it all comes to a head one thursday afternoon. you're sitting cross legged on the quad, laptop balanced precariously on your knees, when miles appears with his usual confidence, bordering on cockiness. art spots you both as he’s walking back from the courts, racket bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp with sweat. he sees Miles lean down, say something that makes you smile. god, you smile, wide and easy, the one art usually earns with book recs and dumb puns and early morning coffee drops. then miles tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and art's heart stops for a moment.

he walks faster, jaw clenched. by the time he reaches you, his irritation is clear, and he doesn’t even try to hide the stare he levels at miles. “hey,” you say brightly, looking up, “you done with practice?” art’s eyes flick to you, soft for a second, before returning to the boy at your side. miles smirks, “donaldson. didn’t recognize you off the court,” “guess you don’t see me often enough, then,” the tension spikes, the air tight. you blink, confused, “art, this is miles-” “we’ve met,” he says flatly. “oh, right. from econ,” miles stretches out, lounging a little too comfortably next to you. “we’ve been spending so much time together with this group work. you know how it is,” art says nothing. you look between them, finally sensing something weird, “are you okay?” art’s mouth tightens, “yeah, peachy,”

miles stands, brushing nonexistent dirt off his jeans, “well, i should let you two lovebirds catch up,” he winks, fucking winks, at you, “don’t work too hard tonight,” you wave, confused, and turn to art, “what was that?” he doesn’t answer, just stares after miles like he’s mentally ripping him in half. “wait,” you say slowly, eyes narrowing, “are you jealous?” he doesn’t answer. his eyes are steely, his posture rigid, shoulders squared like he's back on the court, facing a serve he’s already sure he’ll lose to. the silence stretches, and something unsettles in your chest. “art?” his jaw ticks, “you really don’t see it, do you?” you frown, “see what?” “miles,” his voice is clipped, tense, “he’s not just trying to study. he flirts with you every chance he gets,” you scoff, “that’s ridiculous,”

he crosses his arms, “is it?” “yes! he’s just friendly-” "friendly doesn’t look like that,” “he bought me a matcha and said i was smart, art. that’s not a proposal,” his eyes flash, but he doesn’t raise his voice. instead, it goes low, restrained. “he tucked your hair behind your ear,” “so?” “so-” he breaks off, exhaling sharp through his nose, “so you let him. you smiled at him like that meant something,” you go still. “i smiled because i was trying to be nice,” you say slowly, “god forbid i be polite to someone i’m working with,” “it’s not about being polite. it’s about you not seeing it, and me having to see it every time i look over and he’s next to you like he belongs there,”

“oh, come on,” you snap, “what exactly do you want from me? should i stop answering his texts? refuse to work with him in public so you don’t get uncomfortable?” “i want you to notice,” he says, louder now, “i want you to see how he looks at you, because the longer you don’t, the more it feels like you like it,” your breath catches, your face hot. there’s a silence, cold and wide, jarring. you blink once, twice, but your voice is steady, “you really think i want that kind of attention? that i’d pick someone like miles over you?” your stomach twists, “jesus, art. that’s what this is, isn’t it? you don’t trust me,”

“that’s not-” he runs a hand through his hair, looking away, “that’s not what i meant,” “but it’s what you said,” you bite, “that i smile too much, that i’m not paying attention, that maybe i want it,” “i didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly, “but yeah, fine, i’m jealous. and yeah, i hate it. i hate watching him get parts of you i don’t. i hate feeling like i’m asking for scraps of your attention while you text him back before i’ve even left practice,” you shake your head, sighing, “you’re not asking for scraps. you never have to. i give you everything, art. i’ve shown up for you in every way i know how,” “then why does it feel like i’m always one step behind?” that lands like a hit. you pause, taken aback.

“i didn’t know you felt like that,” you say, voice thinner than you want it to be. he exhales, finally letting his arms fall to his sides, “i didn’t either until now,” "i have class," you run a hand through your hair, "i'll just talk to you later," "baby, wait-" "it's fine, art," you mumble, "i'll see you tomorrow or something," "yeah, okay," he nods, forcing himself to let you go, "i love you," it comes out like a question, tentative and scared. you look up at him, eyes softening, "i love you too. i'll call you after class," he watches you go, biting at the inside of his cheek, regret teeming in his stomach, met with lingering frustration. when you finally got finished with your classes, you walked back to your dorm, your phone balanced on your shoulder as the line rang. he picked up on the third ring, "hey, baby," "hi," you smiled to yourself, relieved that he didn't seem angry anymore, "i'm all done for the day. do y'wanna come over?" "yeah, of course. i went for a run, so i should probably shower first. give me 30?" "mkay, see you then," you hung up, tucking your phone into your pocket.

he was at your door exactly 30 minutes later, hair still dripping water from his shower, a hoodie thrown on over his shorts. “hi, pretty,” he smiled, but you could still see the foundations of hesitation in his eyes. “mm, hey baby,” you smiled softly up at him, pulling him inside, “you feel better?” “yeah, little bit,” he nodded, immediately collapsing onto your bed, reaching for you. you crawled into his lap, brushing the damp hair from his forehead gently. “do you wanna talk about it?” “no,” he mumbled, “just feel like an asshole and an idiot, but i still fucking hate that guy,” “i won’t work with him anymore after this,” you brushed your lips against his jaw, “does that make you feel better?” “don’t have to do that,” his hands settled on your hips, “just fucking hate the thought of him touching you, of you smiling at him like that,” “art,” you frowned slightly, pausing your kisses against his skin, “come on, baby. you know he barely touched me, it was just my hair,” “yeah, brushed it away just like i do to you,” his voice grew slightly more tense, and he shifted underneath you, “you’re not- he can’t just go around touching you whenever he wants,” “hey,” you pulled back, looked into his eyes, “he won’t touch me again, alright? you’re okay,” “i know i’m okay,” he grumbled, “you don’t get it,”

“make me get it, then,” you settled back down into him, pressing a kiss to his throat, “show me,” he sighed like he was holding something back, his hands tightening on your hips, “you’re being a tease,” “i’m not doin anything,” you played innocent, sucking lightly at the skin beneath his jaw. he hummed, quiet and low, “you just can’t help yourself, that it?” “maybe,” you giggled softly, “maybe i liked seeing you all worked up over me. think it’s hot,” “yeah? you think it’s hot to piss me off?” he rolled his eyes, but you could see his cheeks warm, “maybe you should put that mouth to use, stop antagonizing me,” you grinned to yourself, content, and shifted off of his lap, “go on, then. take what you want,” you two walked this line often, shifting between art taking control and passing it back to you. it was rare to see him in this element, frustrated and bossy. he traced your jaw with his fingers gently as you sat on the carpeted floor at the edge of the bed, his shorts tented, “you want that, baby? want me to use you?” a surprised, soft hum left you, “yeah, want you to use me, wanna make it up to you,” “oh, fuck,” he groaned quietly, already taking off his basketball shorts, watching the way your eyes darkened when they fell on his exposed skin.

