#vds week

Falling in love was the last thing Jens had planned for this trip, but he was falling hard and fast for the stranger in his airbnb. Perhaps it was his striking blue eyes or the cute curl that always fell on his forehead that made the feelings arise, but Jens couldn't tear his eyes from the Netherlander.

It had not been easy at first. Lucas wasn't a pessimist, but when it came to his heart and feelings, he was pretty guarded. Perhaps he was hiding some past relationship trauma too - Jens didn't dare asking.

''What's the point of starting something that will end in a couple days?''

''What's the point of fighting something we both want?'' Jens asked back, raising an eyebrow. ''We met from a mistake, I say we make lemonade with our lemons.''

Lucas laughed at the bad humor, shaking his head.

''I went on this trip because I was tired of living the same life everyday, seeing the same people. So far, I got too drunk and fell asleep on the stairs of a hostel. I took the wrong bus to the mountains and forgot my backpack in said bus. I got lost and found myself with sheeps in a field. A little love adventure is part of the game, don't you think?''

''I don't want you to catch feelings,'' Lucas said. ''When I go back to Utrecht, I won't be able to pursue this relationship. I've got to focus on college and taking care of my mother.''

Jens shrugged. ''Antwerp isn't too far from Utrecht. I wouldn't mind taking a train or a bus.''

But, Lucas shook his head. ''I can't give you what you want, Jens. I...I'm gonna break your heart.''

Jens shook his head, pressing his forehead against Lucas'. ''Break it. Crush it. I don't care. I...I want this. I want you.''

He knew whatever they had would not be lasting; it was an ephemeral love, a summer love. But, he was planning to make the most of every second.

Jens awoke to birds chirping and the sound of a guitar playing. He smiled, knowing exactly where it came from. He opened his eyes and hissed from the bright sunlight of the airbnb. It should be a sin to pull the curtains so early.

One of the downsides of sharing the place with Lucas was that he was a morning person. Not the kind who goes on runs. No. Lucas liked to sit outside with a cup of coffee and watch the street wake up. Sometimes, he'd take his guitar and strum its strings - like this morning.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the light, Jens watched Lucas from the bed. A piece of curly hair was falling over his face as he looked down at his guitar, placing his fingers over the neck and strumming the strings with the other. He had the voice of an angel, soft and warm. Jens didn't know the song he was singing, but it was his new favorite.

''What is it you're playing?'' he asked with his morning voice, joining Lucas on the balcony. It was pleasantly warm outside, nothing like the chilly mornings in Antwerp.

''Lana del Rey. But, you probably don't know her.'' A mocking smile curled on Lucas' lips. ''As you said yesterday, you 'only listen to rap'.''

Jens laughed, shaking his head. ''Fuck you.''

Down the balcony, noises of cars and voices of early risers were audible.

Lucas reached for his coffee on the small table and took a sip. With his bright blue eyes, unbuttoned linen shirts and sunkissed skin; he was the epitome of a summer dream. ''Want to get breakfast? There's this café a few blocks from here that we could go. According to this app, they have the best cappuccino of the village.''

The ad was probably a marketing trap, but breakfast did sound nice. Last night's pizza was far behind.

''I'll shower and then we can go,'' Jens said.

The other boy hummed in approval, but grabbed Jens' arm before he could get inside and pulled him close. ''Wait.'' Lucas put down his guitar by the balcony doors and pulled Jens down by the back of his neck for a kiss.

''I thought we were getting breakfast.''

So yeah.

Every Thursday, Jens the skater becomes Jens the ballerina, like some sort of superhero transformation. That's why he declines to hang out with the Broerrrs after school, even if there's the promise of cute girls wherever they plan on going. (Jens never tells them that there are plenty of cute girls where he goes, too.) (Not that he ever actually checks them out; he's too busy keeping track of the music.)

None of the other dancers go to his school, and none of them live in his neighbourhood, so he never worries too much about someone coming up and greeting him when he's out with his friends. Just to take precautions, though, he had told his friends, the few he had at the studio, "If you see me in public, don't greet me," and they'd laughed, but shook his hand as a deal. Thursday dance practise is a secret.

