Cause and Affection
Genres: Romance, Drama
Summary: Maybe, just maybe, it doesn't matter at all that they've both been broken, that they're isolated, that they're angry and lonely and have no idea what they mean to one another. They just dance. /Startleshipping Anzu x Bandit Keith
A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest Round Sixteen, Season 8. I am proud to bring you some Startleshipping (Anzu x Bandit Keith) for the semifinal round of this contest.
This takes place a good few years post-canon—hopefully those years have given these characters a bit of maturity. I hope you enjoy.
Cause and Affection
Her phone rings, and by the ringtone she can tell the caller without even looking at the screen. Yugi has always been the opening of Tchaikovsky's danse russe, and she listens to the sweeping violins for a moment, snatching up the phone in her hands and turning it over in her palms, muting the sound against one sweater sleeve.
She lets it run to voicemail. She feels bad; she knows how expensive calls must be from Domino, and when the Tchaikovsky starts up again she flips the phone open, pressing it to her ear.
"Hey, Yugi!" she says, bringing a smile to her face even though she knows it doesn't matter since he isn't there to see it. "I just missed your first call! You know how crazy my rehearsals can be."
There is no way he can know, of course—Yugi is no ballet dancer, but the ease at which he cheerfully replies still makes her heart ache with homesickness, with loneliness, with melancholy desolation—
"Anzu?" Yugi's voice cuts across the static. "It's going to be so worth it, though! When you star in your first ballet, we'll be sitting in the front row, you just tell us when! What about the casting from your latest audition? The lead, right? You were always the best, Anzu, and I just know you're doing fantastically over there in New York, too! Knock their socks off!"
"…Thanks, Yugi," she says, pressing her back against the wall and sliding down to rest on the cold cement floor of the stairwell. "That…means a lot to hear."
"It's the truth, right? Come on, why won't you let us come visit you? I've saved up some money and everything—"
"It's just…not a good time right now." Anzu clutches the phone tighter, listening to the static within the pauses. "I'm still adjusting to being here, and my schedule doesn't really give me too much down time, I'm practicing even on the weekends."
"Well…if you say so. Just don't become a stranger, Anzu. Keep in touch—and send us tickets! I love telling people I know a star ballerina in New York…do you ever brag about me to your friends? Hey Anzu, are you still there?"
"Listen, Yugi, I've got to go," she hastily speaks into the phone. "They're rehearsing my number…yeah, I'll call you later. Bye."
She flips the phone closed, standing on shaky legs. At the top of the stairwell, a voice shouts, "Masquers for number twelve, don't keep us waiting!"
Sighing, Anzu takes the stairs one at a time, her bag slung over one shoulder, the tip of a mask just barely visible from the top. With that on, no one would even be able to see her face. No one would know it was really her, covered up as she danced the smallest of roles. She would never let them see her.
She enters, dropping the bag by the side of the wall as she joins the rest in formation. She tries—she tries desperately, but her legs do not have the strength of the others, her arms do not reach as high, and her mind is elsewhere, thinking of her friends, thinking of Yugi—
"Masquer number seven! Show us some focus!"
What does it matter? She will never be the best, not here. Not to any of them—only to the ones she has left, who can never know, who only see her in the best light, the same artificial stage light she dances under now.
"Yes, madame. I will try harder."
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"Hey Mazaki, the ballet mistress wants to speak to you." The ballet's Juliet leans closer to whisper the information, turning her head so no one else can hear. "I hope it's good news, I really do. Good luck."
Anzu watches the way she floats away, and the way that all of the eyes in the room seem to follow her every movement. She wishes she could command that kind of attention, and leaves for the mistress's office, a sickening feeling growing in her stomach. She does not want to be singled out in this way, but knows at least that no one is watching her as she walks with deliberate grace, keeping her toes pointed outward as she tries to float as if on air, down the long stretch of hallway to the office.
