Pas de deux
By Telcontarian
As ever, a massive thank you to my online dysfunctional family for their unwavering support. To my legendary Beta bowie_queen: thank you for catching every spelling and grammatical error and entrusting me with your precious semicolons. To ViciouslyWitty: thank you for reading over all of the dance scenes and helping me with the tricky ballet terminology. And last but not least: a big thank you to BustedBrain who just wanted Jareth to fuck Sarah up against the barre.
For LFFL: the group that held our little family together when our world shattered around us. In you, I found my online family and my safe space, even as we mourned the loss of one of our own, much-loved Scribes. I have never been more thankful for the love and support that we provided to each other in a difficult time while we held each other through our tears.
And last but not least: thank you to tmwillson3 and the amazing authors in the Reylo writing groups on Discord who made it possible for this girl to write over 20k words in a month.
To my readers: hold your loved ones close, for you never know when you might say goodbye for the final time.
Chapter One: Entrée
Sarah shivered against the biting chill of the frosty, winter morning, and she clutched her coat tightly around herself as she hurried down the deserted street. The gentle click of her heels seemed unnaturally loud and somewhat ominous to her ears but today of all days, Sarah was running late, and she could not afford to spare another thought for the stillness of London. She quickened her pace, and she winced as the pain in her ankle gave a particularly vicious thrum, pulsing in time with the frantic pounding of her heart.
She frowned when she came to a halt in front of weathered steps leading up to a somewhat shabby exterior that seemed woefully out of place on the corner of Portobello Road. Sarah took a moment to catch her breath; hunched over slightly in an attempt to ease the ache between her ribs. Her fingers closed around the well-thumbed business card nestled in her coat pocket, and she brought the small card out to examine the address.
Llewelyn School of Ballet.
Sarah hesitated; the worn card burning a hot brand in the palm of her hand as she turned it over and over again with restless fingers. She sighed before squaring her shoulders and taking the steps two at a time—grunting softly as she pulled over the heavy timber of the door—hoping that she was not about to make a terrible mistake. After all, what did she really have left to lose?
Sarah snorted inelegantly.
Everything.
Much to Sarah's surprise, the long, narrow hallway was a stark contrast to the cold and uninviting interior that she had come to expect. It was clean and warm; the walls painted a soft, buttery yellow and decorated with ornate, gilded frames. Each painting contained tasteful portraits of ballerinas in the five basic positions, and each dancer possessed far more poise and grace than Sarah could ever dream of. She ducked her head as she passed, and she cupped her hands together, blowing hot air into her skin and coaxing warmth back into her frozen fingers before knocking loudly on the studio door. There was no answer, however, and Sarah chewed absent-mindedly on her fingernail—a nervous habit that her mother had tried everything to break. The memory of the now world-famous Linda Williams berating a six-year-old Sarah into believing that no one would ever pursue a ballerina who did not strive to be perfect in all aspects of her life still stung twenty years later.
When Sarah had all but given up, she swore under her breath, turning away and mentally preparing herself for the long, cold walk back to her little studio apartment. Sarah could only hope that her shitty landlord had finally sent an engineer to fix the heating that had refused to work for several weeks now, and she had found out the hard way that London winters could be treacherous. The studio door swung open to reveal a tall, lithe man regarding her coolly; his blue eyes narrowed under stylishly tousled hair that kissed sharp cheekbones. He wore a dark blue, cashmere sweater that Sarah was almost certain had to cost more than her monthly rent and dark denims that moulded to the hard, sculpted muscle of his thighs. Surely those had to be painted on, Sarah mused, fighting back a blush as Master Llewelyn quirked an eyebrow at her. His head tilted owlishly to one side as his own gaze swept curiously over her form.
Jareth Llewelyn was a world champion ballerino, having affiliated himself with prestigious ballet schools in France, Italy and finally New York before retiring from professional ballet at the age of thirty-five. Sarah could only thank her lucky stars that Master Llewelyn had chosen to lay down roots in London and opened his own ballet school. She cleared her throat and extended her hand, "Master Llewelyn, I—"
"You're late."
"I'm really sorry, I'm having trouble with—"
"I do not tolerate poor timekeeping, Miss Williams," he interrupted once more, glancing briefly at the proffered hand, and he turned away from Sarah without another word.
Sarah frowned after him, and her hand fell limply to her side as she bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from making a snappy retort. While Master Llewelyn was renowned for his occasionally cold and often aloof behaviour, Sarah only hoped that she would be able to hold her tongue long enough until the Ballet Master deemed her performance worthy of her next audition for the Royal Ballet. Sarah bit her lip, her fists clenched at her side and her fingernails biting into the delicate palms of her hands.
However long that may be.
