It was James's idea, the dancing lessons. Michael had thought it was a stupid idea, but James had insisted. Said that if they were going to have a proper wedding and a proper reception, he was going to dance with his new husband properly, and he'd be bloody well damned if Michael trampled all over his best dress shoes with those fucking banana boats he calls feet.
(That, of course, temporarily derailed their debate with a conversation -- and practical demonstration -- on the correlation of foot size and room necessary in the inseam. Michael, the show off that he is, had been happy to start off, but James had held his own by demonstrating that his wide feet are more than just a sign of good balance. It had taken a couple of hours to get back to the original matter at hand, and when they had, Michael had been too fucked out to fight all that hard, so James had got his way without nearly half of the resistance he'd expected.)
But what neither of them hadn't expected was that Michael would turn out to have a natural talent for dancing. Waltz, cha-cha, rumba, merengue... he picks it all up liked he'd been doing this for years, and it made him the darling of the class. With that ridiculous mustache and goatee that making him look like an extra from a pirate movie (but James still finds unreasonably sexy because, of course, it is on Michael's face and that is reason enough) and his broad grin showing off those teeth like tombstones, Michael won over the instructor and all three of her assistants, and fully two thirds of the class. The ones he couldn't get were the husbands with two left feet whose wives always wanted to practice with Michael. No great mystery there.
But now. Now it's time to do the tango, and Michael is being ridiculously impossible.
"James, darling, you've forgotten your rose," he coos, over-sweet to the point where James can hear the giggle on the edge of his voice. "How are we to tango properly if you don't have a rose?"
"I can always marry someone else," James says, but it's an idle threat. "One that can dance but doesn't think he's so bloody funny."
"Oh, pet, don't be like that." Michael pulls James close, their bodies flush, and James is suddenly and very happily reminded of the "conversation" that led to the agreement to take dancing lessons in the first place. "I just want to make sure I dip you right proper."
James snorts and tangles his fingers in his fiance's ginger locks. "I'm pretty sure that if you dipped me like I'm thinking, we'd both be arrested faster than you could say 'has anyone seen my pants.'"
The music starts up and Michael sweeps them into the beginnings of the basic tango. "I'm disappointed, James," he says. "I've always thought you had more of a sense of adventure."
James twists his body, adding complications to the dancing. He's been practising this dance in secret all bloody week, it's time to show off. "Take me on that honeymoon," he says, hand flat on Michael's chest, leg hooked around his long, lean thigh, "and I'll show you just how fun I can be."