pairing: ballet dancer!san x fem!ballet dancer!reader
genre: angst. smut. fluff. friends to lovers. secret dating.
warnings: 18+ therefore minors do not interact.
word count: 26,1k
a/n: this fic isn't meant to be an accurate depiction of the profession, most aspects are fictionalized for the sake of the narrative. ballet serves primarily as the atmosphere, but i hope you'll still enjoy the story for what it is 🤎
a/n2: there's no need to know about ballet to understand the story, but just in case you get a little lost, i recommend this 6 min video, enjoy.
୨୧
"hello?" her voice drifted through the line, already sounding like home.
"mama," you whispered.
"darling! how is paris? are you eating? is the dorm too cold? i can send more of those wool blankets you liked, just tell me-"
"i got the part."
a gasp was heard on the other end and your heart fluttered. "what part? which one? oh, my sweet girl, tell me!"
"a little swan. i'm… one of the four cygnets."
"i knew it!" your father’s voice boomed in the background, sounding as if he had been leaning against the phone. "i told you she had the precision! we must celebrate! we'll send a package. champagne, as you're an adult now, and that burberry scarf you liked from the boutique in london. we are so proud of you."
"thank you," you murmured, a small smile touching your lips. "i'm nervous. the synchronization is… it's very difficult."
"you have the soul for it," your mother said, her tone softening. "just breathe. dance the way you do when you think no one is watching. the world will follow, okay? don't let them turn you into a machine."
inside your flat, it was your space that smelled of expensive vanilla candles and fresh linens, a sanctuary funded by parents who loved you from three time zones away. when the phone call ended after exchanging small stories of your little life abroad and the constant reassurance that you were doing just fine living by yourself in a foreign country, you got up from the comfort of the velvet sofa and stared at your reflection in the mirror. you looked fragile, a porcelain doll in a city of iron and stone. a little swan or a ghost in a tutu, that felt like a pebble at the bottom of a very deep well.
paris opera ballet school, you've dreamt about it your whole life. the school, a fortress of culture, it's limestone walls holding centuries of discipline and broken dreams.
the following week was a blur of repetition. the studio was a cavern of white light and mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling, reflecting a dozen versions of your own anxious face that showed every flaw, every wobbling ankle, every misplaced finger. the cygnet dance was a puzzle of interlocking arms and mirrored movements. four girls, moving as one.
you struggled with the language of the instructors, the rapid fire french commands swirling around you like a storm. you focused on the bodies of the other girls, mimicking their angles, tracing the geometry of their limbs as you stood at the edge of the floor, clutching your bag, wearing a pale pink leotard and tights that cost more than some students' monthly rent. you tried to shrink, to blend into the pale walls, but the energy of the room was too electric.
"positions!" the ballet master barked.
you scurried into the formation for the cygnets. the quartet had to move as a single organism of white tulle and precision. you found your spot, heart drumming against your ribs. to your left stood a girl who seemed to vibrate with an intensity waving off of her, you've seen her in the hallways before but never dared to speak to her.
charlotte marsh.
she was a blur of blonde hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful, her eyes wide and alert, scanning the room like an apex predator. by just standing alone, she occupied space. all sharp lines, high extensions and presence. she doesn't look at you. she is staring straight ahead, her jaw set, eyes hungry. radiating an intensity that makes the air around her feel thin.
"again! from the top. and for heaven's sake, tighten those arms. you look like noodles, not swans."
the pianist begins again the rhythmic, plucking melody of tchaikovsky, demanding absolute precision.
"and… echappé!"
as you spring outward, feet snapping into second position, your ankle clips her's. it is a glancing blow, but in the world of professional ballet, it's a collision. charlotte stumbles, her balance wavering for a fraction of a second. she recovers instantly, but her head snaps toward you, her eyes flashing.
"merde! you're stepping on my place." she hisses, her voice a sharp blade.
you freeze, your breath hitching. you want to apologize, to explain that it was an accident, but the words die in your throat. you simply nod, shrinking inward.
"again!"
the music restarts. you focus on the mirror, trying to carve out a bubble of safety around yourself. but the choreography is tight, the spacing unforgiving. during the next sequence of jumps, your ankle bumps hers again.
this time, charlotte stops entirely. she turns to you, her face flushed, blonde locks escaping her tight bun.
"c'est quoi ton problème?"
you flinch, the harshness of her tone hitting you like a physical blow. you open your mouth, and without thinking, you respond in your native tongue, the words tumbling out in a rush of frustration and embarrassment.
"i'm sorry, i promise i'm trying to find the alignment."
charlotte freezes. her expression shifts instantly, the anger draining away to be replaced by a softening. she blinks, her eyes scanning your face, noticing the way you clutched your arms, the hesitant curve of your shoulders.
"you're the new girl, right?" she asked, her voice clear and fluent in english.
the relief that washed over you was visceral. you felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from your lungs by just encountering someone who could understand what you said. "yes," you whispered. "i am."
she beamed, a wide, infectious grin that lit up her entire face. "i'm charlotte. god, i'm so glad someone else here speaks english. i love paris, but sometimes the grammar can be frustrating."
"i'm y/n," you replied barely audible.
"y/n. pretty name," charlotte said, leaning in. she smelled of peppermint and strong athletic rub. "your lines are gorgeous, by the way. really fluid."
the ballet mistress clears her throat, a warning sound. "is there a reason we are having a summit in the middle of the stage? positions!"
charlotte gives you a quick wink, a flash that catches you off guard and snaps back into place. "don't hit my ankles again," she whispers, a small, mischievous smile playing on her lips.
when you slid back into place and held hands with charlotte for the synchronized sequence, you felt a spark of warmth. for the first time since arriving in paris, the studio didn't feel like a cage. it felt like a place where you might actually belong. you smiled, the reflection in the mirror finally looking like someone you recognized.
over the next few weeks, the place became brutal beauty, where the expectations were as high as the ceilings and the criticism was as sharp as the needles used to stitch the costumes. you spent your mornings in a haze of stretching and your afternoons fighting for every inch of space in the studio.
charlotte became your shadow, an inseparable pair. it was a magnetic dynamic. she was the sun to your moon, the fire to your water, a whirlwind of noise and confidence that shielded you from the harsher edges of the academy. she taught you the slang of the dancers, the hidden spots in the opera house where the ghosts were said to dance, and how to sneak pastries into the dressing room without getting caught. she pushed you to be bolder, to take up more space, to stop apologizing for existing. in return, you became the place where she could finally stop hustling, where she could breathe and relax her shoulders.
"you're doing it again."
during a break, you retreated to the corner of the studio, sipping water from a glass bottle. charlotte stood before you, leaning against the barre. she was wiping sweat from her forehead with a towel that looked like it had seen better decades.
"doing what?"
"shrinking," she said. "trying to disappear into the floorboards. you haven't noticed?"
you looked at her, saw the fraying edges of her tights, the way she held herself with an armor disguised as confidence.
"no," you whispered.
she paused, expression shifting before sitting down with you, stretching her leg out in a slow controlled arch. "i can't afford to disappear, i need to be constantly moving."
you knew she was on a scholarship, that her faded leotard had seen better days, that she didn't have the safety net you did. "you won't disappear," you said softly. "everyone sees you."
she turned her head and gave you a genuine smile, like your simple words was all she's been needing all along. "thanks. really."
the door to the studio creaked open, and san, charlotte's boyfriend, walked in. he moved with a groundedness that was almost hypnotic. he didn't bounce or flutter. shoulders so broad that seem to carry the weight of the entire company, skin a deep, warm tan that contrasted with the stark white of his rehearsal gear.
"you're shouting again, charlotte," san said. "i can hear you from the dressing room."
"i'm not shouting, your ears are too sensitive," she shot back, though there was no heat in it.
san walked over and offered her a hand. he lifted her effortlessly, a seamless transition from the floor to a standing position. there was no strain in his arms, no hesitation in his grip. he was the perfect partner. reliable and strong.
"we have the lift sequence in twenty minutes," he reminded her.
"i know, i know. stop being a clock," charlotte teased, patting his cheek.
from an outsider, they looked like the perfect couple. the powerhouse and the pillar. the kite and anchor. both carrying a presence that you feel before you see them.
a few days later, the intensity of the swan lake rehearsals reached a fever pitch. the cygnets were finally in sync, movements a seamless weave. the mistress had stopped shouting, now, she only whispered, but sometimes the whispers were more terrifying than the screams.
after a grueling four hour session, the studio emptied. you and charlotte remained, stretching in the dim light of the late afternoon. the sun was dipping below the parisian skyline, casting shadows across the floor.
charlotte was unusually quiet. she was pressed into a deep split, her forehead resting on the cool wood.
"are you okay?" you asked, your voice echoing in the silence.
she didn't move for a long time. then, she let out a long, shaky breath. "i think i'm going to do it," she whispered.
"do what?"
"end it. with san."
you paused, your hand frozen on your ankle. "but… you two are so good together."
she sat up, her expression clouded. she looked smaller than usual, the bubbly energy replaced by a weary sort of clarity. "that's the problem," she said. "he's a good guy. he's the best guy. he's steady, he's kind, and i know that if i fell off a stage, he'd be the first one there to catch me."
"isn't that a good thing?"
"it is. but the spark… it's just gone, y/n. it just… evaporated. when i look at him, i don't feel that electric pull. i feel… safe. and i love him for it, i really do, but i don't love him the way a girlfriend should."
you listened, the silence of the studio wrapping around you both. you thought about the way san looked at her with a quiet unwavering loyalty.
"does he know?" you asked.
"i think he does," charlotte sighed, rubbing her temples. "san doesn't talk much, but he notices everything. he probably knew like, months ago. he's just waiting for me to be the one to say it because he doesn't want to break my heart." she looked at you, her eyes searching for something. "do you think i'm being selfish? he's so reliable. i could just… keep going. we're a great team. it makes the academy easier."
you are silent, processing the confession. you think of san's hands, his grounding presence, of his loyalty. but you also thought about how charlotte is so used to fighting for everything she gets, about the fluidity of the dance, the way a single misplaced step could ruin the entire. "if you're forcing it," you said slowly, "then you're not really dancing. you're just marking the steps."
charlotte stared at you, then a small, sad smile touched her lips. she leaned over and bumped her shoulder against yours. "thank you for listening, i'm so glad i met you."
"it's nothing," you replied with a small giggle.
"well, thanks anyway," she said, standing up and offering you a hand. "now, let's get out of here before the mistress comes back and makes us do another hundred pliés."
as you walked out of the studio together, the cool evening air of paris hitting your faces, you felt a strange sense of grounding. you had come to this city as a stranger, a quiet girl with a heart full of fear. but in the mirrored halls of the opera, amidst the sweat and the discipline, you had found a mirror of your own.
you looked at charlotte, who was already talking a mile a minute about a new bakery she'd found near the seine, and you realized that the academy wasn't just about the dance. it was about the people who held you up when your toes were bleeding and the world felt too loud. you walked beside her, your movements soft and fluid, no longer afraid of the silence.
but beneath the blossoming friendship, a tension was simmering. the school was a pressure cooker, and as the final rehearsals approached, the atmosphere shifted. the girls in the corps began to eye each other with suspicion. the kindness that had existed in the wings evaporated, replaced by a cold, competitive silence.
one afternoon, you overheard a group of dancers whispering in the hall. you knew they were aware of your presence, speaking in difficult french tongues on purpose and laughing as they looked over at you. you caught some words about your slow dancing and your parents' wealth. the words felt like ice water pouring down your spine. you leaned against the wall, breath hitching. you wanted to defend yourself, to tell them that you worked just as hard, that you spent hours in the studio long after everyone else had left. but the words wouldn't come. you were a creature of observation and internal storms.
you retreated to the practice room, the silence of the empty space feeling heavy. you began to dance, the music of the cygnets playing in your head. you pushed yourself harder than ever, your pointe shoes bleeding through the satin, muscles screaming. you wanted to be perfect. you wanted to be undeniable.
"you're too tight."
you stopped abruptly, your chest heaving. san was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed.
"i'm fine," you panted.
"you're not. you're dancing like you're trying to prove something to people who aren't even in the room."
you looked at him, eyes threatening with tears. "they think i'm only here because of… because of money."
san walked into the room, his footsteps echoing. he stopped a few feet away from you, his expression serious. "people will always find a reason to diminish you," he said. "especially in a place like this. they'll call you too soft, or too hard, or too lucky. but the mirror doesn't lie. the audience doesn't see your bank account, they see you."
you took in his words, looking at the ground and sighing.
"hey, whisperers are just background noise, we're the ones communicating on stage."
you took a deep breath, the scent of resin and effort filling your lungs. "thank you, san."
"don't mention it. now, go find charlotte. i think she's trying to convince the costume mistress to add more glitter to her tutu, and she might be about five minutes away from being banned from the wardrobe room."
you laughed, the sound light and hopeful.
the night of the first full dress rehearsal arrived. the theater was a cavern of red velvet and gold leaf, the air thick with the smell of stage makeup and nervousness. you stood in the white dress, feathers in your hair, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
charlotte was vibrating, her eyes wide, hands shaking slightly. for all her confidence, the stage terrified her.
"i'm going to trip," she whispered, voice trembling. "i'm going to trip and the whole world is going to see me faceplant in front of the director."
you reached out and took her hand, your fingers interlocking. your skin was cool, her's was burning. "you won't," you said firmly. "because i'm right next to you. and if you do trip, i'll trip too."
she looked at you and a genuine chuckle escaped both of you.
the music began. you glided onto the stage, the spotlights blinding and white. the world vanished, leaving only the rhythm, the breath, and the girl beside you.
you moved as one. the steps were seamless, the arms curved in perfect unison. poetry and physics blended together, creating something that neither of you could have achieved alone. small swans, part of a flock, a collective soul moving through the air.
as you finished the final sequence, arms gently posed over your chest in a synchronized beat, the silence that followed was absolute.
the adrenaline was kept the rest of the night, you could say even the following week, it was your first ever big production role after all. between blistered toes and aching muscles, you walked the parisian streets side by side with charlotte and san, no longer feeling like you walked into a labyrinth. you had come here searching for a dream, but found something more valuable: a mirror that reflected the best version of yourself.
୨୧ three years later
the pale sun filtered through the curtains across your duvet. you lingered in the haze of half sleep, the ghost of thailand's humid air still clinging to your skin. then, the sound started.
thump. thump. thump.
you cracked one eye open. charlotte was already on her neon pink spandex, high knee jumps on the hardwood floor. her breathing steady and focused, yet her eyes were wide awake, sparking with an energy that felt far too loud for five in the morning.
you've let her move in after the breakup, you spent everytime together anyway, always attached to the hip. as if that wasn't enough, you even started including her on your family vacations, this year's location being the islands of thailand.
"you're a marshmallow," charlotte chirped, her voice bouncing off the walls of the small apartment. "get up, marshmallow. the academy doesn't wait for vacation brain."
you groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow. "five more minutes," you mumbled, the words muffled by the fabric.
she leaped up in one fluid motion, landing silently on the balls of her feet. she hovered over you, a whirlwind of enthusiasm. "no five minutes. we have the cast list today. sleeping beauty, remember?"
you shifted, feeling the familiar tug of anxiety and excitement in your chest. you loved the dance, the way the music took hold of your bones and turned you into something ethereal, but the politics of the academy often felt like a storm you weren't equipped to weather. you were content in the shadows of the ensemble, where you could observe the world without the spotlight burning through your skin. so it's not like you were expecting anything fortuitous personally.
"i'm getting up," you whispered, finally sitting up.
your movements were hazy, a contrast to charlotte's sharp, athletic precision. you reached for your dance bag, the leather smelling of expensive creams. as you both dressed, the conversation drifted toward the trip.
"i still can't believe your dad tried to ride that elephant," charlotte laughed, pulling her hair into a severe bun.
"he wanted a picture," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.
"it was so funny, i've never laughed so hard in my life," she countered. "oh! the souvenirs. we can't forget san's things. he'll kill us if we forget the silk shirts."
"do we have to stop by the gym first?" you asked hesitantly.
charlotte paused, blinking. "why not? he's always there at this hour. plus, it's on the way. come on, let's go before lana decides to start the morning rehearsal without us."
the walk to the gym was a blur of traffic lights and the scent of roasting coffee. paris felt sharper after the softness of the islands, the air crisp and demanding. when you stepped into the gym, the smell of iron and rubber hit you instantly.
san was there, mid-set, working his arms with a pair of heavy dumbbells. his skin glistened under the fluorescent lights, sweat carving rivers down the broad expanse of his shoulders. his eyes were narrowed in concentration, jaw set, intensity of the effort.
charlotte didn't hesitate. she marched right up to him, her voice cutting through the clank of weights.
"look at you, still trying to turn into a boulder!"
he stopped, the weights hitting the floor with a controlled thud. he exhaled a long, heavy breath, his chest heaving. a slow, warm smile spread across his face as he looked at her.
"you're back," he said, his voice deep and grounded. "i thought you'd join the monkeys."
"shut up," charlotte squinted her eyes, leaning against a weight rack. "we brought your stuff. y/n, give him the bag."
you stepped forward, clutching the small shopping bag. you held it out, your fingers trembling slightly.
"here," you murmured as your fingers brushed.
san turned his gaze to you, his eyes softening. "thank you," he said. "you didn't have to."
"it was no trouble," you replied, stepping back to give him space.
"the sunlight did you good, y/n." san noted, then remembered something. "oh, my water bottle. it's right here."
he reached for his gym bag, which sat atop a tall plyo box. the problem was, the box was positioned directly behind where you stood. as san reached up and over, his body momentarily hovered over yours.
the world shrank. you could feel the heat radiating from his chest, the scent of his sweat and skin enveloping you. for a heartbeat, you were trapped in the orbit of his strength, the breadth of his shoulders blocking out the rest of the gym. you held your breath, a trapped bird. you could see the fine droplets of sweat on the front of his neck, the way his muscles shifted under his skin.
he retracted quickly, the moment snapping like a taut string. he didn't seem flustered, but as he gripped his bottle, his eyes lingered on yours for a second too long.
"we're late," charlotte announced from afar, already pivoting toward the door. "if svetlana sees us walking in after the bell, she'll make us do pliés until our toenails fall off… again."
the return to the academy felt different. the air felt thicker, the anticipation of the day weighing on you. once inside the studio, the atmosphere shifted from whimsical to clinical. the mirrors reflected dozens of dancers, all of them vibrating with a mixture of dread and ambition.
svetlana popova, the ballet's director, stood at the front of the room, her posture as rigid as a frozen lake. she wore a black leotard and a wrap skirt that didn't have a single wrinkle. her voice, a sharp blend of russian authority and a melodic french lilt, sliced through the chatter.
"enough!" she barked. "you are not at a garden party. you are at the opera. positions! now!"
the next few hours were a blur of agony and art. you moved through the combinations, your body fluid and soft, drifting through the choreography like a ribbon in the wind. beside you, charlotte's extensions were a blade, every turn a whirlwind. she pushed herself to the brink, her face flushed, her breath coming in sharp gasps. you watched her from the corner of your eye, feeling a swell of genuine pride. lately it had been rare for you to share classes as she was slowly clawing her way up to the principal roles, so you appreciated these moments. she had fought for every inch of this floor, but to you, she deserved the world.
as the afternoon wore on, the tension reached a breaking point. the dancers were scattered across the studio, some stretching, some whispering, all of them glancing toward the door.
then, it happened.
a young staff member entered the hallway, clutching a single sheet of white paper. the reaction was instantaneous.
"the list!" someone shrieked.
the studio erupted. a sea of dancers surged toward the hallway, a chaotic wave of tights and buns. a polite riot, they pretended not to push, but the desperation was palpable. you were swept along in the current, your shoulder brushing against others.
charlotte gripped your arm, her fingers digging into your skin. her usual confidence had vanished, replaced by a hidden fragility.
"i can't look," she whispered, her voice shaking. "i actually can't look. y/n, please. look for me."
you nodded, stepping closer to the paper as the crowd shifted. the list was a grid of names and roles, written in svetlana's sharp, uncompromising hand.
your eyes instinctively dropped to the bottom, to the ensemble. you searched for your own name, your heart drumming a slow, steady beat.
village woman #4 - y/n y/l/n.
a sigh of relief escaped you. it wasn't a lead, but it was a place. it was a safe harbor where you could dance without the crushing weight of expectation. then, you slowly moved your gaze upward. you searched for charlotte's name under the principal roles.
there it was, her first ever lead role.
princess aurora - charlotte marsh.
you gasped, the sound lost in the noise of the crowd. you turned to charlotte, who was still hovering behind you, her eyes closed tight.
"charlie," you whispered.
"what? what is it? did i get a fairy? am i a tree?"
"you're aurora," you said, your voice gaining strength. "you got the lead, charlie!"
charlie's eyes snapped open. for a second, she didn't move. then, a scream of pure, unadulterated joy ripped from her throat. she threw her arms around you, lifting you off the floor in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you.
"i did it! oh my god, i actually did it!" she yelled, spinning you around.
you laughed, hugging her back, feeling her heart racing against yours. the joy was infectious, a bright, golden light that filled the sterile hallway.
as you pulled apart, you looked back at the list, wondering about san. you scanned the roles, moving past the princes and the fairies.
bluebird - san choi.
carabosse's minion #4 - san choi.
you smiled. the bluebird was a role of immense technical difficulty and breathtaking grace. it suited him perfectly. strong yet light, grounded yet capable of flight. for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like to dance a different kind of choreography with him, one that wasn't written on a piece of paper.
but the thought was interrupted by charlotte beaming with happiness when the other dancers crowded around her to congratulate her. in that moment, only your best friend's triumph mattered.
୨୧
"to aurora!" san toasted, raising his glass.
the bistro was lit up by amber lights and the scent of garlic butter and expensive red wine. charlie sat at the center of the table, her laughter ringing out like a silver bell, cutting through the chatter of the other dancers. she looked incandescent. the news of her being cast as aurora had transformed her from a hardworking student into a shimmering focal point of energy.
you watched her from the periphery, your fingers tracing the condensation on your water glass. you felt a quiet, humming warmth for her.
you noticed the way san’s eyes flickered to you for a brief second, a question, perhaps, or a silent check in, before he turned back to a conversation's excitement. you smiled, though it didn't quite reach the depths of your chest.
the dinner ended in a whirlwind of hugs and promises of hard work. as you and charlotte walked back to the apartment you shared.
"can you believe it, y/n?" she asked, swinging her bag. "the lead. actually the lead."
"i can," you whispered, your voice soft, barely audible over the distant traffic. "you're the most hard working person i've ever met."
she stopped abruptly, pulling you into another crushing hug. "i couldn't have done it without you keeping me sane. we're going to celebrate every single milestone this season."
but as the weeks progressed, the celebrations grew sparse.
the schedule for the sleeping beauty was a monster that devoured time. charlie, as the lead, was summoned to the studio at dawn and often didn't leave until the moon sat high over the city. your own schedule was fragmented. as a village woman, you were called in for group rehearsals, often in the afternoons or late evenings, filling the gaps in the production's architecture.
you and charlie became ghosts in your own home. you would wake up to find a note on the kitchen counter: love you, gone to studio, don't forget to water the ferns, and you would return home to find her already asleep, her blonde hair splayed across the pillow like a fallen halo.
you felt a drifting loneliness, a sense of being untethered. your heart selfishly missed her.
then came the tuesday rehearsal. the piano player was hammering out a melancholic sequence. you were positioned with the other village women, your bodies draped in simple rehearsal skirts. this was the scene where you begged for the king's mercy for knitting with the forbidden spindles after being caught by a supervising catalavat. it required a specific kind of vulnerability. a fluid, desperate grace. you sank into a deep plié, your arms reaching upward, fingers trembling, feeling the weight of the plea in your marrow. you let your gaze drop, shoulders curving inward, embodying a crushing sorrow.
across the room, the atmosphere was different. san was practicing the bluebird pas de deux. he was a force of nature in the center of the floor, his movements precise and powerful. he was lifting the girl cast as princess florine, but the connection was hollow.
she was technically proficient, but there was a gap between them, a missing bridge of trust. her lifts were stiff, her landings jarring. san's face was a mask of professional patience, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw. he was fighting the lack of chemistry, trying to manufacture a spark that simply wasn't there.
lana stood by the mirrored wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. she looked like a sculpture carved from ice. her eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned the room.
"stop," she commanded.
the music died instantly.
"this is not a dance," svetlana said. "this is a gymnasium exercise. where is the romance? where is the air? you are a bird and a princess, where are you?"
the girl playing florine, jisu, looked down at her shoes, her face flushing a deep crimson. san stepped back, his chest heaving slightly, his expression neutral but tired.
lana’s gaze drifted at the periphery. her eyes locked onto you. you were still half-sunken in your pose, your hand grazing the floor, your eyes wide and blinking.
"you," lana pointed. "the small one. come here."
you froze and you looked around, certain she was pointing to the girl behind you. you didn't move for a heartbeat too long.
"did i stutter?" she snapped. "come. now."
you stood up slowly, movements tentative. you walked across the polished floor, the sound of your shoes clicking softly. as you approached the center of the room, you felt san’s gaze shift toward you. dark eyes observant, curious.
"you know the part for florine?" lana asked, her voice slightly softer but still demanding.
you nodded once, a small, jerky movement. "yes, madame."
"good. change your shoes and get in position. let us see if we can find some life in this scene."
you changed into your pointe shoes at a world record speed and stepped into the space where jisu had been. his presence was overwhelming, but he didn't say anything, just shifted his stance, creating a pocket of space for you to fit into.
"from the lift," she ordered.
the piano resumed. the melody was light, airy, designed to mimic flight. you moved into the sequence, your body naturally falling into the flow. you closed your eyes and the story flood your mind. the longing, the ethereal connection.
then came the moment of the lift.
and the first time he lifts you, it doesn’t feel like falling. there’s a moment, right before your feet leave the ground, a split second of terror, when everything should go wrong. timing, weight, trust. you’ve seen it happen before. a hesitation, a misstep, and suddenly the illusion breaks. but not with him. his hands find you as if they’ve done it a hundred times before, steady at your waist, certain without asking. molding to the curve of your sides with intuitive precision. you don’t think about it, you just go, weightless and free. and when you rise, it’s seamless. like your body already knew where his would be.
the connection was instant, a sudden, electric bridge snapping into place between your spine and his strength. you landed softly, your breath hitching in your throat.
"again," lana calls.
you nod, but your eyes flicker to him first, he's already looking at you.
there’s something in it, not surprise, not quite pride. recognition, maybe. like he’s just realized something he didn’t know he was searching for. he looked surprised, not just by the success of the lift, but by the feeling of it. the charged frequency that made your skin tingle. the music starts again. you count under your breath, quiet enough that no one hears, except for him.
this time, your hand lingers when he lets go for a second longer. it's nothing, it has to be nothing.
"better," lana muttered, though her eyes were narrowed. "much better. stay. continue. the rest of you, clear the floor. i want them to refine the transition."
the other dancers filtered out, talking among themselves. the studio empties slowly, the echo of shoes fading into silence. someone laughs in the hallway. a door shuts. the world outside resumes. inside, it’s just the two of you and the distant ticking of the studio clock.
he reaches for your arm, adjusting it slightly, guiding the line until it feels right. his touch is brief, professional. it should be forgettable.
"like this," he murmurs, intimately.
it’s strange, the way something can begin so quietly. glances held too long. hands that don't pull away fast enough. decisions that don't leave.
later, you’ll tell yourself it happened slowly. that there were signs. that you knew what you were doing. but standing there, in the softness of an empty studio, with his hand still warm against your skin. it feels simple, harmless, the beginning of something beautiful when it really, really shouldn't be.
"again?" he suggested, softly. "the turn into the lift… the transition was a bit sharp."
you nodded, unable to find words.
for the next two hours, the world outside the studio ceased to exist. there was no paris, no opera house, no charlie. you corrected the angle of your wrist. he adjusted the pressure of his grip. you spent an hour just on a single transition, moving in slow motion, feeling the way your muscles reacted to one another. every time his skin met yours, it felt like a spark hitting dry tinder.
you noticed the small things. the way a stray lock of black hair fell over his forehead when he was concentrating. the way his chest expanded in a deep, grounding breath before a heavy lift. the way he looked at you. not as just a background dancer, but as a partner.
as the light in the studio dimmed, turning the mirrors into grey pools of shadow, the music stopped. you both stood in the center of the room, chests heaving, sweat dampening your clothes.
the silence was no longer empty. it was full. it was heavy with everything you weren't saying. you looked at him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you saw the way his gaze dropped to your lips and then back to your eyes. there was a hunger there, a quiet intensity that mirrored your own.
san stepped closer. the distance between you vanished. he didn't ask, didn't hesitate. he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
it was a brief kiss, tentative exploration. it was a soft collision, a sudden grounding of all the electricity that had been building between you for hours. your hands instinctively reaching up to clutch the fabric of his shirt. a surge of vertigo, a falling that was far more terrifying and exhilarating than any lift.
he pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. his breath was warm on your skin. you gently shook your head and this might've been the first time you heard him stutter.
"i-i'm sorry… i shouldn't…" he whispered, voice strained.
