John associates dancing with delighted squeals and spirited screams. With hot bodies in a dense press, flailing limbs, bruises and busted lips. Loud music and communal catharsis. That is not at all what the young lady holding his hand leads him towards.

Which isn't a surprise, right? But it is another way John finds himself totally out of his depth here at this party.

"I mean, it would be rude to say no, right?" John replies with a less tremulous smile than he'd offered before -- at least that's something to be said for the calmer, less crowded dance floor; less anxiety over potentially bumping a council member -- before taking a sip of his sazerac. The warmth of the whiskey is a comfort. The rest of it . . . he could probably do without. Sorry Giddy.

"Yeah, these kinds of dances aren't my scene," he admits, taking another drink, "and really, don't feel like you need to be polite on my behalf. This is just whatever was kicking around in the back of my closet. I uh . . . was convinced this invitation was a postal error until pretty much this morning."

Not that John's ever known Locke Jamison to make that kind of mistake, but it made more sense than 'office worker gets invited to the biggest event of the season'.

As they draw from the peripheries of the dance floor and towards the true body of it he throws back the rest of his drink and quickly slides the now empty tumbler across the table Juno leaves her glass on. He lets himself be tugged and looks around the floor for a hint as to what they're doing out here. Waltzing. Ah, fuck.

"You can call me uh . . ." Are they doing fake names? Juno seems to want to do fake names, and he can't bring himself to break out of the fun frame she's placing everything in, "Johnny?"

That's just his name isn't it?

He can't help the way he looks to the ceiling imploringly. Why wasn't he born with a little more brains for moments like this? It's a self-deprecating gesture that lasts only a moment before he takes a breath and steels himself to push forward. He looks down at the young woman in front of him and does his best to pull her into something resembling proper dance posture. Lifting their connected hands and using his other to gently -- watching her face to ensure it's okay all the while -- grip her waist.

"And uh, you also look lovely. Sorry, I'm terrible at this -- the small talk, I think terrible might be too tame a word for my dancing," he mumbles, eyes staring at her feet to make sure he doesn't step on them, "your dress is a very nice purple and the way you've braided your hair into those buns is sweet."

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"Johnny!" Xiura says with delight. "Johnny. It's very nice to meet you."
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It really is, and it's very endearing how polite his compliments are in return. "Johnny," she repeats, letting him guide her into a partner position for the waltz. She places her left hand on his shoulder. The sweetly resonant music of the orchestra's "All I Want for Christmas is You" filters through the atmosphere, mingled with the laughter and conversation of people around them. "I'm glad you came, with your back-of-the-closet top hat. I was a little worried I wouldn't find a dance partner." She grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling with good humor behind her mask.
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They transition into the first steps of the waltz, Xiura dividing her concentration between small talk and the dance. Even with the split attention, she can't help but tease, drawn in by his self-effacement. "You're not terrible at this," she says, "and my feet and I are very understanding if a misdemeanor occurs."
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She calmly sidesteps his foot, adding, "And thank you. About my hair, especially. It took a bit longer than expected. My Clefairy was in charge of spraying down all the strays. Did she do well?"
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Of course, Xiura already knows the answer, and she laughs to remember Clefairy meticulously spraying hairspray everywhere, all the while wearing a cloth mask taped at the cheeks so it would stay on. "I didn't want her to breathe in the aerosol, so she wore a face mask. It was very funny--I wish I had taken a picture." She looks down, momentarily shy about how much she's talking to a stranger--this potential new friend. It's a bit harder to gauge his reaction with the mask in the way. But, then again, it's Juno who's conversing tonight, not Xiura, and so, why be ashamed?
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They stay relatively confined to one area, in their small, invisible box of ballroom steps: 1-2-3, 1-2-3. "Small talk takes a lot of concentration," she admits. "It's helpful that the waltz is pretty simple. When you're not waltzing, what do you do for fun?"
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