a new season begins

Sweat cascades like stolen diamonds off of smooth olive skin, dark locks dampened to the forehead of a boy. He untwists the cap off of his water, Adam’s apple bobbing multiple times as he downs the bottle quickly, and his hand crushes it with the satisfying sound of crumpling plastic. The setting is empty for the time being, lights turned as low as possible, but he is still able to see clearly. A large radio sits on a spotless white table in the corner of the room, thunderous dubstep almost deafening. Dark amber orbs travel around his surroundings as his shoes take him to where his shirt lies on the glossy wooden floor. Slightly calloused fingers slip the fabric over him, and clothe his wet form. Sweatpants tailor the bottom half of his body, sneakers squeaking softly. A jingle can be heard now as he presses the button to stop the music, and his other appendage grips the keys, and swiftly unlocks the glass door. It was fifteen minutes until his class started, and he did indeed love his job of teaching people to dance. Dancing was as art to him, and when his movement turn to the rhythm, he takes on a new identity, no longer the cocky and self-asserting eighteen year old he is, but the delicate and graceful male he can be. Beauty and terror mix when dubstep and pop play, his body convulsing and moving in ways most no human can. Flare and flamboyance appear when Flamenco sounds, and strength plays a role in break dancing. His favorite though, was always the quiet steadiness and scandal of the Tango. He sighs, thinking of it now, though what he is teaching today is simple hip-hop, for it was the first day of the new season. He had thought about joining many a competition, but alas, he had never found a suitable partner. By suitable, he means a person who can follow his rapid pace, and roll against his body, and have it mean more than “Good dance routine.” No, he preferred “Flawless dance routine.” Now, as the students flood, about forty of them in all, men and women, Jongin watches in anticipation to see his new, and some familiar students.

Jongin tells them to take a seat on the floor, and he will explain the rules and how the dance class works, and if someone objects, they can leave now and get their registration fee back by half. Some look at each other in excitement and others with puzzlement. The brown haired man tells them that today’s lesson will be simple, and only last an hour and a half. As a blonde woman objects and explains she must leave for work in an hour, Jongin replies with a small smirk, and an accusatory voice. “Then you shouldn’t have joined sweetie. Now either get out, or call your boss and tell him you’ll be late.” The woman stands shamefully, and prances through the door, slamming it behind her. “Anyone else need to tell me anything?”

A pale man stands for a moment, a ghost of a kind smile playing on pale pink lips. “You haven’t told us your name, teacher.” He says.

Jongin raises a dark brow, a hand resting on a hip. “Call me Kai.”

The other man smiles, deep brunette locks messed up now when slender fingers brush through the hairs. “Ok, thank you Kai.” He sits back down.

As Jongin explains the rules (no eating in the dance room, no leaving during a dance, no leaving at all unless it’s an emergency, no skipping unless he is notified, and absolutely no quitting), he also proposes his new offer. “Yeah, I’m eighteen, but my hips are damn well ier than all of yours on the dance floor, and don’t worry, we might be able to work on that in some of you. There are many contests here in Seoul, but sadly for everyone I turned down, I don’t have a partner. Whichever one of you dances the best at the end of the month will be my partner and win us all those goddamn trophies.” He pauses, giving a low snort of a laugh. “Let the games begin.”

A disgrace is what all of my student are this year, even the ones who trained last season seemed to have forgotten all of the moves I taught them, thinks Jongin bitterly, yet again performing a simple spin, reach up, reach down, left to the left and regain it with the right, and turn the head to the sides and land in a kneel. Was it all that difficult? It seemed so for these people as one woman stumbles and complains of a twisted ankle, and a rather plump man has asked to be excused to the bathroom for the fifth time in the last hour and fifteen minutes. As the boy pauses the music, he lifts his shirt to dab at the liquid on his flawless face, eyes darkened with frustration. He looks over his crown, most bent over and catching their breath, and some drinking generous amounts of water, and one face looking at Jongin himself. It was the man who had asked him his name in the beginning, Jongin couldn’t place a name to the face, but he knew that pale, round face.

“Come back tomorrow at nine, and actually bring whatever shred of talent you may be hiding,” Jongin says, pointing to the exit. “Now get the hell out of my dance room.”

The people file out quickly, exchanging whispers and odd glances at him, but Jongin likes it, because it means they respect him, but better yet, fear him. Although, as he watches in satisfaction, the boy with the soft face is the last to leave, packing his things carefully, slinging a duffle bag over his shoulder, a full sheen of sweat covering the full surface of his skin. The man peeks Jongin’s interest, for the student seems happy to be there.

Jongin leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms and casting his casual smirk. “My turn to ask you name happy-face.”

He is taken aback, but just throws back a laugh. “Well, Kim Jongin, I know you have two names, so I’ll also have two. Everyone calls me Suho when I dance and sing, but you can call me Joonmyeon.”

“Well then Joonmyeon, be back tomorrow.”

“I sure will,” he replies, holding out a hand for the other to shake.

Jongin takes it, and offers a slightly genuine smile, for something in his heart became aflutter for a miniscule second, though it was a flutter nonetheless. “Good, let’s hope you don’t .”