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burntheedges · 2 months ago

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Pas de Deux Chapter 2

Din Djarin x f!reader | 2.5k | fic masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

fic summary: When Din Djarin – principal dancer at Concordia Ballet Company and generational talent in the classical style – suddenly left CBC and joined the Nevarro Ballet Theater mid-season, it shocked the ballet world. You never would have guessed that he would change your life, too.

a/n: it's time to figure out what Karga's plan is. 👀 See my notes at the end and on the masterlist about reader in this fic and ballet in general. Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta, as always!!

chapter tags/warnings: gen, ballet terms (see end notes and the masterlist for definitions and videos), a bit of angst, a bit of fluff

Chapter 2

You were one of the last people to enter the studio for rehearsal and realized the entire company had been gathered together. You hurried over to sit by Adrian and Owen before looking around and noticing Djarin was in the corner, deep in conversation with Kuiil. Maybe they had met before, after all.

Karga walked in just as you sat down and clapped his hands. “Well! Hello, everyone. First, let us welcome our newest company member, Din Djarin.” He paused and gestured towards the corner where Djarin was standing, smiling as you all clapped and stamped the floor. You glanced over to him and saw that he was leaning against the wall with his shoulders loose and arms crossed, expressionless mask back in place. “We are very happy to have him join us. Please introduce yourselves and welcome him when you see him.” Djarin didn’t react and you wondered how those introductions would go. “Now, we have a few announcements about changes to the spring programs.”

You felt Adrian elbow you and you elbowed him back without looking.

“As I mentioned earlier this week, we won’t be making any changes to Midsummer, Swan Lake, or Cinderella.” You heard Adrian breathe a sigh of relief beside you and you nudged him again. “But we will be making some changes to the other shows. As you know, we have three mixed programs planned for spring, as well as the 5th anniversary gala.”

Karga waved one hand and started to tick off his fingers as he continued. “For the first program, we’ll be adding a solo performance for Din. Given that one is so soon, in January, we don’t want to disrupt things too much.”

You heard some murmurs and saw some of your fellow dancers nodding. That made sense, and it sounded like they were going to spread out the changes. It also added a draw for the audience, to get to see Din Djarin alone on stage. A real showcase for his skill and artistry.

“For February’s program,” Karga turned to Talia, who was mostly in charge of that one, and nodded. “Din will be joining the Balanchine ballet. You’ll discuss that in your next rehearsal.” Talia nodded back at him, and then glanced over the dancers. You tried to not to wince – someone would be losing a role, then. Probably more than one person. But it didn’t make sense to not play to Djarin’s strengths, and something as technical as Symphony in C was perfect for him. And it was possible that he’d performed it before at CBC, anyway — they didn’t do a lot of Balanchine, but if they did, they’d pick Symphony in C.

“For April, we’ll be adding something new.” Karga looked over to one of the choreographers, Vince, who nodded at the room. “More to come on that, but it will be a small group.” You wondered if they would give the dancers who would be demoted in Symphony a chance in this new number – Karga was usually good about things like that. You glanced at Adrian and knew he was thinking the same thing as he glanced around at some of the others.

“And finally, the gala!” Karga grinned hugely. You all knew he’d been looking forward to this for months, if not years – May would mark the 5th anniversary since he’d taken over and then renamed and reinvigorated NBT. The gala was his baby. You could feel a sudden tension move through the room – many of the dancers were slated to do something new or interesting during the gala and you knew no one would want to give up their roles, which were meant to be a true showcase of the company’s talent. You briefly wondered if they’d be adding Djarin to the longer ballet again, and if so, how much strife that might cause with the principals who were supposed to be in it.

But it seemed Karga had a different idea. “We will keep what is already planned just as it is, with one exception. We’ll be adding a three-part pas de deux to the program for Din and a partner. it will be spread over the course of the night, woven between the other numbers.” You blinked, surprised – it was definitely a novel idea, and you could see others trying to hide their surprise as well. “We will announce Din’s partner, and any resulting changes, soon. Kuiil will choreograph this new pas de deux.”

The room couldn’t hide its reaction this time. There were murmurs and glances that betrayed everyone’s shock – Kuiil was a very contemporary choreographer, with an only somewhat neo-classical repertoire.

And everyone knew Din Djarin was a master of the classical style. You’d never seen or heard anything that would suggest he had any familiarity with, or even interest in, more contemporary or expressive styles.

