask Malik to dance.