#dancer!au

After a long and aching practice you just wanted food. You headed to the local convenience store -they were still open?- and grabbed yourself a frozen pizza and snacks and headed back to your communal kitchen.

Looking through the glass, you see some guy muttering to himself and mixing something in a bowl. Rolling your eyes and checking the time -00:36- you figured you’d get cleaned up and hopefully he’d be gone. Dance bag hitting the floor and your roommate still working on homework, you hopped in the shower.

Trying not to think of your imperfections that your teacher pointed out in class, you wrapped a towel around your hair and put on some sweatpants and a hoodie.

Pressing the elevator button to level one, you sigh as the day's stress finally start to leave your body. To be honest, you liked nighttime; away from everyone else and the outside world being still for what seemed like just you.

You opened the common room door with a click, as the stress returned. The boy from before was still there. You flashed a friendly, but short smile which he returned.

Stepping towards the microwave, you see it has a half-torn note with almost illegible handwriting.

Not working.

Your eyes roll in the back of your head so hard it gives you a small headache. Seriously? Meanwhile, the clattering of dishware behind you reminded you that you weren't alone. Your eyes wandered over to the oven that had a pan with some dough on it.

Seeing the annoyance and hint of disappointment in your face, he apologizes.

"Sorry," he said. "I'll be done with it in, like, ten minutes. Swear."

Honestly, Matty had no idea what the hell he was doing. He was following the recipe he found, but had lost himself and half his dough along the way.

Mumbling a response, you plopped on the couch and put on your favorite show in the meantime. The cushions softened under your body as your eyes followed the television show on your phone screen, watching the characters interact across the screen, their voices starting to jumble into unintelligible sound.

***

Matty looked at the time. It was definitely past ten minutes. In fact, it had been about forty-five and you'd fallen asleep within the first five.

In fairness, Matty felt pretty bad. He was determined to make the best batch of cookies of his life after his class, which turned into the early hours of the morning.

As he took out his project out from the oven, he traded it with your frozen food. It was the least he could do after, you know, conquering the whole two countertops for at least three hours. He gently cleaned the area, careful not to wake you up just as the oven beeped.

Guilt spread in his chest as he walked over to you, peacefulness clear on your face. "Hey," he gently pushed on you, "I'm finished with the oven, and I put your food in there, too."

Rubbing your eyes, he took in your gorgeous features, the fluorescent lights flickering above you.

"Oh, uh, thank you," you said. He gave you a look, one you couldn't quite figure, accompanied with a smile.

"Have a good night," he said, gathering his items and heading towards the door.

        The sweat rolled down your cheek, raced across your neck, and fell to the ground with the grace of a cheetah. Or perhaps a swan would be a better analogy here. Lisa, the choreographer, clapped her hands together, a tight lipped smile on her face. You hesitantly stepped off the raised platform. Jimin stepped around from it as well. 

“No, no, no, you guys need to be able to capture the emotions of this scene.” Lisa snapped, massaging the crease between her brows. 

“Listen, this scene is where, for the first time, the black swan trusts her lover enough to let herself fall. Yes, it’s a metaphor, yadah yadah, that doesn’t matter.” The woman sighed. “Come on, just get it together.” 

“I can’t help it, I’m nervous. You’re asking us to do a trust fall on stage. How do I know he’ll be there to catch me.” You whispered softly. 

“Is that not the point of a trust fall, Y/N?” Lisa snapped shut her notebook and shouldered her bag.

 “Class dismissed, don’t forget to stretch.” Then the teacher turned to you with a sour expression. “Really, Y/N, it’s not that bad.”

       You just dipped your head, not one to argue with the teacher. A warm hand landed on your shoulder and you jumped, having forgotten you were not alone. Also, Jimin was known for moving rather quietly. The other students were stretching and packing up. 

“Can you help me stretch?” He asked, his voice sweet and soft. Jimin was always soft. 

“Yeah, sure.” You quickly agreed, following him to an open space. He stretched out his legs in front of him and you pressed on his back. He groaned in relief. 

