[ The dim atmosphere, seats tilted to one another, the meaningless noise which surrounds them, the light glinting off a glass which touched divine lips... Are they soft, he wonders. Would they give under pressure and taste of the wine he chose for him? As Rosfield speaks so casually Sleipnir's gaze remains locked on his eyes; he wets his upper lip in a small and subtle motion before raising his glass and taking a sip, imagining the man before him. ]

I have not thought of it as such...
[ He genuinely considers Clive's words. ]
Perhaps there is truth to be found here... Even if one is only mimicking their partners motions, ignorant of the movements, yet still feeling the rhythm lift their bones... certainly this too can be called dancing.

[ There is a small satisfaction to be had when Mythos severs the eye-contact. Alas, Sleipnir is not done staring into those beautiful blues. He would know the other more and how else best to do it- beyond their exquisite duel that is- than looking through the windows to his soul? Although, he supposes there is still more to learn by examining the action of breaking the connection... Is it disinclination, dissatisfaction, or perhaps simple uncertainty?

He throws another hook out there to pull Clive back into the conversation once the bartender has fetched his drink. ]

I am curious: what did you mean by "ends up just being sex"?