Out of Step

"Oh, this is interesting," says the one behind me, "I've heard that some of us ducked the snare. Never thought I'd see one come back."

The one in front of me doesn't say much, just a few more considering glances and wonderful thoughts dancing behind those piercing eyes. My nerves are fire and iron. This isn't so hard.

"Casper?" the one in front of me asks. And now there's that cold spike in the base of my spine telling me to run. It sparks something else and her name is out of me before I can stop.

"Baikal?" says my lips. I didn't ask anything in me to do that.

And then I'm embraced, and after that I'm lifted, face buried in her chest, feeling her stomach run my body and every sense is alight with a memory almost ingrained into instinct. Despite everything, I hug back. I like this one, I think.

"You do remember me," she says. And now we're bouncing and happy and I'm not quite sure where I land at the end of it. I settle for hugging her back and that's nice.

And then I'm down. The one behind me is laughing, I think, but I'm not really paying attention to her right now. I'm paying attention to Baikal and the broad smile under full lips and how they would feel trailing down my neck.

"Are you done, Johnathan?" shouts Bethan, "Can we come down now?"

I see something flash through her eyes, but it's gone.

"Friends," I say, "Met them on the ride over. Say they're doing an anthropological survey."

"What's an anthropological?" Baikal asks. To be fair, I'm not quite sure either. But it's the word they gave me.

"Studying cultural practices, customs, and rituals, uncovering their meanings and significance," says Carina.

"Food and music," says Bethan, "Maybe art, but only if its naked people."

"Oh, we have all those," says the guard to my back. I really need to get her name at some point, but not now. Baikal's hands are on my shoulders, holding me still. She's taller than me. Not by a lot, and the ears do something to puff her up, but still. Her grip is strong. The twins seem to be integrating themselves so far. I believe I can integrate myself just as well if I can actually go out and see the town.

"Are you back for the nights?" Baikal whispers in my ears. They twitch and dance at the words. I nod. She smiles at me. It's sweet and pure on the surface. But I see something dance and turn and then she lets me go. There's a hand on me, trailing to my waist and fighting the instinct to throw me to the planks and have her way here. I don't think I would say no to that, but only if she threw me on the pile of canvas on the other side.

We break. The twins flitter away with a wave and a promise to meet up in a few days. They'll probably need an interpreter to go through all their discoveries. I'll need a break from home and all the terrible things that come with that. I readjust my pack. Take a deep breath and come home in earnest. I still have a full day before night rolls around. I could use some rest before then. I think I'll get some oysters for dinner.

---

The city is changing outside of my borrowed window. I'm glad the idea of a flophouse has spread already. I don't think I could ever go back to not having a bed. I just wished the idea of a hotel was a bit bigger here as well. I do miss privacy, especially after the ship. Everyone's hammock just knocking into one another, and now my cot's flush with the one next to me. At least there is nowhere in it right now. I assume everyone is out drinking and flirting and trying to get that particular notch on their belt. I wish them luck and a swift recovery.

Of all the things I've learned on foreign shores, shame is one of the odder ones. Shame that I look the way I do, shame that people look at me at all, shame at the acts I am going through. I've filtered the outside in and became something different, inside to out. I should not be using the paints and colors I've bought for myself. Those belong on a woman to entice and attract men, not the other way around. I should not be showing so much of my legs. I should not like the way the silk hugs my hips and frames my length in a swelling round bulge in front of me.

But all that surface learned shame cannot refute the simple fact that I look damn good in red silk.

There's a sash across my bare chest. There's barely anything covering my hips. The waist is high and tight. Everything is in tassels and strings, ending in bright bass clappers and bells. Every motion sends a shimmer of noise from me. The shoes are soft and light, more thin strands crossing up my legs, highlighting the muscles and the lines. It digs into me just softly enough to be thrilling. A feather like breeze, I can feel everything through the fabric. I might as well just walk out nude and let the wind carry me through the streets. Fun idea. Not worth it. There is something to the idea of shame to keep me clothed and hidden, if only to prevent a cold down the line.