“That’s good, thanks.” He praised you, making your stomach flip for an unknown reason. You pressed a little harder and he released a long breath. 

        You were busy thinking about the routine in your head. You needed to leap onto the raised part of the stage, Jimin trailing behind, and fall backwards, trusting he’d be there. The problem? You didn’t trust him. It wasn’t that he was a bad dude or anything, you just didn’t really...understand him.  

“You can trust me, Y/N.” He said softly as you readjusted your position. His words pulled you from your thoughts. 

“I know.” you answered hesitantly. He seemed pleased with that and slowly stood up. You eased off his back. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N. Take care.” The man smiled sweetly and shouldered his bag, exiting the room. 

“5, 6, 7, 8,” Lisa clapped to the beat. Her shouts were drowned out as you focused on the routine. You knew your routine, you just hoped Jimin did as well. 

        You leapt onto the raised platform, the heat of the lights beating onto your sweaty forehead. A few wisps of hair curled onto your forehead. You did a pirouette and then sharply inhaled. You better be there. You thought to yourself as you pretended to lose balance. 

       You gracefully tipped backwards at the other end of the platform, only to yelp in surprise. The music cut and, in a daze, you slowly sat up. You had fallen. Well, not really. Jimin was uselessly holding onto your arm, just a few moments too late. 

     You blinked a few times, seeing his face peer into your peripheral. 

“Oh my god, are you okay? I’m so sorry.” He sputtered. “I’ll practice it more. I swear you won’t be dropped again!”

      Your eyes scanned his distraught expression and you decided to forgive him, though the seed of doubt had been planted. Lisa was calling for a water bottle and to turn down the lights, probably thinking you were a little out of it.

      In contrast, you were wide awake, alert, and aware of yourself. Could you trust him to catch you? The thought was swallowed and rested uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. 

“It’s fine, Jimin, just practice.” You said lightly, standing up and dusting off your tights. “But seriously, work on it. It could cause some serious issues later.” You tried to say as nice as possible, but he got the message. 

         If you were injured, there was no way you could major in dance. It was like how when you seriously break a bone and it’s never quite the same. Your art required it to be the same. 

         The performing arts had always been your dream once you had gone to college and you were thankful for the scholarship considering your awful grades. A twinge of melancholy pricked at the back of your mind. Namjoon and you hadn’t exactly worked out once college forced you your separate ways. 

        It never would’ve worked anyway. You had long since gotten over him and you were friendly, but, like a broken bone, it would never quite be the same. You just tried to ignore the same flutter of excitement that Jimin gave you. But trust was important and right now, it just wasn’t there.

         Jimin was a nice boy, you had seen him around. He was always the one to hold open the door, help you carry things when your hands were full, and the first to check in if you seemed gloomy. 

        He was a perfect angel. So you just had to trust that he could execute. Lisa rushed over with a water bottle, but upon finding you standing upright and looking only a little startled, she calmed down significantly. 

“You guys should practice this move outside of class.” She instructed. “I’ll leave the keys in my office. Please just practice it, otherwise you’re going to give me a panic attack on stage.”

“Can’t we just...change it?” You suggested sheepishly. The woman looked appalled. 

“No way, Y/N.” She said firmly. “I know it’s tough, but this is a good challenge. Besides, this is the most important part of the show.” 

      She continued on her rant and you didn’t want to interrupt so you stood quietly, nodding to her points.

“So, you see why you need to do this?”

“Yes, ma’am.” You dipped your head, having tuned out long ago. 

      Her hand landed softly on her shoulder. Her face was gentle, kind. She understood your hesitation. 

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t have casted you if I didn’t think you could do it.” She said quietly and your pride swelled. With a proud smile, you watched her walk off to critique the others. 

“Wanna continue working?” Jimin’s soft voice said. You turned, having almost forgotten he was there. You nodded. 

“Yeah. Let’s get this thing down.”

         You collapsed to the wooden floor, exhausted and disappointed in your lack of progress. So far, you’d practiced the same thing about 20 times. 10 of those he was too early, you were, sadly for your bottom, dropped five times and you had only managed to execute it five more times.

