They meet.

Her backyard.

A hot summer day.

It's too hot for armor, he says. She agrees with a laugh.

It's a dream anyways, he thinks. Neither will be harmed.

They stand.

Two thin blades of stainless steel is all that separates them. Two perfect lines, and a single plane no wider than the two of them.

It's a friendly duel. A test of strength and speed. Each enjoys the other's company. Each enjoys the sport.

With a grin, they salute.

He breathes deeply. He studies his opponent as they fall into En Garde positions.

She advances. He retreats.

She strikes. He parries.

She feints. He falls for it. A point to her.

Reset.

He advances as soon as they're ready.

She strikes. He rebuts. She parries.

He advances again. She retreats.

The tip of each blade seems magnetized to the other. Sparks fly again and again and again.

He strikes.

She parries.

He lunges.

Her blade touches his chest first.

Another point to her.

Reset.

She teases him, smiling, giving him a couple of much needed pointers. She's been doing this MUCH longer than he has.

He laughs. He knows she's trying to get under his skin. It's kind of working. She's always been a little under his skin.

En Garde.

He lunges. She's just BARELY unprepared.

A point to him.

Like that, he asks?

She laughs. He loves her laugh. It reminds him, strangely, of a babbling brook.

Reset.

He can feel her eyes on him. It's pleasantly comforting - two sets of eyes analyzing two patterns, attempting the same goal. A rhythm he can become familiar with. Steady. Solid. Safe.

En Garde.

The pair are warmed up, now. His shot had been lucky.

He strikes.

She parries.

He strikes again.

She rebuts.

He parries. He will not be tricked again.

The corner of her mouth ticks upwards for a split second. He feels a moment of pride.

Strike.

Parry.

Advance.

Advance.

Retreat.

The movements become faster.

Parry.

Again.

Again.

It becomes hard to tell if she is only applying pressure, or if each strike grows more desperate.

Thrust.

Retreat.

Parry.

Strike.

Retreat.

Feint.

Strike.

Advance.

A beat. A pause as they assess. Sweat soaks both their shirts. Each holds their form beautifully. Each blade hovers, almost seeming to buzz with the aftershock of a clash.

She feints.

He falls for it.

She strikes his arm.

The thinnest, faintest scratch. A drop of blood.

A point to her.

She apologizes, but he doesn't mind. It's not the worst pain he's felt - but a strange sensation overtakes him. Not rage. Not fear. Just pure... energy.

En Garde. His sword shakes slightly.

She strikes. He retreats.

She advances. He strikes. She rebuts. He parries.

He feels something building within his chest.

She strikes. He parries.

A pressure rises that he doesn't understand.

She sees an opening. A weakness. An uncertainty. He knows she sees it. She's too smart not to.

She feints. He falls for it. She strikes.

He meets her blade, and the pressure suddenly shifts to his right.

Off-balance, he sidesteps.

A single step to the left.

The plane is broken.

They freeze. Their eyes meet.

Without words, he apologizes.

She smiles, but doesn't move.

His eyebrow flicks up for a moment.

A little mischief enters her grin.

Let's see where this goes.

Another step to his left. She takes one to hers.

The plane hasn't broken. It's simply expanded.

So many new possibilities. New angles of attack. New strategies.

Same rhythm. New tempo.

Attacks become quicker again. They're used to each other now. They learn more and more of the other. How they fight. How they play. Quicker.

Attack

Parry

Strike

Step

Strike

Block

Thrust

She catches his blade on her hilt.

For a moment, they struggle against each other. A battle of wills. A beat of stillness in their dance. A breath. A bead of sweat. A fiery gaze met. Energy. That same rush of pure energy that fuels his every movement.

Retreat. Break her hold.

Both chests rise and fall quickly, heavily.

Her skin glistens in the sun as she tosses her hair back.

His breath catches.

Energy.

He can feel his heartbeat.

Step.

Parry.

Lunge.

Recover.

Strike

Strike

Block

Strike

Step

Strike

Step

Block

Retreat

Feint

Strike

Attack
Parry
Attack
Step
Faster
Faster
Faster
Movements
Faster
Heartrate
Quicker
Heat is
Rising
She is
Beauty
Bodies
Matching
Movements

For a moment
The two seem
Connected
Dancing
A dance
Of blade
And flame
Columns
Of fire
Twist
Around
Each body
As
Each body
Twists
Around
The other
Blades
Flashing
Slicing
Air
Slicing
Flame
Energy
Pure
And flowing

He can feel his heartbeat
When she's close, he can almost feel hers
He craves it
Longs for it
Energy
Pure energy fuels his every move
Pure energy at every beat of her heart

His skin
Desires
Her touch

His tongue
Desires
Her taste

His lips
Desire
Her kiss

Longing
Craving

Energy
Pure and flowing

Strike
Again
Again
Again and again and again
The mark on his arm seems to ache
His attacks become crazed
Frenzied
Energy erupts to match the heat of her fire
Columns of flame surround her
He will pierce through them with light
The flame twists around her blade
She bends it to her will
He bends the light to his
Strike
Strike
Strike
Parry
Strike
The two are whirlwinds of steel and flesh, flame and light, carnal instinct and logical analysis, frenzy and peace
Hecanfeelhisheartbeatracing

Thrust

The tip of his blade meets her stomach as the edge of her blade meets his throat.

They freeze. Their breaths are ragged. His lunge becomes a kneel. Neither blade moves. It's a draw.

She presses her blade gently against his neck, not to threaten, but to pull him to his feet. He rises. She keeps pulling. He moves forward, the tip of his blade lowering to the ground. An inch of air separates the two. Half an inch. He can feel her breath on his neck. The warmth of her body causes his skin to itch. Neither gaze can be torn away from the other.

She lowers her blade.

Neither one moves.

Each of them catch their breath a bit.

Her blade falls to the ground. His blade follows a moment after.

His hand twitches.

Her eyes study his.

She is beauty.

His hand twitches.

She moves closer, though they somehow still don't touch.

His breath shakes.

His hand twitches.

Her eyes dart down for a moment. A split second.

He gasps so incredibly slightly.

His hand twitches.

She rises a little onto her tiptoes.

The breeze that is her breath seems to slowly brush up his neck, and graze his lips.

His hand is still.

The world is still.

Time itself is still.

She breaks the spell. She touches his face.

His arm wraps around her waist.

His skin ignites wherever it meets hers.

Her lips just barely graze against his.

He shudders. She smiles.

She is beauty.

His hand loses itself in her hair.

His lips finally meet hers.

She wins their match. 3-1.

Her lips taste of honey and sweat. Her scent is of sugar and smoke.

Her touch, her kiss, spreads through him like fire.

It burns away the dream.

He wakes. His bed. Alone. The dead of night. His breathing is heavy, but steadies quickly. He shifts. His arm twinges. He looks at it, as his eyes adjust to the darkness. The thinnest, faintest scratch. A drop of blood.

He smiles.

What he dreamed will never be. But oh, what a beautiful dream.