“you’re already so hard,” your voice was low, sultry, awed. “pretty girl in my lap telling me she likes pissing me off, and you thought i wouldn’t be?” he replied sarcastically, curling one hand at the back of your head just enough to gather a bit of hair, “open up, since you want it so bad,” you obeyed, humming around him as he slid into your open mouth, heavy and warm. “fuck,” he groaned, head thrown back, “god, you’re so warm,” you laved at his flushed skin, one of your hands coming to rest on his balls, his moans growing more frequent at the added stimulation. “such a good girl,” he panted, “god, look at you,” you slipped your free hand between your thighs, rubbing your clit as he hit the back of your throat, your eyes welling with tears from the pleasure. “bet you’re so wet,” he managed to bite out, “you’re so sweet, soaking from sucking my cock. god, you’re perfect,” your eyes fell closed as you worked your fingers quicker, your tongue tracing the vein of his cock. “close,” he warned, the muscles of his thighs twitching slightly, his moans more whines now, “baby, fuck, please,” you could feel his control slipping, the dominant nature disappearing the closer he got, “can i cum in your mouth?” you didn’t answer, just hummed and hollowed out your cheeks in the way you knew he liked, his hand tightening in your hair. “oh, god, baby-“ he whined, hips bucking, “cumming- fuck, fuck you’re so good-“ you swallowed it all, licking him clean slowly, watching the way his chest rose and fell rapidly as you pulled away.

“thank you,” he managed between breaths, “you’re perfect, i swear to god. please come here,” you smiled to yourself, climbing back onto the bed, your knees red from the carpet, “what d’you want, baby?” “want you to sit on my face,” he said it with a certainty you didn’t see often, “please,” “oh,” you warmed, “yeah, okay. whatever you want,” he laid on his back, waiting patiently, cock still half hard. you held onto the headboard as you settled just above his mouth, gazing down at him, “you ready?” he didn’t bother answering. his big hands just grabbed at your hips, pulling you down as a surprised gasp left your throat, his tongue meeting your clit immediately. “oh!” you moaned, gripping the headboard, “oh, fuck,” he lapped at you desperately, hungry for you like always, moaning into your pussy. you ground against him, unable to help yourself, whining and moaning above him. he dipped his tongue inside of you, moaning, the sound vibrating against your walls as you clenched around him. “god, fuck- just like that,” you pulled ay his hair with one hand, holding yourself up with the other, “you want me to cum, baby? i’m so close,” he nodded underneath you, sucking your clit into his mouth, lapping needily. “oh, god,” your thighs shook as you approached your high, “oh- art, fuck, i’m-“ you cried out as you came, practically riding his face, your eyes rolled back and legs shaking. he worked you through it, his mouth slowing but not yet disappearing, giving you the decision when to stop. you slowly, shakily, got off of him, laying down beside him as you both caught your breath.

“wait, just one more second,” art all but whined, his thigh pressed between yours in the crowded janitor closet hidden in the busy stanford library, “missed you so much, baby, just one more minute.” “art, i have to go,” you giggled, his wild blonde hair sticking to your lip gloss as he pressed his lips to your cheek, “i have cheer practice, i can’t be late.” “fuck cheer,” he licked at a bruise he’d left on your neck days prior, nuzzling against it, “come to my dorm tonight? please?” “fine,” you sighed dramatically, grinning as you smoothed his hair with your palm, “you look like a hot mess.” “your hot mess,” he leaned into your touch, warm with need and restless energy, “one more kiss?” “fine,” you pulled him down into another kiss, which turned into another, your tongues brushing and mutual whining muffled by the other’s mouths. you jerked away as you heard laughter outside the door, eerily close. “gotta go,” you pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, smoothing out your uniform and hair, “see you tonight, artie.” he watched, painfully hard, as you slipped out the door, disappearing into the library and headed for the field. god, he was so gone for you.

the two of you had been meeting in secret for months, since the start of your freshman year at stanford. he was, undoubtedly, nowhere near your group of friends in terms of popularity. he’d charmed you, though, with his shy smiles and bright eyes, the way he chewed on the end of his pen as he zoned out in your shared calculus class, his awkward stuttering the first time you asked for his notes. you’d properly met when your boyfriend (at the time) shoved him in the hallway, too obvious and wrapped up in his conversation with the other football boys to notice as art’s shoulder bumped the wall, his nose scrunched as his bag fell from his shoulder. “i’m so sorry,” you said quickly, reaching down to retrieve the worn jansport, frowning, “he’s just- i’m sure he didn’t mean to.” “yeah, i’m sure,” he took the backpack from you gingerly, almost embarrassed, “it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” you introduced yourself, smiling faintly, and he almost looked amused. “i know. i gave you my calc notes like two days ago.” “shit, yeah,” you laughed, feeling caught, “art, right?” “yeah,” he looked surprised, “art, uhm, art donaldson.” “cool,” you smiled, tucking your hair behind your ear, “see you around then, art donaldson.” he’d stood, dumbfounded, in a cloud of your perfume and the image of your smile burned into his mind.

