Dancing in the dark
The night air hit Nick's face like a splash of cold water, sharp and welcome after the warm crush of Adam's apartment. The group spilled onto the sidewalk in a loose, laughing knot—someone had decided the party needed a second location, a proper one with bass loud enough to rattle ribs, and no one had argued.
"The usual place?" James was already pulling up directions on his phone, one arm slung around Charlotte's shoulders.
"Where else?" Adam locked his door with slightly fumbling fingers, his glasses catching the yellow streetlight. He looked happy. Loose. The kind of drunk that made him expansive and generous with his affection.
They moved as a herd down the sidewalk, and Nick found himself naturally drifting toward the rear of the group. Charlotte had launched into an impassioned defense of Everything Everywhere All at Once, her hands gesturing wildly in the dark. "The bagel isn't just a joke," she was saying, her voice carrying that particular intensity of someone who'd thought about this a lot. "It's the logical endpoint of nihilism. Everything matters, so nothing matters, and the only honest response is to put everything on a bagel and—"
"End it all," Stella finished, snorting. "Very cheerful, Char."
"It's not supposed to be cheerful. It's supposed to be true."
Édouard made a thoughtful noise, his cider bottle dangling from two fingers. "The multiverse conceit only works because they commit to the absurdity. Most films would pull back. They leaned in."
Nick listened, half-present, letting their voices wash over him. The tequila was still warm in his stomach, softening the edges of everything. Ahead, Marc walked with Adam and James, their conversation drifting back in fragments—something about the World Cup, about France's midfield, about a goal that had been clearly offside. Marc's laugh rolled across the pavement like a low drumbeat.
Then Marc glanced back.
Just a quick turn of the head. Just a flicker of pale blue eyes finding Nick in the dark. His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—smaller than that, more private. Nick felt it land somewhere in his chest, a soft thud against his sternum.
He looked away first.
The club was everything the apartment wasn't: loud, dark, anonymous. Colored lights swept across the dance floor in slow arcs, painting faces pink then blue then gold. The music was the kind of pop that had been engineered for exactly this—for drunk students to scream along to, for bodies to press together without thinking about it too hard.
Nick knew this place. They all did. Same sticky floors, same overpriced drinks, same bartender who never carded anyone who looked remotely university-aged. Comfort in the familiar.
Adam was immediately swallowed by a group of people near the bar—friends from his literature program, Nick gathered, from the way they shouted his name and pulled him into a tangle of hugs. Adam threw one apologetic look over his shoulder, already grinning too wide to mean it, and Nick waved him off.
Charlotte and Stella were already moving toward the dance floor, Charlotte pulling Stella by the wrist, Stella pretending to resist while her hips started finding the beat. James followed, his beer held aloft like a beacon. Édouard drifted toward a wall to lean against. Nick moves with the group.
The bass vibrated up through his shoes. Someone bumped his shoulder and didn't apologize. The lights swept blue, then pink, then blue again.
He didn't know the song playing, but it didn't matter. These songs weren't made for knowing. They were made for moving.
He found the bar after two dances that left his shirt clinging to his back. Stella had grabbed his hands at one point and spun him until he was dizzy, her laugh cutting through the music like a blade of light. Charlotte had shimmied closer, her formal politeness from earlier dissolved into something looser, wilder. James had watched them all with the contented expression of a man who had exactly what he wanted.
Now Nick needed water. Or something stronger. He hadn't decided.
He pushed through a knot of people and nearly collided with a chest.
Marc.
The big guy was swaying slightly, his grin wider than before, his eyes bright with whatever he'd been drinking since they arrived. The henley was pushed up to his elbows now, revealing forearms that looked carved from something denser than muscle. His silver ring caught a flash of pink light.
"Nick!" His voice boomed over the music. "You disappeared."
"I was dancing."
"Dancing." Marc said it like it was a revelation. "You dance?"
"Badly."
"Prove it."
Before Nick could answer, Marc was moving—not touching him, not quite, but closing the space between them to something that felt intentional. His body found the beat with surprising ease, hips rolling, shoulders loose. An athlete's body awareness, Nick thought. The way he probably tracked a fly ball without having to think about it.
Nick stood frozen for three full seconds.
Then something in him said fuck it.
He moved. Not well, not gracefully, but he moved. His shoulders found a rhythm. His feet shuffled on the sticky floor. The space between them hummed like a plucked string.
Marc's eyes sparked.
The song shifted into something slower, dirtier, a bass line that crawled up Nick's spine. Marc didn't stop moving. His gaze stayed fixed on Nick's face—steady, focused, the same intensity Nick had noticed in the kitchen but now stripped of all pretense. There was no challenge here. No peace offering. Just watching.