        It wouldn’t be so worrying if those five times that worked were all together and at the end. Alas, they were spread out between your attempts and it felt like a guess and check sort of method. It was like you were gambling and Jimin was an elusive object, an uncertainty.

       You wanted it to work so bad, you had no idea what had gotten into him. He was usually so level headed, picking up moves faster than you could even imagine. And yet, you were starting to lose faith, beginning to check if he would be there in time when you ran it through. Here he was now, collapsed on the ground beside you. 

“I don’t know what’s going wrong.” He started after catching his breath.

         There was a long pause, his voice bouncing off the walls. Your eyes remained trained on the white concrete ceiling. After a taxing day at practice, you often found your mind numb and incapable of forming coherent sentences. As frustrated as you were with him, it wasn’t like you could force him to be on time like a puppet master. 

“Uh huh.” You drawled, taking a deep breath as you felt your adrenaline fading. 

        It was after dark, the fluorescent lights of the studio seeming just a little too bright. Your internal clock was fucked, especially considering the lack of windows. 

“You alright? I’m sorry I dropped you, I swear I’ll continue practicing.” 

“Continue practicing?” You sit up, running a hand through your sweaty hair. “Park Jimin, you’ve practiced a ton, with me and without me, we both know it.” 

      You took his silence as defeat. Jimin was the kind of person that worked until they dropped or their body gave in. He was a perfectionist, you could tell simply from observing him in class. So that got you thinking about...what if the issue laid within you? What if he was off because you were off? 

       There was also the possibility that you were messing with his timing by doing something off and he was worried about dropping you. You massaged the crease between your brows. 

“Jimin, I think the issue lies inside your head.” You said. Then you groaned at the implication. “I mean, I just think you’re psyching yourself out. You can trust me to keep time, just focus on yourself.” 

       Jimin sat up as well. You both faced the mirror. You saw your sweaty and disheveled reflection, wincing at how messy you looked. His hair was sticking to his forehead and slicked at the sides with glistening sweat. 

      Yeah, you both looked horrid, but together you made quite the picture. You smiled a little at the thought and maintained eye contact with yourself in the mirror. In your peripheral, you saw him glance at your reflection. 

“I know.” He said softly, steepling his fingers. He rested his elbows on his knees and remained looking in deep thought. “I don’t know, Y/N, I’m scared of letting you fall.” 

“Then don’t.” You answered quickly. 

      Then you sighed and your eyes flicked to his in the mirror. 

“I trust that you won’t let me fall. You don’t have anything to prove. Anyway, you’ve already dropped me like ten times...what harm can ten more do? As long as it’s not the performance, I’m fine with it.” 

      He nodded, rubbing at his forehead angrily. Jimin took in a shaky breath, feeling his eyes water a little. 

“Why am I like this?” He said miserably. You remained silent. 

“I don’t understand why I can’t just get it right. It’s not even that hard.” He whispered, his voice barely audible. The static of the room was suffocating, the air stale. 

“Sometimes perfection is in the imperfections.” You said softly. 

      Your hand left your side and instead reached out to rub his back. You felt the heaving of his chest and the stutters of his breath. 

        You closed your eyes for a moment, thinking back to your practice. Yeah, it had been hard, even annoying, not knowing if he would catch you, but there had been little moments you could appreciate. 

        The brush of his skin on yours, the soft and apologetic smiles, the laugh that rang like a sweet bell. You had a lot to be thankful for in this practice. You got to see how Jimin worked, the way his brain behaved. There must be something that wasn’t clicking. You both knew that he was capable, more than capable. 

           You opened your eyes, letting your gaze move to him. He was still pulling himself together. Now, you had seen, quite literally, blood, sweat, and tears, shed in this dance room. You shifted to your side slightly and gently tugged him into a hug. He didn’t resist. 

        You held him for what felt like ages. The warmth of his body flush up against yours made your temperature rise. The room felt like it was getting hotter, but you knew it was just that he was clutching onto you like you were his last hope. 

“Jimin, you’ve got to cut yourself some slack. Take it easy, okay love?” You said tenderly. “I’ll figure it out, just leave it to me.”

