#mattobard

“I am tired of The Flash always getting in my way!” He said, angrily. Y/N, still did not turn her head to Eobard. He huffed at the lack of attention. “I always get so close to winning, so close! But then he one-ups me!” Eobard made a fist with his hand and held it close to his body.

Once again, Y/N refused to listen to Eobard. Impatient, the man sped over to Y/N, the remote was then in his hand instead of hers. He turned off the TV with just his finger pressing down on the button.

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

“Oh yeah, I was.” She said admittedly. She tried to grab the remote back from Eobard, but he kept it away from them.

He scoffed, setting down the remote on the coffee table behind him. “Then what was I on about?”

“Oh I don’t know. Big Belly Burger messing up your order again?”

“What? No! I don’t fuss over that.” Eobard crossed his arms.

Y/N gave him a knowing look.

“Okay, okay! Maybe a little bit..”

She rolled her eyes and mumbled, “A little bit is an understatement.” She looked at him, standing over her. “Remember the time when Big Belly messed up your burger and you threatened to hunt down the people who ruined it?”

“I did not do that. I simply went back inside and asked for a new burger.” She said proudly.

“Uh-huh.. You totally did not rant to me in the car about burning down the building.”

“That’s in the past, Y/N!”

“You were still so cute during that.”

Eobard looked puzzled at her, but then shook his head, forgetting the topic.

“What I was trying to tell you was my conflict with The Flash!” Eobard said aloud.

Y/N shrugged. “What about him?” She knew deep down inside that Eobard would become more frustrated and impatient with Y/N’s response.

“He’s not even the perfect hero. I made him into who he is today!”

Y/N looked down at her fingernails, trying to seem as unamused as possible to mess with Eobard. “Yet, look at him now, huh?

He shook his head, agitated. “You know what, I'd kill him! All this talk of The Flash and he isn’t even worth anything!” He turned around facing the other way. “I’m so much better than him in every way.”

“Awww, Eo!” She stood up from the couch, stepping forward towards him. He turned around to her. Eobard was taken aback by this action. He took a step backwards. “You are so cute when you go on your death rants.” She finished.

“What did you just say..?” Eobard said, more confused than anything.

Y/N smiled, stepping forwards again and placing her hands on Eobard’s cheeks. “You are just so adorable. Threaten the Flash again!”

Eobard suddenly got red at Y/N’s actions. He was still confused, but enjoying the much attention that she was providing him.

“Oh wow, aren’t you red.”

Eobard shook his head, stepping away from Y/N. “I am not.” He protested.

She giggled. “You are too! Like a tomato.”

Eobard shook his head once more. Speeding off instead of listening to her.

Y/N grabbed the remote off the coffee table and landed back in her seat on the couch, amused with herself. She flicked on the TV again.

I lied.

He did it again.

_________________________________________________________

The moment you step into the darkened dance hall, you feel as though you have been transported back in time. In fact, you can’t help but wonder if the organizers of this year’s spring formal are utilizing some of Rip Hunter’s famous Time Couriers to literally open a door to the past. Everything around is, at minimum, dated back a hundred years ago, from the DJ setting up digital playlists to the black-light-illuminated chairs seated around tables littered with drinks, plates of food, and what looks like games. The music right now is from the early 2000s, but you expect the songs to range through decades, possibly even centuries over the course of the night. Multicolored lights hang from the ceiling, giving the place an overall ‘club’ look, accentuated by the powerful underlighting at the bar.

The temperature increases as you enter on your date’s arm, the exertion from the dancing and milling bodies heating up the air in the room. The dance started only thirty minutes ago, but the excitement in the room is palpable, and kids are wasting no time yelling ‘hellos’ and ‘how are yous’ as they toss back nonalcoholic drinks. One table is already full of kids engaged in what looks like an intense card game with multicolored discs sprayed across the table in front of them.

Catching the fever of the room, you cast a huge grin up at your date, a handsome young man you’ve known since grade school. The two of you are dressed perhaps a little fancy for the event, with him in a fine, high-collared suit befitting a 20th century aristocrat and you in a deep red 1940s princess ballgown. Overdressing is okay: the two of you were expecting a slightly more ‘ballroom’ shindig, not this ‘21st century club’ event, and upon looking around you can see that other members of your class had similar ideas, wearing everything from 1800s Victorian gowns to military uniforms.

“They did a good job,” your date says. “Though one would think they could have come up with a more original theme name than ‘Blast to the Past’.”

“Don’t cheesy titles comprise part of the charm of last century?” you ask as the two of you move towards the obligatory picture arena. “Wasn’t stating the obvious considered not only funny, but…what was the word…a meemee?”

“Meme. One word, one syllable. And yes. Memes were a rather popular form of communication in the early 21st century, though I guess they started well before that.” Your date eyes the line and the picture-taking arena before them. “Is that….a phone booth?”