"no, i…" you breathed, eyes fluttering shut.
you thought of charlie. do you have to tell her now? how would she react? they broke up years ago and never looked back. surely they got over each other. oh my god. wait, what were you doing?
san's hand moved, his thumb grazing your jawline, and the guilt was drowned out by a tidal wave of longing. you had spent your whole life being the observer, the quiet one, the girl who faded into the scenery. but in san's arms, you were visible. you were the center of the world.
you reached up, pulling him back down to you.
this time, the kiss wasn't brief. it was desperate. it was a collision of months of suppressed attraction and the sudden, violent realization of chemistry. you kissed him with an intensity that frightened you, your body molding against his. he groaned low in his throat, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against him.
for a moment, you forgot the rules. you forgot the hierarchy of the ballet school. you forgot about the girl who slept in the bed next to yours.
୨୧
your toes throb inside your flats, pulsing matching the rapid beat of your heart. in every step you take, you can still feel it. the ghost of his lips against yours. the way his hand had steadied the small of your back, blurring the edges of the world.
head down, counting the cracks in the pavement. your mind is a carousel of flashing images. it was an accident, a lapse. but it was also the most honest you've felt.
swallowed by guilt, you think of charlie, of the way she laughs, of the first year she spent healing from the break up with san, that period of time where you grew close faster than any thrown arrow of destiny. when people started to think you were actually sisters, even if you looked nothing alike. you think of the way she rebuilt her confidence, brick by brick, until she could now stand center stage as aurora.
she's been the light of your life, the candle that lit the darkest rooms of your insecurities. the gentle push you've been needing, and maybe, that was the push that had led to kissing him back.
by the time you reach the door to your apartment, your breath comes in shallow hitches. you fumble with the key, telling yourself you can handle this. you will walk in, you will smile, and you will bury this secret with you.
the door creaks open, the apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of a street lamps filtering through the sheer curtains. you step inside, kicking off your shoes. you don't notice the silhouette leaning against the kitchen counter. you don't notice the way the floorboards shift. too busy tracing the memory of san's thumb brushing your cheekbone.
"you're late."
the voice cuts through the silence. you jump, a small gasp escaping your throat. shoulders hunching toward your ears. you whirl around to find charlie watching you.
she is wrapped in an oversized silk robe, her blonde hair piled in a messy knot atop her head. she holds a mug of chocolate mint drink, her favorite since the trip. her eyes are narrow, observant, dancing with a mischief that makes your stomach flip.
"god, you're jumpy," she says.
she doesn't move from her spot, but her presence fills the room. she has that effortless power, the kind that comes from knowing exactly where she stands in a room. you, conversely, feel like you are disappearing into the wallpaper.
"i just… i forgot you'd be home before me," you whisper.
your voice sounds thin, fragile. you avoid her gaze, focusing instead on a stray sequin on the hardwood floor.
charlie sets her mug down with a deliberate clack, crosses her arms, tilts her head. the silence stretches, suffocating. every second feels like an eternity where she is reading the guilt written in the tension of your jaw and the redness of your cheeks.
"is there something you need to tell me?" she asks.
the question hits you like a physical blow. you freeze, breath hitching. of course she'd know. mind racing, searching for a lie, a deflection, anything to bridge the gap between the girl who just kissed her best friend's ex and the girl who is supposed to be loyal.
"tell you what?" you manage to ask.
you try to make it sound casual, but it comes out as a breathless question. heat rises up your neck. you are certain she knows. she has to know. maybe she saw you leave the studio. maybe she sensed the shift in the atmosphere. she has always been in tune with her feminine intuition.
just as you spiral inside, charlie steps closer, her expression unreadable. she stops just a few inches away, her bright eyes searching yours. you want to shrink, to fold yourself into a tiny ball and hide. then, she beams. the tension snaps as a wide grin breaks across her face. she throws her arms around you, nearly knocking you over with the force of her enthusiasm.
"oh, stop acting so weird! i already know!" she chirps.
you stiffen in her embrace. "know… what?"
charlie pulls back, her eyes sparkling. she grabs your shoulders, shaking you slightly. "that you got the part of princess florine! i heard it from marie on the group chat. she said lana practically dragged you onto the stage and told the other girls to move aside."
the air rushes back into your lungs in a sudden dizzying wave. you blink, the world coming back into focus. she doesn't actually know. you force a smile, though it feels tight and artificial. "it's… it's not a hundred percent on paper yet. lana just… she's still deciding."
she scoffs, rolling her eyes. she lets go of you and begins to pace the small living room, her robe fluttering behind her. "oh please, princess florine matches you so well. all gentle and soft, restricted, loves quietly… and i bet you and san make a great duo."
his name drops on your stomach. you wrap your arms around yourself, clutching your elbows. "you think so?" you ask softly.
for a moment, the bubbly persona fades, charlie stops pacing and looks at you with genuine warmth. "i know so," charlie says. "besides, like florine, everyone's fucking jealous of you." she lightly laughs and shrugs.
a chuckle of disbelief manages to escape you. "no one's jealous of me."
she scoffs again, sympathetically this again. "sometimes i wish you could understand more french."
as the conversation flows, you look at her, really look at her. you see the trust in her eyes, the absolute certainty that you are her ally. she is talking about the beauty of the dance, of the partnership, completely unaware that it has bled into something far more than a practiced performance.
her humming of a tune from the score of the ballet rings in your ears as you stand in the shower, frozen under the spray, ashamed. caught in a dirty relief of not being caught. you slide down against the tile.
it's like flashes, his eyes, his hands, his electricity. you cover your face with your hands. since when were you so full of poison? were you suddenly trying to step into her place? your weight down and lopsided, every word she spoke was a thin needle, unknowingly praising the very thing that is secretly betraying her. you couldn't risk it, charlotte could never find out about the kiss.
right the next morning, when your blurry vision found the long cold of her sheets, you don't need to think about it, she left early. probably an hour ago, while the essence of his lips still stained your pillows. you stay still for a moment, listening to the distant hum of paris waking up outside your window.
lazy hand finds your phone on the nightstand. the screen glows, blindingly bright for your state. you open your messages, scrolling past the group chats and the reminders from the academy until you hit his name.
it's just his name, san, you've heard it a thousand times in the past three years, yet your heart accelerate against your ribs. you tap the message box, thumbs hover.
y/nie: we need to talk|
you type and stare at the words, before deleting them.
y/nie: about last night…|
too vague. it sounds like you're asking about a missed step in the choreography. you delete it again.
but, did you actually need to talk? if you send a message, does that admit you spent the last twelve hours staring at your ceiling, replaying the angle of his jaw and the warmth of his breath? even in your sleep? it shows you're thinking about him. it shows you're affected.
the blinking vertical line waits for you. if you act like nothing happened, maybe the tension will just evaporate. maybe you can go back to being the quiet girl in the corner and he can go back to being your best friend's untouchable ex. but then you remember the taste of him, the way he sighed into the kiss, and you know that's a lie. that you can't un-feel that.
just as you begin to type a safer version, the phone vibrates violently in your palm and the screen suddenly changes. a photo of san fills the display. he's calling.
the suddenness jolting you, you gasp and the phone slips from your fingers, bouncing off the duvet and disappearing into the folds of the floral blankets. you scramble, diving into the fabric, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest. you find the device, clutching it tight, but as the ringing continues, a wave of panic crashes over you. it's him, him himself who's calling. you throw the phone back onto the bed, hot to the touch and decide to pretend to be busy so you could prepare what to say-
"y/n? are you there?"
or maybe you could accidentally slide the answer option when you throw your phone, either or.
"hello?" you slowly press the phone to your ear, barely breathing.
"morning," he says. honeyed rasp of a voice, the kind of sound that feels like a physical touch.
"hello," you manage, your voice sounding small and fragile even to your own ears.
"did you sleep well?"
you freeze. you stare at the wall, your brow furrowing. "what?"
"i asked if you slept well," san repeats. there's a ghost of a smile in his tone. "you sounded exhausted when we left. i figured you'd crash the second your head hit the pillow."
you shift on the bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. "why are you calling me?"
"i wanted to hear your voice," he says simply. "and to make sure you weren't dreading rehearsal today."
the casualness of it is dizzying. he's talking to you as if this is normal. as if he didn't hold you against the mirror wall while the moonlight streamed through the high windows of the opera house and your mouths devoured each other just last night. "san, you can't just call me like this," you hiss, your voice gaining a bit of edge. "charlie could be here."
there is a brief pause on the other end. "is she there?"
"no."
"right. so, what now?" you couldn't even picture a face he could be doing right now.
"what n-? san, what are you doing?"
"just checking in on you." his tone almost innocent. "this morning i had this delicious, sweet cinnamon roll and it reminded me of you. did you have breakfast yet?"
"stop that." you murmured, shutting your eyes.
"what?" he chuckled and you sighed, over being lost in this unusual and pointless conversation.
"we need to talk." you said firmly.
"we are talking?"
"no, like, actually talk. about what happened."
"what happened?" there was a hint of a smirk and you weren't having it. "we had a nice practice. we worked hard, we clicked, it was a good day for the production."
"san…"
"ohh!" he suddenly seemed to remember. "you're talking about the kiss."
and it's quiet again, your tongue still, holding your breath, waiting for him to say it was a mistake. waiting for him to tell you that the adrenaline of the dance just clouded his judgment and it meant nothing to him. your heart sinks, but you just hear him chuckle.
"i'm just messing with you." you let out a soft breath you didn't realize you were holding. "yeah, we should talk about it. i'll see you today at rehearsal, right?"
"yeah, right." you murmured, biting your lip because apparently you were smiling.
"alright."
"mhmm, see you."
"oh, and wear that cute blue ribbon in your hair, it'll match the choreo."
you freeze. "how do you know i have-?"
"see you soon," he says. his voice is raspy, lingering on the words, a promise wrapped in a goodbye.
the call disconnects and you lower the phone slowly, the silence of the room rushing back in, you stay lying on your back for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing.
slowly, you push yourself up and walk toward the mirror wall that lines one side of the bedroom. you stop in front of the glass, looking at your reflection. your hair is a mess, your eyes are wide, as usual. but what's unusual, is the deep vivid crimson on your cheeks, like you've been caught in a storm.
closer to the mirror, you trace the redness of your cheeks. you should be terrified. you should be calling charlie and confessing everything right now. you should be thinking about the social suicide of kissing your best friend's ex in a company as tight-knit as the paris opera ballet.
instead, you find yourself reaching for a secret promise, the blue ribbon on your vanity.
୨୧
through the corridors, you walk with your gaze fixed on the polished marble floors. the security cameras pivoting through your skin, their glass lenses tracking your every movement. it feels as though they are auditing your soul, searching for the guilt you’ve tucked away deep beneath. you can almost hear the whispers of the other girls, the ones who spend their breaks dissecting your posture or mocking your silence in the dressing rooms.
shoulders square, though your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. the blue ribbon is a weight, a promise, a danger.
when you push open the double doors to the studio, there he is. he stands near the barre, talking to another dancer, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black rehearsal shirt. you don't look at him. you can't. you snap your head away the moment your eyes catch the line of his jaw, pivoting toward the cluster of village women.
if you look at him, the dam will break. the heat will climb from your neck to your cheeks, painting a confession that every eye in the room will read. you slide into the group, blending into the soft pastel hues of the other dancers, trying to become invisible.
"you're late, y/n."
one of the girls whispers, pointing a flaw. you don't answer. you simply adjust your shoes, the satin scraping against your feet. dust motes dance in the shafts of morning light, eyes still glued down. you can feel san's gaze now, like a physical weight that settles on your shoulders.
the studio falls silent as the click clack of heels announces the arrival of lana. she strides into the room like a winter storm, her spine a rigid line of steel.
"enough with the chatter," lana commands as she stops in the center of the room.
you move with the others, your body, a piece of scenery sliding into the familiar, fluid motions of the choreography. emotional artistry, arms curving like willow branches. but your mind is acutely aware of where he is in the room. you can hear the rhythmic thud of his jumps, the controlled breath he takes before a turn.
every time he moves closer, something ionize between, sparking with the memory of last night.
lana's voice cuts through your reverie. "you," the dancers freeze, you hold your breath. "come to the center. i wish to see the progress of the princess florine and the bluebird. san, join her."
a collective murmur ripples through the studio, a wave of jealousy that you can practically feel brushing against your skin. jisu, the former florine, stands to the side, her expression a mask of cold indifference, though her fingers grip her dance wrap with a white knuckled intensity.
you walk to the center of the stage, movements hesitant, still refusing to look at him. chin tucked, eyelashes cascading over your cheeks, creating a private veil between you and the world. you feel small and you feel exposed, as if the mirrors are zooming in on the frantic beat of your heart.
"everyone, move aside," lana orders. "observe. this is how a partnership should breathe."
the room clears, leaving you and san in a vast circle of empty space. the silence is heavy, expectant. you stand there, a fragile point of light in the center of the room, until you feel it. his presence.
he steps closer, closing the gap until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. he doesn't touch you, not yet, but you're cornered by his shadow, tucked between his strength and the gaze of the room.
"are you okay?"
ghost of a whisper, his voice, meant only for you. it is warm, grounded, and laced with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.
finally, you look up.
you meet his eyes, and for a moment, the studio vanishes. the envious dancers, the strict director, the weight of the academy, it all dissolves. there is only san. his eyes soft, searching yours with an intensity that feels like a touch. you see the slight curve of his lips, dimple appearing in his cheek. you nod and he takes your hand, grip firm and sure. he leads you into the first position, and as the music begins to swell from the piano, the tension shifts. it is no longer the tension of fear, but the tension of a bowstring about to snap.
the choreography is demanding, blend of strength and ethereal lightness. but with san, it doesn't feel like work. it feels like a conversation. every lift a question, every landing an answer. as the lifts comes, body soaring toward the ceiling, there's a vertigo crashing over you, but not from fear.
why him? why, of all the people in this cutthroat city, it had to be him. why the boy with the broad shoulders and the quiet heart? why the one who memorizes steps with a freakish speed but underestimates the wreckage his smile leaves in it's wake? you think of the way he looked at you during those long months of silence. the stolen glances in the hallway, the way his hand would linger a second too long when he passed you in the studio, the way he seemed to anticipate your every move before you even made it.
you didn't just fall for him last night. you have been falling for a long time. you had fought it, buried the feeling under layers of introversion and a desperate need to remain unnoticed. you had denied the way your heart leaped at the mere sound of his name, the way you sought him out in a crowded room without even realizing you were doing it.
it is a terrifying realization. to love someone like him is to hand yourself a weapon and hope you don't use it. but as san brings you down from a lift, his arms wrapping around you with a protective force, the fear vanishes.
you are in love with him.
the truth settles in your marrow, heavy and sweet. you look at him and see the warmth in his eyes, the hidden smile that is meant only for you. you see the man who knows your silence and doesn't try to fill it with noise.
flow through the final sequence, your movements becoming liquid. you are dancing the truth of your heart. pouring every ounce of your longing, your secret guilt, and your newfound hope into the arch of your back and the extension of your fingertips. san matches you beat for beat. for a few minutes, the two of you are the only living things in paris.
the music swells to a crescendo and then abruptly stops. frozen, in the final pose, breath coming in ragged gasps. slowly pulling away, svetlana is standing perfectly still. her arms are crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. then, the corners of her mouth twitch. it isn't a full laugh, but it is somewhat of a smile. there surely is a first time for everything.
the students begin to chatter, the sound a swarm of bees returning to the hive, but it doesn't make you want to shrink.
san doesn't let go of your hand immediately. his thumb brushes against your knuckles, a secret caress in plain sight. he leans in, breath warm against your ear.
"the ribbon looks beautiful on you," he whispers.
and when you feel the blush return, you don't fight it, you let it bloom.
୨୧
narrow space, choked with fabrics of tulle and satin. you were supposed to talk, to seriously figure the incident out. the cold metal of a costume rack bit into your back as san pressed you against it. the impact wasn't violent, but it was absolute, pinning you into a cocoon of hanging dresses that dampened the sounds of the bustling hallway outside.
not even a chance to speak, his mouth crashed against yours with a hunger, less like a greeting and more like a reclamation. it was a fierce, starving kind of kiss. you briefly moaned, the sound swallowed by him, and your head tilted instinctively to the side. the movement opened you up, granting him access. his tongue slid against yours, wet, sliding friction that sent a jolt of electricity straight to the base of your spine.
hands flew up, fingers tangling in the short, dark hairs at the nape of his neck. you pulled him closer, needing to erase every millimeter of space between you. he groaned low in his throat, a vibration you felt in your own chest, and his hands found your waist. his fingers dug into the soft flesh there, gripping you with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. you felt like water beneath him, yielding.
the friction of your lower bodies was a slow torture. san shifted, his hips pressing firmly against your lower stomach. through the thin fabric of your dance tights and his trousers, the heat of him was an insistent pressure. every time he shifted, every time his weight leaned further into you, a spark of friction made your stomach flip. a breathless giggle escaped your lips, muffled against his mouth.
he broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, lips grazing your jawline, breath hot and ragged.
"fuck… you have no idea," he whispered between small kisses. "how long i've wanted this… how long i've had to pretend i wasn't thinking about this every time you walked into the room."
you couldn't find words. your mind was a blur of white noise and heat. you let your hands slide down from his neck, tracing the hard ridges of his shoulders before settling on his chest. beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, his heart hammered, mirroring your own. you chased his lips again, movements clumsy and urgent, searching for him with a desperation that frightened you.
when you finally parted to breathe, he kept his body flush against you, hands migrating from your waist to cup your face. his palms were warm, thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the violence of the kiss. he searched your eyes, gaze intense, searching for a sign that you were as lost as he was.
"let me take you out," he murmured.
you blinked, eyelashes damp. the sudden shift making your head spin.
"properly," san continued, his voice softening. "i want to take you to a restaurant. somewhere where we don't have to look over our shoulders. or a museum. we could visit the louvre. i want to see you freely instead of hiding in a closet."
gaze dropped, the image of charlie flashed vividly in your mind. charlie's bright, bubbly laugh, the way she had trusted you with the fragile remnants of her past with san. the guilt, once again, hit you like a cold wave that dampened the heat in your veins.
you slowly shook your head, swallowing a lump of anxiety that felt like a stone in your throat.
"i can't," you whispered. "this wasn't supposed…"
as you tried to shimmy past him, san didn't move, but he didn't let you slip away. his grip tightened on your face, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor.
"look at me," he commanded softly, you lifted your eyes to his intense focus. "say it. say you don't feel this. tell me you don't look at me the way i know you do. tell me that when we dance, you don't feel the air between us vibrating. tell me this was all a misunderstanding, a moment of weakness, and i'll let you go right now. i'll step back, and i'll never touch you like this again." he paused, his gaze boring into yours. "but don't lie to me. because what i feel… it's genuine. the most honest thing i've felt in years."
you opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. you wanted to lie. you wanted to be the loyal friend, the quiet observer who didn't complicate anyone's life. but the words died in your throat, feeling the ghost of his tongue in your mouth, the weight of his body against yours, the way your soul seemed to recognize him. you did feel it. you had felt it for months. during barre work, when he offered a correction, in the silent understanding you shared during the bluebird rehearsals.
"i can't say that," you murmured, voice trembling. "because it's not true."
san's expression softened, relief crossing his features. he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.
"i know you're worried about charlotte," he said, his voice barely a breath. "i know she's your best friend. and i know you feel like this is a betrayal-"
"it is," you whispered. "it feels like i'm stealing something. or breaking a promise we never even spoke aloud."
he sighed, breath warm against your lips. "i know charlotte. i know we had history, and i still care about her. but i also know how much she loves you. she wants you to be happy, y/n. genuinely. she's the kind of person who would want the people she loves to find each other, even if it's complicated."
"you don't know that for sure," you argued softly.
"maybe not for sure," san conceded. "but we don't have to tell her, okay? not until we know what this is. we can explore this… this little thing. we can see if it's as real as i think it is. and if it doesn't work out, then she never has to find out. everything just goes back to normal."
you closed your eyes. the logic was flawed, a fragile bridge built over a canyon of potential disaster, but it was the only bridge you had. you wanted him. the desire was a physical ache, a hunger that outweighed the guilt.
as you wavered, san began to pepper small, fluttering kisses across your cheeks. he kissed the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose, the soft skin just below your ear. the tenderness of it broke your remaining resolve. a small, genuine laugh escaped you, sound of surrender.
"fine," you breathed. "just… we gotta be careful."
"i got you," he whispered.
with that, he didn't waste another second. he reclaimed your lips, renewed passion. deeper and slower this time, as if he were savoring the victory. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in, body humming with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. you felt the world outside the costume room vanish, there was only the heat of your shared breath.
in eagerness, you stumbled slightly back into the clutter of the room. your ballet slipper landing squarely on something small and plastic. there was a sharp pop and the sound of scattering beads. you had stepped on a small bag of pink glass crystal flatbacks, the tiny embellishments spraying across the floor like fallen stars. the sudden noise echoing in the small space.
before you could even register the accident, san's hands moved with lightning speed. he slid his arms under you, one beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, and scooped you up in one fluid motion. you let out a sharp gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to keep your balance. hoisted high, at face level with his.
"shhh," san whispered, pressing a finger to your lips before kissing it. "we need to be quiet."
you both giggled and the kisses continued. heart racing, you could feel the strength in his arms, the steadiness of his hold, and for the first time, the secret didn't feel like a burden.
he held you there for a long moment, in the dim light of the costume room, surrounded by a thousand performances, while you began a dance of your own. one that had no choreography, no audience. lips moved slowly together, memorizing each other's breath.
shifting slightly, his grip firm on the back of your thighs. he didn't put you down immediately. instead, he nuzzled into your neck, lips grazing the sensitive skin there.
"you're so soft," he murmured, the vibration of his voice sending shivers. "i can't believe you're actually mine to kiss."
you pulled back slightly, eyes searching his. "i'm not yours yet."
san grinned, the dimples finally making an appearance, flashing a look of pure, unadulterated mischief. "that's right, yet," he whispered, before capturing your lips once more.
the sounds of the hallway, distant shouting of a stage manager, rhythmic thumping of dancers' shoes, it all seemed a million miles away. in the narrow confines of the room, amidst the scent of mothballs and the scatter of pink crystals, you existed in a vacuum of your own making.
you felt the friction of his trousers against your inner thighs, the way his chest expanded against your breasts with every heavy breath. the heat of his skin, the callouses on his fingers, and the overwhelming presence of him. dangerous and fragile, but as san squeezed you tighter, you realized you didn't want to be safe. you wanted this.
slowly, he lowered you back to the floor, but he didn't let go. he kept you pinned against the rack, his body a warm shield.
"we have to go back to rehearsal," he whispered through a thin string of saliva.
"i know," you replied, though made no move to move.
"five more minutes," he pleaded, eyes dropping to your lips.
you smiled. "five minutes."
and as he leaned in to claim those five minutes, you felt drowned out by the roar of your own heart and the insistent, demanding heat of the man who held you.
୨୧
arms curved in soft arcs, san’s hand found the small of your back and the world narrowed. faded into a hum. grip steady, warm weight. he pivoted, sweeping you into a graceful spin. you looked up and found his eyes locked onto yours. quiet heat, a secret shared in the middle of a crowded room.
lana's eyes tracked every movement, cold and calculating. she sighed, a sound of a satisfied acceptance. she hadn't yet officially announced the change, but the way she nodded, the way she stopped correcting your posture and instead watched the synergy between you and san, told the story.
the realization brought a flicker of triumph, a triumph shared with charlie who stood at the barre. she had taken some time off from her own busy schedule to drop by. she caught your eye and beamed, genuine smile that made your stomach churn.
"you look like a dream, y/n!" she called out, her voice ringing through the hall.
you managed a small, tight smile and looked away. the guilt was a cold stone settling in your gut.
the weeks that followed became a messy sequence of double lives. by day, you were the quiet student, the shadow in the sequins. by night, you were san's secret. he took you to a paris that didn't exist in maps. led by the hand, you wandered into hidden bookstores you didn't even know were there before, shelves reaching toward ceilings lost in darkness.
"try it," san whispered, leaning close to your ear. he pointed to a weathered bookseller with spectacles perched precariously on his nose. "ask him for the poetry section. in french."
you froze, fingers tightening around san's hand. "no, i can't. you do it," you murmured.
"come on, you gotta practice your french," san stepped closer, his chest brushing your shoulder. the warmth of him was an invitation. "just like you practiced, okay?"
deep breath and you stepped forward. you stumbled through a sentence, your accent hesitant. the bookseller didn't scoff, he replied and led you to a dusty corner of the shop. instead of the expected embarrassment, you smiled and looked back at san, and the way he was watching you with a quiet tenderness. these were the highs, the moments you forgot about everything.
but the return to the apartment always felt like a descent. the moment you stepped through the door, the mask slid back into place.
"you're late again!" charlie exclaimed, leaping up from the sofa. she was wrapped in an oversized sweater, her fair skin glowing under the warm light. "did svetlana keep you for extra coaching?"
you avoided her gaze, sliding your shoes off. "i got caught up in practice," you lied, words tasting like ash. "i wanted to perfect that one sequence in the second act."
charlie frowned, though her eyes remained soft. "you're already the best one there, y/n. don't let that russian hag get in your head. you'll burn out before opening night."
"i'm fine, charlie. just… tired."
"well, go shower. i ordered crepes."
every lie was a brick in a wall you were building between you and the person who had been the ground beneath your feet for years. charlie had fought for everything, her scholarship, her place in the academy, her dignity. she had come from nothing, hustling through every rehearsal with a grit that you admired. and here you were, the girl from the supportive, wealthy family, stealing the one thing that should have been off limits. the thing you underestimated how fragile it could be.
the next afternoon, the tension in the studio was palpable. jisu spent the rehearsal staring at you with eyes that could cut glass. you felt her gaze on your back during every adagio. every time you and san locked eyes, you could feel her resentment radiating from the sidelines.
during a break, you found yourself alone in the dressing room, staring at your reflection. tracing the line of your collarbone, the fragility of your shoulders. the mirror is a cruel thing. it does not lie, and it does not offer mercy. you looked shrinking, folding inward and utterly terrified. as you look at yourself, you don't see a princess. you see a thief.
the door creaked open, slow and heavy, and san stepped in. he didn't say a word. he simply walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, the warmth hits you, pulling you back against his chest.
"hey pretty," he whispered.
"hey," your voice replied quietly.
"are you okay?" his lips gently kiss your temple.
"yeah i just… made a hole in my thighs and it's ruining my day." you tried to give him a small, childish smile.
it was a snag. a tiny jagged hole in the nylon of your tights, right on the swell of your thigh. it should be a small thing. a nothing. but in the suffocating perfection of the paris opera ballet school, a hole in the tights is a crack in the armor. if the world could see this one flaw, what else could they see?
you feel him huff, amused breath against your skin. his grip tightens slightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist. you can feel the hard lines of his physique through the fabric of his dance gear. fingers teasingly traveling down the curve of your hips.
"ruining your day, hm?" he murmurs, his lips migrating from your temple to the sensitive shell of your ear. you can feel the heat of his tongue flicking lightly against the lobe, a gesture so casual yet so electric that your toes curl inside your pointe shoes. "maybe i can help," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave. "maybe i should just help you change out of them."
a quiet laugh escapes you. you turn slightly in his arms, looking up at him. he's so unfairly breathtaking. his skin, his jawline, his knowing smirk. his eyes hooded and dark with a hunger that he only ever shows to you. he looks like a predator who has decided to be gentle, and the thought makes your stomach flip.
"you're terrible," you whisper in disbelief.
"what? i'm just thinking of solutions," he replies.
before you can respond, his hands shift. they move upward, leaving the safety of your waist to slide over your ribs, the friction of his palms sending sparks across your skin. then, with a sudden boldness, he squeezes your breasts. you gasp, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet room. your back arches instinctively, chest pressing harder into his palms. calloused hands against the thin fabric of your leotard. he doesn't let go, instead, he kneads the soft tissue, thumbs brushing over your nipples, which harden instantly under the pressure.
"san," you moan. "someone… someone could come in."
the fear is there, constant anxiety of charlie walking through that door and finding her best friend entwined with the man she once loved.
san doesn't flinch. he leans forward, his lips capturing yours in a claiming kiss. his tongue pushes past your lips, sweeping through your mouth, demanding pull that makes your knees weak.
he pulls back just an inch, "i locked the door," he whispers, his voice strained. "we're alone. just you and me."
the words act like a key, unlocking the last of your restraint. terror transforms, turning into a pulsing need. you want him. you want the weight of him to crush the guilt out of you.
san turns you around fully, pressing you back against the cold surface of the mirrors. the ice of the glass against your back and the furnace of his body against your front. he looks at you with an intensity that feels like it could strip you bare.
his hands move to the straps of your gray leotard. he doesn't pull them down immediately. instead, he hooks his fingers under the thin elastic, tugging them just enough to ask a question, to create tension, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of your shoulders.
"can i?" he murmurs, locked on you.
can't speak, can't even breathe. you simply nod your head. you want this. you need this. you need to feel something other than the hollow ache of longing.
with a slow motion, san pulls the straps down. the fabric slides over your shoulders, sliding down your chest, shushing sound. leotard peeled down, breasts exposed to the cool air of the dressing room.
he stops and stares.
eyes roaming over you, tracing the curve of your breasts, the pale, transparent skin where blue veins map out the path to your heart. nipples peaked, trembling in the chill. you feel a surge of vulnerability. raw, exposed. it makes you want to cover yourself and lean into him all at once.
