I wrote this while listening to Love Story by Henry Mancini. I highly suggest you listen to it while you read. An Emotional Oneshot

They stand in awkward silence as wicked treason plays on his lips. The way she sways slightly to the music. The way her hair is let down about her face, like a waterfall hugging lush and olive toned mountainside. It was in the way she bites her lip, nervously to the untrained eye, but to a special agent's; it seems to be something more. It was in the way she holds her glass, swirling it slightly, the bubbles of the champagne cascading upward. Dare he ask? For a simple dance? That's all it was. That's all it could ever be, he thought. A bond forged in sand and blood, tears and heartache, in bullets and steel.

Ask me, she thought. It was the way his green eyes sparkled. It was the way his newly chiseled physique cut through his fitted dress shirt. It was the way his hair was combed. It was the way he always knew when something was wrong. It was the way his soft spoken nature embedded itself within her heart. Ask me. But it was also in the way his eyebrows furrowed slightly, as if they knew potential consequences of such an action. It was just a dance. Their counterparts were currently engrossed in the dance, as the quartet played.

Dim light cast a burgundy embrace over the two, as possibilities played out between them, like a daring caricature that could be attained; only if the right words were chosen, the right moves made, the right touches relished.

I can't. I am who I am, and she is who she is. That's enough to not ask her. Right?

To ask may prove an emotionally caustic endeavor, as all previous matters of the heart had burned him, leaving him gasping for air as the romance of the world carried on without him. The severance could prove fatal, as every fiber within him yearned for her contact. Yearned for the love that might come of it.

A love that will fail, as all the others have. To be cast out, rejected, to pick among the fallen of the street, disheveled and forgotten. But this time, it would be by a best friend. That had happened once to him already, and it had taken him years to overcome it. He turned slightly, to watch as said woman danced with his partner. There was no jealousy, truly, just regret that she represented another failed attempt at what happy people called love. Happy people. Who are they? What did they do to deserve that title? And what have I done to deserve mine? It's like I'm in a script as one who is to always be heartbroken, to watch as those around me succeed.

The man wasn't one for self pity, but at times, when he sat at home, blues mourning from his record player, his fingers would tap quietly on the typewriter. One would assume that he was writing about a character in a novel; the one he based on himself. But no, he was writing truly and sorrowfully about himself. The man with no middle name. The second-place man. The man too late for departure. The man who just didn't cut it. The writer. The poet. The fool.

But still…

Ask me. She saw in his eyes, not just now, but always, a fondness. A fire even, smoldering true and consistent. If only he knew… Within her strong and stoic exterior, lay a woman who wanted to be loved. Unconditionally. Not by the rugged and harsh men she'd grown so familiar with, but by a man who understood. A man who wasn't afraid to be tender. A man who wasn't afraid to be sweet. A man who wasn't afraid to show vulnerability. But that was just it, he was afraid.

And like wandering piano notes that never meet in the middle, they stood watching as the crowd danced. The woman bit her lip, fighting back tears. Oh woe are those left knowing but never feeling. Woe are those who dare not to take the chance. To simply say what they feel. Woe are these two lovers, who know not of their mutuality.

He felt like a scarecrow. Battered under a winter wind, stuffed with straw. A lonely scarecrow, who watched as the crows sat in frightened repose. He was a farce, a fake, a facade. This was his masquerade, his epic finale. Just as the phantom had mourned for Christine, The man donned the mask to cover his failures; to cover his emotional disfigurement. Would she even notice if I disappeared? Will she notice if I sing? If I bow, and roses fall from the mezzanine, will she wait for the makeup to come off? For the mask to fall? Will she even know who I am? Or will she clap silently, reluctant to the standing ovation, hurried in her steps to escape the building, and his knowing eyes.

Because she knows he's found her in the crowd. I am Don Juan Triumphant.

She realizes it will not happen. Like an orphan, passed by on the street, she slowly nods a sad smile to him, and leaves, the yoke of longing heavy on her shoulders. The man watches her go screaming, crying, begging to her not to go. But only in his mind. But only in his mind. Because truly, it's all in his head.

Unbeknownst to the two, someone else is watching. An older man. A wise man. Someone who, while understanding his failures, knows what truth is. As he walks, his cold blue eyes are replaced by something his comrades know little of. Compassion. Understanding. Empathy.

Softly, the older man reaches out, placing his hand around the younger man's, and leads him through the dancing group of coworkers and lovers. He leads him past the joyful and the fake. He leads him past the laughers and the chucklers. He leads him past the subtle lights and passive orchestra. You are not Don Juan Triumphant, the older man thinks.

The two step out into the snow, their breath enveloping dancing flakes around them. The blue eyes search the green ones, asking and listening simultaneously. Not a word is spoken, but a conversation is had.

It is a conversation of the past. Of a loving wife and daughter that were stolen from the older man. A conversation of how he sees in the younger man, and the woman who just left, what he saw in the wife who was taken from him. A conversation of hearts, not of tongues. A conversation of love left dormant. A conversation of fear and repercussions. A conversation of reconciliation and absolution. A conversation of freedom from the past, yet learning from it. A conversation that told the younger man, that chances like this happen once in your life. That if it is not seized, sorrow will follow. No amount of deep breaths or bourbon in a mason jar will suffice as comfort. No torturous construction of metaphoric carpentry will ever free him from this opportunity, gone like the snowflakes on her shoulders as she walks unsteadily to her car.

With a firm squeeze on the shoulder, the younger man nods, understanding. He turns slowly, unsure still. He looks over his shoulder to the older man, who nods in confirmation and approval. A slight and rare smile creasing the worn features of an older man who simply knows what is right for his children.

The younger man feels something growing inside as he hurries past the dancefloor. It is something he's never felt before. It is something that he has dreamed of, thought he had, but was mistaken. It is confidence. True confidence in his heart, about love. About the woman who left. It is confidence that, even though they are so different, we are given life to take chances. To express how we feel. To show those around us we care. To abandon timidity and live the 100 years we've been given, the best way we know how: in happiness and love.

He hurries through the double doors of the rented out gym, underneath the banners adorned with hearts and cupids. His footsteps echo, but his heartbeat drowns them out. Throwing open the doors, the snowflakes whirl about him, gathering by his face, as if to say 'we thought you'd never come! She hasn't left yet.'

Immediately he sees her figure, slouched against her car, shoulders dejected, facing away from him. The snowflakes whisper encouragement as he takes a deep breath. 'You know this is true, for wandering souls find solace in each other. You know this is the right decision. It is something that has been within you for so long, burning at you. You're feelings have grown, and you know of truth. You are not Don Juan Triumphant'.

She wipes tears hurriedly as she hears someone approaching, then gasps. Can it be true? He came after me? She smiles, but only slightly. He mimics the gesture as he sweeps a hand through his hair. He inhales deeply, glances to his left. He can see the older man in the distance. You are not Don Juan Triumphant.

Before she can speak, he wraps her in a tight embrace. She can feel the tears on his cheek, and he can feel hears. He holds her close, but not because she's near shivering. And slowly, with the stars and snowflakes as their audience, they sway slowly together, knowing full and well, that their feelings are mutual, and their hearts pure and true.

From a distance, the older man with grey hair watches as the beautiful Israeli and the young man with green eyes and no middle name kiss beneath snowing D.C. skies.

A/N: Just in case you're not aware, Don Juan Triumphant is a reference to a fictional story that Eric (The Phantom) wrote, in the novel/musical The Phantom Of The Opera by Gaston Leroux