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autisticlancemcclain · 11 months ago

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Keith presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and exhales deeply. He lets all the air trickle out of his lungs until his chest feels concave, until spots dance behind his closed eyelids, until his lips start to go numb. Then he lets go and lets the air get sucked back into him like a vacuum.

“One more try,” he whispers to himself, conscious of Lance sleeping — finally — beside him. “One, and then we move on.”

He swipes the touchpad on his computer to wake it back up, dragging the blinking curser over the rarely-used blue ‘10’ under the Google logo. The page loads, and loads, and loads, and finally spits out the next few results.

Most of them he’s already seen before. Dozens of times. BARGAIN BALLET TICKET SUBSCRIPTION, reads one link, CLICK HERE FOR 20% OFF YOUR FIRST MONTH. Another reads, Rush Ticket Prices — Buy Now!

He’s been there. Clicked that. Priced it out. Looked at the worst possible, next-to-the-washrooms, garbage seats. Nothing. Not a single ticket within their limited budget — or even close to it.

Completely out of the realm of possibility even if they hadn’t agreed on a price limit for their Christmas gifts.

He keeps scrolling down a few pages that all advertise the same thing — a disgustingly costly subscription here, bargain-but-not-really tickets there, more scammy resell ads than one would believe possible. Even, notably, a still-active link from 1997 that Keith peruses for clicks and does not actually count towards his one-more-try limit. (It even tries to accept his Paypal, which is crazy and means that someone updated the site to accept modern payment for a show that is no longer running. Keith is so amused by the pure audacity that he has to fight the urge to buy one. Wild thing, ADHD.)

Just as he’s about to give up and buy his boyfriend yet another plant this year, a link catches his attention. It’s the very last result on page 13, with no description, no punctuation, hell, hardly even a sentence of text. Nutcracker ticket sales, it reads, for a website called ‘FeuillesBrillantAcademie.org’.

Keith shrugs. Might as well. Not like anything else has been promising.

He clicks the link and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The ugliest website he’s ever seen literally assaults his eyes — a bright blue and a neon purple, clashing in the worst possible way. It takes at least four solid seconds for his eyes to unblur enough to recognise the screen in front of him as having words rather than a solid wall of Bright And Bad. Even then, he has to squint, glasses practically touching his eyeballs.

Feuilles Brillant Academy is pleased to present the final performance of the hard-working dancers this season, is what he can finally make out. The show begins at 7 p.m. on December 23rd, tickets for $20 per person. In-person payment not accepted. Please pay via e-transfer using the link below. Call out administrative office if there are any difficulties.

Keith stares at the page for as long as his eyes can handle, then he looks up at the ceiling. (Where, he may add, he can still see the screen perfectly, because the damn thing has been burnt onto his retinae. He will never mock Matt for his web design degree again. Well, probably.)

This seems…too good to be true.

It’s outrageously cheap, for one. Keith has been looking for literal days and the cheapest he’s managed to find is $50 per person, for bad rush tickets. $20 is bonkers. For two, this is a perfect time, and nearby, as well. And there are still tickets left. Somehow.

Something is amiss.

Keith’s first thought is that it’s a prank page. But the page is buried so deeply — page thirteen of Google. The hidden archives, basically. If this is someone’s prank, it’s garbage. His second thought is that the link is a virus, which, while possible, is still kind of unlikely for the same reasons. Why on Earth would someone post something nefarious so obscurely? It doesn’t make sense. This might be one of those rare times when something isn’t too good to be true, it’s just good.

Then again. Keith just got his laptop back from the last time he fucked around and well and truly Found Out.

Time to get a second opinion.

Despite the disgustingly late hour, the phone picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, stinky,” says Pidge. Keith can hear the smile in her voice as clearly as the explosions and gunfire of Call of Duty in the background.

“Asshole.”

“Turd for brains.”

“Skidmark.”

“Rotting splatter of parking lot vomit at three in the afternoon in Arizona during high summer.”

“…Pidge, that’s disgusting.”

She snickers. “I win.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Keith freezes as Lance stirs next to him, curling his arm around Keith’s bent leg and muttering something in Spanish too fast for him to understand. Keith smiles, tucking a stray curl back under his fluffy frog-eye hairband, lingering over the scar on his temple from a skateboarding accident when they were fifteen. “I need your help.”

“Well, obviously. You’re calling me at three thirty four in the morning. Usually you’re in bed by nine because secretly you look up to Adam and emulate his habits.”

Keith flushes. “I don’t remember ordering a psych analysis, fucker.”

“Consider it a bonus! Tell Auntie Pidge about your troubles.” He can practically see the face she makes immediately after, and snorts. “Ignore that. My mouth is not attached to my brain. Carry on.”

“I need you to check out a link,” Keith says, choosing to be merciful. “It’s pretty buried and obscure, but honestly I think it’s fine —”

“Yeah, last time you thought a link was fine you fucked your shit up so bad I had to download another virus to cancel it out. I’ve never had to do that before. You fucked your laptop up so bad I’d actually never seen that kind of damage before, Kogane. And I do this for a living.”

Keith pouts. “No, you commit cyber crimes for a living.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m an angel and have never gotten so much as a speeding ticket. I am a law abiding citizen. Send over the link.”

Switching his phone to rest between his ear and shoulder, Keith does. “I need to know if the link does what it says it does.”

Pidge hums. He can hear the ding of her laptop as his e-mail goes through, and then the sounds of her clicking as she inspects the website, running it through her various programs that Keith cannot fathom for the life of him.

“What did you say you were looking for, again?”

Keith closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting it thunk gently on the thin wall under the big window, in the corner of the apartment where they’ve shoved their bed. He lets his eyes go blurry, lets the stars they stuck on the ceiling before they did anything else turn into bright green dots. They’re real constellations. The two of them spent hours on them; Lance on Keith’s shoulders, tripping and shouting and laughing.

“I need tickets,” Keith says quietly. He turns his gaze slowly to Lance, who is sleeping soundly again, who has bags under his eyes, whose hands twitch every few seconds, who frowns deeply. “And we can’t — these are the only ones I could find. That I can even pretend to afford. I need it to be —” He swallows. “I need you to tell me they’re real.”

Pidge is quiet for a moment. The only sound is her breathing, her nail tapping slowly on the edge of her screen.

“The link is exactly what it says it is.”

Keith sits up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, man.”

Keith bites back a cheer so he doesn’t wake Lance up. Hell yeah! This is perfect! Exactly what they needed! Just — a little bit of luck. A little bit.

“Thank you, Pidge,” he gushes, hurrying to punch in his information. “Seriously.”

Pidge huffs fondly. “Okay, dweebus. Gross. Go be all affectionate somewhere else.” She pauses. “Take a picture when you tell him.”

Keith smiles. “I will.”

———

It takes every inch of Keith’s willpower to keep his mouth shut for a whole three weeks.

“I Know you are hiding something, Kogane,” Lance says while walking home from classes, while curling up into him as they watch TV, while cooking, while showering. “I see it in your face.”