Nick's skin prickled. His pulse was beating in places it had no business beating.
They danced. A foot of air between them. Then less. Then more again as Marc swayed back, teasing, grinning that crooked grin.
The song faded.
Nick's chest was heaving. He hadn't realized.
"Do you want water?" The words came out rougher than he intended. "You said earlier. That you were getting—"
"Water would be good." Marc's voice had dropped again, the way it had in the kitchen. Private. Close. "Yeah. Water."
Nick turned toward the bar, grateful for the excuse to look away. His face felt hot. His hands were doing something strange at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling.
He found a spot at the bar and flagged down the bartender. Across the room, he caught a glimpse of Adam—laughing too loud, head thrown back, one arm around a girl Nick didn't recognize. His glasses were askew. He looked absolutely gone, the kind of drunk that would hurt tomorrow but was worth it tonight.
Nick smiled despite himself. Good. Adam deserved that.
"What can I get you?"
The bartender's voice pulled him back. "Two waters," Nick said, then reconsidered. "And two beer. Whatever's cold."
Behind him, Marc had followed. He was leaning against the bar now, his shoulder brushing Nick's with the casualness of someone who either didn't notice or didn't care. Nick noticed. Nick cared.
"How'd you meet Adam?" Marc asked, accepting one of the water bottles when it arrived. His knuckles were thick around the plastic. His ring clicked against the cap.
Nick took a long swallow of beer before answering. "Lecture hall. First day of third year. He sat next to me and offered me pretzels."
"Pretzels."
"Half-eaten bag of pretzels, precisely. He said I looked like I was planning my escape route."
Marc laughed—that low, genuine one Nick had heard earlier. "That's Adam. He collects strays."
"I'm not a stray."
"No." Marc tilted his head, studying him. "No, you're not."
The way he said it made Nick's stomach flip. He drank more beer.
"What about you?" Nick asked. "How do you know him? You're not exactly—" He stopped.
"Not exactly what?"
Nick felt the blush creeping up his neck. "Not exactly the type I'd expect Adam to be friends with."
Marc's expression flickered. Something passed behind his eyes—hurt, maybe, or something close to it. "Because I'm a stupid jock?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." But Marc was grinning again, the flash of vulnerability already smoothed over. "It's fine. I get it. Big guy, baseball, can't string two thoughts together. Right?"
"Marc—"
"I've known him since high school." Marc's voice was easy, but his fingers were peeling the label off his water bottle in slow, deliberate strips. "He's introduced me to guys before. People he thought I'd like." A pause. "This is the first time one of them has made Adam feel that way."
Nick's throat tightened. "What way?"
"Peaceful. Like he doesn't have to perform." Marc's eyes lifted to meet his. "I can see why. You're probably the cutest boyfriend he's had."
The word landed like a slap.
Boyfriend.
Nick's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out.
Marc was still watching him, that steady blue gaze, waiting.
Across the bar, Adam laughed again, loud and oblivious, surrounded by people who weren't listening. Nick's throat tightened. The word boyfriend hung between them, heavy and wrong in a way he couldn't explain.
He looked down at his beer. The label was peeling at the corner. He pressed it flat again.
"I think I owe you an apology." His voice came out quieter than he intended, barely audible over the bass thrumming through the floor. "Earlier. The 'not your type' thing."
Marc tilted his head, waiting.
Nick forced himself to meet those blue eyes. "That was harsh. And unfair. You've been... you've made an effort. Since the kitchen. You kept talking to me even when I was being a brick wall."
Marc's expression didn't change, but something in his shoulders softened.
"I'm used to people looking at me a certain way," Nick continued, the words coming faster now, like pulling a splinter. "Making assumptions. So sometimes I get ahead of it. I get cold before anyone else can. It's a reflex."
He paused. Took a breath. The air between them smelled like spilled beer and Marc's cologne.
"You didn't deserve that. You were just trying to be friendly. And I—" He ran a hand through his hair, the admission sitting bitter and honest on his tongue. "I was defensive. For no good reason. So I'm sorry."
Marc was quiet for a long moment. Then his mouth curved into something warm—not the crooked grin, but something gentler. He lifted his water bottle in a small salute.
"Apology accepted."
Nick let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Marc's shoulder nudged his. "For what it's worth. I've been on the receiving end of that look plenty of times. The jock box. I know how it fits." He shrugged. "Doesn't make it fun."
"No," Nick agreed. "It doesn't."
They drank in silence for a moment. The bass thumped. Colored lights swept across Marc's face, turning it gold then purple then gold again.
