Sif waited anxiously for the gaggle of shrieking girls in front of her to disperse, trying to play it cool. This was always the best, and sometimes worst, part of every company's season: the posting of the cast list.
Sif steeled herself when the there was finally an opening for her to approach the piece of paper taped outside of the directors door. She had worked her ass off in the studio this year, coming in early and staying hours past her scheduled classes; practicing fouettes in front of the mirror until her pointe shoes seeped with red and blisters covered every centimeter of her battered feet.
She slid her finger down the list of roles and names until she found her own. Her smile was restrained, but nonetheless smug. Finally, finally she had been given a soloist role, no longer relegated to the corps. Well, technically she was dancing a pad de deux. Buts she had earned this.
She moved her finger to the name next to hers and furrowed her brows. "You are so lucky," one of the other girls squealed in her ear.
"Who- who the hell is that?" Sif asked. She'd been in the company since she was 17 and she'd never once seen that name before.
"Oh my god, you haven't heard? That's that new guy who is apparently some prodigy that was literally hire, like, off the street. Where were you yesterday when Madame Dupont introduced him after class?"
Still in the studio, Sif thought to herself but just shook her head.
"Honestly Sif, you hit the jackpot, he is dreamy."
"Lucky me," she replied dryly, shifting her bag over her shoulder and making her way back down the hallway. Furiously, she began to pull her hair back up into a bun, winding it into a tight knot with more force than was probably necessary.
Great, just wonderful, she thought. I work my whole life for this moment and I get stuck with some new kid.
She pushed open the door of the studio, tossing her bag to the floor with a bang. "Madame Dupont, I don't mean to sound un-," she froze realizing she wasn't alone in the mirrored room.
"Hello, Sif," a tall, dark haired man stood next to her instructor. Her friends were right, he was exceptionally handsome with enviable bone structure. "Or, at least I assume you must be Sif. Your reputation precedes you. I'm Loki."
"Yeah, your reputation reached me too." She ignored his offered hand, placing her palms on the smooth fabric of the leotard covering her hips.
"Because of my stunning good looks?" he asked, smirking at her and moving his rejected hand through his hair. Ugh, what an asshole.
"Your unprofessionalism." She snipped.
"Now Sif," Madame Dupont, scolded in her mild French accent. "I realize that this is an unusual situation to bring someone in like this, but it is what has been decided by The Company. You were chosen as his partner because you show some of the best discipline. If you do not wish to dance the part, there are 20 other girls who would be happy to take your place."
Sif understood the threat perfectly clear, and shook her head, forcing herself to swallow down her annoyance. "No, Madame. Thank you for this opportunity."
The man, Loki, beamed at her and she would have given anything to smack it off his face.
"Let's start with a simple warm-up at the barre, yes?" Madame Dupont ushered them over to the long piece of wood fastened against the far wall, calling out plié, fondu, and tendu. Loki started behind her, leaning in to whisper as they moved through the motions.
"So, how long have you been doing this?"
"Since I was 4 years old," she replied through gritted teeth. She thought back to those early years when her peers had mocked her for lack of grace on stage. She, had worked harder than every single person for the past 20 years of her life, giving literal blood, sweat, and tears to get to where she was today, dammit. Something this rookie couldn't possibly understand.
"Wow," he whispered with feigned reverence. "That beats my six months."
"Six months?" she shouted and stopped mid-bend, causing Madame Dupont to scold her once again to concentrate. Sif ignored Loki's snickering and picked the rhythm back up. "That's ridiculous. This is going to be a disaster," she hissed.
"Sounds fun," he smirked. She was too angry to respond.
Madame Dupont lead them through a turn and Sif found herself with her opposite hand on the barre, now facing Loki's backside. Well, he certainly had the physique for it, she admitted, openly checking out his ass in the black tights. At least she could console herself with getting to look at that every day.
"Ok, to the middle," Madame Dupont directed. "Let's start to have some of the fun."
Sif didn't hold back, flying through her grand jeté, nailing her turns, and carrying her body with hard-won athleticism. She didn't miss the way Loki's eyes followed the long lines of her legs, enjoying the approval in his face. She was good.
He absolutely floated through the movements, hitting turns and leaps with effortless grace. He could do a near perfect saut de basque and freaking double cabriolé. The long lines of his body mesmerizing, the raw power of his thighs lifting him off the ground in controlled flight. Sif would have killed for half that sort of natural talent. He was great.
She tried to shake off the strange pooling in her stomach while they moved around the floor. Yes, ballet came with a sort of animalistic sensuality, with everyone in skin tight clothes and showing off their prowess and grace, but she saw these sort of things every day. So why couldn't she stop glancing at that tight t-shirt, that elegant neck, that bulge.
"Loki have you ever done any partnered lifts or turns?" Madame Dupont questioned. He shook his head.
"Of course not," Sif muttered under her breath. How was she supposed to trust this amatuer not to drop her?
"Ok let's start with something simple then. Sif, let's do a supported pirouette." Sif nodded at her instructor and turned to stand in front of Loki, her back to him. "Now, Loki please stand behind her and put your hands on her hips. Sif will be en pointe and turn with your help. You won't have to do much, you are there as a small assist."
Loki moved closer and placed his hands on her hips. She tried to ignore the way the touch made her skin tingle. When you spent all your waking hours training, there was no time for dating. She was just a little touch starved was all. He smelled distractedly good. God, she needed to get laid.
Perhaps during their first attempt at the turn she let the solid material of her pointe shoe connect with his stomach on purpose. She suspected he applied extra pressure to her hips to knock her off balance on the second try.
"Again!" Madame Dupont called. "In a partnered turns, controlling the balance and rate of the turn requires the cooperation of both partners!"
"Look," Loki shook his head at her. "I'm new at this, I need your help. Please."
She glared, but he seemed sincere. She sort of liked his voice when he begged. "Yeah, fine. Just apply a little pressure if you feel me start to waver on the turn."
They got in position again and Sif took a deep breath, swinging her leg forward and up, then to the side to whip herself into the turn. Loki's hands were gentle on her hips, perfectly guiding her into a clean stop on the small block of one shoe after her body made the full rotation.
"Better?" He spoke into her ear, making her shiver. His hands remained on her hips, and he leaned forward into her. She turned her head and gazed into his blue eyes, his breath ghosted over her cheek, her lips.
"Better," she agreed, placing her hands over his and tipping back into his chest. They grinned at each other. Maybe this wouldn't be such a disaster after all.
A little silly something written for Sifki Week Day 4: AU
Ballet terms:
pas de deux - a danced duet, typically a male and female
en point - when a dancer lifts all her weight on the hard end of the pointe shoe
plié - a movement that bends the knees and straightens them again, usually with the feet turned out and heels on the ground
grand jeté - a jump that takes off from one foot and lands on the other, legs split in the air
saut de basque - a jump in which the dancer turns in the air while keeping the foot of one leg drawn up to the knee of the other
cabriolé - a jump in which one leg is extended into the air forward or backward, the other is brought up to meet it, and the dancer lands on the second foot.