You wondered if this had been the subject of their argument in Karga’s office.

“And so that is our plan! Thank you, everyone, for your attention. I leave you to your rehearsals.” Karga nodded and swept from the room. The door closed behind him and the noise level rose sharply as everyone began to discuss his announcements. You heard Adrian and Owen start guessing at the changes in the February Balanchine number and your eyes strayed across the room to find Djarin.

But he was already gone. You caught only a glimpse of his shoulder as he slipped out the door.

…

The next few days were unremarkable, despite all of the recent changes. Djarin attended morning class but always slipped out the door as soon as it was over. As far as you knew, none of the other dancers had even had a conversation with him yet. He seemed to always be slipping out the door of every room as soon as he could.

With opening night only two weeks away, your rehearsal hours were filled with the Nutcracker and little else. As Djarin wasn’t going to be in it, you never saw him in the afternoons. You heard updates from the others – Clara told you about some of the changes to the February Balanchine ballet, and Yuri had seen Djarin working on his solo for January with Talia. They had apparently chosen a medley of moments and scenes from La Bayadère, which seemed perfect for someone with Djarin’s level of skill. Talia had to be beside herself – technically challenging ballets were her favorite.

Adrian had the full rundown on who had been shifted around and who had been given new roles in the April show, and it sounded like everyone was at least mollified if not happy about the changes.

You didn’t see Djarin again outside of the morning company class for almost two weeks. It was late in the evening on a Wednesday – you’d had some physical therapy exercises for your ankles to complete after your last rehearsal, and you were finally headed home to have dinner and rest before a couple of easier days of show prep. The two-week run of Nutcracker performances would start on Friday and you needed the rest before the chaos began.

You turned the corner into the building’s large lobby and found him kneeling on the ground in front of a small child. Maybe 4 or 5 years old, if you had to guess. He was adjusting the kid’s jacket and talking to him softly.

You retreated around the corner and tried not to draw attention to yourself, but you couldn’t help but stare as you came to a stop.

“Hey,” Djarin’s deep voice sent a shiver down your spine. It was soft and warm as he spoke to the (his?) kid. “You ready to go home?”

The kid nodded, and his little green hat flopped around on his head as he did so. You glanced between them and for the first time, you saw Din Djarin smile. It spread across his face and you watched, mesmerized, as a dimple appeared in his cheek and his eyes crinkled.

It was beautiful. He was beautiful. Shit.

“Alright, kid. Let’s go.” Still smiling, he stood and held out his hand. The kid grabbed two of his fingers and they headed for the door. You were pretty sure they hadn’t even noticed you were there.

You blinked, a bit dazed. As you slowly moved towards the door yourself, you decided it had to be his kid – he’d mentioned going home, after all. And it put all of his quick exits in a new light, if he had childcare to worry about.

You resolved not to mention this new possibility to the rumor mill.

…

By the end of the two week run of Nutcracker, you were exhausted. Long days of class, sometimes a short rehearsal, and early call times for shows left you worn out and ready for a break. On the Monday after a final show you always felt like you’d been hit by a truck, and this Monday was no different. You slept in for once, looking forward to a few days off for the holidays and a slow return to steady rehearsals after the new year.

In those few weeks you hadn’t seen any sign of the kid again. You’d barely seen Djarin at all, once again only catching sight of the back of his head as he slipped out of the door after morning class. (Whether you’d been watching him even more during class wasn’t something you wanted to own up to, even to yourself.) Given the hectic Nutcracker schedule and the fact that he wasn’t in the show, you weren’t really surprised that you hadn’t run into him.

You spent a comfortable few days relaxing, cleaning, and visiting friends before starting to prepare for the busy return to rehearsals in January.

During your first few days back in the studio in the new year, you focused on getting through class and warming yourself up. A few days off wasn’t enough to get truly rusty, but it felt nice to stretch and focus on moving your body.

After class on Thursday you found yourself alone as you walked down the hallway towards rehearsal for the January mixed program. You’d stopped to chat with Alexa for a few minutes about a tricky section of your choreography as Hermia in Midsummer, which was coming up at the end of February. It seemed everyone else was gone by the time you were done – you said goodbye to her and stepped out into an empty hall. As you walked you went over the choreography again in your mind, remembering Alexa’s advice about staying connected through the movements and briefly closing your eyes to focus.