       You listened to the music again, and once again, you were thrown off. You were sure you had figured out the issue, but you needed to double check. Again, the question of why would this throw off such a seasoned dancer? Came to mind. But, everyone had their weakness. You wrote down a few notes and then called up Jimin. 

      He picked up on the first ring. 

“Yeah?”

“I think I may have figured out our small issue.”

“Oh?”

“Practice room A, 6:00 P.M.” 

“Great, see you then.”

       You paced, playing the music once more. Jimin sat on the wooden floor, his legs crossed and head tilted curiously. You paused the music that pulsed through the speakers. 

“Do you hear it?” You demanded.

        He just quirked an eyebrow, looking at you like you were a mad woman. And in his defense, it did look like that. 

      Your hair was a mess, strands flying in every direction, as you spoke to him. Your eyes were wide and alight, having figured out the issue. He slowly shook his head, watching your face turn to a scowl. 

“Okay, well, here’s the issue,” You sniffed, placing your hands on your hips. “The time signature.” 

      He didn’t seem convinced so you continued on. You waved your hands like mad and in all honesty, it had been a while since you slept. You had always had awful time management skills. 

“It’s in a 5/4 time signature, but your brain is trying to compensate by moving to what feels right; 4/4 or some multiple of two.” You explained. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.” You huffed, stopping your wild pacing to get a good look at his face. 

       The room was dimly lit after you burst in, complaining about the horrendous lighting first thing. He watched you, amused, but also his eyes alight with the epiphany. 

“Wow! You’re a genius, I have no idea why I didn’t notice before!” He leapt to his feet and scooped you into an unexpected hug. You refused to let your cheeks heat up, but your heart was beating like crazy. 

“Ah, it’s not a problem, you would’ve figured it out.” You said sheepishly. “You can...put me down now.” 

“Oh...right.” He awkwardly cleared his throat, setting you down. “I don’t know, Y/N, you’re smart and I had...other things on my mind that distracted me.” He said vaguely, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Do I want to know?”

“You’ll find out.” His angelic face morphed into a sinful grin. You playfully shoved him, resulting in his overexaggerated protests. 

“You’re such a dummy.” You chided, waltzing over to the ipod. “Now, let’s run it again.” 

         God, why were you sweating so much? Why were you so nervous? You had practiced the routines a million times, every step was memorized, every beat was ingrained in your very being.

         There was no way in hell you should be getting stage fright. The applause of the crowd gave you pause, your heart leaping into your throat as the overture began. Lisa appeared on stage, giving a few words. 

        The Black Swan was a new performance, a spin on the classics. 

Dressed in an inky black top with satin shorts, the swan makes her first appearance. In the kingdom of white swans, she is scorned, tossed aside. Her feathers are dirtied, her pride wounded.

 You spun, extending your hands, letting the movement flow from your fingertips to the ceiling. 

The swan comes across a large puddle of white clay one day, and in a desperate cry of anguish, slathers herself with the white clay, staining her feathers an angelic white, just like her peers. She’s considered beautiful, taken in by the villagers, who do not recognize it is her, and presented to the prince. 

You curtseyed as the prince made his solo entrance. 

The prince takes a liking to the white swan, yet every day leading up to the wedding, she must awake early and leave to cover herself in the clay. She can feel her facade crackling. 

One day, she sneaks away, days before the wedding, and runs into another black swan. 

Jimin appears on stage, leaping his way into the bushes and rolling in the metaphorical clay. He gingerly watches you.

 She drops her handful of clay, surprised to see another black swan. 

Day after day, long after the wedding, she returns to the puddle. And day after day, he greets her until she feels herself falling. The black swan is unsure of how to continue living her lie. 

The two get into a disagreement. He protests, claiming he would love her with all his heart, the color of her feathers does not bother him. She calls him a liar and runs away, unable to allow him to see her vulnerable. 

Again, the next day, they argue. The black swan cries, throwing herself into the clay to hide herself. He reaches out for her, she pulls away. 

      You ran around the raised platform, dread building. Yes, you were out of breath and running on fumes as the climax of the performance began, but you were more concerned about the trust fall. 

