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The bite of night air is a sharp contrast to the heat and press of the club. Rosie is still glowing with it when he turns to lead Crosby along.
Minton’s had been everything Rosie had promised, even for Crosby’s tin ear. But he was still working on being back in the world. The crush of people, the overworked bar. It was too much. It was too much to see almost-familiar faces everywhere he looked. People hung with the ghosts of his own memories.
Rosie was saying something about a spot he thought Crosby would prefer, smaller, just around the corner, when he stopped. His eyebrows pinch together, and Crosby realizes he’s probably looking like a mopey schmuck.
“Sounds great, Rose. I didn’t think I was that worked up.”
“You’re alright, Croz. For someone used to thinking in hundreds of klicks, makes sense you’d need a bit of breathing room.”
For a moment Crosby thinks Rosie might sling an arm around his shoulders. But this is the real world.
Crosby can feel the heat of the man’s palm. Hovering just between his shoulder blades. It feels like a well-timed tailwind, a small blessing. Then, just as suddenly, the warmth is gone.
They walk in relative silence, save for Rosie’s unconscious humming. To anyone else it might seem tuneless and meandering, but Crosby recognizes it. It’s note-for-note the song that had been playing as they left. A bridge between musical oases. Crosby smiles.
The neighborhood changes around them, but soon enough, they’re headed down some dimly-lit stairs. A blink and you miss it, need to be brought to find, sort of place. It’s certainly smaller, if not much quieter. But it’s the people that make the real difference.
It’s almost like being back at Thorpe Abbots. The faces are as mismatched as the patrons of Minton’s were uniform. Faces closer to the sweat-sheened band playing on the low stage. The clothing, however, is anything but uniform. Even in the low light, it’s a riot of colors. The frenetic music rendered in wool and cotton.
Rosie threads a path to the bar, behind which a rotund woman is holding court with several young men. The men notice them first, with more interest than Crosby might have expected. Rosie pays them no mind, guiding Crosby to the counter.
The bartender lights up, “Dollface! Bobby! Baby blue eyes! How are you, where have you been? We’ve missed you terribly.” She’s already reaching over the bar to pat Rosie’s cheek fondly.
“Hiya, Poppy.” Rosie grins back, “Two whiskeys neat, please.”
“‘Two whiskeys neat’ the man says. Coming in with a friend, not a word for old Poppy.” She practically caterwauls, then turns to Crosby and deadpans, “Two whiskeys for Bobby, what about you?”
A flicker of a frown passes over Crosby’s easy smile, not quite sure if it’s a joke. So he opens his mouth to explain.
But she breaks first and, smirking, chucks him under the chin, “Better zip those pretty lips, don’t wanna catch flies, or worse.” She gives a pointed look down the bar.
Subtlety is hard in a noisy club, but Crosby has the distinct impression there’s more to the conversation than he can interpret.
And then Rosie is leaning against the bar, resting a casual hand on Crosby’s hip. It happened so fluidly, naturally. But it burns like a brand. At once holding him up and making his knees feel oddly weak. The guys at the bar wander off like the ground didn’t just drop out from the world.
Then Poppy is passing them the whiskey, and the hand is gone.
In a bit of a daze, Crosby reaches for one of the glasses, but Rosie is folding his hand around his own. Crosby’s heart is beating in his throat like he’s three uppers too high. So when Rosie leans over, lips half parted, he doesn’t question it. He starts to turn to him, and Rosie’s lips brush against his temple.
His ear, Rosie was trying to talk into his ear. The man’s breath puffs against the shell of his ear, “They’re–We’re odd ducks here, but harmless enough. Any time you wanna split, you tell me. We’ll split.” Drawing back a bit, he searches Crosby’s face.
Currently expending most of his brainpower to keep his jaw from dropping open, Crosby manages a crooked grin, “Here’s to not splitting!”
When he lifts his hand for the cheer, they both look down. Rosie’s hand is still there, and he’s not sure who’s more surprised. Rosie’s huffed laugh just barely reaches Crosby’s heated cheeks before he leans back to grab his own glass, “To staying put.”
