Chapter Text
“dance when you’re broken open. dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. dance in the middle of the fighting. dance in your blood. dance when you’re perfectly free.”
— rumi.
-
Laurent had always been the best. That was just one of the facts of life; Auguste was good at math, fall came before winter, and Laurent was the best dancer in the city.
“It’s a small city,” His Uncle had said one day. “Don’t get a big head.”
(“Fuck that.” Auguste had said to Laurent in the country club’s bathroom right after. “You’re the fucking best, Lau. Fuck anyone who wants you to be any less.”)
And Laurent had loved dancing. When he was little, his mother used to tell him stories about angels dancing ballet, how their turns made stars and how they had wings on their feet, too.
When a stray bullet caught his gentle father’s heart, he danced. When his Mother died, he danced. When Auguste moved out, he danced. When his Uncle moved in, he danced. The rules were always the same, in ballet. There was right and wrong and no in-betweens and that was the way Laurent wished his life to be.
Which is why Damen presented such a problem when they met.
Damen was art, beautiful in a way that made you miss home, soft to look at and impossible to touch. He was water, grey from paints, and he was clay, a blank slate ready to become whatever you needed him to be.
Laurent first sees him when he drops Jokaste’s jacket off during second hour. It’s a turn day (the worst days, in Laurent’s opinion) and he should look out of place against the muted colors of the studio, but he doesn’t. That’s the first time Laurent realizes Damen always looks like he belongs, like God put the stars in the sky just to hang over his head.
After that, Laurent finds out his name. (His schedule, too, but he flushes at the piece of paper and shoves it into his locker. What would he even do with that? “Oh, hey, it’s me, Laurent, remember when we never met?”)
Damianos Akielon. It’s not a rough name, but it’s thick on Laurent’s tongue. He says it over and over until it sounds right. He’ll introduce himself, one day.
Maybe.
—
The first time they meet, Laurent sees him in the reflection in the mirror as he performs, and almost trips over his own feet.
(Almost. The boy may be a work of art, but Laurent is still the best dancer in the city.)
The music ends, and Laurent’s entire body is burning, but he whips around and squints his eyes at the older boy. “Can I help you?” He tries not to let his voice sound unsteady, but his chest is heaving wildly.
Damianos smiles widely. “You’re beautiful.” He states, like it’s a fact. Laurent flushes and grinds the point of his shoe into the worn wood of the school’s dance studio. The other dancers have lined up around the room, waiting to go across the floor.
“I messed up my pirouettes,” Laurent replies, almost silent, his head still facing the ground. He isn’t really sure why he says it, but it seems to come out easily when he knows Damen is the only one listening.
“Nothing about that–nothing about you is messy,” Damen answers airily, like this was something he often said to people he had just met. Laurent blushes again, despite himself, and looks over to see his teacher’s annoyed face. He got some leniency, because he was the best, but ballet teachers were still ballet teachers.
“Don’t you—” Laurent stops that train of thought before it begins. “Go to class, Damianos.” He finishes, trying to be dismissive but just sounding embarrassed.
The brown boy raises an eyebrow and smiles so bright it almost blinds Laurent. “How do you know my name, ballerina?”
This time, Laurent decides it’s in his best interests to just line up for the combination than to reply to the art major that has, somehow, taken over his life.
—
They see a lot more of each other, that week. “I’m starting to think you’re skipping class to see me, Damianos.” Laurent snarks after he finds Damen watching him once again.
“Damen.” The artist replies, before rushing to explain. “You can call me Damen.”
“I’m sure I could, Damianos,” Laurent replies, stressing his full name. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“I didn’t know dance majors knew how to have fun,” Damen answers sarcastically. Laurent raises an eyebrow. He’s still taken aback by Damen’s ability to keep up with him, sometimes.
“Oh, no, they do, but not me.” This time Damen raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard? I’m frigid.” Laurent remarks drily. There’s a moment where Damen processes what he’s said, and becomes startlingly glad he’s too dark to blush.
“I–I didn’t mean–” He starts to recover, but is stopped by the weight of Laurent’s foot in his lap.
“Pointe work is next.” A pause. “Attend me.” Laurent continues, like he shouldn’t have had to say anything at all. The presence of Laurent’s skin, soft and milky, so close to Damen’s own is...overwhelming, to say the least. Damen lets his eyes wander from Laurent’s ankles, small and elegant, to his calves, strong but still gentle, to his thighs, toned and beautiful. He wonders how they feel, underneath his thumbs, while Laurent is saying his name and– “Please.” Laurent grits out, drawing Damen back to reality.
Laurent looks at his face as he picks up the ribbons. The afternoon sun, streaming in and making the harshness of the hallway soft, letting the dust float in the air like flower petals, makes Damen look like an angel, the glow of outdoors coming around his crown of unruly curls, his ears (which are somehow splattered with paint) fuzzy around the edges from being swallowed in the light.
Laurent looks away.
Damen should, truthfully, be in his own wing of the school, not carefully crossing pink ribbons over Laurent’s ankle, but here he was.
When they were thirteen and Jokaste had finally been eligible for pointe class, him and her had watched countless videos on how to care for your pointe shoes, how to break them in and tie them and blah blah blah. By now, the bow in the back and the tightness of the string comes like second nature to him.
(Without meaning to, he had tied a loose string around his finger in the same way at his father’s funeral. He closes his eyes at the thud of the casket against the dirt.)
He looks up when he’s done with both feet, afraid to push them off his lap for fear they’ll never be there again. Laurent looks surprised at how good he did, and Damen can’t stop himself from giggling.
Damen’s laugh sounds right, in gentle moments like this. (It always sounds right, to Laurent, but especially now, when everything seems like a frozen photo.) “I am known for being good with my hands, ballerina.” Damen jokes, wiggling his clay and paint-stained fingers through the air. (Which is technically true. Damen is the darling of the art department.)
Laurent blushes and pulls his feet off Damen’s lap as the bell rings. “Go to class, Damianos.” He replies, rushing into the studio and refusing to look back for fear of embarrassing himself again.
—
Laurent can’t seem to escape Damen’s clutches after that, but not in a way that makes Laurent’s chest tighten, like being on a witness stand or sleeping in the same bed as a man whose face he has scratched out from memories. In a way that made it feel like Laurent was the tail of a dog, always being chased and mostly elusive, except, sometimes, Damen managed to chomp down on him.
Like now, in the hallway after school, Laurent closes his locker a little harder than he means to. He’s angry, because he loves Erasmus but if the boy messes up the combination one more time Laurent is going to snap his fucking neck, but the noise makes the blond flinch a little, even as he grits his teeth to try and stop the reaction. He stares at his closed locker for a moment, in a way that means he’s forgotten a part of himself somewhere. He closes his eyes like his therapist taught him too, retraces his steps, and picks the pieces of himself back up. A bad day is not a bad life, he chants in his head. The sound of something as heavy as a very young or extremely elderly cow falling against the lockers next to him makes his eyes snap open, and he is face to face with Damen, again. He feels himself being chased, again.
He’s not sure if it’s a feeling he entirely hates.
