#❉ La rêverie┋Verse: Modern

[nixniivalis]

Bar

Starter for @garrotejima​

Neraine slid onto the bar stool. Her foot hooked around the bottom run. She bounced the heel of her slipper off her toes. She rested her elbows on the edge and ran fingers through her hair, to tease out her bun. Soft piano jazz filled the bar, intermingled with a low rumble of voices and laughter. At the tables behind her sat a small flock of ballerinas and musicians Neraine had followed in. They were a couple drinks past coherent for the sober. The  bar was a quiet reprieve, a quick escape. The performance from an hour prior left her breathless and bone sore still. A good opening night with a packed audience-- couldn’t ask for better. 

Out of the corner of her vision she saw the bartender move between clientele. She glanced-up as he strode over to her. Neraine lifted her hand to wave him off. She froze mid gesture. Her lips parted as her gaze rose. Over bare, tattooed chest, past hideous blazer, and to the one eye, glaring down at her. The moment crashed and collapsed in on itself. Her brain churned out a blank. Her hand dropped over her eyes, as if such a thin veil could shield herself from what came next.

“Holy shit,” Neraine groaned. 

[nixniivalis]

Majima

Starter for @garrotejima​

Gal’s stronger than she looks. A sound wretches sharp out of the cradle of his lungs, but it catches, withers on something of an aborted swallow. Well, well. Pressed there as he is, beaten, more ink peering prettily from his waist, his collar– “Ain'tcha ever learn ‘bout keepin’ 'em hands to yourself,” Majima needles toothily, “of are ya thinkin’ the merchandise worth pawin’?”

“What?” Neraine protested, feigning innocence. All part of the show as she pinned Majima against the wall, “I thought this was what you wanted? Kaba-- kabedon?”

She stumbled over the unfamiliar Japanese word. It was all he’d been going on about. It involved something about a wall. She figured giving him what he wanted would shut him up. Except this technique wasn’t quite right. 

“No, I suppose it’s more like this.” She released her grip in his blazer and placed her hand beside him. Neraine peered-up at Majima. It was a terrible way to trap a larger man-- Her facade broke under the realization of how silly this was. Neraine cracked-up laughing. Head ducked, shoulders shaking, and hand laid across her eyes to conceal her giggles. 

[nixniivalis]

♦ // teach shawn how to slow dance, neraine :|

Acts of Intimacy

♦ : Slow dancing

|| @mainevcnt​​ ||

Shawn talked a lot. Words flew out of his mouth like they were going out of style. In the past ten hours since she had met him Neraine learned he was very good at talking. Standing on the sideline, running commentary as she taught six-foot-and-some-pocket-change guys a box step. She had to tell him to spit out his gum, twice. He was a fighter, a man with bloody knuckles who put his foot in other people’s faces for a living. It was a real pity he didn’t go into comedic improv, Shakespearean theater, or Broadway. He couldn’t do movies but he was born for the stage. Shawn needed a crowd. He thrived, survived off the energy of an audience. His charisma was natural, his gesture animated, and his confidence unmatchable. No shame, no fear, only a desperate need for the spotlight. However, theater required teamwork and Shawn was too competitive. He was champion, heartbreaker, the greatest of all time-- the ‘wrestling’ worked for him. Appropriate fuel for his arrogance. 

The gymnasium laid in low light. Everyone cleared-out twenty, forty minutes ago. The building otherwise empty but for a janitorial staff vacuuming the halls of the performance center. In the room over, Neraine heard the sound of weights hitting the floor. Some other soul getting their late night reps in. Celia put her hands on her hips. The shadows casted odd angles on his face. She lifted an eyebrow, waiting for Shawn to run out of steam. It took a second, all goofy grins, pure charm with golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. The magic lost on her unimpressed stare. 

Shawn ran his mouth, yes, yes, he knew how to dance, he could do a box step in his sleep. What about a do-si-do? He can pole dance and he was sure to rub it in that she couldn’t. Of course, Shawn preformed all these movies, as silly, ridiculous, or raunchy as they were. Hips gyrations and flailing arms spoke of a well-coordinated man. He had body awareness and a seamless grace. He’d be an easy student if he’d shut-up. 

“Are you done?” Neraine demanded. “I don’t have all night.” 

“Yes, yes, please, go ahead,��� Shawn replied, bowing to her with a flourish, gesturing for her to bestow her wisdom upon him. 