Of course, he didn't only practise on Thursdays. He'd gotten a barre installed in his room when he was fourteen, and coincidentally, that was around the time he'd begun making excuses for his friends not to come over until it became another unspoken agreement: they don't hang out at Jens's. He supposed he could have said it was Lotte's, but that wouldn't have explained it being in his room. He'd decided not to risk anything.

Jens has thought of ways to tell the about the ballet. 1) Just invite them over and when they ask about the barre ("Why do you have one of those ballet things in your room?"), just tell them ("Because I do ballet."). 2) Stage it like a coming out. ("I have to tell you guys something.") (Jens will have to do that too, he figures, eventually, but that's a problem for another day.) 3) Invite them to a recital. Tell them to dress nicely, actually nicely, and tell them where to go at what time. Jens likes this choice the best. It was mysterious, cryptic, maybe a little weird, and maybe he should have them see him actually performing, instead of letting their imaginations wander to little girls in pink slippers and skirts upon hearing the words "I do ballet."

He still hasn't done it, of course. Three recitals have gone past since he came up with the idea, and truth be told, every time he walks out of the theatre, bouquet from his mother in hand, face almost covered in stage makeup, he is absolutely terrified that he'd going to walk into one of them. There's always a text message the night of a performance, an excuse to not chill with them: Sorry, I can't I have to babysit Lotte I'm just gonna take it easy tonight Can't, my mom needs me a heavy pit in his stomach every time, like one of them is going to call him out on his bullshit. But luckily, the recitals weren't on a tight schedule and were spread out enough on the calendar that none of them noticed a pattern.

After practise, he always changed into jeans or sweatpants and a hoodie, his tights and two pairs of slippers stuffed deep in his duffle bag, under an extra hoodie and his water bottle. He knows that even with all evidence of ballet hidden in his bag, it'll still be hard to explain him standing outside a dance studio, talking to people still in dance attire, and carrying a bag if one of his friends (or worse, someone from school who definitely won't keep it a secret) were to see him.

It's rare that he doesn't completely change into street clothes after practice.

But tonight, with Moyo's drunken texts, and everybody's Instagram stories full of flashing lights, plastic cups, and music so loud you can barely understand the lyrics, Jens figures it's safe.

He throws a hoodie over his long-sleeved leotard and runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly before pulling socks on over his tights and slipping on his sneakers. Standing, the hoodie reaches his mid-thigh, and he tugs it down when it hikes up as he pulls his bag over his head. After pulling his pointe slippers on his bag, he makes his way to the exit, putting a thin gold hoop through his ear lobe. He always takes it out before practice, not wanting it to get caught on a girl's tights.

The air is cool outside, enough that he shivers slightly in his thin tights. He scans the sky for a second, admiring the pastel blue and pink, the kind of colours he'd see at a baby shower, before pulling his phone out of his pocket. There's a text from his mother, "On my way," sent a minute beforehand. He runs a hand through his hair again before shoving both hands into the pocket of his hoodie, shrugging the cold off his shoulders.

"Jens!"

He startles at Damien's voice and then makes his way to where he's standing, leaning against the wall of the studio building. Damien is a sweetheart; he'd offered to hide Jens if he sees any of his friends after practice. And he could. Damien is bigger than one would expect a ballerina to be, but the way he picks up the girls in practise and tosses them looks almost effortless.

"Hey." Jens bumps his shoulder against Lena's, who is standing facing Damien.

"Fucker." She turns and hits him, a reaction possibly a little dramatic for his greeting, Jens thought, but he giggles and shoves her hand away anyway.

"All's good?" Jens asks as he holds his hand out to Rosa.

"Yeah, you?" She slaps their palms together and their fingers hook for a second before they both let go.

"Yeah."

This is the four of them: Damien, Lena, Rosa, Jens: a group of assorted souls that only match in the studio.

"You're going out tonight?" Rosa asks Lens, jerking her chin up at her.

"Yeah, what makes you ask?"

Rosa points at her face first, before looking her up and down and pointing at the rest of her. Lena usually didn't put her makeup on, her big, winged eyeliner, black lipstick, and thick, heavy-looking false eyelashes, nor did she get dressed, with her fishnets and all her ripped fabric, after practice, unless she planned on going out.