       Could you trust him? Your brain said no, your gut said yes. 

The man reassures her that she should love herself, she should let herself be like him, be with him. 

      The music crescendos, building and sweeping the audience up in its loving arms. The suspense continues to a dizzying climax, the strings falling down the scale as you spun onto the platform. 

      You listened to your gut, taking a deep breath, and tipping backwards.

 The swan falls into her lover’s arms, confessing herself, opening herself up to him.

      You stared up at him. The bright lights casted a shadow over his beautiful features, but you could feel the rise and fall of his chest. His sparkling eyes peered into yours.

The swan is no longer alone. The swan has been caught and she can finally breathe easy. The worst is over, now it’s time to let her true colors show. 

Want to try another path?

“Do’ya ever want to get married, Natalia?”

When you say her name, it’s tangy and sharp, the Russian way, with a hint of Spanish, but gentle all the same. A drip of nectarine streams over your lip and down your chin, and you don’t even catch and cover it like you might if you weren’t high on dreams.

This dance academy seems like forever sometimes—its been years of your life since they demanded your recruitment—but you always take time to dream. If you don’t, Nat won’t, and her unspoken appreciation of your hope keeps the both of you warm.

At first, because she can’t help it, she thinks about marrying you, as if that’s what you meant.

“Maybe someday, I guess,” comes a thoughtful monotone that only Nat can conjure, “Why—you thinking about marrying Alec?”

“God no,” you huff, cuddling into her shoulder as the fruit goes bitter. She opens up to you physically in a minute way, receiving your warmth and closeness despite the neutrality of the coming breeze.

“Well...I just don’t know actually,” you continue, “The two of us fell in love way too young, you know… And I needed him then, so maybe it was more like dependence.”

Shifting on the cool stone of the fountain's edge, you are suddenly aware of the way the tights sit on the skin of your thighs, stretching with each movement.

It becomes hard not to think about the love shell you’re trapped in. Everyone at the academy has found a different way to cope, and for some, including the you of the past, that meant lying with someone just to remember intimacy.

That was before. Before you knew the meaning of the word, and before after dance practice naps in your little haven turned into kissing and heat and softness.

Some days, swaddled up and tangled with the other, you would press kisses under Nat’s jaw, where she smelled like cinnamon and flowers and fabric softener, and she would giggle like the world never gave any weight to feeling. She would dance her fingers along your spine when the peach stretched into moonlight, and the darkness would stun her into remembering you’re promised to another. Her brother.

“Sometimes, Nat…I think I love you instead, and that kinda scares me.”

You look at her, you squeeze the sour fruit.

She says nothing.

Her rejection is acid to your soul.

—

Shadows and blown glass and dried petals and the wood of your apartment at sunset.

It all runs through Natasha’s mind in a haze when she begins to think about the energy here and why she loves it, and why it feels so secret. She doesn’t go this far, but it all feels like sapphic poetry that a man might try to capture, but would never understand if he barged in here. It’s a secret world made for fond hearts.

When the both of you are here, you can pretend that your instructor doesn’t make you repeat across the floor routines til you bleed, or that you haven’t been criticized to the point of tears and vice. You shed the day together, so that when the masks go on in the morning, they aren’t shoved away by the bends of emotion. You touch and whisper and still yourselves passionately, being at one with dancing dust and ticking clocks.

Some days, you can’t explain, but she always understands, it’s easier to lie still and it feels like autonomy after a day of being forced to move. You can’t stop stretching your ankles and marking routines, and some nights you wake sobbing when the transition of a routine leaves you. But she’s here, like she always is, as you are for her.

You remind her to eat, when to stop, and when to put on clothes when the AC chill rattles too bitingly. You dream for her, until she can do it alone, and her soft grins grow into beaming cheesy smiles.

When you kiss her, she’s sweet. Her lips are plump and hydrated (because you can only stop dancing to drink water) and she makes soft sweet sounds against you that run down your throat and into your heart.

