and still counting.

[waywardious]

“-- and finish in third position,” Pavel instructs, having already completed the whole variation himself. Fluidly.

Claude finishes in fifth position. Arms au repos. As a second nature, Pavel has spotted the mistake before Claude’s right heel has even fully aligned with the toes of his left foot.

“No, no, third position,” he repeats, stepping aside slightly. Behind him the wall-to-wall mirror grants Claude a perfect view of his own erroneous footwork and Pavel’s muscular back. Certain mistakes, he thinks, are things of beauty.

Relaxing back into parallels, he suppresses a smile. The pianist left for lunch a few minutes ago, leaving the rehearsal room in the privacy of Pavel and himself, Pavel’s Hungarian dance feeling endlessly more intimate without Brahms resonating between the walls.

“Sorry,” Claude says, as far away from sorry as any man will ever be, “I didn’t hear you. Fourth position? Open or closed?” Smoothly, he arranges himself in the first, the best of them. Arms in second. Pavel frowns.

“Third, Claude. Third. And do away with those ridiculous arms, come.” Demonstrating, he hastens through the last few steps of the variation and ends in third position, arms rising into fifth. A halo above his head.

He is undoubtedly the most gorgeous being Claude has ever laid eyes on.

Without moving, Claude cocks his head. “You look out of balance,” he comments, Pavel’s hands dropping to his sides and his features lightening. Finally, he appears to catch on.

“Very well. How should it be, then?”

Claude returns to an open fourth, arms embracing second position like a lover. Perhaps it is the most apt comparison, too.

“You look ridiculous. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the choreography whatsoever. Now, do as I say.” He turns his back on Claude like an indignant girl, his shoulder blades reminding him of floating, unexplored islands. Exotic and wild. Untouched. For the time being.

“If you can catch me,” Claude says, moving up next to Pavel and quite consciously bumping him with one shoulder, “we’ll do it your way.”

Even through the thick, processed leather of his slippers, the wooden floor is hard and unforgiving as he breaks into a run, sprinting past the piano, past the long row of round windows, past regular society outside that has no claim on him. He manages a count of three, before the heavy footfalls of Pavel’s advance weave into the resounding tapestry of his own. With his longer legs, Pavel will undoubtedly catch up to Claude before he can turn the next corner, but then again – Claude had never planned for it to find any other conclusion.

His calculations are off by mere seconds. Once he turns to follow the far wall towards the entrance, Pavel crashes into him sideways, shoving them both into the heavy drapes bound in the corner until classes are over and the mirrors no longer needed. Claude laughs, face pushing into the comfortable darkness crawling down the side of Pavel’s neck, writhing in a half-hearted attempt to throw him off. Pavel’s lips press against his temple, his jaw, his jugular.

“Well, gentlemen, should we continue?” Monsieur Foss asks from the doorway. When they separate with all the awkward haste of a clandestine tryst, it’s the questions that aren’t posed which carry the greatest relevance. They glance at each furtively while crossing the floor and finding their spots at the barre once more. Monsieur Foss seats himself at the piano, striking a couple of searching notes.

Meeting Claude’s eyes as they face each other again, Pavel dares a slight smile. “From the beginning, please. We’re finishing in third position, arms in fifth, agreed?”

One eyebrow going up ever so slightly, Claude nods.

It could perhaps have been believed a work hazard, thinking love just a dance of two, but he’s certain he didn’t fully understand the underlying concept of a pas de deux until today. This very moment. When he slides alongside Pavel into a long line of successive positions whose numbers matter little. Everything considered.