Mr. Bojangles

Rifiuto: Non Miriena

Summary: He remembered watching her dance, lithe and graceful in her movements. She used to dance by herself, hearing music no one else heard. She used to run to him, her long black hair flying behind her as she threw herself into his arms, laughing. She'd pull away, and grab his hands, before pulling him into a spin; feeling like they'd defied life. When they stopped, he'd pull her into his arms and they'd fall into a graceful waltz or enticing tango; an engaging foxtrot or a fun jive. With her, when they were together, they'd defy more than life. Together, they defied gravity.

The ballroom was empty now.

The last party- the last ball- held at the palace had been the night of their fifty-fifth wedding anniversary. They'd danced and enjoyed the company of their friends and family. He'd pulled her onto the dance floor for a waltz- even after fifty-five years of marriage, they were still as graceful on the floor then as they'd been at their wedding. They'd both been sixty-three at the time. It was the last anniversary they would spend together. Later that night, after the party, they'd gone to bed, talking and remembering. He'd kissed her good night, whispered, 'I love you', and wrapped her in his arms. The doctor determined that she'd passed away in her sleep, wrapped in her husband's arms. She'd died happy, content, where she felt most comfortable, in her husband's arms.

Three days after her funeral, he abdicated, handing the throne to his son. No one asked why. They all knew that he would never feel comfortable ruling without her by his side. He wasn't complete. He spent most of his days wandering the gardens or reading in the library. Today was the first day he'd been in the ballroom since her death. It was silent, silent and still, compared to the laughter and music that had once been housed in its walls. As he looked around the extravagant room, he remembered happier times.

He remembered watching her dance, lithe and graceful in her movements. Whether with a partner or by herself, it was graceful, smooth. Others in the ballroom would stop and watch the young woman move around the floor in her partner's arms, seemingly flawless in her movements. She used to dance by herself, hearing music no one else heard. Especially when she was outside in the garden, or by herself, when she thought no one else saw. It was gorgeous, breath-taking to see her.

She used to run to him, her long black hair flying behind her as she threw herself into his arms, laughing. Tenderly, she'd kiss him passionately, rubbing her nose against his. She'd then pull away, and grab his hands, before pulling him into a spin. They'd spin- sometimes barefoot on the grass- seeing no one but her; feeling like they'd defied life. When they stopped, he'd pull her into his arms and they'd fall into a graceful waltz or enticing tango; an engaging foxtrot or a fun jive.

With her, when they were together, they defied more than life. Together, they defied gravity.

He closed his eyes; in his mind, he could hear the music of the band, hear the chatter of guests, and the laughter of the children. In his mind, he was in the ballroom, surrounded by diplomats and dignitries, royals and ambassadors, friends and family. Couples moved on the dance floor or stood talking in corners softly. In his mind, he was standing in the middle of the dance floor, searching for her. He turned, and saw her on the landing of the stairs. She spotted him, moved down the stairs, and hurried through the crowd to him. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the empty ballroom, alone.

Sighing, he moved to the middle of the dance floor. Even after twenty-years, he still felt incomplete without her. Although, at times, he felt as though she were in the room with him.

"Dance with me, Yero."

It was if she were with him now, in the ballroom. He could almost feel her arm go around his neck, almost feel her fingers lace through his. He could smell rosewood and lily water- the special oil she wore only for him, because he loved the scent so. He felt the softness of her hair against his cheek, felt the silkyness as it rested against his skin. The soft silk of her dress rustled across his fingers as they rested on her waist. They waltzed around the floor, their feet moving gracefully together as one. When they stopped, he pulled away. Tears slid down his cheeks, as he realized he was alone. He turned to go, leaving the ballroom. When he was gone, she called out,

"I love you, Yero."

Later that night, as he slept, she slipped into the room, and climbed into the bed, pressing her body against his. Her arms went around him, and she kissed his cheek.

"I love you, Yero. I love you. And I'll be here. I'll be right here. I promise. I've waited twenty years, Yero. Twenty years. I can't wait much longer. This afternoon, I didn't want to let you go. I can't let you go."