“Damianos,” He greets curtly, turning in the opposite of direction. Vannes is waiting for him in her car on the side of the school, and he really doesn’t have time to hear her complain about how he’s always late even though she’s, like, his only friend. Damen laughs and moves to keep up with Laurent’s brisk steps. Laurent’s legs are sore from practice, but he doesn’t let it show just to spite Damen, even though he knows he’s not really spiting anyone.
“Laurent,” Damen replies, amusement evident. “I see you’re in a rush. Do you catch the bus? I could give you a ride home and save you the sprint.” Laurent’s pace has increased significantly, to the point where people around him are looking at the two of them strangely.
“No, thank you, Vannes is driving me home.”
“Oh, Vannes? Creative writing girl? Is she your friend?” Laurent stops abruptly at the end of the hallway in front of the side doors and takes something very close to joy in seeing Damen fumble to a stop at the abrupt halt Laurent had made.
“Damianos—”
“Damen,”
“Whoever you are, please do not concern yourself with who I am and am not friends with. This is your first official warning from management.” At this, Damen smiles, almost laughs, and has something dancing in his eyes that makes Laurent want to write his name over and over in the corner of his Math notebook (which he totally had not done, fuck you). “Thank you.”
Damen doesn’t falter as he digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “In case there are any other official warnings.” Then, he has the audacity to saunter away, like this is a GAP ad with SZA playing in the background and not a Midwestern high school hallway. He looks so out of place, and yet, he seems to belong more than anyone Laurent’s ever known.
(That night, unable to focus on the Math he hadn’t been paying attention to in class, Laurent stares at the front pocket of his backpack, where he had shoved the piece of paper gifted to him before Vannes could ask. After a long moment and a few taps of his pen against the light wash of the wood, Laurent pulls out the paper, carefully examining the outside for booby traps before unfolding it.
It’s a sketch of him, or, seven sketches of him, mostly looking annoyed, the blue of his eyes splashed lazily with watercolor. At the bottom, there’s a little drawing of Laurent in a heart, and his name is written so, so carefully across the top. He traces his fingers over all the times Damen had erased, over all the lines that he deemed weren’t worthy enough of Laurent’s name. Something bubbles in his stomach as he regards the phone number scribbled onto the bottom of the page, as if Damen had decided to do it last minute and folded the paper quickly so he wouldn’t go back and erase it.
Something strange in Laurent stirs, and he briefly compares the way Damen had written his name with the way he had written Damen’s before adding Damen’s number to his phone. He doesn’t text it.)
-
Laurent, his voice as indifferent as he can make it, states that there’s some art major who wants to be his friend when they’re sitting down to dinner the next day. (The paper Damen gave him is buried under all the books on Laurent’s desk.) “I think it’ll be good for you, Lau.” Auguste offers, reaching over for one of Nicaise’s fries and being quickly swatted away. “Some inspiration for dance.”
“I’m plenty inspired.” Laurent objects, crossing his arms and taking a sip from his straw.
At this, Auguste stops his antics and regards his other brother for a long moment. “Lau, when you were little–” Auguste starts, putting on his I’m-a-serious-big-bro-who-cares-about-you voice. Laurent holds up his hand before his brother can even start.
“God, I’ll do it.” Auguste raises an eyebrow. “Anything to get out of a When You Were Young speech,” Laurent explains, narrowing his eyes. Auguste hums in approval, turning to ask Nicaise how his day was. Laurent starts drowning them out and then pulls out his phone.
laurent [1 million heart emojis]
hey.
damianos [art emoji, cow emoji]
hey!!!
Laurent tries not to smile. Three exclamation points?
laurent
uh so did you still wanna like
hang out or whatever
damianos
yeah!!!!
just lmk when you’re free!
i know ballet keeps u [sixth grade jokaste vc] supes biz
Laurent feels a tickle of laughter tease his throat, and coughs into his hand instead. Nicaise raises an eyebrow and Laurent gives him an unamused stare to avoid any Nicaise Classics™, such as “Is that your maaaan, Saint Laurent?”
Laurent looks back down at his screen. He wishes that Damen wouldn’t be so considerate. It would certainly make hatred much easier.
laurent
i might need a ride? i only have half of saturday, i have to do a family thing sunday.
(Every Sunday, they light candles for Auguste and Laurent’s parents and Auguste makes them burn sage all through the house. “Too much darkness builds up in a week,” The oldest brother always says. Nicaise woke up screaming again last night. Laurent climbs a ladder to burn some into the highest point of his room.)
damianos
oh, coolcoolcool !!
i got the car that day we gucci
uhhh i don’t usually say gucci
laurent
cool.
(and it’s fine. #FreeGucci, right?)
damianos
[laughing emoji] right.
—
Laurent has never expected to be one of the trashy dancers who get picked up after practice by their boyfriends before they even get a chance to change. And, he reasons, he hasn’t really become one of those, because Damen isn’t his boyfriend.
But the honking horn and the big, red monstrosity disguised as a pickup truck isn’t exactly convincing the other people in his company of the same thing. “Stop,” He whispers harshly as he nears the car, and Damen smiles brightly.
“Hello, sunshine!” Damen replies, getting out the car to open the door for Laurent. The step up is a bit much for the blond’s short legs, and Damen pushes him forward and into the truck with a supportive hand on the small of his back, dangerously close to his ass. Laurent tells himself that this will be the only time he blushes this whole day.
Damen starts the car and classical music turns on. Laurent fights the urge to giggle and knits his eyebrows together. “You do know that...You know ballet dancers don’t have to listen to classical in their free time, right?” Damen smiles.
“I know. I just figured you were one of the ones who did.” And just like that, Damen makes Laurent break the promise he made to himself only seconds earlier.
The drive is blurry, to Laurent. It’s like he’s in the eye of a hurricane, and the only thing keeping him from being another piece of the debris flying past their windows is Damen, grounding even in his silent presence.
Before he knows it, they’ve parked right next to the underside of a bridge, the tip of the truck emerged in the shade of the underpass. “Laurent.” A voice whispers, reaching out to shake his shoulder. The blond slowly comes to life, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and rising from where he’s slumped against the window pane.
Damen feels a rise of a new emotion in the pit of his stomach, like warm bread was baking inside of him. “We’re here.” He whispers to Laurent, who’s up and stretching out in the truck’s cabin.
“Why are we whispering,” Laurent whispers back, looking around. His voice is groggy from sleep and Damen laughs. The dancer doesn’t have time to hide the look of fondness that passes over his features.
“C’mon,” Damen says, reaching to help Laurent out of the truck. Laurent is still too tired to care about anything other than the feeling of Damen’s skin on his and laces their fingers together for a brief moment as he jumps down from the truck. They’re closer than he thought they would be, but the heat of Damen, even in the blazing afternoon sun, is okay with Laurent.
Underneath the bridge, there are 10 or 15 swings, all made out of recycled tires. Laurent’s never seen something like it, and he turns to look back at Damen, to see him smiling expectantly. “Pretty cool, eh?” Laurent scoffs and turns back around.