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"Mazaki, please come in." The tone is businesslike, delivered shortly. The mistress does not invite Anzu to sit in one of the many comfortable chairs, or to take a cup from the full pot of coffee on the machine to her left. They stand in silence for a few moments, before the mistress leans against her desk, sighing.
"Oh Mazaki, what shall we do with you?"
"Madame?" She does not understand.
"When we admitted you, you showed great promise," she says. "We thought it best to diversify the company in allowing international students like yourself the privilege of studying with us. Your performance so far has been…mediocre, Mazaki."
Anzu stares at her feet, although she wishes to cringe and run, fleeing as if in the battle of the mice, playing Clara. She wishes to play dead like Aspicia, or to put everyone in the company to sleep as the Lilac Fairy, so that she can dance around their spent bodies, never having to worry about their complaints or criticisms again.
"I am trying, madame. I try my hardest," is all Anzu can say to defend herself.
"Yet you are the only scholarship student who has not received a starring role! No one else in the corps de ballet receives the privileges you do! You have been on probation for the past month, but even in the recent auditions you failed to impress us and are playing a masquer! So Mazaki, I ask you—what shall we do with you?"
"I will do better, madame," she appeals. "I will study harder, put in more hours—"
"You don't understand, so I will spell it out for you," she replies. "You are not as talented as these other girls, and we cannot afford to divert our funds towards a ballerina who is not a star! We are revoking your scholarship, Mazaki."
The six words hang in her ears like cotton balls, blocking anything else out but them as they are rewound and replayed in her mind, we are revoking your scholarship, Mazaki. She does not acknowledge what comes next, so engrossed and lost is she in their magnitude.
"You are talented, of course, and will remain a part of the corps de ballet, but you must realize that our scholarship students earn their scholarships, Mazaki…I suggest you practice for the next ballet in our repertory, and earn your standing back."
Saying "I will try" would feel like the final nails in her coffin, but she says the words listlessly anyway. "Thank you for your time, madame."
She does not cry until she is alone, letting herself into one of the stairwells backstage, hearing the Prokofiev score filtering down through the walls and the floor and the ceiling. She collapses onto the stairs, hugging slim legs to her chest, and sobs. Suddenly, Tchaikovsky bursts from her phone, and she climbs to her feet with determination, dancing awkwardly in the stairwell to the music. She can almost imagine she is up on that stage, dancing the solo, until it cuts off mid-note and she staggers back down, wiping away her tears even as more flow to replace them.
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Without a scholarship, she has no money. Without a scholarship, she cannot afford her apartment, within walking distance to the academy. She has no job, with all of her time devoted to ballet, and few savings to draw from now. Why would she ever have planned for such a situation? Without money, she has no way of surviving.
Her feet take her on a journey across the city, down a series of unfamiliar, unsavory streets that she surely would never have entered if she cared at all. But she does not, and while she knows that feeling sorry for herself will not solve a thing, she enters the first bar she sees, sliding into a seat by the counter that smells of alcohol and the bitter tang of cigarette smoke.
She orders a drink, something she hopes will come with a bright, fruit garnish she can eat, but when the drink arrives she stirs the two sodden cherries around in the tall glass before sucking in a mouthful through the straw.
"Hey, sir, you've got to pay your tab." The bartender looks down the counter to a man shuffling out of his seat, turning uninterestedly and pointing to himself with a 'who, me?' gesture. The bartender nods and waves him over, and he drops into place beside Anzu, leaning over the counter as he digs through one pocket for some cash.
"Can't believe I almost forgot to pay." A crumpled wad of bills eventually emerges, and he hands them over. "…Again."
His gaze follows the curve of the wooden counter, landing square on Anzu. She barely notices as he stumbles back slightly, but she definitely catches it when her name leaves his lips.
"Anzu…? Duelist Kingdom girl? The hell's your last name…sounds like Maserati…"
"Mazaki." She looks up, confused, unable to place him. To her, he looks no different than every single other man in the bar, but as he drops into the barstool next to her, leaning his chin on one hand, something about the line of his jaw and the sound of his voice sounds familiar to her. "Anzu Mazaki."
