Chapter 4: Dancing With Ghosts
The private dance studio was a tomb for forgotten grace. Matthew stood alone in its center, the polished wood floor gleaming dully under the fluorescent lights he’d switched on upon arriving. Mirrors, smudged and infinite, multiplied his anxious form. The air was still and carried the ghostly aroma of rosin, sweat, and dusty velvet from the curtains bunched at one end. He’d come early, of course. To prepare. To strategize. To reclaim some semblance of control over a situation that felt, increasingly, like freefall.
He’d changed into loose sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, practical attire that felt like a costume for someone more physically assured. He’d already attempted the eight-count step by himself for twenty minutes, using a metronome app on his phone. His brain understood it. His feet disagreed. The pivot remained a stutter-step, throwing his balance into the next move. He glared at his reflection, a man approaching forty, absurdly wrestling with a basic box step.
The door creaked open precisely at seven. Ryan stepped in, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He wore grey joggers and a faded t-shirt for a band Matthew didn’t recognize. His hair was damp, as if he’d just showered.
“You found it,” Ryan said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room.
“It wasn’t hidden.” Matthew shut off the metronome. The sudden silence felt heavier.
Ryan dropped his bag by the wall, his eyes taking in the space, the mirrors, finally landing on Matthew. “You started without me.”
“I was analyzing the problem.”
A faint smile touched Ryan’s lips. “And? What’s the diagnosis, Doctor?”
“The patient is uncoordinated and hates being seen trying.”
“Solid analysis. Treatment plan: stop thinking so hard.” Ryan walked to a small sound system on a shelf and plugged in his phone. “We’re not using the track. Too many vocals, too distracting. Just a basic beat.” He scrolled, and a simple, clean four-four drum loop filled the room, steady and unadorned.
It was immediately better. The stripped-down rhythm was a roadmap, not a crowded street.
“Okay,” Ryan said, coming to stand beside him, facing the mirror. He didn’t touch him. “Watch me. Just the feet first. Forget the arms, forget the smile. It’s just a weight shift. Step right, together, left, hold.”
He demonstrated slowly, his movements fluid despite their simplicity. The muscles in his back shifted under the thin cotton of his shirt. Matthew watched the reflection, the easy transfer of balance, the clean line from ankle to hip.
“Now you,” Ryan said.
Matthew mimicked the steps. They were choppy, deliberate.
“Don’t look at your feet. Look here.” Ryan pointed at his own eyes in the mirror. “Trust your feet to find the floor.”
Matthew lifted his gaze. In the mirror, their eyes locked, a surreal anchor point. He tried the steps again, watching Ryan’s calm reflection. Slightly better.
“Good. Now add the pivot on the ‘hold.’ It’s not a full turn, it’s just… a redirection of your hips.” Ryan demonstrated again, a subtle, confident rotation. “You’re not a robot. There’s a sway to it. A little give.”
Matthew tried. He stepped, together, side, and attempted the pivot. His hips felt locked, his spine rigid. The movement was awkward, a mechanical twitch.
“May I?” Ryan asked, his voice near Matthew’s ear.
Matthew gave a tight nod.
Ryan moved behind him, not touching, but close enough that Matthew could feel the heat radiating from his body. “It starts here,” he said, his voice low. Then his hands came to rest lightly on Matthew’s hips.
The contact was electric. It burned through the fabric of the sweatpants. Matthew stiffened, every neuron firing a warning.
“Relax,” Ryan murmured, his breath stirring the hair at Matthew’s temple. “You’re all locked up. Breathe.” His hands applied gentle, insistent pressure, guiding Matthew’s hips through the motion. “There’s the step… shift the weight… and now, the pivot isn’t a stop, it’s a continuation. Let it flow.”
Matthew closed his eyes, shutting out the myriad reflecting selves. He focused on the warmth of Ryan’s hands, the firm guidance, the slow, patient rhythm Ryan was imposing on his body. He let himself be moved. Step, together, side, pivot. The motion was smoother, connected.
“Better,” Ryan said, releasing his hips. The absence of the touch felt like a sudden chill. “Now, do it yourself.”
Matthew repeated the sequence. It wasn’t graceful, but it was no longer a catastrophe. It was a passable imitation of movement.
They worked for forty minutes. Ryan was a surprisingly good teacher—patient, clear, withholding the easy sarcasm Matthew remembered from their youth. They added the arms, a simple upward sweep that felt less foolish with Ryan mirroring it beside him. The drum loop was a relentless, forgiving heart.