I step back and I rattle and chime like a suit of chain mail. Nowhere near as strong or protected, but it's the first thing that comes to mine. It's too light and airy for bells. It doesn't have quite the same timbre as coins. Its small chain links dancing in the wind. I glance around. I am still alone for the moment.

Three steps. Three steps of the rhythm and that's all I allow myself. The noise, the beautiful crescendo of metal and then it stops. The motion stops and my steps are heavy and I am composed. That same thrill is in me that came with the dock. I don't have my support anisos with me, but I've done more daring dos in the past. A simple walk to the edge of town, a chat with whoever is at the gate and then a lively hike out into the woods. I'm pretty sure I can follow the music. The instinct has carried me here so far. They can carry me through the night.

And I'm moving. There's a cloak over me and it's fastened tight. The night is warm and I am already feeling it start to bound back through me. But the wind carries me. Every step is a muffled field of metal chimes. Every step is the wind through the ranks of fluttering banners. I'm out on the street now. It's quiet. Most of the attention is down by the docks. The liveliness of the world at large still hasn't come into the land proper. I hope the twins have exactly what they need for whatever important assignment they're on. I just walk, calm and even, ignoring the marching drum in my heart. Another stolen night to do a hand off. I've done a couple of those before. I'm just the bag now.

I pass someone stumbling through the streets, happy and sloshing. Already lost to the world, he doesn't even notice me. I keep moving through new buildings so fresh I can still smell the soil through them. Ever since I arrived, I've been assaulted by scents. The sea air, the creaking timbers, the broken paths, and through it all has been the call of the forest. The peach blossoms are in bloom. In a few months, the fruits will grow and ripen, full to burst with sweet juice. I'd eat then with that nectar down my chin and turn all sticky. But the forest carries more than fruit and leaves and running water. There's a thread pulling me deeper. I am not fighting it anymore.

There is a universal constant that I have found. Guards come in pairs, unless there is an emergency. Everywhere I've gone, always two. Occasionally three, but three is just two plus one, really. Or two pairs with one person shared. And that law has found its way here. Not the same from the docks, mostly because one of them is not embracing me enthusiastically, but seeing the frame and the ears is enticing. I belong with them. There are nests and food and safety in the woods. I should have never left. I should have stayed inside. I left and it was the best idea I've ever had.

The guards do nothing by watch me approach. They're taller than me, even more so than Baikal. I want to shrink and hide. But I can't help but notice the way they shift and grip. Just my presence, and that instinct is in them. The wonderful thrill of pride runs through me. The cloak hides most of my body, but I do shake my hips a bit more with the steps. They notice. They notice and they just have to watch me approach for a few more seconds. By the time I am in front of them, I am smiling and giddy and they better let me through. There will be problems.

They do stop me and look at me. My ears keep twitching. I'm picking up something deep in the forest and I simply need to be there. These women are not letting me be there. We are having a problem.

"So, you're the one that left," the one that stopped me says, "I heard you were back. What happened? Were the ladies out there too gentle for you? "

I say nothing. Her legs are long and bursting with strength. I can see every muscle knot and shift with her steps. She's wearing something not quite from home. The cut and the colors are the same, exposed arms, slits up the pant legs. Even a sash across her chest denoting her own slight variation of what home means to her. But the material is different. Flax wool, in a purple I don't think technically can be made here. It's a good color, blending very well with her skin, just as the red does to mine.

"If you're going for the silent treatment," says the one that didn't stop me, "that's not going to work out there in the forest."

I think the silent treatment is working wonders, honestly. That and the whole hidden surprise under the cloth. Granted, it's a good cloak, done with some aniso stylings at the edges. The whole under ensemble does take some inspiration from them. I sway a bit and they catch a bit of the bells and whistles.

The one in front of me grows a bit too impatient for my liking. There's a rush and a grab and I dance away. I've seen the fights before and I am not where she wants me to be. Despite all the violence implied in that weapon, I think there is a good chance I could take her. I've learned things she hasn't, and they are things she's never seen. Granted, it is also very easy to say that I could take her when I've only seen a clumsy grab.