He turned in his sleep, and she looked down at him. He was peaceful, content, in his love's arms, although he didn't know it. Gently, she reached up, running her fingers down his cheek, tracing the same pattern they'd traced for seventy-five years. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes, and leaned down, pressing her lips to his in a gentle, loving kiss. Then, she pressed her cheek against his forehead, pulling him close.

"I love you, Yero. I love you, but I won't let you go. Not this time. I can't."

The next morning, one of the servants came in, to find him turned from the window. The doctor determined that he'd died in his sleep. She watched from the corner, as they covered the body. Turning from the bed, she turned her eyes to the ceiling.

"Thank you."

Music brought him to the landing. Looking around, he found the ballroom packed, couples dancing or talking, music floating and hanging over them like clouds. Slowly, he moved to the ballroom floor, only to be greeted by collegues and friends. Suddenly, a blonde threw herself into his arms. When they broke apart, he saw that it was Glinda, her golden curls held back with a blue clip.

She had died three years after, when the earth was cold on her grave. She had seen her best friend pass away, and had tried to so hard to hang on. But three years later, she'd given in, the grief had taken her back to her best friend. He had never understood how grief could take her, and leave him for twenty years without her by his side. Finally, Glinda pulled away.

"It's good to see you again, Fiyero."

"You too, Glinda."

When the blonde moved on, he found himself moving through the crowd, stopping occasionally to talk to someone. The music lifted him somewhat, but something felt off.

Where was she? She should have been here. If this was the Afterlife, she should be here. He couldn't spend the rest of eternity without her by his side. Suddenly, the others in the ballroom began bowing or curtsying. Curious, he turned to see what had caught their attention.

She stood on the landing, in the black dress she'd worn on the night of their anniversary. It showed her slender form, and made her absolutely beautiful. Her long, black hair was half-up, half-down, and the emerald he'd given her on their wedding day was around her throat. His breath caught in his throat as he watched her.

Slowly, she moved down the stairs, searching. Her eyes scanned every face, every man in the ballroom. They weren't him. What if he wasn't there? He had to be.

When she made it to the bottom of the stairs, she glanced quickly around, panic setting in. Finally, he moved forward. Another quick scan, before she spotted him.

A smile broke out onto her face, and she cried out. Breaking into a run, she lifted her skirt, and hurried to him. Before he knew what hit him, she threw herself into his arms, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"Oh Yero!" She pressed her nose to his, before kissing him. The kiss they shared reminded him of how much he loved her, passion ignited them both. When they finally broke apart, he spun her around, before setting her back on her feet. "I waited. Twenty years. Twenty years, I waited for you. I couldn't wait much longer, Yero." She said through her tears. Gently, he cupped her cheek, relishing in the feel of her skin under his fingers.

"I know. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get here." He kissed her again, before allowing her to pull him to the middle of the dance floor. A waltz started, and soon, they moved around the dance floor, lithe and smooth, it was like they were ice skating. "Fae?"

"Yes, my love?"

"L......Last night. Was it you? In our bedroom. Was it you?" She nodded, her long, black hair framing her pretty face.

"Yes. I.....I didn't want you to.....to.....I wanted.....I wanted to be there......when you......" She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. "When you....c...came back to me." She said, her voice breaking.

He leaned down, kissing her tenderly. The waltz stopped, and they stood in the middle of the ballroom, arms wrapped around each other, as they locked themselves in a passionate embrace, twenty years overdue. Finally, out of breath, Elphaba pulled away, and cupped his face in her hands. Her eyes sparked to life, and she smiled lovingly at him. Then, she took his hand, lacing their fingers. In a soft, loving, tender whisper, she begged,

"Dance with me, Mr. Bojangles."

He pulled her into his arms, nodded to the band to start, and gracefully led her in a waltz amid the watchful eyes of the guests. When the dance ended, she pulled him closer, and repeated her plea.

"Please."

That soft whisper brought tears to his eyes, and he did as requested, leading her in another loving waltz. Their eyes never left each other.

"I love you, Fae."

"I love you, Mr. Bojangles."

Finally, they were reunited.