Sweat dampened Matthew’s shirt. He could see it darkening Ryan’s too, across his shoulders and down his spine. The physical labor was a strange relief. It focused the chaotic energy humming inside him into a single, solvable task.
“Let’s try it with the actual tempo,” Ryan said, increasing the speed of the beat. It was the right speed for ‘Upside Down.’
The first attempt was a mess. Matthew’s brain scrambled, trying to orchestrate his limbs at the new speed. He stepped on Ryan’s foot.
“Sorry.”
“It’s a floor, I’m fine,” Ryan said, unaffected. “Again. Don’t think of the eight counts. Think of the phrase of the music. It’s four phrases. Just get through the first one.”
They started again. Matthew focused on the melodic cycle in his head rather than the beats. I’m upside down, spinning ‘round… He moved. It was closer.
“Good!” Ryan’s encouragement was genuine. “Now, the rehearsal mark is you ending this sequence facing me, remember? So on the last pivot, you come around…”
He guided Matthew through the final turn. They ended up facing each other, a careful three feet apart, the beat thumping between them.
“Okay,” Ryan said, breathing a little harder. “From the top, all the way through, no stopping.”
Matthew nodded, a giddy, unfamiliar sense of possibility rising in him. He could do this. He was doing it.
The drum loop cued in. They moved in unison. Step, together, side, pivot, arms up. Matthew’s eyes flicked between the mirror and Ryan’s face, finding a rhythm not just in his feet but in their shared motion. It felt like a conversation, a call and response of bodies. They moved into the second sequence, closer now, the choreography designed to bring them in proximity for the chorus. Matthew’s pulse hammered in his throat, part exertion, part something else.
On the final pivot before the hold, Ryan was meant to step back, giving Matthew space for the last arm movement. But Matthew, carried by a sudden surge of momentum, misjudged the force of his turn. He over-rotated, his balance tipping sideways.
He didn’t stumble to the floor. He spun right into Ryan.
Ryan’s arms came up instinctively to catch him, one hand splaying against Matthew’s back, the other gripping his upper arm. The impact was solid, a full-body collision that knocked the air from Matthew’s lungs. The drum loop pulsed on, absurdly.
They were chest to chest. Matthew’s face was buried for a second in the damp hollow of Ryan’s neck. He smelled of clean sweat, soap, and the same faint citrus detergent. Ryan’s grip was tight, holding him upright, their bodies fused from knee to shoulder.
Matthew pushed back, just enough to look up.
Their faces were inches apart. Ryan’s expression was one of pure shock, his blue eyes wide, pupils dilated in the dim light. His breath was warm and quick against Matthew’s lips. The hand on Matthew’s back hadn’t loosened; it had curled, fingers pressing into the muscle.
The twenty years dissolved. It was a dressing room in Stuttgart, a stolen moment before a soundcheck. It was a hotel room with thin walls and whispered promises. It was the exhilarating, terrifying feeling of Ryan’s mouth on his for the first time. Every memory, every suppressed ache, roared to the surface, concentrated in the electric space between their lips.
Matthew could feel Ryan’s heart pounding against his own, a frantic, matching rhythm. He saw Ryan’s gaze drop to his mouth, linger. The air vanished from the room, replaced by a thick, palpable heat. Ryan’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering. His grip shifted, almost imperceptibly, from support to something else, something that pulled Matthew a fraction closer.
Matthew didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The part of him that was a grown man with a partner, a life, a carefully managed world, was screaming a distant alarm. But it was muffled, drowned out by the visceral roar of want, of rediscovery, of a question left unanswered for two decades.
Ryan’s lips parted. He swallowed, his throat working. “Matt…” he breathed, the word a ghost of sound lost in the beat.
The door to the studio banged open.
They sprang apart as if scalded, putting two feet of safe, terrible distance between them. The physical separation was a shock to the system, like tearing off a bandage stuck to a wound.
Leo, the choreographer, strode in, followed by a young assistant carrying a speaker. “Hey! Sorry I’m late, you two—oh, you started without me.” He beamed, completely oblivious to the seismic shift in the room’s atmosphere. “Ryan, thanks for running the basics. Let’s see where we’re at!”
Ryan turned away, running a hand through his hair, his back to both Matthew and the newcomers. He walked stiffly to his duffel bag and pulled out a water bottle, drinking deeply.
Matthew stood frozen, his skin blazing where Ryan had touched him. He felt disoriented, violently pulled from one reality and thrust into another. The drum loop was still playing. Leo was chattering about adding levels of performance.