“It’s nearly Christmas, you dweebus,” Keith says every time, and every time he softens it with an exaggerated kiss to Lance’s cheek, one to make him laugh despite himself and shove Keith’s face away. “Of course I’m hiding something.”

But it’s eating at them both. Lance’s blatant curiously makes it that much harder for Keith to keep things hidden, to stash the tickets between the pages of his corniest romance novel that Lance won’t touch with a ten foot pole. To wait, and wait, and wait, as they set up the three-foot high discounted Christmas tree and Lance changes their sheets to the flannel ones his mother gave them.

But the days pass. Finals come and go and so does the time. And finally, finally, it comes time to crawl onto the creaky mattress, knees on either side of Lance, nose kisses down his neck, and murmur, “We’ve got plans today.”

Lance groans. “No we do not.”

Keith smiles widely. He knows Lance can feel it, because he scowls harder, trying to hide his own fondness even as he melts into Keith’s affections.

“Yes, we do. I know. I planned them.”

“Well, then, un-plan them,” Lance grouches. He turns over so he’s facing Keith, now, trying hard to glare up at him, but late afternoon sunlight bleeds into his dark brown eyes and makes them shine golden, and they are as warm and bright as the rest of him, and his hands slide up Keith’s chest, over his shoulders, brushing through his hair, to rest on his cheeks. “Come nap with me.”

Keith turns his head to press a kiss to Lance’s palm, keeping his mouth there. Lance rolls his eyes, and can no longer hide his smile. “Later. I made plans. Dress up, I’m gonna pick us up some food for the way. We’ll leave in forty minutes.”

“Ugh.”

“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, baby. I can see you eyeing the closet.”

“Shut up and get me a burrito.” He soothes the bite of his words by pulling Keith’s face closer to his, pressing their lips together softly. “Please.”

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s whipped, and Lance knows it, because he grins, pleased, and pulls Keith even closer, kisses him stronger. It takes Keith a good five minutes to muster up the willpower to pull away, and Lance knows it, smirking.

He finally manages to yank himself away, stumbling backwards towards the kitchenette of their studio. Lance pouts at him.

“Menace,” Keith says sternly, deliberately turning away as he pulls on his boots and coat. He ignores his boyfriend’s grumbling and finally makes it out the door, hustling to their favourite bodega and hoping it isn’t too crowded.

Thirty-seven minutes later, burritos secured, Keith is shoving his frozen fingers around the door handle to jimmy it open. The bodega was indeed crowded and they are indeed late. The show starts in an hour. From what Keith remembers from Lance’s recitals — and he has been to many — people who are late are people who miss the show. The ballet does not fuck around with tardiness and disruptions; if you’re late, that’s tough shit for you. Plan better.

“You’re going to eat shit,” Lance says, amused, the fourth time Keith power walks right over black ice and nearly actually dies. “Slow down, babe.”

Keith does not.

“Can’t,” he huffs, keeping a half-eye on the pavement. A tourist walks into him, shoving him into Lance, who takes the opportunity to slide his hand into Keith’s back pocket and wink at him when his cheeks colour.

“Why can’t we slow down? Where are we going?”

“It’s like you don’t know what surprise means.”

“I do know. I also know that if I annoy anyone long enough they’ll snap so I’ll shut up.”

“Nah. I like it when you talk.”

He’d meant it as somewhat of a comeback, as a jab back to Lance’s teasing. But suddenly Lance stops, spine going rigid, something like shock flirting across his face for half a millisecond before he blinks it away and moves again. It happens so fast that Keith would almost be convinced he’d imagined it, except Lance’s cheeks are crimson.

Keith smiles. “Lance.”

“Shut up.”

“Babydoll.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m barely sayin’ anything, baby.”

“You are so fuckin — gay, you know that? God. Who fuckin — who says shit like that? Who on this Earth?”

Keith laughs, bending down to kiss right below Lance’s ear, to feel his flushed skin warm to frozen tip of his nose.

“You are so easily flattered.”

“Easily flatter this dick. How about that. Fuckin. Jerk.”

He lets Lance grouch at him, pleased and embarrassed about it, as he pulls them along the overcrowded streets. He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes ‘til the show starts, thirteen minutes ‘til they get there. Hopefully.

“Are we almost there? It’s cold and these shoes are pinchy.”

“I told you to wear comfortable shoes!”

“You told me to dress up! I can do one of those things, Akira!”

At the seven minute mark Keith starts running. Lance, surprisingly, doesn’t complain — a grin pulls at his sharp features, actually, and he wraps their hands together and runs faster, despite not knowing where they’re going. Every time they bump into someone in a suit he laughs. He laughs harder when they curse at him. Keith has to fight to keep his head in the game, to keep running, to not stop where he’s standing and watch Lance laugh for hours and hours and hours. It’s been too long.

He nearly pulls Lance’s arm out of his socket when he stops then abruptly, shouting “Here! Here! We’re here!” and pulling him inside a well-kept brownstone.

“Where’s…here?” Lance wonders, taking in the well-salted walkway and pretty red-and-green decorations all over the aged brick.

Keith doesn’t answer. “Close your eyes.”

Lance narrows his eyes. Keith makes his expression as wide and pleading as possible, and in seconds Lance caves, much to Keith’s satisfaction.

“You’re a pain in my neck.”

Keith kisses him quickly and chastely. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t let me walk into anything.”

Satisfied that Lance won’t peek, Keith shuffles them over to the box office, holding out their tickets. The stewardess smiles at him, scanning them, eyes twinkling at Keith wordless plea for her to keep the secret, and gestures towards a grand set of doors.

“Up the stairs, to your left, seat and row on your ticket,” she murmurs. “Enjoy the show.”

Keith nods his thanks and rushes them off.

“This sounds very fancy,” Lance observes as their shoes click on the — literally marble, how the hell were these tickets $20 — floors. “Dangerously so.”

Keith shrugs. “Perhaps.”

“…Not to be. A bummer. But please tell me you remembered our budget, Keith.”

“I did, Lance. I swear.”

Lance relaxes into him, and Keith realises for the first time how tense he was. He winces to himself. He probably could have made things a tad less stressful and still kept the surprise. He’ll remember that for next year.

“Okay, good. I trust you.”

They barely make it to their seats in time. Keith’s butt barely makes contact with the cushioned chair before the lights dim and the orchestra starts tuning, the rest of the audience lapsing into almost immediate silence.

Lance inhales sharply. “Keith…?”

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”

Lance does, and they’re wide, and his mouth drops open, slightly, and for a moment he just stares, frozen, at the stage and the lights and the set, the familiar set, as the dim light casts shadows onto his face. The orchestra’s tuning note reaches its satisfying peak, harmonizing as one sound, and Keith’s full attention is on the lines of Lance’s face, the set of his jaw, the curves of his cheekbones.

“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly.

Before he can say anything else, before Lance can say anything else, the familiar sound of pointe shoes tapping delicately across the stage steals Keith’s attention. He turns his eyes to the stage, watching the dancers strut on the stage, and — stops.

He leans forward, squinting.

What?