"You don't know who I am, do you?" he asks, and she nods dumbly in response.
"Hang on…this'll jog your memory." He fumbles in his pocket for a pair of sunglasses, then drops them on the floor. "Damn…well, it's Keith."
She continues to stare at him blankly, and his own expression grows even more incredulous. "Keith Howard? Don't tell me you don't remember! You are the same person who was at Duelist Kingdom, right? Not that I don't blame you for repressing the memory if you did."
His words are slightly slurred, but she remembers him now, so unfamiliar without his bandanna and sunglasses, and Anzu bursts into sudden laughter. "Bandit Keith?" She continues to laugh.
"I guess I'm a pretty funny guy," he drawls, stumbling off of the stool to grab the sunglasses, shoving them back into a pocket.
"And I knew my day wasn't going to get any better, but I didn't think it was going to get any worse, either," she mutters, too low for him to hear, although he glances back at her with mild interest.
"What'd you say?"
"You're drunk," she remarks.
"And you're on your way to it," he answers. "What are you doing here? In…New York?"
"Studying ballet." Two words—her life's work up to this point, and she can sum it all up in only two words. That's all it takes, and the thought saddens her.
"You any good at it?" He considers his own question for a moment. "Got to, if you're studying it. Maybe not, if you're here."
She shrugs. "What do you do?"
"Gamble. Various card games. The occasional tournament." His own face drops into a mild frown, mouth tightening at the corners.
"You any good at it?" she asks. He doesn't give an answer at first.
"Got to be, if I've got enough money to throw away here on more drinks than I can count." He frowns again, and waves the bartender over. "Hey, take some of that ridiculous tip I gave you and refresh this lady's drink."
The bartender nods and turns away, and the clinking of glasses and the low sound of voices mixing are the only noises that fill the semi-crowded bar until Keith speaks again.
"Maybe not, if I'm at a place like this, right? It's what you're thinking. I think." He shrugs himself out of the barstool slowly, rising with an absent grace. "Have a good life, Anzu."
She watches him until he disappears into the crowd, turning back only when another glass is placed in front of her suddenly. She stirs it again, like before, and takes a drink.
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"…And turn, two three, arms up, back down…"
Anzu follows the exercises diligently, although her mind is on the new apartment, a studio—and all of the irony accompanying the word accompanies her now as the piano in the corner does, helping lift her legs and arms if not her spirits—and the neighborhood she now lives in, on the very fringes of what she would ever consider safe, what she would ever consider a home, even if only a temporary one. She can only be so hopeful.
"Auditions are next week! Next in our repertory is Giselle, and I am sure many of you will be interested in the parts. Information has been posted on all of the bulletin boards in the building, so you cannot miss it. I am looking forward to seeing your performances. Now, let us rehearse the fifth number. Dancers, if you would leave the stage…"
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The bus is crowded, more so than usual, but she has snagged a place at the very front. She holds her ballet bag on her lap, hugging it tightly with her arms. Someone else pulls the cord for her stop, and a minute the bus slides to a halt.
She still must push past a few people standing with a polite "excuse me" before thanking the driver, stepping past the newly-opened doors and taking the first step. The first one, she finds, is always the hardest to take.
No one else has followed her, and she takes the final two steps before standing firmly on the curb. The doors close and the bus continues down its path, and when Anzu looks to the right, still clutching her bag in her arms, she sees an all-too familiar head of shaggy blond hair wearing an equally surprised expression, staring right at her.
"What are you—"
"—doing here?" she finishes, sobriety and the dim evening light giving an entirely new spin to her perception of him. "You live here?"
"Down to the left, yeah." He doesn't sound proud of it, nor does he sound ashamed. "I take it you're not visiting someone?"
"No, I live here too. The building on the right." She gestures with her elbow.
"Roommate?" He tries to make the inquiry sound casual, she can tell, but she still shakes her head.
