Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The door to the rehearsal hall slammed open.

"ALEX."

Thirteen heads snapped up and in George's direction. Twelve of them were children of varying ages and genders. One of them was large, and furry, and wearing a crown, and distinctly rat shaped. It somehow managed to look unbelievably unimpressed.

She flushed. "Are the rehearsals not over?"

The Rat King shrugged, and made shooing motions at the children. George winced, watching the children file past her, whispering and chatting with awe-filled eyes. "Whoops. Sorry. Please don't tell Lewis."

The last of the kids left, giggling amongst themselves. George shut the door behind her, locking it with a click. "IthinkihaveacrushonMax."

He tilted his head.

"What- no, okay, try again," George said, tangling her hands into her hair. "You and Lando were right. I think I have a crush on Max!"

She buried her face in her hands. There was a tap on her shoulder.

The Rat King gestured pointedly for George to look at him.

George looked.

The Rat King gasped dramatically, pointing at George, then the door, then George again, before throwing his hands up, exaggerated with surprise, and waggling his arms around over his head.

George kept looking.

He subsided sheepishly. "Sorry," came the muffled reply. "Um, congrats?"

George let out a silent scream, her hands curling into fists. "No, don't congratulate me! Ugh! At least you're not saying I told you so — small mercies — but you were right. You were right! Fuck! I have a crush on Max!" She tugged at the loose strands of her bun. "This can't be happening. It's me. It's Max Verstappen. We've hated each other for years. I can't have a crush on my greatest rival!"

He looked at her. George rolled her eyes. "I don't care if you think it's one sided, or if we've technically gotten over it, she's the best dancer in the school, and thus intrinsically my rival. I can't have a crush on her."

He didn't say anything. George could feel the amused judgement rolling off him in waves.

"No," she said, pointing at him, "I don't have a crush on her. I can't have a crush on her. And even if I did, nothing would come of it! Does she even like women? We all remember Daniel," she hissed, almost spitting on the Australian's name. "It was so embarrassing to watch, the way she fawned over him and blushed whenever he smiled at her. Just because he could dance with her! Charles can dance with her. I could dance with her — I did, and we all know she couldn't dance like that with just anyone! Well, maybe she could, but she wouldn't. She would only dance like that with Charles, or with ME!"

George paused. The room rang with the echoes of her statement.

"Fuck."

She buried her head back into her hands. A gloved, fluffy hand tentatively patted at her shoulder. George glared at him half-heartedly. "Don't you start. I know how that sounded, okay?"

He shrugged.

"I know what you're going to say. Maybe she likes women. Maybe Charles will know! Definitely Charles will know. I can't ask Charles, he'll just tell Max! Fuck, Alex, what do I do? I could fake my death and move away. I could leave and become a farmer! I could move to America-" she rolled her eyes as he cocked his head in confusion. "-yes, I hate America, but drastic times call for drastic measures. I hate her. She hates me! She hates the way I look, the way I dance, the way I'm just long limbs and a pretty, expressive face! I'll never be good enough—"

Furry gloved hands gripped hers with frightening intensity, and squeezed.

George paused to take a deep breath, oxygen rushing back into her lungs. Alex knew every insecurity, every terror and correction and fear that echoed around in her head. He had been there, for all of it.

"I'm not projecting," she mumbled, ducking her head. "It's not projecting when people have said that before."

There was a very telling silence.

"Yes," she rolled her eyes, "it was years ago, yes, I know you say you've heard first and secondhand that she enjoys my dancing, but I don't believe you."

He squeezed her hands again. George squeezed back. "I just don't know why she wants to spend time with me, willingly. Over dance!"

Maybe she likes you, he didn't say. She sighed. Charles and Lando had been insufferable in teasing her ever since Max lifted her, in that early rehearsal. Alex, in contrast, alternated between kind and worse, either staying silent, or being supportive, only to land the worst jabs.

George paused.

"Why… why aren't you saying anything?" she said, faltering. It was strange. Alex was usually a notorious yapper. "I am having a bit of a Crisis, you know."

The Rat King raised his arms slowly, in a manner much like trying not to scare away a stray cat, and lifted the rat's-head. It came off to reveal a very sheepish Oliver Bearman.

"What the fuck," George breathed. "Where's Alex?"

