There was always Le Masque when one wanted to pretend to be someone else. Johann had always unappreciated the freedom a mask gave one until more recently. His private client work was suffering from the long tail of full moon incidents, increasing the time available on an evening outside of the office. His insomnia returning meant early starts in London, as there was little point in trying to sleep once dawn broke.

At Le Masque the mask hid his tired eyes, though regrettably the best of his cheekbones too. The alcohol helped the tension in his shoulders ebb away to the point he knew the order of the cocktail menu by heart. The entertainment was a distraction, the conversations meandered all over the place and were never the same. He was a more regular face mask amongst the clientele again.

Unlike the Johann of a few months ago, he found his feet taking him to the dance floor where his once awkward limbs took a life of their own for a song or two, just enough to raise the heart rate and shake away a long day slaving over a desk. A pretty little young lady who Johann recognised for her far superior skills on the dancefloor grasped his hand, swung him round, attempted to refine his steps with a little gentle guidance, but he ended up waving her off, departing from the dance floor laughing at himself.

At the bar was a familiar figure who caught Johann's attention. With masks, many of the usual features one relied upon to recognise another were hidden, though this only presented a pleasing challenge to the linguist. The mask on his face afforded him an additional bout of confidence - enough to join that same figure at the bar, an arm briefly draping around the waist of the other man.

"I recognise those terpsichorean hips…" He grinned, leaning over to speak into the ear of the other man before twisting to take a seat on one of the stools, blue eyes not leaving the other man's face. "I didn't think I'd see you here again so soon, Sir." He crossed one leg over the other.
"What you drinking, tonight?" 

Balfour was all in black this evening, from the hem of his dark robes to the trim of the mask that he'd only chosen because it was the one he typically kept on his person. And for precisely this reason - unplanned nights at Le Masque. It wasn't everyday that the head of a division found oneself with spare time to coincide a craving for firewhiskey. The woman at the bar had recognised him and slid over a glass so quickly that he felt sheepish enough to take his time drinking it.

His foot tapped along to the music, trying to find the rhythm beneath all the other blasted noise.

This was what he needed. A break from everyone else. Not that he didn't appreciate Margo's wingman capabilities (the woman was a marvel) or wrestling recovered dragons. It was simply so much easier to lose yourself in anonymity.

He breathed in deeply at the thought. Yes. Untouchable in that armour. Or so he thought.

A touch around his waist became a confident but all-too-fleeting greeting and Balfour turned his shoulders, not drunk enough to feign a lack of surprise. "I recognise those terpsichorean hips…" a frankly terrifying but familiar smile spoke from beneath the other man's mask. Hadn't he seen him on the floor earlier as well? "I didn't think I'd see you here again so soon, Sir. What you drinking, tonight?"

Balfour tried not to let his teeth show at being called sir. He liked the ring of it far too much to show in public view. This was something new, though. He wasn't used to being hit on so straightforwardly.

"Firewhiskey," his... apparently terpsichorean hips shifted as he leaned in slightly. "But I'll have whatever you're having if it's been so successful a lubricant." Balfour tried not to be too obvious as he stared at the wizards face searchingly. He looked damned familiar and that voice was not a common one.

They'd met in Le Masque before but he wasn't certain outside of that.

"Have you worn out your own hips on the dance floor?" he continued and allowed  his gaze to briefly drop, as if checking. "They seem to be in admirable condition."

"Firewhiskey," the wizard in black replied - the staple drink of many a man. "But I'll have whatever you're having if it's been so successful a lubricant."

"Ah," Johann replied, reaching out to pick up the printed cocktail menu poking up from the bar, "I've been working my way through."

"Have you worn out your own hips on the dance floor? They seem to be in admirable condition." Johann's lips twitched into a smirk, and he slipped off the stool a moment. He found his feet beside Balfour, standing a little closer than might be polite to a relative stranger. The menu was in one hand, close enough for Balfour to skim it between them. He could pick out some of the notes in the other wizard's scent as he did.

"Why thank you, and they've many more miles in them." Johann answered, "Just need to find the right partner - two margaritas." He'd caught the eye of the server behind the bar, raising two fingers before replacing the menu, and taking a seat again, stealing a none-too-subtle glance at Balfour's backside, blue eyes lingering on his lean figure as they returned to meet Balfour's eyes.