You are both intrigued as you watch a couple go into the booth, pulling a curtain shut and separating them from the outside world. Their feet are obvious as they scrabble into various positions, each one punctuated by a bright flash ands lots of giggling. The couple emerges, looking flushed and full of smiles, and watch as two thin strips of plastic emerged from the wall of the booth. The two grab the plastic strips and look at them, giggling as they walk away.

“It’s a photo booth.”

The voice right beside you and your date startles you, and you quickly look over to see one of the chaperones for the event, Ms. Steinway, a few feet away. The young teacher looks stunning in a green floor-length gown, her blonde hair floating ethereally around her shoulders. She gestures. “You go in, and you have five pictures taken of you in quick succession. There’s usually only three to four seconds between each photo so people often planned ahead what they would do ahead of time. You can make faces, or be serious…whatever you would like!”

“Thank you, Ms. Steinway,” you say before looking back to your date. “Well. I guess we have about a minute to come up with five different poses.”

“Why don’t we improvise? We’re both good thinkers on our feet.”

The tension and pressure of racing to beat a timed photo session is appealing to you, probably a side effect of all the time you've been spending lately with your other friend, Eobard Thawne. He has a strong taste for competition and it’s been rubbing off on you in the years you’ve known him.

The sudden thought of Thawne makes you skim the room, wondering if the class loner has actually shown up to tonight’s dance. You’re pretty sure he’s not here; this isn’t his type of thing at all. It’s certainly why you didn’t ask him to be your date. It’s also the only reason why you didn’t ask him to be your date. Eobard Thawne’s proud, handsome figure and strikingly keen intellect has drawn many a girl’s attention over the years, including yours, and you’ve made a concentrated effort to ignore it. But lately, you’ve noticed that he seems to be hovering near you much more often. And he got into a fistfight with your date a few weeks ago…you never did quite figure out what had caused that argument…

Seeing him here tonight would definitely open a lot of doors, however. Perhaps you would be brave enough to ask him for a single dance. He can be a truly arrogant ass but he has always been at least civil to you…probably because the two of you have also known each other since grade school.

Your date pushes you forward and you realize that, as usual, thoughts of Eobard have distracted you for several seconds. It is your turn in the photo booth.

The booth is small and simple, with a little touch screen that simply says ‘go’. A quick glance over the screen shows that presets are in place, with no way to change them. It is a little aggravating to not be able to customize the photos but you suppose that’s to get the line of kids moving quickly. With a quick glance at your date, the two of you reach out and tap the ‘go’ button together.

The very first thing he does is kiss you. It’s so fast and so intense that you don’t even have time to react. Suddenly his mouth is open and wet and moving on yours and his hand is in your carefully-crafted hairstyle and you are shocked beyond words because of all the poses you had considered in this run of pictures, your longtime friend kissing you was not one of them. You’ve suspected he felt this way about you and there was no doubt in your mind that he would be an excellent romantic partner, but you hadn’t really…thought about him like that. In fact, the only person you really thought about like that was…Eobard.

He finally pulls back and looks quickly at the camera, grinning widely. Your brain is fuzzed and rolling with several unfinished sentences and questions, but some little part of you keeps control and turns to smile bright and beautiful at the screen. The two of you make silly faces next, and as you are setting up for what you think is the next picture, the screen goes dark. You realize in shock that he used three of the five pictures to kiss you. Feeling frustrated and cheated, you get out of the booth, pasting a smile on your face so as not to appear angry to the line of kids waiting outside. You’ll have plenty of time to discuss his choices later.

The pictures print out and they’re definitely difficult to look at. The first one shows your obvious surprise, but the second two are worse, showcasing your desperate attempt to keep control of what is happening by grabbing at his face and responding to his kiss. It was not your best decision, but you feel like it was your only choice at the moment – and that realization makes you furious.

The two of you head to an unoccupied table, and the moment you set down the photos you whirl on your date, your insides twisted in knots and your throat almost sealed shut from the force of your anger. “What the hell?”

“What?”

It’s even hotter in this room with your anger charging you up. You are pretty sure your face is the color of your dress. “You kissed me.”

He smiles. “Of course I did. What did you think we were going to do in there?”

Your mouth drops open. “Make faces and smile! When did kissing appear on the list of things to do tonight?”

His brow furrows. “When you agreed to be my date. Come now, you can’t possibly miss all the signs I’ve given you. You know me better than that.”

His self-entitled arrogance sets your teeth on edge and you clutch the table so hard you’re amazed it doesn’t bend. “I’ve known you for almost all of my life and you have never been so rude as to just kiss someone without making sure it’s all right with them! You wait for that kind of invitation! You don’t blindside her during a timed picture taking session!”

“Spontaneity has never been your thing, and I respect that,” he begins to say.