"Right."

They all laugh, Damien a little too loudly, like always. It's part of his charm.

Jens straightens his back, his arm lifting off of Rosa's shoulder, and stretches, groaning quietly.

"You good? Tough practice?" Damien asks, amused. He was supposed to help Jens stretch today, and he may have pushed him harder than usual.

Jens groans again, lifting his middle finger to Damien, who snickers.

"I'm out of here," Rosa says, looking up from her phone. She blows a stray curl out of her face.

"You don't love us anymore?" Jens asks innocently, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She snorts, digging her fingers into his sides, and he yelps, pushing her back.

"My brother's here, idiot." She kisses Damien's cheek, stretching up as he bends down, and does a handshake with Lena. "See you next week."

They wave as she skips down the sidewalk and gets into a car.

"Damien, you should ask her out," Lena says loudly and flatly as the car drives out of sight. Jens can't help but agree. Damien and Rosa have been dancing around their feelings for each other for years. (Pun intended.)

"She doesn't like me like that," Damien replied, exasperated.

"She just kissed your cheek." Jens looked at him, equally exasperated.

"But-"

"Just do it, dipshit," Lena interrupts, smacking his shoulder.

"If I came here just for you guys to harass me..." He trails off as they laugh and glances at his phone as it buzzes. "Actually, I do have to go, I have to watch my brother tonight."

Lena grunts in disgust and holds her hand out to him. He takes it and lets go, bumping their fists together, before turning to Jens. They do the same.

"Later, buddy." He watches as Damien walks away, his ballet slippers swinging from his bag with every step.

"If they don't figure their shit out soon, I'm gonna come up with a scheme," Lena says after a second.

Jens snorts, elbowing her, and faces forward again. He catches sight of a teenage boy leaning against the wall of the convenience store outside the studio. He must have been hidden by Damien's form because Jens doesn't remember seeing him there before.

For a moment, his heart drops to his stomach in a panic, thinking it's one of the guys or someone from school, but when the boy lifts his head from looking at a camera he's holding, Jens calms, not recognising him.

They make eye contact, Jens and this boy, and Jens feels like his heart rate picks up and slows down at the same time. His eyes are blue, and intense blue, blue like Jens has never seen it, and one of them is covered partially by a lock of curly hair. They stare at each other for so long it's beginning to be weird, even though it doesn't feel weird.

"Is your mom coming to get you?" Lena's voice startles him out of his trance, and he looks at her, breaking his eye contact with the boy.

"Yeah, if she ever comes." He pulls his phone out of his pocket to see if there are any notifications (there are none), feeling the boy's eyes burn into him.

"You know I can always give you a ride home," Lena says, oblivious to the feelings ripping through Jens's body. She holds up the keys to her motorcycle, dangling them between herself and Jens.

"No, thanks," he says. It's suddenly difficult to talk.

"Don't know if you're scared or if that's your 'no friends outside the studio' rude."

"Hm." They narrow their eyes at each other, teasing.

Their staring contest is broken when Lena's phone buzzes, and she fishes it out of her pocket. Jens glances at the boy when she does. He's looking down at his camera.

"Well, you won't be getting a ride anyway, because that's Elsa." She sticks her phone back in her pocket. "I gotta go."

"You love your girlfriend more than me?" Jens feigns hurt.

"Yes."

"Oh, okay." He holds out his hand and they shake, bumping their fists together. She leans in and presses her cheek to his.

"See you next week," he says.

"Bye, babe."

As she walks away, Jens turns to look at the boy with the camera. He's looking at him too, a slight smile on his face. They stare at each other for what feels like both hours and seconds until the boy slowly lifts his camera and points it at Jens. Jens tries to suppress his smile, but can't, and it creeps across his face until he's practically beaming, and the camera flashes. The boy lowers the camera, looking at the screen, and looks back up, flashing Jens a grin and a thumbs-up.

Jens shoots him a wink and looks away as his phone buzzes, pulling it out of his pocket, seeing a text from his mom.

"I see you"

He looks around and catches sight of her car just across the street. Putting his phone back in his pocket, he sends the boy one more smile and makes his way to the car, suddenly self-conscious in his tights as he jogs across the street.