Keith is…very familiar with the Nutcracker. He’s grown up alongside Lance’s family since he was eight years old. He’s been to more recitals than he can count. He’s been dragged to more performances than he can ever remember. Lance has lived and breathed and loved ballet his whole damn life, for the entire time Keith has known him, and that love bled well outside of the studio, has lasted even after he aged out of the program last year. Keith knows how the Nutcracker begins, and nothing about the program said this one was supposed to be any different.

Half of the dancers walking onstage are significantly shorter than they should be.

Now he knows damn well that there are kids in the Nutcracker. The main character is a kid. That’s the whole deal.

But there is not one adult on that stage right now. Hell, not even a teenager.

Keith looks down at the ticket — Feuilles Brillant Academy. He looks back at the stage. He looks at the other audience members — lots and lots of people with camcorders. And other small children.

Keith sinks into his chair, head in his hands.

His dumb ass bough a ticket to a children’s ballet recital.

Lord above.

“Lance, I am so sorry,” he whispers, “I was so caught up in the ticket being in budget I didn’t bother actually, like, looking deeper into things, this is totally — Lance?”

Keith leans forward in alarm, hands immediately falling on Lance’s knee, on his back. His shoulders shake and his hands are pressed to his eyes.

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry,” Keith says desperately, embarrassment replaced with panic. Everything feels like it’s crashing down around him, as dramatic as that is. He’d been so excited for this. Now it’s a whole mess. “I didn’t mean to — fuck things up, shit, we can leave.”

Lance shakes his head. Blindly, he reaches over the grasps Keith’s hand, holding tightly. His own hand is damp from his tears.

“No, no, it’s — perfect,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I —”

His chin trembles, and more tears spill over his cheeks. As the music swells along to the climax of the first dance, Lance lifts the armrest separating their seats, half crawling over Keith until his head is tucked in the crook of Keith’s neck, arms folded between their chests, hands clutching at the fabric of his sweater. His voice is wet with tears and soaked in an emotion Keith can’t quite name, an almost — relief.

“It’s been so long. I didn’t want to — I thought I wouldn’t be able to do this again. I wouldn’t let myself think about it.”

Keith lets a huge, relieved exhale, sagging forward. He wraps himself more comfortably around Lance’s frame, squeezing him back, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple.

Growing up has been…hard. For the both of them.

They’d been told by everyone who knew them that they were being stupid and reckless. Keith has been promised that they won’t last more than two years by almost every grownup he’s ever known. Even his own brother had sighed his trepidation when Keith told him, stubborn and bold-faced, that he was moving in with Lance, that they were going to start their lives together the second they pulled off their caps and gowns, that they were ready for the next step. That they were eighteen and ready to face the world.

“Sacrifices,” Shiro had warned, “are going to be half your life now. It’s not that I think you can’t, Keith. I just. There’s a reason people don’t move in with their highschool sweetheart they summer after they graduate. Katy Perry wrote a whole song about it. It’s a banger.”

Keith hates it when his brother is right, and this time he was right about so many things in consecutive order. Living on your own is hard. Learning to live with someone else is harder. Doing it in a city far away from home, while balancing school and work and rent and groceries, is the hardest.

“I miss dance,” Lance croaks, and Keith closes his eyes and breathes deeply and holds Lance tighter.

He knows Lance misses dance. He knows that he hasn’t so much as listened to a ballet since they moved to New York, unless it’s in the dead of night, and he thinks Keith is asleep, and he puts in his headphones and moves their furniture as silently as he can to the edges of their tiny ass studio apartment and laces up his falling-to-pieces pointe shoes and dances like the very act of it is tearing him apart, and cries the whole time. And then stashes his shoes in the bottom of his gym bag and crawls back into bed and pretends again in the morning that he left his pointes back in Arizona. And Keith looks away and lets him because school is already twenty thousand a year and in no shape or form can they afford that and money to rent a studio.

But Keith can give him this. For a little bit, maybe, even if it’s little kids with handmade costumes pirouetting across a stage.

“I know, bluebell.”

Lance exhales, shaky, breath ghosting across Keith’s collarbones, and finally turns back towards the stage, keeping tucked under Keith’s chin. The kids dancing as the Snow Queen’s ladies-in-waiting are — three years old, maybe. At most four. They keep twirling right into each other like clumsy little bumblebees. It’s maybe the cutest thing Keith has ever seen in his entire life, and what’s better is the tiny smile that graces Lance’s face, despite the tears, growing bigger every time one of them wobbles back up to their feet and prances on, oblivious.

They watch the rest of the play in silence, Lance hands entwining with his sometime around the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy and holding fast. They stand and clap as loudly as the gathered parents, louder even, at curtain call, as each kid jumps and twirls across the stage to thrown roses and cheering. It’s adorable.

They’re among the first to walk out, because the majority of the crowd surges towards backstage to collect their kid, so the walk is blessedly unrushed. They take their time, observing the pictures of grinning ballerinas that line the walls and numerous awards on endless shelves. Keith is filled with a deep and strong longing, a strange feeling of coming home — years of waiting on plastic chairs for Lance to finish solo practice when they were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Of taking his boots off at the door and quietly sneaking in the back of the studio, ducking away from other dancers’ boring stares, to watch Lance shine under the studio lights, reflected a thousand times by mirrored walls. Of the smell of lemon cleaner and polished hardwood floors and satin.

He notices a poster on the wall, among dozens of drawings and pictures of intricate sets, and freezes.

“Lance,” he says, tilting his head, “look.”

At the end of a hallway, right next to a door, is a hand-painted banner, reading: WE’LL MISS YOU, MISS RAULA! HAPPY RETIREMENT!

He squeezes Lance’s hand. “I bet they’re looking for a replacement.”

Lance stares at the poster for a long time. “You think?”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt to shoot them an e-mail.”

Smiling, Lance stops them in the hallway, puts his hands on Keith’s shoulders, stands on his tiptoes, and kisses him, long and sweet and loving.

“I’m already in a pretty tight spot now,” he murmurs, still standing so close to Keith and smelling so sweet that he has trouble focusing on his words, “‘cause this is already kind of the best Christmas gift ever. If that ends up being true I’m never topping you again.”

Keith laughs, suddenly, not expecting the turn, and Lance grins, pulling Keith down to him and kissing him again. It’s less of a kiss and more of a press of smiles, a clack of teeth, a shared laugh.

“I love you, Lance. Merry Christmas. I will be the Gift Giving King forever.”

“Shut up, goober.” He lifts Keith’s arm, tucking himself under it as they walk back out into the snowy December night. “I love you too.”

———

based on this post (third slide)

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demigodsanswer · 3 months ago

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Twice Upon a Pointe: 11/13 Slaughter on Tenth Avenue

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As a Soloist at New York City Ballet, Percy had become known for his skills as a partner. He could dance with any girl of any size, and she’d find him reliable, trustworthy, and stable. He never cared to put himself forward. Her stability and safety was all he cared about. Partnering was the one moment in his life he felt like ADHD didn’t rule his world; he was locked in, razor focused on her, whatever she needed, whatever she needed him to do, he knew right away.

