The Art of Dancing in the Rain (boyxboy)

You Don't Talk Much, Do You?

Boston's hair color may have been debatable, but this Ollie guy's hair was an obvious strawberry blonde. The color was almost pink but clearly natural. This was something that came to Boston's mind as he stood in that filthy SanFrancisco street for the now third time that week. He couldn't help but come see him the day before and then there he was again. His eye color was still a mystery because Ollie always kept his eyes closed. Today, Boston wanted to see those eyes.

Over the few hours he had examined the guy, he had noticed a few things about him. How he moved in a slightly feminine way. This is no insult, just a fact. The way he moved indeed suited him. And there was how he just kept dancing with seemingly endless stamina, but then how he did start to get tired if you stayed long enough. Yesterday, he had to leave before it was over. Today, he would stay. Another thing he noticed was his clothes. They weren't very nice and rather worn looking. This was the slums after all. He was playing classical music on an old vintage tape player. None of this dampened his beauty one bit.

When it reached about 1:00 and he had been out there for a good four hours, Ollie's fatigue got the best of him and he slowly settled to a stop. Boston watched for a moment of anticipation where Ollie just stood with his eyes closed. When he finally opened his eyes he jumped back in surprise at the boy staring at him intently. He slowly bent down, breaking eye contact to turn off his music. He seemed a bit anxious to find he was still being stared at when he stood back up.

"Um, hello," Ollie mumbled quietly, tearing Boston out of his thoughts. Boston had just been struck by how pretty Ollie's eyes were. If Boston's hair color was confusing, Ollie's eye color was an absolute Sherlock Holmes mystery. Blues, greens, and maybe some flecks of pink and gold. Boston's eyes were just brown and not even a pretty shade of brown.

"Oh, sorry for staring," Boston said, awkwardly scratching his neck. "I loved your dancing. I'm actually a dancer too."

Ollie visibly relaxed after the rapist look in Boston's eyes left. He stayed quiet.

"Um... My name is Boston. Boston Ellis." Boston stuck his hand out for a handshake.

"Ollie." He shook his hand timidly.

"Well, as I said, I really like your dancing. You're very talented. Where'd you learn?"

"Myself."

Boston screamed internally. This kid had perfect form. It was like he had studied contemporary dance his whole life. There was no way.

"Wow. I, um, noticed you haven't had lunch... I've been here a while. Want to go get some food with me," Boston mustered up all his confidence and said.

"I don't know if it's wise to go wandering off with a stranger," Ollie giggled. It was adorable.

"Well, I'm not asking you to get in a van or anything," Boston laughed.

Ollie nodded in agreement and they set off for a small diner that Boston saw on his way there. He didn't want to show his hand with an expensive place yet. He knew it could lead to them taking advantage of him for his dad. He was a dancer after all, and dancers always wanted to get close to his dad.

"So, have you ever done competitive dance?" Boston asked him once they were seated and had ordered their food.

Ollie just shook his head 'no.'

"I bet you'd do really well." Ollie shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you know any other styles of dance besides contemporary?"

"Ballroom."

"Oh that's cool, my sister and her friend are partners in ballroom. She's a champion."

"My best friend Zoe and I used to learn by watching my moms old VHS tapes from when she was a ballroom dancer." He smiled fondly, but only for a second before his smile fell again. That was the most he'd talk the whole rest of the time.

"That's cool! I would've never been able to learn on my own. I'm a triplet, the only boy of the bunch, so I was practically born with dancing partners and taught by a prima ballerina for a mom. You are just naturally amazing!" Boston explained happily. This guy really was something.

He shrugged meekly.

Their food finally arrived, cutting the one-sided conversation off. Having been raised a vegetarian and health nut, Boston got a salad. Ollie got chicken strips and fries. It came with a few large pieces, but Ollie only ate one and a couple of fries before he declared he was full. Boston looked at the young man and did notice he was slim and small. Kind of adorably small.

"Hey, could I give you my number? I'd love to talk again sometime," Boston asked hopefully at the end of the meal. Ollie nodded and grabbed the pen that was sitting on top of the unpaid check pad and wrote his number on a napkin.

"My phones old so I can only talk or text," he said, embarrassed.

"Ok, that's fine."

There was a small mumble battle over who was paying for what until Boston insisted he'd pay. Ollie put his leftovers in a to-go plate and they set out in different directions. Boston towards the nice part of the city, and Ollie deeper into the bad.