What Happens in the Practice Room
Prinz und Rabe: The Ballet. That was what the drama club came up with one year, to turn the most popular story from that town into a stage show using the town's most popular form of art. They already had the stars in mind to play the Prince, the Knight, and the Raven; Mytho, Fakir, and Rue, respectively. The coincidence made Fakir wonder if there was someone laughing at him from above. But to make sure Rue kept her distance from Mytho during practice hours, he begrudgingly obliged to playing the part.
Two weeks into rehearsals, it's clear he has a problem with the Knight's climactic death scene. It rises bile in his throat to see Rue, dressed in a tutu made to look like a raven, strike out with her leg like a claw to cut him in half. He's playing the part to his own predicted death. It's humiliating. It's infuriating. It leaves him shaking in fear. He can no longer practice the scene in front of the rest of the class, and so one day Mr. Cat instructs Fakir and Rue to practice together for one hour after class ended. They were free to use the main hall as they please, he says.
That's where they are now, dressed in their costumes and standing across the room facing each other. The fight between the Raven and Knight would be presented in a pas de deux, starting off with the Raven leaping forward to strike. That's what Rue does in the next moment, her black tutu fluttering as she performs a grand jeté to confront him. Her hands are claws, her eyes piercing. Fakir stills in his place for a moment, before gathering himself and spinning in a pirouette with his prop wooden sword, ending in an attacking stance. He pretends to strike—she dodges and twirls around, their backs brushing against each other as she spins to the other side.
The choreography is all planned out; he will appear to have the upper hand for several minutes before the Raven lashes back and they stay on equal ground until the final blow is struck. Fakir will clutch at his chest and kneel, regretful that he could not protect the Prince, before falling to the ground.
For a battle between two great enemies, the dance is intimate. Fakir personally curses the drama club for such an arrangement, as it's more than likely a result of the swooning hearts of girls wishing to see the handsome Fakir and beautiful Rue dancing in a battle. As the Knight he grabs her wrist and pulls her close; she jerks back and steps away on the tips of her toes, whipping out her hand to pretend to strike. Her hair is slowly becoming undone in the tight bun on her head, with small tendrils of sweated black hair falling over her concentrating eyes.
The heat of the room is affecting Fakir as well as he feels the costume sticking to his skin in sweat and his ponytail gains weight from the damp air and whips to his neck whenever he turns. Their skin shines, their fingers slip whenever he tries to reach for her again. His breath grows deep and he swears he can hear hers as well when she passes by.
Soon it's almost time for the final clash. When the Monster Raven lashes out to turn the tides, the Knight falls to the ground on his back and they stare down for exactly three seconds before he pushes himself back up again and they resume. Just as the choreography directs, Rue leaps forward and strikes the entirety of her leg out. It's meant to be a feint—only striking in appearance—but she oversteps a few inches and manages to kick him right in the gut. His fall and subsequent grunt are genuine, and he grits his teeth as he finds himself on his back look up as Rue stands over him. The point of her toe shoe is at his throat.
They glare. He expects her to move after the aforementioned three seconds, but instead she remains still for far longer. At first he doesn't know what the hell has her stopping, but then he feels it.
He's hard. The exertion and exercise and close contact has his blood boiling and running to unnecessary locations and he is hard. And despite the fact that the dance belt he wears underneath his tights are supposed to hide such things Rue has evidently picked up on the fact because he watches as her eyes trail down, watches as the cogs turn in her head, watches as she looks into his eyes again.
The box of her toe shoe presses against his throat, and he swallows. This is beyond humiliating, to be aroused by something this woman did—but he's sixteen, goddamn it, it's not really her, it could have been anyone. It could have been a fucking mannequin to send his erection beating.
He can't read her eyes, but slowly from one moment to the next he feels that toe shoe sliding down the length of his neck, collarbone, chest, over his waist. Anything Fakir could have spoken is stolen right out from his breath as his eyes widen marginally, his fingers balling as he lies there like some sort of doll. His mind is disgusted at the thought of Rue doing this, but his cock seems to jump at the idea.
If anything, he has to admit that Rue does have amazing skills as a ballerina. All this time she stands with her full weight on just one toe, en pointe while she teases him like this, explores the cloth over his costume with her second foot.
One half of Fakir's mind wants to tell her to get the hell away from him. The other half is silent and implores her to keep going.
But it only lasts for a mere moment—the slide of her toe shoe, the friction she gives to the bulge of his dance belt—it all crashes and crumbles away into dust the moment the door bursts open and their teacher strides in, cheerfully inquiring about their progress of the scene.
Rue immediately jumps back, her eyes wide and face reddening even brighter than the exertion had minutes before. She spins to turn away from Fakir and addresses Mr. Cat, her voice just ever so slightly unstable that if he didn't know any better he'd fault the exercise for.
But he does know better.
Fakir swallows and pushes himself back up, unable to look at Rue and his erection quickly dying.
Whatever just happened there is never going to leave that room. They both know and understand this without exchanging a single word.