“It’s alright, pretty boy.”
“You think I’m pretty?” Damen asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Shut up.”
—
“No, seriously! How can any of us be free when Gucci isn’t?!” Damen exclaims as Laurent giggles into his hand.
“That’s such an artist thing to say,” Laurent replies cooly once he’s caught his breath.
“Oh, shut up.” Laurent raises an eyebrow teasingly at Damen’s reply, letting out a hum of amusement. There’s a moment where there doesn’t need to be sound, other than the breeze blowing against Laurent’s hair, and the wood chips crunching beneath Damen’s feet. “Can I ask you something? Like, for real?” Damen asks, turning to face Laurent.
Laurent swings his bare feet lazily, feeling the sweat between his thighs and the tire swing, and feeling Damen’s eyes on his exposed skin. His legs aren’t long enough to dig into the dirt like Damen’s, but he hasn’t noticed until now. He had never felt the need to compare the two of them.
“Sure,” Laurent answers, looking down at where his black leotard met his hip.
“Why do you...Why do you try so hard?” Damen asks nervously, fiddling with the chain of his own swing. “I mean, you’re so–naturally, you’re so good, you shouldn’t have to–”
“I have to get out of this town.” Laurent states, face expressionless, his body perfectly still. He looks right at Damen, his blue eyes clear of dishonesty. “I have to.”
Damen nods and lets the silence cover them again.
—
When the sun is almost set, Laurent still isn’t tired of talking to him–which is new, exciting, almost. Usually, no one can keep up with him, but Damen seems to see Laurent from all sides.
(The only other people who can understand Laurent so easily are Auguste and his Uncle. Auguste because he was there when Laurent was small and naïve. His Uncle because he had been the reason Laurent had changed.)
Damen is kneeling on the concrete of the sidewalk next to the park, a white piece of chalk he had found creating dust on his brown hands as he made marks on the ground. He’s talking about art, and he’s like–really talking. About Greek art and Black art and how they could intersect to create something beautiful. About how he saw art in people’s eyes sometimes, about his favorite pieces and artists and what made him want to be an artist in the first place. Laurent, in a moment of weakness, asks him what makes him still want to be an artist.
Maybe it’s coming from a personal place, the question. Laurent hasn’t loved dance like Damen loves art since he got to high school. He keeps going because the better he gets, the further away he can get–away from his Uncle, away from his family name, away from anything but ballet. One thought Laurent very delicately avoids was what he would do once it was just him and ballet, stuck in an elevator to the top like old friends who had fallen out of touch.
Damen looks up from his sketch on the sidewalk and up at Laurent, a bright smile on his face. “What?” He asks, his voice slow and dreamy like a Sunday morning breakfast.
Laurent looks away quickly, focusing his attention on the wood chips. “Nothing.” He says, quietly.
“It’s getting late,” Damen says long after the sun has set.
“I suppose it is.” Laurent looks over Damen’s broad shoulders and at the chalk drawing.
One look and Laurent could tell it was him. Damen must’ve gotten inspired earlier, when Laurent was basking in the afternoon sun and dancing lazily on top of a park bench. He might’ve been laughing, too, but he can’t remember. This whole day has felt like one of those weird dreams where you get dressed, put on clothes, and live a perfect life –and then wake up to a blaring alarm clock.
But this was real. Damen’s hand on the small of his back, gently ushering him into the truck’s cabin for the ride home: real. Damen’s smile and art and love for the world: real. Damen: ???. Laurent left him as to be decided.
—
Damen tries to focus on the slabs of granite that are just starting to take shape in front of him, but his mind wanders, unavoidably, to Laurent. He glances at his phone on the desk next to him for a long moment, put on silent so he could get in the zone, and sighs before picking it up and hacking out a message that he’s sure he’ll regret.
damianos
hey lauren!
*laurent! sorry, autocorrect!
laulau
it’s cool, kinda happens a lot.
did you
need something?
damianos
yeah!!!
i have this art project
laulau
are you
going to explain it.
or.
damianos
Oh, Rite shit !!!
is it cool if we meet up during like? fifth hour? do you have class?
laulau
yeah, but it’s jazz so. who cares.
it’s [you voice] coolcoolcool
damianos
when bae starts talking like you ❤️❤️❤️
Laurent chokes on his Cheez-It and covers it with a cough. Erasmus, one of the other soloists, gives him a concerned look that has a million don’t-dance-if-you’re-sick lectures rolled into it. “I’m fine.” Laurent quickly answers a question that was never asked. Erasmus nods and returns to stretching.
—
Erasmus covers for Laurent, like he always does, because he thinks Laurent needs a break and is always telling Laurent as much.
Damen is waiting for him at the side door, the one in the art wing that doesn’t have any cameras in it because the art kids kept spray painting over the ones they put up. This whole side of the building is like a different world, and instead of pictures of famous ballets, they have the pieces of graduated seniors, all the way back to 1922, lining their walls. There’s a space for Damen here, somewhere, Laurent knows. There always seems to be space for him.
Laurent shakes himself out of staring when he hears the jingle of keys and click-clack of heels against the linoleum that means one of the administrators is about to head down this hallway and pushes open the door, his dance bag hitting his side as he tries to shield his eyes from the bright sun.
Damen is sitting in his truck, looking around lazily. Laurent regards him for a long moment, thinks about how he could turn around and go back to jazz class, then send Damen a shitty apology so he got the hint. Instead, he takes another step forward. Then another. Soon, his legs have carried him all the way to the passenger side door, where he waves off Damen’s help and struggles to pull himself into the truck’s cabin, plopping down with all the grace of a toddler. Damen smiles in that honest way he does.
“Hey,” Laurent says, because his brain is short-circuiting.
“Hey,” Damen answers, his smile growing as he turns on the radio and pulls away from the school. “I have to be back for seventh but we can go get something to eat, if you want?” He chances a look over at Laurent and sees him taking in the cabin of the truck indifferently. Damen feels his palms start to get clammy against the leather of the steering wheel. “We can get Culvers.” Damen offers, and Laurent just starts changing the station on Damen’s radio in response, which Damen takes as a definite yes.
“Are you trying to fatten me up?” Laurent finally offers, still focused on the radio. Damen offers the end of his aux cord, and, gingerly, Laurent accepts it.
“I doubt you would let me.”
“Sorry for not allowing you to eat me.” Laurent retorts, but soon after saying it he flushes at the implications. “Whatever,” He mumbles under his breath, and Damen laughs.
Laurent plays SZA, because he had a dream about her and Damen dancing together last night, not that he’ll ever tell, and he’s had this song stuck in his head all day. Damen smiles at his selection, singing along as Laurent is slowly rocked to sleep by the surroundings swimming past.
Damen shakes him awake what feels like hours later, but it can’t be more than three minutes, because the same song is playing, and Laurent rubs the sleep out his eyes, squinting until the Culver’s sign comes into focus. Damen looks at him so softly, like he doesn’t mind that Laurent can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. It annoys Nicaise to no end, and Auguste always just laughs.