But Percy hadn’t always been considered a good ballet partner. While Mr. Lester’s classes had offered some pas de deux training, he still felt skittish and unprepared walking into SAB’s pas class for the first time.

Truly, he’d felt nervous in all of his classes. If he’d ever felt like something of a hotshot at competitions and in Lester’s classes, that feeling had abandoned him at SAB. Everyone at SAB had been a hotshot wherever they’d come from. And all of them had been dancing for years longer than Percy, some of them a full decade ahead of him.

Whatever anxiety he had, it held him back in pas class the most. He was worried about dropping the girl, or messing something up and throwing her off in the process. He could hide his complete lack of confidence in his technique classes, but here, if he screwed up, someone would know. Worse, someone could get hurt.

In their third pas classes, the teacher had reassigned partners. He’d wound up with Annabeth. She was a level above him, but several kids from the upper level shared this class.

She was nice to him, but she didn’t talk much. Annabeth mostly paid close and careful attention to the teacher. She always looked so serious. She had introduced herself in a formal, polite way that made Percy smile. A lot about Annabeth made him smile, actually. All of the girls at SAB were pretty, but she was something else. He was sure that if they’d had the time, he might be able to make her smile too.

Don’t drop her, he thought as the teacher gave instructions, just remember the combination and for the love of god, don’t drop her.

Annabeth was instructive, telling him what she needed from him. Where he needed to put his hands, where he needed to press his thumbs into her back. She was steady and confident. When he messed up, she was able to correct a little to keep herself in the right place. And Percy learned.

He needed to be stronger, so he started going to the gym more, lifting weights and doing push-ups until the girl’s weight felt almost like nothing. He needed to work on his confidence too, Annabeth had told him. “We’ll make more mistakes if you’re nervous,” she told him. She wasn’t being cruel. She was just correct.

They danced together for three weeks, until her weight and balance were completely familiar to him. And Percy had been right, he could make her laugh. Still, he tried to push any thoughts of a crush on her out of his mind; he didn’t have time for that, and she’d never be interested in him.

But he couldn’t help but look forward to every pas class.

It was the middle of October when she stopped showing up.

“Percy, you’ll be with Rachel today,” the teacher told him. Rachel walked over to him.

“Where’s Annabeth?” He asked after class.

“Chiron needed her for Nutcracker, ” Rachel said.

“She got pulled into the company?” Percy asked.

Rachel nodded at Matt Sloan shoved against his back. “Sorry you’ll never dance with her again, Jackson,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t I dance with her again?” Percy asked.

“You’re the worst dancer here. No way you get a company contract,” Matt said.

(Years later, Percy would hear that Matt suffered a career-ending injury out at Ballet West, and he’d pretend to feel sorry for him.)

But for a while, Percy was pretty sure Matt was right. Even in his first show as an apprentice, just a party guest in the summer’s Romeo and Juliet, he watched Annabeth dance the principal role with Charles Beckendorf, that girl who’d taught him so much, but who didn’t seem to recognize him at all these days, and he thought well, I’ll never be him.

And then he felt something different. He stood in the back row of men during the Knight’s Dance. She was at the front with “Paris.” And Percy felt that fierce determination to get there, to be that man. It wasn’t for the first time, or the last. When he danced with Annabeth Chase for the last time, he decided, he’d know it was the last time.

His Slaughter debut was the day after Tarantella. He was standing backstage next to Reyna, who was doing a series of squats and stretches in her pink costume. She still had her light blue leg warmers on. Her dark hair was up in a classic bun, but it would have to come down during her quick change. She only had a few moments to change into her black costume, change her shoes, and take her hair down.

They did this ballet well together. She was taller than most girls he usually partnered with, but in heels they were closer in height than if she were on pointe. And, he thought they had a good chemistry together.

It wasn’t her debut in this ballet, she’d told Percy a few weeks ago. She had done it a handful of times, most of them with Jason.

“I feel like everything is my debut,” Percy said, trying to laugh. Really, there were so many principal roles he hadn’t gotten to dance yet, including Slaughter.

“You’ll get your chance,” she said. “You’ll get everything once you’re a principal.”

She sounded so sure of his prospects in casting, and of his chances at promotion. It almost felt too familiar for Percy’s taste, but he mustered up his kindness and just said: “Thanks.”

Reyna had an incredible stage presence, and a remarkably subtle approach to acting in ballet. She brought the audience to her, drawing them in closer. He imagined them having to tilt forward in their seats to really get all of what she had to offer. But Reyna paid them no mind. She didn’t play to them; she played to Percy. And it was electric. He felt drawn to her in all the ways his character was meant to. He might have over-acted the role if he didn’t have her to play off of.

Reyna pretended to be passed out at the bar, and Percy leaned in and kissed her hard. She was wearing red lipstick and he knew it had gotten all over his face. He hoped it wasn’t too noticeable from the audience. With their kiss over, he pulled her into the center of the stage. They started their second, much more wild pas de deux, with Reyna’s long dark hair flipping everywhere, and her legs kicked oh so high up in the air.

Her character was so different from how Reyna seemed in real life, and that almost made it better. She got to be free, unbound and unserious. Percy channeled that same feeling as he slid across the floor.

As the ballet came to its tragic end, the audience erupted in cheers and applause. Percy felt like a rock star. Reyna kept pushing him forward in the curtain call, making sure he took a good, long, and earned bow.

Percy paused on his way to rehearsal. He was a few feet away from Lupa’s office when the door opened. A pretty woman in her early thirties stepped out. As she passed him, Percy noticed there were tears on her cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

The woman shook her head, but took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. “You’re Percy, right?” She asked.

He nodded.

“I’m Gwen,” she held out her hand, and he shook it. “We were supposed to dance Slaughter together, actually. But Lupa …” she glanced back at the door. “It doesn't matter.”

Before Percy could say anything, she kept walking. He didn’t have time to ask what that was about, before he heard the voices from inside Lupa’s office steadily getting louder.

He recognized Reyna’s voice, but she was speaking in Spanish, so the words flew past Percy, too quickly for him to pick out anything meaningful. Lupa didn’t hesitate to respond, keeping her words Spanish as well.

Percy heard his name. Then Gwen’s. Then Jason’s.

“You promised me --!” Reyna said in English.

“I promised you nothing,” Lupa said, her voice back to an almost quiet speaking volume, pulling Reyna’s back down with her. “You are my star, Reyna. So I need you to learn to dance with Frank.”

“We need more tall men!” Reyna said.

“Or maybe we need shorter girls!” Lupa yelled back. Her voice went quiet again, cold and furious. “Get rid of this grudge Ms. Ramírez-Arellano before you end up back in the corps de ballet.”

Percy sensed that was the end of the conversation, and he took off down the hall before he could get caught eavesdropping. He ducked into his rehearsal studio. There was still a week of performances, and it was time for his rehearsal with Reyna. Percy waited for her to arrive, working hard to look like he hadn’t just heard her fighting Lupa, or heard Lupa fighting back.

The rehearsal studio was hot as the sun beat in, pressing oppressively on the back of his neck.

He waited.

After a few minutes, though, Reyna didn’t arrive. Lupa walked in instead with Rachel behind her.