When she kisses you, she’s breathless, and she remembers all the ways you taught her to dream. She likes to hold your hand and kiss you languidly or sharply, like you have all the time, or none of it. Hands pushing up tank tops, thighs between each other, collarbone kisses, then Alec. He comes to take Nat home, to tell her it’s time to go, and he kisses you hard and scratchy before slamming the door, stealing your peace, and shattering your haven.

—

It’s not that you don’t like Alec. You did at one point, even feel in love with him. His energy is as strong as his body, and he seems to comically be everything Natasha isn’t. He fills rooms with overwhelming charm, his dancing is sharp, agile, cutting through the air like licks of flame.

You prefer to see Natasha dance in her tortured grace, she can be quick, but when allowed, her grace is slow like a bloom and moves outward from her form.

Natasha and Alec both have learned how to play this system. They’re both clever and witty, but Natasha is the best because of natural skill, while Alec is exceptional because he still runs the sibling rival race that Natasha dropped from years ago.

Alec plays everything to win, he is outwardly passionate, and to be the focus of his attentions is a life secured in… something. You love him in the way that you must love someone that is good enough, that can get you out of here.

If Natasha would say the word, you would leave him. She doesn’t hesitate because of some familial loyalty. Her brother isn’t a jerk, necessarily, just oblivious to the finer things. Nothing about the unique circumstances they’ve survived together brought them closer together as siblings. Natasha didn’t know that hurt people could heal from two into one. She didn’t know people should have someone to confide in, and you don’t really either.

Alec is just… a pleaser. A source of abject power in social circles. He rides the line of knowing how to deliver performance, but knowing which one will get the right results. He controls. And he is incredibly hedonistic. It’s hard not to compare this with how you and your best friend only try to pleasure the other. She lives for your smiles, even if they’re just chemical, and even if she has to squint for them in the moonlight.

There’s just something about having someone who knows hurt in the same way as you without explanation. You scratch a line in the baseboard by your door when one of you sprains or breaks an ankle again from the incessant repetitions forced upon you at the academy. You’re both fucked up enough to laugh about it.

You roll frozen water bottles over knots and stretch through the resistance of scar tissue. When the sky falls into the time of buttery peach, she falls into you, warm like sunset and lovers’ candles. You like to kiss between her thighs, where she smells sweet like sugar cane, even like bubbly hand soap, and you kiss the moons where her nails dug into her thighs too hard when she tried not to let the instructor make her cry. In the soft tissue of your underarms, when you fold over her, sometimes you feel the gentle drag of her body’s scattered hairs. And it’s intimate in ways unspeakable.

She’s pink everywhere. In her cheeks, in the reflection of her hair on the walls, between her thighs, and her lips. She feels vulnerable with you. It’s enjoyable in a way she resists some days. Reminds her of getting tickled. She hates it just like she hates not being able to pull the thread back that unwinds from her heart, and the way she opens when you smile at her.

It’s intimate and innocent the way you learn how another woman’s body can be different. The rounds of your nipples are wider, darker, softer in their edges. The curls of the hair on your mound roll into you, framing you, while Natasha’s aim down, straight, the way rain points down windows. Your eyes are honeyed caramel, Natasha’s are the splashes from the water fountain. You could look at each other forever. But you don't. You have class in the morning.

A frigid and grating rap of knuckles lets you know Alec is here. Shooting up, it’s a flurry of sweatpants and tossed scrunchies, a routine you and your best friend know too well. When you come to the door, he pushes in like he does, kisses you with the sharp grating of his newly shaved face. He groans into it, pulling you in with a scoop of a muscled arm. When he pulls away, your head drops. You can’t see her cat eyes, her firey hair, her composed face wearing its mask before she really should.

“Nat. Walk yourself alone, tonight,” Alec commands into the night, eyeing you with the calm and cool intent of predation, freezing the wax of your candles. The crickets seem too hush outside.

Nat makes for the door, with a face that reads as stoic to anyone who can’t read the slight upward curl of her lips. She pulls the ends up like strings, lest they melt into a grimace in front of this man made of fire.