you’d entered into a whirlwind of kissing in closets and corners, sneaking up to his dorm and muffling your moans in his pillow, texting him when you were supposed to be studying. the first time you came to his room, you’d just dumped your boyfriend, and he’d been hesitant to touch you, afraid you needed time, or consoling. he realized that was far from accurate, however, when you climbed into his lap and told him where to touch you. he felt, distantly, like he was being pranked, like this was some sort of cruel joke from god, as you came apart on top of him. he’d done nothing, in any life, to deserve this, surely. but then you’d come back the next week, kissed him with your bubblegum glossy lips, and he thought maybe he’d somehow, against all odds, earned it. you touched him like he was important, like he was more than just some awkward, perpetually stoned loner. he felt like more, every time you smiled at him, or batted your lashes as you begged him to sneak over to see you between classes. the concept of you wanting him, of you seeking him out, made him weak kneed and dizzy each time.

the vandals frequented the small diner you worked at on the weekends, always occupying your biggest table, sometimes dragging chairs across the room just to add more space. you'd gotten used to it after a while, their loudness and constant requests for refills on their drinks. you'd even gotten used to the catcalls and men asking for your number, despite your irritation each time. when the photographer, who you later learned was named danny, started joining them, they calmed down slightly. he was a breath of fresh air, polite and quiet, always leaving extra cash that you weren't sure he could afford as your tip. he didn't pry, didn't outwardly flirt, just smiled and nodded in greeting, only letting his gaze linger once he was sure you'd turned away. but as always, the vandals had a way of taking the innocence out of things. "you oughta just ask her out, man," benny nudged his arm, grinning, "we all see the way you're starin at her," "nah," danny just shook his head, covering his smile with his hand, "yall have already hit on her enough. i don't wanna add to it," over the course of the night, it snowballed, and eventually the guys were placing bets, trying in vain to hype him up to ask you out.

you'd overheard, of course, as you wiped down glasses behind the bar. you'd watched as they literally threw money at him, and each time, he just shook his head. you had a quiet appreciation for him, after all his polite gentleness with you. you looked on, fondly, as his respectful attitude held fast. you knew he was handsome, couldn't ignore it even the first time you saw him, but tonight he seemed better than ever. maybe it was the softness getting to you, a welcome difference to the usual men you spoke with. maybe it was his unwavering confidence in doing the right thing, in being a gentleman, even when they wouldn't let it drop. sometime in the night, despite your long standing wish to remain single, you'd made a haphazard decision to go over to the table, your phone number jotted down across a napkin. "call me," you smiled, untying your apron, "my shifts over, but you can reach me there. see ya, danny," he just stared, half shocked, as you walked away, hips swaying.

he called you at noon the next day, twirling the phone cord around his finger as he waited for you to pick up, nerves warming his skin. "hello?" you answered on the fourth ring, voice hazy through the phone. "hey, hi, it's me. danny," he cleared his throat, shifting the phone in his hand, "from the diner," "i know who you are, danny," you laughed, and it lit him on fire with desire to make you do that over and over again, "how're you?" "i'm good, yeah, just developing some pictures from last night. you?" "good," you smiled to yourself, "i'm glad you called," "yeah, me too," he pictured you, smiling and comfortable in your house, happy to talk to him of all people, "so, the guys are havin' a little get together tonight at johhny's place, just a bonfire and all, if you wanted to drop by," "it's monday," you laughed again, soft and crackled through the speaker, "yall party every night? but yeah, sure, i'll drop by. what's the address?" he had to restrain himself from thanking god, right there in front of you, as he gave you the street number for johnny's house. "i'll see you tonight then, doll," "yeah, see you tonight," you grinned, bright and wide, at the nickname, "bye, danny,"

johnny's house was loud even from the street, sounds of men yelling and music playing carrying through the chilly night air. you were dressed in a black dress and mary janes, free from your work uniform finally, your hair curled neatly and pinned back. you were cautious as you entered, looking around curiously, but your eyes found him like your very own center of gravity. "danny, hi!" you shouted over the music, and his attention immediately snapped to you. "you made it," he smiled, easy and casual, "you look gorgeous," "oh, thank you," your cheeks warmed as his hand rested on the small of your back, gentle and tentative, "cmon, i'll take you somewhere quieter," he led you outside to a small bonfire, surrounded by fold out chairs and littered with empty bottles and cigarette butts. there, by the crisp fire, he told you all about how he ended up with the vandals, about the work he was doing and the book he eventually hoped to published. you told him about your own life, how you were working the diner on the weekends as you put yourself through college, about your family back home. you grew closer with each bit of conversation, sitting with his knee knocking yours, your shoulder pressed against his.

"can i take a photo of you?" he asked after a while, fidgeting with the camera he always had around his neck, "you look so beautiful like this in the firelight," "oh," you hesitated, cheeks flushed, but nodded slowly, "sure, danny. thank you," he held practiced precision as he snapped the photo, smiling to himself, clearly pleased with his work. "doesn't do you justice," he murmured, more to himself than you. "where'd you learn to be so sweet?" "comes natural, i guess," he grinned slightly, shrugging, "pretty girls draw it outta me," "i bet you say that to all the girls," you teased, bumping his leg with your own. "nah, doll. just you," "i gotta ask," you started, heart still thrumming from his affection, "what're you lookin for? i swore off dating for the last year, but i've had such a nice time, and i don't wanna assume-" "woah, hey," he held up his hands in faux surrender, smiling, "we can take it slow, darlin. whatever you want, yeah? we can just enjoy the ride," he leaned slightly closer, eyes bright on the fireside, "i'd love to go steady with you, whenever you're ready. i don't mess around with girls," your eyes briefly fell to his lips, then back up to his eyes, "i think i'd like that, too, once we get to know each other a little better,"

you never kissed a boy on the first date. you hardly knew danny, in the grand scheme of things. the vandals were not a group you needed to be any closer to than you already were. you were distantly aware of all three facts as you leaned in, pressing your lips to his. he kissed you like a lover, like he already knew the taste of your lips, like he was already familiar with the ways he could soften you up. he reached for you, held you like he needed more, pulled you into his lap like you were light as a feather. his hands settled on your hips as yours rested on his shoulders, balancing yourself as he tipped his head back, letting you kiss him like you were devouring him. "inside," he panted as he pulled away just enough to get the words out, "upstairs," you nodded, too far gone to think too hard, scrambling out of his lap and walking backwards as he kissed you the whole way into the house. he led you upstairs, pushed open a bedroom door and kicked it shut behind him, twisting the lock with the hand that wasn't on your waist. he led you to the bed, kissed you dizzy as he laid above you, his weight just enough to fill you with warmth. his hands were under your bra and yours were halfway down the front of his jeans before you stopped, movements pausing and chest heaving. "i don't do one night stands, danny," you whispered. "who said it had to be one night, doll?" he kissed down your jaw, featherlight, "you said we just gotta get to know each other better. lemme get to know you, darlin,"