“ Que calor!” Lupa said, smiling and fanning herself with her hand. She turned to the wall and made sure the AC was on. “We had a bit of a casting shake-up,” Lupa said. “I needed to pull Gwen from Tchai Pas and put Reyna in. I want to see how you do with Rachel in Slaughter. If it’s bad, we’ll put Reyna back in , ” she said.

Percy nodded. “Alright, I think we can handle it.”

Rachel smiled. “I’ll just need a quick refresh on the choreography, and then I’ll be ready to go.”

Lupa and the ballet master ran through the choreography again, and it gave Percy a good chance to reorient himself to Rachel’s shorter frame. He was used to dancing with her, but on pointe. The walk through helped him prepare.

“We’re going to run it with the hair change,” Lupa said to Rachel.

Rachel understood, and started pulling pins out of her bun. Rachel dug through her bag, dropping the loose pins in and pulling out a hair brush. She combed through the hairspray, freeing some of her curls. With her hair down and brushed out, she flipped it a few times before scooping it back up into a looser bun with fewer pins.

“We’ll see if that holds,” she said. Her red curls had always been hard to contain. Percy was about to say something, but she looked at him knowingly. “If you say anything about Merida, I’ll throw my hair brush at you,” she threatened, shaking the blue thing in his direction.

Percy put his hands up defensively. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Alright,” Lupa siad with a clap, “let's see how this goes.”

It was an immediate success. He and Reyna had danced it well, and they’d found a pretty natural rhythm together. Because he’d been so used to dancing it with her, Percy anticipated that switching to Rachel would cause some hiccups. But it didn’t. It felt as natural as dancing the Wedding Pas with Annabeth had that first time. Sure, there were differences between the partners, but to an onlooker, it seemed as if Percy and Rachel had always been dancing this ballet together.

Rachel ran the first part of the ballet. On the stage, she’d be doing it up on a platform, but here, she just stayed on the floor. She tossed away her shawl, her hair piece, and even her pink shoe to the men waiting to grab it. Then she disappeared, going to the back of the room, their temporary “backstage” where she took down her hair.

When she came back, they started their first pas de deux , the far more contained one. The tone of Slaughter might have been remarkably different from Tarantella, but Rachel was still just as fun to dance with. When they got to the second pas, the one with all the high kicks, Rachel didn’t hold anything back, and so Percy didn’t either. Maybe it was her hair, or maybe it was just who she was, but Rachel’s take on the character felt far more fiery than Reyna’s. Reyna’s take almost had a seductive Black Swan quality to it, but Rachel’s was more carefree in its sexuality.

Percy dipped her into the back bend, and Rachel did her high kicks as they marched. Percy stole a glance at them in the mirror, and they looked great.

When the dance ended a few minutes later, Percy and Rachel were playing dead as the music came to an end. Once the pianist completed the final notes, there was a long, terrible pause where Lupa said nothing. Percy started to move, assuming it was okay to get out of his death position. From the other side of the room, Rachel sat up as well.

Finally, Lupa smiled. “Well, that looked great! I don’t think I have anything to worry about with you two,” she said.

Percy let out a deep breath.

“So we’re on?” Rachel asked.

“Tonight and all the rest of Percy’s shows,” Lupa confirmed. “I’ll update the performance schedule.” With that, Lupa left them to the ballet masters.

They ran it for another hour, before Rachel was sent to try on the costume. She came back half an hour later, as Percy was running his tap solo at the end of the ballet.

“We’re going to sneak into the theater to practice the quick change, if you’d like to come and run the pas on the stage with Rachel?” Lupa offered.

The energy of the stage and costumes brought an added layer to the ballet. Rachel’s quick change always went off without a hitch, and their two pas ’s were almost perfect, as if they’d been dancing them the whole time. The two were literally alone on the stage -- the corps and other soloist performers would be there later, but this impromptu dress rehearsal was just for Rachel and Percy. With the stage and theater all to themselves, they just let go and danced as if this whole thing were just for fun. Percy even lost sight of where Lupa was in the theater. All of his attention was on Rachel and their dance.

With a few hours left before show time, Lupa sent them off to go eat something before coming back to the theater. The two sat outside at a cafe enjoying a light dinner, chatting about Slaughter and the rest of the company.

“I’m happy I get to dance with you again,” Rachel said. “I’ve always thought we would have made good partners, if we’d stayed in the same company.” Her eyes were fixed on her plate as she tore into a slice of bread and buttered it lightly.

“Me too, to both things,” Percy agreed. “And I am … sorry that things never worked out.”

Rachel tilted her head to the side. “You mean that you got your apprenticeship?” She laughed a little. “You got the thing every SAB kid wants, so don’t be sorry. I would have ditched you and stayed in New York too, if the roles were reversed.”

“You think I ditched you?” He asked.

“Of course not. I never took it personally,” she assured him. “How do you feel about Miami, though?”

“The company?” Rachel nodded. “It’s been great. I mean …getting to do Tarantella has just been a real dream. And, of course, it’s great to dance with you again.” Percy pushed some food around. “Lupa’s been really great to me so far, but it seems like things can get kind of intense sometimes.”

Rachel smiled at the complement, but then turned a bit serious. “Lupa can be incredibly supportive. She’s not afraid to give dancers what they want. I mean, full disclosure, I told her I remembered Tarantella being one of your favorites. She knew Hazel wanted to do the Swans, so she gave her Swan Lake to keep her in the company. She let me dance Coppelia when I was twenty.” She took a sip of her drink. “She’s a really good director.”

“But?” Percy asked.

“It can get a little kill or be killed,” Rachel said, shrugging. “She’s got a she-wolf side to her. Not that you’ve probably seen it, since you’re doing a great job,” she said smiling, and Percy didn’t mention what he’d heard earlier that day, “but she can be tough. And not in Chiron’s straight-forward, pragmatic way. Like,” she leaned in closer, “Gwen had a baby in November, and Lupa asked her to come back for this season. But she keeps putting Gwen in ballets, then pulling her out at the last minute, because she doesn’t think Gwen has lost enough weight yet. It’s why Reyna is doing Tchai Pas now. And Gwen is just devastated and humiliated. She wants to be home with her baby, but Lupa promised her all these ballets if she came back early, and she’s gotten to dance none of them on stage.”

Percy’s heart sank at that. He thought about mentioning his brief conversation with Gwen in the hallway, but he didn’t want to humiliate her anymore. Situations like that, though, were unfortunately common across companies. But Percy couldn’t think of a time Chiron had asked a dancer to come back early, only to deny them roles. In fact, he could only really think of the opposite, with Annabeth. She’d gotten more time off and then more roles on her return. But since his injuries, Chiron had always been cautious about dancers’ health and wellness.

“Why did Jason leave?” Percy asked.