The glasses clink, and the generous pour has them trading spirits before they each take a bracing sip. It’s hard not to stare at Rosie’s mouth. His fine, long fingers, already tapping along with the beat. So, willing the whiskey to burn through his whole body, Crosby looks anywhere else.
The mirrored bar takes up an entire wall of the little club, the end opposite the door boasts the low stage, with a jazz quintet. Some of the group is chatting with the crowd, drinking a bit between sets, while a couple musicians pluck out a background beat. The far wall is even dimmer than the rest of the club, but Crosby can make out some booths tucked away, couples in close conversation. There are some other tables, and what passes for a tiny dancefloor in the center of the room. The revelers were by and large seated at the tables, but traffic steadily flowed to shadowed corners, and they were able to find seats.
Rosie’s club was so far from the dancehalls Crosby usually frequented that it should have been strange. But it wasn’t. And not just because Rosie was leaning, practically out of his seat, face beatific in the stage lights. It felt familiar, like the air base, maybe. But unlike the officer’s club, they weren’t surrounded by colleagues. Just fellow strangers. So Crosby finishes his drink, and swats Rosie’s thigh, “Alright, we’re dancing.”
Rosie chuckles and swirls his liquor, “I think we’ll have a bit of trouble finding partners. The club runs… gentlemanly.” His eyes are almost apologetic.
“You’re sitting there dancing in your seat, for godsakes. We can’t find partners, well, you’ve got me don’t you?” Crosby flashes his best lopsided smile. A basset hound could hardly look more pitiful.
Rosie downs the last of his whiskey.
Crosby grins, and wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks, proffers a hand. Rosie chuckles and swats his hand away before standing, “All right, but I’m leading. You couldn’t carry a beat in a bucket.”
“Can’t argue with that, sir.” Crosby even snaps a lazy salute, earning a tousle of his hair. Grousing, he sets it right, and heads around the little tables.
Indeed the club is mostly men. Now that he’s looking Crosby only sees one or two women, and he’s not sure about the second. But that makes things easier for them both, and the way Rosie moves…
Crosby had always appreciated the other man’s bearing, gracefulness was really the only word that came to mind. In the air, in conversation, he made everything look easy. But dancing? It was like watching a bird go from poking around on land to soaring through the skies. Like Rosie was an instrument being played, part of the band, making his own music.
At the close of the second or third song—jazz flowed too well to distinguish them—they were both down to their shirtsleeves, and soaked through. Rosie had rolled up his cuffs to the elbow, and his neckline was several buttons deeper than it had been. The music flagged a bit, but it wasn’t the break Crosby expected, the musicians just shifted to a slower song.
Rosie’s eyes slide shut and he smiles, probably recognizing the song, Crosby guesses.
Woken from his reverie, Rosie smiles, “What do you say we grab a scotch and put up our feet.”
Crosby’s face does something to make Rosie laugh, he imagines he looks as gobsmacked as he feels, “You’re kidding, me. Look at you.” Crosby gestures to Rosie, specifically the fingers beating a tattoo, the sway of his hips, the blissed-out grin. Definitely not the mussed clothes, and narrow waist. And certainly not the hand pushed through his sweaty hair. Just the flushed, happy face. The freshly tumbled sort of face.
He sputters out, “We can’t interrupt this.” Crosby isn’t sure if he means his thoughts, or Rosie’s dancing. By now the music has started in earnest, and even he can feel the beat.
Rosie cups his elbow, “Croz, this isn’t the kinda thing you dance on your own.”
Crosby lifts his hands into a waltz stance, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Rosie smiles a slow, small smile, then it takes over his face, and his eyes are gleaming, “You are at that, aren’t you.”
And for once, there wasn’t anything to think about. There wasn’t any plan, or timetable. There wasn’t anything else in the world. Just Rosie steering Crosby across the floor.
It was nice to be navigated, for a change.