[Plugging this Jayvik ballet dancer fic because I'm actually very proud of this oneshot fic. It's longer on AO3, this is just a sneak peek (?) because it's actually around 8k words long but yeah if this interests you please head on over to ao3 to read the rest!]
Viktor was once a rising ballet star before one mistake caused him unable to dance, losing the world he knew. Years later, he returns—not as he was, but as he is now. Jayce, an emerging dancer, becomes part of that journey in ways neither expected. And Viktor finds something worth holding onto again.
The studio should have been empty.
That was the only reason Viktor let himself step inside, to haunt the space where he had once lived, to press his palm against the cool walls and pretend, for a moment, that he was still capable of belonging here.
But the music shattered that illusion.
Not recorded tracks, not the crisp precision of a full routine, but the raw sound of feet striking the floor. A dancer, rehearsing alone.
Viktor had half a mind to turn around. He didn’t belong in these spaces anymore. He was not one of them. But curiosity held him in place, his fingers tightening around the grip of his cane as he stepped further into the room.
The dancer—the intruder, as Viktor irrationally considered him, was young, broad-shouldered, and powerful in a way that ballet rarely welcomed. His movements were strong, unrefined, carrying the weight of someone who thought power alone could shape beauty.
Something about him held potential.
Viktor lingered in the shadows, watching as the dancer landed heavy on his feet, his technique almost there but just wrong enough to grate against Viktor’s instincts. He could see it, see the problem, see the solution.
It had been years since Viktor last spoke the language of movement. But some languages never truly fade.
"You are fighting against the ground," Viktor said, breaking the silence.
The dancer froze. His gaze snapped toward Viktor, startled, chest rising with heavy breaths.
"You rely on your strength," he continued, stepping forward. "That is why you struggle."
The dancer straightened, eyes narrowing in something between curiosity and frustration.
"You always make a habit of critiquing strangers?" The other man asked.
Viktor smirked, just barely. "Only when they need it."
He exhaled, rolling out his shoulders. "If you’ve got advice, then give it. Otherwise—"
"Otherwise you will continue making the same mistakes," Viktor cut in, tilting his head. "And what a shame that would be."
Viktor saw the exact moment he relented, the slight shift in his stance, the way his muscles lost their rigid hold. He wasn’t used to being guided, but he wasn’t unwilling.
"Then tell me what I’m doing wrong," He challenged.
Viktor adjusted his grip on his cane. "Dance," he said simply.
And for the first time in years, Viktor found himself moving—not in steps, not in leaps, but in something that felt painfully close enough.
Not in the passive way others might, with polite nods and murmured approvals, but with the sharp precision of someone who had spent his life shaping movement into something greater. He saw every flaw, every hesitation, every inch of wasted energy that should have been coaxed into grace.
When the dancer finished, his breaths were heavy, his stance uneven. He turned toward Viktor, expectant.
Viktor tilted his head. “You tell me. Did it feel right?”
He hesitated—only for a fraction of a second—but Viktor caught it.
“No,” Viktor murmured, as if confirming a thought rather than delivering a critique. “It did not.”
Exhaling sharply, the man dragged a hand through his damp hair. “Then what should I be doing?”
Viktor stepped forward, not close enough to invade his space, but just near enough to let his presence linger. His cane tapped against the floor lightly, rhythmically, as if mimicking the beat the other had yet to fully grasp.
“You are strong,” Viktor acknowledged. “But strength is not the foundation of ballet—it is merely the accent.”
Viktor sighed, shaking his head. “You misunderstand. Ballet is not about power. It is about trust—in gravity, in momentum, in the inevitability of movement itself.” His fingers twitched, as if remembering steps he could no longer take. “Your body does not shape the dance. The dance shapes you.”
To his satisfaction, the other man absorbed that, quiet.
Then, slowly, he reset his stance. “Fine,” he said. “Then show me.”
The challenge was simple. Painful.
Viktor had spent years convincing himself that he had nothing left to offer ballet—that it had discarded him, and he had done the same in return. But standing here, watching someone wrestle with the very thing he once commanded, he felt something unfamiliar stirring.
Viktor exhaled, tightening his grip on his cane. Then, with careful precision, he shifted his stance, not in a way that mimicked performance, but in a way that dictated control.
The man moved, and Viktor watched.
He hadn't meant to linger. He wasn’t supposed to be here. But something about the way the stranger danced—full of force, all sharp edges and restless energy—kept Viktor standing in place, kept him watching.
He leaned against his cane, silent as the dancer pushed through another sequence. The steps were correct, but the movement wasn’t. Every landing was too heavy. Each transition lacked control. He was fighting against the very thing he was supposed to surrender to.
Viktor had seen this before.
“You are fighting gravity,” he said, voice cutting through the quiet.
The dancer stumbled. More from surprise than actual misstep. He turned toward him, breath labored, sweat clinging to his skin. His gaze was sharp and uncertain. This time, Viktor was deliberate in his corrections. His voice carved through the silence, each word a precise instruction. He dictated posture, adjusted momentum, pointed out wasted energy. Ballet had never been forgiving, and neither was he.
The night stretched long. The rhythm of their exchange replaced the music. The dancer listened, tried, reshaped his movements into something more controlled.
By the time he collapsed onto the bench, drenched in sweat, his frustration had softened into something quieter.
“You—” he hesitated, catching his breath, “—you talk about ballet like it’s yours.”
Viktor’s grip on his cane tightened until his knuckles turned white.
“I understand it,” he said simply.
A pause. Viktor braced himself for the words would come next when he glanced at his cane. Then, “Did you dance?”
The question was sharp but there was no judgement nor pity. Viktor did not answer immediately, but appreciated it.
The dancer studied him but didn’t push. Instead, he sighed, stretching out his legs in front of him. “Then why help me?”
Viktor tilted his head. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”
There was a scoff, a shake of the head. “No. I just didn’t expect it.”
Yet here he was, reshaping footwork, correcting posture, guiding movement. The echoes of a past he had tried so hard to forget.
When the silence stretched too long, the dancer leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed.
“I don’t even know your name.”
For a moment, he considered leaving it unanswered. But something about this night, about the movement shared between them, convinced him otherwise.
The dancer studied him. Slowly, he nodded.
jbbartram-illu
jacobvanloon
prguitarman
blakekathryn
izzy806
gummygunk