"you are so beautiful," he whispers, thick with awe. "so beautiful y/n, holy shit."
he leans in, his mouth descending. when his tongue first touches your nipple, you let out a strangled cry. he licks, swirling motion that gathers the moisture of your skin before he closes his lips around you.
vacuum of his mouth creating a pressure that sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. you bite your lips, teeth sinking into the inner flesh to keep from moaning too loudly. the sound of his suction, the licking of his mouth on your breast fills the silence of the room, echoing off the mirrors.
his other hand isn't idle. he reaches around to massage your other breast, his palm cupping the weight of it, fingers kneading the softness with a focused intensity. he rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, mimicking the action of his mouth. the dual sensation is almost too much to bear. you feel a warmth pooling between your legs, the fabric of your tights suddenly feeling too tight, too restrictive. san moves from your breast to your neck, his kisses becoming more frantic, more biting.
"san… god," you whimper, your head lolling back against the mirror.
he groans, a low, animal sound, and slides his hand down to the waistband of your shorts. he doesn't pull them down, not yet, but he presses his palm flat against your crotch, rubbing the mound of your pussy through the nylon. rough fabric of the tights grating against your clit, waves of heat crashing through you.
through his trousers, you can feel him. hard, thick length of his cock pressing against you. he is just as desperate as you are, his movements jerky and urgent. he kisses you again, a messy exchange of saliva.
then, as quickly as the storm arrived, it begins to recede.
san pulls his hand back, his eyes clouded with lust but tempered by caution. he knows the risks. he knows the clock is ticking. with a tenderness that hurts, he reaches and pulls your leotard back up, smoothing the fabric over your skin, adjusting the straps with steady fingers.
he kisses your forehead, lips lingering there for a long moment.
"you're beautiful," he repeats, his voice returning to that grounded, warm tone. "so beautiful it hurts."
he steps back, giving you space to breathe, though the air feels thinner now that he's not occupying it. , his grip firm and protective.
"i'll take you home tonight," he says. his fingers already interlacing with yours.
flushed, skin still tingling where he touched you, chest still aching from the pressure of his mouth. you nod, feeling marked, changed.
together, you walk toward the door. san reaches for the handle, his hand covering yours for a brief second before he easily opens it. as you step out into the hallway, the cool air hitting your heated skin. you glance back, realizing it was never locked in the first place. not once. maybe he said it on purpose, maybe he forgot, but you don't say anything.
that night you returned late, again. he wanted to stay a little longer to get a thai dessert you introduced him to. when you opened the door, charlie was sitting at the couch, a notebook open in front of her, legs draped over the armrest, sketching out choreography. she looked up as you entered, her expression thoughtful. you instinctively pull the white bag of candy behind your waist, shoulder blades tightening.
"hey ghost, where were you?" charlie said, her voice unusually quiet.
you froze, your hand still on the doorknob. "hey, uh… hung out with jisu." ash in your mouth. at this moment, you wanted to shoot yourself for such dumb lie. of all the people in the academy, you had to choose her. you haven't spoken more than ten words to her in a months. jisu, who you replaced. jisu, who probably hates the very air you breathe.
"jisu? really?"
"yeah," you say, not wanting to explain further.
charlie leaned back. "well, that's nice," a small, sympathetic smile touched her lips. "i heard she's a bit begrudging, but it's nice to see you two get along well."
you felt the blood drain from your face. "y-yeah," you stammered.
"i honestly didn't think she had it in her to be friendly," charlie continued, her voice warm. you feel a dip in your stomach, a sickening plunge. the lie is working, and that's the worst part.
"she's alright." you whisper.
""see, that's why i love you," she stands up and glides toward you. "you have this way about you. you're like a little magnet for the broken and the grumpy. if there was anyone in the entire academy who could make someone like jisu friendly, it would be you."
she wraps her arms around you in a sudden hug. you stay stiff for a second, the bag of thai desserts pressed between your back and the wall, before you slowly lean into her.
"you're too kind for your own good," charlie whispers into your shoulder. "don't let those vultures at the school eat you alive, okay? you've got a heart of gold, and god knows this place tries to turn everyone into stone."
each word a precise strike against your conscience. your integrity innocently praised while you were drowning in your own dishonesty. you close your eyes, a single tear threatening to spill. you want to tell her. you want to scream that you're not kind, that you're a liar, that you're in love with a closed chapter in her life.
"thanks, charlie."
you forced a smile and nodded, mechanical movement. she pulls away, her eyes sparkling.
"oh! i almost forgot!"
she bounces back to the coffee table, grabbing a small shopping bag. she reaches inside and pulls out two sets of knitted leg warmers. one is an innocent baby pink, the other is a muted blue.
"look! i found these at that little boutique near the opera house. they're thick enough for the winter drafts in the studio." she holds them up, one in each hand. "pink for me," she says, waving the bright pair. "and blue for you." she steps closer, holding the two pairs of leg warmers together. with a playful giggle, she makes the fabric ends peck each other like two little birds.
"that's so sweet, charlie. thank you."
"of course! only the best for my favorite person."
she beams at you, her energy filling the room until you feel like you're suffocating in it. she turns toward the hallway, already thinking about the next thing.
"i can't wait for tomorrow," she says, her voice trailing off as she walks toward the bathroom. "i hope we can get photos with our dresses together."
your heart stops. you forgot the dress rehearsal.
"tomorrow?" you whisper.
charlie stops and looks back at you, a look of pure bewilderment on her face.
"yes, tomorrow? the announcement was posted on the board three days ago, girl. did you actually miss the notice?"
you stare at her, mind a complete blank and she lets out a dramatic sigh with a shake of her head.
"honestly, what would you do without me?" she leans at the doorframe, smiling softly. "you always have your head in the clouds, don't you? just make sure it stays there at least until the show."
when she closes the door behind her, the silence returning, heavier than before. you slowly bring the bag of thai desserts from behind your back and set it on the counter. the mango is probably warm now. the lie, too large to hide.
୨୧
screech of the metro wheels against tracks bites, metallic screams and the knot tightening in your chest. you lean your shoulder against the cold glass of the window, watching the grey blur of paris slide past. beside you, charlie's voice a bright contrast to the doom of the train car.
she describes her vision for aurora’s awakening. her eyes sparkling and hungry, hands carving shapes in the air. you only offer a tight smile.
the moment you step into the theater, you feel the sharp scent of hairspray first. frantic bustle. dancers in various states of dress scramble across the marble floors, pointe shoes echoing through the halls.
you find yourself in the costume wing, where the air is humid and smells of steamed fabric. the costume manager, a woman with a face like a crumpled map and eyes that see every loose thread, beckons you forward.
"stand still," she grunts.
you hold your breath as she pins the heavy fabric of the village dress against your waist. the dress is a rustic, peasant style garment, meant to look humble, but the manager is currently sewing a cluster of tiny, shimmering sequins into the bodice to catch the light.
as you stare straight ahead, your gaze drifts across the room. san is there.
near the wings, he's talking to another dancer, but his attention isn't on the conversation. he is looking at you. he doesn't smile, but there is a warmth in his gaze that feels like a physical touch, a secret hand brushing against your cheek. you feel a spike of panic and glance around quickly, wondering if charlie has seen, or if the other dancers are whispering.
you look back at him, and this time, san lets a small reassuring smile tug at the corner of his lips. the warmth of his look makes you soften, your shoulders dropping an inch. you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, eyes lingering on the sharp line of his jaw.
suddenly, a sting pierces your hip. you gasp, jumping slightly.
"damn it," the woman mutters, pulling the needle back. "stop fidgeting, will you?"
the pain is small, but it jars you. the bubble of intimacy with san pops, leaving you cold and exposed in the middle of the room.
when she finishes, she doesn't even say anything, the next dancer is already pushing you off the way. you move toward the stage, taking your place among the other village women, sequins itching against your skin.
"positions!" lana’s voice booms from the darkened house.
the music swells, the opening act of the sleeping beauty beginning it's unfold. you and the other women frolic through the scene, movements light and airy. the choreography calls for you to be playful, carelessly playing with knitting needles as you dance, a picture of innocent rural life.
with a fluid grace, your body remembering the steps, but your mind is elsewhere. you are thinking of the way san’s hand felt on the small of your back last night, the way he whispered your name against your skin in the dark. the guilt is a living thing now, curling around your heart, tightening with every beat of the orchestra.
as you twirl, you glance toward the darkened seats of the theater. charlotte is there. she's sitting in the third row, perfect posture even in repose. you notice her lean forward, eyes fixed on you. she is smiling, proud of you, cheering you on in silence.
the scene shifts. the supervising catalavat enters and catches the village women in their forbidden act of knitting, threatening of punishment. the choreography dictates that the women should beg for mercy, drop to their knees in a theatrical pleading.
the stylized plea breaks. your voice, usually a whisper, rips through the music of the theater.
"i'm sorry!" you sob, raw and guttural. the other dancers stumble, their synchronization breaking as they glance at you in shock. "i'm so sorry!" you scream, heartbroken rush. "please, forgive me! i didn't mean to, i'm so sorry!"
you aren't dancing anymore. you are collapsed on the floor, your forehead touching the cold wood, your shoulders shaking, uncontrollable sobbing. you can't stop the tears streaming down your face, blurring the world into a smear of gold and brown. the dam has broken, and every ounce of anxiety, every moment of hidden longing, every shred of guilt pours out of you in a cacophony of grief.
the music falters. the orchestra slows to a confused halt. the silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of your gasping breaths.
"what in the name of god is this?" lana strides onto the stage, heels clicking rhythmically, and stops in front of you. russian severity, her accent thick and sharp. "you're ruining my show! what is the meaning of this collapse?"
you look up at her, your eyes red and streaming, chest heaving. you can't explain it. you can't tell her that you're breaking under the weight of a secret. you can only shake your head, trembling movement.
"sorry," you choke out, the word barely a breath.
"off! get off the stage!" lana barks, gesturing wildly toward the wings. "go clean your face and find your composure before you ruin the entire act!"
you don't wait for a second command. you scramble to your feet and run away. you bolt past the other dancers, past the confused gaze of the catalavat, and disappear into the shadows of the wings.
the moment you hit the darkness of the backstage area, the walls close in. you lean against a cold brick wall, sliding down until you are huddled in a ball. you are shaking so hard your teeth chatter. the panic is a wave, pulling you under, leaving you breathless and alone.
then, a pair of strong arms wraps around you. you don't have to look up to know who it is. he pulls you into him, protective urgency, tucking your head under his chin. you cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his costume, sobbing into his chest. he doesn't say anything, he just holds you, his hand rubbing slow, grounding circles into your back. for a few seconds, the world is just the two of you.
"i've got you," he whispers. "just breathe. i've got you."
you close your eyes, letting his strength calm you, feeling the beating of your heart slowly align with his.
"y/n?"
the voice is a cold splash of water. you freeze, san stiffens his arms. you pull back slowly, blinking through the tears to see charlie standing a few feet away. she looks small in the vastness of the wings, her expression a mixture of horror and profound confusion. she looks at you, then at san, then back at you.
san steps away from you instantly, the distance between you suddenly a canyon. he clears his throat, his face returning to it's neutral, controlled mask, but his eyes remain troubled. you wipe your face with the back of your hand and step toward her, your voice trembling.
"charlie… i…"
"what happened?" her voice laced with genuine concern. she reaches out, touching your arm. "you just… you started screaming. you looked terrified. what happened?"
you swallow hard, the lie forming in your throat like a bitter pill. you look at san, who is standing perfectly still.
"i don't know," you whisper, letting a few more tears fall. "i just… i got overwhelmed. i think i had a panic attack."
she pulls you into a hug. "oh, you poor thing," she murmurs, rubbing your shoulder. "i had no idea you were feeling that much pressure. you're always so quiet, i forget how much you carry inside. you can't let the role consume you like that, though. you'll burn out before opening night."
you pathetically lean into her, the guilt returning, sharper and more painful than the needle prick from earlier.
"i'm sorry," you whisper into her shoulder, the words carrying a deeper meaning.
"don't be sorry," she says, pulling back to look at you with a bright, encouraging smile. "just take a breath. let's go get some water. san, thanks for looking after her."
san nods once. "no problem."
you both walks away, but before you're too far, you look at san. he is watching you, melancholic. he doesn't move toward you. because he can't.
୨୧
two years ago you, had signed up for this wellness center that offered late night relaxing treatments for frustrating days after work. you were supposed to be there now, at least, that's what charlie believed.
comforting blanket against the lingering chill of humiliation. curled in the center of his bed, the duvet a cloud around you. his room, unlike the vibrant chaos of your shared apartment, was a study in muted tones and precise order. you glanced at the pair of framed mountain landscapes hung above the headboard, their monochrome beauty a quiet statement to his name. it was a space that spoke of careful thought, of a mind that found peace in structure.
a soft clink of ceramic, then the gentle creak of the floorboards as he approached. a warmth spread through you. he settled on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. a steaming mug held carefully in his large hands, herbal promise.
"here," he murmured, his voice a low thrum against the quiet. he extended the mug, it's warmth radiating against your cold fingers as you took it.
you felt the ceramic against your palms, the heat seeping into your chilled skin, a small comfort. you took a tentative sip, sweet liquid, balm to your raw throat.
"how do you feel?" he asked.
you swallowed, the tea warming your chest. "better," you admitted. your voice still felt thick, heavy with unshed tears. the memory of the stage, the blinding lights, the sea of faces, still flickered behind your eyelids.
"still worried about lana?" he prompted, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand, a quiet reassurance.
"she’ll drop me. i know it. after… that."
he shook his head. "no. she won’t." his voice was steady, a rock you could lean against. "not if i have anything to say about it. you're princess florine. my princess florine."
involuntary laugh escaped you, fragile. "you don’t have to," you said, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards. the thought of him, san, standing up to svetlana popova of all people, a formidable force of nature, brought a faint smile to your lips. he was protective, fiercely so, a trait you had always admired, even from a distance.
you glanced around his room again. "your room is… it's really nice, san. it's so… you." you gestured vaguely with your free hand. "nothing like charlie's and mine, we're always complaining about the mess, but not doing anything about it."
your head lowered, eyes fixed on the patterns swirling in your tea. he saw it, of course. he always did. his hand covered yours. "hey," he said. you slowly raised your eyes, meeting his. "picture it," he began, sketching a scene in the air between you. "charlotte finds out about us. she sees us together, maybe she just knows. what happens then?"
you bit your lip, the scenario playing out in your mind, a horror show you’d replayed countless times. "she’ll be hurt," you whispered. "she'll feel betrayed. i… i can't stand to hurt her."
he squeezed your hand gently. "she won’t be mad. not really. not after a while. she’ll be happy for us. for you. she cares about you more than anyone, y/n. she wants you to be happy." he paused, his gaze searching yours. "you know charlotte, don’t you?"
the question hung in the air, weighted with years of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and unwavering loyalty. you thought of her infectious laugh, her boundless energy, her protectiveness, her deep unwavering love.
"to know her is to love," you replied, soft confession, a truth that resonated deep within you. it was a sentiment so pure, so absolute, that made the secret you were keeping feel even heavier.
at the last sip of your tea, the warmth a fading memory as you set the mug carefully on the bedside table. he shifted, and then, with a gentle hand at your waist, he pulled you towards him. you didn’t resist, instead melting into his embrace, your back settling against the solid expanse of his chest. his arms wrapped around you, strong and secure. your head rested against his shoulder, the soft fabric of his shirt comforting against your cheek. his fingers calloused from years of gripping a barre, began to work their magic on your skin, tracing slow patterns along your arm, then moving to your shoulder, kneading the tense muscles there. he knew exactly where the stress coiled, the places you carried the weight of the world.
"everything will be fine," he murmured, breath against your ear. his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck. a soft sigh escaped you, released of tension.
the gentle rocking motion of his body against yours, the rhythmic massage of his fingers, the intoxicating scent of him, all worked to lull you into a state of blissful oblivion. your mind, so recently a whirlwind of anxiety, began to quiet. you felt the subtle shift against your lower back, a growing hardness pressing into you. his joggers, soft cotton against your skin, now contained a throbbing proof of his desire. the sensation was both a shock and a thrilling affirmation, a silent language spoken between your bodies.
his lips moved from your neck to the sensitive skin just behind your ear, his tongue a warm, wet caress. you tilted your head, granting him better access. his hand, which had been gently massaging your shoulder, now slid lower, gliding over your hip, his thumb brushing against the curve of your bottom. you felt yourself arch into his touch, a silent invitation.
"relax, okay?" he whispered, thick with a desire that mirrored your own. his other hand found your waist, pulling you even closer, eliminating any space between your bodies. the insistent press of his erection against your lower back grew more pronounced, a tangible heat that ignited a fire deep within you.
unconsciously, you shifted slightly, grinding your ass against him. a low groan rumbled in his chest and his grip tightened, his fingers digging lightly into your flesh. he began to pepper your neck with open mouthed kisses, each one a spark, igniting a trail of goosebumps across your skin. your breath hitched, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
body aligned with need, his hand moved from your hip, tracing a path upwards along your side, his touch light, exploratory, until his fingers brushed against the soft swell of your breast. a gasp caught in your throat, and you leaned further into him. the thin fabric of your shirt was little barrier against the heat of his touch.
his thumb began to gently caress the underside of your breasts, tantalizing motion that made your nipples harden in anticipation. you closed your eyes, lost in the intoxicating sensations, the world outside this room fading into insignificance.
"y/n," he breathed. he turned you gently in his arms, so you were facing him, your knees still resting on the bed. your eyes fluttered open, meeting his. his hands cupped your face. silently, you leaned in, parting your lips just slightly.
he took your mouth then, not with a gentle touch, but with a consuming urgency. his lips were soft yet demanding, pressing against yours, molding them. your own lips, still slightly swollen from the earlier tears, responded with an eagerness that surprised you. his tongue traced the seam of your mouth, faint hint of tea, and you invited him in.
with ease, he lifted the hem of your shirt, pulling it upwards, over your head, and then, with a soft rustle of fabric, it was gone, tossed carelessly onto the floor. his eyes devoured you, lingering on the delicate lace of your bra, the curve of your breasts. he traced the delicate lace of your bra, then slipping underneath, brushing against the soft skin. a moan escaped you, and you instinctively pressed into his touch.
"i'll never get tired of these, fuck," he murmured.
a liquid heat pooled between your thighs. you wanted more, desperately. your hips began to grind, seeking friction, seeking release. his hand now slid downwards, over your stomach, tracing the curve of your hip, then moving lower, towards the junction of your thighs. he brushed against the soft cotton of your underwear, the dampness there, a testament to your arousal. he paused, his gaze meeting yours, a question in his dark eyes. you nodded, a silent fervent agreement. he smiled, sensual curve of his lips, and then his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, finding the warm, wet folds of your pussy.
gentle at first, tracing the delicate outer lips, then slowly, deliberately, parting them, exposing your clit to his knowing touch. he circled it, a caress that made your entire body clench. you whimpered, your hips pushing forward, seeking more pressure, more friction. he obliged, his thumb pressing down, rubbing gently against your swollen clit. the sensation was exquisite, overwhelming, a spiraling vortex of pleasure that threatened to consume you.
your legs trembled, your fingers gripping his shoulders so tightly your nails dug into his skin. he didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. his focus was entirely on you, on bringing you to the brink. his fingers moved with a practiced rhythm, stroking, pressing, teasing, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your already overloaded senses.
the pressure built, sweet, unbearable pressure coiling tighter and tighter within you. your breath hitched, your body arching into his touch, on the edge, desperate for release.
"san," you gasped, his name a desperate plea on your lips.
his mouth found yours again, his tongue plunging in, mimicking the rhythm of his fingers between your legs. the double sensation was too much, pleasure agony. your body convulsed a shattering orgasm that shook you to your core. muscles spasmed, back arching, guttural cry tearing from your throat.
you clung to him, trembling, your body still vibrating with the aftershocks of your climax. he held you tight, his fingers still stroking your clit, even as the intensity of your orgasm began to subside, slowly, deliciously. his mouth was still on yours, kissing you deeply, tasting your pleasure.
when the tremors finally eased, you lay breathless against him, your body heavy and sated. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still dark with desire, but now softened with tenderness. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.
"still good?" he whispered, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
you managed a weak nod with a contented sigh. your body felt heavy, languid, utterly relaxed. the panic, the fear, the shame. all of it had been momentarily banished by the sheer force of his touch, by the intensity of your shared pleasure.
suddenly he shifted, pulling away just enough to allow him to reach for your underwear. he slipped them off, then reached for his own joggers, tugging them down, freeing his impressive large erection. it sprang free, thick and hard, slick with pre-cum. you watched, mesmerized, as it bobbed slightly. beautiful, powerful thing.
now on top of you, he moved between your legs, knees settling on either side of your hips. you instinctively opened for him, thighs parting, welcoming him. he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss. meanwhile his hand found your pussy again, parting your wet folds, guiding his thick cock to your entrance. you felt the tip press against your slick opening.
"y/n" he whispered against your lips, his eyes locked with yours. "i love you, i really do."
you watched him, breath catching in your throat. "really?"
he sighed a smile, pressing a quick peck to your lips. "really… i love you so bad."
you smiled back, fighting back the tears. "i love you too."
with another reassuring slow kiss, he pushed into you. you felt the stretch, the fullness, the delicious invasion as his cock slowly, inch by agonizing inch, slid into you. mixture of pain and pleasure.
pushing deeper, stretching you, filling you completely. your body, still sensitive from your orgasm, welcomed the invasion, molding itself around his thick shaft. he paused, allowing you to adjust, to acclimate to his size, his eyes never leaving yours.
"so tight," he groaned, his hips still. "so good."
you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to move. you wanted him, all of him, deep inside you. your hips began to buck, impatiently asking. he smiled, predatory grin, then he began to move, deep thrusts. he pulled back almost completely, then plunged back in, filling you entirely, hitting your cervix.
"do you like that?" he breathed, his voice ragged, his hips still moving.
"yes," you gasped. "more. please, more."
he picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. you met him thrust for thrust, hips grinding against his, a dance of desire. the bed creaked beneath you, rhythmic accompaniment to your lovemaking.
you could feel the friction, the delicious rub of his cock against your sensitive walls, the way it stretched and filled you with each powerful thrust. the air was filled with the sounds of your moans, his groans, the wet squelching sounds of your bodies colliding. his hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, adjusting the angle, allowing him to thrust even deeper, hitting a spot that made you cry out, a high pitched moan of pure ecstasy.
your orgasm was building again, heat that was rapidly escalating into a raging inferno. your body was a taut bowstring, stretched to it's breaking point, trembling with the intensity of your pleasure.
"i’m close," you whimpered, voice raw with desire.
"come for me, my princess," he commanded. "come for me."
over the edge, your body convulsed again. shattering orgasm that rippled through you, your muscles clenching around his cock, milking him. you cried out his name as your body surrendered to the overwhelming waves of pleasure.
with a final thrust, he spilled his seed deep inside you and collapsed against you. heavy body heavy, breath ragged, heart hammering of genuine love. you lay tangled together, breathless and sated. your legs were still wrapped around his waist, bodies still intimately joined, the warmth of his come spreading through you, tangible proof of your shared feelings.
୨୧
sunlight spills through the gaps of the curtains. syrup-thick sleep, the weight of a muscular arm draped across your waist and the lingering scent of skin on skin. for a heartbeat, the world is small and safe, limited to the perimeter of these sheets.
then, the clock on the bedside table catches your eye. you bolt upright and the sheets slide down, leaving you exposed to the morning air. your heart doesn't just beat, it thrashes. you scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood with a slap.
"shit, shit," you hiss, your voice a dry rasp.
you dive for the floor, hunting for your clothes. the lace bra tangled with your discarded shirt. you clumsily pull them on, nearly tripping over your own balance. you grab your phone and the screen is a wall of notifications.
charlie: babe? where r u??
charlie: going to sleep now, left salad for u in the fridge
charlie: y/n, answer me. i'm getting worried
charlie: istg if ur still at that spa place, at least just text me
before you could reply, a sleepy voice interrupts your thoughts.
"what's the rush?" you turn to see san propped up on one elbow. his dark hair is chaotic and the sunlight catches the sharp line of his jaw. he looks peaceful, too peaceful.
"i have to go," you whisper, struggling to pull your sweater over your head. "i fell asleep. i wasn't supposed to fall asleep, san."
he reaches out, his fingers grazing your hip, trying to pull you back towards the edge of the mattress.
"stay a little longer," he murmurs. "c'mere."
"stop that," you snap, though the sternness is undercut by the tremble in your voice. you yank your arm away. "i told her i'd come home last night. she's probably terrified."
san sighs, he raises his hands in a lazy surrender. small knowing smile playing on his lips. "sorry," he says softly. "i just wanted you for a bit more."
the anger vanishes, replaced by a hollow ache. you lean down, pressing your lips to his. it's a soft kiss, tasting of sleep and desperation. you linger for a second too long, breathing him in, memorizing the warmth of his skin before the cold reality of the academy swallows you whole.
"thank you for last night," you whisper against his mouth.
the walk to the metro is a blur of grey pavement and rushing parisians. your hands shake as you dial charlie's number and think of lame excuses about how you fell asleep at the sauna and the staff just randomly let you sleep there for 10 hours. she picks up on the first ring.
three days later, the atmosphere at the academy is electric. "the sleeping beauty" no longer distant but looming. you are at the barre, at an extra class, working through the basic exercises. the repetitive motion is a meditation for you, after all before being your full time job, ballet used to be your escape.
you feel a threatening bead of sweat trickle down your spine. without thinking, you slide the zipper down of the high neck jacket and peel the garment off, draping it over the end of the barre. you return to your plies, focus narrowed to the movements of your feet. but you can feel it. a shift in the room.
it starts as a flicker. a glance from a girl two stations down. then, a whispered comment from a group near the center. you ignore it. you tell yourself it's just the usual envy, the petty judgments of girls who see your softness as weakness.
as the class transitions to floor work, you step away from the barre to grab your water bottle. but when you turn, jisu steps into your path. she doesn't smile, she never really smiles. she only smirks a cruel expression that doesn't reach her eyes. she looks you up and down, her gaze lingering on your neck.
"you know," jisu says. "some of us are here to dance, not to show off."
you blink, confused. "what are you talking about?"
jisu leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a cold blade. "you couldn't you hide it a little better?" she doesn't wait for an answer. she pivots on a dime, gliding away with a mocking grace. your heart stops when you slowly turn toward the mirror, lifting your chin.
there, just below the curve of your ear, is a vivid blossom of purple and red. a hickey. a giant pronounced mark that stands out against your skin like a neon sign. you remember this morning, san's hands, the way he had laughed against your skin, the heat of his mouth. when he drove you to school, his hand resting on your thigh, his eyes dark and playful.
you scramble for your jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves with trembling hands, zipping it up to the very top until it presses against your throat. you can't breathe. you can't stay here.
ignoring the teacher's call for the dancers to assemble, you bold out of the studio. running down the corridor until you reach the prop storage room.
it's a dusty dim space filled with painted forests, cardboard castles, and velvet curtains that smell of mothballs. you slam the door shut and slide down against it, your chest heaving. you pull out your phone and dial san.
"hey, pretty. you okay? how is your class go-"
"why didn't you tell me?" you whisper-shout into the phone, voice shaking.
there is a pause. you can hear the distant sound of music on his end. "tell you what?" he asks, though his tone suggests he knows exactly what.
"the hickey, san! you left a mark and jisu just pointed it out in front of half the company!" you hear it then. a rumbling chuckle. he is laughing, actually laughing. "are you kiddi- this isn't funny!"
"it's a little funny," he says, his voice warm and teasing. "i thought you'd notice it the second you looked in a mirror. i figured you'd find it yourself before-"
"i didn't! do you have any idea what happens if charlie sees this? do you have any idea how this looks?"
"it looks like you're loved, y/n," he says, his voice softening, losing the edge of the joke.
"she could've seen it!" you suddenly raise your voice, the sound echoing off the fake cardboard trees surrounding you. silence falls over the line. the teasing is gone.
"i'm sorry," he says gently. "i didn't think it would be that obvious."
you sigh, raising your palm against your forehead.
"look, i'll come pick you up. i'll drive you to mine and we can-"
"no," you interrupt, your voice cracking. "no, don't come. don't come near me right now."
"y/n-"
"do you even understand how risky this is?" you whisper. "charlie is already questioning me. she's asking where i am all the time. she's noticing things, san. it's swallowing me."
"we can handle her," he says, though he sounds uncertain.
"no, we can't. because while you get to suck on my neck, i'm the one who has to look her in the eye every single night. i'm the one who has to pretend i'm the 'perfect, quiet friend' while hiding your marks on my skin." you swallow hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone. "i can't see you outside of class anymore. i just can't. it's too much. i can't breathe with this secret."
"baby, you're panicked," he says. "let's just talk tonight."