Ollie bit his lip. "Alex's arm started hurting, but he didn't want to mess with the kids' rehearsals, so he asked me to fill in for him… I love the kids! We’re about the same size, so he thought that if I showed up in full costume, Lewis might not notice it wasn't him, and. Well. Lewis didn't mention it."

George felt faint. "Oh my god. I got caught out by the Nutcracker prank. Oh my god. I told you I have a crush on Max. Holy moly. Everyone's going to know."

"Nonono, I promise I won't tell anyone about any of this," Ollie yelped, frantic. "I don't want to get us in trouble either! I'm supposed to be rehearsing with Kimi and Alex is, well, supposed to be here. I won't mention any of it, promise." He brightened. "If it'll make you feel better, I can tell you a secret about myself as well, so that we're even?"

George was exhausted, annoyed, emotionally drained, and had just accidentally confessed her irrational crush on her obsessive rival to one of the chattiest juniors. She did not have the time to deal with whatever the Junior class had going on right now.

"Bloody hell, just go fucking ask your Kimi out already, and spare us your juvenile dramatics," George snapped, and flounced away, leaving him dark red in her wake.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

"It's not my fault she's not talking to me," Max griped, stabbing the needle through the satin of her pointe shoes. Across from her, Charles devoured a chicken sandwich with vigour, his hair still slicked back under a headband. "She is ridiculous! Just because she could not handle actually dancing well, with me, for once. I cannot stand her!"

"It has only been a couple of days," Charles pointed out, mouth full. "And if the pas rehearsals today were any indication, she has been quite busy, no?"

"I do not want to talk about the rehearsals," Max snarled, stabbing her needle into the shoe.

It had been days since they danced together, and Lando had finally managed to nail the lifts.

Max watched, heart in her throat, as Lando led George through the steps, their fingers softly brushing as George spun around him. He dipped her low, and there was something like fondness in their expressions, a spark of connection and camaraderie. Lando's hands wrapped around George's waist, and he lifted her clear above his head, George floating easy and effortless in his hands. Max's breath caught in her throat.

George was beautiful. For a moment, she could feel the smooth warmth of George's turquoise leotard under her fingers. She blinked, and George was dappling back down to earth with a relieved grin, and the moment passed.

"Good, George, Lando," Lewis praised, a faint smile on his lips.

George blushed. Lando grinned, easy and faux-relaxed. "Easy as pie, right?"

Max's mouth twisted. Charles was nattering on about their pas, giving effusive praise and corrections as they were all wont to do, and Max could not name a single step if you asked her. George nudged Lando in the shoulder and fanned lightly at the long expanse of her neck, damp and glistening with exertion, and Max could not look away.

"Max?" Lewis's voice broke through her reverie. Max startled, and came awake. Lando was looking at her oddly, his brows quirked. Charles had turned to her expectantly, waiting for her to say something. Lewis just stared at her, placid as always.

Embarrassed, she mumbled, "Sorry, what?"

"What did you think?"

Max cursed the day Lewis had decided to rehearse his casts together so they could 'learn from each other' and 'give each other feedback' and 'improve faster'. A load of bollocks. Max had jumped at the idea, at first, but now… She shrugged. "It was alright." Lando shot her a mock glare. "It was of course good, but I have seen more beautiful renditions of it."

From the corner of her eye, she saw pale blue flinch.

Lewis motioned for them to come forwards. "I'd like you two to run it through just once or twice, and then we can finish, yes? We have spent a lot of time trying to fix the lifts—" Lando and George flushed, Max tracking the pink creep across the back of her neck, "—but now we must begin fine-tuning the piece."

Max nodded woodenly, her eyes still fixed on George.

Charles nudged her. "What has gotten into you?" he whispered.

Max frowned at him. "Not now, Charles." Charles frowned back. They took their positions at opposing corners of the room. Max walked towards Charles, like approaching a mirror, and Charles took her hand, and she spun, and they danced.

As she stepped through the sequence, her gaze slid sideways, pinned to the tall brunette standing against the mirrors. George still wasn't looking at her, fiddling with something in her hair. George hadn't looked at her the entire rehearsal, not even once.

It was really too much. It was one thing to ignore Max outside of class and during class; it was another thing completely to not watch a performance, to ignore a chance to evaluate and comment and critique. Max could feel herself slipping, her expression fading to blank, her frown locked behind the mirror's glass. She hadn't had a chance to speak to George after their pas practice together. George had been busy. Max had been busy. They had both had fittings, and class, and slivers of spare time that Max spent locked up in her room, gaming or sleeping or watching performance videos on YouTube.