“I’ve got it,” Matthew heard himself say, his voice strangely calm. “The basics. I’m good. Thank you, Ryan.”
Ryan turned back. His face was a careful mask, the actor’s facade securely in place. Only a slight flush high on his cheeks betrayed him. “No problem. You were getting it.”
Their eyes met over Leo’s head. A lifetime of things unsaid hung in that look—apology, confusion, a shared, terrifying acknowledgment of what had almost happened.
“Great!” Leo said. “Then let’s integrate it with the others tomorrow. You’re dismissed, gentlemen.”
Matthew didn’t wait. He grabbed his own bag and headed for the door without another word. He needed the sterile anonymity of his car, the blank silence of the drive home.
As he pushed out into the cool evening air, his phone vibrated in his bag. He fumbled for it, his hands unsteady.
It was a text from Robert. A selfie from what looked like a rain-slicked London street, him grinning under a streetlamp, his hair a glorious mess. The text read: Finished early. Thinking of you. How was the torture? Call me when you’re free. All my love, R.
Matthew leaned against the stucco wall of the building, the phone slick in his hand. He stared at Robert’s smiling face, at the easy affection in the message. A wave of gut-deep shame, hot and nauseating, washed over him.
He typed a reply, his thumbs clumsy. Torture was okay. Getting the hang of it. Exhausted. Talk tomorrow? He hit send before he could second-guess the lie of omission.
He got in his car but didn’t start the engine. He just sat in the dark, the scent of citrus and sweat still clinging to his clothes, the phantom pressure of Ryan’s hands on his hips and his back branding his skin. He replayed the moment of impact, the catch, the unbearable closeness, the arrested breath.
He had told himself this reunion was about unfinished business with the band. He had been wrong. The band was just the setting. The unfinished business was in the echo of that single, whispered name in a silent room, and the terrifying, thrilling realization that the story he thought had ended twenty years ago might have just turned a page.
The unfinished business was in the echo of that single, whispered name in a silent room, and the terrifying, thrilling realization that the story he thought had ended twenty years ago might have just turned a page. He drove home with the windows down, letting the cold night air scourge the scent of Ryan from his clothes and his skin, but it lingered in his memory, a persistent, haunting cologne.
The next morning, the main rehearsal space in the studio buzzed with a different, more chaotic energy. Leo was shouting counts over a booming track, Marie was complaining about the lighting, and Sara was trying to simultaneously learn the steps and film a ‘Behind the Music’ snippet for her followers. Matthew hovered near the coffee machine, steeling himself. Ryan arrived last, offering a general, non-committal “hey” to the room before grabbing a water. Their eyes met briefly, a quick, silent treaty of mutual avoidance signed in a glance.
But as Leo ran them through the full group formation, something shifted. The dance from yesterday was now muscle memory for Matthew. He hit his marks without thinking. During a break in the music, Ryan sidled up to him, nodding at Matthew’s feet. “Look at you. Not a single toe casualty. I’m almost proud.”
“Don’t be,” Matthew said, wiping his neck with a towel. “I practiced in my kitchen last night. My cat judges me.”
“Mr. Paws always judged you,” Ryan said, a genuine grin breaking through. “He was my cat, really. He just tolerated you because you fed him.”
The old, easy jab landed perfectly. Matthew felt a surprised laugh escape. “He slept on my side of the bed!”
“Out of pity.” Ryan’s eyes crinkled, and for a second, it was just them, twenty-two and sharing a cramped apartment, arguing over a disloyal tabby. The knot in Matthew’s chest loosened a fraction.
The work continued, and the joking rapport quietly rebuilt itself. When Matthew flubbed a new arm sequence, Ryan mimicked the botched move with exaggerated, flailing horror. “Beautiful. Very interpretive. Is it called ‘Swatting a Bee in a Wind Tunnel’?”
“Shut up,” Matthew shot back, but he was smiling as he corrected the move.
When Sara struggled with a fast pivot, Ryan called out, “Think of it like turning away from a toddler with a full diaper, Sara! Swift but graceful!” Sara flipped him off, but she nailed it on the next try.
Matthew watched Ryan charm the room, defusing Marie’s diva moments with a well-timed, ridiculous face, patiently helping Sara without making her feel inept. This was the Ryan he’d fallen for—not just the handsome face, but the effortless social conductor who could make everyone feel included. A fondness, warm and dangerous, seeped into Matthew’s veins, disarming his defenses.
