((The following scene contains mature content. You have been warned.))
There was something surprisingly restful about a busy dance studio in rehearsal for a ballet performance. There were no egos within a working chorus, especially when the soloists were invited guests, not competition for the upcoming productions. The studio itself was large enough to hold the forty-plus danseurs at the twin barres by the far wall, a small group of danseurs doing floorwork, a larger group of danseuse working on their pointe form, and a couple of principal dancers blocking through individual dances. Among these was a young blonde danseuse, a woman who had worked hard to gain a good reputation as a strong solo performer, carefully stretching out her feet as she slipped her pointe shoes on over the various selected pads and strapping designed to protect her toes against the punishment of this advanced level of dance.
Anastasia Komarova - or Anya, as a privileged few called her - had been invited to dance just a single pas seule for the American Ballet Troupe's Opening Night Gala, on the proviso that it contained her most impressive feat. No other ballerina at present could perform 46 fouett's en tournant to the right, and 34 to the left, which had made her Odile at the Bolshoi this season past so spectacular. But for all that she enjoyed performing solo, Anya missed the joy of performing a deux with a partner who knew her almost better than she did herself. She felt a flash of guilt that she had not called him since coming back to New York, but for all she knew, he had moved on, found someone else to lavish his rare passion and tender affection on. She hated this hypothetical woman already, but she would not intrude. She was here to dance, and only dance. Tony didn't need the complication of her return into his life.
Tony hadn't felt this nervous since the first blind date Mataya had set him up with all those years ago. It had been disastrous, as dates go, but had led to him losing his virginity and gaining the confidence to start asking girls out on his own. Possessed of charm and natural good looks, the truth was that girls had never been much of a problem for him. There were always a few who were more than willing to lavish attention on him, when he had the time and inclination, but after his fateful meeting with a certain budding Russian ballerina, all other women paled by comparison. She had quickly stolen his heart, and he had never been the same. They'd kept in touch for a while after they'd parted, eventually falling out of contact as their individual careers took over their lives. For a while, he'd kept track of her career, but after she'd stopped calling, he'd done his best to push all thought of Anastasia Komarova from his heart and his mind, to little avail.
Even now, years after their whirlwind affair, he knew it would take very little to rekindle the flame that had once burned brightly. Was that why he suddenly found himself here, he wondered. He felt as nervous and giddy as a schoolboy with a childhood crush. He heard the whispers of the other dancers as he slipped quietly into the studio, and he silenced them with a finger to his lips. He had quietly changed into clothing more appropriate for dancing, black tights and shoes, a white fitted sleeveless shirt, which did very little to hide the sculpted muscles of a trained danseur.
Despite the fact that she had already warmed up, with her pointe shoes now on, Anya returned to the barre and joined in the warm ups once more. One hand rested delicately on the barre itself as she moved elegantly from first, to second, to third, fourth, fifth position, her back arched and feet pointed perfectly. The dance mistress simply nodded to her as she passed, knowing full well just who had just walked inside, and probably just who he was looking for. Feeling her muscles were ready, Anya slipped from the barre to find an open space, pulling off her sweater, shorts, and leg warmers to leave herself in the form-fitting leotard and tights all ballet dancers were so accustomed to wearing. As the music on the CD player switched over to a new track, she rose delicately en pointe and began to run through the exercises that would warm her feet and renew her acquaintance with the familiar ache of being up on her toes.
He watched as Anya went through the motions every dancer was accustomed to when preparing to dance, either on stage or in rehearsal, careful to remain hidden in plain sight among the other dancers. He quietly stretched and went through the preparations he had been doing most of his life and could repeat in his sleep - and often had. As experienced as he was, he knew one wrong move could be disastrous for them both, resulting in an injury that could take months to heal. He offered a respectful nod to the dance mistress when she met his gaze, hoping she wouldn't mind this unexpected intrusion of his. He knew he was taking a big chance just being here, but he doubted there was a single dancer in the room who didn't know who he was or about his history with the pretty danseuse.