Eyes still closed, you turned the corner to walk past the administrative offices and collided face-first with something tall and warm. And muscular. Your hands came up belatedly to catch you.

“Oh!” You startled and opened your eyes to find both of your hands resting on a broad chest in a tight black shirt. You blinked and lifted your gaze, pretty certain you knew who you would find.

Din Djarin looked down at you with an unreadable expression. You blinked and realized his big hands were cupping your elbows, holding you upright.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking—“ you cleared your throat and tried to step back from him, but for a moment he held you in place. You met his eyes again and couldn’t read anything in them.

Then he released you suddenly and you both took a step back. “Sorry. I was thinking about some choreography and not where I was walking.”

Djarin nodded and spoke the first words he’d ever said to you directly, face still expressionless. “It’s fine.” His voice was deep and somehow warm, despite how closed off he seemed.

You hesitated, remembering how Karga had encouraged all of you to be welcoming, weeks ago. “I don’t think I’ve introduced myself.” You did so then and bit your lip.

He nodded and did the same, even though you obviously knew his name. “Din. Nice to meet you.”

You nodded, too. “Are you heading to rehearsal?” You motioned behind him in that sort of let’s-walk-together way that people tended to do. He nodded and turned and you found yourself walking casually next to Din Djarin. You wracked your brain for a topic of conversation.

“Um,” you started without looking at him. “What are you working on this afternoon?”

You felt him look at you but didn’t look back. “My solo for later this month, with Talia, and then joining the Balanchine rehearsal for February.” You felt a shiver travel down your spine. His voice – you weren’t sure you were going to get used to it any time soon. It was so deep.

You nodded, glancing at him. He was still looking at you. “How’s it going?”

His expression didn’t change at all. “It's fine. Most of them were in Nutcracker so it’s picking up more now.” You nodded again. You weren’t sure what to say next, but to your surprise, he asked you a question.

“Have you danced the lead in marzipan before this year?”

You were surprised, but answered easily. “Once. I was in it but not the lead last year, and Yuna was sick for one of the shows. She was sugarplum this time. I, um, just made first soloist this year.” You could hear your self-deprecating tone and hoped he wasn’t thinking you weren’t up to it. You didn’t think he’d really noticed you – or anyone, for that matter – in class.

But he surprised you again. “I saw one of the shows. You danced it well. Like you know it perfectly, but you made it your own. It felt light and airy. Like it should. I liked what you did with the pirouettes in the middle. And the rond de jambes at the end.”

With each compliment in his steady, matter-of-fact tone you felt the heat rise more in your cheeks. Your mouth fell open in surprise. You’d never heard him say so much all at once. “Oh! Um, thank you. I– well. Thank you.” He’d noticed you? And not just you, but the small ways you had tried to make the choreography your own? He’d seen that? You were stunned.

You looked at him again but found nothing in his expression. It was impossible to tell what he might be thinking. You wondered if you should say something else, or compliment him in return, but you’d reached the rehearsal studios and he turned to enter the smaller one.

“See you in class.” He slipped through the door and was gone.

You blinked and turned slowly to continue down the hall. You found Karga walking slowly towards you from the opposite direction.

“Hello, my dear,” he smiled warmly. “I see you’ve met Din.”

You nodded. “Yes, well. We’ve been in class together, of course. But yes, we just met. Officially, I guess.”

He patted your shoulder as he passed you. “Good, good. Have a good rehearsal.”

You thanked him and continued towards the studio in a daze, with Djarin’s – no, Din’s – voice running through your head. You danced it well.

You couldn’t wait to tell Adrian. He was never going to believe it.

...

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a/n: we've met Din! 👀 some ballet notes ~

Classical vs. contemporary ballet - this is a pretty good (short) overview. Din's old company (CBC) was basically classical-only, which is how some are. Here's a short clip of a classical performance vs. a very contemporary one.

"Mixed programs" vs. story ballets - most companies will have some number of story ballets on the schedule every season (think Swan Lake, Cinderella, Giselle, Sleeping Beauty, etc.) which draw a bigger audience, and then various "mixed programs" that fill in gaps between them. Mixed programs are a chance for in-house choreographers to share their new creations, or for the company to showcase their skills with other known works, ex. Balanchine's shorter ballets (~20-30 minutes). Many companies have certain numbers in their repertoire that they can pull out for this reason.

