Previously on Dance Academy: Last Chapter: Christian finally took Tara to the swimming pool, and she had trusted him with it all, from shaving to rehab and spending time together in town. That side of life is looking rather peachy as she, in not so many words, is inviting him to stay over when he gets too tired to head home. But it's a completely different story back at the Company...

There

Enough. I've had enough. Enough of the bickering. Enough of Wayne, Wes and Rebecca all having their say in how I should dance my character. Worst still, how I should act it. And there I have to stand through it all, waiting for them to make up their minds. Waiting to see who I should follow, knowing that seconds later another will correct me the other way. In all of this mess who am I supposed to listen to? Who am I to trust? And my head keeps on saying that the only one I can trust is me. Not that they would stop bickering to hear my take on the role, of course.

So when all the rehearsals are done I just hang around in the corner, stretching, till everyone is gone. Then I quietly get up and turn off the lights. I wait in darkness and silence till the last person is out, out of the dressing rooms, out through the corridors, out into the night. When the whole Company building has been still and quiet for at least five minutes, I roll up a piece of paper and wedge the door open. The corridor lets in just enough light for me to see my shadowy shape in the large mirrors.

I push my earbuds in and press play.

It takes only the first few beats for the music to take hold of me and I move. I have not written this choreography. There's no need. It is alive in my mind, every turns, every extensions, etched in my consciousness; they fill my head.

But it doesn't work.

How am I supposed to let it all out when I'm holding something in my hand?

I could put it on the stereo, but others might still be lingering, and I don't want to be disturbed. I want to get lost in it. I want the dance to overcome and take me to that place where there is nothing else. Nothing else at all.

With a huff I turn the track off and rush to my bag in search of a solution. My hand comes back out with a sock.

A sock.

A smelly one at that.

I stare for a second, then get my teeth into it, biting a small hole that I stretch into a rip. I slide my arm in, pulling the sock all the way over my bicep. I double the layer and squeeze the mp3 in. It should be tight enough, but I still fold a flap over it like an envelope. I can't help it: it's stupid and against my conscious will but there's still a crookedness on my right cheek. I am alone and I'm smirking as I return to the centre: Move over fancy armbands, I make my own.

I press play again, but something stops me from moving. I glance over my shoulder. Her face is hidden in shadow but I have no doubt this is Abigail. And it's not because of her small frame, there's something about her that simply says ''I am here''.

The whole atmosphere changes, suddenly filled with tension. Despite the darkness, and the fact that we can barely see each other, she knows I know she's watching and that I am not liking it one bit.

I normally would be pissed off. I always do when things don't go my way: I don't want an audience and here I am with one. Yet it's relief that seeps through me. I don't have the head space to think about what that means, I make the most of it instead. I blank it all out and catch up with my dance.

I do glance at her once, on a slow turn. The back light draws faint patterns on her face. The pout and crinkled eyes are unmissable. Neither are the tightly crossed arms.

And still I dance. And the relief grows. Abigail might be the harshest judge I might find, and I've got no desire to hear her views, but somehow it feels just right that she would see this.

After the very last dragging note, I finally look squarely at the door. Abigail is still there.

I press play again, and start anew. The moves might be clear in my head, my body still needs to adjust, to go through the transformation that makes each idea, each concept, take form.

It starts with the rigidity of the first part, where I become a beacon of strength, with bold moves, from each muscles lining my spine engaged to keep me strong and grounded to the ones in my elbows, shoulders, hips, knees, ending with the finely tuned grips of my toes.

The second thought leaves me aching to breathe, not simply because dancing is exhausting at the best of times, but because the shapes there are so much squashed, my chest never getting a chance to straighten, only twisting into bends, forward or back, sideways, my lungs remaining squeezed between little glimpse of release through the short changes.

The third move has to look so light, so airy, as the acro comes in; the lifts that would be there if a partner was present, the roll over backs, the crisscrossing patterns. But it is all an illusion we take the audience on. Inside, it's all burn. Not a muscle is left unused, to leap, to land, to shape, to retain a modicum of balance when your sight cannot help you much, and neither can your ears. When those senses are impaired, the body has to take over. Light it might look, light it is not.

And then comes the penultimate part, where my body should communicate with the other, to link, mirror, echo and clash, where all the moves combine, from bold to soft, from high to low, from wide to narrow, from steady to unhinged. I should feel lost, but somehow my body finds its way, the music and concept leading it on till the last base line, accompanied with just some hand claps and a few shakes of tambourine, takes me on a steady walk to the back, my heart rate evening out, my stature regaining its normal shape, when I become human again.

It is only when I stop that I become fully aware that Abigail has moved right in front of me, between my piece and the mirror. Her frown is deep as she comes towards me. She snatches the mp3 out of my made-up sock-armband, pulling the earbuds out with the tug, and heads straight to the sound system. I don't even stop her.

'Whose piece is this?' she asks as she plugs the wire in.