“Are you sure”—

You knew it was futile before you began. He raises an eyebrow like you’re crazy, and she’s looking back, just for a second, eyes like oceans, before she picks up her bag and is out the door, walking brusquely across the quad.

You wish the chill had swallowed you instead. That you had slammed the door.

Motions happen.

You pull off your shirt, because he never knows how, he carries you to your little bed. His belt buckle hits the floor like a gunshot, and when he crawls over you, you stare at the ceiling.

—

“Baby,” he nudges.

When he touches you, you leap out of the fog, sleep leaving in a gasp.

He knows.

When he passed out without learning to perfectly spot during fouettés, they dumped buckets of ice water on his bare back. Poked him in the ribs for not improving his cambré. Made him balance relevé in the snow, naked, for falling out of it on an off day. You know why he’s the best. And it’s not because he wants to be.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, accent tumbling. He rolls closer to where you sit, hands pulling your waist til you’re close enough to gather in his arms. He tugs you to lie with him. It’s comfortable enough.

“Baby,” he starts again, massaging a welt on your shoulder, “we need to get out of here.”

You want to scream at how obvious it is. You think about how you’ve cried it on your bathroom floor. How Natasha would say “One day.”

“And baby,” he whispers again, soft like he can’t stop, always, every night, “we’re doing it together.”

He presses a ring into your hand. It might not fit, it’s most likely stolen. But that’s not the point.

“I love you.”

The innocence has left.

—

The sun has risen, the sky is white like it’s running off a dandelion, and you’re in class.

Rose. Roza. You’re the rose, the pretty flower, paired with fire for a man.

You’re in the middle of a showcase—new dancers, new victims watching your display, sitting in a line against the mirrors, watching your demonstration with Alec before they themselves will go on and show their best.

It’s controlled—always. Each turnout and disengagement from the floor matches a single piano note. You face away from each other, the idea being that you can only trust yourself to be on time, and that your partner must know you won’t fail. There is a lift at the end, that depends on this synchronization, and if you fall before Alec comes ready from his pirouette, you’ll surely be injured. He’s always ready, it’s hardly a worry.

Launching out of your plié, you spin like leaves in the wind, like the flower they named you. Catching his eye as he plants after the pirouette, he catches you by the hips, raising you with a press of his shoulders. A gentle wrist, pointed toes, arched back, and the silence of your peers. Nobody claps. Claps are for the surprised.

When Alec lets you down, slowly and controlled, at least fifteen seconds after the final note, you catch a red bun when your vision levels. Mask sealed.

—

“Did you get home safe?”

“We don’t have homes.”

“Clearly not,” you spit, burning with her rejection.

Her face says nothing. You can only hear the spouting, rushing water.

“Does it not matter to you, Natalia,” you question, voice breaking slowly.

Her voice never comes.

“We’re getting married—Alec and I…”

You say it carefully. Like a threat. Hoping she’ll care.

“I remember the you that couldn’t imagine that.”

“I remember the you that didn’t make me want to.”

She looks bored. Like she’s waiting through the tantrum of a child. Your heart swells. Irritated with anger. Mask cracking.

You turn the ring in your pocket, upset with letting her win. Upset with knowing this is how it ends, and that your one day isn’t together. Upset with spending endless nights growing into her, just for her to watch you leave with indifference.

Pulling out a coin, the one that matches hers, the ones that you found before the fountain, you watch where she sits. You watch until she looks at you, and slide it closer to the water. You don’t push it in.

“He says he loves me. Who knows if he means it. But he said it...and you didn’t. I can’t be here forever, Nat.”

She blinks, willing words to come, and as you walk away, they still haven’t.

The sky turns sour.

—

Porcelain. Smooth, painted baby angel porcelain. You twirl like you’re in a music box, like a spring propels you. You dance until the days blend together, and you perform for Americans. You dance until they want to take you.

The rose and the flame.

—

Your American pointes are stiff. They expect you to break in new ones. When the sky turns peach, you’re under fluorescents, twirling like the wind. Twirling for hours.

“I heard Americans smell like wet dogs.”

He doesn’t bother to be quiet, and he’s smiling with the promise of intertwined futures. It also helps that no one practices as late as you, lovers more in love with a journey to come.

