When she was little, and her parents hadn't figured out how best she could be famous, she took dancing lessons.

Ballet, modern, jazz, long hot afternoons in mirrored rooms, twirling and bending and creating elegance from the line of her neck and the shape of her arms.

She kept them up through Mouse Club, all the way until the first album, when her energy was better used in a different type of choreography.

She lies in bed, counting the steps to a fox trot or tango, and thinks she was never meant to be a singer.

* * *

She can't remember, anymore, why she was there, and Kevin, and the conversation turned to dance.

It must have been after one of the benefits, when old grudges were forgotten and they all pooled resources into better things, into healing.

They were shoved into a dressing room, told to wait, the crowd was out of hand. Sting was leaving, or U2, or something, both, maybe.

The world championships were on tv, and she sighed, watching couple 21 mambo, and mentioned that she missed it.

She'd forgotten that Kevin was licensed, a teacher, although she must have read it somewhere. Justin always kept her up to date on Backstreet information, as if they were her enemies, too.

"Come on, then," he said, and started pushing furniture against the wall. By the time they'd cleared a decent amount of floorspace, the couples were waltzing. He slipped an arm around her waist, hand firm on her back, and pulled her close.

She tipped her head back, gazing straight into his eyes, everything returning in a rush of hazy memories, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, backwards, in heels, and they flowed to the music together, around the room, spinning and dancing and 1-2-3, 1-2-3, closer, 1-2-3, twirl, dip, frame locked, eyes together, 1-2-3-1-2-3-1-2-3. He ended the dance with a final dip, gliding downwards, on one knee, her hair brushing the floor, 1-2-3 and silence.

The tv audience applauded.

* * *

Justin doesn't dance well, not ballroom. He learned the box step, and thinks it's enough, that his natural talent will pull him through. It's different, though, dancing in formation and gliding through a maze. The other couples are lost in each other, gazes locked, and Justin never learned how to lead.

* * *

"We shouldn't," she murmured, and he nodded, agreed with her -- he had more to lose than she did -- but their fingers continued to fly along buttons and ribbons and zippers. 1-2-3, 1-2-3 the next couple flickered on the screen and she ran her hand along his shoulder, peeling his clothes away sure and steady, the rhythm pounding in her limbs.

1-2-3, 1-2-3, naked, and closer, bodies sliding together, apart, together, 1-2-3, and they never kissed because their eyes would break contact and lose them points.

1-2-3-1-2-3123.

* * *

Sometimes, when Justin's on tour, she'll pull out her toe shoes and practice old routines, examine tapes of Swan Lake, or The Nutcracker.

There's a practice room in their house, hard floors and mirrors and a bar and Britney, whirling past, first position, second, jette and plie and it isn't the same at all, but it'll have to do.

* * *

"We can't," he said, buttoning his shirt, and he looked in her eyes so she knew it was true.

"I know," she said.

They unlocked the door, the masses gone, and she turned her face away.

* * *

It's crowded at the airport, but Justin is there to meet her. She links her hand with his, their bodyguards grabbing her suitcase, and follows him to the limo.

They go straight to the Compaq Center, which she isn't expecting, isn't prepared to deal with the crowds just yet. She shrinks for a second, before smiling and waving at the cameras.

The fans try to close in around them, fingers reaching through the gates, brushing at her clothing. The same routine she moves through every time she visits Justin, or performs a concert of her own.

He presses his hand to the small of her back, and she swallows and thinks of Kevin, and a different type of dancing, in 3/4 time.