And despite the grab and the rage, that same thrill is back. I am wanted. I am wanted to the point beyond reason. I grab the fringes of my shell and start peeling it away.

The guards go grave still.

"We need to send more of the boys abroad if they come back looking like you," says the one to my left.

"He has scars," says the one to my right, "I didn't know they could do that."

Their eyes drift lower and everything is exactly what they wanted from me. One of them even licks her lips. That beautiful moment of need is now all she can think about. I am the object she needs to covet, she needs to possess, she needs to consume. And I'm very confident I could at least take the knife from her belt if comes down to it.

"Shame you're getting none of it tonight," I say with a smile that deserves to be beaten out of me.

"And he has a bit of a mouth on him," says the one with now wet lips. I can't keep track of which one's which. They are both lost in the simple need of my body. That need unites them into a single will. I can certainly be shared, but I think I can do better than two. Most men like me can when they look like this.

"I've picked up some bad habits, sure," I say, smile still sharp and taunting, "But I think all of this is worth it."

A hand goes down my torso, down to my hips, down to that strained pouch of thin silk and everything is beautiful.

"You're going out there tomorrow night?" the right one asks, "We trade off then."

"I'm planning on it. If you're good with what's left."

One clucks her tongue and scoffs, but it's the best she's going to get at the moment, lest everything take a turn for the savage. But we're all clothed at the moment. They let me pass with a playful swat I let land. Thrills and sparks, endless tingling sensation through me that refuses to be contained If some didn't lay their hands on me, then I would have been the one to break the veil.

It's not far out of town. There are still lingering echoes of the way things should be, though. This can't be in the town square in the view of windows and decorum. I catch the smoke first and that tends to numb the deeper urges. But it's the trail. It's something to follow. It's something to tease. I catch glimpses of it through the forest canopy. I am almost running. The urge is in me and it is all I am. I have been alone. I have been cut off. The forest welcomes me back with open arms and a slight 'I told you so' o the wind. I was wrong to leave. This is where I belong and nothing could ever change the simple fact that I am a creature of the woods.

Through the smoke comes the music. It's complex and intricate, mostly in the drums. It's hard to pick out the steady and the bed rock, but it's there. It's designed to fall through the incarnate clock work of the overlaying beats until each bead settles at the bottom. I am supposed to waltz and flow over the shifting sands until I fall. Every nerve in my stomach is alight with butterfly wings and dove feathers. It's close. It's so incredibly close.

It's a clearing, cut away centuries ago. The field of flowers has still been maintained. A few errant steps have crushed the more adventurous ones, but the petals are still there. A bit more time in the sun and a good rain and it'd be strong again. But the actual attractions are the stages.

Cut from strong, supple wood, made more or less when the clearing was, each a circle with beaten paths, lined with tall torches. I count five of them in my line of sight. Each one occupied by another man, each one dancing to the drumming rhythm. It looks well practiced. The measures and the steps are measured, passed down through the clocks winding down. Each step pulls another woman from the milling crowd or chases one away. They circle like sharks with the scent of blood in the water. They don't notice me for now. I'm just a shadow in the dancing flames. Any noise I make is just an afterthought.

The crowd turns and mills and changes. It's the ocean, ebb and flow, motion unending. There's a sashay to me now as the music echoes in me. I can't find the source. It might even be all in my head. I don't care. It's infectious and complete. The unseen threads I weave start needling the others. I get a few little glances and nods, maybe a double take, but the shadows keep me hidden. The one on the far stage seems to be the favorite. I think I even remember that sequence from when I was first learning. It's old. It's tested. It's also doing the best from what I can see. He has the biggest crowd and it's certainly earned.

He ends with a beautiful flourish, smooth skin shining with sweat, panting and flush and the crowd surges towards him. He smiles as he is gently plucked from the stage and carried off into the night. I don't see any of the other men waiting in the wings surging to replace him. I'm okay with another moment to myself and the crowd. Something pulls at the thread I cast out and I'm pulled along in the crowd. I see Baikal's ears bob above the crowd. They twitch and turn to me.

