The irony was not lost on Esme of what it meant for Tristan to be in this class. Granted, he hadn’t been one of the worst when it came to the whispers in the hall, and while he wasn’t excused by any means, she could understand on some level why his jealousy had manifested in the way it did. She could laugh now that it had all started over Miles, but she wasn’t laughing so much back then.
In large part, yoga had become a quiet headspace for Esme to forget everything else, every other vice she knew to cope; shut out how easy it was to use the pills, the sex, the overt willingness to do or be whatever to win over her target and just breathe for what felt like the first time in her life. It could have been a threat to that sanctity for Tristan to “infiltrate”, but it was so far a testament to how hard she was working that she was still there, still breathing. And she got a smile out of him already, that was surely a start.
“I have yoga blocks if you want to weigh that down.” The offer came forth naturally based on what would personally irritate Esme herself, whether Tristan would take the gesture to heart or not. Smirking at the inquiry, she turned to shuffle her day’s notes into a stack, unsure of the intention of his tone but nonetheless answering with, “no more than usual, but we’ll see how I feel. I probably have something up my sleeve for this afternoon’s class at least.”
Comparisons weren’t helpful. Tristan knew that, and he could tell himself the same thing over and over, but somehow, that wouldn’t keep himself from doing it. If he thought about it too hard, he’d get all wrapped up in how much deeper it went than dance, or a downward-facing dog, but yoga wasn’t the time for that. Besides, if anything was going to throw him off his game it’d be overthinking.
Esme was intimidating, in ways that ran deep. Between the talent, Miles, and her… forthright at best attitude, she was a struggle to keep up with. Sometimes, it felt like a perk of having her as an instructor. The distant, wild fantasy of outdoing her at her craft was a great motivator, but a hollow one. One that crumbled every time she made a point of correcting his form. Maintaining his strength and getting better at doing so was the important thing, and snark wouldn’t get him there, but he was a human being. A particularly petty one, at times.
“I think I’ll manage, thanks,” Tristan replied, to his own detriment. Immediately, he regretted it; he knew he’d barely manage to flatten it by the end of the session, but accepting help would feel like a loss. The competition was only in his head, but that made it all the more important to win. He settled on his knees, grabbing the foam, flexing it in the opposite direction. “You’ve always got something up your sleeve. Wouldn’t be a real Esme session if you didn’t ask for at least one contortionist act…”
