disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: to Emily. Happy birthday. and bitch, send me more prompts! I need to write your Christmas present!
notes: I seem to write Yukio better than I write Shura. probably because I understand wanting someone you can't have. also they seem to be in bars in my head a lot. oops.

title: would you ever dance with me like that
summary: Shura dances with strangers. Yukio angsts. — Yukio/Shura.






Strands of spiced Latin music floated through the smoky bar. They sunk into Yukio's brain and spread like venom, like drifting into the sun and the sea, warmth and quiet but utterly poisonous.

He felt like drowning, but watched Shura dance in the cool blue light anyway. She was shameless with her hands everywhere in a circle of people that all danced too close with her hair loose. She was caught in pale blue smoke and pale blue light, the little beads of sweat down her throat glistening as she moved. She danced like a whore, sex on fire, sin and liquor in the sway of her hips.

And she was beautiful.

And Yukio hated her with every fiber of his being.

She spun, hair swinging wildly behind her, fire taking a forest and burning it, charred to ashes. It was torture in the moving.

Yukio watched, and hungered.

Oh, how he hungered.

Seventeen and weak to the temptation she presented, it was hard to take his eyes away. Because she was Shura, and she could have been eighteen for all she looked her age. And Yukio knew—he'd felt, and wanted, and hated himself and everyone else involved.

Even his own brother.

Even himself.

Mostly himself.

Yukio sat at the table and watched her because he was far too spineless to touch her himself. She'd been mentor and bitch and friend and always—always—something else. His hands curled to fists. He drank the bitter, dark beer in front of him. Fourth one, and still barely started. The alcohol raced along his nerves, tingling up and down his spine.

Torture in the movement.

Shura sashayed her way back to the table where he sat and threw herself down in the chair opposite him with a vulgar laugh. The crowd still reached for her; clinging to the dregs of her presence, leeches against skin but she, in typical Shura fashion, shook them off.

She smirked at him.

"Awww, Scaredy, ya finally drinkin' with th' rest of us? Good on ya, crabbypants."

And she raised her beer at him and drank it back. In the dark and the smoke, she could have been the main attraction at a tea party for the damned.

As it stood, she rather was.

Though what the devil fucking dickens she was doing was utterly beyond him. She swallowed and he stared, fascinated, and the clenching in her throat. Heat simmered in the pit of his stomach, a mirage.

He would have reached forward and dragged her to his lap, but he hesitated.

In that second, she'd already left him behind. Up and out of her chair, she was back in the fray of the crowd and they accepted her. Returned her to the depths. Her hair disappeared into the dark.

On the table, her empty bottle spun.