Nutcracker - many companies have some number of Nutcracker performances on their schedule during or just before the holidays, and sometimes they cast (local) kids in various roles, too. Reader is dancing the role of Marzipan, and she also mentions the Sugar Plum Fairy. These roles have semi-set choreography, usually, depending on which version a company is doing (there are many famous versions). This short video is great and gives some insight into the ways a dancer might try to make very prescribed choreography her own (with voiceover from Emma Von Enck that inspired Din's compliments about pirouettes and rond de jambes). Many dancers have been in the Nutcracker because a lot of local companies and schools do performances of it every year (think school-aged kids doing it for the community).

Pirouette - a turn on one leg (in a variety of positions)

Rond de jambe - a half circle made with the leg. It's kind of like drawing the letter D on the floor or in the air.

Din's solo - they decide that Din is doing a sort of medley of variations (solos) from La Bayadère, a classical ballet, in the January program. Here's one of his variations and here is another from later in the ballet. (Here's a few dancers doing that first one, and Isaac Hernandez, also featured in the fic header!)

Symphony in C (the Balanchine ballet Din is joining) - a 32 minute ballet with over 50 dancers. There are some videos at the link. It has 4 movements and each one features a principal couple and a few other dancers.

tag list coming in a reblog!

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #ballet au #nbt fic #pas de deux fic #x reader

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 7 months ago

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A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Two | Series Masterlist

Summary: the monotonous days of practice are starting to grate, but made more complicated by the pianist's lingering words | Word Count: 4.3k~ | Warnings: sexual tension 😘

“Aemond, darling, please…” Alicent pleaded behind the closed door of his bedroom, her worried, motherly voice muffled through the thick frame, “it's not the end of the world, love, okay?”

He'd been in the exact same spot for several hours, his knee bouncing irritably and impatiently. He closed his eyes, as if trying to put on the image of being completely calm. But his hands were clasped painfully, fingertips sore from practice, and he could barely hear his mother through the door anyway, with the large headphones pressed to his ears, with the uncomfortable sting of the cello raking into his brain.

His heart was racing with stress, playing the same bit of ‘Cello Concerto' over and over again, trying to find the part where Otto had incessantly pressured him to perfect it. Wrong timing. Wrong tune. Incorrect finger placement.

Each time he stumbled over the same tricky passage, his frustration mounted. The melody was supposed to soar, but all he could feel was the grinding pressure to not mess up, to not let Otto down, to not disappoint his mother who believed so fervently in his talent.

Where in others, he witnessed nurture in the form of pride, loving gestures and unconditional support. He could see no merit in it. Love to Aemond was tight and oppressive, and weighty on his shoulders.

The door to his room creaked open slightly, and his mother’s voice, muffled and distant through the noise-canceling headphones, attempted to break through the barrier of sound. "Aemond, dinner," she called, her tone gentle yet persistent.

He barely glanced up, giving a slight shake of his head. The outside world, even the simple call to dinner, felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

"Aemond, please," she tried again, her voice firmer now. A choice of tone usually reserved solely for Aegon. "You need to eat. You’ve been at this for hours.”

Aemond cradled his cello gently between his knees, the hum of the ensemble drifted in the air, each musician fine-tuned to perfection with scales and snippets of melodies to practice. But despite this, Aemond found his thoughts elsewhere, his memories blurring into his current reality, where a new challenge in the form of the pianist had emerged.

With every draw of his bow across the strings as if he were an artist gliding a paint-slick brush over canvas, Aemond found his concentration fragmenting. His thoughts were pulled back to the pianist’s effortless expression, her ability to blend technical mastery with palpable emotion. A stark contrast to his own methodical, disciplined approach.

She irked him. She intrigued him. Two feelings which should not hold hands in Aemond's black and white reality. Every single thing his musical education had deemed secondary, she challenged. In the brief moments where he could witness her artistry himself, her performances always lingered, whereas his own, for all its precision, rarely achieved.

“Focus, Aemond.”

Otto's chide was soft and yet audible to everyone. It echoed a long and tired reminder of years past. And he found himself unable to pull back the glare that his own grandfather shot first down the bridge of his nose.

Practice ended how it often had, disappointed and dejected. He could no longer think of her or the words she'd said in their last encounter without feeling the frustration thud in his heart. After all, could the skills she so easily spoke about even be learned?

He longed to see what she saw, how she felt when she played.

