He tells her to save one for her and he didn't have to say it because she'd have done it anyway.

When his turn to dance with her comes, finally, he makes sure that the song is upbeat. At least it'll let him grin through it, or most of it. So what if it starts of in a girl's honey-sweet voice, it speeds up a bit when the male singer kicks in.

It is the last dance, the DJ calls out, and so they dance. In other words, they dance like two children who don't know how, two restless teenagers, two estranged old friends who've known each other far too long to say 'no' to something as simple as a dance. There's so much truth to all three.

He twirls her, they spin, they jump, they sway, they move, they do funny and fancy footwork and do just about anything that doesn't require full and very close body contact for more than a second or two.

At one point though, both their hands clasp together, and yes it's all part of the dance but it's hard to excuse it as just that. He's been smiling and she's been smiling all the time they've been dancing together, never mind that the smiles were a little forced at times.

They have both laughed as well, a little after they became used to the constant touch and rhythm of one another, although, unlike the smiles, the laughter has always been real.

In any case, free or forced, their time dancing has gone by rather well, rather simply, until there is that little awkward moment when he had gripped her hands a little too tightly maybe—not painfully—and her eyes have gripped his the same way.

It's too much for words but words had never really been their best way of understanding one another. If that had ever been the case, she wouldn't have spent the greater part of the night dancing—relatively closer—with another boy.

Both do eventually realize that this moment is not going to pass easily on its own and things don't get any better when both their brains decide to shut down simultaneously. Now their hands start to take over, first by letting go of the other's.

The song has toned down a bit too and the honey-sweet voice is back but softer than before. For some odd reason, the music feels more intense: a decrease in the strength of the beat and an increase in that of the melody. Or maybe it's all in their heads.

His hands drop down to his sides, then her sides, to her waist and then her back, one around and one below her shoulder blade.

Her hands reach for his chest and collarbone, then the back of his neck, one into his hair and the other on his cheek.

Something has pulled them in so that first she leans her head against his shoulder with her forehead against the curve of his neck while he looks up almost. In a hesitant movement, he bows his head a little and she lifts hers—he's clearly taller but not by too much—and their foreheads touch.

And they stand like that for quite sometime, breathing softly, breathing each other in.

She turns over the hand on his face so that the back of her fingernails brush his lips for a fraction of a second and soon its her knuckle pressed against his cheek and both his arms encircling her tighter, closer.

The song is almost over, fading away, fading to black and she knows and he knows that everything inside begs for a kiss but they also know that it is not going to happen.

No. This is going to be as close as they will allow themselves to get…

…tonight.

-end-

…self-control can go to hell; this is the last dance, love…