'Mine.'

That makes her turn. 'That's not you.'

I shrug. 'It is.'

The soft tambourine in the background, the ah-ing voices, then the rhythmic drum fill the room, one adding to the other.

'Go,' she orders.

'You go.'

She hits pause. 'Excuse me?'

'It's a pas-de-deux.'

'Oh, is it now?' Abigail's face can be such a theatre stage, her eyebrows now rising in derision, her tone as narky as can get. She doesn't need spotlights or microphones.

I just nod. 'M-hm.'

We have that knack where we normally rub each other the wrong way without even trying to, but somehow my candidness must be taking her by surprise.

'What is it about?' The narrowing eyes are back.

'What do you think?' I ask, genuinely so.

Abigail doesn't say a thing. Instead she circles around me. I would like to think she is looking for an answer but the tightness that grows in whatever part of my body she is nearest to, my back, my left arm, my stomach, tells me she's probably looking for a snide comment instead.

She stops by my right side, and it feels strangely light.

'Helplessness.'

I wish I could see her face. I wish I could check that the wistfulness I did hear in her voice is right. But her face is in complete darkness, even if I could see it properly and not at the very edge of my peripheral vision.

I nod, but it's kind of askew. I wonder if she notices. Helplessness is just one part of it.

'So why on earth should ''I'',' the stress is unavoidable, 'dance this?'

'It's about being there, when others need us.'

Abigail huffs. 'Well, there you go, double reason.' She tuts for extra effect and aims for the door.

'Oh, of course. You've never been there for anyone. You didn't help Kat get back into the Academy. And you didn't coach Tara through the Red Shoes. Neither did you support Ollie through all his music schemes. You did none of that. You weren't there for them at all. How silly of me.'

Abigail flips her hand in the air as she still walks away. 'Slips.'

'No.'

Abigail swings back to face me, not that it makes a blind bit of difference in the dull light seeping through the door behind her.

I swallow hard. What I am about to say, it's going to take a bit chunk out of my chest, but I've got to.

'And you didn't push Sammy in that fountain when he was freaking out about his competition. No, of course you didn't.'

I can't see it but I hear her mouth pop open.

'He told me. You were there for him, Abs, time and again.'

Abigail sighs, a wet heavy sound coming out in a rush. 'See what that got me.'

'It's his music.'

'What?'

'It was on his playlist.'

'How the -'

'I borrowed his laptop,' I rush to say before she makes accusations. 'Sammy's room, his family's keeping everything.' I swallow hard at the memory of his posters, his books. The only thing that was not Sammy's in that room was the tidiness. 'His music collection is like nothing I have ever seen. He listened to everything and anything. But when I heard this, I didn't have to think. The whole thing just mapped out. Listen to it at least.'

I swallow again, even if it makes little difference to the ache in my chest.

I count the seconds. It takes nineteen and a half for Abigail to come back. I mirror her action: every step she takes towards me, I take away and back towards the sound system, till she is in full centre and I have my finger on the button.

'I have watched you twice, without music. How the heck am I going to dance this for you? I have no clue what the girl would do. It would be a girl, right?'

I shrug again. 'Now it just feels right that it's you, but it could be either, it really doesn't matter.'

I sense the death stare without seeing it, it's even more potent.

'Just dance what you saw, I'll do the other bit.'

I press play.

I've got to give it to her, she is really something. Most dancers only need to watch once or twice to remember. It's like we have specially designed brains that transform what we see into what our bodies do. But this is so much more. The moves are really complex, often contradicting in their patterns, and yet she's got them all. This track completely suits her in its strength, in its powerful beats, in its crescendos.

When I join her she is startled by the role I take, as I expected, but within seconds it's like puzzle pieces fitting together. As she plays the protector, I am the weak one. She becomes my shelter, my strength. Where my moves are soft and giving, hers are bold and solid.

But something isn't quite right. I reach over carefully and pull Abigail's hair out of its ponytail. She frowns at me for a second, but then flings her thick brown mane with the tempo, setting herself free of shackles, letting her whole body whip adversity into submission, finding her place in the role.

The chorus explodes and so do we, the movements that had been for both of us quite contained take wider shapes, released into full expression. Her eyes bore into mine. Does she see it coming? Will she get it? Will she allow herself to? Will she let herself be fragile?

The second verse takes over. I move. Abigail freezes. I move again, her eyes boring into mine in the darkness. She won't do it. But then there's a sharp sound, as if she's just ground her teeth. Her strength, her shrewdness, her boldness, it all melts. Her moves are not exactly mine, neither is she completely deviating. The main shapes are there. Maybe she remembered the first part best, maybe she is just resisting. But it works. And I lose myself back into the movement. She has accepted the challenge, I might as well trust her to bring it on.

The second chorus repeats as Abigail the strong lets me be the shelter, the one to be there for her. Every time her face comes into the light, I discern a sadness that I haven't seen there for a long while. Not since Sammy died. Not since we finally said goodbye.

