You could have been famous. You could have been more than this. But, it was too much. Too much stress, too much pressure. Too much… Work. Things happened, loves lost, and you just couldn't handle it any longer. Everything was too much. Instead of being in the spotlight on some big stage, you are an instructor. It is a rewarding job, you've decided. You watch your student's blossom, become more confident in their abilities, more coordinated. They try hard, as they must in your class. Though you are the youngest teacher in the school, you are by no means a push over. You are probably one of the most vigorous teachers, and the others joke that you will mellow out as the years go by, as you become complacent. You know that won't happen, and you don't want it too. These idiots need a harsh teacher, damnit, and that teacher is you. Karkat Vantas.
Most of your students are driven and love what they do. They strive for perfection, they lust for the spotlight on that big stage you never got to. Key word being most. There are the odd few that are here because they thought it sounded easy, or some other stupid reason. When you get them, you up the intensity of your workouts to the point where they get tired of so much work and they quit. However, there has been one lazy fuckass that you have been completely unable to get rid of. And now? You know you don't want to.
His name is John Egbert, and the only reason he has survived your attempts to weed out lazy students is sheer talent. He looks beautiful when he dances. Every movement perfectly timed, flowing easily from one position to the next. In a way, you envy him. Your path to success(?) was one of hard work, of blood, sweat, and tears. He on the other hand, merely coasts by on sheer talent alone. You think he is incredibly lucky, and you sincerely wish he was more motivated than he is.
So you try to make him more motivated, because someday, he could be something great. He could be a star. You focus most of your attentions on him during class, correcting even the tiniest flaws, telling him you know he can do better because you're certain he can. He resents such fervent attempts to correct him, and you know it. He glares every time you say his name in class now because he knows that means you're going to correct him. More often than not now, you hear him complaining to the few friends he has in the class as they all walk out together. He says you pick on him. Sometimes you doubt John knows how good he really is.
One day, you keep him after class. You tell him to stay after as you are wrapping up the main lesson with the class, and he shoots you a withering look. You figured he was going to fight you about this, you aren't surprised, and so you glare right back at him. Sometimes your star student absolutely infuriates you. He fights you constantly. If you try to move him so he is standing straighter or holding his arms out properly, you have to physically push him, because he will not budge with simple light touches. Not anymore. He stopped doing what you'd wanted after about two weeks of your attentions.
He works though. He starts working harder, just to prove you wrong, that is form is perfect, that you don't always need to bother him. He hates you, but it's working. He is getting better, he's pushing himself harder. He's no longer coasting along on his talent alone. There is spirit and strength and defiance in his blue eyes when he performs for you, and you love it.
He is waiting against the mirror wall, arms crossed, and a scowl on his face. He knows he is not in trouble. When your students are in trouble, they either get sent home early from class, or they are yelled at in front of everyone. That is how your discipline works, and there are no exceptions. He has been your student for nearly six months now, and he knows as much.
You tell him to dance, to perform, as if he was auditioning for this school all over again. He reluctantly agrees. Gets into position, and begins. You watch passively at first; studying his form with a critical eye, watching his foot placement. It actually takes you a minute before you find something you want to correct. You walk up to him, and he knows it's a signal to freeze. "Here." You say as you crouch down next to him, and place one hand on his back, the other on his arm. "Keep your back straight." You order, and force him into a better position. You are not gentle, because he won't respond to gentle with you anymore.
John yells at you. He stands up straight, and asks why you always pick on him, why you're so rough, why you won't fucking stop correcting him. You grind your teeth, and you tell him just how good he is, how he could be something great, if only he lets you help him. You tell him how great he is compared to the other students, how lucky he is to be so talented. You rant loudly for a while about these things, and he just stares, stunned into silence, and it is understandable, because you have never outright yelled at him in particular. Not like this at least.
You stop, eventually, breathing a little hard, your fists clenched tight, your fingernails digging into your palms to the point where you may very well be bleeding, and your knuckles snow tight. John is still staring in disbelief, but after a moment of letting your rant permeate his feeble mind, he gets this shy kinda sorta smile on his pale, pretty lips, and he holds out his hand. "You know, dancing alone is fun and all, and I do love it, but," he says as he reaches out and grabs your hand, some sort of happy sparkle in his eyes that you don't know if you've seen before, "I want a partner. Join me?"
There is no hesitance as you fight for the lead in a passionate dance of yours and his own creation.