“I heard they have a lot of money.”

“That, they do, Roza,” his tongue rolls Russian, and he crosses to kiss the tips of your fingers. He’s so sweet in the nights.

His hands are unwrapped, his regular shoes are on the floor. Your eyes flicker to them, disapproving, before looking at him. Regular shoes scuff the dance floor.

“What will they do?”

He pulls your arms out of third, pulls your hands into his, stroking your locked up knuckles, undoing the forced curves of your hands. He’s telling you to come with him. To rest your overworked body. There will be plenty of time to practice in America.

It’s a sweet moment, soured only by being the wrong ending, and your unfinished business.

“Come with me. It’s our last night in this stupid place. Let’s celebrate.”

You let him pull you close. You kiss him and you mean it.

“I just have one thing to do.”

—

Knocking on Nat’s door, you realize it’s the first time you’ve done so and been unsure if she would answer. It’s 2am, after all, and the words you spoke before were very final.

When the door swings open, not enough time passes for a wait. She hadn’t been sleeping. There aren’t many words. There doesn’t have to be. What would you even say, really?

You go for a hug, but closing the distance, it morphs into a kiss. A gentle one. A sweet meet of the lips. A goodbye. Then, both of you are crying. Neither of you knows enough about America, enough about life without the other...but too much about saying goodbye.

There aren’t any words because they’re the kind of words you’ve already said to other people. The words that you hate to hear, that have been wrung too many times from the back of your throat to cover the spaces between that no language can. There aren’t words to say how this sucks.

Your lover, your confidante, your supporter. You try not to think about that strange fight. You try not to think about how she couldn’t say she loves you. You both know she does. Only she knows that her love won’t save you from this place. If you leave and have a boring life with Alec in some city or countryside, at least no one will beat you again. No more broken ankles, and no more bad jokes about them.

Some place squeezes in the back of your throat, pulling at the wells of your eyelids. When she pulls out your coin, the one you left behind, she presses it into your hand, watery tears on her pink cheeks, and she looks like a peach sky. Standing together with silent tears, it’s a moment before you calm them, breathing together like you would when tears meant harder hits.

You put the coin in your bra, giggling, because there’s nowhere else for it to go. She giggles too, and it’s a stupid thing, but the thing you find, because something needs to do. Something needs to be tallied in the baseboards.

“He’s waiting for me,” you whisper in your watery voice.

It’s always like this. Someone always has to start it with a timer.

You come closer because she’s so warm.

She strokes your face, pushing back some fly away hairs.

“You’ll do amazing. Don’t mess it up there. Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t be afraid of them…”

She pauses, conducting the waves that threaten her composure.

“Don’t forget me...I won’t forget you.”

And that is the most she can give. That is her love, in different words, and that is the most she can say without you deciding to stay. You’d tough it all out with her, but it wouldn’t be right. She will make it out. You need to believe it.

You kiss her again. You hold her hands, and you walk away before more tears fall.

—

When you wake up, your back and legs ache, but the sunlight is in your bones, and your soul is light with new beginnings, and mourning like you’re already gone.

Alec made love to you last night, and you enjoyed it. Maybe… maybe there’s some understanding. Maybe life won’t be bad.

When you’re walked to the car that will take you to the plane, you pass the water fountain. The sky is blinding and empty. So is the seat that Nat usually takes. You taste nectarines.

Alec squeezes your shoulder, and you’re back in the moment. He tells you he loves you, the wind twirling around like a blessing. It feels unearned.

It’s an easy car ride, and as time clicks by on the digital clock, you recoil at the car freshener blowing into your nose with the biting freeze of the air conditioner. You can’t stop watching that clock. You take moments when you know Natasha’s alarm is ringing on her floor, when class starts, when lunch begins.

You think about what the American schedule will be like all the way to the plane. You wonder where you’ll go when the sky turns peach.

Soaring over cities, you see water. You see the glimmer of Nat’s tears, and you wonder if she’ll see the same sea when she makes it out.

You wonder if she’ll think of you too.

—

(reblogs appreciated!)