The route back to Aemond's apartment was mentally tiring, and the frustration that usually ebbed away with every step, somehow lingered, and permeated throughout his body. For some time, playing the cello had not been met with accomplishment, now more often than not, met with a long and exhausting sense that he could be better.

That is what Alys had said as well, a few weeks ago, when she'd packed up the rest of her things, still pink in the face from Aemond's lips and tongue having pleasured her between her thighs to completion. The difference between her attitude and her parting words almost gave him emotional whiplash.

“I can't be the one to distract you. Not when you need to focus. Not when you have the opportunity to be great.”

Her voice was firm. And there was no room for argument or rebuttal. When Alys said something had to be how it was, that was it. Aemond had watched silently, scrubbing a hand over his face at the closed door of his apartment. He wanted to argue that if Alys had in fact cared that she'd be distracting him, her lack of presence would be just that.

How often now had he been sinking between her thighs, just to think of something else?

He never thought himself a sex addict, and yet the idea of going so long without it, with the show yet months away, made him angry to think how affected he was by it. This was hypocrisy the likes of his brother, Aegon, would love to shove in his face, he just knew it.

The stone square that choked the Grand Sept was speckled with light through the trees, rustling in a manner some would have found comforting. Couples kissed near the fountain, artists drew for money, set up with a view of the Sept while onlookers watched with joy, and children tripped and squabbled through the various nooks that had once marked the spot of a great dynasty.

This was where he waited, taking in the view and the gentle, somewhat melancholic lull of people's lives go past him without a blink. It was an hour before he'd have to traverse back the way he came for his personal booking, to practice the pieces he so desperately wanted to perfect.

During the day, his phone was off. Nothing was more important than what he deemed his life's work.

With a soft sigh, he sat on the wall, watching the square empty as afternoons drew in, his seeing eye following longingly at a brother and sister, who must have had the same age gap he and Aegon had, chasing one another on the cobbled path. Their squeals of glee and bright, happy faces stirred something heavy in his chest.

Had he ever felt as carefree as that. Had he ever felt like a child. Or had he been a grown man for so long.

His thoughts drifted to his own childhood. He would stand stiff and rigid at recitals, looking out to the expectant gaze of his mother, her burning pride gazing into him. There, there was no room for carefree joy akin to the brother sister chasing each other through the square. His childhood, if it could be called that, was dominated by routine and scales, not play and abandon.

He glances at the golden ticking hands of his watch and with a heaved sigh, lifts his cello case to trudge back along the cobblestones to the music school, feeling the familiar pull of responsibilities. Yet, something about the moment nagged at him, a sense of loss for experiences never had, for a childhood spent in service to a future that demanded everything.

With a heaved sigh and another trudge through the now darkened halls of his music college, Aemond pushed open the door, expecting a deep, sullen and wooden silence. Only to be greeted, or rather, whatever the negative version to being ‘greeted’ is, by the sound of the delicate, light twinkle of piano keys.

He watched at first with a sense of both unease and interest as she played, her face partly hidden by the locks of hair that had fallen between her concentrated brows. He couldn’t even really see her playing, but could feel the sensitivity of her fingers on the black and white keys, the piece melancholic.

Aemond willed the crease between his brows, attempting to feign disappointment between his awe.

“You’re in the room I booked.”

Her eyes pierced the darkness between the opening of the grand piano, searing a memory into his mind through her vibrant gaze. At first, she seemed surprised at not being alone, and then her features settled, and he saw the wrinkles at the corner of one of them that made it clear that she smirked at seeing his annoyance.

She stood and closed the lid with a soft thud, pulling her bag over her shoulder, “yeah well unless you want to try moving a grand piano?” she smirks, raising one eyebrow as if daring him to reply.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his cello case against a nearby chair, conceding the point without words.

“Didn’t think so,” she replied in a jokey manner, smiling down as she organised her sheet music into a neat satchel bag at her side.

While she wasn't looking, he found himself watching her, for no particular reason. There was something about the way she moved, the confidence she exuded even in the simplest of actions, that intrigued him. It wasn’t just curiosity about her attire or a superficial interest, he found himself wondering about the depth of her character, about the source of her fearless demeanour. If his stolen looks were not to see what she was wearing today, then perhaps to see if he could glimpse into her soul for just a moment, to see where she got her fucking audacity from.