minutes later you were on your back, legs spread and dress tossed into the floor, danny peppering kisses on your thighs, mumbling into your skin. “beautiful,” another kiss, just below your core, “look so pretty, waitin for me,” and then his mouth was on you, hot and wet, dizzyingly good. he laved at you, greedy and wanting, moaning into you as you pulled at his hair. “oh, danny,” you moaned, back arched, “god, just like that,” he slid two fingers inside you, slow and gentle, curling them upwards just enough to have you gasping. “you close, darlin?” he asked from between your thighs, eyes dark as he gazed up at you. “y-yes,” you nodded, core clenched tight, “oh, that’s so good,” he returned his tongue to your clit, sucking gently as his fingers worked, your eyes blurring. “oh, danny-“ you came with a moan, thighs shaking and closing around his head, your hips bucking slightly. “there you go,” he pressed a kiss to the inside of your high, pulling out his fingers carefully, “atta girl,”

you caught your breath as he climbed back over you, catching your lips in a slow, tender kiss, his hips slotting between yours. you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, bringing him down closer, gasping against his lips as his cock slid against your slick center. “you still wanna do this?” he asked, resting his forehead on yours, “you absolutely sure, doll?” “i’m sure,” you nodded quickly, your hand grabbing for him, pumping him slowly in your hand, “want you so badly,” “oh, fuck,” he hissed, “god, your hands are so soft, baby,” you slowly, tentatively, pressed him to your entrance, sucking in a breath as he slowly pushed inside you, just the tip. “god, you’re so tight,” he exhaled shakily, all his restraint focused on going slow, “so warm,” “you’re so big,” you bit at your bottom lip to keep from moaning, “oh, danny,” he took one of your thighs in his hand gently, pulling your legs further apart, pupils dilated as he watched himself moving in and out of you. you were a moaning mess beneath him, the sheets fisted in your hands and your hips rocking to meet his thrusts. “not gonna last,” he grit out, already twitching inside you, “fuck, darlin, i’m close,” “that’s okay,” you pulled him down closer, kissing his jaw, down his neck, “can cum for me, danny,” “oh, god,” that sent him over the edge, the softness of your voice paired with your filthy words, and he came with a quiet moan of your name, his hips stuttering before stilling as he caught his breath.

"there," you stood, dusting off your hands, "that should hold him until you can get him to a hospital," "we ain't takin him to a hospital," the tallest one, seemingly the leader, spoke up once again, "do you not know who we are, girly?" "then take him home and keep it clean," you shrugged, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, "and no, but i got a pretty good idea," "name's riff," he said it with such arrogance, you almost smiled, "and these here are the jets," "well, riff, keep his wounds clean," you grinned, just slightly, "i don't care much who you are, long as you get him some help," you turned away, but someone caught your wrist, their palm cool against your skin, "wait," riff said, bordering on desperate, "can you- could you come with us or somethin? i don't know jack about first aid," "fine," you said after a moment, throwing caution to the wind, "you can come to my apartment, but you can't stay,"

they had, in fact, stayed, at least until they were sure the boy, who you learned to call snowboy, was healed up. they'd all gathered in your shoebox studio, watching with mercurial gazes as you tended to the gash, taking such gentle care of him. "we could use somebody like you," riff had said, lingering in your doorway, "can't take care of these idiots all by myself," "you know where to find me," you'd told him, unsure of the word's weight, "i'll be here if you need anything," he'd returned three weeks later, baby john tucked under his arm, bleeding from his ear. you let the two of them sleep there for the night, their exhaustion evident, bags under their eyes and a slurred murmur in their speech. they were gone when you woke up, but you smiled to yourself as you surveyed the living room, the throw blankets folded messily and blood wiped from the table.

that had been three years ago. they made a habit of stumbling in your door, stabbed or shot, too stupid or stubborn to stop the rumbles that occurred almost weekly. you and riff were, well, nothing, in the grand scheme of things. you tried to remind yourself of that, that the two of you were not an 'us', but merely a product of circumstances a mutual need for some softness in your lives. he was your best friend, above all. you'd said it a million times, especially to the other jets, "we're just really good friends," friends probably didn't touch each other the way you did, didn't sneak in through windows and curl up in bed. they definitely didn't sneak kisses when the other boy's heads were turned, or sometimes more, when you were alone in the apartment.

it had started slowly, as most things do, your hands lingering on his skin after cleaning a wound, tears of relief pricking your eyes when he returned after days of wondering. his hands would find themselves on your waist, and at first, he claimed it was just to steady you. truthfully, he just needed to feel close to you, to anchor himself to the one thing he felt genuinely good about in his life. he loved the jets, of course, he considered them family. but sometimes, he got the gnawing feeling that maybe they were all just complicit in leading each other down a path they wouldn't come back from. you, though? you were goodness personified, something that he could really believe in.

he rolled in through your window one night, sweaty and breathless, his shirt torn and blood staining his exposed torso. "riff?" you shot up from your bed, brows knit, "are you okay? jesus, what happened?" "don't worry your pretty head, girly," he was nearly wheezing as he propped himself against the wall, "just got jumped out in the alley by some sharks, got caught without my boys," "my god," you rushed over to him, brushing stray hairs from his face, "what is it? stabbed, shot?" "stabbed," he muttered, "fuckin sharks and their knives," "come on," you pulled him to the bathroom, sitting him on the ridge of the tub, pulling the ripped shirt up over his head. he groaned as you pressed disinfectant on the wound, blotting it carefully, blood soaking through the cotton pads. "you're okay," you murmured, nose scrunched in concentration as you worked.