"How many do you need to take yours to the dance floor?" He asked, and shot a boyish grin at the other wizard, rubbing the point of his chin as he considered. More than Johann, quite possibly.

There was rarely much of a wait when magic was involved - and two glasses landed between them both. Johann lifted one, toasting his new acquaintance.

It did seem that the other wizard knew how to take a compliment. "Just need to find the right partner - two margaritas."

Balfour felt his liver groan in resignation and smiled guiltily to himself, certainly inebriated enough not to mind Johann's gaze on otherwise ungentlemanly body parts. He bit the inside of his cheek before finishing his firewhiskey in one quick swallow. Right down the gut like a good flame.

The sensation warmed him. Balfour considered his companion's lips - a ridiculously attractive shade of insolence - as they talked over the noise in Le Masque. "How many do you need to take yours to the dance floor?" Johann asked with a grin that made him or at least the lower half of his face appear much younger.

If they knew each other outside of this place, that smile had never come up before. Balfour would have noticed.

"I have a habit of losing count," he replied and angled himself closer as their order arrived. He picked up the margarita by its stem. "But I could be convinced without the drink. Slàinte mhath.[1]"

Balfour raised his drink to toast with Johann and then, thinking better of it, snaked his arm around the other man's to sip from his glass instead. He leaned back gracefully; perhaps aware of how an iota of less confidence would have made it an awkward advance. Thank the gods for liquid courage.

"Mm, that's sharp..." he licked the salt off his lips.

1.	Scottish Gaelic toast for "Good health."

"I have a habit of losing count," Balfour admitted, and Johann laughed. His grin turned into a rounder oh at the admission Balfour could be convinced to dance without drinking. Perhaps he might convince him later in which case…

"Zum Woh." He echoed the gaelic toast, hi childhood primary language tripping from his tongue effortlessly. Enough perhaps to have confirmed his identity to anyone who had met him at work.

As their arms linked to drink, Johann's eyes tried to find Balfour's, enjoying the mischief of this interaction already. He could feel his heart beating a little quicker, not from the dancing but from the way the other man looked at him. This was a familiar feeling from those hazy days at the start of the year when he'd first kissed Arcturus - who was just a memory these days - thousands of miles away.

He drank.

"Mm, that's sharp…" Balfour remarked as he drew breath after the sip. Johann did not reply at first, distracted by Balfour's tongue.
"Arouses the senses." He agreed, lowering his glass.

There was a trace of salt on his drinking partner's top lip where that tongue hadn't reached, and quite without realising he had done it until he felt his hand touch skin, Johann reached out his hand and brushed the salt away with his thumb, his fingertips grazing Balfour's chin as he did it.

His eyes lingered intently on the curve of the other man's lips, until he became conscious of what he was doing, and his blue eyes snapped to, a blush rushing to his cheeks as he went to withdraw his eager hand.

A tiny, insignificant pang of familiarity at the German toast.

It was quickly replaced by a thrill of amusement as Johann reached over to brush his lips lightly and Balfour's eyes followed the movement - the rest of him suddenly quite still. Well. This was interesting. He watched awareness wash over the wizard's eyes; those cheeks too, if they weren't hidden beneath a mask. Very interesting. It was almost deplorable how much that guilelessness pulled him.

Balfour couldn't help himself, grinning, he nipped at the spindly fingers playfully and laughed.

The laugh faded abruptly. "Oh. It's come to me," he placed a hand on Johann's knee, thoughtful. "Storm." His gaze worked past the mess of dark curls and he let his imagination fill in what was concealed. Steep planes of the cheekbones and an elegant nose. It was almost too obvious now that he knew it.

His hand slid a little further - marginally. "You are full of surprises." Balfour licked his lip again, this time without thinking about it. "Didn't take you for twinkletoes in your spare time."

Those lips curled into a grin, and Johann found himself mirroring it, his fingertips still extended. His eyes widened as the other man nipped at them playfully before Johann could curl them back in surprise.

Nobody had ever done that before. The last time he'd touched someone's face in that way they'd moved to shy away. To have a reaction bolder than his own was new and either the other man was insane, or he was worth spending the evening investigating.

