Of Pointed Shoes and Liberal Arts

by thenamesiggykirkland

It could only be in nostalgia of his childhood days with his mother, Alfred decided. He hated ballet, after all, so why would he purposefully force himself to sit through three hours of it for any other reason? Perhaps it was a good thing he did, though, for where else would he have met the mysterious male ballerina that had somehow captured his undying attention? USUK

1. The Russian Ballet

Alfred had never liked ballet. One of the clearest memories he held from his childhood was that of his mother forcing him to sit through shows that went on for hours because his father had either refused to go or had claimed that he 'had work to do'. He remember hating it, loathing it. Alfred had, since he was little, had trouble sitting still, after all. He was an active little boy, preferring to play sport in the garden or roam the paddocks on their farm than sit and watch television, practice the piano, read or whatnot.

It was in an act of nostalgia then, he supposed, after having left his parents in America to do his undergraduate degree in England, that he did it. He couldn't think of any other reason why. He hated ballet, and yet, he found himself in one of the stalls in the Royal Opera House at Covent Gardens, waiting for the visiting Russian Ballet to start.

Admittedly, he'd always held a lot of respect for ballerinas and thought them brilliant athletes. It was a well known fact that ballerinas were some of the fittest people in the world, after all. Alfred admired that they were able to keep their bodies so lithe and fluid, and yet exert so much energy at the same time.

That didn't mean he'd ever liked ballet though. Nevertheless, there he was, at the Royal Ballet in London.

It was of no surprise, of course, that his eyes started drooping shut after ten minutes or so of the show starting. There weren't even any female ballerinas to keep him interested, owing to the fact that it was an all male cast (who had an all male cast in a ballet?).

As the young American started questioning his sanity for opting to watch a ballet instead of clubbing with the rest of his friends, Alfred's eyes focused on him; the most beautiful man he'd ever seen. Beautiful in all senses of the word - he looked so pleasant, his face lit up in the tiniest smile, and his hair was like... wheat glowing in the sunshine, if Alfred were to be particularly poetic. The man's skin glistened in the ethereal glow of the lighting onstage, and if only Alfred could touch it for how soft it looked. His body was small and lithe, feminine in its angles.

What was really striking about the man, though, were his eyes. They were like gleaming emerald gems in the darkest of caves, lighting the way for all who needed. And as poetic and cliché as that sounded, as much as Alfred felt disgusted with himself for thinking it, he couldn't help but think that it was completely and utterly true.