After Laurent has ordered his chicken tenders kids meal (“You get free custard,” He explains exasperatedly when Damen giggles at his order.) and Damen has ordered his burger, the two of them find a booth in the corner, where there are windows looking out to the drive-thru and the street. Sometimes, objectively, when he doesn’t think about anything that’s happened in it, Laurent likes this city.
They seem to talk about everything, even after they’ve finished their food and Damen has offered to pick up Laurent’s custard from the front for him (“Chocolate, with Oreos,” Laurent instructs, and Damen nods as if this is a very solemn responsibility. Laurent snorts.). “Can I ask you something?” Laurent says, once they’ve reached the topic of Damen’s favorite pages on Instagram.
Damen looks up from where he had been finishing Laurent’s custard, his brown eyes warmer underneath his long eyelashes when they find Laurent in front of him. For a moment, Laurent’s breath is caught in his throat, and he wants to reach out, he wants to put his hand on Damen’s jaw and use the thumb of his other hand to card through Damen’s eyelashes, then his eyebrows, and then, if Damen will let him, through his hair. He also wants to punch Damen in the face, wants to feel his nose crack under Laurent’s hand. Laurent hates himself for both.
“What’s a finsta?” Laurent finally asks. Damen laughs.
-
They don’t talk for a few days after that, and Damen pours himself into his work to make himself forget. He always does this, Nik is always telling him that he does this. He goes for the most unavailable person he can find, always, because...well, Damen doesn’t really know why. Nik thinks it’s because he’s trying to prove something to himself.
(Damen thinks about how his Father had barely cried, even on his deathbed. How Damen had always been the soft one in his family, too gentle to bond with. He thinks about the way Laurent looked at him when he spoke.)
His phone buzzes while he stares at his ceiling. He’s been home alone for at least three months, now, and he couldn’t tell someone where Kastor was if they had a gun to his head. Jokaste has gone missing, too, except not really, because he knows they’re together. He knows they’re trying to make it work, for the baby. At least, Jokaste is trying. (She’s more naive than she lets on, Damen knows.)
Damen smiles at the notification on his screen.
@thelifeoflaurent requested to follow you.
When he clicks on the page, it’s private, and the bio simply says, “finsta.”
Damen accepts the request and smiles at his ceiling.
—
Laurent looks up at his ceiling and sees Odette. He always sees Odette, since the poster had gone up when he was eight (and three quarters.) His parents had been downstairs arguing and Auguste had crept into his room and taken a crying Laurent on his shoulders to paste it to the ceiling.
—
“Just think,” Auguste had said while a dish crashed into the wall downstairs.
(“Leave again! I raised Auggie alone and I’ll raise Lau alone, too!” His mother yells, voice shrill. Laurent can see her shaking hands even with all the space between them. He doesn’t learn until much later, but he gets all of his fight from Momma.)
“Think about how, one day–” Auguste continues, like he had heard nothing. (His voice is thick with tears. Laurent found his older brother’s countdown to graduation on his computer last night. It’s scary to think about being alone in this house, but he keeps finding his brother’s age laid out on the kitchen counter. Auguste laces his fingers with his younger brother’s.) “One day there won’t be anything but ballet. Doesn’t that sound like a dream, Lau?”
Laurent nods, sniffles, and wipes his pudgy hands under his eyes and across his cheeks.
“Lau,” Auguste announces, serious. He turns to face his little brother and Laurent keeps looking at the ceiling. (He flinches when another glass breaks.) “Laurent,” Auguste repeats, something new and unfamiliar in his tone that makes Laurent turn to look him. “You know what condemn means, right?” Laurent nods. It’s one of his big kid words.
(He had come through the front door smiling about being put in Reading Group A and was met with the hand of his brother, tight around his wrist, pulling him upstairs before his father got home. His mother found the receipts from the hotels again, and his father came home smelling like someone who hadn’t birthed his two heirs into the world again.)
“Don’t...condemn yourself by forcing love.” Laurent knits his eyebrows together. “If you stop loving ballet, you quit.” The smaller boy is appalled at the thought. Ballet is to Laurent what hockey is to Auguste. “If you stop loving anything, you...you let it go.” Auguste stumbles over his words and Laurent can see his eyes blurring with tears.
“Okay, Auggie.”
They sit in silence for a minute or so before Laurent, with his hands shaking, speaks again.
“Uncle forces love.”
“What?” Auguste almost demands, sitting up on the bed.
“He kissed me, last time,” Laurent admits, after a long pause and a few tears spilling from his eyes. “It made me feel dirty all over.” Auguste nods. Then stands up. “Auggie?”
“I’ll be back,” Auguste assures him, smiling before shrugging on his jacket and slamming the door behind him. Laurent doesn’t jump, when it’s Auguste. Even Auguste’s anger feels safe.
(When Auguste hits the bottom of the stairs, one storm stops and another begins.
When Auguste comes back, he leans over the kitchen counter, steals one of Laurent’s fries, and looks at his little brother seriously. “If it ever happens again.” He doesn’t have to finish. Laurent knows.)
—
Laurent looks up at his ceiling.
Odette stares back at him, just as she always has. Outside, a clap of thunder makes him jump. Auguste is away, on business, and Nicaise is holed up at his boyfriend’s until the storm passed.
(“I don’t think you can claim him as your boyfriend if all the two of you do together is neck and make Easy Mac.”
“You simply don’t understand love, Saint Laurent.”)
Another flash of lightning, rolling over all the colors in Laurent’s room until they were nothing but dust, makes Laurent clutch his covers tightly.
He’s never had to sit through one of these alone. The last time, his Uncle had come upstairs and— Laurent stops that train of thought. He had been alone, then, too, even if he didn’t know it.
More thunder, like all the angels were in heaven stomping their feet and clapping up a storm for God. Laurent shakes. He climbs under the covers and breathes in deeply. He jumps again the next time the storm rings out. Before he knows what he’s doing, his fingertip is smashing against the green call button.
“Laurent? Is everything okay?” Damen’s voice, still thick from the fog of sleep, comes spilling into Laurent’s ears like aloe on a burn. The blonde doesn’t say anything, just takes in his presence on the other side of the line. “Lau, are you—”
All Laurent can say without embarrassing himself too much is, “It’s loud.”
“The storm,” Damen replies. It should be a question, but it never is.
“Yeah,” Laurent answers, in lieu of something funny, or, at least, interesting. His mind is shaking as fast as his hands.
“You want me to come over?” Damen pushes, gently, a moment later. Even from over the phone, Laurent knows there’s no malice in his actions. He pushes down anything that says otherwise. Damen is, fundamentally, good; it was like he was born and raised in a world without darkness. Without any thunderstorms.
“It’s storming,” Laurent says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“The roads are dangerous. You’d die for Netflix and Chill?” Laurent tries to joke, but Damen deflects his attempt at a mood change with ease.
“Laurent.” Damen insists, cutting through Laurent hopes of avoidance. “Do you need me?” A pause, drawn out and heavy in Damen’s chest. “If you do.” He doesn’t have to finish. Laurent knows.
(With Damen, it seems, Laurent always knows.)