"No. I live alone." She starts to walk and so he steps in-sync, over a piece of newspaper, his foot falling squarely on the bit of grass growing between the pavement slabs.
"You're absolutely insane." She hears him mutter it, but pretends not to. "You shouldn't be alone. Come to my place for a bit. I'll make you dinner or something."
She stares at him sharply, but drops her gaze back to the pavement. "No thanks. I'm okay."
"So you really like being alone?"
"Yeah," she says quickly. "I do."
"Then at Duelist Kingdom you could have fooled me. Come on. It's non-negotiable, Anzu."
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She steps almost with hesitation into his apartment; the corridor walls and floor had been every bit as bleak as in her own building. She asks where she can put the ballet bag, and he gestures towards a corner, shrugging before moving into the kitchen. She does not comment on the gun resting almost innocently inside the half-open drawer of the foyer table.
Anzu follows, glancing into the rooms with open doors. In the kitchen Keith is staring into the freezer, and he reaches inside and pulls out a thin cardboard box covered in a thin layer of frost.
"I'll make something, just make yourself comfortable." The voice is as gruff as she can remember, but the effect is diminished when she sees him holding a box of microwave food. Anzu nods anyway, padding back into the corridor, glancing into one of the rooms she had passed earlier.
She does not know what purpose it had originally been intended for, but the room she enters in completely devoid of furniture. The horizontal white blinds are closed, but light still filters in through the cracks. What interests her most, however, is the thinly set wooden floor beneath her feet, wrapped in thin, comfortable shoes for the weather.
Anzu stands in the center and stretches her fingers out to the sides before bending one leg back into an arabesque. Her muscles are still limber enough from dancing all day, yet she does not push herself to the limits, instead returning her foot to the floor, feeling the wood through her shoes. The next step is a battement développé, slower than normal, as she takes the time to fully execute the move, lifting her arms even higher. It is not the perfect room to dance in, but it is not the worn carpet of her own apartment, and to her if a room must hold nothing at all, then at least it can offer a dance.
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Keith separates the pasta onto two separate plates, wondering the whole time why he's even doing it in the first place. He can't remember the last time he's used a real plate—real plates mean he has to wash them—but he does, and sets it on the small table. For good measure, he adds a fork, and a spoon, and before that a knife joins it, all set out in the proper plating arrangement.
It strikes him then that his impromptu dinner guest is absent, and he searches the living room, finding no one. A light tapping noise draws him to the unused second bedroom, and as he passes the door he sees Anzu, her back to him, right foot pressed firmly to left leg, arms rising. Her right leg rises to almost meet it, lifting towards the ceiling as she turns slightly, leaning back, almost radiating a kind of natural grace that can't be taught or learned.
He can't say a word; he doesn't want to say a word. He's distracted from his words, from the dinner cooling on the tabletop. What he wants is to watch her legs, and the way the edge of her shirt lifts away from her back as she lifts her arms, exposing just the slightest bit of skin.
It's unsettling how he has never associated the fact that she is a dancer with the fact that she must have a dancer's body and flexibility. It's unsettling how he can't banish those thoughts from his mind, and can't return to thinking about her as the girl he knew years and years ago on Duelist Kingdom.
They're his thoughts, and he believes that it's a free country, so he goes right back to thinking them. For now it's enough to watch her, but every muscle in his fingers itch to touch her, to hold that skin against his own. He doesn't know what's stopping him from doing it.
He decides to act like he has just arrived, and knocks lightly on the open door. Anzu falters just slightly, a surprised yet bashful expression on her face, and mutters a quick apology.
"I completely forgot where I was, I'm so sorry," she says. "It's just that I can't dance at my own place, and this just looked so perfect and empty that I had to, and—"
"I don't care," he replies, cutting her off. "Dinner's ready. You can dance or eat, so pick one. And I'm only accepting the first option, so come on."
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Dinner turns out to be thin noodles with vegetables covered in some kind of weak cheese sauce. She eats it uncaringly, just glad for the free food and momentary company. Anzu knows she looks flustered, but there is no awkwardness between them, thankfully.