"no," you say, your voice final. "not tonight."
you end the call before he can respond and drop the phone onto the dusty floor. arms wrapped around your knees, pulling yourself into a tight ball. you fight back the sob that threatens to tear through your chest. you can't cry. you can't afford to be this fragile. if you start breaking again, you'll never put the pieces back together in time for the curtain to rise.
he's calling again but you decline it, instead, you look for another name. fingers hovering over your contacts, you scroll past charlie, past the other dancers, and stop at 'mom'. you press call. you hold the phone to your ear, listening to the rhythmic ringing. once. twice. five times. the call goes to voicemail.
you close your eyes and lean your head back against the wall. you know where she is. she's at the salon, the one with the big mirrors and the experts in manicure. she's probably sitting in the chair, letting the stylists perfect her hair, her makeup, her image. she's probably painting herself as the matriarch of the perfect family, the woman with the perfect, successful daughter at the paris opera ballet.
you are supposed to be the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, the perfect dancer. but as you sit in the dark, surrounded by fake scenery and cardboard dreams, unaware of the prying ears pressed against the door, you have never felt so far from perfect in your entire life.
after class is over, the first thing you do when you get into your apartment is covering the hickey with makeup, blurring the evidence inside your skin. only then you realize the ache in your calves from the hours of extra floor work that left your muscles screaming. your toes feel compressed, the skin raw beneath the layers of tights.
inside the apartment, your mind is a storm, so you move to the kitchen. you want to do something, anything, to bridge the gap between the girl charlie thinks you are and the woman you’ve become in the dark.
frozen strawberries and almond milk, her favorite. as you scoop the fruit, your fingers tremble. the blender whirrs. loud, grating, masking the silence of the apartment. you pour the deep red liquid into a glass and set it on the counter, right next to where she usually puts her dance bag.
you sit on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest. the clock on the wall ticks, each second a hammer blow against your nerves. charlie is never late without telling you. she's constantly glued to her phone, even when you're living together, she stills texts you about every minor inconvenience. you expect her to burst through the door, recounting every critique she was given, thrilled about the show getting closer. but the minutes stretch into an hour. the smoothie begins to separate, the ice melting, the vibrant color fading.
the silence becomes oppressive. it presses against your eardrums, making your heart race. you wonder if she’s still at the academy, perhaps staying late to polish her variations, or if she’s stopped at a cafe. but a cold knot forms in your stomach, tightening with every passing second. you know the rhythm of charlie's life, and this is a broken beat.
then, the sound of a key turning in the lock.
you sit up quickly, hopeful smile flickering on your lips. you prepare to greet her, to offer the smoothie, to pretend that the world isn't crumbling beneath your feet.
the door opens, it isn't the usual explosion of energy. there is no "i'm home!" or the sound of her humming a tchaikovsky melody. charlie steps inside, her movements unusually slow, almost robotic. she doesn't look at you. her gaze is fixed to the hardwood floor, her shoulders hunched as if she's carrying an invisible weight. her blonde hair, usually a crown of polished curls, is slightly disheveled, a few strands clinging to her damp forehead.
"charlie?" you whisper her name, the sound barely leaving your throat. she stops in the middle of the room, her dance bag slipping from her shoulder. she still doesn't look up. "charlie, you're late. i made you a smoothie," you say, your voice trembling.
she finally lifts her head. the expression in her eyes stops the air in your lungs. it's hollow, vacant, devoid of anger. as if the person you've known for years has been scooped out, leaving only a shell. her blue eyes are bloodshot, rims puffy and red. she looks at you, but it's like she's looking through you, seeing a stranger instead of her best friend.
your anxiety spikes. the room feels smaller, the walls closing in. you can feel the sweat breaking out on the back of your neck.
"charlie, what happened? are you okay?"
she doesn't answer immediately. she shakes her head slowly, her lips parting as she tries to find the words. her chest heaves, uneven breaths that sounds like a sob caught in her throat.
"you lied to me," she whispers.
there it is. hoarse words, stripped of their usual brightness. you freeze. there's no need to specify the lie. there is only one that could carve this kind of expression onto her face. you stand up and the blade you've been carrying in your gut for weeks finally sinks deep, twisting slowly into your stomach.
"charlie," you say, your voice softer now, pleading.
"don't," she snaps, her voice cracking. "don't call me that."
she takes a step back, as if your voice is a physical contaminant. she looks around the apartment, your shared sanctuary, and her face contorts.
"you lied to me," she repeats, louder this time, her voice trembling with a volatility that scares you. "every single day. every time we sat on this couch, every time we talked about the show, every time you told me you were going to jisu's or wherever the fuck… you lied."
"i… charlie…" your heart was beating out of your chest, you've fucked up.
"jisu heard you on the phone with him… i had to fucking find out through her?" her voice raised in disbelief.
"i-i can explain," you whisper, tears already blurring your vision."please, just let me explain."
charlie lets out a harsh laugh that sounds more like a scream. she finally looks you in the eye, and the void is gone. "explain what? explain how it felt? the timing?" she steps forward, her voice rising. "explain that you're fucking my ex boyfriend behind my back?"
you flinch, standing there, stripped bare, the secret finally dragged into the light of the living room.
"it's not… it wasn't like that," you sob, the tears streaming down your face. "it just happened, charlie. i didn't want to hurt you, i tried to stop it, i swear i tried-"
"you tried?" charlie screams, echoing off the walls. "did you try while you were kissing him? while you were sneaking into his apartment? did you try when you were touching him, thinking about me?"
"no! never!"
"you're a liar!" she yells, her face flushing angry. "i trusted you! you were the one person in that fucking academy who didn't look at me like i was just a scholarship girl from the slums. you were my sister! and you… you took what was mine first, just to satisfy some secret little crush?"
"no, charlie…" you plead. "there's… there's more to it."
charlie recoils as if you've slapped her. the anger vanishes, replaced by fragility. she looks at you with a mixture of pity and disgust. "more to it," she repeats. "how poetic. what is it, huh? are you in love with him or something?"
"please, just listen to me," you say, reaching out to touch her arm but she jerks away violently, instinct of a dancer.
"don't touch me. i can't even look at you anymore. every time i see your face, i just see him. i see the two of you together, laughing at me. wondering when the stupid clueless charlie would finally figure it out… god, i'm so stupid."
"we never laughed at you! we were terrified of this!"
"because you knew it was wrong!" charlie shouts. "you knew it was wrong and you did it anyway! you chose him over me. a few hours of dick over years of friendship." she pauses, her breathing heavy, her eyes searching your face for some shred of the girl she used to know. "how did you even find the nerve to look me in the eye every morning?" she asks, voice dropping to a whisper. "did you smell him on your skin and just… smiled at me?"
"no, i hated myself!" you cry, your voice breaking into a wail. "i felt like i was dying every day! i wanted to tell you, i wanted to scream it, but i was so scared of losing you!"
"well, congratulations," charlie says, cold and dead. "you finally fucking lost me." the silence returns, but this time it's a wall. an insurmountable barrier of ice and resentment. you want to reach out, to pull her into a hug, to beg for a forgiveness you know you don't deserve, but you can see the boundary she's drawn. you are on the outside now. "i would've never done this to you." she whispers sadly, mostly to herself. "i would've never, ever done this to you."
she looks at the smoothie on the counter, the red liquid, now separated and lukewarm. she looks at it for a long moment, then turns her gaze back to you.
"get out," she says. the words are quiet, but they carry the weight of a mountain.
"charlie, please, let's just talk-"
"i don't care! get out of my sight!" she screams, the sudden volume making you jump. "i can't breathe in here with you! i can't stand the smell of you! just leave! go to him! go to your now precious san and tell him you finally did it, you finally destroyed the only real friendship you ever had!"
you sob, your body shaking with the force of your grief. you look at her, searching for a flicker of the warmth, the sunshine, the girl who used to hold your hand when you had a panic attack. but there is nothing left. the light in charlie has gone out, extinguished by the truth.
"i'm sorry," you whisper, the words sounding pathetic and empty. "i'm so, so sorry."
"sorry doesn't fix this," she says, turning her back to you. "just leave. now."
you don't fight her. you can't, she's right. the weight of your own guilt is too heavy to lift. you grab your bag from the floor, you don't even take a coat, despite the evening chill of paris. you just walk out the door, the click of the lock behind you sounding like a gavel coming down on a sentence. wandering the streets once shared with her, vision blurred. you don't remember the walk. you don't remember the cold wind biting at your skin or the confused looks from the people passing by a girl sobbing openly on the sidewalk.
i would've never done this to you.
hollow. stripped, there is nothing left but raw nerves.
legs moving on autopilot, in less than twenty minutes, you reach his apartment. forehead resting on the cool wood, breath ragged, shallow gasps. you weakly knock and when the door opens, san stands there, wearing a simple grey shirt and sweatpants. his eyes widen when he sees you. he looks at your tear streaked face, your shivering frame, and the sheer devastation in your eyes.
"y/n?" he starts. "i thought you said-"
he doesn't finish the sentence. you launch yourself at him, your arms wrapping around his waist, face burying itself in the crook of his neck. you cling to him with a strength you didn't know you possessed, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. san freezes for a split second, the surprise registering in the tension of his muscles. then, he understands. he doesn't need to ask. he can feel the tremor in your body, the way you're shaking with a grief that transcends simple sadness. he knows the inevitable has happened. charlie found out.
୨୧
you knew charlotte’s rhythms. you knew the exact cadence of her breath when she was pushing through a grueling set of fouettés. you knew the specific, sharp scent of the citrus perfume she wore to mask the smell of sweat. you knew how she liked the texture of her blankets, heavy, woolly things that cocooned her against the damp parisian chill, and how she meticulously measured the salt in her pasta, always a pinch more than necessary. you knew the ritual of her pointe shoes, the way she would break in extra pairs weeks before a show, ensuring the satin didn't pinch and the shanks gave just enough to support the arch of her foot.
the hallways of the academy felt longer now that you were hunting for someone you had wounded. the walls, oppressive cream, seemed to lean inward, narrowing your world until it was nothing but the sound of your own slippers clicking against the polished wood. your heart felt like a bruised thing, fluttering erratically against your ribs as you slowed your pace outside studio four. you knew she was inside. that she was definitely rehearsing aurora, treating the ethereal role like a high intensity workout, pushing her muscles until they screamed.
low, mourning creak, you pushed the door open.
charlotte was sat on the floor, her legs splayed, baby hairs clinging to her forehead. she looked like a fallen angel stripped of her grace. in her hands, she held a pair of brand new pointe shoes. she was bending them, her knuckles white, forcing the material to submit to her will.
as the door clicked shut behind you, she froze. she didn't look up. she didn't acknowledge your presence, not with a word or a glance. she simply continued to detach the top of the shank, as if you weren't even there.
you stepped closer, the distance between you feeling like a river you didn't know how to cross.
"charlotte," you whispered.
she kept her gaze fixed on the pink satin in her lap, pretending you were nothing more than dust.
"i know you're mad," you said, your voice trembling, barely audible over the hum of the ventilation system. "and you have every right to be."
suddenly, the silence was shattered. charlotte slammed the pointe shoe against the hardwood floor violently making you flinch, shoulders jumping. you decided to keep going.
"i fucked up, charlotte. i fucked up so bad. i never intended for this to happen, but it did, and i know that doesn't change anything, but i never wanted to hurt you."
she finally looked at you as if you were a stranger, a parasite. she reached into her dance bag and pulled out a silver cutter. the blade clicked open and you instinctively stepped back. she lowered her gaze again, gripped the pointe shoe and sliced through the top of the shank with clinical precision. the sound of the fabric, tiny scream of satin.
"i understand if you never forgive me," you said, your voice breaking. "i know i can't erase what happened. i can't take it back. i just… losing you… it'll stay my biggest regret for the rest of my life."
she remained still. didn't offer a nod, a scowl, or a word of anger, at least that you could understand. she simply sat there in the center of the vast, empty room, figure of grief, murmuring something in french she knew you wouldn't get. you realized then that some bridges didn't just burn, they evaporated.
"i'll leave you alone," you whispered.
the sound of your own footsteps felt final. it was an ending, not the kind with a grand finale or a curtain call. the kind that happens in the ugly spaces between the music.
୨୧
it's the last official rehearsal. charlotte strides through the heavy velvet curtains, chin tilted just enough to signal to the world that she is untouchable. she is the aurora of this production, the sun around which the rest of the company orbits, and she refuses to let the fracture in her personal life bleed into the spotlights. she has worked too hard, fought too many battles against the poverty of her childhood, to let a heartbreak ruin her crowning moment.
then comes the final act. the sequence for princess florine. charlotte settles her weight on one leg, crossing her arms over her chest. she prepares herself for the sight of you. she expects the sting of anger, the surge of betrayal that hums pushed down under her skin. she expects to see you and san, moving in harmony.
instead, jisu glides onto the stage.
the atmosphere in the room drops. there is a void where the soul should be. it's a caricature of a princess, her expressions exaggerated, movements stiff and devoid of the emotional artistry that you had once brought to the role.
beside her, san is a machine, his broad shoulders squared, lifts effortless and stable, but his eyes are dead. he is looking through her, providing the necessary support, but there is no heat, no friction, no spark. it is a dance of strangers who happen to know the choreography.
charlotte steals a glance towards lana, who is standing with her arms folded, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. she doesn't scream this time. she doesn't even offer a correction. she simply closes her eyes for a moment, a flicker of profound disappointment crossing her features before she masks it with her usual stoicism. the chemistry is non-existent, a forced intimacy, holds that are purely functional and she knows it.
there's a hollow sensation in charlotte's gut. she had wanted you gone to punish you, but seeing the vacuum you left behind is worse. because she realized you did this to remove yourself completely, so she could have her moment.
back at the apartment, the world is reduced to the size of a mattress and crumpled tissues. you are curled into a ball, duvet pulled up to your chin. your throat in a constant ache that reminds you of every word you didn't say and every lie you told.
you haven't eaten anything since a piece of dry toast this morning. the hunger is there, gnawing in your stomach. the clock on the bedside table ticks toward midnight. the silence of the apartment is oppressive, until you hear her coming in. you pull the blanket higher, over your head, squeezing your eyes shut. you hold your breath, praying that she will just go to her bed, then wake up early for the show and leave. leave you in this dark, quiet purgatory, where you belong.
"i know you're awake," charlotte says, voice tired. you don't move. you keep your eyes closed, pretending that the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest is just a deep sleep. "y/n," she says, her voice a bit softer now. "don't do this. don't try to be sleeping beauty now."
you remain still, but a single tear escapes, salty path down your temple and soaking into the pillowcase.
charlotte sighs, draining the remaining tension from her shoulders. she doesn't leave. instead, she shifts, sitting on the very edge of the mattress. the bed creaks under her weight.
"you can't just quit the whole show one day before the premiere," she says. "it's insane, even for a ballet dancer."
you swallow hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone. you don't want to speak. you are afraid that if you open your mouth, you will simply dissolve into a puddle of apologies and sobs yet again.
"i saw jisu dancing today," charlotte continues, her tone bordering on a scoff. "she's actually good."
a shaky breath escapes you. you can't help it.
"there you are," charlotte murmurs.
you slowly peel the blanket back, your eyes red and puffy, your hair a tangled mess against the pillow. you look at her, feeling small and exposed.
"it was the least i could do," you whisper, thin and raspy. "i'd figure it'd be easier for you."
charlotte sighs again, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. "god, you love to decide how i feel. look at me."
you sit up, instantly looking into her eyes. "what? no, i just thought-"
"i know what you thought." she looks exhausted, but her eyes are clear, searching your face with an intensity that makes you want to shrink away.
"i just… i didn't want your debut to be about me." your voice cracks for the first time.
she takes a deep breath, her chest expanding. "i've had enough of you thinking for me. you keep making these decisions thinking it'll hurt me less." she says. "they don't, they just make me feel like i don't get a say in my own life."
you pressed a shaking hand against your mouth. "i'm so sorry."
"i am still so mad at you," she says.
you nod quickly, a sob catching in your chest. "i know. i don't know what else to say apart from so-"
"shut up," she interrupts. "just listen to me for one second. please."
you fall silent, your lips trembling.
"i am very mad," she continues, her voice steadying. "but not for the reasons you think." you blink and she looks away, staring at the wall for a moment before continuing. "y/n, you know i got over san years ago. we dated briefly when we were practically children. it was a crush, a summer fling that lasted a few months. i don't see him like that. i haven't seen him like that in a long time. like, there are days where i completely forget we ever even dated."
"it's… it's not about him?" you ask, your voice barely audible.
"no," charlotte says, tired smile touches her lips. "it's not. san is a good dancer, he's a decent guy, and if he makes you happy, then i'm happy for you."
there's a sudden feeling of hope, but it's quickly dampened by the look in her eyes. she isn't smiling anymore.
"what hurt me," her voice dropping an octave, "was that you lied to me. you're my best friend. the one i trust more than anyone in this godforsaken city. and you looked me in the eye and pretended everything was normal while you were sneaking around behind my back."
"charlotte…"
"no, let me finish," she says, her voice trembling slightly now. "if you had just told me, i would have listened. i would have probably been confused for a minute, maybe a little weirded out, but i would have supported you. because that's what we do. but i found out through jisu. of all people, i found out from that viper because she wanted to use your secret as a weapon to humiliate me." she leans in closer, her expression raw. "i was never mad because san was mine. he was never mine to keep. i was mad because you were mine. you are my person, y/n. and you made me feel like i wasn't worth the truth. like a stranger in my own life."
"i was just so scared," you sob, the dam finally breaking. "i was so scared that you'd hate me. i didn't know how to tell you without feeling like i was stealing something from you. i love him, charlotte. i love him so much it scares me, and i didn't want that love to cost me you, so i… i wanted to leave."
charlotte doesn't pull away. she doesn't hug you yet, but she doesn't move. she lets you cry, the sound of your heartbreak filling the small room.
"you idiot," she whispers, though there is no malice in it. "you don't get to give up your role for this."
"no, i… i don't deserve it" you wail, covering your face with your hands.
she reaches out and firmly pulls your hands away from your face. she grips your wrists, forcing you to look at her.
"i can't hate you," she says, her voice cracking. "i tried. i really, really tried. but i can't."
you sniffle. "you don't?"
"of course not," she says, finally letting out a small, watery laugh. "but i'm still angry, i'm still hurt, i don't even know if i know how to forgive you yet. and i'm still annoyed that you're a terrible liar and that you let jisu get the upper hand."
you let out a shaky breath, a tiny flicker of warmth returning to your limbs. "i know. i'm the worst."
"you are," she agrees. she lets go of your wrists and leans back, crossing her arms. she looks at you for a long time, her expression softening. "you need to come back," she says.
"what?"
"the show," charlotte says. "you have to come back for the premiere. i can't do this with jisu. she danced every step perfectly, yes. but she's not you."
"i can't," you whisper. "lana will never let me back. i already dropped out. i sent the email."
"you think lana cares about something other than doing a perfect show?" charlotte counters, her bubbly confidence returning in small increments. "if you show up tomorrow and dance the role of your life, she'll forget you were ever out. she wants the best show possible, and the best show requires you."
"do you really want me there?" you ask, your voice small.
charlotte reaches over and flicks your forehead, a gesture of affection that feels like a lifeline. you yelp and rub your forehead. "i want my best friend back on that stage," she says. "and i want san to stop looking like he's attending his own funeral, i think i even saw him sulking when the dance finished."
you let out a genuine laugh, a sound that feels foreign and wonderful in your throat. you reach out and wrap your arms around charlotte, pulling her into a tight hug. she stiffens for a second, then relaxes, wrapping her arms around you and squeezing back.
"i missed you, charlie."
"i missed you too," she murmurs, her voice muffled by your hair. "now let's get some sleep."
the guilt hasn't entirely vanished, but the air feels lighter. for the first time in days, the weight on your chest has lifted just enough to let you breathe.
y/nie: i'm coming back
sannie: 😃😃😃😃😃
backstage bore little resemblance to the calm world awaiting beyond the curtains. you step over a discarded pointe shoe, left foot, ribbons frayed, and narrowly avoid a collision with a frantic boy in tights who looks like he’s about to vomit into his sequins.
to the audience, the paris opera ballet is a sanctuary of ethereal grace. backstage, it's a collective nervous breakdowns. you watch as a dancer stands frozen in the center of the chaos, her arms awkwardly upward like a sacrificial offering. three other girls swarm her, their faces twisted in concentration as they wrestle with a stubborn zipper that refuses to yield.
"pull harder!" the dancer shrieks, her voice hitting a frequency that could shatter the crystal chandeliers in the auditorium.
"just suck in your stomach!" one of the girls yells back, leaning her entire body weight into the fabric.
"i am sucking in!"
you duck under a passing rack of velvet capes. this is it. opening night. the culmination of endless rehearsals, of blood and blistered toes, and the suffocating weight of the now revealed secret. every time you glance toward the wings, you find san. his eyes searching for yours as well. when they land, a silent current of electricity zips through your skin. you want to run to him. you want to bury your face in the crook of his neck and forget that the world exists outside the curve of his jaw. but right now you can't.
"where is the lilac fairy?" a voice bellows. "someone find the lilac fairy!"
you scramble toward your first position, blending into the sea of pastel fabrics. the curtain rises, and the crowd roars, muffled by the heavy velvet. as the music swells, the world shifts. blinding glare of the spotlights, the chaos of the wings vanishes. you move as a background guest for aurora’s birth, a soft echo to the main action.
as the carabosse makes her grand, menacing entrance, you glide off the stage with a practiced smile, the moment you hit the wings, the mask drops. you sprint.
"out of the way! move!" you gasp, dodging a misplaced tiara that someone has dropped on the floor.
diving into the costume rack, searching for your village woman dress. the transition is a blur of energy. in the middle of the madness, you spot her. charlotte is tucked into a small alcove, earphones plugged in, her eyes closed. she is stillness in the middle of a hurricane. fragile yet unbreakable, gathering every ounce of her strength for the role of a lifetime.
pride swells in your chest. you want to tell her she’s a goddess. you want to hug her and tell her that no matter what happens with boys or whatever, she is the sun of your life.
instead, you just smile. she opens one eye and catches your gaze, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"move it, now!" a dresser shouts, shoving you forward.
practically thrown into your costume, a hand sprays a cloud of hairspray directly into your face, making you cough, while another set of hands yanks the bodice tight enough to steal your breath.
"thirty seconds!" someone screams in your ear. "go, go, go!"
back onto the stage. the scene: the forbidden spindles. the atmosphere shifts from celebration to dread. body arching as you beg for mercy, haunting quality. before your character is left to go freely and you bow gratefully to the queen and king.
skin damp with sweat, the second act is a whirlwind of minor roles and quick changes. you catch glimpses of charlie through the curtains, because of course you couldn't miss her debut. her poise, her power, the way she commands the stage. you love her, and you love san, and the two truths are currently warring for territory in your soul.
then comes the third act. the tension in the air changes. it becomes thick, electric, and poisonous.
you race toward the costume rack to change into your princess florine dress. as you reach out, another hand clamps down on the fabric at the exact same moment. you don't even need to look up to know the scent of bitter perfume.
"let go, jisu," you say, steady despite the tremor in your hands.
jisu’s grip tightens. she pulls the dress toward her, her knuckles white. her eyes are slits of pure venom. "why?" jisu sneers, her voice a sharp whisper. "i don't see your name on the silk. though, i suppose you're used to taking things that don't belong to you."
you feel the heat rise in your cheeks. "it's my costume for this act. i gotta dance now, now let go."
"your costume?" jisu spits the word out like it's poison. "you little backstabber. did you steal your way into san's bed too? or did he just find you more convenient since you're so good at lying?"
you recoil, but you don't let go of the dress. the tug of war begins. struggle over a piece of satin. both pulling, trying not to rip the delicate fabric but refusing to concede.
"let. go," you hiss.
"make me, you stupid little-"
"hey!" a hand reaches in, grabbing the fabric between you. san is there, half-sewn into his costume, a needle and thread still dangling from the dresser's hand near his shoulder. "stop it, both of you. we are minutes from the curtain. act like professionals."
"she started it!" jisu snaps, though she loosens her grip slightly. "this was my role!"
before anyone can respond, white satin sweeps into the fray. charlotte arrives, her bride dress billowing around her like a cloud. she is already in character, her posture regal, but her eyes are focused. she doesn't hesitate as she reaches out and firmly pries jisu’s hand off the dress.
"let go of the dress, jisu," charlie says coldly. "now."
jisu bristles, glaring at charlie. "oh, you're defending her? god, you're just as pathetic."
but charlotte doesn't flinch. she steps closer, her fair skin contrasting with the stark white of her dress. "the only thing pathetic here is you, standing in the wings throwing a tantrum while the rest of us are trying to put on a show. leave. before i tell lana you're obstructing the cast."
maybe she wanted to scream, maybe she wanted to tear the dress to pieces, but the mention of lana acts like a bucket of ice water. she lets out a sharp, jagged breath and shoves past you, mentioning something about both of you deserving each other. her shoulder slamming into yours as she disappears into the shadows.
you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, you look at charlotte, she doesn't smile, but she reaches out and gives your hand a quick, firm squeeze.
"what is going on here?"
the voice is a whip. lana marches toward you. charlotte steps forward, her voice clear. "lana, y/n is back. she's ready."
"who?" lana blinks, her gaze shifting to you. for a second, you think she’s going to scream at you for the delay. you brace yourself, pulling your shoulders back. instead, she lets out a long, dramatic sigh of relief that sounds like a deflating balloon. "thank god," lana breathes, her expression softening by a fraction of a millimeter. "now get dressed and into your place!"
the dress finally yours to wear, the fabric sliding over your skin. cloud of pale blue and shimmering silver. as you struggle with the fastenings at the small of your back, a warmth blooms against your spine. the touch is sudden, grounding. a pair of hands replace your fumbling fingers. you don't need to turn around to know it's him. the heat seeps through the thin fabric, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. he doesn't say anything at first, his movements methodical and steady. he smooths the fabric over your hips, his touch lingering just a second too long to be purely professional.
"stop shaking," he whispers.
he finishes the knot with a deft flick of his wrists and doesn't pull away. instead, he slides his hands up to your waist, drawing you back against his chest. you can feel the steady thrum of his heart through his costume, a rhythmic counterpoint to your own erratic pulse.
san turns you around slowly, his eyes search yours, reading the flicker of doubt and the lingering guilt that still haunts the corners of your mind. he looks every bit the bluebird. strong, poised, utterly focused. he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours.
"just us," he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. "for the next twenty minutes, there is no one else. only me. only you."
you lean into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. you memorize the feel of the fabric under your palms, the solidity of him, the way he anchors you to the earth when you feel like you're floating away into a panic but he closes the gap, kissing you. not for the stage, not for an audience. it is raw and honest, silent vow. it is the feeling of coming home after a long, freezing winter.
the orchestra swells, the music shifting into the heraldry of the third act. the stage manager gives a sharp nod, the cue finally arriving. san offers his hand, his fingers locking with yours. you take a final, deep breath, filling your lungs with the scent of the theater, and together, you step out of the darkness and into the blinding white glare of the spotlights.
the stage is an expanse of gold and velvet. as you glide into position, the audience becomes distant. you are no longer the girl who cried during dress rehearsals, you are no longer the friend who kept a devastating secret. you are princess florine, and the world is narrow, consisting only of the music and the man standing before you.
san moves toward you, his presence filling the space. as the bluebird, his movements are a contradiction, powerful yet weightless, grounded yet ethereal. he offers his hand, and as you take it, the chemistry between you snaps into place like a missing puzzle piece.
you begin to dance.
it is a conversation without words. every extension of your leg, every tilt of your head, every flutter of your fingers is a question, and san’s responses are the answers. you move in perfect synchrony. when he lifts you, you feel as if the air itself is holding you up. you soar, your blue skirts billowing around you like a crashing wave, and for a moment, you are suspended in the silence between notes.
you don't count the cues. you don't think about the placement of your feet or the angle of your chin. you simply feel him. you feel the way his grip tightens slightly when he rotates you, the way his breath hitches in time with yours. it is a magnetic pull, an invisible thread tying your heart to his, pulling you closer with every pirouette.
as you drift apart and then collide again, your eyes lock. unfiltered, you see the love there. you smile, and it isn't the practiced, porcelain smile of a performer. it is a genuine expression of joy that radiates from your chest. you are in love, and this love doesn't feel like a burden.
the dance reaches it's crescendo, a whirlwind of leaps and turns that leave you breathless. as the final note lingers in the air, you collapse into his arms, your forehead resting against his shoulder. the silence of the theater is absolute for a heartbeat, a vacuum of anticipation.
then, the music shifts. you glide to the side of the stage, skin glowing under the lights. you watch as charlotte makes her entrance. she is breathtaking. dressed in a white bridal gown that catches every single photon of light in the room, she looks less like a dancer and more like a vision. her blonde locks are swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck and the spark in her eyes.
you stand at the side, hands clasped over your heart. you watch her execute a series of flawless turns, her extensions high and sharp, her presence commanding every inch of the stage. she is powerful. she is radiant. she is your best friend.
a lump forms in your throat, but it isn't born of guilt this time. seeing her now, owning the stage with such grace, you realize that the bond you share is forged in something stronger than a romantic entanglement. it is a kinship of survival, a friendship that weathered the storm and came out polished.
the finale arrives. the entire company floods the stage, a sea of color and costume. you find your place beside san, his hand brushing yours. the audience rises as one, a thunderous wave of applause that vibrates through the floorboards and into the soles of your pointe shoes.
the sound, roar of approval that washes over you, scrubbing away the remnants of the anxiety and the shame. you look at the faces in the front row, the critics, the parents, the elite of paris, and they feel small. insignificant.
you look at charlotte as she bows, her face glowing with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. she catches your eye and gives you a tiny wink.
it isn't total forgiveness. you know that. you know there are still long conversations to be had, quiet afternoons of apologizing and healing, and a slow process of rebuilding the trust you fractured. there will be awkward silences and moments where the ghost of the betrayal flickers between you, and you hold yourself completely accountable.
but as you stand there, enveloped in the warmth of the spotlights and the love of the man beside you, you know that you can handle the slow work of healing. san’s hand slip into yours, his fingers squeezing tight. you don't pull away. you don't hide. the curtain falls, plunging the stage into heavy darkness, but you aren't afraid of what's waiting in the shadows.
you stand there, hand in hand, heart in heart, knowing that the beauty between your friendship is more valuable than any role, any applause, or any secret.
