A/N: Hi everyone, sorry it's been so long... Senior year is pretty crazy, but I promise I will add more to Tricks and Treats, One Hell of a New Butler, and this story as often as I can! Thank you for all the reviews begging me to update more often, and I sorry I couldn't. But that all changes today. Enjoy!
NOTE: All ballet terms are listed at the end of the chapter.
"Fuck," Sebastian hissed under his breath, pausing in the middle of their elevé combo to shake out the screaming cramp in his calf, unintentionally gripping the ballet bar with more force than he should have. First day at the prestigious Phantomhive Dance Academy in New York City and already his muscles were seizing up. Not a good sign. As soon as the pain subsided he resumed the combo, giving himself a quick glance at the mirror to make sure he was on the right step. Warm sun filtered in through the windows and made his porcelain, bare upper half almost glowing except for his black tattoos. On his back right shoulder was a dandelion, the seed floating around his body to the front of his chest, where the words through every dark night is a brighter day were tattooed in cursive script across his shoulder. The rest of his body was pure muscle, skin as smooth and flawless as alabaster save for the black pentacle inked into his left hand. His tattoos made him stand out from the rest of the prim ballet class; those girls wouldn't dream of getting any sort of mark on their skin, at least not where it was visible. Male dancers practiced in only their tights and something underneath called a belt- nearly everything was showing for them.
"Michaelis I want the highest relevé you can give me." The teacher, Elizabeth Midford, was an infamous prima ballerina and perfectionist, heading the dance side of the academy at only 23. "And that goes for the rest of you, if you're rolling in or out you're forcing it and you need to go lower. Sutcliffe, we should be in demi-pointe, balls of our feet still flat on the floor." A quick flick of his head got his shoulder-length raven locks out of his eyes.
The song ended and Sebastian straightened, raising his chin a little, delicately lifting his arms off the bar and keeping them in front of him. "Come center," she instructed and he followed, taking a space in the back left corner of the room behind a girl with brilliant red hair in a pixie cut, the rest of the class finding spots and windows for them to dance in facing the mirror. The raven-haired dancer chose to stand with his feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back. Starting to pace the ballet teacher glanced at every student, her tight bun making the casual look more severe. "I understand that because you are here, you are some of the best dancers in the world. However," she continued, elegantly crossing the front of the room in four strides, "I expect each of you to be stretching every day. The elevé combo we just did takes ten minutes, and I still do it before bed. The improvement it can make on your arches is magical. Remember, there is always room for you to get better. Pamela, please lead our closing combo and reverànce, and then class you are dismissed."
The beginning chords and breaths of Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" rang through the room and Sebastian felt tears instantly pool in his eyes. Other students shifted, the redhead in front of him shaking out each leg before going into fifth position, but images of Claude flashed in front of his eyes: school, dance, their sleepovers, the wake. He followed the moves of the girl in the front of the room, each motion flowing into the next as if he had memorized the whole dance instead of just watching. Rond de jambes and pas de chats blended together, until the last notes of the song faded, the ballerina in front gracefully curtsied and the students began filing out of the room. Sebastian's chest was the only one heaving. He left the room, throwing on a black t-shirt and sweatpants before hoisting his black duffel over his shoulder.
"Michaelis, come here for a moment." Obediently the nineteen-year-old went back into the studio, wincing slightly at the squeaks his converse made on the floor. The teacher looked up at him with a worried expression in her brilliant blue eyes. "That combination usually isn't that emotional, but you treated it as if it was your last time dancing." She paused, avoiding eye contact. "Is there something you'd like to explain?"
Sebastian swallowed hard, blinking quickly before steeling himself. "Three years ago my best friend Claude Faustus was killed in a car accident," he said in an almost robotic voice, "and it was because he danced. He was in a crosswalk and one of our classmates thought it would be funny to hit him. The kid barely even scratched his car and Claude had his neck broken. He was in the ICU for two days before his parents decided to pull the plug." A tear slipped down his cheek and Sebastian shifted so his hair covered its trail. "He died a week before we first competed a duet to that version of the song."
The teacher bit her lip. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "I can't imagine how that feels... Would you prefer we didn't use that song in class anymore?"
"Don't worry about me." The raven-haired teen wiped away the wetness on his cheeks. "I was just surprised, that's all. I'll be fine."
"As long as you're sure you'll be okay." She gazed at him in concern and he realized the prim-and-proper blonde ballerina was only a few years older than he was. "If you do end up changing your mind please let me know."
"Thank you." He inclined his head, taking a deep breath before starting out the door again. "I'll see you tomorrow, Madame Midford."
"Please, call me Lizzie." The blonde smiled warmly at him and Sebastian could see why all the students adored her when she wasn't their teacher. "If you need anything, all you have to do is ask."
"I will, Lizzie. Thank you," the teen said with a small wave, readjusting the duffle over his shoulder and leaving the glowing dance studio in silence once again.
Elevé: the distance between the heel of the dancer and the ground Relevé: raising of the body on the points or demi-pointes, pointe or demi-pointe Demi-pointe: indicates that the dancer is to stand high on the balls of the feet and under part of the toes Reverànce: a bow or curtsy. The last exercises of a ballet class in which the ballet dancers pay respect to and acknowledge the teacher and pianist Rond de jambes: round of the leg, that is, a circular movement of the leg Pas de chats: cat's-step. The step owes its name to the likeness of the movement to a cat's leap.