The hand on his knee stopped a inhalation of breath in it's tracks, and there was a certain electricity to being touched in response. When the stranger addressed him by surname, it took a moment to force himself to inhale enough to speak, but words didn't form. People didn't usually recognise or state that they recognised him. His mind, hindered by a few drinks, leapt to identifying the other party.

The advance of the hand and the mention of surprises paralysed his voicebox a moment, but twinkletoes produced a laugh out of Johann and he folded his head forward a moment, amused, as he repeated the word. When looked up again, he managed to find his voice.
"That makes two of us, sir." He admitted - dancing wasn't something he took part in every time he visited the club, but he was beginning to take pleasure in it.

Beast one of the voices in his crowded head spoke out all of a sudden - and Johann's expression changed from amusement to shock - more surprised it had taken him so long to realise than alarm or discomfort.

"You're a beast." He declared, one of the aforementioned nibbled fingers extended to point at Balfour. His lips parted as he considered a name before twisting into a mischievous smile, leaning over to speak a little quieter beside Balfour's ear, close enough that it might tickle, but that he'd be heard clearly over the hubbub, "And a ghost."

His fingers encircled Balfour's wrist to the hand on Johann's knee, sliding gently over the inside of the wrist where it was most sensitive. He drew back just enough to look Balfour in the eyes at close quarters.
"You have as good as stripped me of my mask, Sir." He smiled smugly, eyes glinting behind the somewhat redundant decoration.

A beast? Well there wasn't any arguing with that but...

He was slower on the uptake than typical and the knut dropped only as Johann leaned in, deep voice in his ear affirming the Spectre surname. Mutual recognition. Balfour felt his smile slowly widen, all teeth and hunger. He met the other man's eyes calmly - wondering only for a moment if the clasp of his wrist was restraint or encouragement. "You have as good as stripped me of my mask, Sir." Ah, encouragement then.

Balfour tilted his head to the side and felt a quiet purr in his chest that would have well justified anyone calling him a beast. This wasn't the night he had planned yet he felt like he hadn't known he wanted it until just now.

"I think I can do better than just the mask, surely." He felt his skin tingle where Johann's fingers traced and tightened his hand on the wizard's thigh - only a hint of possession. "You certainly deserve it for stripping me of mine. We don't do things in halves on the fourth floor." Balfour withdrew his arm gently and turned to knock back his margarita in an inadvisably swift fashion.

He had to remind himself that they were in a public space, even if it was as indeterminate a place as Le Masque.

"It's the way of dealing with beasts, you know." Balfour glanced back - allowing some space between each other because he knew at least one of them was more inebriated and he liked to give his prey a chance to retreat. "As good as isn't so satisfying as actually baring your throat." Punctuating this, he dropped his gaze to Johann's shirt collar and reached out to slip close the top button.

Like a gentleman would, of course.

The hand on his thigh gripped a little tighter in response to the path of his fingertips. He relished the grip, felt his heart begin to thump, as if it had leapt to his throat. When it released, he could still feel where it had been, the hairs on the back his neck on end.

His eyes couldn't help but stare at the way Balfour's neck extended as he raised the margarita to drain it. His own was two-thirds down on the bar beside him. The space between them suddenly felt like he could breathe again, and he took a deep breath, trying to bring his heart down out of his throat.

"As good as isn't as satisfying as actually baring your throat." The fingers to his collar were not to unbutton but to button. Johann so very rarely wore ties unless the protocol called for it, it felt a little odd to have a shirt buttoned up without one. One hand's fingers found the base of the margarita glass, and the other automatically raised to touch his collar as Balfour's hands left it.

"On the fifth," he told Balfour, lifting his drink slowly, "we talk too much." He sipped, seeking eye contact throughout, "Four's a far more practical floor," he compared, "I should spend more time down there."

Inside his mind was hastily swimming, trying to make sense of the situation. He'd been so keen to speak with the somewhat familiar stranger, enjoying anonymity of the masks, but knowing who it was had rather changed the lay of the land.