“Yes.” Laurent grits out, like he’s fighting himself when he says it.
—
Damen is soaking wet when he shows up 45 minutes later, his shirt clinging to his brown skin and his flannel dripping with rain. Laurent tsk’s against his own will. You’ll catch a cold, he almost says, in the same tone Auguste used on him when he walked home in his dance clothes.
Instead, he looks at the curves of Damen’s chest, the warm colors of his skin beneath the white shirt, and the bulk of his muscle. Damen towers over Laurent as they stand in the doorway, Laurent looking blankly at him and Damen nervously smiling.
“It is loud.” Damen almost whispers, his voice swallowed by the sounds of the rain.
“You big oaf,” Laurent replies, and Damen just smiles wider.
—
Ten minutes later, Damen’s clothes are in the dryer and he’s pulling one of Laurent’s father’s old shirts over his head. (Laurent has to restrain himself from waving Damen’s back muscles goodbye.) There’s a strange silence between them, not uncomfortable but taking up the space between them like a truck. It’s the silence that dangles in the air when you meet someone new; the silence of someone unlearned.
They had been alone together, and vulnerable together, but they had never been so bare. They had never been Damen and Laurent. In the park, there had been the passerby on the sidewalk beside them. In the school hallway, there had been what seemed like a million dance majors, more than half of them vying for Laurent’s attention in one way or another, and Laurent completely ignoring them. When they had gone out to eat at a little diner Laurent would never admit to being enchanted by, there were still three other people inside.
Laurent felt naked. He felt small, in the same way a child who had stumbled into their parent’s bedroom after a nightmare was. He felt exposed, even in his own house, with Damen’s eyes focused so closely on only him.
It takes Laurent almost a full two minutes to talk himself up enough to look up at Damen instead of the floor of the living room. What he sees is, somehow, even worse than looking at the ground and not talking.
Damen is looking at him, probably has been this whole time, but not at his eyes. Suddenly, Laurent is acutely aware of the brush of loose fabric against the middle of his thighs, the formerly familiar feel of Auguste’s old hockey jersey turned foreign under Damen’s eyes.
Damen looks up. Laurent looks away, trying to control the flush spreading up his chest and creeping towards his nose.
“Hungry?” Laurent blurts, and Damen blushes. Laurent wants to die. “I mean, for— beef? I mean, food.” Laurent finishes suavely, internally beating himself over the head. “Hungry for...food?” He repeats, an unsteady almost-kinda smile on his face. His eyes are daring Damen to make fun of him, but all his guest does is nod.
—
“I can’t believe you burned water.” Damen lets out giddily between laughs. Laurent is on the other side of the couch, his elegant legs tucked neatly beneath him and his annoyance clear on his face.
“It’s easier to do than you’re making it seem,” Laurent answers calmly, smoothing down a piece of hair that had gone awry from his tuck braid when Damen had jumped in front of him to put out the fire. He dares a glance at the boy on the other side of the couch, and the moment their eyes meet, Damen is back into a laughing fit. Laurent resents the warmth growing in his stomach at the sound. “I have half a mind to put you out,” Laurent says, a challenge Damen enthusiastically takes.
“Then who would keep you from burning the house down?” Damen replies, his eyebrow quirking up. Laurent opens his mouth to reply when—
Thunder.
It only causes a pause in his mannerisms, the fear cutting off the second Laurent realizes it’s on. Damen notices anyway and Laurent curses him for it. “It can’t hurt you, Laurent.” The blond wants to scream at the soft words. Damen always says his name like he means it. Like it’s sacred. Laurent wants to strangle him.
“Twenty six people died from lightning strikes in 2015, which is the highest number since—” Laurent can’t make his hands stop shaking. Damen moves closer and Laurent puts up his shaking fingers. Damen stops moving before Laurent can shake his head not to.
“I’m not gonna let anything hurt you, Laurent de Vere.” Damen insists. This time, he says Laurent’s name like it’s holy. Like it was so important it could only be said on Sundays. Laurent can’t form words, he’s so overwhelmed by raw emotion.
The dancer wants to say “I know,” or “Thank you,” or “I wish I had met you before I was afraid of storms.” He says nothing, but a quiet, almost silent, “Okay.” His hands are still shaking. Damen is looking at them.
“L—”
“Okay, Damianos Akielon.” Laurent finishes before Damen can say anything else. Damen looks at him like he is brand new, and he feels the older boy assessing the space between them. “I’m coming over.” Laurent announces before Damen can ask. “Don’t...touch me. Please.” Damen nods and Laurent brings him legs out from beneath him and begins to crawl over. When he gets there, he’s centimeters from Damen, the tip of Laurent’s ballet bruised knee rubbing against the thin fabric that covers Damen’s muscular thighs.
Damen looks at Laurent like he is all that exists. Or, at least, all that matters. “You make popcorn and I’ll choose a movie?” Laurent offers, an attempt to ease them from the quiet.
‘Oh.” Damen says, like he’s realized something. Laurent knits his eyebrows together and Damen laughs, but the tone of a breakthrough is still there. “Oh, yeah, wouldn’t want you setting the microwave on fire.” Damen jokes, brushing off the moment and standing. Laurent pretends like he can't feel his absence and picks up the remote.
“I’ll still kick you out.”
—
Laurent is tucked neatly into the crevice between Damen’s arm and torso, his usually elegant arms wrapped around Damen’s stomach and his hands interlocked on the other side. He blushed when Damen put an arm around him, wanted to scream when he made the move to wrap his own arms around the older boy and the only response was Damen adjusting so Laurent was more comfortable, and nearly cried when Damen reached over (his arms were so big! RED A-FUCKING-LERT, LAURENT!) and pulled a blanket over the two of them. Suddenly, Laurent can see why Nicaise thinks he’s in love just from Easy Mac and weed dates.
Laurent looks over and Damen is on his phone, obviously bored by the movie, because who could be bored by Laurent? He was an attraction. A bell dings through the room.
ballet booty bae
watch the movie, rat.
Laurent looks over at Damen’s smile, but is immediately mortified by his phone screen.
ballet booty bae
and Why,
is that
my name in ur phone
Damen laughs and Laurent snatches the phone from his hands, tempted to change his name but falling short on ideas. Instead, he sits on it. “Watch the movie.” He repeats.
Damen raises an eyebrow. “You think sitting on it is gonna stop me?” Laurent flounders. “If anything, that’s incentive.” Laurent is going to die. Damen will really kill him, one day. Probably soon.
“Watch the movie.” Laurent says, weaker, turning back to the screen so he doesn’t have to face Damen with the blush on his face. Damen hums in amusement and looks at the movie.
“So, what,” Damen starts and Laurent groans. “You think House Bunny is, like, a cinematic masterpiece?”
“Yes.” Laurent answers, more to shut Damen up than because he actually believes it. “Did you know,” Laurent says, no inflection in his voice. “The Playmates who live in the house get an allowance from Hef every Friday.”
“Really?” Damen supposes he’s never actually thought about what living in the Playboy mansion was like. He hadn’t thought about Playboy at all, actually. He could hear Nikandros in his head complaining about how the digital age had ruined porn, or some art student ass shit like that.
