It didn't matter where he sat, how far back from the stage he was. He always laughed whenever he'd hear about people coming to a concert and bitch about not getting close enough. For him, it was never about that. He was more interested in the people around him, the way they moved, the force of their breath than anything else. It was his whole reason for coming out.
As the lights dropped, he could feel it coming over him like a wave. Goosebumps formed all over his body, it never failed. Around him the air seemed to lighten, crackling above him with a thousand watts of energy that he knew would soon be thrust directly into the crowd, bringing it alive, moving them, moving him.
With the first drumbeats his body swayed, muscles growing tense, emotion swirling inside of him like some tumultuous river waiting to overflow the banks. If the music was powerful enough, it may even bring tears.
This was his place, more special and more private to him than any other. Here was a place he understood completely. The lyrics that were shouted over the crowd were his walls, the music his floor, the beat his own heart. He knew it, he'd always known it, and that made the whole experience belong to him.
Nearby, he spotted Kris, smiling impossibly wide; she'd waited years for this particular band to come to town, this particular moment in time. Her elation he imagined was almost as great as his. And for a moment, he loved her for that. For the Boy, it was easy to fall in love in places like these, times like these, they were the essence that ran through him, his lifeblood. Like ecstasy diffused through the air he lifted off from the inside and lost himself in the swirling rhythm of the night.
How many years had he done this? How long, and still nothing had changed. He'd watched his love and innocence of the world come and go with so many fleeting intervals of the spinning clocks and rotating earth, but brought back here time reversed itself, or stood still, lost in a haze of smoke and noise.
Outside the world had hurt him, over and over. It wounded him because he never understood the simple workings of mankind. Something always seemed off to him, something always seemed wrong. The simple acceptances of things like treachery, lying, politics, innuendo; it was a foreign language he'd had to learn to survive in the world. Here though, here was the truth spoken between people without words, only in motion, only in time and meter, only in beauty.
Slowly at first, he began to dance. His movements were always graceful. It wasn't always so, but after year upon year of watching, dancing, experiencing, his body seemed to move with a will of its own, making a prayer of his muscles, a temple of sinew and nerve chorused by the backdrop of the most amazing sounds...
There may have been no heaven, may have been no afterlife with promises of nirvana and sweet smelling fruit, no possessions wrought of a life lived well. In the moments on a floor, in the cold air anticipating the body heat of hundreds however was everything heaven ever could be, and more.
He swirled around Her. Who she was didn't matter, where she came from the same. It was the way she moved, the step and expression and sheer loss in the same wonderful world he shared that made him spiral around her. She noticed of course, and so in the end it was together they danced, hardly touching, but sharing more than any lover ever could, speaking more languages than the greatest scholars of their time.
And as the dance ended, he drew near and kissed her perfect raven lips, running fingertips down the side of her ashen face, whispering the one sentence that could ever do justice to such a moment.
"I love you."
Her eyes were wide, and her mouth open to speak, but too late. The crowd swept him away like an ocean. But in her mind passed a secret, a secret shared that could never be repeated. It would simply be impossible.
Thus is the language of the Dancer, and the lineage of music.