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Astrid stepped where Freya stepped, her bare foot pressing into the same damp patch of moss her twin had just warmed with her weight. The path coiled upward, narrow and insistent, the kind of trail that demanded attention—not just to roots and loose stones, but to the way ferns brushed skin like fingertips withdrawing too slowly. Freya didn't turn to check if Astrid followed; she inhaled, and Astrid's exhale answered before their shoulders could graze.
The ascent wasn't about effort. Their calves remembered Olympic training, years of sand burning underfoot until their bodies became a single instrument of motion. Now, the incline merely served as punctuation between the sanctuary's murmurs below and the pull of whatever waited above—a wordless calling heard by them both. A feeling then needed to walk this path. Freya's thumb traced the ridge of her hipbone, a habit Astrid mirrored three breaths later, their shared tells flickering like paired lanterns in the jungle's thick air.
Then—there. Not a drumbeat, but the suggestion of one, a rhythm so syncopated it seemed to phase in and out of the island's ambient hum. It wasn't coming from the path, but from the left, where the foliage grew dense enough to blur into a green wall. Without breaking stride, Freya angled toward it, her shoulder dipping under a low-hanging vine. Astrid's palm pressed flat against the small of her back, not guiding, not following—completing the adjustment as if their nervous systems shared the same wiring.
They parted the leaves like a curtain. Malik stood in a sunlit clearing, his body a live wire of motion. His loincloth—scarlet, barely there—clung to the sweat-slick planes of his thighs as he pivoted, his weight shifting between bare feet with the precision of a metronome. His hands carved arcs through the humid air, fingertips brushing invisible strings that thrummed with every flex of his wrists. The drumming wasn't external; it was the percussion of his heels striking earth, the slap of skin against skin as he crossed his arms over his chest in a fluid, self-contained echo of capoeira's ginga.
Freya's fingers dug into Astrid's wrist. Not to restrain, but to tether—a silent command to witness this stolen intimacy. Malik's muscles bunched as he dropped into a low sweep, his braids swinging like pendulums. His breath hitched, audible now that they were close enough to see the sheen on his collarbones. Astrid's pulse jumped when he froze mid-motion, his nostrils flaring as if scenting the intrusion. But he didn't turn. Instead, his shoulders rolled in a slow, deliberate undulation, his spine curving like a drawn bowstring. A challenge? An invitation? The twins inhaled in tandem, their ribs expanding against the press of each other's arms.
His dance wasn't a performance. It was alchemy—ankles flicking dust into sunlight, his hips describing figure-eights that made Freya's mouth go dry. When he spun, the scarlet fabric clung for a heartbeat before separating from his skin, revealing the flex of his glutes in startling detail. Astrid's teeth found her lower lip. They'd seen athletes, warriors, lovers—but never this raw distillation of control and abandon. Malik's rhythm stuttered, his heel grinding into the earth as his torso twisted. Beads of sweat slid down his body, and Freya's tongue moved involuntarily, tracing the same path along her own lips.
Their voices rose without discussion. Freya's soprano curled around Astrid's contralto like vines on a trellis, a folk melody from their childhood reshaped into something darker, hungrier. The notes shimmered between them, harmonizing where their bodies couldn't—Freya's pitch lifting as Astrid's deepened, matching the push-pull of Malik's movements. He stilled, shoulders tensing, but didn't turn. Astrid's thumb stroked Freya's inner wrist where the pulse hammered; they'd sung for kings and frost giants, but never with this jagged edge of want caught in their throats.
Malik's right foot slid forward, pressing his weight into the earth until veins stood stark along his instep. His braids swung as he tilted his head, listening—not to the song, but to the microsecond delay between Freya's inhalation and Astrid's. The twins saw comprehension flash across his shoulders: he'd known. The drumbeat of his dance had been bait, the sweat-slick shine of his chest a lure. When he finally turned, his gaze didn't flicker between them, but held them together, one dark eyebrow arching as if to say, "I built this rhythm for two."
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