He sat to prepare his cello, running his middle finger over the bow strings, the density of them feeling somewhat satisfying against his calloused tips.

“You’re not going to lecture me about how I need to… ‘make love to my music’, or some shit like that?”

She chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to resonate a little too deeply within him. “What you do with your cello in your alone time is none of my business,” she quipped without looking up, her voice light yet laden with a hint of mischief.

“Hmm.”

The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a dance of mutual curiosity and veiled interest. As she packed up her things, Aemond found himself unwilling to break the moment, his usual reserve shaken by her presence. There was something about her, a boldness, an unapologetic embrace of her own talent and identity, that challenged him, that made him question his own guarded nature.

As she slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave, she paused, glancing back at Aemond who was methodically preparing his cello. A thought seemed to strike her, and her eyes lingered on him, curious and considering.

"Actually, do you mind if I stay a bit longer to listen?" she asked, her tone casual but with an underlying sincerity that caught Aemond off guard.

Aemond felt a mixture of apprehension and pride swell within him. He was used to accolades and audiences, but her request felt different, more personal, more significant. His initial instinct was to guard his practice, a time he usually kept private, a sacred space where he perfected his art away from prying eyes. Yet, something about her frank interest, devoid of any apparent ulterior motive, piqued his own curiosity about how she might perceive his music.

He was so taken off guard, as he was so often by her, that he forgot to say anything and simply nodded. He positioned his cello, settling it between his knees, his back straightening as he prepared to play. The invitation was extended on his terms, yet internally, he acknowledged a desire to impress her, to validate his approach and perhaps, to challenge her own musical opinions.

Her posture was relaxed, but attentive, as if she at least wanted to offer him the respect of knowing she was listening wholeheartedly. As Aemond drew the bow across the strings, the first notes resonated through the room, rich and precise. He chose a piece that showcased his technical prowess, a complex Bach suite that required meticulous control and deep concentration.

As he played, he found himself increasingly aware of her presence in the room. Each note was not just played for the sake of practice but as a demonstration of his skill and dedication to his craft. He watched her reaction out of the corner of his eye, her expressions subtle yet revealing. She seemed genuinely absorbed in the music, her earlier playful demeanour replaced by a focused seriousness that matched his own when he played.

The last draw of his bow brought those guarded walls back up again, the same ones that usually came tumbling down when he felt that in the throes of playing, feeling as if he was alone, were so easily crumbled. When the last note vibrated into silence, Aemond allowed himself a moment to gauge her reaction fully. She had leaned forward in her chair, as if she wanted to see his technique closer.

“You play with such precision,” she almost whispered, so quietly he strained to hear them. As if the words hadn’t been for him at all.

He wasn’t certain how to place her review, negative or positive. And it aggravated him that even in her criticism, she was aggressively neutral.

"Precision is crucial," he responded, his voice steady but his mind racing. He ached to say more, but alongside fearing he would appear defensive, he was unsure whether he wanted to invite criticism from her.

She paused, considering his question, her eyes locking with his. "Precision is your strength, no doubt," she began, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke. "But music, at least to me, also needs to breathe, to have a life of its own beyond the notes on the page. Your playing is impeccable, but it feels tightly controlled, almost constrained."

He quashed the rising irritation, or at least as much as he could, forcing himself to consider her words from a place of growth rather than confrontation. "So, you're suggesting I let go a little?" he asked, watching as she smiled at his confusion.

“Maybe,” she said lightly, “allow it the freedom to surprise you. Control you. You might find you like it.”

He couldn’t help but dissect the slight flirtatiousness in her voice. And yet it was almost gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness he was accustomed to in such discussions.

She broke the silence that seemed to bulge between them, “do you like it?”

His mother watched him eat, her gaze laden with a mix of pride and concern. The clink of cutlery filled the brief silences as she finally found the words.

"Do you enjoy it, Aemond?" she asked, her voice soft yet carrying weight. "The cello, I mean. Do you actually enjoy playing?"

Aemond paused, his fork suspended in mid-air. It was a question that had lingered at the edge of his consciousness, unvoiced and unanswered. Did he enjoy it, truly? Or had it become merely a vehicle for his ambition, a pathway that he had been set upon rather than one he had chosen?

"It sometimes feels like the only thing I know how to do," he admitted, and for someone so often so sure, his voice wavered.