You cut him off. “Clearly not or these wouldn’t exist!” You wave the pictures at him before slamming them down onto the table. You don’t know what you’re angrier about now; being forced into this situation before you felt ready, his seeming blindness to how the whole situation played out, or the fact that you feel like what should have been a beautiful moment is ruined and you are never going to get it back.

A waltz begins to play, the very song the two of you were hoping would be the focus of the evening, and he reaches a hand out to you. “You’re right. I made a terrible mistake. I thought it would be fun and I assumed you would be all right with it. I am sorry. I truly am. We will go have the pictures retaken. But will you dance with me? This sounds like a beautiful waltz and I don’t want to have ruined the night by making a terrible decision right at the beginning.”

He sounds sincere but you don’t answer him at first. Your mind is still awash with anger and betrayal and a sudden desire to be anywhere but in this room right now. You don’t want to just forgive him for doing this to you. But you also don’t want the night to be ruined, and right now the song playing sounds like it could be a wonderful dance and you aren’t sure how many more will be played with the selection of music likely being offered. Reluctantly, you slip your hand into his.

“We aren’t done with this conversation,” you state firmly.

“Of course not.” He twirls you gently. “But this song fits you and I want to see you dancing to it.”

You don’t know the name of the song, but it has a haunting melody to it, almost ghostlike with sliding violins. Waltzes always have a kind of built-in grace to them, a slippery seduction meant to make it easy to move to. But this piece has an additionally dramatic vocalist that elevates the rhythm to something royal and aristocratic. You can almost imagine the two of you (and the couples that are joining you on the floor) dancing in the hall of an ancient, grand mansion while a dark storm swirls outside the floor-to-ceiling windows and the dry fingers of tree branches curl menacingly in shadows on the floor, trapping the dancers’ feet in their grip.

“Pardon me.”

The familiar voice snaps you out of the daydream you are drifting into, and you rock slowly back and forth in your date’s arms as you realize Eobard is standing in front of you two. Your breath catches and your heart rate picks up instantly as you look at him. He looks as though he has stepped straight out of your daydream: a young lord trapped in a dying manor, cloaked in high-collared black and red with the light shimmering blindingly on his short blond hair. Even more shocking is the dramatic flair he has added to the outfit: a full-length black cape fastened at his neck with a ruby. He is too beautiful to touch and yet your hands…and other, sweeter, deeper parts of you…ache as you stare at him.

His eyes sweep over you and you think you see his jaw clench slightly before he speaks again. “May I cut in?”

“You’re in our way, Bardo,” your date growls, all softness and politeness gone from his voice.

“I wasn’t addressing you,” Eobard responds to him but doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Your throat is growing dry from the simple intensity of his gaze. “I was addressing your partner." He nods to you. "May I cut in?”

You finally register what he is asking, and the thrill that races through you makes you shiver. You had thought you might have the courage to ask him to dance if you had seen him here, but him asking you is completely unexpected. Saying no to him might prevent him from asking again, but saying yes would probably send the wrong message to your date.

Then again, your date certainly sent you the wrong message when he forced you to kiss him in the photo booth.

It’s a very simple question with a very simple answer.

“I would be honored,” you reply, trying to sound as cool and proper as possible. As you pull away from your date, you feel his hands clench briefly on you. You quickly look up at him, seeing the betrayal in his eyes. At first you feel smug, but then you remind yourself that he did apologize. You give him your best comforting smile. “We’ll continue this later,” you say to him, making his expression soften just a little. But the look he gives Eobard is poisonous.

Eobard’s expression doesn’t change. Instead, he unfastens the cape from around his neck and whips it dramatically off, draping it unceremoniously on your date’s still-outstretched arms. “Would you be so kind as to place this on a nearby chair?”

Redness floods your date’s face, and you start to open your mouth to scold Eobard for his rudeness, but his hands grip you firmly and he spins you away into the dancing crowd before you can say a word. Your feet scrabble as you try to keep up, and you have a feeling he’s trying to get you as far away from your date as fast as possible. Focusing on your movements, you catch his rhythm and begin to move in time with him, gaining control over yourself while still permitting him to lead. You’re angry enough now that you’re tempted to just walk out the door after this dance. When did your two best friends turn into such boys? They’re acting like you’re a prize in a competition and while that might be flattering, it’s making you feel a bit like an object and not like the lady you want to be tonight.

“You dance well,” Eobard compliments.

You roll your eyes. “You dragged me out here and I just got my balance back. Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he answers. “I mean what I say. I saw you trying to dance with your date over there. He was trying. You were succeeding.”

You snort and sigh. “I wish the two of you would tell me why you both seem to have lost your minds lately.”

Eobard tilts his head. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Your heart pounds and you know what you hope the answer is, but coming right out and saying it feels like a such a terrible risk. Eobard’s emotional difficulties make him dangerous sometimes, the wrong word or look pushing him away for days at a time. You are not going to ruin this night, this dance, this moment that has been playing in your dreams.