Thinking about how Wyatt Callow is proof that Dr. Gaul’s and Snow’s assertion that humanity’s essential nature is violent (which is part of their argument for the Capitol’s control being necessary) is false. That “What happened in the arena? That’s humanity undressed… A boy with a club who beats another boy to death. That’s mankind in its natural state.” is false.
I’m sure he had it all calculated. He knew exactly what choices would give him the best odds of survival. He knew that the faster he got out of the initial bloodshed the better his chances would be. He knew that letting other kids die would benefit his odds of survival. He knew exactly what he should’ve done to preserve himself.
And yet, he threw all those statistics and odds, all that reason and logic out the window in the name of protecting Lou Lou, a girl that wasn’t even from his district. He threw it all out the window in the name of helping another human being that was in an unfair situation and had worse odds than him. He knew who the real enemy was; he knew it wasn’t the other kids being taken advantage of by the Capitol just like him.
My personal opinion regarding race swaps of EAH for an hypotetical G2 is (obviously not counting the characters who are already PoC):
Apple, the O'Hair sisters, the Charming siblings, Ashlynn and Hopper remain white because they represent the ruling class that has all the ideals of Eurocentrism, etc., etc. In short, the bad guys.
Hunter, Cerise and Ramona become black to clarify the interracial tone of their storylines. So I would say Hunter is definitely Dark Skin, Ramona too, while Cerise is light skin (Red's genes got the better of her).
All the Wonderland Girls are Japanese because they already feel PoC, with them being immigrants but like. I think that knowing how Japan is perceived in real life, I think that's also fitting with Lizzie being a die-hard royal loyalist. Like, They are "the coolest™" Asian country. Plus, I want to draw Lizzie in a kimono. Similarly, Duchess is also est-asian (given the setting, I'd say Sino-Russian) and obviously it becomes a problem for her because of the colorist implication
Similarly, anyone who's seen my drawings already knows, I'd make Raven Indian. This also involves the various layers (the colonial history, the issue of exoticism and orientation, the racism towards her but also the bad thing her Kingdom has done. There are layers). Alistair is also Indian, but because I hate his original design and think he needs melanin.
Ending with Sparrow and Blondie who are also still white, but that's kind of the other side of the coin. The one where they're both poor so like "less" white. But the Locks are the new money trying to fit into the hierarchy Gatsby Style, and the Hoods are the working class poors
Summary: Damien gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damien’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
Pairing: Dick Grayson/Teacher Fem!Reader & (PLATONIC) Damien Wayne/Fem!Reader
Content Warning: No use of Y/N, Second Person, cursing, second chance romance, yearner dick, angst, fluff, mentions of bullying and boys saying inappropriate things, Dick’s day job is being a P.E. teacher (I don’t believe in cop!dick propaganda, no matter how fine he looked)
Word Count: 11k
A/N: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!!! Please never get back with an ex, I have been there, done that, and got the t-shirt. Let me tell you it was NOT worth it. This is only acceptable because it is Dick Grayson. I usually hate second-chance romance, but it came to me while I was writing this and felt like it fit. Anyway, enjoy my lovelies <3
“Can anyone tell me the significance of the crew changing how they refer to Charlotte from her name to Ms. Doy-”
Some chalk had dusted over your hand where you had been writing the question on the board when you hear someone landing a punch behind you. Whipping your head around you see quite the scene laid out in your classroom.
Damien Wayne is standing over Jordan Hawthorne.
The classroom had gone silent collectively holding their breath at the sight. Jordan Hawthorne was, from your understanding, the grade bully. You had called home weekly, practically being on a first name basis with his mother. The school never did anything about him, frustrating you to your wits end. His parents were huge donors for the school, essentially allowing him to do whatever he pleased. He was bigger than most of his classmates along with an insufferably large attitude, and Damien was… small. He was probably the smallest boy in your class and Jordan loved that. He had a knack of picking on the kids who wouldn’t stand up for themselves, the quiet ones. You watched him like a hawk in your classroom when you noticed how he chose his prey. You didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable in your classroom, this was school not a war zone. No one should feel unsafe here.
While Damien didn’t get along with most of the kids in his grade he had never outright acted on that dislike. He would sit quietly in his chair, raising his hand when he knew the answer or had a question. On all of his assignments there were impressive sketches of different animals in the margins, you would always write an “amazing” or “beautiful” next to the drawings while grading. Despite his eloquent perspective of life, he was still a little boy who wanted some praise for his skill. It was your job as his teacher to harbor and stimulate creativity. A quick glance at him after handing back assignments confirmed your suspicion, there was a rare genuine smile at the fact that someone had noticed him. While being relatively quiet and unassuming, everything he said and did was done with purpose. Which meant something had happened here. Damien never acted without a cause.
You still had the chalk in hand when you recovered from the shock, and Jordan Hawthorne was glaring at Damien from where he had landed on the floor.
“You’re dead meat kid.” He growled and Damien only put his fists up.
When he props himself up with his hand, you finally snap back into reality and rush to where they are in the center of the classroom. The class has circled around them, and some pulled out their phones to record as though this is primetime TV.
You push past the congregation of children and unfortunately, neither of the boys saw you coming. They were in their own little world of battle and just as you stepped in between them, Jordan had swung as hard as he could. Punching you right in the stomach.
You were not getting paid enough for this.
It hurt more than you let on. All the wind had been knocked out of you, but you were able to disguise the impact from pain to exasperation. You took a deep breath and see the wide eyes of all your students and order the boys,
“Hallway, both of you. Now.” You lift your gaze around the classroom at the stunned expressions of your remaining students, “The rest of you, sit down and start on the homework.”
And for the first time in your three years of teaching, there was no pushback. No complaints or groaning from students. There was just the quick shuffle of footsteps and chairs squeaking from being dragged across the floor then, silence. Peace and Quiet.
The boys follow out of the classroom, flanking you from each side. You walk to the social studies classroom across the hallway, where there’s a teacher’s aid. She’s an undergrad student trying to get some teaching hours with Mr. Horn, but she helps out around the school too. You open the door and pop your head in with a cautious smile.
Mr. Horn wasn’t particularly kind when his lessons were interrupted. He was super old and believed you should only speak when spoken to, so you wait until he finishes his question to the class and turns to look at you. He has an eyebrow raised prompting you to talk.
“Hi, sorry to interrupt.” The apology was useless, but he still appreciates the sentiment. “Could I borrow Sophie for a moment? I have to walk two students down to the office and need someone to watch my class while I step away.”
“Ah yes, of course.” He doesn’t seem too upset about the interruption, realizing that it was something that couldn’t wait. He looks at Sophie from her spot at the back of the classroom and cocks his head in your direction. She nods with a gentle smile on her face and makes her way out the door.
A bashful smile is on your face while thanking her for the help. She laughs it off with an “Of course!” then walks into your classroom. Sighing you look back at the perpetrators of your quickly bruising stomach.
“Come on you two.” Is all you offer them before you turn around and start the trek to the front office. There’s an echo of two sets of steps following your path and you finally drop the mask. Noticing that there are no eyes that can see your face, it contorts in pain. And as tempted as you are, you don’t bring your hand to your stomach, not wanting to give away how much it actually hurt. The bruise is already forming under the white button down you wore today. You just continue taking deep breaths until you make it to the office.
It takes about five minutes to make it all the way across the Academy. Within the first couple of days here, you learned that it’s not difficult to get lost here. It’s all the same gothic architecture that they refuse to put signs on. The only exceptions to that were the classroom numbers on the doors, which makes it too easy to miss the office in your opinion. It took you about three weeks of working here to finally learn your way around.
You pull open the door of the office, and the boys walk in single file. The secretary greets you with a smile, about to ask why you’re in the office and then sees the boys in front of you. Jordan was a regular here, so she picked up on the unsaid by his presence alone.
“Dawn’s not in a meeting right now so you can walk ‘em right in.” She informs you.
“Thank you, Nancy.” You say with a smile.
On your first day, Horn told you to make sure to get on Nancy’s good side. She knew everything about everyone at this school. Having her on your good side meant protection from the Dean, Dawn. Since everyone knew that Nancy knows everything, Dawn would trust her on her opinions on faculty. Which meant you always smiled a little wider and sometimes would get an extra pastry from your favorite cafe, when you knew you would run into Nancy that day.
You walk to the end of the skinny hallway to where the door to Dawn’s office is cracked open. You stand at the entrance and knock on the wooden door frame, and she looks up from her desktop with a calculated smile. She had long red hair and was in her mid-40s. She always wore pantsuits, she had the same one in four different colors and would rotate them. You avoided interacting with her as much as possible because she had a weird vibe to her, she always looks at you like you were a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet.
“Good morning, Miss,” She addresses you. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this lovely visit!”
“Good morning, to you too! Unfortunately, I don’t come bearing the best news.” You tell her with an embarrassed half-smile. “I have a Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Wayne out here with me, they um… got in a fight in my classroom.”
She closes her eyes and throws her head back in the same breath. This was the worst part of the job, and you don’t envy her for having to sit through it. “Yes, of course, send Mr. Hawthorne in first. Just make sure to pick up the witness report from Nancy on the way back.”
You nod and step out of the office. Hearing what the Dean said, Jordan walks into the classroom with a smug look on his face. The face of a kid who knows mommy and daddy will get him out of trouble. The door shuts behind him, and you look down at an anxious Damien Wayne sitting in the hallway. His feet don’t quite reach the floor from the chair, and his legs are swinging back and forth, betraying his carefully neutral exterior. You stand next to him in silence just looking at him while he has a staring contest with the patterned office carpet.
“It was unnecessary for you to take the punch for me. I could handle the brunt of it.” He says without looking at you.
“I know,” You try to think of how to word this to him, not wanting to damage the fragile ego he claims is indestructible. “But I don’t like fighting in my classroom.” You place a hand on his shoulder, and he finally tears his eyes from the floor and looks up at you.
“What happened?” You ask him with a gentleness you usually reserved for the children at the orphanage you volunteered at on Sundays.
“Hawthorne said some inappropriate words to Sarah, and you know how she is.” He gestures with his hands, motioning that her personality should be obvious. “She lacks the ability to stand up for herself. What he said was vile and she was uncomfortable. She asked him to stop and he continued. He kept taunting her and she looked on the verge of tears. So, I…”
“Hit him.” You finish the story for him.
“Yes.” He confirms unapologetically.
You exhale while processing the story. You’re trying to figure out your next words to him. In all honesty, you are secretly proud of him. You hated when boys get nasty in your class. It happened more often than you’d like and you tried your best to catch it and put a stop to it, but you couldn’t catch them every single time.
However, you can’t tell your student that you’re proud of him for laying out another one of your students without risking a write-up from your supervisor, despite how much he deserved it. Your only concern now was that you would have to drag poor Sarah into this. She was very shy and would rather swallow a knife than open up. You would have to approach her carefully.
“I’m not sorry.” He cuts into your thought process.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be.” You hold his gaze. He doesn’t look apologetic at the fact that he hit the Hawthorne boy, but there’s a glimpse of worry lingering in his eyes. You’re not entirely sure where it’s from and you don’t get the chance to find out when Dawn opens the door and motions for Damien to join them inside.
“Go on.” You tell him lifting your hand from his shoulder. He nods and gets up, walking around you to go inside. He sits down and right before Dawn closes the door, he looks at you once more with that same flicker of anxiety and then the door closes.
Walking back to Nancy’s desk to pick up the report and regret not calling out sick this morning. This was only the beginning to a very long day.
° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･
Sighing to yourself during your free period you start to fill out the witness report. You’ll have to submit it to the headmaster and call a parent or guardian to set up some form of a parent-teacher conference. Along with your stomach, your head’s been aching all day. For some odd reason, the divorced couple that lived next to you seemed to think that a Sunday night was the perfect time to have reconciliation sex. Safe to say that the headboard slamming into your shared wall at three in the morning was not the alarm you were expecting to wake up to.
Your eyes keep coming in and out of focus and you decide after filling out the date and time of the report, to place the pen back in the cup at the top of your desk. There was no point in filling out the form if you could barely concentrate. Elbows propped on the desk you drop your head in your hands and feel your fingers drag along your face. Peeking through your hand to check the time on the desktop, you bite back a groan seeing that it’s not even noon. It’s been the longest day of the year so far and it’s only 11:52.
You move to pull open the bottom filling cabinet. You might as well try to get in contact with the parents to set up the conference. Looking through the letter dividers, you find Damien’s first and flip it open. You read through some pages before finding the contacts. Scanning through them you notice there’s a father, a legal guardian, some brothers, but no mother. Damien had told you some stories of his mom, and you assumed she was still present in his life, but that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. You had never read through the school ordered file before, you usually never did. There was more to a student than what Gotham Academy records had to say, but this did help piece a fraction of the Damien Wayne puzzle together. You start going down the line of contacts for Damien, to make the first call.
You pull the office phone that lies on your desk closer to you and dial nine to get an outside line. The first number you dial is the phone number that belongs to his father, Bruce Wayne. You’re hunched over your desk on the phone praying he doesn’t pick up. You’ve had the luxury of speaking to him once before when Damien won an award for his essay on animal rights and it was nothing short of awkward. Whether they realize it or not, Bruce and Damien are very similar. The press liked to paint Bruce Wayne as a reckless, playboy, billionaire, and maybe it was because you are his son’s teacher, but he was nothing like that.
Speaking to him felt like pulling teeth, it was so uncomfortable. He stood tall and remained quiet the whole night. Barely saying more than three-word sentences. You’re sure that once you can have a good conversation with him that he’s good company, but this wasn’t going to be the type of conversation you were hoping for.
By some miracle, it seems that someone was listening to your prayers today and Mr. Wayne did not pick up the phone, you let out a breath of relief when the voicemail recording begun playing in your ear. So, you moved to the next contact, Alfred Pennyworth.
He was one of Damien’s other legal guardians, but you’d never met him or heard of him. And apparently, the universe wanted to keep it that way because Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t pick up his phone either.
Does anyone in this family answer the phone?
You try to call the third contact listed on Damien’s information sheet and freeze, staring at the name of his eldest brother.
There’s no way.
It couldn’t be.
Richard’s a pretty common name, right? And so is Grayson.
Because there’s no fucking way that your Richard Grayson is Damien’s older brother.
He can’t be.
You immediately regret cashing in your prayer for the day, you would have a million conversations with Bruce Wayne if it meant you didn’t have to make this phone call. You weren’t sure how many Richard Graysons there were in the tristate area, but you knew one, and with your luck he would be the one on the other end of the line. You avoided thinking about the way your brain was engraving the phone number to memory; while your fingers cautiously pressed the numbers that created a portal into the years of your life you tried to scrub away in the shower.
Of course, he had to be the person in the family to pick up the phone. Tears well up in your eyes instantly recognizing his voice. How could you not? You used to drift off into sleep while it whispered sweet nothings in your ear every night.
“Hello, this is Richard Grayson correct?” You slap your forehead, fuming that fate has decided to drag this man back into your life after it cost you everything to remove him.
“Yes,” He confirms and you fight every urge in your body to hang up on him. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
“Hi, I’m Damien’s English Literature teacher at Gotham Academy.” You do everything to avoid saying your name. “I am trying to contact one of his guardians and neither of the others listed have answered. Do you have a moment?”
He pauses for a brief moment, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole at your desk. Holding the office phone against your ear, you drop your forehead to the cold surface of the worn desk and close your eyes. During the short silence you begin to contemplate what you’re doing with your life.
“Yeah, I do, just give me a second.” There’s muffled speaking while he excuses himself from a conversation. “Um- out of curiosity.” The color drains from your face at those words, begging to any god or star in the sky listening that he doesn’t recognize you. “Who are the other contacts listed?”
“Oh yes-” You sit up catching your breath, this was a question you would answer gladly. Looking back at the paper to list off, “I have a Bruce Wayne and an Alfred Pennyworth as his father and legal guardian.”
“Ahhh, yeah. That checks out. They’re… away at the moment. I’ve been taking care of the rascal by myself.” He sighs in a way that indicates taking care of Damien Wayne was a full-time job. “Anyway, what did the little monster do now?” He sounds so casual almost as if he’s kicked back on a desk chair pushed back to the point it’s about to tip over.
You squeeze your eyes shut as tight as they physically can, grateful no one else is in the room. This conversation, his voice, him- it’s bringing too many memories back. Flashbacks of a life you tried to forget. Flashbacks of a life you buried when you left Blüdhaven.
“Damien got into a physical altercation with another student today in my class” there’s a slight pause in between each word while you choose your words carefully, since it technically wasn’t a fight. “It’s Academy policy that I have to meet with the student responsible for beginning the physical altercation’s guardian to discuss his behavior. Since Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth were not available at the moment, I would have to set up a time to meet with you.” The speech comes out robotic, making this call more than enough times in your career here to last you a lifetime. “Unless you can get in touch with Mr. Wayne or Mr. Pennyworth, we can set up a time with them instead?”
You bite your fist struggling to not sound too hopeful with your pathetic attempt of finding an out. This would be a really big fat “fuck you” from the universe, having to hold this meeting with him. You could have been struck with any other typical Gotham luck: you could’ve gotten robbed, kidnapped by Poison Ivy, held at gun point, but no. You had to have a conversation with the man you moved cities to get away from.
“No, I can come to the meeting!” He sounds way too enthusiastic about this, especially considering you just told him that his little brother decked someone. “I can be there around three-thirty today if that works? That’s when school usually gets out right?”
“Yup!” You sounded too perky for your liking. “That works for me, I’ll jot it down in my calendar.”
“Perfect see you then!”
“See you then Mr. Grayson.”
You hang up the phone rougher than the headmaster would probably like, but screw that. It’s his policy that’s making you meet with the man who taught you that heartbreak could make you physically ill.
You spend the rest of your free period dreading this meeting that you forget to fill out the witness report and talk to Sarah. You usually left Jordan’s parents to the Dean or Headmaster because they were such important donors. It was also his fifth strike in the month which meant they would have to deal with it anyway. You end up handling everything during your lunch, one of the firsts you’ve spent alone. The boys were both in lunch detention which meant the little Wayne would not be joining you today.
Damien usually spent his lunches with you because he didn’t like any of the kids in his classes. He was reserved, never spoke much with anyone. Over the course of the year, he slowly started speaking to you more, opening up. You let him tell you what he was comfortable sharing, making sure to not pry with him. On days he didn’t feel like speaking during lunch, you would pull the screen down and put on a nature documentary that you knew he would enjoy. It was a little thing you would do to let him relax, and he’d never tell you how that made your classroom feel more like home than the manor did some days.
After deciding you would talk to Sarah tomorrow to ask her about what happened, and walking to the office to submit the witness report to Nancy, you make it back to the quiet corner of school where your classroom lies. When the door shuts behind you, you slide down to the cold floor and stare at the tile lined ceiling.
You’re sure that somewhere the hands of fate are laughing at you, puppeteering this cruel plot. That just when you had barred Richard Grayson from your mind, he had to make an infamous comeback.
The bell rings which brings the lunch period to a close, along with your pity party. You stand and brush off your clothes with a deep breath and plaster the wide teacher smile you mastered in all those volunteer hours during undergrad.
When the students start filing into your classroom, you throw yourself into your lesson about the girl who left everyone she loved and knew behind to start the life she wanted for herself. Your students would never know that you chose this book every year because you saw more of yourself in her than you cared to admit.
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03:27 p.m.
This is the only time it would’ve been convenient for you to have a villain roaming around destroying Gotham, and of course it doesn’t happen. The Joker must have some sick sense of humor, because not even the devil could construct this type of Hell you found yourself in.
Damien is sitting at desk in front of you, in the scary statue-like way he does when you know he’s had a bad day. You keep bouncing your foot and your heels are clinking on the floor while staring out the window.
Why did it have to be Dick?
“I’m sorry that you had to stay after hours for me.” Damien whispers into the void of the classroom.
“What?” You turn to look at the boy genuinely confused. He’s looking at the desk purposefully avoiding your gaze.
“I told you earlier that I wasn’t sorry for hitting Jordan and I’m not. But you are tapping your leg impatiently on the floor, indicating that you want this to be over, and that is my fault. It is my fault that you are here this late.” He pauses and looks up to meet your eyes, and you see a slight crease in between his brows, and it hits you.
He thinks you’re upset with him.
“For that, I am sorry.” He confirms.
“Oh Damien,” You stand from your desk and make your way to crouch in front of his. “I’m not upset with you.”
“You’re not?” He looks cautious, as if he’s being lured into a trap. The doubtful look on his face pulls at your heartstrings.
“No, what Jordan said and did was wrong and while I can’t condone physical violence as your teacher,” you pause with a wicked glint in your eye. “I can tell you that he had it coming.”
When he internalizes your words and the hidden message in it, he smirks. This poor boy had spent all day thinking you were upset with him, that’s why he looked nervous in the office. Behind that mature attitude he had, he was still just a ten-year-old boy at the end of the day. So, when he smirks at you, you made sure to smile back. You smile back letting him know your room would always be open for lunch.
You stand back up letting the unsaid hang in the air and turn to walk back to your desk and before you can sit down, the door to your classroom swings wide open and there he is.
Your ex-boyfriend.
With a bouquet of flowers in hand.
The same bouquet he bought you the first time he took you to dinner.
The breath traveling out of your nose gets caught in your nostrils when your eyes land on him. He’s as devastatingly handsome as the day you left him. You tried to tell yourself his beauty would fade with time, the way every guy does when you break up with them. But no, like some cruel twist of luck, he was beautiful. The unkept raven black hair with the lightening blue eyes you spent hours staring into, took you right back to all the nights you tried to forget from college.
“Why did you bring flowers Grayson?” The catalyst for this meeting asks disgusted from his spot at the desk.
“I always bring flowers on a first date!” He responds with the boyish charm that made you fall in love with him at nineteen.
“This isn’t our first date.” You look at him through the narrow slits of your eyes.
You were going to have to start giving yourself more credit. On the inside you were nothing but an anxious bundle of nerves, but you were doing pretty good at not revealing it. You had his attitude to thank for that. Being annoyed at Dick was easy, almost as easy as loving him.
“Well, I know that sweetheart,” You flinch at the old pet name. “But it’s our first date in a while.”
“Dick, this isn’t a date.” You snap at him.
He doesn’t get to do that. Not now. Not after everything.
“Whatever you say Teach.” He gives you a playful look that almost undoes you on the spot. Trying to keep your cool, you glance down at the shell-shocked little boy that followed both of you with the same intensity that some would watch a Wimbledon match. Hie eyebrows looked just about ready to fly off his face while his left nostril was scrunched up, connecting the dots that there may be some history here.
“Damien sweetie,” you try to regain control of the situation. “Can you wait outside while I talk to your brother for moment? I’ll call you back inside in a couple minutes.”
“Only a couple?” He asks with only one eyebrow raised now.
“Yes, only a couple.” You confirm.
“Okay.” He nods and walks slowly, still glancing suspiciously between you and Dick while stepping out.
When the door shuts behind him you let out a breath and shift your eyes to Dick. Looking at him was almost the same as looking at the sun, it was a sweet temptation that once satisfied, burned within seconds. You move your gaze to the flowers shifting your position to lean against your desk. It felt safer than looking right at him.
“When did you realize it was me?” You ask him, addressing the elephant in the room. The faster you got this over with, the faster you could continue with the conference and go home.
“Come on,” He scoffs, “You can’t really think I didn’t recognize your voice from the second you said my name.”
You meet his eyes abashed, ignoring the thunderous ache in your chest that his striking blue irises brought upon you. “Dick that was like the first thing I said!”
“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs his shoulders in a way that expresses it should’ve been obvious he knew it was you. That it would be crazy if he didn’t recognize you from a phone call where you didn’t even say your name.
You pinch the bridge of your nose trying to ground yourself with the quick burst of pain, coming to the conclusion that Dick Grayson was going to haunt you for the rest of your life.
“So, when did you get this gig?” He looks around waving the flowers. “I thought you were still in Blüdhaven-”
“No.” You cut him off so simply that he stops dead in his tracks. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to ask me about my life. You don’t get to know anything anymore. Not after everything.”
He looks taken aback and a sprinkle of defensiveness pools in his posture when he straightens, “Do I need to remind you that you were the one that ended it?”
You square your shoulders pushing off the desk and narrow your eyes again, “Do I need to remind you why?”
He sighs your name in a broken plea. And just like that, you’re taken back to the run-down college apartment all those years ago where your heart shattered into a million pieces.
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It was your two-year anniversary with Dick. Money was a little tight, so you agreed to have a small dinner at his place. You usually hung out at your apartment and preferred to cook there, but he had just fostered Haley. He hadn’t spent a night away from her yet and was nervous about leaving her alone for too long.
The little diva was making figure eights between your legs while you cooked dinner and prepped the key lime pie you were going to make for desert. She had almost tripped you three times already, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to scold her when she looked at you. She had mastered those puppy eyes that turned you into mush. She looked so happy when you shifted your attention to her, that you forgot to reprimand her and tossed some food into her mouth instead.
Turning back to the electric stove you turn the knob of the back left burner to high. There’s a rustling of keys and a smile creeps on your face that he’s finally home. Haley stops pacing in between your legs and dashes toward the door clawing at his door frame. Since moving in, Haley seemed to be on a personal mission in securing that your boyfriend does not get his security deposit back. You’d warned him about getting a dog in the apartment, but he brushed it off.
Dick finally manages to open the front door and Haley leaps at him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He squats down to her level while she barks and licks his face. In the breaks of his laugh, he manages to get out an “I missed you too” and “easy girl” in an attempt to calm down the energetic puppy. After a minute of him petting her fur, she seems to be more relaxed while rolling over on the floor and he finally shifts his gaze to look up at you. He swears he fell in love all over again.
Your hair was pulled back into a bun that was falling apart around the hair tie, there were patches of flour on your cheek and forehead, you had an apron that he bought you for Christmas last year that had stains everywhere, and he doesn’t think he had ever seen a more gorgeous sight. There was something so magical in the domesticity of coming home to you and Haley. It was a type of love he never thought he’d get to experience again after his parents passed. A type of love he’d never had living with Bruce and Alfred.
He never considered himself a selfish person, until he met you. You were his full moon on a dark night. The elixir that brought him back to life every night when he lost his will on the streets. The princess he thought only existed in fairytales. He never wanted to share with anyone.
He had a habit of staring at you drinking in all your beauty at once, like it would be the last time he’d be lucky enough to lay his eyes on you. He soaked up everything you said, everything you did, every part of you, and he stored it deep in his heart. He worshipped you like you were the only god that mattered in this universe.
Dick truly believed the warmth in your eyes could melt all of the snow January brought to Blüdhaven. Stood in his kitchen with your arms crossed leaning against the counter, you had a smile he was convinced could bring world peace. He was a goner before you’d even said hi.
If you weren’t in college and he wasn’t lying to you about being a vigilante, he would’ve gotten down on one knee that night. He would’ve asked you to marry him. He would’ve made a fool of himself by writing you a sonnet declaring his love. He’d tell you how you restored his faith in the world, how you gave him something to fight for in the nights he put his life on the line, how you gave him something worth living for. He was so drunk in love he’d considered yelling how much he loved you form every rooftop in Blüdhaven.
He hadn’t told you about the double life he hid in the shadows. It ate at him every time you looked at him with narrowed eyes, knowing he was leaving something out of the stories he’d rehearsed. He never wanted to bring you into it. If you found out about him, you would never be safe again. He couldn’t do that to someone he loved, not after Jason. He prayed that you would give him more time, so he could figure out how to explain it all to you without outing Bruce. When you asked about the bruises and cuts, he’d brush it off and say he was clumsy or he pushed himself to hard at the gym. You weren’t convinced but you let it go, and he’d thank the stars for giving him an ounce of mercy.
“Hello, my love” his eyes were sparkling. “Dinner smells amazing.” He stood to his full length and walked over to you, while Haley was jumping and clawing at his jeans.
“Only the best for you.” It came out more sultry than you planned, but Dick seemed into it. He crossed the short space from the door to the kitchen and made his way toward you. He trapped you against the counter with his arms encaging you. Haley was still barking at both of your legs, but you tuned her out getting lost in each other’s presence. Dick always looked at you like it was the first time he had seen you. There was so much adoration in his eyes that you weren’t convinced you deserved.
A flush creeps onto your cheeks when he leans into you and stops a hair from your lips. You feel his breath on your face, and you can smell the cinnamon gum he had definitely been chewing on the drive over. The spark in the air is electric as the favorite part of your day approached. It was the same routine every night Dick came home, you had gotten used to it, but he had an addicting air to him you could never quit. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, and you know it’s because he’s testing you. To see if you’ll break first and lean in, you always do.
