Axel leans over Naminé's shoulder as she writes a letter, smoking lazily in the afternoon sunlight in the park. She coughs and waves the smoke away, turning that pretty face to him in a scowl as he takes another slow drag. It's a habit he's picked up in New York, from all the other dancers struggling to stay thin, struggling to keep from eating, struggling to find any calm within their hectic schedule of rehearsals and classes. She doesn't approve of it, but has stopped bothering to say anything; they hang out together more out of necessity than anything else, the only two small town kids in a big city, sneered at by those who have lived here all their lives, outside of the other city cliques, the girls who come from states away. The other idanseurs/i don't talk to him, because he doesn't conform to what they expect; he won't cut his hair, but braids it flat to his head, he'll dance with anyone, no matter their skill level, and he is so obviously flawed. He can see it when they scoff at his footwork, his extension, the wobble in his supporting leg, the rise of his shoulders which he can't quite settle. He has no doubts that Naminé will settle in soon, become popular simply because of her smile, her good heart, her willingness to learn.

"Who you writing to?" he asks, more out of boredom than any actual interest.

"Roxas. That's… you know, my brother. He came up to see me a week ago."

"That's the twin, is it?" Axel asks, trying to picture the other blond, and only getting a vague impression of spiky hair and bright blue eyes, "Thought you said he'd lost all interest in talking to you when you came out here."

"You don't know him." She says, defensively, "He came to all my shows, as many rehearsals as he could… I guess he just felt that once I was gone, I was abandoning him for ballet. Mom says he stopped coming once I was getting the main roles."

"Jealousy, then."

"I think it had more to do with it being something we couldn't share. He's not a dancer, and I don't think he ever wanted to be, but once I was getting better, everyone started talking about me coming here." She shrugs, an easy rise and fall of slender shoulders, "I think he realised that ballet was going to come between us, rather than be something which would draw us together."

"What does he do, then?" Axel asks, taking his last lungful of sweet smoke before crushing the cigarette beneath his heel, "What's his talent?"

"Roxas? He's… he's…."

They don't say anything for a little while, Axel wrapping an arm around her tiny frame to keep her warm against the fresh spring breeze. She leans into him, accepting the apology for what it is, but doesn't finish her train of thought.

Axel goes to his classes and tries not to make eye contact with anyone. He's learnt this very quickly, that eye contact is enough to make some of the younger, more impressionable boys believe that he is interested, when nothing could be further from the truth. He has his ballerina, his ideal partner, and he will move up in the company when she does; after all, they were chosen together as a perfect pair, if a little rough around the edges, and he intends to keep it that way. Dancing the ipas de deux/i with some fourteen year old boy ien travestie/i just isn't quite as fulfilling as Naminé's bright smile, her laugh when she missteps, and none of the boys are quite as fluid ien pointe/i, which is to be expected, but nonetheless continues to disappoint Axel. He is used to working with her, and no amount of fluttering eyelashes from the other idanseurs/i will make him change his mind. He stretches absently at the barre until he feels properly warmed up – there's no time for it in this class, but he's usually the only one who bothers to turn up early. He doesn't kid himself; the others are busy chatting, spending time with friends, having a quick cigarette, or doing whatever it is that dancers do with food. Axel hasn't seen any girl eat a full meal since he got here, and is angry with himself that Naminé seems to be falling into the same trap, angry at her for forgetting those countless lectures they've had on how a starving dancer is a useless dancer. The men load on healthy calories via salad and egg, chicken and the odd carbohydrate, building that muscle which will keep the girls aloft. Ballet is, after all, a partnership. She strives to be lighter, to be easier to lift, he strivers to be stronger, to carry her weight more easily. They both crave the perfect shape, flexibility and poise. Axel doesn't know why both of them are reaching for something that they already thought they had.

The problems really start, however, with Riku. He's the kind of guy who can't bear to hear no from anyone, so when Naminé turns him down, with a smile, because she's only just fifteen, and he's nearly twenty, he turns to the nearest body and tries to get that into bed with him. Normally, this wouldn't be that difficult; he's tall, slender, taking supporting roles in main productions, his hair a colour somewhere between silver and white and his musculature like an anatomy picture. However, this time, the nearest body is Axel, and Axel doesn't take kindly to being pursued.

"Why don't we head back to mine and I'll run you through some of those stretches?"

Axel's at the barre, leg impossibly straight, bent at an angle he wouldn't have thought possible six months ago, and is grateful for the mirror which let him know someone was behind him, or he probably would have fallen. As it is, he simply brings his leg down and repeats the same stretch with the other, feeling the pull, but nowhere near as much as when he started. He smiles, and pulls himself back into first, readying himself for a round of ipliés/i.

"Flexible, hm?"

Axel snorts – of course he's flexible, he's a dancer. Anyone trying to pick up someone at the barre with that sort of line should be shot, in his opinion, simply for lack of originality or any real interest.

"Let's see what you'd look like with those legs on my shoulders."

The hand which darts in to press at his thigh is gripped tightly, within seconds, and removed. Axel turns a perfectly genial smile on Riku.

"Don't touch me. And take a hint."

"Oh come on, don't you know who – "

"Don't bother finishing that sentence. I don't know, I don't care, and I'm trying to warm up. Do me a favour and leave me to it, yeah?"

Riku stares, agape, then presses closer, sliding his hand up towards Axel's groin. This time, a fist meets his face, and Axel quirks his lips viciously at his reflection in the bloody mirror. Riku is curled on the floor, hand at his nose, and Axel simply steps over him and makes himself scarce. He doesn't after all, want to get in trouble.

Unfortunately, the world doesn't work that way. Riku's nose is rather conspicuous, and he's not above telling everyone who it was who punched him, although, of course, he leaves out pertinent details of the events which led up to it. Axel can't bring himself to care what the other dancers think, but is determined not to get thrown out, not to let some asshole with wandering hands ruin his career.

"I shouldn't have reacted like that." He says, at his disciplinary hearing, "But he was sexually harassing me, after I had plainly stated that I wasn't interested."

It's enough for the higher-ups, because he has promise, and because this isn't the first complaint they've had about Riku, just the first where he got a violent response, rather than tears and fear. Axel can carry on dancing, but no one talks to him now, all the younger idanseurs/i keep their eyes to the ground when they dance with him, or have to share barre space, and no one dares try to pick him up. Axel doesn't miss the constant fear of accidentally attracting attention he isn't soliciting, but he does miss dancing with people who weren't afraid of him. Naminé sticks with him, which should spoil her reputation within the company, but somehow doesn't, perhaps because the girls felt more of Riku's needs than the men. On Thursday nights, the two of them dance together, in an empty practice room, going over Naminé's firebird, working on Axel's poise, or just choreographing little bits and pieces together, and it becomes something which some of younger girls come to watch. Axel never feels more alive than when he's dancing with Naminé, their every move in tune, their every breath controlled. The best parts, everyone agrees, are when they both forget they have an audience, and simply dance for each other.