"So, what are you doing in a place like this?"
She spears some noodles, twisting her fork. "Are you asking me that because I'm Anzu Mazaki? Because I'm a young woman? Becau—"
"Because I'm curious," Keith answers.
"I lost my scholarship," she says, keeping her voice as bland as the food. "Truth is, I'm just not as good as the others. I haven't landed any major roles, I haven't made any significant improvements…" She continues to twirl the pasta until the lump of noodles on her fork become too big to eat. The words are surprisingly easy to say, once she's said them, and it surprises her that Keith is surprisingly easy to tell them to.
"Then get better. Push another girl down some stairs if you're her understudy." He shrugs. "I don't want to waste my time worrying about you."
"Aw, Keith, that's sweet." The sarcasm is inescapable. "I didn't think you cared."
"I don't," he replies, "so don't mistake it for that. You just owe me for the dinner and drink is all, and I don't want you in my neighborhood. I don't like to share, so you're going to repay me by moving back where you came from as quickly as possible. Got it?"
She hides a grin behind her fork. "Sure. No complaints."
"Good." A slight pause, and the dull scrape of metal against plastic. "And after dinner, you're going to let me walk you back to your place. I make sure the people who owe me things always pay up, and you're no exception."
"Not this time," she says. "I'm walking myself, and that's non-negotiable." She smiles. "Thank you for dinner."
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"The part?" the ballet mistress peers at Anzu from across the room, as she tries to swallow the nervousness, imagining the colorful butterflies bursting from her person to fly around the room, dancing with her instead of within her.
"Giselle, madame."
"I see. Which number?"
"The Entrée de Giselle, madame." The music is cued, and Anzu gets into position.
"You may begin."
With that she flies, dances across the wooden floor of the practice room. She tries to play the character, to move not only with grace and technique but to imagine that she is dancing not in a room lined with mirrors, but in the Germany of the Middle Ages, introducing herself to the others, to the audience watching from the first row all the way to the last.
She is interrupted after a few minutes to a wave from her instructor. "That is all, I have seen enough."
"Are you sure?" Anzu asks. "Because I can do other numbers for you."
"No, I am quite familiar with your style by now, Mazaki, and both your strengths and your shortfalls."
"…Madame?"
"I have noticed, Anzu," she says, using her first name with a thin smile, "that you are much better dancing by yourself than you are dancing in a group. You fail to stand out in a group, but you can lead them."
"But the part—"
"I applaud your courage for trying for the lead. I deplore your senselessness at trying for a role you are not suited for and will never win."
Her heart broke. "But Madame—"
"I did not say what your exact fate would be, did I? Perhaps you will escape the corps. You dance differently, today, but it is not enough. But you are trying, as you said you would. I will think about your role very carefully."
Anzu can only nod once, sharply, and collect her things from the room and leave.
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"Myrtha?" The single name escapes her lips, both confused and delighted. "I'm playing…Myrtha?"
The piece of paper pinned neatly to the board has but a few names listed, the principal cast. Hers is not the last, and beside it rests the role of the Queen of the Wilis, vengeful spirits of women who died before their wedding day, who pursue and kill young men by forcing them to dance with them until their hearts give out. It is Anzu who will be their leader, who will dance for and with them, and who will pronounce their judgment.
The sight of the name alone brings a smile to her face, but it is a questionable one. She is familiar with the role but not familiar with the character behind it.
The role itself honestly does not matter as much as the fact that she has one.
A few hours later while waiting for the bus the danse russe strikes up again, deep and rhythmic, and she opens it almost mechanically.
"Anzu? We haven't heard from you in a while, how are you? Busy working, I'm sure."
"Sounds like me," she says.
"I won the most recent tournament—Kaiba's not too happy, he only placed second, but then again I don't think I've ever seen him happy. But I didn't call so we could talk about Kaiba. Unless you wanted to, of course."