when you finished, you led him back to your bedroom, nestling into the sheets beside him. "thanks for that," he said it quietly, like he could barely stand to, his lips brushing your shoulder. "you know i'll always fix you up," you said softly, fingers finding his beneath the blanket, "wish you'd be more careful," "yeah, yeah," you could practically feel his eyes roll, "whatever you say, dollface," you let him pretend, for a moment, that he'd actually listen to your scolding. he kissed you, deep and slow, and you let it all fall away around you. he pulled you into his lap, your hair falling in a curtain around the two of you, his hands settled on your waist. "be gentle with me," he teased, already breathless from your position as you straddled him, "don't wanna tear those stitches you worked so hard on," "wouldn't dream of it," you murmured, grinning as you kissed him again.

the announcement went up on the studio bulletin board at the start of winter - the nutcracker. you were clara, and art was the prince. you read it twice, the words sinking in, a sort of nervous anticipation spreading through you. not that you didn't want the role, you definitely did, but you knew what it meant. there would be hours spent in the studio, hands on each other's bodies, breathing in time. rehearsals started the next day, before you had much time to work yourself up. the entire first week was awkward in a way you didn't expect. not clumsy, you were both too good for that, but careful, hesitant. you moved through the pas de deux with tightrope tension, precise and contained. most of your energy was focused on ignoring the heat of his hands on your waist, the steadiness of his grip during the lifts, the way he whispered "i've got you," the entire time you were suspended in his arms. "again," the choreographer nearly barked from the corner of the room, pacing and watching carefully, "you're too tense," art's palm rested on your back as he guided you back to the mark, "ready?" "ready," you said, not looking at him.

week two was different, more intense. he stopped asking you if you were ready. his movements grew sharper, more concise as his confidence grew. you could feel him watching you in the mirror during your solo portions, tracking every shift in your weight, every minute hesitation. you were running through act two one evening, alone save for your choreographer once again. the lift sequence was clean, almost perfect, but your footing faltered when you landed. "you're holding back," he murmured, still close enough that you could feel his breath on your ear. "i'm not," you said quickly, tone defensive. "you are," his tone was quiet, thoughtful, as if he'd been considering it for a while. you hummed, but didn't answer.

by week three, the carefulness was gone. rehearsals blurred into muscle memory, yet, the air between the two of you stayed charged. he'd catch your gaze mid turn and hold it a beat too long, or his fingers would curl just a bit too tightly around your waist on a lift. you told yourself he was just invested, just determined to make the partnership work as smoothly as possible. the night before the dress rehearsal, you stayed late to run through the snow pas a final time. the studio was dark except for a single light over the floor, the show music playing from your bluetooth speaker. somewhere between the final turn and the bow, your chest was heaving, and his hand lingered against your back. "it's all going to be perfect," he said, soft, like a promise. you weren't sure if he meant the performance or something else entirely. you couldn't tell where the lines blurred anymore.

opening night came in a flash, all bright lights and last minute stretches. backstage smelled like hairspray and rosin, familiar and warm. art was across the room, adjusting his jacket, but you could feel his presence like a weight on your chest. act one passed in a blur. you hardly had time to register the audience before you were in the wings again, the pas de deux music swelling. you returned to the stage, and there he was, steady and certain like he had been for weeks. every movement was seamless. the lifts floated by, the turns landed exactly where they needed to. underneath it all, the tension hummed, threatening to snap like a violin string. the final pose came quicker than you expected. he kneeled, and your hands just barely touched. the applause washed over you, but all you could see was him, that faint smile on his lips.

backstage was chaos, with dancers darting in every direction, stage hands calling out instructions. you slipped away to your dressing room, attempting to catch your breath, when a hand circled around your wrist. you turned, and art was there, hair damp at his temples, eyes shining with adrenaline. "you were perfect," he said, quiet but certain. "so were you," you managed, but the tone was uneven, wobbly. he didn't step back, didn't falter, and the heat of him pressed closer, his hand still on your wrist. "guess all those years paid off," it sounded like an attempt at a casual joke, but the words came off too heavy, his gaze too focused to be anything but intense in the moment. "guess so," you said, simple and clean, though you ached to say more. for a moment, neither of you moved. the noise of backstage dulled, seemingly far away behind the walls of your dressing room. his gaze dipped to your mouth for a moment, and then he kissed you.

it wasn't rushed, but wasn't quite tentative either. just certain, like he had been waiting, like the tension building between the two of you hadn't been all in your mind. his hand slid to your jaw, easy and right, holding you like you might slip away. "don't hold back next time," he murmured as he pulled away, and you could hardly hear him over the sound of your pulse thrumming in your eardrums. you'd always felt something there, but art was so unassuming at times, it was hard to tell. you figured he'd be the type to ask before he kissed you, to take baby steps until he secured the go-ahead. this version of art, flush with confidence, fresh from the stage, was a new sort of territory, not that you minded. "have you been holding back?" you asked, eyes on his, lips parted and still tingling. "i'm always holding back when it comes to you," you could feel his breath fan against your face when he spoke, and it filled you with an ache to kiss him again, "i assumed you knew," you didn't answer, didn't quite know how, so you pressed your lips to his instead, standing on your pointe shoes to reach him better.

"seriously? backstage?" a voice interrupted you, and you pulled away, cheeks pink. you looked up to see isla, one of the snowflakes, holding part of her costume, grinning like she'd discovered the best kept secret. you choked out a laugh, chees growing redder by the minute, "we were just-" "-making sure the partnership reads well from the wings," art finished, deadpan and simple. she just rolled her eyes, shaking her head, "yeah, sure. good luck keeping this quiet at the after party," she disappeared down the hall, and you caught the faintest smirk tugging at art's lips. "subtle," you muttered. "wasn't trying to be," he replied, sounding quite pleased, his hand still on your arm. "i'll meet you at the party," you said as you pushed him away to get changed. the moment you closed the dressing room door, your fingers brushed your lips, the moment playing on repeat in your mind as you shed your costume.

the after party was in one of the old, unused studios, the mirrors covered with cloth, music thumping from a speaker in the corner. half the cast was still in stage makeup, and some had kept remnants of their costumes, to use as photo props, you were sure. you were scrubbed clean of the heavy makeup, dressed in shorts and an oversized sweatshirt, your pointe shoes replaced by the comfort of your converse. you walked in, and your eyes immediately found art, buzzing around the center of the room like a true extrovert. there was a faint smear of glitter on his cheek from your exchange, only visible when the light hit it just right, but it made your heart flutter nonetheless. he found you soon after, passing you a cup of punch someone had brought, that tasted more like vodka than fruit. "i feel like everyone's staring," you told him, sipping it gingerly. "let them," he shrugged, grinning, "who cares?"