Rachel took a deep breath. “He was Miami’s workhorse. He’s been here since he was, I think, nine years old. He was doing the work of a soloist when he was in the corps. He was doing the work of a principal when he was a soloist. When he got his New York offer, he called Lupa and asked for his Principal promotion. She’d done the same thing for Hazel. But … she just said she couldn’t do that, and that he wasn’t ready.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “None of us know how Jason couldn’t have been ready. He was already doing that work, but … “ she shrugged, “I don’t know, maybe he wasn’t ready, but at least as a soloist in New York he’s doing the work of a soloist for the pay of a soloist, not what Lupa was demanding of him here.”

Percy leaned back in his chair. “I’ve got more respect for Jason now, I guess.”

Rachel nodded. “We make fun of Reyna a lot for maybe being in love with him, but I don’t think she was. I think Jason was just the perfect dance partner for her, and I think she expected to dance the rest of her career with him. But Lupa just let him go. Reyna’s been dancing with Frank, and they’ve been doing a good job, but that perfect person is just gone. Jason and Reyna, they were like … Like Beckendorf and Annabeth, right? Just completely perfect and --- and did you know you get the dumbest look on your face every time someone mentions her name?”

Percy’s mind had wandered a bit at the mention of Annabeth, but the change in Rachel’s tone from concern to teasing brought him back to Earth.

“Huh?” He asked.

Rachel shook her head, smiling. “You are so in love with her, aren’t you?” She asked.

Percy’s face felt hot, but he didn’t bother denying it. “She’s really special,” he said.

“I’m happy for you,” Rachel said, reaching her hand across the table to Percy. “And I’m sorry we … I haven’t been the nicest about her.”

“Thanks,” he said, “and I think you’d like her if you got to know her. And now you two are the same rank, so there’s nothing to be jealous about,” he teased.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” Rachel muttered, her cheeks pink as she sipped at her water. “I keep wondering what it might have been like if you’d come here with me.”

“I was happy to go to Miami with you,” Percy said. And he meant it. If there was someone at SAB he had to leave with, he was glad it was going to be her. “I was excited when I found out you were the other person from SAB who’d gotten the offer, and that we were going to go together. And I am sorry that didn’t happen.”

Rachel nodded, her green eyes turned down and sad. She didn’t brush off the apology like she had with the earlier one. “Yeah, me too,” she said. “But you will be a principal, Percy,” she looked up at him, her eyes clear, “I don’t know what Jason was lacking, but whatever it is, you aren’t lacking it.”

Percy smiled and thanked her.

“It’s just about time to get back,” he said.

Rachel nodded.

As they walked out together, heading back towards the theater in the last drawn out rays of sunset, she turned to him.

“You fit in really well here,” she said.

Percy just nodded, not sure what to say, but sure that he agreed.

Dancing Slaughter on stage with Rachel was almost as fun as dancing Tarantella with her. There was this old familiar feeling whenever he was on stage with her, and it made it easy to just let go and dance. The Sleeping Beauty and Agon had been stressful, every performance felt like it applied more and more pressure. But not here, not in these ballets. Here, Percy could just act and dance with his friend, and feed off of the rapturous applause of the audience.

Agon might have been a Balanchine ballet, but Slaughter and Tarantella really reminded him what he loved about Balanchine’s rep. They were so different. Different from Beauty, different from anything else.

As he held Rachel as she dipped back, her red curls hanging wildly, and her legs kicking up in the air, he felt like a Balanchine dancer for the first time in a while. Not a New York dancer, or Chiron’s dancer, just Balanchine’s.

His final week of performances seemed to pass in a blur. He got to dance with Rachel each night -- one night on for Tarantella and the next for Slaughter.

He couldn’t believe his time in Miami was already almost over, but as the days crept by, he started to get more and more excited to go home. He didn’t miss City Ballet too much -- dance was dance and he was doing plenty of it -- but he missed Annabeth. He desperately wanted to hold her again, kiss her. Each buzz of his phone brought a little bit of hope that it was her, but her messages had gotten fewer and farther between in the few days in Miami.

It only added to Percy’s desire to see her.

On his last night of performances, Lupa had scheduled him for both ballets in one night. He was glad Tarantella was first, otherwise, he didn’t think he’d have the energy for it. Slaughter wasn’t too demanding, but the idea of doing all those Tarantella jumps after another ballet seemed almost impossible.

“Our last Tarantella, ” Rachel lamented in her little peasant girl dress.

“Well, let's go out there and rock it. Make it count,” Percy said.

They did.

They did their turns contest, and on his final turn, he managed to make it around seven times, to thunderous applause. She did her final turn. One. Two. Three. Four. And then, a fifth. Percy beat his tambourine as a kind of praise before she started her series of pirouettes down the stage.

Percy clapped the tambourine as Rachel did her pirouettes, keeping time for her, and the audience started to clap along. It brought up the energy, and Rachel seemed to just turn faster and faster.

When she reached the end, they did their final steps, before starting their spins off the stage. Percy was completely out of breath. His legs hurt in impossible ways, and he was happy. He pulled Rachel into him right at the edge of the stage, and kissed her cheek, before letting her go. She ran off stage, and he followed, but not before beating the tambourine one last time against his chest and throwing his hands in the air in triumph.

They barely had the breath to come out for their bow, but they made it. Percy spotted someone in the audience standing for them, and soon the whole theater was on its feet, clapping for them.

Percy would have given them an encore if he could muster the stamina. But they simply took an extra long bow, before exiting the stage to get ready for Slaughter.

Slaughter was a very different vibe, but their energy was still up. Where Rachel had crazy fast spins and footwork in the last ballet, now she had high kicks. They weren’t quite as high or seemingly effortless as Reyna’s but there was still something flirty and fun about them. Her costume change went off without a hitch, and she was able to fling her red curls around with every bend, dip, and spin.

The fun and sexy energy came to an end with the titular slaughter, as Rachel took a “bullet” for him from her pimp, who Percy “killed” before killing himself. Despite the sudden tragedy, there was another eruption of thunderous applause from the audience.

They were the last ballet of the night, and it was Percy’s last ballet with Miami, and each performance had felt like one of the best of his life. Second only, he thought, to Sleeping Beauty, and even then, he wasn’t sure.

Back stage, Percy lifted Rachel in triumph, settling her on his shoulder as he gripped her thighs to hold her steady. They cheered as loud as they were willing. They hadn’t changed yet, so Percy’s tap shoes made a little click with each step, and the fringe from Rachel’s stripper costume tickled his hand.

He was done in Miami, he realized. Not that he didn’t know that going into the day, but the reality of it was starting to settle in. All of the friends he’d made, and the good times he had here were over. He had tomorrow off to see some more of the city, and then he was back on an airplane to New York. And the day after that, New York’s Spring season rehearsals started.

Before he could think about all the good things about New York, one of those good things arrived in front of him.

“Percy, someone is here to see you,” Hazel said.

Just past her was Annabeth, her blonde hair down and brushed to one side. She was in a white linen dress with brown buttons down the center, with a light blue sweater pulled over her arms and shoulders. She had a bouquet of blue and purple hydrangeas in her hand.

Percy placed Rachel on the floor, and immediately lost all sense of where she was next to him. At that moment, it felt like he and Annabeth were the only ones in the world. He suddenly felt a collection of words nearly rise up into his mouth, as his heart beat somehow got faster than it had on stage, and his face felt flushed. It was like feeling that sense of freedom. He couldn’t describe it, but he knew it right away. He pushed the words back down -- I love you -- knowing it would be an insane thing to say to her now, after so little time together, and so much time apart. Instead, he said: “Oh, thank god.”

