Every step he takes, perfectly calculated.
Toes, metatarsus, heel.
Over and over again.
Eyes trained on his partner, his supposed lover.
He sees but he does not watch her, he only feels the steps.
Toes, metatarsus, heel, muscles each flowing and moving the way they were planned to.
Toes, metatarsus, heel.
And then he's spinning.
One, two, three pirouettes a la seconde and again, one, two, three…He's lost his spot.
He founds it again just in time to turn with his leg lowered to an attitude.
And then simple pirouettes and he can see his partner bite her lip.
With good reason, he thinks, I don't even know her name.
And then he's posing and here come the jumps, jumps so high he feels like flying.
He can't see the other dancers' faces but he knows nobody's smiling as they watch him dance.
He knows they're all dead serious, some hoping he doesn't fall and break something, others praying he does.
They want to be in his place, they want to be him.
Let them, he thinks, let them be me so I don't have to.
He knows father is yelling at him, to correct this and that.
To correct and to denigrate, he also knows that father is yelling about how fat he is, about how he's not enough, how he's an utter failure.
And yet, he's the lead, because no matter how fat he is, how much he messes up his turns or how bad he falls he'll be the lead.
Because he's the best.
Because if he's fat everyone else is fatter and if he messes up a turn the others can't even try to do it.
Because he's the best and he wants to scream because he hates it.
He feels like he's under water, he hears nothing.
Not father's yelling or the music or the people praying he doesn't fall.
Only the count in his head and father's foot tapping against the floor.
One two three, two two three, three two three.
His face feels naked without the black face paint and his shoulders itch without the feel of his hoodie.
He can't stand the quiet in the studio, the scrutinizing gazes.
He longs for a cheering crowd and music so loud his whole vibrates with the bass and ladybug's sneakers illuminating his face with that freaking red glow he has come to love so much.
He wants to scream.
And the tights around his legs feel like a cage because godammit would he give everything to be wearing Harem pants* and spinning on the dance floor.
And every single movement he does is controlled, collapsed.
And every single movement he does is Ballet.
He hates it.
He remembers when he was small and he would step into his mothers pointe shoes "Look mommy! I'm a pretty ballerina! Like you."
But he doesn't want to be!
He doesn't want to be a pretty ballerina anymore, he wants to feel the beat run through his veins and he wants Ladybug to tease him and wipe the floor with his ass and he wants to be a break dancer.
Fuck.
And jump and pirouette and fucking pose and he finally gets to step out of the floor, sweat running down his back.
He wants to soak himself with water and change into Chat Noir to do what he loves.
And then, the dreaded words.
"Again!"
He hates himself.