he stuck close the entire evening, not in a possessive way, just keeping you aware of his presence. he topped off your drink before you even realized it was low, kept a hand on your low back, warm and guiding, steered you away when you were uncomfortable from the amount of people crowing too close. at some point, someone cranked the music louder, the sound reverberating off the studio floor. art didn't dance, not recreationally, he always said. but when party 4 u started playing, he let you drag him over to the area where others had gathered, punch drunk and winding around each other. you looped your arms around his neck, your chest pressed against his, slightly breathless and very caught up in the moment. "you're so beautiful," he said, just loud enough for you to hear, his lips brushing your ear as he leaned down. against your better judgment, you tilted your head, bringing his lips to yours with a hum. he wrapped his arms around your waist, picking you up just an inch from the floor, kissing you deeply. time blurred, and you let yourself get lost in his lips, in his touch, in the music flowing through the room.

hours passed, and eventually you found yourself outside, the cool december air shocking your bare legs. his jacket was tucked around your shoulders despite you being in a sweatshirt and him only having a thin t shirt on, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "you going home?" he asked, but he had the sort of tone that told you he already knew the answer. "yours?" you asked, hesitating just slightly. he didn't answer, just flashed you that same smile he'd had during the final position, and started walking you to his apartment. it was quiet when you arrived, dimly lit, smelling faintly of pine and shoe plaster. he leaned against the counter, watching you with the same unreadable expression he had at the party. "what?" you asked, half nervous under his inspecting gaze. "nothing," he said, "just thinking of how long we've been doing this," "dancing together?" his mouth curved into a smile, "yeah, that too," you stepped closer, "and?" "maybe it took being on stage tonight to make me realize," he trailed off, but his eyes stayed focused on yours. "realize what?" you closed the last of the distance, your hip brushing his. he didn't answer, pulling you into a kiss, his hands settling onto your waist. you thought, distantly, as he walked you backwards to his bedroom, that maybe this was what you'd been holding back from the entire time.

he was gentle as he guided you to the plush comforter across his bed, immediately enveloping you in warmth and the familiar smell of his cologne, a soothing balm to your senses. "is this a bad idea?" you panted, once he'd already discarded your clothes into a pile of cotton at the foot of his bed, the reality of it all kicking in as the ceiling fan brought goosebumps to your skin. "i don't believe in bad ideas," he murmured, busy sucking light bruises onto your chest as you arched into him, "i'd say this is one of the better ideas i've had, actually," "i just don't wanna regret anything," you said it even as your hand circled him, warm and heavy. "fuck," he sucked in a breath at the contact, nipping at your skin, "then don't regret it, angel," his fingers met your core, and your back arched from the bed, lips parted, "art, please," "please what?" he dragged his lips up the column of your throat, taunting and featherlight, "do you want more? or are you too worried about regretting it?" "i won't regret it," you caught the back of his neck with your free hand, fingers threading through his hair as you brought him down to kiss you, rough and hot.

"condom?" you managed between kisses, one hand still wrapped around his cock, the other on his chest. he hummed in acknowledgement, rolling over and fumbling for his nightstand drawer. you watched, eyes heavy with lust, as he rolled it on, straining against the latex. "where were we?" he flashed you that signature grin, rolling back on top of you, your legs parting to accommodate him. "mm, you might have to remind me," you teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "oh, what a shame," he shifted his weight, pressing his thumb to your clit, circling slowly, "is this jogging your memory, baby?" "oh, art," your eyelids fell closed, your hips bucking slightly into his touch. "there you go," he murmured, kissing the sweat sheened skin of your chest as he slowly slid a finger inside of you, wrapping his lips around your nipple. you gasped, hand settling in his hair, unsure if you were holding him there or pushing him away. he curled his fingers up, adding another, his thumb still resting on your clit.

he sat back on his knees as your moans grew louder, watching your reactions with a sort of entranced look on his face, lips parted and slick with spit. "art, wait," you clenched around his fingers, your orgasm approaching, "oh, fuck, so good," "what did i tell you about holding back?" if anything, his movements grew quicker, "don't do that with me, angel. let me see you unravel," you came with a gasp, vision blurred by the intensity of pleasure, soaking the sheets beneath you. "fuck," he groaned, pupils blown as he gazed at you, sliding his fingers out gently, "that was so fucking hot," you watched, dazed, as he wrapped his lips around his fingers, tongue laving at the soaked skin, sucking them clean. you could've come undone all over again just from the sight, your chest heaving. "can i fuck you now, baby?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knee, then further up your thigh. you nodded without a second thought, already reaching for him, "yes, please,"

he settled back between your thighs, impossibly hard as he tapped the tip of his cock against your pulsing clit, exhaling a sharp breath. "so wet f'me," he muttered, using one hand to spread your legs further, resting your calf on his shoulder. he moaned, low and deep in his chest, when he finally pushed inside of you, his hand on your thigh tightening. "oh, god," you relaxed around him, eyes rolling back as you felt him slide in, buried deep before pulling out to thrust back in. "so tight," his teeth were grit just slightly, like he was restraining himself, "you're fucking perfect," he dropped a hand to your clit, letting the pad of his thumb rest just over the sensitive nerves, not quite adding pressure, just letting it brush against you enough to have you squeezing down around him.

"pictured this for so long," he panted, his free hand moving to roll your nipple between two fingers, grabbing at your chest, "used to- fuck, used to think about you at night. wanted to fuck you in the studio," his words only added to the slickness between your thighs. you hadn't expected him like this, so open, so vocal. "bet you'd like that," he was almost whining, voice raspy and lilting high, "getting fucked in front of the mirrors. you'd look so pretty, angel. always so fucking pretty," "wanted you for so long," you were breathless, chest rising and falling rapidly, "should've done this years ago," "yeah, we should've," he pushed your legs back so your knees met your chest, his thrusts hitting deeper, "takin it so good, baby, look at you," "fuck," you gasped as he just barely hit your cervix, angling his hips so he brushed up against that spot deep inside you that had your hips bucking and eyes rolling back.

