[ The music kicks on like a fading pulse, low and languid. Tseng can feel the percussion rumbling in his chest. It complements the inherent grace in every move that Cloud makes, turns those drifting fingers and that slow advance into languid choreography.
Tseng reaches out, his hand sliding down Cloud's back until it becomes a feather-light weight upon his waist. He draws him in, not unkindly, but commanding all the same. ]
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Tseng reaches out, his hand sliding down Cloud's back until it becomes a feather-light weight upon his waist. He draws him in, not unkindly, but commanding all the same. ]