Chapter Text
Even in his youth, Washford moved with the weight of decades. Centuries, even.
He stood at the edge of the stage, arms folded. Staring at the mat in front of him.
Drysdale had arrived late. Not fashionably late, not charmingly. Late.
The mat on the stage had been waiting, practically mockingly, for nearly ten minutes before he swept through the doors, hair perfectly tousled.
While they were the same age, he looked - at the very least acted - considerably younger.
Every motion was flamboyant, theatrical, confident. Even with a lack of audience, everything about him seemed to just radiate performance.
He lived for it, after all. The applause.
He'd practiced alone, sure of his skill, but never with someone like Washford. One who practically seemed to bend time around him.
Never had they met, even. This would be their first meeting.
"You are... astonishingly late," Washford said, his voice quiet. Humorous, almost.
"I had begun to doubt whether the world still holds men who arrive when they ought."
The newcomer blinked. The man that stood in front of him was brooding like the weight of centuries pressed into him. Barely into his twenties, it seemed.
He cocked his head, a grin appearing. The words barely registered.
"Drysdale," he bowed with a theatrical flair. "You are..a sight to behold."
A beat.
"Washford. Shall we begin?"
Not one for small talk, it seemed. Drysdale shrugged this off, stepping onto the mat with muscles that coiled with practiced ease.
The routine was simple in theory: lifts, balances, acrobatic stunts. Washford's role was to support, to hold. The grounding force. Drysdale's was to fly, to captivate.
The juxtaposition between them had been immediate.
The first lift was clumsy at best. Drysdale shot upward, arms flailing slightly. Washford caught him, steady, and the landing was perfect.
"Stronger than I had imagined." Drysdale could barely mask the way his face flushed, brushing his hand along Washford's shoulder with mock accusation.
He'd choose not to comment.
"Your form demands it," his eyes were fixed on somewhere in the distance. "I hold you not for the sake of its simplicity, but because it is necessary. For the art of your flight."
"..Art of my flight?" He blinked again.
"Yes," Washford continued, adjusting his hold. "There is art in the suspension. The moment where we defy the floor's insistence on reality."
A beat. The man continued.
"To soar and be held, even for a heartbeat, is to glimpse something larger than oneself. We are not performing tricks. We are, in these moments, composing verses without words, an ode to gravity."
Drysdale stared at him. Opening his mouth, then promptly closing it again.
"Uhm...wow. Right. That..makes sense? Of course." He was, for once, hesitant. Unsure. But there was awe in there too.
"Sense, perhaps not in the conventional way. But feeling, yes. Feeling, that you can understand. Even if your mind cannot fully grasp the syntax of it." The poet's lips quirked up faintly in amusement.
Drysdale didn't particularly expect a philosophical lecture mid-air, but he wasn't upset. He barked a short laugh, absolutely delighted. "You are incredible."
Washford's gaze softened, just a fraction. "And you, Drysdale, are magnificent in motion."
Oh. He could get used to this.
The next few stunts went smoother. Drysdale's trust in his new partner had been immediate. Almost instinctive.
His precise movements allowed Drysdale to twist and spin freely.
At one point, the man had landed in his arms after a particularly daring flip. He caught his breath, winded.
"You're... perfect," he panted, almost as an aside.
Washford's brow furrowed. "Perfection is a fleeting shadow," he murmured, in that same contemplative tone. "..Perhaps with us, it lingers a moment longer than usual."
Drysdale couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face, understanding or not.
His gaze flicked toward the other, playful.
Daring.
"Well, if 'perfection is fleeting', as you say.. do you think you could handle something a little more.. dangerous?"
It'd been a stupid suggestion. Reckless. Adventurous, Drysdale would call it. The gleam in his eyes only spoke mischief, but Washford had his faith.
So perilously tempting, he was.
A double flip into a catch. It sounded simple enough.
The first rotation was flawless. His knees tucked, shoulders squared. But as he entered the second flip, his eyes flicked down, catching the unwavering intensity of Washford’s gaze. His chest gave a sudden, dangerous flutter.
He turned a fraction too late.
Momentum faltered. His tuck had loosened. Instead of unfurling neatly into Washford’s waiting arms, his body pitched forward at the wrong angle, his head aimed straight for the mat.
Washford reacted in an instant. He stepped forward hard, breaking the distance between them, arms shooting upward.
Instead of catching Drysdale clean, their bodies collided. Drysdale crashing against his chest with a bruising thud, with both of them staggering.
Washford’s boots skidding against the mat as he absorbed the blow. For a moment there was silence, save for the soft noise of the two catching their breath. The poet would be the first to break it.
"That was nearly disastrous." His grip slowly loosened, though he didn't let go. "Your form was strong, graceful. Still, you would have struck the ground if I had not moved. You must give the moment your entire attention."
Drysdale, having still been pressed close enough to feel Washford's heartbeat beneath the fabric, tipped his head back and smirked.
"Mm. And how is a man supposed to land properly when you're down here, looking at me like that?"
For the first time, Washford faltered. Even if slightly, Drysdale would consider that a win. He exhaled through his nose. Pure disbelief.
"Hopeless. You are impossible," the edge in his tone had softened. "Impossible. Reckless, and.. maybe distracting in kind. Very well. If your eyes betray you so easily, at our next meeting shall we bend our craft to discipline."
Drysdale's grin widened, delighted. "Discipline? And I suppose you will be the one to teach me?"
"If you can be taught."
"With you? I'm certain I can be taught anything."
Washford stepped back at last, though his hands lingered a moment longer than necessary before he released him.
As he left the stage, though he’d have yet to admit it for a long time, Drysdale found himself wanting for that next meeting. Almost as much as he wanted the man himself.