#cal2

Jamie dropped to the ground and sat back against the trunk of his favorite oak tree. It was still early in the morning, and the grass was wet with dew. He welcomed the cool, damp earth; he was burning up from the run. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he glanced over to the edge of the lake where Cal was catching up. They had run their usual course: around the pitch, along the edge of the forest, and ending near the lake, under the tree where Jamie sat.

"Told ya I’d win! I knew you couldn’t beat this lean machine,” he called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. Truthfully, Jamie hadn’t been so sure that he’d win. His head was pounding from last night -- what the hell even happened? He couldn’t be entirely sure. All he really remembered was chugging punch, hugging everyone, crying, and the evil bouncy castle...

And then there was the announcement. Fifty-seven dead. Murmurs of the Arcanists, something Jamie hadn’t heard of before. It had been a lot to process that morning, given that he was both hungover and still a tiny bit drunk. The details were fuzzy and goddamn the headache was getting worse.

     malia is quickly losing her patience. ever since he got here, no has been acting like a total ass. so what if he learned quickly? so what if he’s extremely talented? he doesn’t know how to work as part of a team—she doesn’t like to do it either, but in the dance world, it’s necessary, and he’s driving her insane.

     “i’ve been working my ass off on this choreography. first you didn’t like the music, then you made me change every little bit of dead air space, and now you just want me to scrap the whole thing? you honestly think that i can just toss everything away?” her brow is creased and her eyes are flashing with anger. “you’re going to work on this with me whether you like it or not. i’ll say it again: this isn’t about you. this is about the both of us—it was requested that we work on a project together, and my own choreography reputation is at stake here. i don’t want your help, but i need it. so get your ass back in here right now and work with me. just because you’re good at what you do doesn’t mean you’re entitled to making me feel like shit.”

     no had never been a team player. from a young age, he’d been withdrawn and aloof. the music was clichéd and overused, it was easy. dead space is weak, it betrays a lack of vision. it isn’t a dance, then, it’s just a demonstration of a series of techniques. from the point of view of someone who has seen progress of a choreography, it’s easy to think it’s become good. it’s just become better, but better does not always reach good. i am working with you. i’m making you better. i’m making you better than the rest of them. he could say it all to her, tell her what he thinks, but he won’t. she wants an argument, and maybe he’d like one too. arguments are fun. but they aren’t productive. he uncrosses his legs, reaches over to play a random track on a list of music he’d chosen before.