“Yeah. And they sleep on dirty mattresses.” Damen scrunches his nose up at that, and Laurent suppresses a laugh. “Everyone thinks they’re like wild party girls but they’re not allowed to have boys or family in the house. And they have to be in the mansion by 9 or their allowances get kept from them.” Damen frowns at that, a good sign, to Laurent. “One of them said that fucking Hef was like a job, like they clock in then clock out and he just lays there with his Viagra erection.” Laurent continues, never taking his eyes off the screen as he recited the facts. “One of them said living there was like living with a grandpa you had to fuck.”
The strange thing about moments like this, to Damen, isn’t that Laurent is talking about wrinkly cocks that resemble sea lions and dog shit and Viagra— the brown boy had grown accustomed to the blond’s dirty mouth long ago— it’s that Laurent can be this and a dancer. That Laurent can balance his entire weight on one toe with a shining smile on his face and roses at his feet, and then turn around and become this other him, this rawer, yet somehow more gentle version of his dancer self. Damen just looks at Laurent talk, even though he can’t really understand what he’s saying anymore. He feels it just like he had felt it an hour ago. Except, this time, he has the sense not to say “Oh.” like he’s run out of breath. It’s dangerous, he thinks, to let Laurent know that his effect went past emotional. “Why do you know all this?” Damen asks. His voice is saturated in fondness.
Laurent flushes, and his words stop like a faucet that has been shut off.
“Did you…” Damen starts, unfiltered joy trickling into his tone. “Laurent!” Damen exclaims before laughing loudly, filling up all the space in the room and covering Laurent in a layer of warmth.
“It seemed like it would be fun until I looked it up!” Laurent defends. “I was, like, eight!”
“You wanted—” Damen gasps for air and Laurent, laying against his stomach and rocking with the laughter, feels the tips of his mouth quirking up and something warm rising in his stomach. “You wanted to be a playboy bunny!”
“Stop laughing! I had to give up The Playboy Dream™ for ballet.” Laurent almost whines, a chuckle and faux wistfulness in his voice.
Damen laughs harder.
—
When the older boy has wiped away the last of his tears (and Laurent has hit him over the head a few times), he looks down at Laurent, arms still around him and face at a crossroads between annoyed, content, and amused. Damen’s look is so full of affection, so clear in it’s intentions with Laurent’s heart, that whatever the blonde was about to say ends up stuck in his throat. “You haven’t lost your body,” Damen lets out smoothly. There’s a small smile on his face and Laurent is flushing, suddenly aware of the pressure of Damen’s hand against his stomach, and Damen’s breath on top of his head. Damen’s shirt rubbing against his hands, Damen’s lips opening to say more, Damen’s hair, dried and curly and practically begging Laurent to run his fingers through it. There is so much Damen, everywhere, but Laurent is not overwhelmed. Damen’s eyes, which Laurent follows to his own lap.
The old jersey is even shorter when he’s sitting.
Laurent flushes and looks away.
“I think you could still do it.” Damen finishes, fiddling lazily with the fabric covering Laurent’s stomach.
“Yeah?”
Damen’s picks up Laurent’s hand from the other side of him and presses the pale palm, gently, to his lips. “Yes.” He answers. Laurent feels lightheaded. “La—”
“Kiss me.” Laurent interrupts.
“I already have.” Damen presses another kiss to Laurent’s palm. “Tell me.” Damen says. He does not finish. There is no need to, with Laurent.
Thunder.
“I had almost forgotten about the storm.” The words are thick on Laurent’s tongue, but they are the truth. There’s a softness in his voice that even he was not expecting. Laurent slowly, so slowly Damen thinks he might die, moves his hand from the space in front of Damen’s lips to his brown jaw, strong and peppered with stubble. He finally looks up and Damen holds his breath. “It was so quiet.” The tenderest kind of fear in his voice. Damen chuckles but Laurent knows he is not being laughed at.
Laurent sits up straighter, bringing both his hands in front of him and propping himself up on his knees so he’s equal with Damen’s sitting figure. There’s a heartbeat, not a stutter or a moment to rethink, just one beat of Laurent’s heart, before the space between them closes. Laurent’s lips under Damen’s, Laurent’s hands feeling the baby hairs at the nape of Damen’s neck, the two of them, together.
Bare.
Damen breaks away, his hand supporting Laurent’s leaning body and his lips wet. His hand moves to Laurent’s knee and he runs the pad of his thumb over a spot of purple.
“Assemblé en tournant gone wrong,” Laurent explains, basking in the contact between them. Damen hums.
“Can I bring you closer?” He asks, looking Laurent right in the eyes. The blond nods, and Damen hooks a hand under his knee and moves it so Laurent’s thighs are straddling him. Laurent flushes. “What do you want?” Damen asks gently, like he is afraid of breaking something.
“I’m not a virgin.” Laurent blurts.
“That’s not an answer,” Damen replies easily. He had seen it coming.
Laurent flushes again. “Don’t—” He says quietly, putting his hands up. “Toy with me.”
“I’m not.” Easy, again. It’s always easy, for Damen. With Damen.
“I’ll be in ABT.” Unrelated, but not.
“I’ll be in the MoMA.”
“You could do better than that.” Laurent almost whispers, because he really believes it. He reaches out to touch Damen’s face, and Damen closes his eyes at the contact. His face is dangerously close to Damen’s. “When the storm passes—”
“I’ll still be here. If you want, I’ll still be here.” Laurent finds it hard not to let the astonishment he feels show on his face. Damen is always so honest. Laurent’s gone off the deep end, and, yet, he knows, with Damen, it will never be too late to turn back.
“I think you—”
“Don’t think.” Laurent blushes brighter than ever. Damen lurches forward, his lips crashing against Laurent’s like the tide. The kiss is chaste, at first, but then the bubbling in Laurent’s stomach makes him open his mouth, makes him want more and more of Damen. Damen hums approval, the vibration rushing through Laurent’s body like a shock.
Like lightning.
—
Laurent hesitates after a long few minutes of him and Damen kissing like that, open mouthed and wet and both asking for more in different ways. Laurent needs to be allowed to lead without having too much responsibility, and Damen needs to be taken care of, needs to be kissed softly underneath his jaw so he can soak up all the affection he never gets.
(His house has been empty for six months, now.)
“We should go to my room.” Laurent finally offers, because something about the couch made everything too public, made it feel like everything wasn’t just for the two of them. Damen remembers one of the posts Laurent had made, about how his room was like a sanctuary, how he tried to never let people in because he was so afraid of negative energy inhabiting it. Damen nods, and watches as Laurent moves from his lap, the cold hitting him full force as he takes Laurent hand.
He crowds Laurent’s back as he opens the door upstairs, leans down and kisses his neck, pushing the light hairs at the nape of his neck away. He wants to say I love you, or I’ve always loved you, but instead, he just laughs when Laurent flops down onto his bed.
—
“No,” Damen says when Laurent turns onto his stomach. “I want to see you.”
I finally see you, Damen wants to say. Instead, he reaches out and pushes some of Laurent’s hair out of his face.