How much did Spectre know of him? Had his reputation preceded him? Was it good - or had he heard worse things of late? Certainly Balfour's interest in other wizards had not reached Johann, who had up until now only imagined the man to be interested in witches. A faint memory of his third cousin recounting a night from the Rover's Return made a connection in his head, though it was so tentative it barely helped.

The rest of the margarita went down as his mind anxiously considered this. I'm out of my depth considered one voice in his head Shut up, play along.

"Dance?" He asked finally, setting his glass down on the bar. He slid his backside from the stool, drawing himself upright, and looked back over his shoulder to Balfour, extending a hand, palm uppermost.

"On the fifth, we talk too much." Johann's gaze met with his and he was touched by the idea that perhaps they could do with less talk, more action. "Four's a far more practical floor. I should spend more time down there." 

Balfour laughed, all at once appreciative and penitent of his department's reputation as being more hands-on. "You really ought to," his eye caught a speculative light. "Work hard and play hard, you know how it is." He had a one track mind when it came to the division - dragons or other creatures day in, day out. Office politics existed as a background noise that his secretary would bat away on occasion and Ministry gossip was only interesting insofar as it was useful for his broadcasts.

So it felt like he was seeing Johann for the first time, as often as he'd greeted or noticed neighbours from the fifth floor. The idea of the wizard was distant compared to the reality: flushed skin and forwardness, not without nerves. It made Balfour curious.

Admittedly, his curiosity extended to everything below the collar as well.

He watched the rest of the wizard's margarita disappear down that regrettably touchable neck and cocked a smile as Johann began to get up. "Dance?" What an excellent idea. And the music was just changing, too. Workable.

Balfour moved to join him on the dance floor, ignoring the proffered hand to lightly slip his arm around Johann's waist. "Ever dance with a dragon tamer before?" Odin's beard - hadn't used that line since picking up witches at a tavern in Los Angeles. It almost hurt to hear himself say it. "We're light on our feet."

The song was gearing itself up to a jump and Balfour kissed hips with Johann before letting go, twisting around with flourish. A group of ladies wolf whistled - in recognition perhaps - but that only made him toss his head back, somewhere between beastly laughter and a head bang. His arms went into the air in self-celebration and he caught Johann's eye with a wink. "Showmanship!" Balfour exclaimed through the din of the music.

Balfour's arm around his waist sent a shiver up his back as they met on the dance floor, and he couldn't suppress the smile that reappeared on his face at the touch.
"Ever dance with a dragon tamer before?" Johann shook his head, "We're light on our feet." As their hips came together, Johann almost forgot how to dance - as if petrified a moment - as Balfour spun and they caught the attention of nearby witches. Well, Balfour did at least.
"Showmanship!" came the exclamation from his dancing partner, far more comfortable in his own skin on the dance floor. Those hips should have told Johann that when he first commented on them. Delayed, though very much in approval, Johann gave an approving nod and raise of the eyebrow, but altogether didn't appear to be dancing.

Move damn it!

His mind roared, as if he'd smacked himself across the face to bring him to his senses. Out of your depth, idiot… He tried to drown out the voices with the music, his eyes not leaving Balfour as his limbs began to follow the rhythm. The other man moved so effortlessly, he was jealous.

Drawn back to Balfour, Johann decreased the gap between them as they danced, easier said than done with Balfour's confident, sometimes flamboyant moves, they seemed to circle each other once or twice as the distance shortened.

Somewhat breathless - Johann stepped behind Balfour at one point, heart lurching to his throat as he found the courage to do it, reaching out with both hands to rest them lightly on Balfour's hips leaning over his shoulder to growl
"I'm jealous, Sir, your hips…" His lips curled into a suggestive smile, and his hands slid away a little more slowly, enjoying the feeling of shifting balance beneath his fingertips. Merlin, the things Johann's mind was already considering about those hips… had he let them come to the forefront of his mind he'd have forgotten to dance again.

Balfour believed that the aim of drunken dancing was to incite laughter - and once you understood that, there was little of which to be afraid on the dance floor because everyone looked the fool. He had hardly noticed the floor was two songs from when they had begun.

Relative to being flung off by a Hippogriff this was no hardship on one's knees.