After counting to fifteen you scoff and push off the counter into him. When your lips meet, you get your first breath of fresh air all day. Blüdhaven’s pollution evaporated when you shared a breath with Dick Grayson. The world melted away and you would die happy if the world came crashing down then. You’d never been kissed the way he had. He was soft and gentle, but desperate. He kissed you in a way that made you feel loved not lusted after. The spark lit on fire every time he touched you, the world had drenched you in gasoline and Dick was the match.
He pulls away too soon for your liking and his breath comes out heavy. He’s giving you that Dick Grayson grin that lights up the sky, and you notice his pupils are blown.
“I missed you today.” He tells you in a low voice that sends a shiver up your spine.
“I missed you too, Grayson.” His arms wrap around you and every threat the world had was nonexistent in his arms. He made you feel safe, at home, at peace with life. Nothing would hurt you in his arms.
He opens his mouth to say something, but you hear the water bubbling from the pot on the stove. You turn your head to see the water boiling and wordlessly break free from your favorite place on Earth. You grab the pasta you’d made from scratch on the counter and slowly drop it into the pot. You’re about halfway done with placing the pasta in the pot when you feel strong arms around your waist.
Apparently, Dick wasn’t satisfied with the kiss and was greedy for more. He hummed quietly in your ear when you told him you’d made crab ravioli for your anniversary. He littered kisses on your neck and shoulders. He held his lips against your skin for a second too long while taking you in. Your favorite place in the world was in his arms, and his was in the crook of your neck. His chin fits perfectly on your shoulder almost as if it was made for him. You felt the smile on your neck when you realized he finally felt like he belonged somewhere.
There had to be a god somewhere that knew the world was going to rip the carpet from your feet and gifted you this last bit of peace. When you finish with the pasta you wipe your hands on your apron and lean against him, your head falling on his chest. He flinches when your head falls back and lets go of you, sucking in a painful breath through his teeth.
Whipping your head around your eyes swim in worry. “What happened? Are you okay? Did I do something?”
He starts shaking his head trying to mask the pain with a smile while dropping his hand that clenched his shirt. “No, no, I’m fine. Sorry” He extended his arms out to you so he could hold you again.
You swat them away and your fingers hover over the wrinkles on his shirt where his hand previously was. “Take it off.”
“Jeez, take me to dinner first.” He tries to lighten the mood with a joke.
Your eyes were as hard as a diamond, and your jaw clenched. “Dick, I’m not playing. Take off the shirt.”
His hands hesitate at the hem of it. A flicker of anxiety he tries to hide behind another smile, but you know him too well for that to work.
“Darling, really. I’m oka-”
“Do I have to take it off for you?” He hears the seriousness when you cut him off and freezes. “Dick, you have all of three seconds to take the damn shirt off.”
Your eyes meet his and it couldn’t be more obvious how much he really doesn’t want to do this, but you’re tired. He comes back multiple times a week with bruises that are black and blue. He’s so sore that he can barely move. You tried asking questions, but he would always brush it off and say he got hurt at practice. He was a P.E. teacher at the high school nearby and the gymnastics coach. You knew there was more to the story, but you let it go, trusting that he’d tell you someday. But you couldn’t wait anymore, if he wasn’t ready after two years he’d never be. Your patience was stretched thin and your worry clouded your judgement.
He sees the relentlessness in your body language and sighs in defeat. His arms cross at the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off in one fluid motion. You could tell by the slight crease in his eyebrows; it was harder for him than he let off.
Your hand flies to your mouth in horror at the sight in front of you. There was a huge gash lining his chest from his left shoulder to the bottom of his right ribcage. He’s already gotten it checked out because it’s been cleaned out and there’s butterfly stitches all around it. You knew this was recent because he didn’t have this last night in bed and the bruises were still pink, not having enough time to fade to the inevitable purple.
“Dick…”
“It looks worse than it is, baby. I promise.”
“Worse than it is?!” He winces at the sudden raise of your voice. “Richard Grayson, you look like someone tried slicing you in half.”
His mouth is opening to make some pathetic excuse when you beat him to it.
“When- How did this happen?”
Behind his eyes you can see he’s fighting a battle with himself, debating what he should tell you. You stare at him, eyes wide waiting for an explanation on why he has gash the size of your arm across his chest.
“Sweetheart I-” he cuts himself short, just looking at you, helpless.
“Dick, tell me the truth.” Your voice is deadly. “All of it: the scars, the bruises, the pain, this- Where do they come from?”
He swallows a lump in his throat and looks around the empty apartment in hopes of a ghost coming to save him. The defeated expression you know too well from your previous fights is etched on his face when he meets your eyes.
“I- I can’t”
“What do you mean you can’t?” Your response is instant.
“I can’t tell you where I got them.”
“Why?” Betrayal flashes across your features and your shoulder square, defensive. “I’m your girlfriend, I’m not going to judge you. I’m here for you. I’ve always been. But I can’t be here for you if you don’t let me.”
He looks so distraught and for the first time in your life, you see tears lining Dick Grayson’s eyelids in frustration. Frustration you don’t know the source of. His mouth parts and shuts multiple times in the same minute, not being able to find an explanation that is both believable and will keep you safe.
“Dick, I need the truth.” There’s a finality in your voice that you hope doesn’t have to come into fruition. “You have to be honest with me, or-” you take a deep breath steadying yourself for what you hope is an empty threat. “Or I leave.”
“No- Please no. Don’t do this.” He crosses over to you in one step and grabs your biceps looking at you with nothing but pain reeking off his figure.
“Then don’t make me make that choice. I don’t want to, but I will.” You’re both crying now, a river of tears pooling at the floor beneath you that you would rather drown in than leave. You couldn’t imagine living a life without Dick Grayson, but you wouldn’t settle for less than the truth. You wouldn’t stay with half of a man.
“I can’t tell you.” It comes out in a whisper. He rests his forehead against yours, as if it’ll transfer the information he can’t spill from his lips. His eyes are shut, not being able to meet the inevitably of yours.
“Then, I can’t stay.” You close your eyes for one last moment against his forehead. Absorbing every last piece of the man you thought you’d marry.
It took everything in you to break free from him. You didn’t look at him when you turned back to the stove and turned it off. You didn’t turn to him when you took your apron off and hung it over the barstool under the counter. You didn’t turn to him when you grabbed your purse from the coffee table.
You pet Haley one last time with tears flowing freely form your eyes and kissed between her eyes. She licked your chin, happy that you had turned back to her, not knowing you weren’t coming back.
You stand back up and look at him one last time. Your heart crumbles when you meet his eyes and he makes one last pathetic attempt with an “I love you” from across the room.
“I love you too,” it comes out more pained than endearing. “But I love me more.”
And you opened the door to a life you’d never wanted to believe could exist. A life without Dick Grayson. You sobbed the whole way home, hating yourself for your standards.
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You shake your head at the memory and look back at him with eyes blazing. “No Dick. You lied to me. You lied to me for years.” The sentence comes out heavy, all those years of weekly therapy went to shit the moment he walked into this classroom, and you hate him for it. You hate that he still has this level of control over you. “I didn’t even know you had a brother, or that you were related to Bruce Wayne of all people?!” You throw your hands up in the air laughing to yourself. “You told me you were an orphan.”
“Well, if we are getting into the nitty gritty, I am technically still an orphan. I was never adopted. I’m still just Bruce’s ward.”
It takes all the self-restraint you have to not rip those flowers out of his hand and beat him over the head with them. You just stare at him, no words, no expression, just an empty stare. For the years you spent together it was one of the few things you’d learn that would unsettle him. Dick Grayson could not sit in silence.
Leaning into it, you begin to drown in each other’s existence. Everything you never said, everything he kept from you. Coming to the surface about to break free when he sighs and looks beyond you at your desk. He sees the book that you’re reading with the class and there’s a cautious smile on his face.
“The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle? Again?”
“Yeah, it’s a good book for the kids. I read it with all my classes.” There’s a twinge of insecurity in your tone. You sometimes forgot that he also kept those memories from your relationship, that you weren’t the only one burdened with reminders.
When you and Dick dated you read this book at least twice a year. It was your favorite book when you were younger. Your mom used to read a chapter every night before tucking you into bed. He had read it with you a couple of times when he realized how important this book was to you. And deep in your closet buried with your skeletons, there’s a shoe box full of memories that kept the annotated copy he wrote for you. It was the best present you had ever gotten and when you started throwing everything out, you couldn’t bring yourself to toss it.
“I guess some things never change.” He looks at you with the smile still painted on his face and no judgement in his tone.
He was dressed completely normal, but there were still remnants of your relationship in his clothing. He was wearing relaxed fit jeans which he only started buying when you two were dating because you told him you liked how they fit his ass. He wore a grey T-shirt that clung to his biceps a little tighter than you knew he considered comfortable because you told him once as a joke, you liked having his arm on display. And lastly, there was a silver chain that hung from his neck. He had both gold and silver, and preferred gold, but you told him one day that you thought the silver brought out the blue in his eyes and he never went back.
There was a lump in your throat you couldn’t swallow no matter how hard you tried. He looks frozen in a time where you truly believed that Dick Grayson would have done anything for you. Anything but tell you the truth.
I guess he was right, some things never change.
“Mhm.” Was the only sound you could manage when you look back at him.
“Listen, about everything that happe-” His eyes soften.
“Dick not right now. We’re at a parent-teacher conference and if I keep your brother outside any longer, he’s going to break down my door.” You see Damien’s eyes peeking through the skinny window of your classroom door and attempt to get this conversation back on track.
“Then when?” His eyes have a deep desire in them that roots you to the stone floor. You didn’t realize it but over the course of the conversation he had gotten closer to you, his fingers had made their way to your wrist. He wasn’t holding on tight, but you found yourself incapable of breaking free from his grasp. Your skin was ablaze at the light touch near your hand and you leaned into it, into him.
“I’m busy tonight but-” You faltered. You were not busy tonight. You had no plans, but this was too much for you today. This was as much of Richard Grayson you were willing to put yourself through at the moment.
“Tomorrow then?” He was on the verge of begging, you’re sure if you told him to get on his knees and ask, he would. “We can meet at the park. Around five?”
“Dick,” you sigh, “I’m not sure abo-”
“I’ll tell you everything- I’ll bring Haley.” He stumbles on his words that you almost didn’t understand him. It took you a second to remember that Haley is his pitbull and not some random girl he brought up for no reason.
Unfortunately, just like you knew everything that would undo Dick Grayson, he knew everything that undid you.
“Okay,” You resign “five it is.” You lie to yourself by claiming the only reason you agreed to this was for Haley, you missed going on walks with her and playing with her.
And Dick, for the first time in a couple of minutes let himself breathe. He was breathing as if his head had broken the surface after jumping face first into the deep end. His hand falls away to his side, hope radiating off his body.
Glancing back at the door you see a tuft of black hair that’s beginning to get restless. You move past your ex-boyfriend toward the door without another word of your plans, ignoring the way your wrist goes cold at the absence of his fingers. Your hand hesitates over the doorknob before letting Damien back inside.
What the hell did you just agree to?
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You glance down at your wrist while sitting on the bench.
04:58 p.m.
You got to the park ten minutes ago after sitting restlessly on your couch for an hour. You’d been anxious the whole day while at school and in your apartment. You couldn’t think of anything else. You couldn’t even get through the lesson today and just gave the kids a free day to work on anything they’d like. Your best friend had called you yesterday after work for a “catch up” call and you conveniently left out that you were meeting up with your ex-boyfriend.
After the breakup, his name was forbidden to speak around your friends and family. They hated him. Your mom flew up from where she retired in Florida to Blüdhaven the first weekend after the breakup, since you hadn’t left your bed in three days. Your best friend did the road trip from where she went to university in Central City the weekend after that.
If they found out that you had agreed to meet with the man who destroyed your whole outlook on life, they’d slap you into another dimension.
You stand up moving your purse to your shoulder getting ready to leave after concluding that this is an awful idea and you shouldn’t have agreed to this, when a familiar grey pitbull jumps at your hip with more force than you anticipated. She knocks you onto the dirt path of the park. You land in a side plank on your left forearm, so you can avoid hitting your head.
“Haley No-” The familiar voice comes a little too late.
You sit on the floor while she laps at your face and barks so loud you think you’re going to suffer from temporary hearing loss. She’s running circles around you and jumping over you in such a happy way that the innocence of the scene brings a smile to your face. She’d doubled in size since you last saw her as a baby. Your heart strings are being plucked like a guitar while she catches her breath, looking at you with those big blue eyes you’d missed.
You finally pull your eyes away from her and see… Nightwing?
You shake your head and stand up so fast you get a head rush. You stumble while balancing yourself, and the vigilante reaches out to help you stabilize.
“Hi, um, I’m sorry- I’m waiting for someone.” You rush out. You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but you want him gone. If he was near, trouble was bound to find his way to him. You were already going to have to deal with Dick, you didn’t want to handle this too.
After living in Blüdhaven, you had become quite familiar with the vigilante. He had saved you a couple times on your late night walks back from the library. You’d almost gotten mugged like seven times in the years you lived there and he had shown up every time. He never stayed long but made sure you were safe before sending you on your way. You weren’t sure what he was doing in Gotham, but you didn’t really care.
“Darling,” he says quietly and your body freezes in recognition. “it’s me.”
Your jaw drops to hell.
You were going to kill him.
Dick Grayson was Nightwing.
You’re not sure how long you were standing there just staring at him when he laughs nervously.
“Please say something, I’m starting to freak out.” He scratches the back of neck, a nervous tick he hadn’t managed to outgrow, even after all the years you were separated.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. In through your nose and out through your mouth, just like your mom taught you. Then you did the only thing that made sense to you.
You back handed him as hard as you could.
“Okay” he groans rubbing his cheek. “I deserved that.”
“Oh, you most certainly did Richard. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Um-” Through the domino mask you can see his eyebrows rising to his hairline. His hand still cradling his cheek from the slight sting.
“What was so difficult of telling me about this all those years ago? Hm?” You feel the rage about bubbling over the cauldron you’d been stirring all day. You had tried to keep your emotions in check, taking deep breaths when they anxiety threatened to take over.
This being his big secret pissed you all the way off.
He slowly reaches for your arms after they started flailing while yelling at him. He holds them so gently, it doesn’t seem to fit the crime fighting persona in front of you. He looks scared that you’re going to strike him again, and you want to, but don’t. He guides you to the bench you were just on and takes a seat next to you. Haley jumps on your lap and you take the distraction for your hands, petting her back.
“Let me explain.” He says softly.
“Oh, I will, don’t worry. And this better be all off it, Grayson. The whole truth.”
He seems to find your exasperation at him funny, and he lets out a laugh. For a second, you think he’s genuinely laughing at this, at the pain that fucking suit caused you for years and then you see it in the way he cracks his knuckles.
He’s nervous. A nervous Dick was not a common sight, and you take another deep breath trying to calm down. Not only for your sake, but for his.
You look around and see that the park is deserted, and you realize you should probably stop referring to him by his full name. You had just revealed his secret identity multiple times in the past minute. Thankfully for both of you, you were positive the trees and flowers would keep his secret if you asked nicely.
You take yet another deep breath while it was his turn to look around at the park making sure no one else was listening in. And against your better judgement, you grab his hand. He stops looking around and turns to you. You keep your gaze on Haley petting her softly.
It was a small attempt at grounding him, a small comfort you would allow yourself. From the corner of your eye, you see him sit up little straighter, bracing himself. Then he starts talking.
Once he had started, he couldn’t stop. It all came pouring out. Some of it you knew, The circus, his family, the Flying Graysons. Then he got into how Bruce Wayne took him under his wing, literally, when his parents were killed. How he grew up as Robin, how Bruce was Batman. Spending his whole life hiding his secret identity. When he finally broke free from Bruce’s shadow, wanting to make a name for himself with the Titans and then in Blüdhaven. How he fought with Bruce over the years and was replaced as Robin by his adoptive brother, Jason Todd. How Jason died and why they never forgave themselves. How it scared him from ever potentially putting someone in that kind of danger.
“When you and I were together, I wasn’t talking to Bruce.” The earnest look in his eyes is almost too heavy for you to hold. “I didn’t know how to tell you without throwing him under the bus too. I couldn’t do that to him, no matter how upset I was with him. I also didn’t want to do that to you.”
He pauses and takes a couple of breaths. You hadn’t said anything to him while he laid himself bare for you. Just nodding and the occasional squeeze of his hand.
“I didn’t want to put you in a position of constant danger. You would be leveraged against me if any of my or Bruce’s enemies found out about you. I wanted to keep you a secret, to keep you safe. I know that’s not my choice to make for you, but I was scared, scared you’d get hurt, scared you’d leave me once you found out and-”
“Dick honey. You’re rambling.” You cut him off.
He sighs and drops his head to your shoulder. The smell of his shampoo almost suffocates you and your eyes well up. You had been biting back tears through the whole tragedy of his childhood, but the shampoo you used to wash your hair with on nights you ran out of yours is what pushed you to tears.
He feels the shake of your shoulder from crying and lifts his head and wipes the tears instantly. Haley had long fallen asleep on your lap, so you two hadn’t been interrupted by her barking for attention.
“Don’t cry, please. I promise I’m okay.” He tells you while his gloved fingers swipe tears from your cheeks.
You give him an incredulous look, “Dick you are many things, but okay is not one of them.”
He laughs, actually laughs. “I know, but I just don’t know what else to say.”
“You could apologize?” You suggest with a slight humor and slight truth in your tone.
He sighs and drops to the floor in front of you. He props himself up in between your legs, on his knees. The sun has long been set, and you’re thankful for it. If someone walked by and saw Nightwing kneeling in front of you at a park, you weren’t sure you could explain it. He takes both of your hands in his and holds them against his chest.
“I am sorry for lying to you. I am sorry for not telling you sooner. I am sorry for causing you all this heart ache. I don’t want you to think that my suffering takes away from yours. I have spent every moment in the wake of this relationship mourning you. I will always love you and that will never change. I thought about you every day and every night. If you’d give me the chance to prove myself, I’d like to try again.”
Your brain shuts down. You try to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Dick doesn’t let you get a word in regardless of what you wanted to say.
“I’ll be honest, I’ll go to therapy, I’ll introduce you to my family, I’ll take you on first dates. We can take it slow, start over, do it from scratch. I’ll do it all again, better this time. I’d do it all in every lifetime if it meant I got to spend this one with you.”
You’re still speechless but you try to focus on his words, repeating them felt easier than making up your own sentence.
“We can take it slow? Start over?” You ask hesitantly.
“Yes, whatever you want, however you want.” He nods his head, confirming he’d do anything for you.
You sit on the bench and contemplate what this will do. What it would mean to get tangled up with Richard Grayson again. Your therapist would kill you for one, but it might be worth it. A part of you hated how weak you were against him, how he could turn up and you’d give everything up for him. Even when he broke your heart, he still managed to be the reason it was still beating. After years being tortured with the ghost of him, this was a very bad idea. But sometimes, all a girl needed was a really bad idea.
“Okay.” You exhale. “We can try again,” His eyes widen under the mask. “But you get one chance. That’s it. If you screw this one up, there’s not another one.”
Dick starts crying and drops his head onto Haley’s back in relief. He couldn’t believe his efforts weren’t in vain. That you would be willing to try again with him. He knew you weren’t lying, that this was his last chance to get it right. He wouldn’t mess it up this time, he wouldn’t let himself even entertain the idea of fucking up. He knew life with you and without you and he would do everything in his power not to relive those pain ridden years again.
So, when he looks up at you, he sees the girl he fell in love with all those years ago for the first time. Her guard was still up, and her eyes weren’t trusting yet, but it was something along the lines of it. Hope that they could eventually make it work. Hope that their paths crossed for the final time and they’d walk the rest of this life together.
You brought your forehead against his and his hands found their place in your hair. He steals the breath straight from your lungs and you wouldn’t admit it, but you’d suffocate on the spot if it meant your dying moments were with Dick. You sit in that position leaning against him for a couple minutes with tears flowing, repeating sweet nothings to each other.
And when he kisses you in that devastating way that only Dick Grayson does, you can finally breathe again.
"snow isnt katniss's parallel hes gales!!" you people just hate gale and have zero media literacy because gale is in fact sejanus's parallel
the parallels between tbosas and the original trilogy are NOT "snow is bad guy so he must be parallels to guy i dont like" its about their characters and personalities, not whether theyre heroes or villains or whether you like them or not
apple's mom always sends her clothes one or two sizes too small. when she unpacks it in the mail and sees them for the first time, apple already knows they won't fit. she calls her mom, snow apologizes and promises to send the correct sizes and says: i didn't realize you've grown so big apple pie
raven's mom left her behind clothes for her, but they're all a little bit too big. she and her mom have the same style and raven's tired of making her own clothes all the time, so she tries them on. they're kinda loose and when she stares in the mirror, she can almost hear her mom say: you'll grow into it blackbird
"Most people, even if they have plants growing out of their necks, don't try to solve big problems"
MY ACTUAL ASS. ODA SOLVED POLLUTION AND GREED. YOU JUST HAVE TO BE SMART ENOUGH TO LISTEN. AND COMMUNICATE. JESUS
Comfrey's biggest fucking problem has been funding for so goddamn long and ODA WOULD HAVE STRAIGHT UP GIVEN IT TO HER. SHE MADE AN ELECTRIC COMPANY TO PAY FOR SOMETHING ODA COULDVE FIGURED OUT IN A MONTH USING ONE TREE.
What "big problems" are you good and goddamn TALKING about sweetheart??? If you FUCKIN TALKED TO PEOPLE all your adventures would be DONE because people are GOOD when they KNOW WHAT IS HAPPENING
If zood is whimsy, zern is industry, and gath is boring earth values, our crew is complete with zoodians and COMFREY is GATHIE to the CORE.
summary. after two decades of war and wandering, kento returns home to find a kingdom fraying and a wife who has learned to live without him. you waited—faithfully, desperately—but the man who walks through the doors of your once-shared home is not the same as the one who left. a retelling of odysseus and penelope’s story, when the king comes back to ithaca.
contains. romance, angst, historical!au, greek mythology-inspired, post-war reunion, character study, hurt/comfort. historical inaccuracies, violence, blood, implied sexual content. inspired by and based off of the odyssey and epic: the musical’s ithaca saga. art taken from pinterest.
word count. 11.8k
a/n. this was a birthday gift for my best friend who has since left tumblr, and for good reason. happy birthday, wen! 💖 also thank you to @admiringlove for beta reading.
song rec. would you fall in love with me again by jorge rivera-herrans, anna lea
There are eight-and-hundred men vying for your hand. You despise each and every one of them.
They reek of alcohol and arrogance, their voices overlapping in a constant tide of flattery and entitlement. Every smile is sharpened with expectation. Every compliment is a transaction. You are not a woman to them—you are a prize. A throne. A way to crown themselves king of a place they do not love and a people they do not serve.
They lounge in your halls like they built them. Their boots scuff the mosaic tiles your husband had laid. Their laughter fills the chambers where your son once slept. They eat more than the kitchen can replenish and boast about battles they’ve never fought. They drink your wine as if it was made for their indulgence.
You know their names. You know their fathers’ names. You keep a tally in the back of your mind—not out of interest, but because you must. A queen who forgets is a queen who falls.
At dusk, you sit among them, still and quiet, the embroidery in your lap forgotten. Your needle lies idle, and no one notices. They’re too busy toasting to their own futures, all of which end with your hand in theirs and a sword at your son’s back.
You endure. That is all you can do.
The worst of them, you have found, is Antinous.
He sits at the center of them all, draped over your husband’s seat; he is a man who has never earned power but has always expected it. His voice is the loudest, always the first to speak and the last to fall silent. He speaks of strategy and succession as though he is already king, and when he speaks to you, it is with the inflection of someone already convinced of victory.
Tonight, he is drinking the red wine that was made using straw mats and raisins. It is your favourite, and he knows this. That is the point.
When your gaze flickers to the goblet in his hand, he smirks like he’s caught you admiring him. “Come now, my lady,” he drawls, loud enough for the others to hear. “Do we please you yet? Or must we slay a lion and bring its pelt to your feet for your favour?”
Laughter rings out around the room, coarse and raucous. One of the younger men raises his cup in toast. Another whistles. Eurymachus mutters something under his breath that earns him a shove and a snicker.
You do not respond. You haven’t in months. That, too, they find amusing.
Antinous leans forward, elbow propped on the armrest that does not belong to him. “You will have to choose, my lady,” he says, lower now. “For the boy’s sake, if nothing else. Ithaca needs a king. And you need a man.”
Your jaw tightens, just slightly. That is all the reaction they will get from you.
You rise from your chair with the same quiet grace you’ve perfected over the years, ignoring the way his eyes follow your every movement. Your hands are steady, your spine straight. Your dignity is the only armour you have left.
As you step out the hall, past the tapestry of ships and storm gods, past the murmurs and the clinking of goblets, your mind, inevitably, wanders to your husband.
You remember him as he was: quiet, precise, impossibly steady. A man who spoke little but whose presence never had to beg to be known. He was not soft, not always kind, but he was good. Good in the way a harbour is—safe and constant, even when the storms rage. You remember his hands most of all. Not the way they touched you, though you have not forgotten that either, but the way they held the kingdom upright. Steady hands. Sure hands. A warrior’s hands that still knew how to cradle a child.
Your son remembers less. He was too young. But you see the fragments of Kento in him—flashes of that same quiet rage, that same sharpness, that same refusal to bow. He is no king, not yet, but he is his father’s son.
You reach the end of the corridor where the light begins to fade. You pause by the window, breath fogging faintly against the cool stone frame, and you stare out at the dark horizon. Somewhere, the sea still churns. Somehow, you once believed he would return.
But hope has a half-life, and yours has been decaying for years.
You close your eyes, just for a moment, and whisper a name you haven’t said aloud in longer than you can bear: “Kento.”
You hear a creak behind you, followed by the distant thud of the great doors opening. You don’t turn this time. You don’t need to. It’s just another suitor arriving late, another voice to add to the chorus of greed. But your hands clench into the folds of your robe, and your thoughts—sharp, honed like flint over years of silence—snap into focus. This cannot continue. You cannot continue.
The law binds your hands, but your wit has never needed permission to move.
You breathe in—and then you think of his bow: taller than you, carved from ash wood. No one but Kento could ever string it. Not even your most arrogant suitor has dared to try. It hangs still, untouched, in the weapons room behind the hearth, more symbol than tool. A relic of a man half the room no longer believes in.
You turn and begin walking back to your bedchambers. Purpose blooms in your chest like spring after a long, bitter winter.
Let them mock. Let them boast. Let them believe your grief has made you weak and your patience has made you docile.
You will give them a game. A challenge only one man can win—and when they lose, they will have no one but themselves to blame for what comes after.
Let them line up like fools. When they fail—when they all fail—you will be free.
At night, you are plagued with thoughts of your husband.
Sleep slips through your fingers like water, no matter how tightly you try to hold it. The sheets are cool beside you—always cool, always empty. The dark makes it worse. When the torches go out and the halls fall quiet, when even the suitors sleep in their wine-stained stupor, it is just you and memory. And memory is never kind.
So, you lie awake beneath the canopy of your marriage bed, the one no man has touched since he left. It was built by his own hands, carved from the roots of an olive tree that still grows through the floor. It cannot be moved. Neither can you.
You remember how you met. He had come to court your cousin, sharp-tongued and always the brightest in the room, while you were only there to pour wine and not to be seen. But Kento noticed you, quiet and watchful, and when he asked your cousin about war tactics, you answered instead—too quick, too bold. His eyes met yours, then, curious.
The next day, he returned with flowers—your cousin’s favourites. But he handed them to you.
Kento never asked for permission; not from your family, not from the gods. He simply looked at you one morning in the orchard and said, “If I’m to fight for something, let it be you.”
You married in the spring. Your hands smelled of fig and lemon blossom. He laughed, a rare sound, when you nearly tripped walking towards him because you were so focused on his face.
He was always so careful with you, always so patient. You remember long walks by the cliff, fingers brushing until he finally had the courage to take your hand. You remember lazy mornings with bread and honey, and the way he’d rest his chin on your shoulder while you read, just to be near.
You remember the first time he laid beside you—nervous and reverent, as if you might vanish if he moved too quickly. He hadn’t said much, but his hands had trembled, and his mouth had found yours like it had always belonged there. That night had been slow, sweet, full of promises he only whispered against your skin. Kento was careful. And then he wasn’t.
By morning, you could barely walk. He’d only laughed when you hit him with a pillow, his voice still hoarse from the things he’d begged for the night before.
You found out you were carrying a child only a few weeks later. He was still there then—busy, yes, pulled in ten different directions by the court and the kingdom—but he never missed a night in your bed. You waited to tell him, wanting to find the perfect moment. He found out before you could.
He had come back late, with dust on his sandals and his hair messy. You were asleep, or pretending to be. Kento pressed his lips to your forehead, then to your belly. “I know,” he’d murmured. “I know, my love.”
You’d blinked up at him, startled. “How?”
“I overheard Eurycleia and the others in the kitchens. They aren’t being very subtle about it.”
You both laughed, then. He’d gathered you close, hands spreading over your stomach. “Thank you,” he whispered, like a prayer.