His mother’s hand reached across the table, her touch warm against his. "Music should be a source of joy, not just a pursuit of perfection," she reminded him gently. "It’s a gift, Aemond, meant to be cherished as much as honed."

Aemond paused, the question catching him off-guard. "Do I like what?" he asked, unsure if she was referring to her suggestion or something more implicit.

She bit back a small smile, and yet it still wormed its way onto her face, “losing control.”

Her question, laced with a hint of playfulness, hung in the air, and Aemond found himself momentarily lost for words. He was unaccustomed to such directness wrapped in…flirtation?

“Losing control?” he repeated, his mouth feeling a little dry.

“Mmhm,” she hummed, “you hold the reins so tightly. Might be liberating to loosen…or even let go, once in a while?”

The atmosphere between them seemed to thicken, the words ‘losing control’ echoing not just through the room but through Aemond’s thoughts, disrupting his usual composure.

Aemond shifted slightly, the concept of loosening his grip, both metaphorically on his music and literally in his life, seemed to resonate deeper than he anticipated. "And you think that's something I need?" he asked, his voice lower, the hint of a challenge lacing his words.

She didn’t move an inch, but her presence seemed more pronounced. The subtle scent of her perfume mixed with the mustiness of the old practice room created a contrast that was oddly intoxicating. "Isn't it?" she countered softly, her gaze steady on his.

The air between them was palpable now, her every word pulling at something he usually kept well guarded. His heart beat a rhythm almost too pronounced, mirroring the tension that seemed to pulse through the space.

Clasping her bag closed, she stood, "Music is about feeling, about passion. It’s not just the notes, but the spaces between them, the breaths, the moments of surrender.”

Aemond’s response was caught in his throat as he absorbed her words, her proximity, the undeniable tension that seemed to dance around them like the very music she spoke of. How the hell did she do that?

She allowed herself a cheeky smile, one that reached her eyes so quickly that with those alone he would know she was amused, “maybe you should surrender to it sometimes.”

A part of him wanted to dismiss her words, to reinforce the walls he had built around his methods and beliefs. After all, she was the face of his competition, a symbol of the school he had been conditioned to outperform. Yet, the way she spoke about music, with such a raw, inviting passion, made it impossible to ignore the pull he felt towards her ideas, towards her. The rivalry was supposed to be clear-cut, a battle of schools and skills. But with her, it blurred into something messier, charged with an undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite name but felt all too powerfully.

It was a dangerous mix.

To admit she affected him would mean opening a door he was adamant to firmly keep shut tight. One that could lead to complications. Not even in terms of the competition. But for his prized discipline. She watched his expression to her words closely, her eyes reflecting a glint of knowing. He desperately wanted to hate her for it. To remind her that she was no better than him simply because she wasn’t plagued with the need for perfection like he was. That she, beyond the walls of the music school she seemed to haunt, could leave her instrument within them. Whereas Aemond was forced to carry his cello on his shoulders, to support its heavy toll on him, and that every step he took, it took more.

It seemed like she was going to say more, as her lips parted. But as quickly as they did, they closed softly again, and that enigmatic smile returned.

Fuck her.

When Aegon had been in his early twenties, he’d moaned and groaned on the sofa, his phone slobbed to one side, complaining that the girl he was currently texting was verbally edging him. Aemond had merely grimaced, finding his brother's frustration more amusing than relatable.

But now he felt that aggravation of it. The fact that she knew he was hanging on every word, and still chose not to say anything, to leave thoughts dangling in the charged air between them.

She gave him a final nod, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken words and tensions that lingered, then turned and walked away. It was only when she was halfway down the hallway that the perfect response sprang to his mind, but by then it was too late. All he could do was watch her retreating form disappear into the dim, wooden corridor.

In that moment, Aemond felt like a modern-day Eurydice, fading into the shadows, but with a twist, this time, Eurydice longed for Orpheus to look back. Aemond knew that if she turned, if she offered him one last look, it would mean stepping back into a narrative filled with complexities and perhaps inevitable loss. Yet, he craved that backward glance, a sign that their fleeting connection meant as much to her as it did to him, even if it meant returning to the shadows.

Aemond tried to refocus on his practice as he returned to the solitude of the music room. He played mechanically, his usual precision present but the soul of the music notably absent. The strings didn't sing; they just spoke in monotonous tones. With more than half of his allotted practice time remaining, he packed up his cello, and resisted the urge to hurl it across the room.