She smirked, corner of her lip upturning. Neraine offered her hand to Shawn, palm upturned. He seized it in his own and slipped his arm around her waist, yanking her close. His grin was pure cheese, teeth, lifted eyebrows, a burning smolder to melt the hearts of tasteless women the world over. Shawn spun her around into a quick-skip step and jaunted them around the gymnasium. Big smile, singing some unrhythmic song as he swept her into the lively dance. Neraine choked on laughter, mouth pressed thin and breathing out her nose hard. Neraine twisted under his arm, spinning out, slowing their movement. She put her foot down, forced Shawn to a stand still. Neraine pulled him back and he shuffled into position this time. His palm polite on her waist and her hand scooped into his. Back straight, all prim and proper. 

“Is it out of your system?” Neraine asked him. Shawn nodded, biting his lip, and Neraine could see the physical effort needed to reign in his smart remark. He was stiff through the shoulders, all hard lines and tension. The uncertain, nervousness, of a man who might be out of his depth despite talking like he was an olympic swimmer-- just a little. It’s not like she’s won professional competitions doing this. 

Neraine interlaced their fingers. Lips parted, and gaze softened, she turned to watch their hands. The intricate, delicate movements of knuckles and digits, tangled, rising, falling. Neraine hummed, vague and old tunes, light, fleeting as memories. The leitmotif of a ballet from her childhood, hidden in the corps, a little girl dressed as an egg blue fairy. Beyond the sway and twisted of their arms. Neraine stepped into him. Lead him into an undefined step, she moved him. Capturing the idea of an audience in rapt attention to a romantic ballad. The awkward wedding shuffle of people who thought they understood a waltz. All emotion to supplant their technical failure. Or, at least, Shawn staring at her like she was nuts. It was all layers, masks, games, artificially generated feelings, pure expression. 

“It’s not about moving yourself,” Neraine murmured. She wound her arm around his shoulder, resting her cheek against his collarbone. “You need to learn to move someone else.”

She parted from him, captured both of his hands. This time she guided him back into the waltz position. A comfortable, but not distant, ways apart. His hand now on her opposite hip and Neraine holding him. She stepped into Shawn off her left foot. He tripped on her toes but with gentle coaxing and some firm verbal commands she talked him into the stride. It was all reversed, backwards for him and she saw him churning his brain to flip instinct. She guided him into long steps --not too long-- and a rise-fall, with the beat she muttered beneath her breath.. Worked them into the proper clip for the dance. Pivot on your toes, be lighter, you’re stomping. 

“I thought I was supposed to lead--” Shawn protested. 

“And let you ruin my dance?” Neraine quipped in return. “I don’t think so.”

Despite this protest she lifted her hand and Shawn spun her beneath his arm. Neraine reset their position, letting him lead this time. She guided him through the flourishes, the competition winning pivots, and all the fancy tricks not necessarily in the canon. A sweep with her draped over his arm, she didn’t need to teach him the lift. Then the elegant finale, now parted he bowed to her and she curtsied like she wasn’t in yoga pants. Neraine straightened, catching her breath and rolling out her shoulders. She eyed Shawn, the air conditioner clicked on, cold air struck her dry lips. Blood stricken down his face, red, red, crimson, and coating the white ring mat. The phone screen lighting the dark back hallway like a beacon. The corporate assistant on lunch break chattering about who Neraine just talked back to. Neraine averted her gaze. 

“That’s enough for tonight,” She said, jaw setting. She passed Shawn and picked-up her bag from beside the gym door. She slung it over her shoulders and glanced back towards him, “See you tomorrow.” 

The door swung closed behind her, groaning on the hinge. Neraine’s footsteps echoed down the tile halls. A forty minute ride home on longstrips of interstates on her mind. She emerged out the back and walked around the building. Past the well-shaped shrubs and into the rear parking lot. That morning she had parked her bike beneath a cedar tree. The streetlights burned white, casting glowing circles of moths and static. Hot summer night, sweat stricken down her back as she zipped-up her jacket. Neraine mounted, hand resting on the throttle. She heaved a sigh, it’d been a long day. 

[nixniivalis]

♧ // shawn playing with neraine's hair even if they can't stop bickering

Acts of Intimacy 

♧ : Your muse playing with their hair

|| @mainevcnt​​ ||

The door slammed shut behind Neraine, a hard click of the latch. She blinked against the shine of fluorescent lights that burned her eyes. Down the hall a worker in khakis and a blue tie spoke into the open door way of an office. He read the tone of Neraine and Shawn’s arrival, then slipped inside. Shawn wheeled around, gum in his mouth and hands on his hips. Seething through her teeth, eyes squeezed shut, and chewing on her next words like they were knives. Neraine tapped the tip of her finger against his collarbones, so pissed she couldn’t even speak. Shawn grinned, crooked, smug, self-pleased, all pearly whites. 