Laurent relaxes his back against his comforter.
The storm is over.
—
Damen wakes up to an empty bed.
The room he’s in has pictures of all of Laurent’s friends, which he has more of than he’d like to admit. He has medals and trophies all over the walls, but there’s one corner for memory, polaroids of Vannes and a rough sketch of a dead cat with “NICAISE” signed in the handwriting of a child at the bottom. A small vase with half burned sage resting on top of it, a ladder, and Laurent’s whole life splayed out in front Damen’s eyes.
He looks around and finds Laurent on the other side of the bedroom, gently crossing his fingers to re-braid his hair. All the sensations of the night before come rushing back at once and Damen smiles to himself. He can see the line down Laurent’s back clearer now, the dimples at the small of his back, the morning sun casting a graceful shadow over his small frame.
Damen is content looking at Laurent’s fingers twist in a pattern they must have memorized. He’s content with the way the sun is hitting his cheekbones, making lines that are hard soft. Damen’s fingers twitch with the need to sketch this moment, this perfect moment, where nothing can get better.
Then the humming starts. Slow and gentle, streaming from Laurent like it knew him as home. Damen is always surprised, by this mystery of a man.
Laurent’s voice comes next, soft and gliding along with the coolness of the morning instead of cutting through it.
Ohé ohé ohé ohé matelot
Matelot navigue sur les flots
Ohé ohé ohé ohé matelot
Matelot navigue sur les flo—
“What does it mean?” Damen asks, and Laurent jumps back. “Sorry, I just...what were you saying?”
Laurent almost smiles but looks away. “It’s a song my mom sang to me when I was little. It’s about a group of sailors who get shipwrecked and decide to eat the smallest one, but then he makes a prayer to the Virgin Mary and she saves him.” Damen doesn’t look as disturbed as Laurent thought he would. It’s too early for butterflies.
“Like Le Radeau de la Méduse.” Damen answers, smiling at Laurent from where he was laying on the bed.
“You speak French.” Damen shrugs.
“Only a little. I didn’t understand the song, after all.” He replies, airily, gesturing for Laurent to come over. The blond tucks his braid in and walks over slowly, before climbing into bed next to Damen.
“You know, I think that—” Laurent is cut off by his own scream as Damen leaps up and pins him to the bed. It’s a loose grip, on purpose, so Laurent doesn’t feel too trapped. His heart is overwhelmed by Damen, in this moment.
His eyes are still droopy from sleep, and he has a cowlick at the top of his head the size of a small village. His smile is big, unfiltered and unwavering and all for Laurent. The blond’s heart starts beating a little slower.
Sometimes, with Damen, it felt like he was in a frame. Like someone had created this moment for the two of them, all soft colors and perfectly placed limbs. All browns and bright yellows, blues and greens mixed just for the two of them. Laurent reaches out and smoothes down the piece of untamed hair, and laughs when it pops right back up.
“Hello, lover.” He almost whispers, a small, mischievous smile playing at his pink lips.
“Hello,” Damen replies, like he is suddenly out of breath with the sight of Laurent. Perhaps he is, in such a domestic moment. His smile is so bright it could blind.
Imagine what Nicaise would say if he saw this scene. Imagine what Auguste—
Auguste.
“Shit!” Laurent breathes out, breaking both of them from the early morning peace.
“Shit?” Damen echoes, sitting up so Laurent can move.
“Auguste is gonna be home any second!” Laurent exclaims, pulling a shirt on.
Damen squints. “Laurent...it’s April.”
Laurent pauses for a second to give Damen a true look.
“Oh. Your brother, Auguste.”
“Yes, my brother, and he’s gonna kick my ass and chop my dick into a stir fry if he finds out I broke the only rule he has.” Laurent explains as he looks around the room. He finds a pair of pants in the hamper and throws it at Damen’s head.
“Let me guess,” Damen says as he attempts to pull on the pants. They get about halfway up his calf before he realizes they’re much too small. “No boys?” Laurent frowns.
“No boys when he’s out of the house.” Damen hums in understanding.
“Well, I hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” Laurent glares at the nickname. “But none of these clothes are mine.”
Laurent looks closer at what he threw before letting out a loud sigh. “Your clothes are in the dryer.” Damen tries not to laugh.
“Tragic.”
Even from upstairs, Laurent can hear the familiar creak of their back door as it opens. “Shit.” He repeats. “Get in the closet.” He whispers. Damen laughs, then squints at Laurent’s somber expression.
“Get in the closet.” Damen echoes. Laurent nods.
“Just for a minute and then I’ll sneak you out the front door when Auguste takes his shower.”
“Laurent.” Auguste’s feet are heavy against the steps leading upstairs. Laurent looks between the door and Damen almost nervously. Despite his best efforts, Damen can’t hold out against the look in Laurent’s eyes. He climbs off the bed, looks at Laurent’s gracious expression, and walks across the room to open the door to the closet. “Are you—”
“ThankyousomuchIjustdon’twannadisappointAugusteyou’resuchalifesaverbaby.” Laurent breathes out quickly as he pushes Damen into the darkness and slams the door behind him.
Damen’s head is still reeling from the way Laurent had said baby when the door to his bedroom opens.
Through the slits in the closet door, Damen can see Auguste. He’s taller than Laurent, but the relation is clear. Auguste just lacks the practiced coolness that Laurent had worked so hard to maintain. They have the same nose, Damen thinks from the shadows.
“Hey, Wilmer!” Auguste exclaims, throwing his big arms jovially around his younger brother. Laurent carefully, in an almost unnoticeable way, steps away from the closet and groans, hugging his brother back.
“I thought we agreed Wilmer was a dead nickname.” Laurent deadpans.
“No, you said Wilmer was a dead nickname. I never agreed.” Auguste replies warmly, his chin nuzzled into Laurent’s hair.
“Auguste—” Laurent whines, but Damen can tell without looking that he’s smiling.
“Sh. I missed my little brother.” There’s a pause. It’s serious, and Damen feels the mood of the room change. “I missed you, Lau.” The way Auguste says it, like he has never meant anything more, makes Damen understand so clearly why Laurent talked about his older brother like God put the moon in his heart.
(Damen feels a pang of something strange in his heart. So long, he had gone without thinking of his own brother, his own absence making it possible, but now here Kastor was again; in bright colors, like the barrel of a gun before a bullet emerged.
“I was six when I finally figured out that just because someone was your family doesn’t mean they loved you.” Damen had said to Laurent one day. He thinks about when Kastor had paused for a long moment before saving Damen from drowning when they were children. “When you’re that young, y’know, TV teaches you everything.” No tears, this time, which was an improvement. “No one ever made a show where no one wanted you, so I didn’t think it could happen.”)
“I missed you more, Auggie.” Laurent whispers into the fabric of his brother’s coat, basking in the feeling of it. “But you just saw me on Friday.”
“That’s a whole two days. My heart was empty.” Auguste jokes, and maybe wipes away a tear.
(“Auguste treats every time he sees me like it is his last. It’s just the way he is.” Laurent had said at the park.)
