the old club hadn’t changed much.

the cracked neon sign still buzzed intermittently, bleeding red onto the wet streets of the alley. you could still smell the faint smoky tinge of spilled gin, too much perfume, and sweat curling around the interior, the dim lights and crowded bar not doing anything to hide it.

you hadn’t stepped on stage in years. not since you’d hung up the heels and costumes, since you decided to leave this life behind. but tonight–tonight, you needed the money. or maybe the closure. you weren’t sure which.

the club was still as crowded as ever, all types of unsavory faces visible from your position on the stage. this wasn’t a place of sophistication, you knew. all the girls who sold their bodies for the money knew. you were just another dancer, another source of entertainment for the men waiting hungrily for a new show.

the lights dimmed, a flickering spotlight on you that had your chest feeling tight for more reasons than the tight corset you’d worn. the sequins on your costume glittered, though you noticed every place where the stitching had grown thin, every seam where your nerves rattled. the music swelled–slower than you remembered, or maybe it was just your heartbeat that was too fast.

you moved anyway. the old muscle memory kicked in, your body remembering what your mind had tried to forget. the swing of your hips, the teasing slip of a glove from your hand, the deliberate glance toward the audience. it was mechanical, but the crowd didn’t care. some whistled, some laughed. a few bills tossed toward the stage.

but one gaze cut through the rest.

anaxagoras hadn’t been planning to sit and watch what was a rusty performance done only from sheer desperation. it had been a long day, and he needed a drink, and before he knew it, he found himself stepping foot inside the dusty, hole in the wall club tucked between the alleyway.

he watched you with a detached sort of interest–not like the leering eyes of the other men, just.. observing. your eyes locked for a second too long, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. you turned away, finishing the routine with the flourish you still remembered how to fake.

applause scattered through the room as the lights dimmed, and you slipped offstage, heart still hammering uncomfortably fast. you were grateful for the dim backstage, grateful to lean against the peeling wall and take a breath.

that was when you heard a low voice, gentle but startling in its precision.

“rusty. but not without charm.”

you flinched, turning. he was there, framed by the heavy curtain, his coat brushing the floor, the faint scent of cigarette smoking curling around him. he looked entirely too composed for this place, as though he’d wandered into the wrong world and decided to stay for curiosity’s sake.

“excuse me?” you asked, still breathless from the performance.

he tilted his head, unblinking. “you moved as if you were reciting someone else’s words. but your body knows what it’s doing. a contradiction I found.. intriguing.”

you bristled, tugging your robe tighter around yourself. “you always this blunt to strangers backstage, or do I just look like I need commentary?”

his lips twitched–not quite a smile, but close. “you looked like you needed someone to notice. I did.”

silence stretched on between you, thick as the smoke on the other side of the curtain. his gaze lingered, but it wasn’t the gaze of the others out there. no hunger, no crude want. just measured curiosity, sharp enough to cut through your defenses.

“anaxagoras,” he said at last, inclining his head. “I had not planned to stay long tonight. but it seems I did.” he watched you with an idle interest. “if you’re going to stand here trembling, you might as well do it with a drink in hand. I assume the bar is less drafty than these curtains.”

it wasn’t flirtation. it was an observation. delivered like the conclusion of some theorem only he had worked out.

and you didn’t know what it was about him, but you found yourself nodding.

"what's your poison?" he asked, settling on the rickety stool of the bar.