When Marc spoke again, his voice had that private quality again, low and close. "For the record? I think you're interesting, Nick. Even when you're being a brick wall."
Nick's throat tightened. "What do you mean—interesting?"
Marc's grin softened, the teasing edge fading into something quieter. "I mean the way you watch things, people. You don't just look. You see. You take your time. You're cautious, but it's not fear. It's patience." He rolled the water bottle between his palms. "I saw it in the kitchen. You were standing by the window, not talking, but you were listening. To everyone. Filing things away."
Nick's cheeks heated. He hadn't realized anyone had noticed that.
"And the way you care about Adam," Marc continued, his voice dropping lower. "You check on him without hovering. You let him be drunk and loud and himself. You don't try to manage him." A pause. "That's rare."
Nick opened his mouth, but Marc wasn't done.
"And a few minutes ago." Marc's blue eyes held his, steady and warm. "You apologized. You recognized you'd been harsh, and you owned it. Most people don't do that. They double down. They get defensive." He shook his head slowly. "You didn't."
Nick's chest felt tight. The bass seemed distant now, the colored lights a blur at the edges of his vision.
Marc lifted his beer, clinking it gently against Nick's. "Those are things I value. In a person. In a friend." A pause. "In Adam's boyfriend."
The word hit differently this time. Softer. Almost like it might fit.Marc drank his beer, his gaze drifting past Nick's shoulder to where Adam stood near the bar. Nick followed his line of sight just long enough to catch Adam laughing, head thrown back, his arm slung around a girl with braids. Normal. Fine. He looked happy.
Then Marc tensed.
The shift was subtle—a straightening of his spine, a flicker in his jaw—but Nick felt it through the air between them. Marc finished his beer in one long gulp, the bottle clunking onto the bar.
"I love this song," he said, his voice suddenly utterly happy, almost too bright. Before Nick could respond, Marc's hand closed around his wrist. Warm. Firm.
"Come on."
Nick stumbled after him, feet finding rhythm by instinct as Marc pulled him onto the dance floor. The bass swallowed everything. Colored lights painted Marc's face in rapid succession—blue, pink, gold. His hand stayed on Nick's wrist, then slid down to his palm, fingers interlocking.
Nick's heart hammered. He let himself be moved.
But something made him turn his head. Toward the bar. Toward where Adam had been.
He caught a glimpse—just a flash through the shifting bodies—of Adam leaning close to someone. A man with glasses and semi-long hair, dark against the amber light. Adam's lips moved against the man's ear. The man smiled, slow and private.
Nick didn't recognize him.
The sight hit him like a stone dropped in still water. Ripples spread outward, cold and wrong. Adam's hand was on the man's shoulder. Familiar. Intimate. But before the feeling could settle, Marc's grip tightened on his hand—not pulling him away from the sight, but pulling him into something else.
"Nick." Marc's voice cut through the noise, low and steady. "Eyes here. Because now, we dance."
And Nick looked. Marc's face filled his vision—strong jaw, that crooked grin, blue eyes catching the club lights like shards of sky. He moved closer, hips finding the beat, and Nick let himself be drawn in. The bass thrummed up through his bones. Marc's free hand found his waist, light and questioning, and Nick answered by stepping into the space between them.
They moved together. Not perfectly, not practiced—but something alive passed between them, a current that crackled in the narrow air. Marc's thumb pressed against the small of Nick's back, a warm anchor. Nick's hand slid up Marc's arm, feeling the solid weight of him, the heat radiating through his shirt.
A few seconds. That's all it was. But it felt like a held breath.
Then a shriek cut through the bass.
"Get in here!"
Stella materialized beside them, her body already moving, her hands grabbing Nick's free wrist and Marc's shoulder simultaneously. Charlotte appeared a heartbeat later, laughing, her ponytail whipping as she spun into the space behind them.
"I've been trying to get this song for ten minutes," Charlotte shouted, grabbing Marc's other hand and pulling him into a spin. He went easily, laughing, his eyes finding Nick's over Stella's head.
Stella pressed in close to Nick, her grin sharp and delighted. "You two looked way too intense over here. We're fixing that."
And just like that, the moment fractured into something looser, brighter. Stella spun Nick, then Charlotte, then Stella again. Marc caught Charlotte's hand and dipped her, making her shriek. The colored lights painted them all in shifting hues—pink, blue, gold.
Nick laughed, breathless, and let himself be pulled into the chaos. But even as Stella grabbed his hands and spun him dizzy, even as Charlotte bumped his hip and Marc's laughter rolled across the floor like thunder, a corner of his mind remained fixed on that moment.
On Marc's hand at his waist.
On the way his eyes had said stay with me before Stella had even appeared.
