Blue’s thoughts are running away with him. Zhenya can see it in the shift of his expression, the blush, the smile that cannot be helped, the unpracticed words. He can only hope they are running in the direction his own imagination has gone – with that lovely suit folded neatly over a chair, and those lovely wrists tied securely to the bedposts.

”I am,” he agrees, taking a step closer but angling his body away, to avoid being too threatening. There is desire, here – Zhenya can feel it simmering between them – but it is like a little baby flame, easily snuffed out by too hard or close a breath. He must tend it first, make it blaze with heat and power. Does Blue even know what it feels like, to burn? He suspects he doesn’t.

”You just…relax,” Zhenya advises, elbowing his arm a little. It’s a companionable gesture accompanied by a sideways glance that is a bit too smoldering to be platonic. Blue deflects his compliment, as he suspected; Zhenya’s answering smile is wicked.

”Mm. Please do.”

Their hands meet. The conclusion is foregone.

Zhenya laces their fingers together and leads Blue forward into the crowd, weaving slowly toward a less populated dance floor. He’s looking for something slow, something quiet – he loves to be admired but suspects his partner will feel more at ease beneath fewer eyes. And eyes do follow them as they walk, some admiring, some jealous. Of both of them, he thinks. They make an attractive pair.

The drinks are done by the time they arrive. Zhenya takes Blue’s and sets it aside, before drawing him in for a dance. His hands are steady and sure, his eyes are soft but direct. It is a coveted social skill to know what another person wants, what they need but would never ask for. Perhaps that is why Zhenya was so successful in Lorraine’s court, amongst people who guarded their desires like dirty secrets.

”Better?” he inquires silkily, leaving it open to interpretation whether he means the drink or the location or something else. He has to tilt his head back a little to meet Blue’s eyes, which sends a little thrill through him. Something about a tall, strapping, unsure man…maybe it was the power. Maybe it was that fine, fine form.

”You are good dancer!” There is a bit of surprise in his voice – Zhenya doesn’t try to hide it. Unsure men tended to juggle their six left feet. His smile broadens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. ”But you are good at many things, yes?”