He’d caught a frightened and suspicious look in her eyes when she’d seen him carrying around Rachel in her skimpy Slaughter costume . But that look disappeared as Percy rushed forward towards her. Hazel deftly took the flowers out of Annabeths’ hands as Percy nearly crashed into Annabeth.

Percy rested his hands on her face, making eye contact for a moment, as if looking for permission to be completely public with their affections. Annabeth responded by pulling on the front of his costume, down towards her mouth.

Annabeth didn’t pull away when Rachel said, “Pretty flowers,” presumably to Hazel. If anything, Annabeth only kissed Percy harder, laying her claim to him. He remembered that she’d once accused herself of being jealous. He’d tease her for this later, he decided, for now, he would enjoy having a beautiful woman fight for him.

Finally, though, Annabeth did pull away, letting go of Percy’s costume.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said to her, his voice low, only for her.

Her hands were still on his chest. “You’ve been so excited about Tarantella, I wanted to see it. Percy, you were amazing.”

Percy was going to say something else, but he heard Frank clear his throat next to them. Percy’s face still felt red, and only got more red when he saw that Rachel, Hazel, and Frank were all standing there.

“This is Annabeth,” Percy said, “this is Rachel, and Frank, and you know Hazel.”

“Good to see you again, Hazel,” Annabeth said. Hazel agreed and handed back the flowers, before pulling Frank away. Annabeth handed Percy the flowers. “These are for you,” she said. Percy accepted them gladly, but noticed Rachel had stayed where she was.

“It’s so good to meet you, Annabeth,” Rachel said, “or, I guess, see you again. We went to school together.”

Annabeth looked her over. “We did?”

“I was in Percy’s year,” Rachel said, “but all three of us were in the same pas de deux class.”

Annabeth nodded. “Oh yeah,” she said in a way that convinced Percy she had absolutely no memory of Rachel.

“Sorry about the outfit,” Rachel said, gesturing to her costume. She rested her hands on Percy’s shoulder. “I was playing a whore.”

“Was it hard?” Annabeth asked.

“Hey!” Percy said, turning to Annabeth, who looked away from him, her mouth pressed shut in a hard line and her jaw tense. Before things could get worse, Percy turned towards Rachel, shaking her hands off him in the process. “I’ll meet up with you guys in a little bit?” He said.

Rachel nodded. But as she turned, Lupa walked up behind them.

“Ah, there you are Percy,” she said. Lupa’s eyes landed on Annabeth, who stood up straighter. “Ms. Chase, is it?”

Annabeth held out her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Jason speaks highly of you,” she said.

“You in New York are lucky to have him.” There was something different in Lupa’s tone. The warmth was there, but something felt phony about it. Percy looked between Lupa and Annabeth, their gazes both piercing, but their smiles and tones polite.

“I saw your Sleeping Beauty performance,” Lupa continued, “fine work. You certainly are one of Chiron’s dancers.” Percy didn’t know what that could mean, but it sounded backhanded. Whatever the subtle insult was, Annabeth caught it as well, and pressed her lips together into a thin smile.

“I’m very proud to be one of his dancers,” Annabeth said. “And we’re all looking forward to having Percy back with us.”

“Actually, before you steal Mr. Jackson away from us,” he turned to Percy, “I was hoping to speak to you in my office.”

Like everything else in Miami, Lupa’s office was warm. There were several pictures on the walls, all of them of a young Lupa dancing on stage. Percy knew that stage better than he knew most places in New York.

Of course, he didn’t need to recognize the theater and stage to know she’d been a principal in New York City Ballet. She’d danced there for nearly thirty years before retiring. She was one of the last great dancers to work with Balanchine himself. Her and Chiron.

When she’d retired, she’d gotten a job offer from Miami, and she promptly abandoned her position as a ballet master with NYCB. It worked out for her well enough; it wasn’t long before she was artistic director and reinventing the company entirely.

In one black and white photo, she was posed in a fish dive with a dancer who felt eerily familiar.

“That’s Chiron,” she said, “as you might have figured out. He was quite the dancer back in the day.”

A series of repeat back injuries had ended Chiron’s career, and then a botched surgery had left him all but wheelchair bound. Percy knew he still had some use of his legs, and could stand and walk when he needed to, cane in hand. But these days, he mostly stuck to the chair.

“I’ve seen some videos of you,” Percy said. “I actually used to own a tape of Serenade, and you were the Russian girl.” He still mourned that old VHS Mr. Lester had given him and that Gabe had destroyed.

Lupa smiled. “One of my constant parts. And he was one of my constant partners. I bet you can guess the ballet there,” she said, pointing to the picture of her and Chiron. Percy knew that fish dive anywhere. Look ma, Lupa and Chiron’s younger selves seemed to say to him through the frame, no hands!

“ Sleeping Beauty? ” He guessed.

She nodded. “I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I don’t like Chiron. He was a dear friend of mine. We’ve just always disagreed on certain things. And, in the last decade or so, I’m afraid we’ve gotten a bit competitive.”

“I’ve heard you don’t think he’s using Balanchine’s rep to its full potential,” Percy said.

Lupa just nodded. “That he has never cast you in Tarantella is completely unbelievable.”

“Maybe this will teach him something,” Percy suggested. He knew Chiron was working on finalizing the Winter, and Spring seasons for next year already. Maybe he’d find Tarantella on there somewhere.

“Maybe,” Lupa said. She took a seat behind the desk and gestured at Percy to sit down. “But I want you to know that New York is not your only option.”

“What do you mean?” Percy asked.

Lupa smiled. “I have been very, very happy with your work here this month, Percy. I’ve always thought you were a strong, capable dancer. Your work with Rachel and Reyna was exquisite. You are a perfect leading man.”

Percy sat quietly and waited for her to finish.

“We at Miami Ballet are prepared to offer you a company contract,” she said.

“Oh, that’s very nice, but --”

“It would be a principal contract, Percy.”

He had been completely ready to turn down a soloist contract. But a principal contract? He hadn’t expected it. This kind of offer was … he tried to think of another dancer who’d been given a new company contract and promotion, and he came up blank. His heart started to beat faster as he imagined it -- leading ballets, being billed as a principal, finally having that rank he’d waited and worked so long for. And in a company that gave him ballets he was actually suited for. Real, exciting Balanchine ballets. Not just Opus over and over again.

He could have it. It was everything.

“Oh,” was all he managed to say.

“I have wanted you in my company for eight years, Percy. It is long past time you were given the recognition you deserve, and the rank you’ve earned. Miami is prepared to welcome you into their Fall Season as our newest principal dancer.” When Percy still didn’t say anything, she added. “Miami is the perfect fit for you.”

Percy stepped out of Lupa’s office a bit dazed. Rachel and Annabeth were outside the door waiting for him in silence. Rachel was smiling; Annabeth was not. Percy wondered if they’d been able to hear the conversation, or if they both just suspected what Lupa had wanted to talk to him about.