She's breathtaking. She's so comfortable, so simply dressed in beaten fabric. Just a night after a hard day's work, completely at ease. She's admiring the shows, but nothing seems to have caught her eye enough to actually act. She takes a deep breath and sighs out, expanding and shaking her heavy chest. An ear twitches and picks me up. The body follows and I catch a glimpse of her hips as her clothes fail to hold all of her still.

I was too lost in the rush of coming home to take her in full. She's tall. Not the tallest. She's strong. Not the strongest. In my opinion, she is one of the most stunning. It's all just there, in the way she settles, in the way she holds herself. She's an anchor to the world, refusing to let it spin as it once. A boulder dropped in the middle of a field, completely unmovable, completely unchanging. And a smile that can outshine the stars. Her chest and her hips in the wonderful ideal of round swells aren't half bad either. It's soft and sweet and warm, above the swirling mass of primal instinct. That has settled in her hands, I think. It's in an erratic tapping, that occasionally grips at the hem of her shirt.

"You actually came," she says when she sees me, "Part of me thought that you wouldn't show."

"I am many things," I say, voice surprisingly calm, "But I'm not a coward."

"Really? I remember a time when you started crying when a crow kept hounding you."

"It wasn't a crow. It was a thunderbird. And I remember that it was my dad you saved us, not you."

"I cried too. I don't remember saying anything about how I was some sort of hero."

"It was implied. Not everything can be spelled out, y'know?"

"I know. And now I'm thinking. Specifically, I think you're stalling. Getting cold feet. You've already got me hooked. You don't really need anything else do you?"

I shrug. Something rings out from under my cloak and that gets her attention.

"No offense, but the trip is for as much as I can get. I have to know."

She grabs my shoulders and I don't fight her. For a moment, I'm spinning. Then I'm on my toes and lifted and she's on my lips. She's been drinking, I think. Winter wine, that is certainly not from here. All in all, I think it's good that things have opened up a bit. There will be things lost in the shuffle of this grand experiment, and that is a raw loss. But if it lets the stages grow, lets the wine flow, lets us all become something more than what we were the moment before, then I believe its worth.

Her strength is also making me painfully hard. That's a wonderful gift, really. The silk hides nothing. I notice a few more glances my way as we are technically breaking the tradition. No touching until the performer Is gone. But I think I'm a bit better when everything's broken and mangled. At the very least, I'm no longer quite as nervous.

She shoves me and I'm on my way. There's still enough cover for the reveal. I'm on stage. I don't know what step crossed the line, but the gaze is on me. Every single eye is a dagger right through my heart. Every soul melds into the anonymous mass that is judging me and I feel nothing but a soft smile bubble up through me in response. The cloak is still tight. Everything is hidden. They might catch a little shake and rattle, a shock of burning red through the night.

Everything goes still. There are twitches and challenges like I am such a terrible sin to be standing before them so chaste and covered. I'm the one that left and when I dared to return, I hide their prize from them. The eyes are angry. They want to eviscerate me. I can't help but let the smile grow wider.

The dance starts in my heel, tapping out a simple rhythm. They calm down a little. I'm here for the motions and the dance. I'm here for them. I'm here to offer myself, just prepared in a slightly different way. They can hear the brass rings clack against one another now as I keep the tempo building. I still can't find the source of the music.

Then I spin. The cloak flies up and they realize that my legs are long and lithe and toned. They realize that the silken ties go all the way up to the stars. I turn and I feel the eyes climb up.

The moment comes when I cannot be contained. The cloak is off. The fans are open and spinning in my palms. Every mote of light is dancing across my skin and piecing the gazes as they pierce me. I am amidst a sea of needles as I tumble through the spines. Every tip is laden with sweet, sweet venom and I am movement crystalized. The fans are spinning in hypnotic spirals. I'm not quite to the point of twirling them and letting them fall to my hands. I move and the fans move with me.

I was worried that this was all too much. The silk is already more than what everyone else decided on. The rings and bangles push it even further. It was the correct choice. Even the other dancers stumble in their routine as they see what I am. My excitement only grows. I bend and stretch and the shape is completely bare. I think I'm one of the bigger ones. It's the only thought I'm allowed to have when I'm feeling this beautiful.