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Language:
English
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Published:
2014-02-18
Words:
746
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
10
Kudos:
162
Bookmarks:
20
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1,646

You Can Dance If You Want To

Summary:

Steve Carlsberg wins Lot 37. Steve Carlsberg bets Lot 37. Steve Carlsberg is perhaps a little too confident in his talents on the dance floor.

Cecil Palmer can dance. Carlos...can worry.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

“Cecil, you know I can’t dance.”

“Uh-huh,” says Cecil, clearly not listening. “Will you hand me those earrings? Does this dress look okay?”

“Of course, Ceec, you look amazing, like always, but—”

“Oh, Carlos!” Cecil blushes like a spray of wild lavender, one hand to his cheek, eyes smoky, lashes fluttering. “You’re so sweet to me. Here, the red tie, dark red. Your formal lab coat looks fantastic.”

“Thanks,” says Carlos, “but Cecil, I can’t—”

“Don’t worry,” soothes Cecil, tottering now on one strappy high heel. His skirt moves dramatically, cut high in the front and sweeping in the back, gracefully billowing even as he hops. “Just follow my lead. Or just go limp! I’ll move you; I can dance for us both.”

“That doesn’t sound like…Cecil, I’m heavy. I’m the weight of an average fully-grown human male!”

“So smart,” sighs Cecil. “If you could just hand me that other shoe?”

Carlos finds it wedged beneath the desk chair. It leaves a residue of glitter on his palm. “Cecil, you have a lot riding on this. If you wanted to find a more capable partner…”

Cecil finally gives him his full attention, precariously poised on one high-heeled shoe. His other leg curves through the air behind him, both hands flung back, securing the stiletto. There’s a thoughtless elegance to his balance and flexibility, and it affects Carlos like a mild concussion. “Ngck,” he says, in response to Cecil’s stare. Very eloquent. So clever. Much science. Wow.

“Carlos,” says Cecil, now back on two feet. He still looks precarious, but also confident, and hot. Carlos manhandles his brain back on-topic. “Carlos,” sighs Cecil. “Sweet, ridiculous Carlos. I appreciate the spirit behind the offer and forgo the inherent insult, because you are, I must keep in mind, an outsider.” He twirls closer for no apparent reason but to twirl, caresses Carlos’ stubbly cheek. With the glittery added inches between them, Carlos finds himself craning his neck, looking up into his boyfriend’s eyes.

Conversation, he reminds himself. On-topic. “Insult?”

Cecil begins to reposition their bodies, testing truncated movements as he hums. Carlos lets Cecil sweep him along in steps that move slowly toward something more intricate. “It’s nothing, my Carlos; you didn’t know. We’re in a relationship.”

“I did know that.”

“It just wouldn’t be appropriate for me to dance with someone else. Not in this particular circumstance. Casually, sure! In this case, scandal.” He imbues that last word with a dark, deeper register, as vaguely threatening as the voice on the radio. Carlos shivers. Cecil twirls him.

“How are you moving in those shoes?”

“Years of practice. Are you sure I look fine?”

“Cecil,” Carlos says, nearly parallel to the floor, his entire weight resting on Cecil’s sense of balance. Their eyes are locked in a dizzying stare. Although, scientifically speaking, the spinning might be a factor, as well. “You are stunning. Impossible. I honestly can’t believe we are dating.”

“Oh, Carlos,” swoons Cecil.

“Don’t drop me,” Carlos pleads.

Cecil rolls his eyes at that—all three of them, somehow—and guides them back to their starting position. Carlos’ hands find Cecil’s shoulders, thumbs stroking the skin at the base of his neck, brushing across the bold lines of his tattoos. It’s sort of strange to see them like this, or rather, to know that they are so visible. Cecil’s everyday wardrobe is not quite this revealing, merely hinting at the expanse of ink that Carlos finds himself starting to memorize. “You do look incredible,” Carlos reiterates. “And I know you can out-dance Steve Carlsberg, easily. I just hope I won’t hold you back too much.”

“Trust me,” says Cecil.

Carlos grins what he knows is a dopey, helpless grin. He finds that he’s not particularly bothered. “Of course I do,” he says, like breathing—thoughtless, natural, wildly important. “I’d trust you with anything. I am yours to command.” Carlos gives a dramatic, sweeping bow, partially joking, partially not. Cecil makes a sound unfit for public radio.

“Carlos,” says Cecil, “perfect, arrhythmic Carlos. Tonight, win or lose, we put this room to good use.”

“God, yes,” mutters Carlos. And then, “But we’ll win.”

Cecil scoffs and struts toward the door, his dress billowing. “Of course we’ll win. He’s going down. No one just buys Cecil Palmer and gets away with it. These shoes are weapons in more ways than one.”

Carlos shakes his head in admiration. “I freaking love you,” he breathes, then sprints to catch up.

Notes:

I doodled this thing of Cecil in a dress, and somehow it turned into a fic? I don't know, I was going for crackfic, but then Carlos sneaked some cute feelings in there. Sneaky scientist.

This...isn't really edited. I have to wake up and go to work in a few hours, so...it is what it is. Whatever that may be.

I'm hilariously tired! And often find-able at octoberspirit.tumblr.com at all hours of the night and/or morning, if you care to tumbl with me.