Chapter 6: Midnight Waltz
The scent of instant noodles and the electric hum of cooling fans had become the backdrop to Rohan’s paralysis. He hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor for what felt like an hour, the ghost of Arjun’s lips still burning against his throat. His mind was a frantic, looping compilation of the last twenty minutes: the weightlessness of being lifted, the dizzying spin, the solid warmth of Arjun’s chest, the shocking, deliberate press of that kiss.
A sharp, rhythmic tapping at his door jolted him from the replay. His heart hammered against his ribs. It was him. It had to be.
He scrambled to his feet, his legs still unsteady, and smoothed his rumpled t-shirt with trembling hands. He took a deep, shaky breath and pulled the door open.
Arjun stood framed in the dim hallway, but he wasn't wearing his usual relaxed grin. His expression was unreadably intense. And between his teeth, held at a precise, almost challenging angle, was a single, deep red rose.
Before Rohan could form a question, Arjun’s hand shot out, capturing his. The rose stem was cool and slightly rough against his skin.
“What are you—” Rohan began, but the words were cut off as Arjun tugged him forward, into the narrow space between his bed and desk.
With his free hand, Arjun plucked the rose from his mouth and tossed it neatly onto Rohan’s pillow. Then his arm slid around Rohan’s back, his other hand still gripping Rohan’s. “You said you never learned,” Arjun murmured, his voice low and close to Rohan’s ear.
“Learned what?”
“This.”
And then Arjun was moving, and Rohan had no choice but to move with him. It wasn't a proper waltz, not in the cramped, cluttered confines of the hostel room. It was a series of guided steps, a push and pull that Rohan followed instinctively, his body responding to the firm pressure of Arjun’s hand on his back. They shuffled and turned, avoiding a stray textbook on the floor, the sharp, citrusy scent of Arjun’s cologne mixing with the room’s staleness.
“See? You’re a natural,” Arjun said, a hint of a smile in his voice.
“You’re just… very persuasive,” Rohan breathed, his glasses slightly askew, his world narrowed to the points of contact: Arjun’s hand on his, the solid arm across his back.
The steps grew wider, more confident. Arjun led him in a slow turn, and then, without warning, he dipped him. It wasn't a gentle lean. It was a full, dramatic sweep downwards, so sudden and deep that Rohan’s gasp was ripped from his lungs. The floor rushed up to meet the back of his head, his dark hair brushing the dust motes on the linoleum. The room tilted, the ceiling with its single, fluorescent light fixture swimming in his vision. He was completely suspended, held aloft only by the unshakeable strength in Arjun’s arms, utterly vulnerable.
He stared up, breathless, into Arjun’s face, which was upside down from his perspective. Arjun’s expression was one of pure, focused triumph.
Then, in a fluid, impossible motion that defied physics and every one of Rohan’s expectations, Arjun shifted his weight. Instead of pulling him upright, he used the momentum of the dip, his grip tightening. With a powerful, rolling motion of his shoulders, he flipped Rohan.
For a terrifying, exhilarating second, Rohan was a ragdill, the world a blur of spinning walls and upended furniture. Then he was right-side up again, slammed flush against Arjun’s chest, his own gasp muffled by the soft cotton of Arjun’s hoodie. The embrace was immediate and total, one of Arjun’s arms banded across his back, the other hand cradling the base of his skull. He could feel the frantic, rabbit-quick thump of his own heart, and beneath it, the slower, steadier rhythm of Arjun’s.
They stood like that, locked together in the center of the small, messy room, breathing each other’s air. The rose on the pillow seemed to glow in the semi-darkness.
Arjun’s voice was a rough vibration against Rohan’s temple. “Still shaking.”
Rohan didn’t deny it. He pressed his forehead harder into Arjun’s shoulder, his fingers curling into the fabric at his sides. The memory of being carried, of being kissed against the doorframe, was now joined by this: being spun, dipped, and flipped like he weighed nothing. Like he was something precious and thrilling to handle.
“You can’t just… do things like that,” Rohan whispered, his voice muffled.
He felt Arjun’s chest rumble with a quiet laugh. “Why not?”
“Because.” Rohan finally pulled back just enough to look at him, his face flushed, his glasses steamed slightly. “Because it’s… a lot.”
Arjun’s gaze was steady, the earlier intensity softened into something warmer, more curious. His thumb stroked the short hairs at the nape of Rohan’s neck, a mirror of the gesture from before. “Good,” he said, simply.
Outside, a group of students laughed as they passed down the hallway, their voices a distant, mundane echo. The sound seemed to highlight the charged silence within the room. Rohan looked from Arjun’s eyes to the rose on his pillow, then back again. The initial shock was receding, replaced by a slow-burning, daring warmth. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding against Arjun’s.
“Okay,” Rohan said, his voice firmer than he expected. “Your move.”