Roman has always enjoyed swing – so, it’s no surprise to anyone that when Maroon 5’s Moves Like Jagger comes on in the club, he takes center stage.
“Who will dance with me tonight?” He asks, extending his arm to entice the onlookers, who cheer and clap in excitement. The regulars here are familiar with his nightly performance. Anticipation buzzes through the crowd, as vape smoke fills the room. The combination of gummy bear and cotton candy and lemonade scents shouldn’t work, but it somehow does.
A cold palm takes his and its owner is a pretty man, his pale hand looking even more pallid in contrast to Roman’s own black skin. He tosses his angelic blonde hair and demurely smiles. “I will.”
Roman pulls him closer without hesitation, tucking his right arm around the other man’s waist and spins him, an introduction of sorts. There’s whooping and he hears a “you go!” from the crowd, and he flashes a cocky grin into the masses. “Perfect. Follow my lead?”
“Of course,” he says, and he does. Impeccably so. His steps match Roman’s as if they’re practiced. Roman has danced with many, many people before, but he’s never been with someone who has been able to keep up with his beat with such ease.
One, two, three, four, side step, back step, front, repeat.
The lights pulse to the music. The other man has appropriately responded in kind with his own right arm now, and it rests on Roman’s hip while the left drapes along his broad shoulder. It’s comfortably intimate and they move in sync as though they’ve been dancing together for years.
Take me by the tongue and I'll know you Kiss me till you're drunk and I'll show you You want the moves like Jagger I've got them moves like Jagger I've got them moves like Jagger
Roman gazes at the other man, studying his beautiful cerulean eyes. They have the air of a modest calm to them; and yet, there’s a stilling confidence that commands admiration from even the surliest strangers. He can’t help but wonder the experiences this man has had throughout his life to be able to do so.
I don't need to try to control you Look into my eyes and I'll own you
With them moves like Jagger
I've got them moves like Jagger I've got them moves like Jagger
They navigate the dance floor with what feels like familiar ease from years’ worth of practice, and he can see the other clubbers swooning to the song out of the corner of his eye. The pair’s movement is fluid as a brook, and Roman spins him here and there to spice it up. His partner seems not to mind it, following him with grace.
Christina Aguilera belts out the bridge. It’s when her voice dominates the song that the other man decides to change up the pace, twisting Roman into a graceful turn with care and precision.
Roman raises an eyebrow when he faces him yet again, inquisitive. The other man merely beams in return. It’s a sunny grin that purifies the cloudy air, lighting up the room far more than the iridescent disco lights do.
Five, six, seven, eight, back step, front step, side step, repeat.
It’s a different pace that what he’s used to, but Roman has no difficulty matching the beat his partner has now set. They move in tandem as the last chorus rings throughout the club, and they’re both breathing with fervor as the final note echoes off the walls.
The people surrounding them break out into eager applause, crying out approval of their visceral dance. They reclaim the dance floor as the next song begins to play, and Roman, still holding his partner’s hand, moves to the bar.
“What’s your name?” Roman asks, straight to the point. He brushes his poofy sable hair out of his chestnut flavored eyes, something he wasn’t able to do before during their dance. “I’m Roman.”
“I know,” the other chuckles, and Roman can’t help but to think it’s a dazzling sound over the booming bass. “Everyone knows you.”
“You flatter me.”
“Who wouldn’t? You’re famous around here,” he taps his fingers on the oak bar, eyes flitting over the drink menu until they meet his again. “I’m Maximus.”
What an intriguing name. Fitting for such an intriguing man. “Max for short?”
“Not at all,” Maximus smiles. It’s the same prim one as when Roman had first laid eyes on him, but there’s something coyer about this one.
“Well then, Maximus-whose-name-is-not-Max-for-short,” says Roman with his own grin, “shall we drink?”
Their hands remain entwined for the rest of the night.