During a fifteen-minute break, Sara hooked her arm through Matthew’s and pulled him toward the empty vocal booth for “privacy.” The soundproof glass revealed the main room where Ryan was showing Jonathan something on his phone.
“Okay,” Sara whispered, her eyes bright with八卦. “What is happening? You two are like… bantering. Actually laughing. Yesterday you looked like you wanted to bury him under the studio.”
Matthew leaned against the mixing console. The familiar, trusting bond with Sara made the words tumble out. “Something did happen. After the private lesson. I messed up a turn and basically fell into him.”
Sara’s eyebrows climbed. “And?”
“And we were… there was a moment. Our faces were inches apart. I think… I think we almost kissed.” Saying it aloud made it real, and his stomach flipped.
Sara clapped a hand over her mouth, her squeal muffled. She grabbed his forearm, her grip tight. “I knew it! Oh my god, Matthew, I always knew it. You two were it. The real thing. This whole time, I’ve thought you were just… destined. To find your way back.”
“Sara, no,” Matthew said, shaking his head, trying to inject reason into her romantic fantasy. “That’s not destiny, that’s unresolved trauma bundled in a financially lucrative reunion package. I’m with Robert.”
“Robert who texts you from other continents,” she said, not unkindly. “Sweetie, look at you. You’re glowing. You haven’t glowed since 2003.”
“That’s sweat and panic,” he deflected, but his gaze drifted back through the glass. Ryan threw his head back laughing at something Jonathan said, the strong column of his throat exposed. A familiar, flighty sensation erupted in Matthew’s chest—butterflies, stupid and adolescent, beating their wings against the cage of his ribs.
He immediately tried to smother the feeling. He thought of Robert’s text, the love there, the life they’d built across oceans. He thought of the profound, gut-wrenching pain of Ryan leaving him in the name of career ambition. That was the real history, not some fairy tale.
“It was just a moment,” Matthew said firmly, more to himself than to Sara. “A slip. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Sara just smiled, a knowing, infuriating curve of her lips. “If you say so.”
The break ended. Leo called them back to the floor. As they took their starting positions, Ryan moved to stand beside him. “You good?” Ryan asked quietly, his shoulder brushing Matthew’s.
The simple contact sent a fresh, electric buzz across Matthew’s skin. The butterflies surged.
“Yeah,” Matthew said, staring straight ahead at his own reflection, willing his heartbeat to slow. “I’m good.”
He wasn’t. He was thrown, disoriented, feeling a pull as gravitational as tide. He focused on the mirrored wall, on the four aging pop stars staring back, and he made a silent, stern promise to himself. He would be professional. He would be friendly. He would remember who he was and who he loved. The fondness was a relic, the butterflies a biological misfire. He would catalogue the feeling, acknowledge its existence, and then, systematically, he would push it away.
He would catalogue the feeling, acknowledge its existence, and then, systematically, he would push it away. The remainder of rehearsal became an exercise in that precise mental compartmentalization. He matched Ryan’s friendly, casual tone exactly. He focused on the choreography with a producer’s analytical distance, treating his own body as an instrument to be tuned. By the time Leo called, “That’s a wrap, people!”, Matthew had almost convinced himself the earlier tremor was just a spark of static, meaningless and gone.
As the track cut off, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning and their collective heavy breathing, Marie clapped her hands sharply. “Everyone, listen up! No showering yet.” She stood in the center of the room, a sheen of sweat on her clavicle looking more like strategic glitter. “We’re making progress, but we still sound like four separate tax brackets trying to harmonize. We need to bond. Properly.”
Sara, blotting her neck with a towel, groaned. “If you suggest trust falls, I’m revoking your solo.”
“Better.” Marie’s smile was all brilliant, practiced charm. “My place in Malibu. This weekend. Friday through Sunday. It’s secluded, it’s got a killer studio space if we want to jam, and the wine cellar is obscene.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over each of them with deliberate intent. “And it’s just us. No partners, no significant others, no handlers. We need to remember who we are without the… appendages.”
Sara’s exhaustion vanished, replaced by the keen instinct of a content creator sensing a goldmine. “Oh my god, yes. The Fusion4 sleepover! My followers will eat this up. I’ll pack my good camera.”
All eyes swung to Ryan. He was meticulously wrapping the cord of his headphones around his hand, his shoulders tense. “This weekend’s… tricky. Jon and I might have a thing.”
As if summoned, Jonathan looked up from his phone near the doorway. His expression was pleasant, unreadable. “We have nothing, babe. You should go. It’s a great idea.” His voice was supportive, but it carried a firm, nudging quality. “It’s important for the dynamic. You can’t miss it.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He gave a single, tight nod, avoiding Matthew’s eyes. “Right. Yeah. Okay, then. I’m in.”