"close," he warned between barely muffled moans, eyes fixed on the way he opened you up, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit, "can you give me another one, angel? put on a show f'me?" you nodded, too lost in pleasure to respond properly, teeth sunk so deep into your bottom lip you were sure to draw blood. "can feel you getting close," he keened, "taking me so good, sweet girl. come on, there you go," his praise sent you closer to the edge, and moments later you were reaching your high once again, moaning his name desperately. "fuck, good girl," he groaned, watching you spasm around him, moving his hand from your clit to rest on your throat, "so fucking close," "let go, art," you encouraged, voice hoarse and breathy, "don't hold back, remember? wanna watch you," "oh, jesus," his lips parted, head tilted back as he spilled into the condom, your words sending him reeling. his hips twitched as he rode out his high, thrusting only twice more before pulling out, gently easing your legs back down as he caught his breath.

the first time you met mike faist, it was after your chemistry read. you had just stepped out of the audition room, flushed and half drenched from the july humidity. he was sitting in the lobby, hunched over his phone like a teenager waiting for a ride home from school. you recognized him immediately. he looked up as you passed, your eyes catching for only a second too long. "hey," he said, standing, "you’re tashi?” “today i am,” you shrugged, grinning. that made him smile—just a flicker, but enough. later, you’d learn that’s how mike is. always giving you just enough to want more.

filming started in the fall. boston was pretending to be new york, and the city felt like it was holding its breath—gray skies, quiet tension, leaves like dying embers scattered across sidewalks. you trained together. ate together. waited through lighting setups lying side by side on the court like kids after gym class, arms barely brushing, pretending not to notice. it was subtle at first, the way he watched you. like a note just off-key, barely audible. you told yourself you imagined it, but you knew the difference between acting and something real.

mike looked at you like he was terrified and fascinated all at once. you shot a scene in the locker room one day—tense, intimate, filled with subtext. between takes, he stayed quiet, hands on his knees, staring at the floor. "you okay?" you asked, approaching carefully. he looked up, eyes dark and unreadable. "you're really good at pretending you don't know how magnetic you are," he said quietly. the air thickened, but still, you said nothing.

that night, after drinks with the cast, he found you outside your hotel room, hands buried in his coat pockets. you didn’t say a word. you just stepped back, let him in. he kissed you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed, like you might vanish if he was too greedy with you. his hands hovered until you took them and placed them on your hips. “i’ve been thinking about this since the read-through,” he whispered into your skin. “i know,” you said, voice soft, “me too,” it wasn’t wild, it wasn’t frenzied. it was slow, aching, careful—two people starved for something that scared them. after, he stayed, just to hold you, his breath against your neck, heartbeat calm.

neither of you spoke about it in the morning. from then on, everything was a negotiation. there were moments you almost reached for him in public—instincts trained from rehearsal and habit—but had to curl your hands into fists.

on set, you gave nothing away. your co-stars joked about how well you and mike "got each other," but it never went deeper. except with josh. he always saw more than he let on. "you’re different when you look at him,” he said one day during blocking, “like you’re seeing something no one else does," you didn’t reply, just stared at your mark on the floor until the moment passed. it wasn’t always easy.

there were nights he wouldn’t text. nights where you both disappeared into your separate rooms, pretending the space was normal. he had a habit of pulling away when things got too close. "i don’t want to hurt you," he told you one night, back pressed to the wall, eyes full of guilt. "you’re not hurting me," you replied, though your throat felt tight. "you don’t know that," you walked up to him, placed a hand over his heart. “this is already mine. so whatever happens—it’s too late to undo it,” he kissed you like an apology, like a thank you. like surrender.

when the press tour began, everything shifted. photoshoots. interviews. staged candids. every headline speculating who was hooking up with who. and you and mike? perfectly professional. behind closed doors, though, he was quieter. you’d find him curled on hotel couches reading scripts he wouldn’t let you see yet. he’d brush a strand of hair behind your ear and say your name like a prayer, like it wasn’t safe in the air for too long. you once asked him, half-joking, “do you think this ends when the film does?” he looked at you with something breaking in his expression. "i think if it ends, it’ll be because we were too scared to admit it meant something," you didn’t laugh that time.

the premiere was surreal. flashes of cameras, fans screaming. you in a dress that cost more than your apartment, mike in a suit that made your stomach flip. you stood apart on the carpet. close enough for chemistry, far enough for deniability. when the movie played, and the final scene faded out—your face, tashi’s face, on the big screen, triumphant and hollow—you looked over. he was already looking at you. his eyes were glassy. your own stung. you didn’t need to say a thing.

later, back in the hotel, you lay next to him, legs tangled, everything quiet. “i don’t know how to be with you when the world’s watching,” he said, voice barely audible. “then don’t be with me there,” you whispered, “just be with me here,” you placed his hand over your ribs. “can you feel that? that’s real. that’s all I care about,” he closed his eyes, and for a moment, the weight lifted. you never defined it. you didn’t have to.

he jumped, startled, as he heard the key he'd given you turn in the lock behind him as he stirred the sauce in a frenzy. the kitchen was a wreck, chopped vegetables haphazardly tossed into the pan, half of them dropped on the counter. sauce stained the stove, red and bright against the steel. "baby!" you called through the entry way, and he could hear the familiar sound of you kicking off your shoes, "you in here?" you rounded the corner before he could answer, smiling brightly, "are you cooking?" "trying to," his cheeks warmed as you glanced around the kitchen, "it's just pasta," "oh, you're so sweet," you didn't pay any mind to the mess. if you did, you didn't mention it, at least. you just came to stand behind him, resting your cheek on his shoulder as he stirred, "what's the occasion?" "just wanted to do something nice for you," he turned the heat down, turned so you were pressed against his chest as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, "and celebrate the new place, yknow,"