“She …” he looked away from Rachel’s wide smile to Annabeth, “she offered me a principal contract.”

He heard Rachel celebrate, offering him an immediate and excited, “Oh Percy that’s so great,” but his eyes were only on Annabeth as her neutral facade shattered into a look of utter devastation that broke his heart. But she quickly pulled her face into a forced grin. She leaned forward, resting a hand on his arm.

“That’s really, really incredible, Percy. If anyone deserves it, it’s you,” Annabeth said. She started to speak again but her voice cracked. Annabeth cleared her throat, keeping her head down so Percy couldn’t see the tears in her eyes, but he knew they were there. “I am so happy for you.”

Annabeth turned away quickly and headed down the hall. Percy knew she didn’t know where she was going; she was just looking for anywhere else to go.

“I’ll let you deal with her,” Rachel said, “but we should go out and celebrate.”

“Yeah, sure,” Percy said noncommittally as he took off down the hall after Annabeth.

She was already far down a dark hallway, her fast footsteps the only sound.

“Annabeth!” Percy called after her.

“How the hell do I get out of here?” She asked.

Percy jogged to catch up to here. “Here,” he said, leading her down another hallway in silence until they reached the building exit.

Annabeth was taking off down the stairs before the humid night air had hit Percy’s face. She had her phone out, ready to call a car as he shouted her name.

“Are you going to tell Chiron?” She asked, finally pausing and turning to face him. Her face was tense, her gray eyes piercing in the nighttime lights of the city. They were completely dry, filled only with anger and a tense, scrutinizing glare.

“That you called Rachel Dare a whore?” Percy asked. He was still annoyed about that, but she didn’t make any effort to defend herself or apologize. She just narrowed her gray eyes at him, a cold scrutinizing gaze, as she waited for his real answer. “Yeah, I’ll have to tell him about the contract, I guess.”

“You should do it as soon as you can. It might push him to make a counter offer,” she said, her tone calm and calculating, as if to say don’t worry, I’ve figured out how to get us out of this.

But Percy shook his head. “I don’t know if it would make a difference,” he said.

Annabeth’s eyes narrowed again. “Why the hell wouldn’t it make a difference?” She asked,

“Lupa has wanted me in her company since I was eighteen. Chiron only gave me the apprenticeship when he thought I was going somewhere else. I don’t want my principal contract to be earned the same way,” he said.

Annabeth scoffed. “Chiron didn’t give you an apprenticeship to spite Lupa. He never offered Rachel Dare a contract. If he offers you a promotion now it’s because you’ve earned it, and you should be dancing in New York,” she said. “Luke’s spot still hasn’t been filled, and you are the only man in the company qualified for it.”

“Well, maybe I don’t just want whatever Luke left behind,” he said. He regretted his phrasing right away. Annabeth's eyes went wide, and she almost laughed as she took steps back and away from him.

“That’s not what I meant,” he tried to say, running down the few steps to grab her hand and turn her around. “I just meant I am wanted in Miami. They made a space for me.”

“You are wanted in New York, Percy,” she yelled at him, her face tight with anger.

“But what if I’m not? What if I walk into Chiron’s office in two days, and he says ‘Congratulations, bon voyage!’ What then?” He asked, trying to match the intensity of her gaze.

But it wasn’t working. He wasn’t finding anger. Anger he knew so well. He knew how to be angry like he knew how to dance. But this feeling was different and distant. Old, but somehow still familiar. Whatever it was had started to prick something behind his eyes.

“Then this is over,” Annabeth said very simply. “Then you go to Miami, and what we have is done.”

His eyes started to itch now. “Don’t give me ultimatums, Annabeth,” he said.

“It’s not an ultimatum, it’s reality,” she said. She pressed her lips together to stop them from shaking; he could hear sadness start to bleed through her anger.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said.

“It does. Miami and New York’s seasons don’t line up. There’s, what? Two months in the summer we’d be able to see each other? Our relationship wouldn’t last the year,” she said.

“You’re the one always saying it’s going to end,” Percy reminded her. “You were with a man for ten years, but you can’t fathom being with me for five months!” He shouted.

Annabeth shook her head. Whatever sadness he’d heard in her voice was crushed under a chilling anger. “I don’t know why this is so hard for you to understand. It’s just what makes the most sense,” she said.

Percy’s mouth felt dry, and he felt like he’d swallowed a golf ball. That strange feeling hadn’t gone away, it had just made a home in his chest and in the front of his face. He felt himself tear up, but he couldn’t push it away like he usually did. Oh, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, I’m going to cry.

“It doesn’t make any sense that I have to choose between the thing I’ve spent half my life working for and,” he looked at her. Her anger had melted away. She was just looking at him, full of pity, her own eyes suddenly damp too, her bottom lip pressed between her teeth, trying to hold it back. Where she was successful, Percy wasn’t. “And you.”

He felt tears on his face, and he wiped them away quickly, but they didn’t seem to stop. “Christ,” he muttered, his gaze down towards the gray stairs under them.

Annabeth just stepped closer and pulled him into a tight hug. Percy hugged back, trying to not sob at least. He just took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of her shampoo and perfume, the warmth of her body, and the soft touch of her skin. He felt her hand on the small of his back, holding him close to her, the press of her palm perceivable even through the thick material of the costume he was still wearing. He wanted to tether himself to that touch, to never let her go. Somehow he knew that even if she left right now, and he never saw her again, he’d be tied to her for the rest of his life.

He imagined their future: her, the director of City Ballet, him the director in Miami. Always competing for dancers. Shit talking one another to their dancers. Poisoning each other’s wells. Would she hang a photo from their Sleeping Beauty on her wall one day?

The phone in her hand buzzed, and she pulled away. They were silent for a moment, before Annabeth leaned in and kissed him. There wasn’t passion, or anything to affirm to Percy that he had somehow come out on top, that there was anyway to have both her and Miami at the same time. No, he knew what the kiss was for. He knew it was the last one. And still, he hoped he was wrong.

“That’s my car,” she said, when she pulled away.

“Annabeth,” he started to say, but he didn’t have anywhere else for the sentence to go.

“I’m choosing for you,” she said. “You’re going to go get a mojito with your friends. If you want to, you can sleep with hot Miami girls tonight, tomorrow, whenever. And you can start learning to enjoy your life without me.”

She started down the stairs towards the car.

“Annabeth!” He yelled. She turned. “I thought we weren’t supposed to give up,” he said.

She smiled sadly, and just shrugged her shoulders. Percy noticed again just how golden her hair looked under street lights.

“This isn’t Agon,” she reminded him. “And we were never lovers.”

“But!” He caught her attention one more time, “you’ll always be my friend. I’m always in your corner.”

She nodded. “And I’m in yours. Goodbye Percy.”

He watched her get into the car, her golden hair disappearing behind the dark windows. Percy sat on the cold, damp steps, his legs exhausted, his mind weary, and for the first time since he was seventeen, he wept.

#percabeth #twice upon a pointe #percy jackson #annabeth chase #Youtube

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