“Damn you, Shawn, I have a job!” Neraine settled on, tone snapping. Her heel struck the carpeted floor with a muffled, unsatisfying thunk. “If you keep mouthing off while-- what the hell are you doing?”

Back and forth, back and forth they had gone all the way to this secluded spot. Bickering, testing the other’s limits, as if she had the time or patience for sarcasm. Instead of anymore words in self-defense or to rile her up however, his hands were in her hair. Fluffing-up the strands and intertwining with her bangs. Neraine’s eyebrows knit, lips parting in lost proclamation of confusion. This was not what they were talking about. Nothing comprehensible or useful came to Neraine’s mind, just a running dialogue on how obscenely weird Shawn was. What corner of the planet did he crawl out of that putting his hand in someone’s hair in the middle of a conversation was normal. 

He undid her ponytail, loosened the hair and combed out the tangles with his fingers. All the while he told her all his ‘sorry’s’ and ‘won’t happen again. Cross my heart and hope to die. He twisted her hair into a plait, hummed and hawed over it. Undid his work and then rolled it over into a bun. The rubber band slipped and her bangs fell into her eyes. Neraine placed her hands on her hips, lips pressed flat. She blew hair out of her face with a puff of air. Shawn twisted out the hairband, apologized when he pulled on her hair. Then, with care and practice he braided her hair. One strand over the other, careful all the ways to the end where he secured it off with the hair tie. Neraine reached back, feeling the bumps and curves of a smooth, clean braid. 

She couldn’t tell if this was an apology or another one of his quirks. 

“You owe me a drink.” 

[nixniivalis]

if you don’t want it, you don’t have to keep it. — cody buying neraine something relating to her dance perhaps

A growing exhaustion twisted into Neraine’s muscles. An entire day of rehearsals and practice coming to toll. The hard wood floor of the dance studio pressed into her hip and thighs as the head instructor droned on. Notes on the choreography, future plans, performance dates, things Neraine should be, but was not, paying attention to. Her stomach growled, reminding her she did not eat lunch. The sudden dismissal when the hour hand of the clock struck seven precipitated a relieved sigh. The room filled with chatter. The dancers talking of weekend  plans, family matters, tidbits of gossip, and hints of the weather. They shuffled off to fetch their things. Neraine remained where she was for a second, and then with a grunt, pushed to her feet. 

The studio smelled of sweat and air freshener. The windows fogged, combined with the heat of bodies and the evening humidity. She kept her bag on a bench beside the front windows. Neraine walked over, peeling off her soaked and clinging tank-top. From her gear bag she found a new shirt. Neraine swept her hair off the back of her neck and into a tightened ponytail. Go home, get dinner, shower, bed, rinse and repeat tomorrow– show opens in three weeks. It was getting on crunch time. She slung her bag strap over her shoulder as she toed on her sneakers. 

“Oh, Neraine!” The call of her name broke Neraine out of her growing laundry list of to-do’s. Neraine turned over her left elbow as a young woman approached her. Dakota, one of her students, flashed Neraine a bright smile, white-teeth flashing. “Before I forget.”

From behind her back Dakota presented a box with a flourish. “Ta-da! It’s for you!”

“Me?” Neraine echoed, like an idiot. 

Her brow furrowed as she glanced down. The box was wrapped with red paper and a pink bow. A small, folded note in white card stock was taped to the top. By instinct Neraine lifted her hand to accept the box. It weighed little but she held it out from her body, arm stiff. Awkward, unsure what to do with it. Dakota got her a gift?

“O-kay,” Neraine managed, “but why?”

Harsh and rude, not the appropriate question. The lift of Neraine’s eyebrow echoed of suspicion instead of gratitude. 

“It’s a thank-you!” Dakota exclaimed. “For all the extra lessons. Cody picked it out, you’re going to love it. Open it up as soon as you get home, okay? And send us a picture! I gotta go now, my ride is here– but I’ll see you next week! Bye!”