Just as she was trying to figure out whether or not to follow him into the studio, Master Llewelyn glanced over his shoulder, frowning when he realised that Sarah was still standing motionless inside the doorway. "I do not like to be kept waiting."
Sarah gritted her teeth, taking a deep, calming breath as she followed Master Llewelyn into the studio, the tap of her shoes against the hardwood floor both familiar and comforting and just enough to soothe her bruised pride. She brushed past him in the doorway, removing her coat, duffle bag and boots and placed them gently in the far corner. Sarah lowered herself to the floor; unaware of Master Llewelyn's amused smile that tugged gently at the corners of his mouth as she rummaged in her bag. She hooked her fingers around her expensive ballet shoes, well broken in through the vicious beating that they had religiously received against the polished, hardwood flooring of the Royal Ballet. Sarah wrapped her toes carefully before slipping her ballet shoes onto her feet and winding the ribbons tightly to support her ankle. She winced when her fingers brushed against the puckered scar that ran parallel with her leg, almost cleaving her delicate ankle in two.
As Sarah reached up to wrap her fingers around the barre to pull herself to her feet, she looked up startled, when Master Llewelyn cleared his throat before extending his hand to her. Her brow furrowed in confusion, caught unaware by the Ballet Master's silent approach, and she hesitated only briefly before she graciously accepted his proffered hand. Master Llewelyn's fingers curled almost reverently around her own; engulfing her hand within his. Sarah swore that his thumb brushed gently against the delicate bones of her wrist as he tugged her effortlessly from the ground, before dropping her hand and taking a respectful step back. She glanced briefly at the mirror over Master Llewelyn's shoulder, lips parted in a wordless gasp as for the first time in over a year, Sarah finally saw the reflection of a ballerina gazing back at her.
"To ascertain whether or not I can help you, I must first assess your skill. Do you have a piece prepared, Miss Williams?"
"I do." Sarah pulled her oversized sweater over her head, leaving her clad only in a loose-fitting, emerald-green vest and black leggings. Her chilled fingers fumbled with her phone, scrolling through her music playlist. Out of the corner of her eye, she was just aware of Master Llewelyn unfolding a chair tucked neatly against the wall running parallel with the barre. He placed the chair gently down, allowing Sarah ample room to perform her routine before taking his seat, booted foot resting on bended knee, arms folded neatly across his chest as he waited patiently for Sarah to finish her preparations.
Sarah set her phone on top of her duffle bag, taking a deep breath as the familiar strains of "The Dying Swan" began to weave through the quiet studio with its haunting melody. She took a moment to find her centre, composing herself and began to dance, pouring all of her heartache and longing for the man who would never be hers into her performance. Sarah flowed easily through Odette's solo piece, her movements demure and graceful and as effortless as breathing. She concentrated on the pas de bourrée suivi, the gliding motion of her arms heavy with pain, mimicking the swan's feeble attempted to fly away as death neared, her port de bras flawless. It was strangely intimate, she mused, her soul curiously bared and vulnerable as she performed for the prestigious Ballet Master in the confines of an enclosed room. Her spine curved in a graceful cambré, and she gritted her teeth at the bright flare of pain that sang through her ankle when she pivoted. Master Llewelyn leaned forward in his seat, hands hanging loosely between parted legs, his sharp eyes following her every movement and missing nothing as Sarah danced for him. She allowed the pain to sweep ghostly fingers over the contours of her face as she extended her right leg in front of her, a subtle quiver running through her limbs as Odette began to succumb to her grief. Sarah sank to the floor, her leg stretched out behind her and her back arched gracefully as she struggled and failed to rise once more.
"Stop, that is enough."
Sarah picked herself up off of the floor, her breath coming in short gasps when her ankle began to throb in earnest. Turning away from Master Llewelyn with as much grace as she could muster, Sarah snatched up her phone to cut the music. She rummaged quickly in her bag to extract a threadbare towel and mopped the beads of sweat that peppered her face and neck. Although she had been fully expecting his movements, Sarah tensed at the light scrape of the chair against the hardwood floor and her skin prickled with gooseflesh as Master Llewelyn approached.
"En pointe, Miss Williams."
Sarah swallowed thickly around the well of emotion that seemed to have lodged deep within her throat as she followed the Ballet Master's command without question. She could do nothing to quell the slight tremor that shuddered through her legs when her ankle vehemently protested bearing her weight. Her teeth bit into the flesh of her bottom lip to muffle the soft whimper of pain as the deep, throbbing ache ricocheted through her entire body. She was unable to prevent her pained gasp when Master Llewelyn knelt behind her, his fingers gently probing the scar that marred her foot, before taking a step back and allowing her to relax.