"well i appreciate it," you looked up, kissed him quickly with a smile, "do you need help?" "nope," he shook his head, though he admittedly probably could use some advice, "you just sit tight," "yes sir," you teased, hopping up on one of the free counters, kicking your legs as you told him about your day. when everything was to his liking, he carefully plated the pasta, leading you to the dining room table where he'd already laid out napkins and utensils, paired with a bottle of sparkling wine in the center of the arrangement. "oh, art," your eyes were soft as you glanced around, sitting across from him, "you are so sweet. i can't believe you," he was nervous as he waited for your reaction to the food, watching as you took the first bite, your eyes brightening, "it's so good! did you use a recipe?" "yeah, i did," he nodded, relieved, "and pat helped me, to be honest. i was kinda scatterbrained," "that's okay," you laughed, taking a sip of wine, "you did great,"

you had known art since the first day of sophomore year, when he’d stumbled into your lecture thirty minutes late, tennis bag slung over his shoulder and sweat staining his shirt. he’d flopped down beside you, smiled apologetically, and started scribbling notes that appeared to be complete nonsense. he’d charmed you, somehow, somewhere between his sheepish grins and curious gaze. soon enough, he was always at your side, your best friend in the world. all of that changed when tashi came around, though. she demanded all of his time (what little time he had left after tennis), and demanded less and less of you, until eventually, your friendship with art was nothing but a sore memory. you understood, as a woman, her concerns. maybe at times, you and art had been a little too close, spent a little too much time together. the line had never been crossed, though, not even once. not even when his eyes lingered on your lips when you said his name, not when he stayed over because he was too drunk to drive home and you let yourself pretend he was yours for a night, not when you slipped into bed and imagined his fingers between your thighs instead of your own. you’d never tell him, never. and he’d never tell you about the nights he spent panting your name into his pillow, the way his hand practically ached to take yours when you walked side by side, the way he lit up when you were so much as mentioned. no, you were perfectly behaved, the picture of best friends.

tashi saw straight through it, even when the two of you didn’t. so, there was no more you and art, simple as that. you passed him in the halls, smiled in the way that felt more like barring your teeth, and went home to vent to your roommate about it. “we never even did anything,” you told her one night, your eyes red rimmed and the one scrap of him you had left - his tennis hoodie - scrunched in your hands, “i mean, really, i’m innocent here,” “sometimes not doing anything is worse,” she’s told you, in that all knowing way she had about her, “i don’t blame her, yknow? i’m sorry, i know that’s not what you wanna hear, but you’d do the same in her position,” so you shoved it down, tried to drown out the sound of his voice in your memories by spending your free time with friends, the occasional hook up at a party that never went farther than a rough make out, because every time you opened your eyes, you expected to be met with blonde hair and that half blue, half brown iris. tashi broke up with him in the fall. you’d heard it from a friend of a friend, some stanford whispered gossip, and you wanted to believe it wasn’t true. he’d have told you, would have found you right away, righted her wrong and secured your friendship once again. but a day passed since you heard, and he never showed up, never called. you started to think maybe it wasn’t true, that it was just another rumor that would later be discredited, or worse, he just didn’t want to see you.

you came home from class two days after you heard, and there he was, leaned against your doorframe like he belonged there. “art,” you stopped in your tracks, eyeing him cautiously, “what’re you doing here?” “i needed to see you,” his voice is a welcome comfort, “tashi dumped me a couple days ago, i just needed to tell you,” “yeah, i heard,” you shoulder past him lightly, twist the lock on your door, “i figured you’d have come as soon as it happened. yknow, for a shoulder to cry on,” “you’re more than a shoulder to cry on,” he sounds almost offended at the casualties, “can you- hey, let me talk to you,” he takes your arm, gentle and warm, as you start tidying the living room just to stay busy, “can we sit?” “you were my friend, art,” you hate how hurt you sound, “then you disappeared for her. it’s been a year,” “you were never just my friend,” his voice is lower now, heavy with something like shame, “you know that,” “nothing ever happened between us,” it’s easy, a practiced defense, “nothing at all,” “you know how i looked at you,” his fingers push a piece of hair from your face, achingly close to your skin, “come on, look at me, please?”

you look up, your eyes meeting his, warmth flooding your veins, “i have no idea how you looked at me. you never said anything,” your voice is quieter now, “how was i supposed to know?” “i should’ve told you,” he says softly, “i thought about you all the time. i thought tashi would- i don’t know. i thought i couldn’t have you, that maybe she’d get you out of my system,” “out of your system?” you scoff, “jesus, art,” “i didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, eyes widening at your reaction, “just, i don’t know. i didn’t think you felt the same,” “well you didn’t ask,” you shift your weight, resting your hip against the wall beside you, “like i said, nothing happened, anyway. it’s not like we dated,” his eyes trace over your face like he’s recounting memories, landing on your lips eventually, “we didn’t have to do anything for there to have been something between us. i thought of you in a way i’ve never thought of anyone, but i was so good, i didn’t try anything. i just thought it would go away,” “i wanted you to want me,” you watch as his tongue swipes against his bottom lip, “i would’ve- it would’ve been different,” “i’m here now,” his voice cracks slightly, “i’m telling you i wanted you,” “maybe it’s too late,” you murmur. “is it?” he catches your jaw in his hand, tilting your face up to him, “tell me you want me to go and i will. tell me you didn’t think of me, that you don’t still,” he trails his thumb over your bottom lip, “i know you. i can see it all over you,” “does it make me a bad person?” his thumb goes down to your jawline, running the pad of it along your bone, “no, it doesn’t. if anything, it’s me. i’m the one that was thinking of you when i was in bed with her,” jealousy simmers at the mention of the two of them in bed, but you push it down, raise your hand to rest it on his wrist, “this is a bad idea,”

you barely get the words out before his lips are on yours, any hesitation long forgotten as he takes you in his arms, kissing you hard and fast, all teeth and tongues and unspoken secrets. he backs you against the wall, one hand on the back of your head to keep it from hitting the plaster, the other on your waist, looped around you to pull you tight against him. he slides his leg between your thighs, kissing you like he wants to drown in your lips, grinning against you when your hips rock against his knee. he pulls away to kiss down your neck, sucking and biting, drawing quiet gasps from you as you pull at the back of his shirt. “we should slow down,” you say it even as you grind against his thigh, breathless and red faced. “do you want me to stop?” he asks, voice hoarse, “tell me,” you hesitate, blinking up at him, before shaking your head, “no, i don’t, just maybe we should-“ “i don’t care what we should do,” he returns to your neck, greedy and wanting, “i’ve waited so long to have you like this,” you throw out all hesitation, all logic, and let him suck bruises into your flushed skin, let yourself slide along his bent knee like you’re chasing a high.