Matthew privately wondered if the supportive boyfriend routine meant Jonathan knew the full, messy history, or if he was just diligently following the script of a good, fame-adjacent partner. The urge to say he was busy itched on his tongue, but Kelly’s voice hissed in his memory: Everything is promotion now. This is the narrative. He forced his own nod. “Sure. I can make that work.”
“Fantastic!” Marie beamed. “I’ll text the details. Now everybody, get out. You smell.”
The studio emptied. Matthew drove home through the creeping lavender dusk, the city lights blurring into streaks. His house was cool and silent, a sanctuary of curated calm. He poured a whiskey, the ice cracking in the glass, and stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the glittering grid of Los Angeles. He waited until he calculated London’s morning had properly begun.
Robert answered on the third ring, his voice a rough, warm scratch of sound. “Mattie. To what do I owe the pleasure? Done with the teen-pop boot camp?”
The sound of his nickname unspooled a knot in Matthew’s chest. “Escaped with my life, just about. You’ll never believe the latest development.” He relayed Marie’s Malibu plan, framing it as the absurd diva stunt it partially was.
Robert’s laugh was a rich, rolling thing down the line. “A no-partners-allowed bonding retreat? Christ, that’s brilliant. It’s like a reality show pitch. Who cracks first? Who hooks up? I give it thirty-six hours before someone’s crying in the hot tub.”
“It’s not a reality show, it’s my actual life,” Matthew said, but he was smiling.
“How’s the ex-territory?” Robert asked, his tone shifting into something lighter, carefully casual. “Still wanting to murder him, or have you moved on to simple assault?”
This was his opening. He took a sip of whiskey, the burn steadying. “Actually, it’s… better. We had to work on some choreography alone yesterday. It was fine. Civil. We were even joking around today.” He heard himself, the careful modulation, the selling of a harmless story. “I think we might actually manage to be friends out of this. Or at least not bitter enemies. It’s… progress.”
The silence on the line lasted a beat too long. The ambient sounds from Robert’s end—the clatter of a cafe, a distant siren—filled the hollow space.
“Friends,” Robert finally said. The word was neutral, but the texture of his voice had changed, the playful gravel replaced by a smoother, more deliberate tone. “Right. That’s very adult of you, Mattie.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I don’t say it like anything.” Another pause. A cup clinked. “Just… be careful, yeah?”
A spark of irritation flared in Matthew’s gut. “Careful of what? Learning an eight-count? It’s a reunion tour, Robert, not a covert op.”
“I know what it is.” Robert’s sigh was soft, barely audible. “I’m just saying. That history… it’s not just history when you’re shoved in a house together for a weekend. Old patterns have a way of feeling very new in the right setting.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Matthew’s voice tightened, defensiveness rising like a shield. “You think I’m going to fall into some cliché because we’re sharing a beach house? I’m not twenty-two. And you’re not usually the insecure type.”
“I’m not insecure,” Robert shot back, the sharpness unmistakable now. Then, just as quickly, it vanished, deflated. “Look, forget it. I’m sorry. That was out of line. Jet lag talking. It’s a hilarious situation, and you’ll have a funny story to tell. I’m just… I miss you. It makes me an arse.”
The apology disarmed him, leaving the initial warning to burrow deep, a seed of unease. “I miss you too,” Matthew said, the fight gone out of him. They talked of other things then—Robert’s studio sessions, a funny thing his bassist did—but the conversation had a patched-over quality.
When they hung up, the quiet of the house felt denser. Matthew finished his whiskey, the ice melted into water. Be careful. He replayed the words, the slight shift in Robert’s tone that betrayed a knowing, a fear that wasn’t about jealousy, but about recognition. Robert, who had danced on the edge of a thousand temptations, knew how thin the line could be between I’m over it and I’m right back in it.
He stood at the window until his reflection became a ghost over the city lights. Down on the street, a couple walked hand-in-hand, their forms small and connected. He thought of Ryan’s hands on his hips in the silent dance studio, a guide that felt like a claim. He thought of Robert’s laugh, thousands of miles away, now tinged with a caution that felt like a prophecy.
The weekend in Malibu loomed, a beautiful trap set against the ocean. He had agreed to walk into it. Be careful. The words didn’t feel like a warning from a worried lover anymore. They felt like the last solid piece of ground before a long, irresistible slide.