 A half-dozen complaints and eight or so protests died on Neraine’s lips. Dakota pecked Nerine on the cheek and fled the scene. Left with a box and a conundrum, Neraine stood there, mouth open and gaping like an idiot fish. She sighed, hand lifted to massage the bridge of her nose. Cody was a nice guy, almost too nice. A quick learner, one of the better students she’s taught. Never thought he’d leave her out to dry like this. Did she miss a memo? When did gifts become apart of this relationship. Did she have to give something back? God, and next time she saw him, she’d have to thank him, and it’d be super awkward. Dakota dropped a bomb in Neraine’s hands and walked away. 

A defeated sigh regained Neraine’s composure. She left the now empty studio and stepped-out onto the streets. The streetlights flickered alive as the sun set over the buildings. A cool wind, acrid with car exhaust and pollen, brushed through her hair. Cars whirled by on the road. Some parents were getting their kids ice cream at the parlor across the street. Neraine walked a block East to where she parked her bike. Box and gear were stuffed into the saddle bags for safe keeping. Neraine mounted her bike, an old suzuki she bought used for cheap, and tuned-up enough that it didn’t run like it. She turned the ignition and it ignited to life with a warm purr. She waited for traffic to clear on her left, and pulled-out. 

Neraine rode home as night fell. Downtown Atlanta vibrated with enlivened bars and restaurants, growing crowds and pedestrians. Her apartment complex laid off a quiet, dark backstreet though. Dogwoods grew out of the concrete and framed the brick face building. Neraine parked in the lot around the back and entered through a side door. She clambered up the stairs and shouldered open her apartment door. The small rooms and kitchen laid in shadow, broken by the glow of the street lamp outside. Neraine flicked on lights as she passed them, kicking of her shoes and untying her hair. She left the gift on the kitchen table as she prepared her dinner: sautéed chicken, thrown together veggies, and some rice on the side. Neraine read her book as she ate. 

Put away the dishes, clean-up, play piano for a few minutes, and then turn out the lights to go to bed. While brushing her teeth she stepped-out of the bathroom. Standing in the doorway, golden halo of light at her back she eyed the box. Neraine returned to the bathroom and spat out her toothpaste. Wiping her hands down her pants she went to investigate. She plucked off the ribbon and rescued the folded card. She turned the kitchen light back on to read it:

If you don’t want it, you don’t have to keep it. 

Signed by Cody Rhodes, legendary professional wrestler– what had her life become. Neraine wasn’t sure what their relationship was. Offering him and his niece a few additional dance lessons was no sweat of her back. It was a simple chore, helped her practice and earned her a few extra bucks for rent. She wondered if gifts were normal in his family. She’d received so few. Not on Christmas and never on her birthday. On a rare occasion a foster parent remembered her existence and got her a benign trinket. It was all crap. Useless, sentimental nonsense. She didn’t ask for this, he shouldn’t have gotten it for her. Couldn’t help but feel there was some expectation tied to this-- like he was buying her out.

Her hands rested on the edge of the table, bracing her upright. She was delaying the inevitable and the longer this damn box sat on her kitchen table, the sicker she felt. Like actual nausea, she was going to puke at this rate. Neraine reached out and tore off the paper. Beneath the lid was the glimmer of red fabric. She lifted out of the box a dress, dazzling with sequins. Dark crimson, eye catching, an off the shoulder cut A-line, of a good length too. More than that it looked like it would fit her. Might need some tailoring, but all dresses do. Neraine held it out to the light, gaping once again, eyes wide, like a moron. The fabric was of a good weight and quality, the cut professional, it looked handmade. After a lifetime of shopping off the clearance rack this was easily the most expensive dress she’d ever own. 

“Tidak,” Neraine whispered. “Oh, no.”

Neraine clutched the dress, silent horror washing over her. This didn’t make her a gold digger, did it? Is that how that worked? Dresses didn’t count for nothing though. A nice gown could be the difference between a point or two at the next competition. This was one she could wear again too. There was one real thing she could do with it-- because there was no way she was not keeping it. As twisted and confused, and weird as it all was. 

At the moment she was in her PJs, hair down, and make-up wiped off. Nonetheless, Neraine carried the dress into the bathroom and changed into it. She brushed out her hair and twisted it into a loose bun. Even cleared away a few blemishes on her cheeks with some foundation. The waist was a little too loose and the skirt an inch too long for dancing-- easy alterations. Hard to deny that she didn’t look good in it. Although, with a dress this nice, she suspected even a rock could pass for attractive. Neraine took a picture of herself in the mirror and sent the picture to Cody. 

A second later she texted him: [holy shit dude]