"Mademoiselle Komarova, if you are ready?" Anya looked up as she lowered down onto her heels, meeting the ballet director's gaze with a faint smile as he gestured to the space kept open for actual rehearsal of steps. Murmuring a thank you to him, she moved into that space and waited for her music to begin. While not a solo piece, the adagio from The Sleeping Beauty usually being danced pas de deux, the choreographer had adapted the piece for a soloist, designed to show off the control and elegance of a technical piece. It was currently the bane of Anya's life, filled with complex steps danced at a rate far slower than she was used to and insisting on, in her opinion, too much time spent unsupported en pointe. Nevertheless, however, she settled into the piece as the music swelled, her eyes carefully watching her own position in the mirrors that lined the wall as she flowed from each position into the next.
Tony watched quietly from the side, like those around him, noting her movements, admiring the way she floated across the floor, making the dance look graceful and easy, when they both knew it was nothing of the sort. She'd improved since the last time they'd danced together. She'd grown more self-assured, more confident, but without a partner to help her through the more difficult movements or to lift her weightlessly off her feet, like a bird flying through the air.
She was beauty in motion, but she lacked something, and that something - he thought - was him. He waited until the music swelled and reached a crescendo before making his move. He might regret it later when the dance mistress and director realized what mischief he was up to regarding their little ballerina, but he'd worry about that later. One thing they could be certain of was that she would come to no harm while he was her partner - that much had been proved over the years. He felt an almost tense anticipation come over the dancers as he glided toward her, as well as collective, audible gasp.
He had picked the perfect moment to glide into the dance. As the music swelled to its crescendo, Anya found the last of her fouettes, snapping up en pointe with her arms raised with effortless elegance above her head. The only sign of surprise as a familiar hand found hers, its twin laying against her waist, was the subtle widening of her green eyes as her gaze found Tony suddenly beside her. And just like that, the pas seule became a pas de deux. She turned easily, lifting herself into a long arabesque with Tony, and felt the long-missed synchronicity return. It was as simple as breathing out, the re-ignition of the magic that had been sorely missing for four years. She knew where he was going, what he was doing, unafraid to look him in the eye with the familiar, secretive smile that had only been for him as the music gave them a pause before an ambitious lift she had only ever attempted with him.
There was something surprisingly restful about a busy dance studio in rehearsal for a ballet performance. There were no egos within a working chorus, especially when the soloists were invited guests, not competition for the upcoming productions. The studio itself was large enough to hold the forty-plus danseurs at the twin barres by the far wall, a small group of danseurs doing floorwork, a larger group of danseuse working on their pointe form, and a couple of principal dancers blocking through individual dances. Among these was a young blonde danseuse, a woman who had worked hard to gain a good reputation as a strong solo performer, carefully stretching out her feet as she slipped her pointe shoes on over the various selected pads and strapping designed to protect her toes against the punishment of this advanced level of dance.
Anastasia Komarova - or Anya, as a privileged few called her - had been invited to dance just a single pas seule for the American Ballet Troupe's Opening Night Gala, on the proviso that it contained her most impressive feat. No other ballerina at present could perform 46 fouett's en tournant to the right, and 34 to the left, which had made her Odile at the Bolshoi this season past so spectacular. But for all that she enjoyed performing solo, Anya missed the joy of performing a deux with a partner who knew her almost better than she did herself. She felt a flash of guilt that she had not called him since coming back to New York, but for all she knew, he had moved on, found someone else to lavish his rare passion and tender affection on. She hated this hypothetical woman already, but she would not intrude. She was here to dance, and only dance. Tony didn't need the complication of her return into his life.
Tony hadn't felt this nervous since the first blind date Mataya had set him up with all those years ago. It had been disastrous, as dates go, but had led to him losing his virginity and gaining the confidence to start asking girls out on his own. Possessed of charm and natural good looks, the truth was that girls had never been much of a problem for him. There were always a few who were more than willing to lavish attention on him, when he had the time and inclination, but after his fateful meeting with a certain budding Russian ballerina, all other women paled by comparison. She had quickly stolen his heart, and he had never been the same. They'd kept in touch for a while after they'd parted, eventually falling out of contact as their individual careers took over their lives. For a while, he'd kept track of her career, but after she'd stopped calling, he'd done his best to push all thought of Anastasia Komarova from his heart and his mind, to little avail.