For a painful heartbeat I want to stop.

That she would need to portray this level of abandonment for such a piece is a given, but that was never Abigail's forte, the emotional. Maybe it's too much. Or maybe I am a chicken and I don't want her to know what is coming. Maybe I don't trust she can pull it off, or that I can pull it off, or that anyone can pull off what I dreamed up. Maybe there's no way it could work.

I grab her for the lifts, the spins and twists, the thank-yous, the imagined lightness.

But the banged-on piano breaks the spell, as we dance the same parts, side by side, both lost and both strong, both caught in that duality that sometimes you are the shelter, and sometimes you are the one being rescued.

As the chorus keeps on, the choir joining in, we meld even more. We take turns in the roles, our bodies never disconnecting. Either our backs are against each other, or it's our hands. They are not holding, but connecting, skin to skin. Then it's my foot on hers, her foot on mine, our elbows or knees interlocking. If we part, it is for seconds. Our moves differ but are the same in how they feel to dance, in how I hope they will be perceived.

As the clapping and tambourine fades, we walk away to the back, in lines that seem to be parallel but are actually at an angle. We separate and yet remain connected, very much there for the other.

In the growing silence, we both sit. We don't even need to talk to each other or check each other out, the symbiosis of the dance hasn't quite left us. Then I collapse to the ground. My body is shattered from dancing at company standards all day, and I have just danced this demanding piece three times, and yet I am full of energy. I'm on a complete high.

This dance, it is not finished, I know that much. It's still in its infancy. There's room to grow, to get shaped into something even more special, but the potential is there. It is real. That piece of mine, it has just seen the light of day. It exists, it is possible, more than possible.

I force myself to sit back up and face Abigail.

The lights get turned on blinding us until our pupils adapt to the sudden change. Wes walks in with a smile, but tight eyes.

'Interesting.'

Abigail beams as she gets up to reach him.

'You've been watching, have you? I was good, I'll give you that. The work itself was not too bad I guess.'

I smirk at the tone that does not match the words.

But Wes is still eyeing me up. Which is ridiculous. There's no way Wes could be jealous of me. He is the contemporary choreographer for the Company, for crying out loud. It's not as if I am ever going to want his job. And then I spot how tight his hold is around Abigail's waist, following her as she takes my water bottle to drink. That and the way he slides side glances at me reminds me of Ethan. It's probably the way I look when Ethan is a bit too touchy feely with Tara. Well, he has even less to worry there.

'Shall we go now?' he asks her.

Abigail detangles herself from his hold. 'Just a minute, I'll catch up with you outside.'

Wes gives her a brief nod, and me a measuring glance.

I'll give him credit for being weary of me. I've deserved this many times before, but never less than right now.

I do envy him his confidence though, that acknowledgement and trust that after all Abigail makes her own choices. I'm not ever sure Abigail is aware of that. But then she is on par with me on this subject, there is no way we would ever see each other in a romantic light, we are too much alike.

She comes back to me and stares into my eyes, deep brown irises verses even darker one, and it's as if I am no longer in front of a person, like she has suddenly transformed into my own reflection. We both used to be cowards when it came to bonding with others, not wanting to rely on anyone else but ourselves, running around scared when anyone made any claims on us. But look at us now. She with Wes, me and my hopes with Tara. We, the bold and strong, are we getting soft? And maybe even stronger through it?

She bites her lip for a second. 'You're being very funny and all that, but this is just another distraction for you. There's no way I'm gonna dance this. It's not just that I would have to cut out sleep altogether to find any more hours to dance, I'm sure I am contracted not to do anything else but the company's work. Unlike you.'

'When there's a will, there's a way.'

Her face grows serious. 'When we are done here and with the touring, that will be it for you. Not for me. It will be corps de ballet endurance test all over again.

'But I need you.'

'Oh, others have played that card before, I'm not falling for it again. You can do without me.' Abigail rises her eyebrows. 'No one is irreplaceable,' she says, imitating Rebecca's sharp tone. 'Remember?'

'I don't believe this for a second. And neither do you. Sometimes we just have to make without.'

Sadness seeps through her eyes as it fills my throat. We both have that same person that will remain irreplaceable.

'Of course someone else could dance this,' I conceded, 'but my guts tell me it has to be you, because you get it. Because you are like me, we might want to pretend we can live our lives all by ourselves, that we don't need anyone, but look at us. How more wrong could we actually be?'

AUTHOR'S NOTE: the music Christian and Abigail dance to is Brother, by NEEDTOBREATHE. You can easily find it online, if you are curious.

watch?v=61Wm_qlVD4Q

and the accoustic version watch?v=VoqTLWF7ofI

And sorry it is taking so long to update... life is busy, but I am still working. Hoping it will all be done by the end of October... the last chapters are written, just the few ones in between that needs to be committed to the blank pages.