“Oh, shut up, old man.” Laurent pushes him away and out the door.
“Woah, woah, woah! What’s the rush, dude?!” Laurent flushes and Damen raises an eyebrow. He wasn’t good at lying to Auguste. Figures.
“Nothing, you just–” Laurent fumbles for a few seconds. “You stink, Auggie. Take a shower!” They’re farther away from the closet, now, so there’s some words Damen can’t quite make out, but he hears the door close and lock and springs out of the cramped space immediately. Laurent whips around and smiles a little, like this had all been a game.
Damen can’t believe this. “Well, I should go–”
“Wait.” Laurent says, his voice low. Damen raises an eyebrow. “Auguste takes long showers. We have time.” The blond raises one perfectly arched eyebrow and does some obscene gestures before Damen gets it.
“Jesus, Laurent! I’m not gonna–I won’t–” Damen stutters.
“Rearrange my guts?” Laurent finishes, his smile growing and the space between them closing.
“Not so loud, maybe?” Damen whispers exasperatedly, gesturing to where Auguste was seconds ago.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, Laurent, I will not make love to you with your brother in the other room.” Laurent rolls his eyes.
“You’re no fun.”
—
Laurent trips in class the next day.
It’s a little thing, really, dancers trip all the time.
But not Laurent de Vere. There was an overwhelming silence as Laurent recovered, flawlessly, no sign of embarrassment or remorse on his face as he continued through his routine perfectly.
Three hours later, he was still hearing the siren sound of his feet hitting the ground at the wrong time, his turn transformed into a fucking mess. The ballet mistress calls him into her office before Jazz, and Laurent wants to scream. He’s never been here for anything bad before. His palms are sweating and he’s disgusted.
The office is stuffy, the only window a huge pane of glass setting the city as the mistress’ backdrop. “Mistress, I’m sorry about earlier, I was–”
“Distracted?” She finishes. Any other words are caught in Laurent’s throat. “You think you’re special?”
The world starts shaking.
“Everyone can do a rond de jambe, everyone can do triple pirouettes, everyone can do fouettés. That’s not what makes you beautiful, that doesn’t make someone say ’wow look at that kid.’” Laurent feels like he’s caught in the middle of the thunderstorm, staring straight into all he’s ever feared and being unable to do anything to save himself. The mistress studies his face but he keeps his eyes to the floor. “It doesn’t matter if you have the most gorgeous feet in the world, Laurent.” It’s a minute, a long pause in between heartbreaks before Laurent realizes the hot stinging in his eyes is the prickling of tears. “You have to find the special thing on the inside and make it show on the outside. There are a hundreds of cities with a million best dancers. They don’t need someone like you, who just knows the technique… there’s thousands of them.” Laurent had never been made to feel replaceable before now. It was not a feeling he liked. “They need someone special.” The mistress finishes, looking at Laurent’s face again. “I suggest that you cut whatever it was you were thinking about instead of ballet out of your life now.”
That hurts more than anything.
“You’re sixteen, Laurent. You’re getting to the important ages and now’s not the time to throw it all away.” Laurent nods. “Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Laurent answers, quietly, before bowing and leaving the office.
He turns a corner, wiping his eyes and ready to leave the school, when he finds exactly what he had been thinking about instead of ballet.
Damen looks like a vision in the afternoon light.
Laurent wants to cry.
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a bundle of clothes. Damen smiles and takes them, moving a step closer to Laurent. “Thanks.” He’s made a home of Laurent’s personal space, his scent strong and his hands on Laurent’s slim waist. “So, Nik is having a party this weekend and I thought you could meet–”
“I don’t want to meet your friends, Damen.” Laurent whispers. He tries to put a bite behind his words but it doesn’t go through with a quiver in his voice.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Damen asks softly, looking around the empty hallway before putting a hand under Laurent’s chin. “Are you cry–”
“I don’t want to meet your friends.” Laurent repeats, his words harder. He pushes away and Damen doesn’t try to close the space again. He knows better. “This was never going to work. I need to focus on things that are important–”
The whole world is holding its breath, it seems.
“And you’re not. So just...leave me alone, alright?” Laurent’s face is hard, and Damen is gaping.
“When we made love–”
“When we fucked.”
Damen doesn’t bother finishing his thought after that. He looks at Laurent in disbelief and backs away.
“Fine.” He breathes out, and he’s doing it again, putting all his emotions right there for Laurent to see and breaking his heart over and over.
“Great.” Laurent smiles, a sight sweet like honeyed poison.
“Y’know, Lau,” Laurent’s name sounds like a balloon without air. “It’s kinda fucked up that you made me promise not to leave if you were going to anyway.”
Oh. That’s what having your heart walked on felt like.
Damen’s jaw rolls. His eyes are dark. Anger looks nice on him. Everything looks nice, on him. Laurent wants to reach out and hold him and never let go. Laurent wants to punch him right in the eye.
“I’m kinda fucked up, sweetheart.” Laurent declares. He remembers Vannes telling him Damen had waved to her in the hallway. “And stay the fuck away from my friends.” Laurent adds.
The dancer doesn’t look back as he walks away. He falls asleep to the same words over and over in his head:
“You think you’re special?”
He had thought, he had thought; and it was a fool’s dream.
—
Despite his better judgement, Damen opens Instagram and types in Laurent’s @, his fingers seeming to move without his permission.
He expects to see that dumb picture Laurent always posts, of a cat in the middle of a circle of knives, but, instead, it says that no posts are available, and that Laurent has one less follower.
Damen throws his phone off the bed, and the sound of it hitting the ground echoes through the empty house.
—
That Friday, Laurent’s mind feels like it’s pirouetting on the edge of something terrible. One misstep away from the end. He wakes up from his dreams sweating.
“Hey, Bugs,” Auguste says happily as he peeks his head into Laurent’s room. When Laurent had come home from school on Monday, he had flown into Auguste’s arms wordlessly, burying his nose against his brother’s chest. Auguste had kissed his head, told him it was going to be okay. Told him to pick up the pieces. “Sorry to interrupt your Angst Garden but don’t forget about the benefit mixer for the company tomorrow!”
“I’m not–”
“Yes,” Auguste sings over Laurent’s objections. “You areeee!” He closes the door and carries the tune down the hallway, leaving Laurent wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and a dark room.
—
It takes Laurent 30 seconds to realize that the air at this benefit, as opposed to the eight thousand other ones, is different. Usually, it’s a little stuffy, filled with the subtle digs and wordless wars Laurent had grown accustomed to over the years.
But this one had Laurent tugging on the collar of his dress shirt, trying to find a different way to let air into his body. These silences killed, and the air was so thick that Laurent had trouble breathing. “Auguste.” He chokes out eventually. His older brother promptly ends his conversation with the businessman in front of him and presses the back of his hand to Laurent’s forehead.
“Laurent, you’re burning up, are you sick?” Laurent shakes his head.
“It feels like I’m waiting to fall off a fucking cliff.”
“It’s probably just your anx–”
“Hello, nephews.”
Laurent feels the world start to move in slow motion.