Even now, years after their whirlwind affair, he knew it would take very little to rekindle the flame that had once burned brightly. Was that why he suddenly found himself here, he wondered. He felt as nervous and giddy as a schoolboy with a childhood crush. He heard the whispers of the other dancers as he slipped quietly into the studio, and he silenced them with a finger to his lips. He had quietly changed into clothing more appropriate for dancing, black tights and shoes, a white fitted sleeveless shirt, which did very little to hide the sculpted muscles of a trained danseur.
Despite the fact that she had already warmed up, with her pointe shoes now on, Anya returned to the barre and joined in the warm ups once more. One hand rested delicately on the barre itself as she moved elegantly from first, to second, to third, fourth, fifth position, her back arched and feet pointed perfectly. The dance mistress simply nodded to her as she passed, knowing full well just who had just walked inside, and probably just who he was looking for. Feeling her muscles were ready, Anya slipped from the barre to find an open space, pulling off her sweater, shorts, and leg warmers to leave herself in the form-fitting leotard and tights all ballet dancers were so accustomed to wearing. As the music on the CD player switched over to a new track, she rose delicately en pointe and began to run through the exercises that would warm her feet and renew her acquaintance with the familiar ache of being up on her toes.
He watched as Anya went through the motions every dancer was accustomed to when preparing to dance, either on stage or in rehearsal, careful to remain hidden in plain sight among the other dancers. He quietly stretched and went through the preparations he had been doing most of his life and could repeat in his sleep - and often had. As experienced as he was, he knew one wrong move could be disastrous for them both, resulting in an injury that could take months to heal. He offered a respectful nod to the dance mistress when she met his gaze, hoping she wouldn't mind this unexpected intrusion of his. He knew he was taking a big chance just being here, but he doubted there was a single dancer in the room who didn't know who he was or about his history with the pretty danseuse.
"Mademoiselle Komarova, if you are ready?" Anya looked up as she lowered down onto her heels, meeting the ballet director's gaze with a faint smile as he gestured to the space kept open for actual rehearsal of steps. Murmuring a thank you to him, she moved into that space and waited for her music to begin. While not a solo piece, the adagio from The Sleeping Beauty usually being danced pas de deux, the choreographer had adapted the piece for a soloist, designed to show off the control and elegance of a technical piece. It was currently the bane of Anya's life, filled with complex steps danced at a rate far slower than she was used to and insisting on, in her opinion, too much time spent unsupported en pointe. Nevertheless, however, she settled into the piece as the music swelled, her eyes carefully watching her own position in the mirrors that lined the wall as she flowed from each position into the next.
Tony watched quietly from the side, like those around him, noting her movements, admiring the way she floated across the floor, making the dance look graceful and easy, when they both knew it was nothing of the sort. She'd improved since the last time they'd danced together. She'd grown more self-assured, more confident, but without a partner to help her through the more difficult movements or to lift her weightlessly off her feet, like a bird flying through the air.
She was beauty in motion, but she lacked something, and that something - he thought - was him. He waited until the music swelled and reached a crescendo before making his move. He might regret it later when the dance mistress and director realized what mischief he was up to regarding their little ballerina, but he'd worry about that later. One thing they could be certain of was that she would come to no harm while he was her partner - that much had been proved over the years. He felt an almost tense anticipation come over the dancers as he glided toward her, as well as collective, audible gasp.
He had picked the perfect moment to glide into the dance. As the music swelled to its crescendo, Anya found the last of her fouettes, snapping up en pointe with her arms raised with effortless elegance above her head. The only sign of surprise as a familiar hand found hers, its twin laying against her waist, was the subtle widening of her green eyes as her gaze found Tony suddenly beside her. And just like that, the pas seule became a pas de deux. She turned easily, lifting herself into a long arabesque with Tony, and felt the long-missed synchronicity return. It was as simple as breathing out, the re-ignition of the magic that had been sorely missing for four years. She knew where he was going, what he was doing, unafraid to look him in the eye with the familiar, secretive smile that had only been for him as the music gave them a pause before an ambitious lift she had only ever attempted with him.