She laughs, genuinely laughs, and answers, "No, it's okay. And I'm okay, really. I'd rather talk about what's going on with you than me any day."
"But you're the one with the exciting life in the city! Listen, Mai's thinking of traveling to New York sometime next year—Fashion Week, I think? I'll make sure she lets you know."
"Uh, sure. Listen, can I call you back?"
"Of course." There is a sadness to his voice, like he already knows she probably won't call. At least Anzu knows he'll think it's because she forgot again.
"Thank you, Yugi. I'll talk to you later. Bye."
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"—Five six seven—"
Anzu tries to move, lifting her arms with the cues, dancing with her heart on fire.
"Your heart is broken! Dance like it!" shouts the ballet mistress.
"It is!" she cries, spinning in circles, throwing her arms to the ceiling.
"Yes, but has your heart ever been broken by a man?"
Anzu stops, the image of her instructor blurring and spinning as her eyesight adjusts to the standstill. She thinks of Atem, the Pharaoh who left them all for death; she thinks of Yugi, so cheerful and kind, who even now cannot see anything but the best in people and for them. Her heart did not break when she left them, it only became heavier with something she cannot identify.
"No," she says with certainty. "It has not."
"Then there is your problem," the mistress says. "Your pain is not real. It is only a simulation of what someone with the real pain of heartbreak could experience. The audience will not believe it in your face or your movements. You must learn it or learn to fake it better."
Anzu returns to the starting position, preparing to walk down what will be the line of wilis awaiting her command.
"Again!"
She flings her arms, and they part for her, the imaginary dancers at her side, whirling and twirling at her every command.
'Break my heart,' she tells them almost desperately. 'Break it, so I can know your pain.'
They stare sadly at her, only her, for she is both their captor and their audience.
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She knocks loudly on the door, ignoring the hour—past dinnertime, but not unreasonably late—and is somehow still surprised when he opens the door to her. Keith stares at her, ballet bag slung over one shoulder.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Please let me inside," she says. "I need to practice, and I can only stay so late at the academy before they close the building. I figured I could just dance in your empty room and do what little I can."
It's the most absurd thing she can think of, but what is most important to her at the moment is to get inside the doors. She thinks that Keith is a better choice than any of the male dancers she knows, or any random stranger on the street. She knows that her thinking is flawed.
"Can I come in?"
"No." Keith moves to shut the door in her fact, but she shoves a leg past it, wedging her hip in the door to keep it from closing.
"Let me in! I…I…I can give you tickets to my ballet! I got a role and I need to practice, now let me in!"
The door is opened a little wider, and she slips inside, although he does not let her go far. "You've got one hour, and then I've got to go leave for a job. Hurry up before I change my mind."
She stretches lightly first, pressing her palms to the backs of her feet as she lays her shoulders flat against her legs, standing and bending her legs and feet behind her, in circles—Myrtha's part is mainly leaps and jumps, and she cannot practice those in a space like this, but she can go through the movements, memorizing the steps as she ghosts through them. At one point she winces, losing her balance after a series of turns.
"That was terrible," Keith says.
"I'd like to see you try," Anzu replies. "Come on, dance with me."
"I don't dance. And if I did, that's not the kind of dancing I'd do, honey."
She does the turn again, perfectly. "Do you like watching me dance?"
If he was wearing sunglasses, he could just close his eyes and talk without having to actually see her body move, although then his mind would be supplying the images. She is waiting for an answer, so he leans against the doorway and gives her one.
"I like what I see, yeah."
The first step is always the hardest, she knows. She walks towards him as if she is walking towards Hilarion or Albrecht, the cruel men in the eyes of the wilis for the love that they do not share. She is as implacable as her situation allows, and stops a foot from him, tilting her head to observe him from a new angle. He watches her slowly, warily, matching her almost-smile for one far crueler than anything Hilarion or Albrecht could manage.
"Are you talking about me or the dance?"
"You," he says.
"That's what I thought."