Sarah winced when she set her foot down gingerly, fingernails biting into the delicate skin of her palms to prevent herself from crying out as she hobbled over to the vacant chair, molten fire lancing through her ankle with every pained step. She was not aware of Master Llewelyn having left her side until he returned with an ice pack, startling Sarah when he kneeled gracefully before her and began to unlace the delicate ribbons of her ballet slippers. She hissed at the cold press of the ice pack against her skin, although Master Llewelyn's hands were achingly gentle when he cradled her foot. "How did you injure your ankle?"
Sarah scowled down at her abused flesh, grateful when the pain in her ankle eventually began to fade to a dull ache. "The Royal Ballet decided on The Nutcracker for the Christmas performance last year. My ankle was already weakened from previous injuries, and I did not follow my doctor's advice to rest and rehabilitate before dancing again." Sarah paused, fingers plucking at a hole in her vest, and she missed the briefest glimmer of sympathy that flashed through Master Llewelyn's eyes. "I wanted the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy so badly; myself and at least five other principal dancers. I pushed myself, knowing that I was nowhere near ready to perform yet, but I managed to convince myself that if I won the part, I would have plenty of time to recover while waiting for rehearsals to begin. Halfway through my audition, I misjudged my landing and fractured my ankle. I missed the entire season because I had to have surgery."
"A fractured ankle has ended the career of many promising ballerinas, Miss Williams."
"I'm well aware," replied Sarah coolly, quiet anger simmering behind her emerald eyes. Master Llewelyn scowled at her obstinance as he removed the ice pack from her ankle, and Sarah winced when he began to bind her ankle tightly. He rose gracefully to his feet and extended a hand to her once more. "Thanks," she muttered, gingerly testing her weight on her injured foot, relieved when her ankle did not buckle from underneath her. "About your fee—"
"Your mother owes me a favour."
Her water bottle fell to the hardwood floor with a clatter, and Sarah cursed under her breath when she bent to retrieve it. "You-you know my mother?"
"We worked together for a time," he replied smoothly. It may have been Sarah's imagination, but she was certain that her sharp eyes did not miss the minute clench of Master Llewelyn's jaw, nor the way his own gaze turned hard and flinty before he finally broke off eye contact altogether.
Sarah tugged on her sweater, coat and boots, her eyes fixed on Master Llewelyn as he crossed to the large, mahogany desk tucked neatly into the corner beside the studio door, almost hidden beneath a mountain of paperwork. He rummaged in the desk drawer for a moment, extracting a sheaf of paper and an elegant fountain pen, head bowed over his work as he began to write. He completed his task with a flourish of his pen, glancing up when Sarah approached the desk before sliding the note to her. "The contact details for a private clinic in Mayfair. You show great potential, Miss Williams, but your ankle requires proper rehabilitation. Contact the clinic at your earliest convenience and schedule bi-weekly appointments. I will call ahead and have your medical bills added to my account."
"Master Llewelyn, I can't possibly—"
"Jareth."
"Excuse me?"
The faint echo of a wry smile played at the corners of Master Llewelyn's mouth. "You may call me Jareth, Miss Williams. Only the children call me Master Llewelyn. If you are to study under my instruction, I will ensure that your medical needs are being met. It is non-negotiable," he added firmly, eyes narrowed in a sharp rebuke when Sarah opened her mouth to retort before thinking better of it.
"Only if you call me Sarah," she replied reluctantly.
Jareth nodded his approval. "We will arrange your schedule around your treatments. You have my telephone number, I presume?"
Sarah patted her coat pocket. "Right here."
Jareth nodded once more, brushing gently past Sarah to open the studio door, and he gestured for her to precede him. "Until next time."
Much to her chagrin, Sarah soon realised that working under Master Llewelyn was more difficult than she had originally anticipated. In accordance with his wishes, Sarah had been receiving rehabilitation on her ankle for several weeks now. Although there had been some improvement, the therapist had warned Sarah that unless she kept up with the prescribed exercises, she risked reawakening her ankle injury once more.
Bleary-eyed and clutching a much-needed cup of coffee, Sarah would stumble into Master Llewelyn—Jareth's—ballet studio a little after eight o'clock in the morning to spend the next few hours performing under the Ballet Master's strict instruction. He was observant, critical to a fault and apparently missed very little as he called Sarah to a stop once more.
Breathing heavily, Sarah brought her foot gingerly back to the floor before retrieving her towel to mop at the beads of perspiration that had gathered on her forehead. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jareth approach, his head tilted slightly to the side and his finger curled against the plump swell of his upper lip as he regarded his student thoughtfully. "Tell me, Miss Williams," he said quietly, and Sarah winced, knowing that he reverted only to addressing her so formally when he was displeased with her lack of progress. "Are you still having some trouble following my recommendations during your piece?"