Although they did feel the slightest threat of shaking when Johann's hands slipped around his hips from behind, causing him to look over in time to hear the growl in the other man's voice. "I'm jealous, Sir, your hips…" and as if to emphasise just how blatant a tease life could be the music had them shifting away instead of towards. Balfour licked his teeth and decided that he had no obligation whatsoever to rhythm.

A man can only be called sir so many times before it starts to get to his di head. The thump of the music was loud, and the lights alternating between darkness and flashing, encouraging the feeling in his bones.

Balfour twisted around and his hips went utterly still as he leaned into Johann's personal space, hand running along the back of that neck and into the curls - where he gripped tightly. "You have a filthy little mouth, you know that?" he breathed coarsely and accentuated the statement by pressing his lips against his partner's: head angled unevenly so that their masks wouldn't clash.

It was a chaste kiss (someone in the now cramped, scintillating crowd might have whooped) but Balfour gave Johann's bottom lip a shameless bite as he backed off enough for their eyes to meet. His other hand had clasped on to the one on his waist and they'd stopped dancing altogether. "You taste better than the margarita," he slid his raking fingers back down Johann's neck before resting it on his shoulder. "In case you were wondering."

The use of sir was both being polite, and appreciative of a well-dressed companion, but because Johann was still thrown by the fact someone had used his name at Le Masque, and nibbled his fingers moments before.

Calling Balfour sir kept up the illusion of anonymity, which made it easier to get his head round when he was drowning in rapid water. He had no idea it was such a catalyst in the Head of Beast Division, but looking back on it later, he was glad of the discovery.

The hand up the back of his neck was entirely unexpected, and his warm, breathless body came to a halt within a second, lips apart - blue eyes focusing rapidly on the approaching mask. His hands shot out though his upper arms were glued to his sides in shock, so his forearms extended, and his fingertips splayed in the air.

Fingers tightening in his hair made him gasp involuntarily. For a fleeting moment his brain panicked - wondering if he had done something out of line and was about to be struck, but the expression he could see without the mask was only predatory, rather than aggressive. The pull of the roots of his hair shot a cold sensation down his spine and his pupils dilated.

"You have a filthy little mouth, you know that?" Balfour told him. As Johann's mouth thought to move to attempt to form words, it was too late, Spectre's lips were upon his. Instinctively, Johann closed his eyes, his head pushing back into Balfour's grip on the back of his head.

The relaxation of his splayed fingers as Balfour's other hands met his waist gave hint that this sudden and unexpected kiss had slid from shock to being enjoyed within a split second, and despite the grip, he did not resist.

He might only have been kissed full on the lips by someone outside of the family less than the fingers of one hand, but even without the teasing bite to the bottom lip as Bafour pulled away, Johann had already logged that one as his best in all his thirty-four years.

The voices in his head shut up entirely - as if they two were staring out of Johann's dazed blue eyes as they came open, trying to work out if they were still awake.

"You taste better than the margarita, in case you were wondering."

The statement seemed to expect an answer, but Johann was unable to form words. His jaw muscles were attempting it - but there was a strange silence in his head. His hands were still out to either side, elbows bent, not sure where to put themselves.

It seemed to be several long seconds that he stared, eyes unfocused at Balfour's expression, the other man's hands on shoulder and waist anchoring him to the ground. Perhaps the other wizard would think he had appalled the linguist, who was meant to be a man of words when the man of beasts was of actions.

Then all of as sudden, as if Johann had been released from a body bind, his hands reached up, trembling ever so slightly. His right swiftly, found Balfour's face once more, thumb resting on the point of his chin, and fingers extending up Balfour's left cheek. His left hand slid up the shirt on Balfour's chest, heading for the right shoulder, bringing them together suddenly.

Johann's dazed gaze fell to the lips that had just invaded his own, and he made to return the gesture, although considerably less confident, his kiss pressed firmly enough to confirm submission.

As their lips broke apart, Johann took a sudden gasp of air, realising he hadn't breathed since before Balfour had grasped his curls and his lungs were aching.
"Coffee, cigarettes and toothpaste." Johann suddenly informed the other man.

Balfour was worried.