Simultaneously, she stands on tiptoes to crush her lips to his, pressing her left hand against the side of his face to pull him closer, fingertips just brushing the edge of his hair. Keith presses closer instantly, hands settling themselves over Anzu's hips as she presses her other hand against his chest, just feeling him there, feeling his steady heartbeat.
She moans softly and it only encourages him. His hands tighten around her, sweeping up her back and down against to her hips, leaving a wake of fire across the brief places where they touch her bare skin.
Keith draws back suddenly, though not far enough as Anzu can still feel his breath against her lips. "Why?"
She wonders why he even asks at all and in her delirium she replies, "Because you'll break my heart."
She leans back in but he moves back further, withdrawing his hands as the connection between them is broken.
"Leave," he says. "Now. I've got work to do."
She feels nothing at all when the door slams behind her this time, but she presses a finger cautiously to her lips as if to assure herself of what she just did. She can still smell him, like smoke and sweat, and a corner of her heart begins to rip just slightly, she thinks.
It's not the best, nowhere near the best, and her heart feels confused and discarded, but it will have to do.
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"Dance!" cries the ballet mistress and she does, soaring higher on each jump than ever before, feeling the full skirt to her ankles shift and swirl with each movement. She extends her legs, bowing her arms and head gracefully. She is not just one of the wili, she is their Queen. It is a lamentation, but it is also a celebration.
Anzu does not think about other auditions. She does not think about the half-dozen boxes of strange pasta meals in her freezer, ready for her to cook and eat at a moment's notice. She thinks about the dress rehearsal going on around her, before her, and behind her as she exits the stage, and the corps de ballet continue to dance without her.
She earns the approving nod of the mistress, and does not glance once at the woman playing Giselle. That role is not a challenge, not to Anzu. They are in perfect unison together, all dressed in white.
"You will be wonderful tomorrow," the mistress tells her.
"I know," she replies.
Later she sits in her chair in the dressing room, watching herself in the mirror, when the danse russe begins to play from her phone. She turns it off.
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The first step is always the hardest, she knows. Her first step onto the darkened stage lit only by a series of soft blue lights from above is over before she can even think or worry about it, and she knows as she dances that it is the best she has ever danced in her life. No one, tonight, dances with the intensity and fluidity that she does. It is all there, before her, the other parts of her heart—her scholarship, her future roles, her dancing—although she misses that other corner for only a second.
It is immediately following a soutenu de tournant that she sees him in the front row, one leg crossed over the other, looking uncomfortable. Anzu almost stops.
But she cannot, this is her dance! Don't they see that she herself is like a wili, a ghost of this city, she does not belong here, she only belongs on the stage. The dance is richer for his presence, and as she torments the two men seeking Giselle, she knows there is at least one man in the audience who seeks her. At last, someone has come for her.
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It is at the reception afterwards where she sees him, making his way towards her, brushing aside the crowds as if parting those in the bar or on the city bus. He does not smile or frown, but merely grasps her hand in his, drawing it up to place one upon his shoulder as he holds the other tightly.
"Dance with me," he says.
There is music—violins, a string quartet—and they make some kind of rhythm out of it, dancing together, alone in a sea of people.
Maybe, just maybe, it doesn't matter at all that they've both been broken, that they're isolated, that they're angry and lonely and have no idea what they mean to one another. They just dance.
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End.
Notes:
1) I loved the idea of Anzu going to New York to study and finding out that she's actually not the best over there. It evolved into this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. The dots used as spacers were an intentional choice to give the story a greater feeling of distance. There are fifteen sections, which echoes the number of movements in the first act of the ballet Giselle.
2) Wikipedia was an invaluable aid with regards to research about ballet. I tried to stay as true to what I learned as possible. I also watched clips of that character's particular dances in the actual ballet for accuracy.
3) I find it interesting with regards to this pairing how close their birthdays are. xD Has anyone else ever noticed that?
4) Thank you for reading. I would appreciate and value your reviews.
~Jess