#staticthread

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“I ain’t ever been much of a dancer, Mr. Whittman.”

Beau fixed that man with a look of someone who had sung this song long before Vincent ever began to learn it.

Traces of a time where laughter floated through the haze of cigarette smoke in crowded dance halls. Jazz, bouncing off the walls, beating as if the room itself had a pulse.

Despite the ban, drinks flowed freely, passed around in a hedonistic blur. What a time, not that Beau could tell you much of those illegal sin dens he frequented in his youth.

On account of alcohol-induced amnesia, of course, it’s a wonder he still has a functioning liver.

No, Beau Monroe had never torn up a dance floor, more likely he’d have been tearing up his poor partners feet.

“You can’t expect me to believe that.”

Vincent Whittman, six foot and three inches of clean, pressed suits, the kind that cost more than your average working man made in a year.

“I do?, I’m not followin’ as to what is so hard to believe about my havin’ two left feet.”

Oh yes, that young man, so he’s not that young, Beau concedes. There isn’t but at most 10 years between them, but you get past a certain point that anyone with light still in the eyes seems youthful in comparison.

Vincent, Vincent fuckin’ Whittman, pardon his French! Bigshot, beloved, America’s late night sweetheart, leaning over his well-loved piano, arguing half-heartedly that he couldn’t possibly be that terrible.

Absurdity, it’s- to Beau, it’s quite frankly one of those dreams you have after getting drunk as a skunk, awakening half-naked in the bayou, and narrowly avoidin’ becomin’ a gators brunch.

In a simpler place, a thinner man took up that space, with auburn curls and a grin that put all others to shame. Beau still hears his voice, creeping up through the empty cracks in the back of his mind.

“I refuse to believe the man who can bust out rag-time can’t even muster up a jitterbug.”

Nearly spit out his tea, sputtering as he twisted his head toward Whittman.

“Jitterbug?! Now I know good and well you can hear how I creak like a loose floorboard, Vincent.” Eyes half-lidded, he leaned forward to meet the other man.

“Sure, maybe the hinges are a little rusty, nothing a bit of oil wouldn’t fix.” Vincent purred, stepping round the piano, till his shadow consumed what little light filtered in from the street.

“I’m no handyman, but I’ve been known to...tinker...from time to time.” Hands planting firmly on the older man’s hips, chin digging into his shoulder as he pressed against his back.

“Oh my, you using that one on all the ladies?, you dog!” Beau chided, half flushed and reeling from the attention.

“Only you, promise baby.”

“Sure, only me.”

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