For a while, it was good. The best it had ever been. Kento carved toys from olivewood with the same hands that had once carved your wedding bed. He kissed your growing belly each night. He spoke to the child before it was born and promised them the sea and the stars, and a world that would greet them with open arms.
When your son came into the world, Kento cried—quietly, of course. He always cried quietly. You saw the way his shoulders shook as he cradled the boy in his arms for the first time. The baby had your eyes and his father’s brow. His father’s frown, too, when he slept.
“He’s perfect,” Kento said, over and over. “He’s perfect, he’s perfect, he’s perfect.”
Then the war came; a war for someone else’s pride, someone else’s honour. Kento didn’t want to go. You knew it in the way he held you that night, tighter than ever, like he was already grieving what he’d lose. He went because honour is a god that does not take no for an answer, and the Trojan War was its altar.
“I’ll be back before the baby walks,” he promised, voice low in the crook of your neck.
Your son had learnt to run before you received his first letter.
You remember watching other men return. You remember standing by the docks until your knees gave out. You remember the pity in their eyes.
Years passed. Your son forgot the sound of his father’s voice, babe as he was when he left. You had to teach him what Kento looked like from paintings and stories. You forgot the feeling of being held.
You hate it. Not Kento—never Kento—but the war, and the state it has left you in. You hate the war for stretching one year into ten; for stealing your husband from your bed, from your son, from your arms. You hate the gods for not letting him come home to you for ten more, and now, you do not know if he ever will.
Now—now, you’re expected to smile politely at men who spit in the name of the house he built. Men who whisper that you should move on; that you’re selfish; that Ithaca needs a king, not a memory. They never saw the way he knelt to speak to children, or how he never raised his voice unless he was scared. They didn’t see the man who kissed you like it was a vow, who brushed his lips across the back of your knuckles and pinched your side to see you giggle. The man who chose you, again and again, even when everyone else expected otherwise.
You press a hand to your chest, as if that can soothe the ache. It doesn’t.
Your son is not in Ithaca when you announce the contest. Perhaps, you think, it’s better that way, because he would not approve.
He is his father’s son—sharp-eyed and proud, always quick to speak when he senses injustice—but still too young to understand the quiet violence of strategy. He does not yet know that survival sometimes demands cruelty; that a queen must trade dignity for time, over and over again, and pray she can reclaim it in the end.
You stand at the head of the hall with the bow placed beside you, the same bow Kento carried to war, the one he strung with ease before riding out to defend a kingdom that now forgets his name. It looks heavier than you remember.
A hush spreads, then breaks. Laughter first—low and dismissive. Then a chorus of jeers.
“The widow’s gone mad,” one says.
“At this rate, she might as well ask the gods to descend and marry her,” Eurymachus crows.
“She’s stalling,” Antinous calls out, grinning wolfishly. “She is afraid to choose, so she hides behind toys and tales.”
“This bow,” you say, “belongs to my husband.”
Husband. Not dead king. Not memory. Husband.
“No man but him has ever strung it,” you continue. “Not in battle. Not in sport. Not in ceremony.”
A few of the men shift, uneasily now. The laughter falters.
You rest your hand on the bow—not to provoke, but to remember. Your fingers trace the smooth curve of it, worn by time and use and love. He had carried it across the Aegean. He had strung it by firelight while your son slept beside him. He had left it behind only because you asked him to.
“Twelve axes will be placed in this hall, in a line.” You lift your chin. “Whosoever can string this bow, and shoot clean through all twelve, may take my hand.”
Silence, this time. Not out of respect, but disbelief.
“String it?” a voice says, incredulous. “That bow’s half stone!”
“Do you want a king or a circus act?” another cries out.
“She means to humiliate us,” Eurymachus spits, rising. “A trick. A delay. While her brat of a prince runs to Sparta to gather allies.”
Your eyes flick to him. “You are welcome to leave.”
He sneers but says no more.
Antinous steps forward instead, not angry but amused. “Very well,” he says. “Let us dance for her. Let us parade like fools in a hall that no longer belongs to us.” He bows mockingly. “Though it’s hardly fair, my lady, to mourn a man and dangle his ghost before us.”
You say nothing, only signal to the servants. The axes are brought in, iron mouths agape. One by one, they’re planted down the hall. You watch them with the stillness of a woman who has waited twenty years, and will wait twenty more if she must.
You take your seat again, and fold your hands, waiting for the first man to try. Not a single one of them moves.
A beggar enters your hall at twilight.
Dust clings to his shoulders like ash from some distant pyre, and his beard is streaked grey with age or travel—you cannot tell which. He leans heavily on a staff, feet dragging, and still the guards do not stop him. Perhaps they think him harmless. Perhaps they are tired of keeping count of the men who come and go.
Only one creature sees him for what he is.
Argos—your husband’s old hound—lifts his head from where he lies slumped in the shadow of the threshold. No one tends to him now. He is too old to be useful, too loyal to be loved by anyone but you. But at the sight of the beggar, his ears twitch. Then his whole body trembles.
The beggar stops. He looks down, and kneels, slowly, painfully.
Argos, who has not stood in days, tries to rise.
His limbs fail him, but still he whines—high and soft and aching, the sound of twenty years in a single breath. The beggar’s hand moves to the dog’s neck, just below the ear. Argos goes still. His chest does not rise again. The beggar lowers his head and says nothing.
Then the laughter begins.
“Look at him!” Antinous sneers from his seat, wine dripping from his lip. “Dragging fleas into our court like gifts! Shall we feed him, my lady? Or toss him back into the sea?”
Another suitor—a lean man with too many rings—adds, “I say we test his spine. Perhaps he’ll dance if we strike him hard enough.”
The beggar does not speak. He does not even flinch.
Eurymachus tosses a crust of bread at his feet. “Come, old man! Tell us a tale worth hearing. Or did you lose your tongue along the road?”
Still, the beggar remains silent.
Your voice cuts through the hall: “Bring him to me. Prepare some bread and water for this man, and give him a place to rest if he so desires.”
The beggar inclines his head, eyes low, and only then, speaks. “Thank you, my queen.”
You lead him to the side chamber—the one where you used to spin wool at night, when your boy was smaller and the house quieter. Now it serves as nothing but a place of hiding. When you are alone, you speak first.
“Who are you?”
The beggar bows. “No one of import, my queen. A man who has seen many harbours and lost more years than he can count.”
“Yet you have found your way to my hall,” you say. “To Ithaca.”
He does not deny it. “I met your husband once,” he says. “Long ago, in Crete.”
You inhale sharply. “Crete?”
“Aye.” He nods, eyes distant. “He came with spoils from Troy. Wounded, but still boasting. We shared a fire for one night only. He ate little, and drank less.”
“And what did he say?” you ask, throat tightening. “Of Ithaca? Of… me?”
The beggar’s mouth twitches—somewhere between a smile and a wound. “He spoke of home like it was a person, not a place.”
You don’t dare blink.
“He spoke of a woman with eyes like storms,” the beggar says, voice threading towards something gentle. “Who ruled her house with both hands. Who wove lies as well as she wove thread. Who could outwait the gods themselves if it meant saving what she loved. He said that no one would believe him when he spoke of your mind. That beauty they could imagine, but not your sharpness. He said you could gut a man with your silence.
“He told me about your garden, and your love for oranges. He told me that you preferred thyme over roses; that you once caught him stealing figs before dinner and made him eat them all before the sun went down. He said you made him laugh until he was sick.
“He said your son had your eyes but his stubbornness, that he liked to sleep curled up beside the hearth while you sang to him, and your husband held both of you in his arms. He missed the boy most at night.”
You swallow hard. Something in your chest splinters.
“He said,” the man continues, eyes downcast, “that he dreamed of your bed. He did not say why, but he worried that if he returned and it had been moved, he would know the gods had lied and you were gone.”
“And where did he go, then?” you whisper. “Where is he now?”
“I do not know. But I was in Thesprotia recently. There, I heard word of him again.”
“What word?”
“That he is alive. He has wandered long, but not without purpose. He comes home, slowly.”
You close your eyes. The ache that floods your chest is old and familiar—but tonight, it stings sharper than it has in years. You want to believe. You want to fall to your feet and ask this stranger if he’s seen the scar on your husband’s thigh, or the streak of gold in his hair that only shows in summer, or the way his voice goes rough when he says your name. You want to ask if he still dreams of you.
But you’ve lived too long on hope. It is not a kind thing. It gnaws at the soul. It leaves you hollow.
So you open your eyes and steady your voice. “Thank you, traveler, for your stories.”
He bows, slow. You rise to leave, your hand hovering near the door. Then you turn, just enough to glance back. “Your eyes,” you say, “remind me of him.”
The beggar does not answer.
Often, you have dreamt of what your life would have looked like if Kento had not left for war.
Tonight, after the beggar has been granted a bed and rest in your home, you stand by the window and let the sea wind carry you into that life where Kento never sails.
He wakes beside you every morning, body solid and warm beneath the sheets of your shared bed. You would grumble when he takes the covers, and he’d kiss your shoulder in apology, already half-laughing. You’d eat breakfast together at the sun-warmed table by the window—simple things: bread, still warm from the oven, figs and olives from the orchards he helped plant. Your son would run into the room with scraped knees and stories of birds and battles, and Kento would scoop him up with ease, toss him into the air just to hear his laughter ring like a bell.
You’d watch him be a father. You’d watch him teach your son how to hold a bow—gently at first, guiding his small hands, whispering patient praise. You’d watch them argue, in the way children and their fathers do, about where the stars go when the sun rises. Kento would lose on purpose, feigning deep consideration before letting your son convince him that the stars must sleep behind the moon.
You’d sit in the garden while your husband reads out loud, his voice low, your son half-asleep on your lap while the olive branches murmur above your heads. Some days you’d fight, but it would never be over war. It would be about fruits left out too long; mud tracked on clean floors; your son’s cat left loose to steal fish from the kitchens once again.
At night, when the house is quiet and the wine is sweet, Kento would press kisses along your jaw, your neck, your fingers, as if to count the years he got to stay.
Your son would grow in front of both of you. You would argue about whether to cut his hair, and whether he should learn the sword before numbers. Kento would lift him high on his shoulders during the harvest festival, and you’d catch both of them stealing honey cakes from the tray.
You imagine watching him age; the way his shoulders would broaden, the lines by his eyes deepen with laughter and not grief and bloodshed. You’d grow old with him, and sit beside him on the same bench every dusk, tracing his palm, not searching for calluses left by war, but the ones left by work in the orchard, in the stone of your shared home.
Maybe—maybe—you would have had more children.
Maybe your halls would ring with more voices and more tiny feet. Maybe he would have taught your daughters to string a bow, just as gently as he taught your son. Maybe he’d have read to them, holding them in his lap, one hand still tangled in your own. Maybe on stormy nights, when the winds howled like gods against your windows, all of you would sleep in a tangle—limbs and breath and heartbeat; Kento curled beside you, one hand wrapped around your waist, another resting on your daughter’s foot.
Maybe.
But dreams are dreams, and dawn comes cruel.
You stand at the window until the stars blur through tears you refuse to wipe away. You press a hand to your belly, as if to call back that life. It isn’t real. You know this. Yet, when you finally turn from the window, crawl into the empty half of the bed carved from the olive tree, and curl around the hollow he once filled, you think:
I miss you. Come back to me.
The fire in your chamber is burning low, little more than a memory of warmth now. Its light flickers across the tiled floor, casting long, shapeless shadows against the stone walls. You sit at the edge of the bed, robes drawn tight around your frame, though the night is not very cold. Your fingers are idle, twisted in your lap.
The shawl you’ve pulled over your shoulders is soft but not warm, but it is dyed Kento’s favourite colour, and so, you plucked it out of your closet and draped it over yourself. Beneath the hush of the night and the distant echo of laughter from the great hall, you can hear the ocean.
The door creaks open. You do not have to look up to know it’s Kento’s nurse from the time he was a young boy. Eurycleia’s steps are familiar—uneven, a little heavier on the left, her sandals dragging ever-so slightly with each step. She has always walked like that, ever since she took a blade to the leg in some scuffle you do not know of.
She carries a basin in her hands, steam rising gently from it. The scent of crushed myrtle and olive oil follows her into the room.
“Leave it by the stand,” you say listlessly, eyes still on the fire.
But she doesn’t set it down.
“My queen,” she says, and her voice is not the voice she uses when she brings you wine or folds your linens. It is strained and urgent.
You turn slightly towards her. “What is it?”
Eurycleia moves closer, the basin shaking in her hands. A droplet of water splashes over the edge and lands on the stone with a soft pat.
“I saw it,” the old lady breathes. “I saw the scar.”
Your brow furrows.
“The scar,” she repeats, quieter now. “Just above his knee. The one from his boar hunt. The only one he carries.”
You freeze. For a moment, you cannot speak. You see it in your mind’s eye: the pale ridge of old flesh from years past, the way it curved slightly, a mark carved into him when he was still just a boy, too proud to stay down, too stubborn to yield.
“Eurycleia,” you whisper, but she is already moving forward, her voice trembling with emotion.
“It is him. I knew it the moment I touched him. I was washing his feet—just as I’ve done a thousand times before, for a thousand other guests—but when my hands reached that scar, I knew.” Her voice cracks. “My fingers remembered before my mind did.”
You swallow hard.
“He said nothing,” she goes on, “but his shoulders were the same, as were the weight of his hands, though worn. I wept, child—I fell to my knees and kissed his knuckles.”
“Don’t,” you say suddenly, too sharply. “Don’t say that.”
Eurycleia stops short.
You rise from the bed slowly, the shawl slipping down your arms. Your heart beats too loudly in your ears. You remember the beggar’s voice; the way he spoke of your marriage bed; the way he looked at you like he had seen your face before time had turned it older. You almost—almost—believed.
“He asked me not to tell you,” Eurycleia says, her voice catching on unshed tears. “But how could I keep it? Not when you’ve waited so long. Not when he is finally here—”
“I did not hear you.”
Eurycleia stares at you. You blink. A strange fog has descended behind your eyes. You can see her lips move, her mouth forming the words again. But they don’t reach you.
“Say it again,” you demand.
She tries. You see her throat work. You see the desperation rise in her eyes, the way her hands shake as she grips the basin tighter. Her lips part, but the sound dies before it reaches your ears.
You frown. “Eurycleia?”
The old maid gasps softly, as if something invisible has brushed against her throat. Her mouth opens again, but she cannot speak—or if she does, you cannot hear it. Only the fire crackles now. Only the sea murmurs beyond the walls.
“I… I must’ve been mistaken,” she whispers finally, though her eyes are wet. “Forgive me, my queen.”
You stare at her. Something is wrong. Something curls at the edge of your senses like mist. It presses against your skin, prickling like gooseflesh. But you cannot name it, or hold it.
Eurycleia bows her head. Her hands are trembling so hard she nearly spills the basin. She sets it down by the stand as you originally asked, but her eyes do not once leave your face.
“I’ll return come morning,” she murmurs.
You nod slowly, unsettled, your arms folded across your chest. The door closes behind her. You don’t know that a goddess stands silent in the shadows near the hearth, her hands still warm from weaving silence over your ears. Athena watches you with something like sorrow and something like pride. She does not smile. She does not move, either.
She knows your husband requires just one day more, and so, she must make you wait.
One by one, the suitors try.
First is Leiodes—the youngest, the most eager, his face still untouched by war or wear. He steps forward with forced confidence, brushing back his hair and muttering something about strength inherited. He kneels beside the bow and lifts it with reverence, though it’s clear he’s underestimated its weight. His arms tremble as he fits the string against the horn, teeth bared. He pulls—once, twice—but the string does not yield. The bow doesn’t even bend.
By the third attempt, his knuckles are white and the sweat on his brow betrays him. He looks towards you, perhaps hoping for mercy, perhaps hoping your gaze will soften. It does not. He drops the bow with a heavy thud and steps back, his pride folded beneath him like a damp cloth.
Next comes Eurymachus, chest puffed up with wine and mockery. He swaggered through the morning, but now, his laugh rings hollow. “She must have tricked the bow,” he says with a wink to the others. “Soaked it in oil, or warped the wood. Anything to keep from marrying any of us.”
The hall chuckles obligingly, but when he crouches down to try, the jest leaves his eyes.
Eurymachus is broad in the shoulders, used to wrestling, to hunting, to boasting—but not to being humbled. The bow creaks under his grip, but the string doesn’t budge. He braces it against his knee, then against the arch of his foot, hissing under his breath. His face flushes red. He snarls and digs in again, now angry, now reckless. The bow groans. The string twitches. But it does not yield.
He lets out a curse, harsh and guttural, and throws the bow down so hard, the sound echoes through the stone.
“It is cursed,” he mutters viciously. “Rotten with her dead husband’s shadow.”
Then Antinous approaches. The hall quiets at once.
He says nothing. Sharp-featured and sallow-eyed, he walks like a man already wronged. His jaw is clenched, the muscles in his neck drawn taut like bow strings themselves. He does not bow; he does not ask. He grips the bow with both hands, as if it had insulted him just by existing. His knuckles bleach to white. His fingers find the grooves carved by your husband’s hands—the marks left by years of war and duty. You think you see hesitation cross Antinous’ face, but pride burns hotter than sense.
He plants his feet, straightens his back, breathes out through flared nostrils. The wood groans. The string resists.
The tendons in his arms strain and quiver. Veins bloom down his forearms like vines under his skin. His shoulders lift, tense with effort, and still the bow refuses him. Antinous bites down hard—hard enough that blood beads at the edge of his lip. His face is blotched with rage now, mottled red and pink. The sweat on his brow trickles past his temple and into the collar of his tunic, soaking it dark.
The string moves, but only a breath.
You wonder briefly if he will break it, not out of anger, but out of fear. You wonder if he will destroy the thing that will not obey him, rather than admit his hands are not worthy. But in the end, he does not. With a growl low in his throat, like a cornered animal, he hurls the bow away. It strikes the stone floor with a sickening sound—a crack and rattle like bone hitting marble, brittle but final. Several of the suitors flinch.
Antinous turns away from the bow as if it has burned him. His hands are shaking. His mouth works soundlessly, and then he spits at your feet, full of fury, like the failure is yours to carry, like the bow was made to humiliate him and you were the one who strung it. It is an insult, yes, but when you look at him, you see not a man, but a child dressed in silk and silver, furious that the world does not bend at his command.
None of them—not Leiodes with his trembling hands, not Eurymachus with his curse-tainted tongue, not Antinous with his flame-fed fury—can meet your eyes, for the bow has bested them all.
Still—quiet, still, and watching—stands the beggar. You did not see him enter the hall; he slipped in quick as a minnow and twice as quiet. He has said nothing, and moved not an inch.
You watch him. Your hands are clasped too tightly before you, but you do not loosen them. Your heart, traitor as it is, pounds against your ribs.
He steps forward.
A hush falls, sharp and sudden—then breaks just as quickly as a wave against rock. Gasps flutter through the hall like startled birds, chased swiftly with laughter—loud, cruel, and incredulous.
Antinous barks it first, loudest, the sound brittle from the strain of failure still clinging to his limbs. His face, red from exertion and shame, twists into something venomous. “You, old man?” he jeers, spit flying out of his mouth. “You think you can do what princes cannot?”
More laughter follows, mocking and disbelieving. Eurymachus leans back, a goblet in hand, wine sloshing over the rim. “Let him try,” he drawls. “Maybe the gods will pity him and give him strength to match that stench.”
Leiodes winces as if in apology, but says nothing. Others lean forward, eager now, hoping for the final humiliation of the evening: a beggar trembling beneath a weapon meant for kings. But the beggar does not flinch.
“I ask only to try,” he says. There is no boast in his voice; only request. He steps fully into the light and bows low.
Your eyes meet his. You do not speak. You do not smile. You feel every gaze in the hall prickling your skin, waiting to see if you will laugh too, if you will dismiss him like the rest.
You nod.
They laugh harder when he lifts the bow, like hounds yipping at a wounded stag. You see it clearly in their faces, the slight upward curl of Eurymachus’ lip as he drinks in what he thinks will be a humiliation, the smug glint in Leiodes’ eyes as he leans forward like a spectator at some stageplay, and Antinous—Antinous, still bristling from his own failure, his hands bruised and red from trying to force the bow into obedience—stands with a sneer stretched tight across his face, certain that this will end in a joke.
It doesn’t.
The beggar turns the bow in his hands, slowly, reverently, and there is something in the motion—not practiced, but remembered—as though his fingers have not forgotten the shape of it, the weight of it, the grain of wood carved by a man who loved you. He lifts it to his knee, not rushing, not fumbling, and with a strength honed in absence, war, and silence, he strings it one smooth, effortless motion.
The sound it makes is sharp and sudden, a clean, taut hum that slices through the noise of the hall like a blade through silk.
Just like that, the laughter dies.
It dies in the back of their throats, in their chests, where the mockery was swelling and ready to burst. Eurymachus lowers his cup. Antinous blinks. Leiodes stiffens. All the noise in the hall collapses into silence, thick and stunned. Still they watch—thinking maybe, maybe, it was luck. Maybe he cannot draw it.
But he reaches for an arrow with a steady hand and fits it to the string like he was born to do it. He does not boast. He simply raises the bow and draws, arms steady, posture perfect, his breath shallow and even.
Then, he releases.
The arrow sings—a high, keening whistle—and you do not breathe as it sails through the hall, so fast and clean that the air seems to part around it. It hits its mark, perfectly. It slices through the twelve axe heads in a single breath, threading the impossible path with such elegance that it is almost unreal.
The silence that follows is absolute. It is the kind of silence that weighs on your shoulders, that hollows out your ribs, that makes the hair on your neck stand on end. Someone drops a goblet. It rolls against the floor and clinks softly against the stone.
He reaches for another arrow. He does not lower the bow, and when he speaks, his voice is steel and storm and grief.
“You thought I was gone,” he says, voice cutting like the winter wind. “You thought you could bleed my house dry. You courted my wife and slept in my halls. You dishonoured my name.”
Antinous opens his mouth, his face pale and drawn, some protest or insult already on the tip of his tongue—but he will never get to finish it.
The arrow finds his throat before the words can escape.
It drives straight through, sinking deep into the soft hollow above his collarbone. His eyes bulge with shock, blood blooming from his mouth like some vile flower. He stumbles back, choking, grabbing at the shaft with trembling hands before he collapses in a wet heap of limbs and cloth, twitching once before falling still.
The beggar—no, not the beggar, not anymore—shrugs off his rags.
He stands tall now, no longer stooped, no longer disguised by age or ash or dust. His shoulders are broad, his chest scarred, his hands steady. The torchlight catches on the jagged lines that mar his skin—scars you once kissed, and new ones that streak across his skin—and his eyes, when they meet yours from across the hall, are unmistakably his.
Kento.
You whisper the name, but no sound leaves your lips.
The hall erupts into chaos.
Chairs scrape across stone. Men leap to their feet, some cursing, some crying out in terror. A few rush for the door but none make it far. Kento is already moving, already shooting another arrow, this one through Eurymachus’ eye. Another man falls, screaming. A third tries to wrest a weapon from a pillar, but Kento is faster.
Your son bursts through the archway, breathless and wild-eyed, sword drawn but not yet stained. His voice is young and sharp, panic laced beneath the edge of command. “Mother!” he cries, cutting through the screams and the sobs and the clamour of war reborn in a dining hall.
You turn to him. He looks so much like Kento once did, and you can see the fear in his face—not for himself, but for you.
“You have to go!” he shouts, reaching for your arm. “Please—back to your chambers, now! It isn’t safe—he’ll protect us, but you have to move—go!”
Your feet feel rooted, your gaze still locked on the man with the bow—your husband, your fury, your grief—but then another arrow flies past, so close you feel the wind of it against your cheek, and instinct finally seizes you. You let your son pull you, let one of the guards posted outside the doors guide you away.
The sounds of vengeance rise behind you, as your husband’s war cry echoes off the walls like thunder, and all the men who dared defile his home begin to fall like wheat before the blade.
“I do not wish to see him.”
The shroud lies folded at the foot of your bed. You haven’t touched it since the day they scrubbed the blood from the dining hall. Three years it took you to weave, and now it lies finished—useless. Pale linen, soft as mist, with silver thread glinting faintly in the low morning light. Each stitch was a stall, a prayer, a plea for one more day. A ruse to delay the suitors, yes, but more than that: a map of grief, of waiting, of memory. You had woven your sorrow into the weft, hidden your hope in the thread. Every night, you unwove what you had crafted in daylight, as if the act could rewind time itself.
Your chambers are quiet. There is only the crackle of the hearth, and your son standing just past the threshold, shadowed by torchlight.
He does not speak at first. His hair is mussed, his tunic stained—not with blood, thank the gods, but ash, soot, dust. His sword is gone. His voice, when it comes, is too steady for someone so young.
“He asked for you,” he says, and then, hesitant: “I do not understand.”
You do not look at him. You trace a knot in the wood grain with your thumb.
“I do not wish to see him,” you say once more, as if saying it twice might make it true.
“You don’t mean that, mother.”
You turn then, just enough to catch his expression. His jaw is set—not in defiance, but in hurt and confusion.
“My father is alive,” your son says, as though you might have forgotten. “He is alive, and he came back, and he fought for us—for you—and you haven’t said a single word to him.”
You close your eyes. The crackle of the hearth, the soft whisper of linen shifting as you curl your fingers into the hem of your robe—these are the only sounds you let yourself hear. Your son waits patiently for you to speak.
“I know he’s alive,” you say, voice barely more than a breath. “I know he fought. I know he won. I know he stood in that hall and killed the men who made a mockery of this house, of our name, of me. I know all of it.”
Your son crosses the room slowly, crouching beside you like he did as a child, when storms shook the windows and he wanted only to be near your warmth. He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. You open your eyes and study his face—your boy’s face, a striking image of his father’s, only unlined and unwrinkled.
“And yet I cannot—” You swallow hard. “I cannot make my feet move toward him.”
“Why?” you son asks, his voice cracking now, no matter how hard he tries to steel it. “Why, mother? He is your husband returned after twenty years, and yet, last night, he slept on the cold, hard stone outside your door.”
You flinch.
“I saw him,” your son adds. “I went to find him. He hadn’t moved. He just sat there with his back against the wall, as if that was all he deserved.”
You press your lips together. “He left me,” you say. “He left us. And when he came back… he didn’t even say my name.”
Your son looks stricken, but he doesn’t argue. You go on. “He was kind and patient. But he spoke to me like I was a queen, not a wife. And I—I don’t know what to say to a man who carries so many ghosts in his silence.”
“He is trying,” your son says quietly. “He came back to find you. He sat in his own house like a beggar and bore every insult. He saw your face and did not cry out, did not ask for your love—he only waited.”
“I have been patient.” Your breath is slow and shallow. “He has changed.”
“Then so have you,” the prince says, and his face solemn when he says it. “You waited all these years. I saw you every night by the loom. I saw you unpick all the stitches of that wretched shroud by firelight, as if time could be rewritten with thread. You did not forget him, mother.”
Your hands twitch in his hold.
“And now he is here. And you are afraid.”
“I do not know what to say to him,” you whisper.
Your son smiles. “Say anything. Say nothing. Just look at him—I think that will be enough.”
You look toward the folded shroud, the linen pale against the bedcovers. Three years of weaving and unweaving; it was your lie, your shield, and your promise. Slowly, you rise.
“Have him brought to me,” you say. “And tell him he may sleep in warmth tonight.”
The king of Ithaca looks out-of-place in his own home.
He stands just past the threshold of your chambers, shoulders stiff, hands empty at his sides. In the firelight, he looks both older and younger than you remembered: lined with grief yet carved with something terribly familiar. His tunic is clean, but the scars along his arms, his throat, his cheekbones—those are worn like old jewellery, too many to hide. His hair is longer, and his eyes are dimmer but no less sharp. He looks at you like a man drowning.
You do not move from where you stand near the hearth. You do not rush to him. You watch him as you might watch a stranger, hands twisted into the folds of your robes.
At last, he speaks.
“I have no right to ask it,” he says, voice low and hoarse, “but I will fall to my knees here if I must. I have wronged you beyond measure. I left you to fend off wolves with no promise I would ever return. I broke every vow I made the day we were wed and I became your husband.”
You stay silent.
Kento’s mouth twists into something pained. “If you can find it in your heart… after all the wars I fought, the years I spent trying to escape the will of the gods, the blood that stains my hands—” He swallows thickly. “If there is even a sliver of love left in you for the man I once was, or the man I am now… I beg you, let me earn it again.”
The fire crackles between you, filling the room with an uneven, wavering glow. You lift your chin, your throat tight.
“Move our bed from this room,” you say.
For a moment, he only stares at you, his expression blank—then confused. His mouth opens, then closes again; and then his face crumples, not with sorrow, but with a sudden, furious kind of grief. He steps forward, one hand trembling at his side. His voice is rough, shaking with force when he speaks.
“You may curse my name,” he says. “Lock me out of my house. Disown me as your husband, deny me as father to our son. You can ask anything of me—anything—and I will give it to you without protest.”
His hands clench into fists.
“But please, my love,” he chokes out, “do not ask me to move our bed, for that would mean cutting it from the very roots of the olive tree where we first met.”
The silence that falls afterwards is a living thing, pulsing in the hollow spaces between your ribs. You are afraid to breathe.
