It Takes Two to Tango

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

Reiji's hand wraps around Sumi's side to rest against her upper back and gently pulls her in while her own snakes up his arm to take firm hold of his shoulder as they move to an internal rhythm. Practiced steps. Practiced smiles. Not just them, but everyone at this sham of a banquet— all wearing masks of civility and acting as if they're old for the sake of networking. Groveling at the feet of the Kurobane like dogs.

It's disgusting. Worse, it's utterly artless.

And at its center—and they are the crystalline centerpiece to this facade—the two students dance into the night. There is a purity to them. Not because they are above what's unfolding around them, but because their role in it is as shining symbols rather than dogs begging for scraps. 'Do as you like now, for the future is ours' is what each step communicates. A promise that the empire being built here and now would not fall to ruin.

"I hope you're enjoying this dance— I don't dance with just anyone, after all."

"Oh, but you seem to dance with me every time we find ourselves in a ballroom. Which is more often than I'd like."

But such a claim relies on the whims of those entrusted to make aspirations into reality. Sumi's practiced smile gives way to a mischievous grin as her feet shift and they begin to spiral through the sea of guests, complicating their waltz just enough to make things slightly more fun for her.

"It's only natural. You are the Kurobane's heir, and my father rather enjoys doing business with yours. Besides, I'm a much more pleasant partner than whoever you'd be paired with in my absence."

"You're not wrong. Better to deal with you than one of Mother's puppets. At least you're honest about what you want."

Honest. A wonderful word to describe their situation. They had no choice in venue, attire, music, or dance, but they chose to be honest. No false niceties or deception about their intentions; they were sincere in their use of one another as a means to an end.

"If you can fight, you can dance. No complaints. Why is this canvas still dry?"

The diva shoots a sharp look in the direction of a pair of her Bohemian underlings, prompting them to share some accusatory glances with each other as they take their paint buckets and carefully spill them out onto a sheet of cardboard on which Itsuki and Sumi stand entangled. As paint pools at their feet, she uses one hand to nudge his posture into proper order as if adjusting a mannequin.

"...I don't see how this will help."

"Unsurprising, but still disappointing. What did I say about your bellicose nature only moments ago?"

"It means I can dance, somehow."

"Ergo, the inverse is true. Need I explain more?"

Itsuki doesn't respond with more than a slight groan, his vacant stare looking through Sumi more so than at her. Neither is she truly focused on him. Instead, her attention has been drawn to the far end of the room, where small handprints of all colors have covered the wall. Without warning, Sumi snaps her fingers, and music starts to play courtesy of the band she had arranged from amongst the club members. No sooner does she pull Itsuki into action.

She swings him to the other end of the canvas that serves as their stage and takes the skirt of her carmine dress in both hands, manipulating it like an extension of her body while tapping her heels to the rhythm. The colors and her movements make the performance appear as tongues of flames flickering. Then, she stops, punctuating her little show with a stomp. Her gaze rests on her partner as she waits for him to make his entrance.

When he's slung across from her, he brings himself to a stop with a spin. The way they stare each other down, each waiting for the other to flinch, makes this dance feel more like a duel. In a way, it is, but not one he can win with force. No, this requires finesse. His instincts tell him that attempting to mimic will only result in 'death', so when he makes his move, he instead aims to match in his own way.

He makes a series of taps of his own. Once. Twice. Three times. The steps are stiff and clumsy, but as he tries to follow along to the rhythm, a growing fluidity and flourish are added to his movements. The strange outfit she'd made him wear certainly isn't making things any easier, though. A pair of black leather slippers, purple tights adorned with silver embroidery that hug his lower half like a second skin, and a short jacket made from some stiff fabric to match are the primary offenders. A traje de luces, Sumi had called it. She assured him that it and her dress were essential to the dance, but he couldn't help feeling like she'd gotten the better deal even with the high heels.

Seemingly satisfied, Sumi begins to sashay towards Ituski, in turn prompting him to approach as well. As they circle each other, there's a slight but potent shift in the music. It no longer sets the pace; instead, it follows theirs.

"You're a quick study. Still inelegant, but not without art."

"I still don't know what I'm meant to be learning that will make me a better fighter."

Sumi draws in closer, erasing what little distance kept them from touching as she presses her forehead against his, eyes wide as she looks for signs of life. It wasn't the main goal of this exercise, but she hoped to make him uncomfortable, impassioned, something. Anything other than coldness that she was now certain hid so much more.

"If I'd simply told you to dance, would I still be impressed by your performance?"

The first response that comes to mind is simple: I don't know. After all, it wasn't as if he had two left feet, but she was volatile, and he wasn't certain why exactly she was currently pleased. Whatever the reason, the fact that she'd given him a frame of reference had likely aided him in satisfying her.

"No."

"No, I wouldn't be. You might get there eventually, but far slower than I'd like."

Suddenly, their arms are joined together again. More paint is poured out at the pair's feet as Sumi marches them across the canvas. They stop just as suddenly, and she twists her body beneath the archway formed by their arms, skirt fluttering. When she pulls away with Itsuki's hand still in her grasp, the look in her eyes suggests it's his turn once again. So, he pulls her back in, spinning her like a top. And so their game progresses with each taking their turn and building on what the other has left for them.

More paint spills. The music builds to a fever pitch as their movements become more complex and dramatic—not in an attempt to make the other slip up, but to make their performance all the more beautiful. That is how he wins.

When the music reaches its climax and Sumi caps their performance off by striking a pose, Itsuki's own comes naturally alongside hers. The satisfaction written on her face is of the kind usually reserved for her own accomplishments, and today he had served excellently as both tool and project.

"This was a collaborative work. I trust you understand what that means."

"That we did it together, obviously. What's special about that?"

"Oh, just the little fact you would have humiliated yourself on your own. This piece came together because of us. You danced well because we danced well."

Itsuki takes a moment to digest her words. It's not difficult to recognize what she's getting at, but he has to decide whether this supposed lesson has been a waste of time. Did they not already have a deal? He'd have to think on collaboration more later. At the moment, there was another question on his mind.

"What now? We'll disturb the paint if we move any more."

"Why, we wait for it to dry, of course."