Bruised Ego (boyxboy)

Part Two

The place was getting packed for a last minuet university dance show. Tickets had gone on sale just yesterday and, if I'm being honest, I hadn't expected that many in the crowd. Flat and course mates? Sure. Maybe a few relatives, if they lived close by, even a couple of old schools friends, come along to support and get some gossip after the few weeks spent apart. But the seats had completely sold out, and standing room was now all that was available.

I was watching from the side wing, preparing my lines for the performance introduction. I don't know why I landed up with this harrowing chore, it's not like I'm known in the society for being confident or outspoken or... good with people in general. But there's only three boys in the whole show, including every medium of dance that the university practices. I'm in two, street and contemporary, and the girl's all thought 'Hey, wouldn't it be, like, really cute to get the gay boy to represent us? I mean, the crowd'll be all over that, right.' I should have told them to sod right off there and then - at least one of the other boys are gay anyway - but, hello, I'd rarer not be subjected to their wrath.

So like the good little gay boy I was, I accepted the task with a polite smile. Now, I wish more than anything I hadn't. I didn't even have many familiar people watching, had told my friends not to bother, it was only a small thing, and rehearsals weren't that great anyway - we'd only had about six lessons over all - and I hadn't even mentioned it to my parents. No way were they driving a six hour round trip just to watch a forty-five minute show.

I did see two girls from my course though, and one of my flat mates I'm pretty friendly with. He was sat with another guy, who I've seen at the flat a couple of times, and he had a spare seat on his other side with his coat draped across. My first guess would be that it's saved for his girlfriend, but then I remember she's in the show - probably why they're in the audience - she does a tap number, my least preferred dance technique.

The team has decked me out in a pair of black and white trousers and dark braces. That's it. Not even an open shirt, just bare chested. Shoes were a no go for this show - the flooring was new - and I shifted about to cover up as much visible skin as I could. I wanted to back out; this wasn't what I'd signed up to. I'd expected a bunch of people just coming along, having a laugh, some dancing - obviously - but nothing serious. Just a bit of fun to take our minds off our already stressful courses.

It wouldn't be too late to back out, would it?

---

When it's time to go on and say my piece, I'm nervous, knees quaking as I step onto the spot marking the centre of the dance floor. There's no stage in this studio, and my head's pretty level with the first few rows of the tiered seats. I'm grateful for the dark lighting and single spotlight blinding into my retinas - only the bottom rows are visible to me now.

I wait for everyone to settle down, to recognise that I'm stood there wringing my hands like a fool until I have their attention. Someone hollers in the crowd in front, it diverts my attention as I start to babble about how amazing it is that so many people turned up. 'Finnegan!' Someone shouts again. 'Whoop whoop!' It's Christian, I notice, and a smile quirks at the corner of my lip as I catch my flatmates cheesy grin. He stamps his feet in a drum roll, and I cover my mouth over a laugh at his childishness. I need to focus, get this speech over with.

A hand comes over from his side, rests on his knee to still the movement. I drop my own hand, follow the strangers limb up it's long sleeved top to the bared throat, wide chin, basically hollowed cheeks, straight nose and strong brow. His hair is blond and slicked back from his forehead in a stylishly messy quiff. And his eyes are just as intense as before, cause me to forget I'm stood here for near two hundred strangers to see. My mouth opens, supposedly to finish the introduction - his jaw ticks, eyebrow raises to mock my staring.

I blurt something out, along the lines of 'enjoy', but it comes out garbled, and I can't find a reason why. I don't know what it is about that boy, man I suppose - he's got to be around the twenty mark - but he makes me anxious just being in his presence. Like a lesser person. And I don't like it, don't know why I feel that way. I feel as though his eyes are on my back  as I walk away, and I focus too much on acting normal, try to show to myself that he doesn't affect me. My ankle slips, twists to the side. I stumble, catch myself before I fall.

It's like being a kid again, before I perfected my balance, before I found dance. I prey that he didn't notice, that no one did, but I catch a few chuckles as I slip through the wing, bring my shoulders up, curl into myself.

I don't want to see him again, but at the same time, I do. I've only glimpsed him twice now, I have absolutely no idea who he even is, but he's somehow gotten under my skin. But whether I want to see him again or not, I don't have much choice. I have a dance show to preform, and he's sat front and centre.