Despite herself, Sarah felt the heat rising to her face even as she clenched her fists at her side, fingernails biting into the soft flesh of her palms to prevent herself from opening her mouth in a snarky retort. "No, Master Llewelyn," she replied shortly, and Sarah almost prided herself in her apparent self-control had Jareth's eyes not narrowed at the undercurrents of sarcasm that he must have detected in her tone.
"You are still too tense in your movements, Sarah," he continued, holding up his hands as he took another step forward into her personal space. "May I?"
At her terse nod, Master Llewelyn motioned for Sarah to restart her routine, occasionally bidding herself to stop and hold her movement. His eyes fixed firmly on hers, his hands manoeuvred her body into the desired position before stepping back and asking her to start once more from the beginning.
Whenever Jareth's hands brushed over her bare skin, Sarah felt her breath hitch in her throat, her lips parting in wordless surprise when small sparks of electricity danced over her flesh at the points of contact. Sarah swallowed around the lump that seemed to have lodged in her throat, her brow furrowed in confusion and she willed herself not to react, not to draw attention to her body's curious reaction to Jareth's touch. If Master Llewelyn appeared to be similarly fazed, he managed to hide his emotions behind a professional façade, his face betraying no sign of having been affected by their physical contact.
Finally, when Sarah was able to complete her arabesque to Jareth's satisfaction, the nod of approval and the faint—so faint that she almost missed it—curve of his lips the only indication that he was pleased by his student's progress. Pushing the sweat-slicked strands of hair away from her face, Sarah nodded her thanks when Master Llewelyn passed over her water bottle, and the minute brush of their fingers elicited the same curious static charged pulse that seemed to exist between the pair with every physical touch. Sarah gasped as she pulled long draughts of the precious liquid past her parched lips, unaware of the minute clench of Jareth's jaw as his eyes traced the droplets that escaped her mouth. The beads of water tumbled down her chin and onto her chest, before slipping under the thin vest that she had worn under her sweater to ward off the last reaches of winter's chill.
Jareth cleared his throat before finally managing to avert his eyes when Sarah began to gather up her belongings. "Your routine shows great promise, Sarah," he said gently as he opened the studio door. "There was a vast improvement in your performance today; for our next session, if you could continue to work on the movements that we have been discussing. Has the role of Siegfried already been assigned?"
"Yes, Peter, we started rehearsing together last week. We are due to begin working on Odette and Odile's pas de deux in tomorrow's class."
"How are you progressing with the character of Odile?"
Sarah sighed heavily, and she chewed on her bottom lip as she considered Jareth's question. "She is seductive and confident and destructive and everything that Odette is not. Odile's choreography is vastly different to Odette's; more rigid, wilder even. Whereas Odette initially shies away from Siegfried's advances, Odile does not hesitate to take what she wants."
Jareth hummed in agreement. "The dual role of Odette and Odile is often regarded as one of the most challenging performances in ballet. Odette is vulnerable and pure; she is fluid and ethereal with delicate carriage and rippling swan arms. On the other hand, Odile is cunning; her steely technique glitters with brashness and danger. The technical prowess and dramatic artistry necessary to portray both roles flawlessly is perhaps a principal ballerina's greatest achievement in her career. We can study past performances of Swan Lake to help you with Odile's characterisation and her movements."
Sarah nodded her agreement, retrieving her coat when Jareth held the door open for his student and gestured for her to precede him. "After you, Sarah. I'll walk you to your car."
She hesitated, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of her coat as she avoided Jareth's eyes. "Actually, I walked here, but I was planning on taking the Underground back to my apartment."
"Do you meant to tell me," began Jareth, his expression thunderous as he folded his arms across his chest and fixed her with a penetrating stare. "That you have been walking to the studio five days a week for almost two months with a chronic ankle injury?"
"It's fine," she ground out from between clenched teeth. "The therapist agreed that regular exercise would prevent my ankle from seizing up. Besides, Shepherd's Bush isn't that far away—"
"A half-hour walk unless I am mistaken."
Jareth raised an eyebrow at her expression, and Sarah knew that a petulant pout was beginning to tug at the corners of her lips. "Fine, I'll start taking the Underground to and from classes," she snapped.
Jareth frowned, turning away briefly to retrieve his own coat from the back of the chair. "I would rather my students did not ride that disease-ridden death trap. I'll drive you home."
Sarah opened her mouth to retort but was silenced with a pointed look from Master Llewelyn that clearly left no room for arguing. "No buts, Sarah-mine," he said gently, a small chuckle escaping past his lips when he realised that Sarah was still clearly hesitant about accepting his offer. "I promise that I don't bite."