Because you had not told a soul about the secret of your bed—how it was carved into the very roots of your house, how it could never be moved without tearing the room apart stone by stone. Only the two of you had known. Only the two of you would ever know.
Now you know it is truly him. Your hands fall to your sides. Your knees weaken. Your lips part before the sound comes. It escapes you like something long-buried, torn from the chest, raw with disbelief and aching and everything you have swallowed down for the last twenty years.
“...Kento,” you whisper. Then again, as your chest caves and your knees begin to give, the sob breaking loose from somewhere deep, “Kento.”
He’s at your side before you fall.
Strong arms catch you mid-collapse, wrapping around you with the kind of ferocity only born from long, painful absence. You feel the tremble in his limbs, the way his breath stutters against your temple. He holds you like something precious and already half-lost; his grip is sure and his embrace is unwavering. And you—gods, you cannot stop shaking. He doesn’t speak. He only pulls you closer.
You bury your face into Kento’s shoulder, into the torn fabric of the cloak he hasn’t removed, into the scent of dust and salt and smoke that clings to him. Your fingers twist into the fabric at his back, knuckles tightening from the force of it, as though you’re terrified he might disappear if you don’t hold him tightly enough.
Still, Kento tries.
Even as his own tears fall, as they track silently down his war-worn cheeks and drop into your hair, he tries to wipe yours first, with the heel of his palm and the trembling sweep of his thumb. It is foolish and futile. He can’t keep up. You’re both crying too hard, and still he tries—frantic and tender all at once, like he’s trying to undo the years with nothing but the press of his fingers to your skin. He kisses the salt from your cheeks and calls you by the name only he ever used: soft, low, sacred.
His hands are not the same. They are rough now, harder than they once were, palms callused and weathered from bowstring and blade. Faint scars web the skin—new ones, ones you do not know, gathered in battles far from home. They smell of blood and brine, of war.
But they are his hands, and they are still gentle.
So gentle as they cradle your face, as though the thought of hurting you is unthinkable. So warm that, for a moment, you forget the winters you endured without him. So familiar that your soul sings with the reminder that they had once held your son, your waist, your heart.
He leans down, forehead pressing to yours, your tears mixing now on skin that’s been too long apart. “I came home,” he breathes shakily. “I came home to you.”
When he kisses you, you let the years collapse around you. You let the time shrink to nothing between the press of your lips and his, and the memories of what’s passed pour into the space where his mouth meets yours.
His lips taste like longing, like salt and breath and yearning. The kiss tastes like two decades of grief—then joy, and disbelief. His mouth parts against yours and you breathe each other in like lifelines. Your hands move without thought, up his chest, over his shoulders, into the gold of his hair now dulled by dust and time.
Kento lifts you in one smooth motion, arms firm beneath your thighs, and you gasp—not from surprise, but from the sheer, crushing rightness of it. Of him. The world narrows to the span of his chest, the warmth of his body, the echo of his heart against his ribs.
He lays you on the bed like you are sacred. You still his hands, not because you want him to stop but because you want to look at him. His brow is furrowed, his eyes red. There’s blood beneath his nails, soot still clinging to his skin. But when your eyes meet his, there is nothing but tenderness there.
You reach for the hem of his tunic. He lets you strip him slowly, lovingly. He does the same for you.
It is not the rush of youthful hands anymore. He touches you like he’s learning a language he once knew but forgot. He kisses your shoulder, your ribs, the dip of your hip. You trace your fingers down the planes of his back. He trembles when you touch the scar on his side, and you lean forward to kiss it, too.
When you are both bare, Kento studies you, as though making sure you are real and not another trick played upon him by the gods. You kiss him again, and pull him down with you onto the bed you once swore you’d never share again.
The room is quiet, but for your breath; the creak of wood beneath you; and the soft, gasping litany of his name from your lips.
Kento is careful. Then he is not. Then he is careful again.
After, when the fire has burned low and the residual light spills across the sheets, you lie tangled in each other’s limbs, spent but warm. His arms are around your waist. Your leg is hooked over his hip. His chest rises and falls, steady beneath your cheek.
You touch his body like a scripture, relearning him through fingertips and memory. His breath hitches when your palm brushes over his ribs. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer. He turns towards you, eyes open now, lashes still damp with the tears you both shed, and he watches you as if you’re something made of starlight and all he has ever known is shadow.
You trail your fingers along his chest, over old wounds and new ones, mapping out every change like cartography; like if you trace every inch, you’ll understand what the years have done to him. His skin tells stories now: the long scar across his side, the faded one behind his shoulder, the cuts on his knuckles that weren’t there before. Each mark feels like a sentence in a book you never got to read until now.
“Here?” you whisper, brushing your thumb over a rough patch beneath his collarbone. Kento nods once.
“A blade, from the seventh year of the Trojan War.”
You kiss it. “And here?” You drag your finger down a line along his forearm.
“A javelin. It didn’t take, thank the gods.”
You hum, soft and sad, and keep going.
He touches you too—slowly, worshipfully—as though he is afraid you might shatter under his hands. His palms drift over your stomach, your arms, the curve of your breasts. He murmurs something about your hair being longer, about your voice sounding the same. About your heart still beating the same against his.
“It’s still you,” Kento says, and he kisses your throat like it might prove it.
In return, you run your hand through his hair—softer at the crown, streaked with silver at the temples now—and say, “I thought I had forgotten what your voice sounded like. But I hadn’t. It was always there, in the back of my mind.”
He presses his forehead to yours, and you lie like that for a long time, breathing each other in. You curl closer, your legs tangled with his, your hands pressed to the pulse at his throat. For the first time in twenty years, you both sleep without fear.
When morning comes, light spills pale and golden across the stone floors, soft and unthreatening, a blessing. You are still sleeping, a faint furrow between your brows, curled close to Kento’s side, one hand resting over his heart.
He does not wake you. Instead, he rises silently, wraps a cloak around his bare shoulders, and steps into the hall where Eurycleia waits with a basin of fresh water and a careful, tearful smile.
“My lord,” she whispers, bowing low.
Kento’s voice is quiet but steady. “Come,” he says. “Walk with me. There is much I must know.”
They walk slowly through the palace corridors, past the scattered wreckage of the battle that has not yet been fully cleaned away—the broken tables, the bloodstained curtains, the gouges in the marble where swords clashed and humans fell. The air still smells faintly of blood and iron.
Kento listens as Eurycleia tells him everything: how long you waited, how fiercely you fought to preserve your home and your honour. How you stalled the suitors with cleverness and grace. How you sat weaving that cursed shroud by day and unraveling it by night, a thousand little acts of defiance stitched into linen.
But when she speaks of the maids, her voice lowers, thick with shame.
“There were… some,” Eurycleia says carefully, her hands wringing into her robes, “who did not remain faithful to your lady, my lord.”
Kento’s mouth tightens but he says nothing yet.
“They—” Eurycleia swallows, as if the words taste bitter. “They aligned themselves with the suitors. Openly, and secretly, both. They mocked your house and betrayed their duties. They slept in the suitors’ beds and carried messages and plotted against your son and your wife.”
“How many?”
“Twelve, my lord. Twelve who forgot themselves. Twelve who forgot the kindness and shelter you and yours once gave them.”
They walk a few more paces before Kento stops, turning his face slightly towards the east windows where the sun is beginning to climb.
“And the rest?” he asks. “The ones who stayed loyal?”
Eurycleia’s eyes shine with tears. “Most did, my lord. Most remained true. They wept for your absence and prayed every night for your return.”
Kento nods slowly. His hands curl into fists at his sides—not out of anger alone, but out of something deeper: betrayal, yes, but also grief. Grief for the loss of innocence in a home he had worked so hard to reclaim.
“They will be spared,” he says. His voice brooks no argument. “The loyal ones shall be honoured for what they endured.”
“And the others?” the old maid asks quietly.
Kento does not answer right away. He looks back down the hall, toward the heavy doors of your chamber where you still sleep, exhausted after years of waiting and grieving. He thinks of the scars you bear—not just on your skin, but deeper, hidden in the quiet places of your heart.
“They will answer for what they have done,” he says finally, as cold and steady as the sea. “But not today, and not—”
There is a thud of quick footsteps—the half-clumsy, half-careful sound of youth—and his son rounds the corner, his hair mussed from sleep, his tunic crooked. His eyes are the same colour as yours, and that was how Kento had identified him in the first place, and hatched the plan to get rid of all the suitors plaguing his home. His face is bright with something that is almost wonder.
Kento straightens instinctively, and the boy—no, not a boy, a man now, taller even than Kento—halts awkwardly before him. He shifts his weight from foot to foot like a child caught sneaking sweets from the kitchens.
He stares, not at Kento’s sword or his scars or his face, but at him, drinking him in like a man starved for memory.
“My lord,” your son says at last.
Then, without waiting for permission, he steps forward and clasps Kento’s arm in both of his, in a grip that is too tight and too eager to be anything but a son’s love. Kento lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and clasps him back, their foreheads almost brushing as they stand there, caught between strangers and family.
“I dreamed,” your son says in a rush, the words tripping over each other, “of what you would be like. When I was small, mother would tell me stories—of how you carved, and sailed, and were cleverer than the gods themselves—but she never said your hands would be so big—” he laughs a little, boyish despite his years—“or your voice so quiet.”
Kento smiles faintly, something wry and aching tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You grew taller than I ever expected,” he says.
“And you came home,” your son says, breathless. “You came back.”
Kento lays a hand on the back of his son’s head, fingers threading through golden, sleep-ruffled hair. It is a touch both unfamiliar and natural, as though some old instinct, long-buried, has risen back to the surface without thought.
Behind them, Eurycleia dabs at her eyes, sniffling quietly.
“Come, mother must hear this,” your son says, tugging at Kento’s hand like he is still a boy of five and not a man grown and blooded in battle.
Before Kento can refuse, he is already being pulled down the hall, back to your chamber door, which he gazes upon with something like dread and longing all at once. The door creaks open under your son’s hand. Inside, you still sleep, curled in the tangled sheets. The hearth fire has burned low, embers breathing faint orange against the stone. Outside, doves coo softly from high eaves.
“Mother,” your son calls gently, stepping inside and dragging his father in with him. “Wake up. There is someone here who owes us a great many stories.”
You stir at the sound of their voices, slow and reluctant, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. You shift beneath the linen, the cool air whispering across your bare shoulders, and then you blink up at the sight of them—your son’s bright face, and behind him, Kento, standing stiffly, as though he fears he will frighten you.
It is almost too much, the sight of them together—the boy you raised and the man you mourned—and for a moment, you simply lie there, drinking in the sight of them.
“Stories?” you rasp, your voice rough with sleep.
Your son grins. “He must tell us of his journeys. Of how he outwitted monsters and gods. I won’t let him leave this room until he does.
Kento lets out soft, breathless chuckle, something rusty with disuse, as if he has forgotten the sound of his own laughter.
“If your mother wishes it,” he says, “then I will tell you everything.”
You sit up slowly, gathering the sheets to your chest, your heart pounding strangely in your ribs. Your husband’s eyes find yours, and there is a hesitation there: a silent asking. You nod, and he comes forward at last, sinking to sit beside you at the edge of the bed.
“Start from the beginning,” your son insists eagerly, flinging himself onto a nearby stool like a boy half his age.
Kento glances at you once more, seeking permission. And you, who have waited a lifetime, who have unraveled your days into threadbare hope, reach out and rest your fingers against his knee.
It is enough.
He draws in a breath, long and steady. He speaks slowly at first, as if the words are heavy on his tongue after so many years of silence.
“I left,” Kento says, his hand resting lightly over yours where it rests on his knee, “with little more than my sword, a handful of men, and the blessing of the gods—though I am not sure, now, if it was a blessing at all.
“The war dragged on longer than we ever dreamed. Ten years of siege. Ten years of watching good men fall. Friends… brothers-in-arms… And then there was the journey home. Worse, in some ways. The gods are not kind to men who outlive their victories.”
He speaks of lotus-eaters and Cyclopes; of cannibals and sun-cattle; of shipwrecks and sirens; of men turned into beasts by the whims of witches, and of endless, hungry seas that swallowed the unwary whole. He speaks of betrayals and broken oaths; of false harbours and cruel storms; and of besting the sea god with his own trident.
At times, he falters. His voice catches on certain words, and though your son urges him on with eager questions, Kento’s gaze always returns to you, as if anchoring himself with the sight of you, alive and breathing.
At last, he whispers, “There were nights when I thought… perhaps it would be easier not to return. Perhaps it would be a mercy to let the sea claim me, as it claimed so many others.”
You reach for him then, instinctive and sure, your fingers brushing the back of his knuckles. His hand turns at once, catching yours, threading his rough fingers between yours with a gentleness that breaks your heart all over again.
“But then, I would remember the stories I had promised to tell. The ones you would be waiting to hear. And here I am,” Kento finishes, a little hoarsely, “with nothing but scars and memories to offer.”
There is a long silence. The morning light has grown brighter, casting warm bars across the stone floor. Your son shifts, glancing between you both with a frown of sudden seriousness.
“You are wrong,” he says, surprising you. His voice has changed—no longer the eager boy but the man he has become. “You brought yourself back to us. That is enough.”
Kento turns to look at him fully, and something flickers in his eyes—something you think might be pride, sharp and swift and fierce.
“And you are more than enough to make the years worth it,” he says.
Your son flushes, ducking his head, embarrassed. But you catch the smile he tries to hide, and give him one of your own. Kento turns back to you. His hand still cradles yours carefully, as if he fears you might slip away if he lets go. You search his face—the new lines, the quiet grief carved into them—and find only the man you never stopped waiting for.
“I have more stories,” he says, a little shyly.
You smile, the first true smile you have allowed yourself in years. “Then you must tell them all.”
So he does.
Kento stays, sitting at the edge of your wedding bed, your son sprawled on the floor like a boy again, and you curled among the tangled sheets, listening as your husband speaks the years back into existence—until the sun climbs high and the day outside the palace walls is no longer new.
Later, when the sun hangs high and the world beyond your chamber calls for duty and rebuilding, you stay hidden away in the quiet.
Kento sits behind you, his knees bracketing your hips, a simple wooden comb in his hand. Slowly, carefully, he works through the tangles of your hair. The comb drags gently from crown to end. His hand follows after, smoothing the strands, his touch so light it barely stirs the air.
Your robe slips lower with each movement, baring your shoulders to the firelight. The hearth crackles quietly, the smoke sweet with cedar.
“I should have come sooner,” Kento says, after a long while. His voice is low, close to your ear. “I tried. Gods know I tried.”
You say nothing, only tilt your head forward, offering more of yourself to his hands.
“There is one story I did not tell you, because I was ashamed to say it in front of our son,” he says, and the comb stills for a moment against your scalp. He drags in a slow breath before continuing. “There was a goddess on an island far from here.”
You hum, noncommittal.
“She found me after the shipwreck. I had nothing.” He huffs a bitter, humourless breath against your temple. “No crew, no ship, no hope left in me. She said she would save me, and she did.” His hands return to your hair, combing through steadily now.
“She gave me food and a bed. She healed my wounds. And when I could stand again, she told me I would stay. That I was hers.” He pauses, slowing as the comb catches on a stubborn knot. Gently, carefully, he works it loose with his fingers.
You say nothing, your breath shallow in your chest.
“She offered me immortality; a life without pain or fear. She said she would make me forget everything. Forget Ithaca. Forget you.” Kento’s voice cracks slightly, like a blade drawn too tightly across a whetstone. “I refused her. I told her no. Again, and again—but it did not matter.”
The fire pops in the hearth, unnervingly loud in the silence.
“She… she did not need my permission.” His hand trembles against your hair. “I fought her. For years, I fought her. I counted every sunset, every turn of the seasons. Seven years. Seven years of dreaming of your face and waking up to hers.”
You turn your head slightly, enough to catch the sight of his face over your shoulder. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears, his mouth drawn tight with sorrow.
“If I had found a way to escape sooner,” he whispers, “our son would have been only three-and-ten. Still young enough to need a father. Still soft enough not to know how to raise a sword.”
He drops the comb, letting it fall with a soft thud to the furs beside you. His hands find your shoulders, pulling you back against his chest. He wraps himself around you like armour, burying his face into the curve of your neck.
“I am sorry. For every year I was not here; for every tear you wept while I was lying in a false paradise,” he says, breath hot against your skin. “If you ask me to atone for it until my dying day, I will.”
His voice drops lower still, thick and desperate. “I only beg you—do not doubt that I was yours, even then. Every breath I took belonged to you. Every one.”
You turn in his arms. His hair is tousled, coarse between your fingers. He is trembling—this strong, steady man you have loved since youth—and he looks so, so tired.
You kiss him once, soft and chaste.
And again, your hand cradling the side of his face, feeling the stubble scrape against your palm. And again, more fiercely, pouring into him all the words you cannot yet speak aloud.
You kiss him until he shudders and breaks, a low, desperate sound escaping from deep within his chest. You kiss him until the sadness spills from him like a wound finally allowed to bleed clean. You kiss him until he believes you are real beneath his hands, until the guilt begins to crumble from his shoulders.
Ushijima Wakatoshi x fem!reader
Angst and fluff, friends to lovers, Oikawa suffers
Y/N was at Kitagawa first, friends with Oikawa and Iwaizumi. Oikawa always had a crush on her, but was too insecure to say anything. It didn’t help that, by the time he had worked up some more courage, it was the end of middle school, and they all found out where they would be going. He would be at Aoba Johsai, and she would be a Shiratorizawa.
Fast forward two years. They have stayed in touch, talking every day, to every week, to every month or so. It’s a nice message, and they usually click like they haven’t spent weeks in radio silence. Every so often, they will meet in person somewhere, usually at one of Aoba Johsai’s games, and go to a cafe or something afterwards to catch up.
Today, Y/N arrived at Sendai City Gymnasium a little early just to find the team before the games started. She chatted with old friend s like they hadn’t missed a beat. It was perfect. And then they played their game. That was perfect too. Oikawa was at the top of his game. Tomorrow, they would play Shiratorizawa. He looked to Y/N in the stands, the way he always did when they won. He liked to celebrate with her at the same time as the team. But when he saw her, he noticed, for the first time that day, that she was wearing a purple jacket. A school jacket. It unnerved him slightly, more because he hadn’t really seen it before. But it didn’t really matter.
As they all left the building, Y/N walked with them. She congratulated them on their win and complimented Iwaizumi’s power in spiking. Oikawa whined at his lack of praise. Before she could respond, the team chatter was muted by the group across the hall. Oikawa was so focused on Ushiwaka as a concept, he didn’t notice Y/N locking eyes with him. She walked over to with a blush and a small smile.
“Ushijima-san.”
“Wakatoshi. Please.”
Her smile widened. “Wakatoshi-san. I was watching your game. You played really well.”
A smile began to show on Ushiwaka’s face too now. “Thank you. I’m glad you were there.”
He gave a small bow before catching up with the rest of his team. Y/N returned it and stayed put as he walked off.
“What was THAT?!” flew out of Oikawa’s mouth before he could think. The whole team had halted when they saw Shiratorizawa, and now their captain was effectively stunned immobile. It was Iwaizumi who walked over to Y/N, also stationary, to bring her back to the group.
“Are you two friends or something?” he asked.
“Sort of? We’ve been sitting at lunch together lately. Sometimes I’ll tell him about my day and he doesn’t say much, but he’s definitely listening.”
“How could you do that to me?” Oikawa whined as they got closer. “You know he’s my mortal enemy!”
“Stop being so dramatic,” scolded Iwaizumi. “Though I do kinda hate the guy.”
“He’s really not that bad.”
“He’s horrible!” Oikawa shouted. “And you called him by his first name!”
“Yeah,” Y/N mumbled with a blush.
“Don’t tell me you’re into him,” Iwaizumi said.
“I mean…”
Oikawa felt his stomach churning. Was this karma? The punishment for never, in all the years he had liked her, confessing his feelings? The universe was a cruel, fickle thing indeed to treat him this way. To have his friend and crush be fawning over his sworn enemy. He must have done something truly awful in a past life.
“…Yeah, he’s hot and everything. But he barely speaks to me. When I ask him questions, he answers them with so few words. Though I think that might just be the way he is. Anyway, we’ve never even called ourselves friends.”
They kept walking towards the exit as Y/N explained herself. Iwaizumi looked at her inquisitively, but Oikawa had his eyes straight forward. All of this hurt him in a way he didn’t know he could feel pain. It was dull and crushing, like a net slowly constricting his body. He’d heard her talk about guys she was into before, he knew exactly what that sounded like. It was this. Iwaizumi then stated the very fact Oikawa was trying to forget.
“You must at least be friends. Otherwise he wouldn’t have told you to call him by his first name.”
“I hope so,” Y/N said with a shy smile.
The team had to go back to their school gym for notes, so Y/N asked if she should wait for them and then they could go to a cafe. Oikawa swiftly declined, saying he would be too tired. Iwaizumi looked confused, but Y/N didn’t question it.
After that day, Oikawa began to distance himself. At the match against Shiratorizawa, Oikawa barely talked to Y/N, who was attending as part of the student cheering section. She wrote it off as the sting of defeat. He replied slower, never initiated conversations, and showed no interest in Y/N attending their practice matches. He always said he was just busy. Eventually, Y/N began to worry. She was still messaging Iwaizumi regularly, and he was still inviting her to watch their games. And when she was with the two boys in person, nothing changed. So one day, she messaged Iwaizumi: “hey, is everything ok with Oikawa? He hasn’t been himself with me lately.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s just moody.”
Y/N wasn’t totally sure what that meant, but something told her it was about her blossoming friendship with Wakatoshi. After that, she made an effort never to bring it up in front of Oikawa.
As all of this was happening, Y/N was getting closer to Wakatoshi. Not long after the Inter-High preliminary tournament, he officially called them friends. They began meeting up outside of school to study. Then it became cafe dates or walks in the neighborhood. They started walking hand in hand after a little while. Hugs became the typical greeting. Once, he kissed her hand after walking her home. But Y/N wouldn’t let herself be deluded into thinking she was his girlfriend. Not until he said it. After all, she had picked up that emotions and communication did not come naturally to him. If any of this were to go further, she wanted to be at his pace and on his terms. She wanted him to be comfortable.
Just before the spring tournament, things became official. It was a totally regular day at school, until Wakatoshi asked her to meet him on the roof after classes. She was greeted by a stiff and nervous Wakatoshi holding a bouquet of flowers.
“Wakatoshi-san… what is all of this?”
“I wanted to ask you something. Properly. I’m not good at this, so I asked Tendou, and he said it should be private. He also said I should get you flowers.”
In one fluid motion, he thrusted his arm forward to hand her the bouquet.
“These are for you,” he stated loudly. Perhaps it would not have been clear to an onlooker, but Y/N knew he was nervous and certainly stepping out of his comfort zone. She tried desperately not to jump to conclusions. Perhaps he wanted to ask her something else.
“They’re beautiful. What did you want to ask me?”
“I wanted to ask,” Wakatoshi cleared his throat. “Would you like to be my girlfriend?”
A smile erupted on Y/N’s face. She walked over and hugged him tightly, murmuring a “yes” into his chest. She looked up at him and saw the gentle smile that so seldom appeared.
Oikawa didn’t know where to sit. In truth he wasn’t sure why he was here. Pure spite was fueling him today, in the hopes that watching someone else face defeat would make his feel better. He decided to sit high in the stands, in a feeble attempt to convince himself he didn’t care much for the game. His eyes were trained on Ushiwaka as everyone was warming up. He was a tower, stoic and statuesque with his perfect form. It was truly infuriating how he barely ever faltered.
The captains shook hands and walked to warm up. Oikawa watched as Ushiwaka turned around and waved to the cheering section as he walked to the end line. He never did that. Following his gaze, Oikawa peered into the sea of students to see who he was waving to. In the very front row, blowing a kiss back to him, was Y/N.
She looked so happy. Still wearing her purple and white school uniform, she shouted back at him:
“Good luck Wakatoshi-san!”
Her voice was drowned out by the noise in the gym, and yet Oikawa heard it clear as day. As though his ears were tuned to her exact frequency. And it broke his heart brand new way. She was still calling him by his first name. He waved to her specifically. She blew a kiss to him. Oikawa knew enough about his sworn rival as well as his friend to be sure that wasn’t just some random event. Ushiwaka was not a man of words, barely of gestures, and despite his fans never acknowledged his audience. Y/N was not reckless with her affection. She would never blow a kiss to someone that would not be happy to receive it. Oikawa’s mind ran faster than his heart, gears clicking as a conclusion was reached. He knew, he was sure, that his friend, his crush, his Y/N was in a relationship with the infamous and vile Ushiwaka for about two seconds before his heart caught up. But when it did, there was a weight on his chest.
“I didn’t expect to see you.”
Iwaizumi helped to get Oikawa’s mind off things. They could just watch the game as a game. The cheering section just became a mass of faceless noise. But the weight of it all remained.
Once the game and ceremony were over, Y/N rushed to the ground floor as fast as she could. The halls were crowded as she wove her way to her boyfriend. He was still on the court, just sort of standing like he didn’t know how to move his body. Breaking past a wall of students trying to exit, she ran onto the squeaky wood floor and wrapped her arms around Wakatoshi. He held her gently in return.
“I’m very sweaty.”
“Don’t care,” she said into his jersey. He held her a little tighter. She raised her head to look him in the eye. He was expressionless, but not in his usual way. It was the blank face one makes when they have been snuck with a blow to the belly, just before the pain sets in.
“You played well.”
“We’re not going to nationals. We lost.”
“I know. But you still played well. I’m proud of you.”
Wakatoshi collapsed a little, letting his head rest on her shoulder as he clutched her closer still.
“Thank you.”
It was just about then that the team had to pack up and head to the club bus. Wakatoshi left a kiss on her forehead before he joined the rest of them. Y/N turned around towards the exit, only to find Oikawa standing stunned in the gym doorway.
“Hey! Didn’t realize you came to watch today,” she said in a chipper voice.
Oikawa looked and felt betrayed.
“You’re dating him?”
“Oh. Yeah, we’re official.” Y/N considered apologizing. He looked so hurt, she felt she had to. But had he not seen this coming? And what was there to be sorry for? Wakatoshi was a kind person and a wonderful boyfriend. Y/N decided not to say anything else.
“And you really like him?” Oikawa asked with audible disgust. It made Y/N sad. Maybe even angry, that he was so revolted by a man he barely knew.
“I do. He’s sweet, and honestly I don’t understand all that you have against him. I hope one day you can get over this dumb rivalry. Maybe then we can really be friends again.”
“I hope so too.”
Y/N walked past Oikawa, exited the building, and got on the bus headed back to Shiratorizawa.
I’d like to write something exploring the way he talks to people. We see it a few times throughout the show, but since he’s not on Karasuno, it’s less than I would like. It’s all of the captains, really, that have this trait. They are observant. They know how to talk to each of their people to get them in the right headspace. We see it best with Daichi and Takeru in the Wakutani Minami match. But Kuroo is a little different. He’s not just observant, not just encouraging, he’s cunning. Of course he can bring his teammates back into the game, of course he can remind them when they’re struggling that they’re still doing well. He knows his way with words. But that can be turned on its head. To be observant and to be eloquent is to be manipulative, when used in a certain way. Which is precisely what Kuroo does. (It’s also what I do, though I’m trying not to lately.) He has the gall to use his skills to manipulate, though not necessarily maliciously. It’s just to get Tsukki to stop block for them. But I wonder when he might be pushed to use his sharp tongue for more harmful purposes. Probably when he’s mad, probably when part of him wants to make others hurt the way he’s hurting.
Idk maybe I’ll write something where he gets into an argument with his person (probably y/n) and hits them where it hurts.
i have this karasuno headcannon that suga, daichi and/or kiyoko got so sick of losing their players before games that they taught the entire team how to do bird ( specifically crow ) calls and whenever they need to do a quick roll call thats what they use
once at the training camp fukudorani and nekoma teamed ip together to steal hinata and tsukishima and when karasuno realized daichi just tiredly whistled and hinata and tsukishima were instantly found
bokuto was so impressed that he tried to get his team to learn owl calls too but akaashi said no
something about how maxwell assumes his alter ego by removing layers, not adding them. something about the animal violence held back and smothered by thin layers of civility and rules, like ripling muscles disguised by starched waistcoats, like satin gloves on bruised fists.
something about how rowdiness is something uncouth, of the lower classes, to be avoided by the Nice Well-To-Do Young Men of Gath. something expected of someone like Van, so she has never seen need not to embrace it. something about how Gotches Stay On The Ground, (never get their hands dirty) about how the first word another character used to describe Maxwell was "obedient"
something about how "-well" is a family naming convention, how in the ring he is "the max", no well, no gotch, just him stripped of the ways in which his family seeks to define him.
who are you when you are most yourself?
does it scare you? should it?
something about satin over bruised knuckles. something about taking it off.
saw a theory that the SmokeStack twins were posing as one man in Chicago, which helped them get away with stealing from both sides. i'm poised to believe that because visually their clothing was very clearly of the two mobs. smoke was full irish— tweed, bowler hat. while stack had the full mafia look. yk italian leather shoes, fedora etc etc . like the details!!
Sam Reich is even more terrifying when you realize he’s the one person on tumblr who’s had the motive, means, and opportunity to steal the president’s shoelaces
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turnnoffyourmind
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