#♞ ∴∵∴「DANCER DRABBLE」

[gallantgautier]

♞ ∴∵∴ LIKE NO ONE IS WATCHING

Dancer Drabble! Under a cut for length

The thing about knowing how best to sneak around after hours, is that you come to learn all the places that are so very off limits. The dining hall, for one, while not guarded all that heavily in the moonlit hours, is far from spotless, too many ways to leave incriminating pieces of evidence. Sometimes, when he’s tempted to grab a snack on his midnight jaunts, he wonders if that’s intentional, catch them red handed – or crumb collared.

The training grounds too. Sure, tracks can be covered, scuffed over and made unrecognisable, but he knows his own tendency for neatness is his worst enemy here. He’d leave it too perfect, too pristine, and a late-night training session is not what he’d be accused of.

But there’s his own little haven, and that’s the joke, isn’t it? The ballroom is the last place he could describe as little, no nooks to tuck into where he won’t be seen by prying eyes, no long hedgerows to duck behind with company he hasn’t kept for a time longer than anyone would believe. And that’s the other joke, because even a day is too long in their eyes for that. Sure you’re feeling okay, Gautier?

The white sheets lay like the first snows over the instruments at the back of the room, like they did way back when on his last trip here with only his footsteps. But he doesn’t greet his old friend today, leaves her and her ivory keys safely under the rich mahogany he longs to trace. Another night, perhaps. Tonight, the only music is the owl calls, and a song he’ll hum under his breath to keep time.

The shoes are the first to go. He tucks them neatly next to the piano.

He couldn’t change in his room, too much rustling could easily awaken a light sleeper – if he even sleeps at all, sometimes Sylvain wonders – and the tinkling charms would ring like cathedral bells in an empty hallway. Or, he’s exaggerating, he’s been known to do that. But he’s practiced putting it on, during stolen hours between classes, or a moment before bed, he knows where the sashes should lie, which side the silks drape, where the fabric wraps under his arm and leaves his shoulder bare.

He catches his reflection in the glass of a display cabinet. He looks ridiculous.

But there are no eyes on him but his own, no one to judge, no one to care. And that’s why he came here, waited to creep through empty corridors and slip through shadows.

You need to keep your shoulders loose, Inigo had said, or said something like it. He doesn’t remember the exact words, but he lets them guide him through his first breaths. Long and deep, in through the nose, his bare left foot slides out in a half circle across the polished floor, stretches into a point from the long line of his leg. Out with the mouth, his upper body twists, right arm reaching skyward, as though he could pluck a star from the sky, if only the curtained windows and ceiling and his own worthiness couldn’t stop him.

Be fluid, he turns, the song he doesn’t play guides the next step, and the one after. It’s a presence at his back, hands under his elbows and at his waist that don’t claw and tear but direct. This way, my friend, just like this. And he follows, black silks on red, silver chains that ring in harmony instead of bind. A leap, landing silent and graceful – he almost wants to laugh, would never let himself wear that word. But there’s no one here, no one to see or judge or care or hear. So he does.

Around and around, feel the music, let it carry you. And he hears, imagines fingers flying over the keys where the song would build, where he’d lean forward, and hands would fall heavy to strike out the crescendo. He matches it with a turn and another, body first, head following, and another and another. He hears where it would slow, meets it halfway bending backwards, holds, and brings himself upright in one languid motion.

Pausing as the song fades in the silence of the ballroom, Sylvain realises – belatedly – he’s smiling.

One more time.

He’ll regret it in the morning, perhaps, when his muscles ache and friends and unknown faces alike roll their eyes at the evidence of another late night. He knows what they’ll think, what he won’t correct. But for an evening – or an early morning before even the sun greets them – he can indulge in fine silks and delicate jewellery and light footsteps. He can twist and turn and laugh and sing and dance how he plays.

Like no one is watching.