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have brought it up,” you say, trying to put an innocent look on your face. You aren’t sure if it works or not, but the hard look in Eobard’s eyes softens somewhat, and he guides you around the floor. Looking up at him, you surrender your mind to the daydream, milking this moment for all it is worth. The seductive waltz paints the image of a great hall, decadent in its decay, the memory of opulence just as romantic as the opulence itself. And Eobard, cold and proud and throat-achingly beautiful, spins you around it, commanding your body with his touch, and commanding your mind with his eyes.

“Your friend and I,” he says in a low voice, “are both seeking your approval.”

Dear God, he actually said it. You’re almost dizzy with excitement as you frantically think of how to navigate the next few sentences. Honesty is going to be key. “You have a funny way of showing it. First that fistfight a few weeks ago and now tonight he just kisses me out of the blue and then you drag me off like I belong to you or something…”

“He did what?” Eobard stops the two of you cold, and you blink, looking up at his grey eyes, watching in surprise as they turn stormy and dark. His pale face begins to flush as he gazes down at you. You can’t tell if what you’re seeing is anger or not, but as his eyebrows draw together you feel your insides flutter. It’s more than just anger. It’s jealousy.

Eobard is jealous.

The realization makes your throat close and you swallow several times as adrenaline floods your veins. The possibilities open up in your mind, and you suddenly realize that while both men are, in fact, treating you like a prize, you are still the one in control.

“He kissed me for our photo,” you say carefully, letting the frustration and hurt show on your face. “I didn’t know he was going to.”

Eobard looks at you, his jaw clenching and unclenching, and his face continuing to grow red. His hands tighten on your waist and hand, and a strange excitement blooms in your chest. Eobard Thawne, so aloof and elitist, suffering from the simple emotion of jealousy. And jealousy related to you, because he’s seeking your approval. Despite the heat of the moment, you find yourself fighting a smile.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks tightly.

You know the truth and you know what saying it will mean. But right now, you are unable to lie to him, captivated by the thrill of his reaction and the intoxicating crescendo building around you.

“No.”

Eobard’s chin lifts and a smug satisfaction fills his eyes as the music crescendos loudly. With a climactic crash of drums, he decisively pushes you out into a firm spin, and then brings you back in, his hand slipping to the small of your back and holding you flush against his body. And for one fiery, fierce moment, you realize that you can feel him, dear God, all of him, pressed possessively against you, and a weakness makes your knees wobble and your mouth go dry as you stare into his eyes, only inches away, and realize what he is silently saying to you.

Then the two of you are moving again as he takes everything up another notch, whirling you both within the crowd as though you have all the space in the world. The music pounds with your steps, pulsing inside of you, the melody a full-throated cry from the whole orchestra, igniting adrenaline and fire within you. Your mouth falls open to gasp for air as your eyes drift closed. You don’t need to see, only to feel the clutch of his hands and the heat of his body and the light pressure on your waist as he leads you.

And then, in one powerful beat, the music stops. Eobard pushes you backwards into a dramatic dip, holding you up while your hands claw at him. You can’t see the ecstasy on your face but a few gasps from the people around you suggest that the two of you may be in a very compromising position. You don’t care. Your body is shaking and tingling. You feel sweat dampening your skin, and the heat…you’re drowning in it. But you don’t want to move. You don’t want it to be over. Most of all, you don’t want his hands leaving you. Ever.

Your breath comes in heavy gasps as he draws you up to your feet. He steadies you, and your eyes finally drift open. The sight before you makes you shiver again. Eobard is breathing just as hard as you are, and has the same slightly dazed expression on his face that you are feeling. You vaguely realize that while you were trying to keep your balance you gripped his hair and shirt because both of them are bunched and mussed. But neither of you can look away from the other for several seconds.

Finally, he is the first one to move. He gently straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair. He brings his heels together and reaches for your hand. He bows, lifting your hand to his lips and placing a chaste kiss on the back of it.

“Thank you,” he says, “for the lovely dance. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I need some air.”

You nod slowly. “I…think I do too.”

Something sparks in his eyes, and he offers you his arm. You consider taking it, but the sensation that sweeps through you as you realize what the implications are stop you. You are awash in powerful emotions now, enough to know that if you go with him, you’re going to do something you want…

….oh do you want….

….but on impulse, caught up in the moment.

You know you need to gather yourself. The night has only just begun.

“I will see you back in here,” you reply, offering a polite curtsey. It isn’t a blatant rejection, just more of a ‘not now’. Eobard seems to understand and his withdraws his hand before turning and striding for the door.

You head for a different exit, catching a glimpse of your date just as you leave the room. His face is a thunderstorm, and you feel a slight chill that cuts through the hazy fog of your mind.