Driven by a need for something more tangible, more human than the cold wood and strings of his cello, Aemond left the practice room abruptly.

No more than 15 minutes later, he stood at the smirking figure of Alys Rivers, leaning against her door frame, arms crossed and wearing delicate lacy sleepwear, as if she could supernaturally anticipate that he would come to her.

Her eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and satisfaction, seeing him slightly dishevelled, a rare break in his usually composed demeanour.

“I don't want to fucking hear it.”

Alys, unfazed by his sharpness, raised an eyebrow and smiled wryly, stepping aside to let him in. Her reaction was more teasing than concerned, her amusement clear in her casual posture.

"Where?" Aemond's voice was blunt, his usual grace undercut by a barely contained frustration.

"The bed," Alys responded with a flick of her head toward the bedroom, her smirk deepening as she watched him stride ahead.

As he passed her, she couldn't resist adding, "Need some instructions, or do you remember the way?"

Aemond didn't respond, his back to her as he moved into the bedroom. Alys followed at a leisurely pace, her demeanour confident, almost cocky. She leaned against the doorframe, watching as he shed his jacket with quick, jerky movements.

Alys pushed off from the doorframe and walked over to him, her steps deliberate. "Something's happened-," she said, reaching out to smooth the crease between his brows with her thumb, her touch light but insistent.

He caught her wrist, his grip firm. "I said I don't want to fucking hear it," he retorted, his voice low and strained.

Alys met his gaze, her expression partly unreadable. "Okay," she conceded, pulling her hand back gently. She gestured towards the bed. "Show me what you need.”

As Alys led him toward the bed, Aemond followed mechanically. His movements were automatic, driven by habit more than desire. Pulling her hips towards him and slinging her legs over his shoulders was like second nature at this point. Alys was warm beneath him, her body responding in all the familiar ways, her breaths, her touches, her sighs all scripted from past encounters. Yet, as Aemond moved with her, his mind was elsewhere, disengaged from the act.

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted sounds of their closeness, but inside Aemond, a storm was brewing. The physical motions were all correct, but the emotional undercurrents were misaligned, leaving him feeling even more isolated as they moved together. Alys seemed not to notice, or if she did, she chose not to address it, caught up perhaps in her own interpretation of their actions.

Afterward, as Alys settled beside him, her breathing even and content, Aemond lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She was close, yet he felt miles away, trapped in a cycle that provided physical release but no real solace.

Sensing his detachment, Alys’ voice broke through the silence, “you okay?”

Aemond didn't answer. Instead, he gently disentangled himself from her and slid off the bed. His movements were smooth but distant, as if he was pulling away from more than just the physical proximity, leaving the bedroom without so much of a backward glance at Alys, barely wounded from his dismissal, naked in bed. Alys watched him go, her expression resigned. She remained silent, making no move to follow him or press him further.

In the living room, Aemond walked straight to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink, his hands mechanically tilting the bottle, the familiar clink of ice soothing his frayed nerves. He took a deep sip, letting the liquid burn down his throat, hoping it would wash away the disquiet clinging to him.

As he turned, his gaze fell on the grand piano sitting under the low light in the corner of the room. It was an elegant piece, one that Alys had long forgotten, now sitting idly and out of tune. The dust gathered in its crevices spoke volumes of its neglect, a stark contrast to the careful maintenance of instruments at his own school.

The piano, much like himself tonight, felt abandoned, left to stand as a mere piece of furniture rather than the vibrant instrument it was intended to be. Compelled by a sudden urge, he approached it, his fingers running along the cool, smooth surface of its keys, each one silent and stiff from disuse. Aemond pressed a key tentatively, listening to the dull thud that echoed back, as if to taunt him.

For a brief moment, he considered the task of tuning it, of bringing it back to life. It seemed a fitting metaphor for what he needed himself, a realignment, a correction of the discord that had crept into his own life and art.

As Aemond's fingers wandered across the piano keys, his thoughts meandered back to the pianist from the opposing school. She had described music as a living entity, one that breathed and moved, pulsating with the emotions of its player. This concept lingered in his mind as he contemplated the neglected piano before him. He wondered how she would react to such a forlorn instrument. Would she feel compelled to restore it, to draw breath back into its worn frame and let it sing once more?

Just as he secretly hoped she might rekindle something within him, a spark long subdued under the weight of discipline and expectation.

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