"Oh hi, Anthony."
Anthony smiled and gave a nervous little wave as he stepped into the dance studio, where his instructor Sören was doing warmups in front of the mirror wall.
It was mid-June and they were six weeks into a two-month one-on-one course. Anthony had gotten news in April that his high school's class of 1998 was having their 25-year reunion over fourth of July weekend. Anthony had moved to the States with his mum after his parents divorced when he was twelve - it was tough enough on its own to adjust to the divorce and life in a new country, but being "that weird British kid" and a bullied nerd made it even worse. He hadn't even gone to prom... not that he would have wanted to take a girl.
These days he was a successful veterinarian, and he wasn't a scrawny kid anymore - he started taking taekwondo after the death of Matthew Shepard both as practical self-defense against gay-bashing, and as a healthy way of channeling his anger; he'd built some lean muscle. His personal life was less successful, having broken up with a long-term partner two years ago after he'd been cheated on. He'd been single since then - dating after 40 was a challenge in and of itself, and apps seemed to make it even more complicated.
But coming up on the two-year anniversary of that breakup had been the motivating factor for Anthony to decide he was going to attend that Class of '98 reunion after all. He had a feeling the jocks who had made his life a living hell were mostly not doing so great these days, and whether it was petty or not, he felt the primitive call to go one-up them, hoping that would give his inner sad teenager a sense of justice and closure.
He was going to a lot of trouble to get himself that closure. Not only was he driving all the way from Maine to western Massachusetts for the reunion, but he'd also decided to take dance classes before the reunion to further stick it to the aging jocks. At least the studio-cum-gallery was in the same strip mall as the veterinary clinic, and the Progress Pride sticker in the window put him at ease with not being judged - or worse - at a time when there was a resurgence of anti-LGBT hatred all too familiar to Anthony, like reliving the 90s all over again.
As icing on the cake, Sören was one of the most gorgeous men Anthony had ever laid eyes on. Sören was five-ten, just a little shorter than Anthony's six-two, had the lithe build of a professional dancer, and bore a striking resemblance to the actor who played Jon Snow on Game of Thrones, with long-lashed brown eyes, and full lips framed by a short dark beard - his curly black hair was up in a messy "man bun" when he gave lessons, revealing two small silver hoops in each ear, and today Sören was wearing his usual black T-shirt and black sweatpants, giving Anthony a view of his full sleeve tattoos, with flames going up his right arm and ocean waves rolling down his left.
Once again Anthony felt that flutter as he came closer and Sören's face lit up. Anthony kept wanting to ask Sören out on a date, but he couldn't imagine how Sören could possibly be single, let alone want to date someone like him who he knew looked like someone's dorky dad. So he kept it professional, even while his cheeks were burning as he began to repeat the warmup stretches Sören was doing.
When they were ready, Sören put on Sean Paul and began leading Anthony around the floor, putting together the different moves Sören had taught him over the last month and a half. Anthony had practiced enough times here and at home that he'd gotten the hang of it but the proximity of Sören's body and feeling Sören's hands on him made it feel like all the knowledge was flushing out of his head, clumsy and fumbling. When "Get Busy" was over and "Like Glue" started, Sören looked into Anthony's eyes and said, "Relax, hm? Take some deep breaths."
That Icelandic accent, with its breathy lilt and rolled r's, didn't help. Anthony swallowed hard and nodded, but after the breaths he still felt like he was tripping over his own nerves.
Sören picked up on Anthony's tension as they began to move, doing step touch, shoulder pops and heel taps. "Here," Sören said. "This works for my cat when I'm trying to get his attention. Watch the birdie." Sören held up his index finger.
Anthony laughed, then he followed "the birdie" with his eyes, focusing on that as they did a body wave, then lower body isolations where their hips circled. Sören moved his finger in time to the music.
They got through the song, and Sören clapped. "Excellent job."
"Thank you." Anthony grinned. He couldn't resist asking. "You have a cat?"
"Jæja. Tuxedo cat, his name is Snúður."
"Icelandic name?"
Sören nodded. "Means 'cinnamon roll', because he's a very sweet boy." Sören smirked. "I'll show you pictures of him as a reward if you get through the next round."
That was added incentive to try to stay in "the zone". The next song was more of a challenge - dancing to "Canned Heat" by Jamiroquai, a faster-tempo song... doing a rumba, with lots of spins and gyrations. Anthony followed "the birdie" once more, but he couldn't help stealing glances at Sören, all fluid grace.
At the end of the song Anthony was out of breath and Sören let him take a break. As Anthony sat and sipped at a bottle of sparkling water, Sören passed over his cell phone camera with a photo gallery. Anthony melted at the pictures of the black-and-white cat in different positions - watching out the window from atop a cat tree, sitting in a loaf on a pile of cozy blankets, sleeping with his head poking out of a blanket, sleeping cuddled up with a light blue plush bunny... getting hugs in Sören's arms and giving Sören a nose-to-nose kiss, then sitting on Sören's shoulders looking smug.
"One of my cats is a shoulder cat too," Anthony said, handing the phone back when he was done looking through the gallery.
"Oh, jæja?" Sören cocked his head to one side. "...Cats? You've got more than one cat?"
"I have two, Seamus and Solly. Both tabbies, Seamus is grey and Solly is brown. Seamus is the one who likes my shoulders." Anthony smiled. "Sometimes he rides my shoulders across the house."
"I wish I could have more than one, but my lease will only let me have one," Sören said. "Still, it's good your cats have each other. You have any other pets?"
"Just cats." Then Anthony got an earworm from the song they'd just danced to. He sang, "Just cats... nothing left for me to do, but cats..."
Sören threw his head back and laughed. "Do you have pictures? I love seeing other people's cats." Then Sören looked at the time on his phone and frowned. "Actually, we better get back to the lesson."
The next song was "Hips Don't Lie" by Shakira, with more gyrating and waves and twirling. Feeling flustered and giddy again, but every time he fumbled, Sören gently guided him back to the next move.
"You're doing great," Sören said when the song was done.
"Well, I'm still a work in progress." Anthony gave a nervous laugh.
Sören patted him on the back. "You've come this far in six weeks. By the end of the month you'll be tearing up that club. Or wherever it is that you're dancing." Sören bit his lower lip. "You never did tell me why you signed up for lessons, and I feel like I'm prying if I ask. I don't get many guys coming for solo lessons, though."
"Don't worry, it's a legitimate question. But..." Suddenly Anthony saw an opportunity. A way to test the waters, without potentially making things weird for the remaining two weeks of the course, which had already been paid for up-front. "How about, when you're done here for the day, you let me buy you a coffee over at the Starbucks in the plaza? And I can show you cat pictures and tell you the story of why I'm learning how to dance."
"OK. I have a class after you but that's only like an hour. Will that be too long?"
"No, I can feed my cats and meet you there." Then Anthony felt that twinge of caution. "Er, I hope it won't make you look unprofessional to your co-workers..." The studio was a co-op between Sören and a few other dance instructors and artists, and Anthony didn't want Sören to lose his job over it.
"Don't worry, it's not a big deal." Sören smiled, and Anthony smiled back.
It wasn't a date - not yet, anyway - but it was a big enough deal to Anthony that he fumbled again through their next set of moves. Still, he kept trying... feeling like he was preparing to go to war against his old bullies.
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