For a moment there it did seem like he had taken one liberty too many, as Johann stared back a little longer than perhaps either of them expected. The only thing that kept him from acting on his worry was that he happened to be drunk enough to believe their kiss was worth needing a moment to retrospectively appreciate.

(it was)

He was on the cusp of a are you alright? when the other man reciprocated, causing Balfour to grin into the kiss. His hand went up to meet Johann's at his face and he gently forced it down to their sides - enjoying that simple, sweet tease of only their lips touching. "Coffee, cigarettes and toothpaste." Johann came up for air too soon and Balfour bite his inner cheek in response to this diagnosis.

Might as well have been describing his emergency cupboard in the office.

Still, he could detect something familiar underneath that bravado and it reminded him of a time too long ago when a broad faced wizard had been less kind to Balfour after a passionate bout. He slipped his arm underneath Johann and over his shoulder, twisting their bodies to prop up next to one another. There was a sneaking suspicion of weak knees.

"Perceptive tongue," Balfour remarked before he began guiding them off the dance floor - a cheerful bloke at the bar booed their retreat in good humour. "Bit of fresh air, you think? I must be red in the face." It was awkward, trying to play himself off casually but he kept it up until they were finally out in the open.

And the autumn night hit him with a startling, welcomed chill. He hadn't realised how stuffy it was inside. Even the cold and dark damp of Knockturn Alley was refreshing. Balfour slowly released Johann as he pushed up his mask to reveal a surprisingly even expression. Not so much red as a brazen tan that was trademark to dragon tamers who had spent all summer toiling in the sun.

He pulled his shoulders back, felt the muscles in his shoulders stretch contentedly. "Gods, couldn't hear myself think in there." The comment felt empty so he finally gave Johann a proper look - appraising him by murky streetlight. "Catching your breath?" A quick, cocksure smile.

Spectre's arm beneath his arm and across his back was reassuring. Johann's feet felt planted to the floor, and as he took a step, his knees felt like jelly. The blood had rushed to his head (and elsewhere) along with exerting himself on such little sleep, and it made him a little giddy.
"Bit of fresh air, you think?" Johann nodded, allowing himself to be led, thoughts bouncing about in his head, not sure what was the few drinks he'd had, or what was the thrill from what had just happened.

Street level was decidedly cooler. The perspiration upon Johann's skin added to the chill feeling and he gave an involuntary shiver after Balfour's arm slipped from him and they were no longer sharing body heat. He leaned up against the brickwork beside the entrance and exhaled, breath condensing in the night air ever so slightly.

"Thanks," he uttered in response to the assistance with climbing up to street level. The cool air was already bringing him back to his senses as he blinked hard. Balfour's movement to remove his own mask caused Johann to turn, taking in the Head of Beast Division's face in entirety once revealed. It reconfirmed the fact Johann had seen in the atrium and the lifts at irregular intervals. He had a filthy tan, something Johann did not entertain, even when he had been abroad in sunnier climes in his twenties. He'd just burned.

Feeling that it was only fair to do the same, Johann pulled up his mask and slid it completely off his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and his eyes as they were exposed. The mask had kept hidden the dark shadows beneath his eyes left by the current stint of insomnia, and also hidden the top of his flushed cheeks.

"Catching your breath?" Johann pressed his hands to the bricks behind him and looked up to where Balfour stood observing him with unashamed interest.
"Heh, from the dancing, anyhow." He admitted. "Still reeling from …" he tried to think of a polite way of putting it, "… from you."

He laughed softly at himself, and pushed away from the wall, taking a couple of steps into the street, his left hand reaching up to tussle the hair on the back of his head, stealing a look at Balfour out of the corner of his eye. Those arms, those wrists - and his hands, sweet Merlin. He could feel his heart race again.

"Talk about a headrush." He dropped his arms to his sides and turned to Balfour properly. "Merlin. Sorry, I - look."

Unable to form a sentence he stopped, gathered his thoughts, closed the distance between them so he didn't have to speak so loudly,
"Balfour I haven't…" He met the other man's gaze and shook his head at himself, reconsidering his confession that he'd never done this before, he didn't know the rules. Were there rules?

"Never mind," he reconsidered, stepping back, "I'm good." He confirmed hastily, not wanting to lose face. "We're good… and bugger me, you're good."