Max had noticed George avoiding her, but she hadn't realised it was on purpose, not until the rehearsals. Max felt her jaw stiffening, teeth clenching at the thought of it—that somehow, she had fucked it up, and George could stand her even less than she could previously. George couldn't even stand to see her dance anymore, when they had danced together so beautifully so shortly ago.

Charles's hands were on her, and she was still staring at George, glaring at George, thinking about her infuriating self, when Charles's hands lifted her. Max, deadweight in his grasp, slipped off his shoulder and slammed into the ground, legs folding bonelessly to the marley floor.

The studio was deadly silent, but for the Nutcracker music blaring through the background.

Max looked up.

Lando's hands were pressed against his mouth, his green eyes so wide the whites were visible. Charles was staring at his own hands with fury, scowling in confusion. Charles never dropped Max. They hadn't fumbled a lift since they first danced together, years and years ago by now. Max watched him through the mirror as he flexed his hands in and out of fists, his mouth set in a firm line of misery. These were the facts of their world — Charles never dropped Max. Max never fell.

And yet, here she was on the ground, embarrassed and sore, scorched by the raw confusion and concern in George Russell's wide blue eyes. George was looking at her now.

Lewis, frowning, paused the music with a wave of his hand. "Max, are you alright?"

Max tried very hard not to snarl, her world tunnelling to two spots of blue. She felt like she was drowning. Max never fell — Max never failed. Max couldn't fail- She could feel her hands shaking, and she tucked them hastily under her thighs. "I'm fine. It is fine. Sorry." She gritted her teeth and broke away from George's gaze.

Charles offered her a hand, and she stood slowly, making her way to the barre at the side of the room. In the back of her mind, she noted clinically the fading twinge in her ankle.

"Max," George said softly. Max's head jerked up. George bit her lip, and held out a water bottle. "Here."

"Fuck off," Max snapped, raw and seething. George flinched. "Happy now? That you used me and got what you wanted? Congratulations on being able to do the lifts, by the way."

"Max," Lewis said sternly. Max jerked around to face him, her face burning, her body burning, her eyes set alight. "Rehearsal's over for you. Get some rest. Charles, make sure she gets it checked out."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." Lewis met her eyes with his own, calm and unreadable and dark. "That was a nasty fall. Take a break and get your head back into the game, alright? I don't want to risk an injury close to the show."

Charles's hand was on her shoulder, a warm grounding weight. He squeezed her shoulder. "I'll walk you back to yours?"

Max snatched her bag off the ground with a scowl. "If you must."

Curtly, she curtsied to Lewis and left, barely managing to not stomp or slam the door. The door swung against Charles's shoulder, already behind her, half a step out of sync. He caught up to her, halfway down the corridor, and scooped the bag off her shoulder in one smooth motion. "Food?"

Max shrugged. "I'm not hungry."

And now, here they were, cross legged on Max's duvet as she darned the toes of her pointe shoes and he got crumbs all over the dark blue fabric. It was therapeutic, really, to stab a sharp object through beautiful pink satin repeatedly. Especially while glaring at her errant dance partner attempting to pick bits of bread out of her nice, smooth, cotton sheets.

"…Charles."

He looked up guiltily. "I'm really sorry."

Max rolled her eyes, tying off the thick thread. "Just… there is a vacuum in the corner, yes? That is of course easier than using your fingers."

Charles fussed around with the handheld device. Max fingered the stitched border on her shoes, testing the rough edge, and slipped them onto her feet. They of course fit perfectly, as always. Stepping up onto her toes, she bourrée'd lightly on the stiff shoes. They were adequate, she supposed, what she expected from a pair of pointe shoes. Slipping back down to flat, she cracked them lightly, going up and down demi-pointe to start breaking them in.

Charles turned around, putting the portable vacuum back where he found it, and yelped. "Max! You are already up again, it has been five minutes for god's sake, can you please rest a little bit! Is your ankle okay!"

Max rolled her eyes. "Yes, it is of course fine. Would I lie if it wasn't? Don't-" she cut him off, "-say yes. It's not right before a performance or a competition."

He hesitated. "Will you at least get it checked out before tech?"

She rolled her eyes. "Only if you make me one of those sandwiches. I'm starving."

"Got your appetite back, then?" Charles teased. His eyes were still stony and concerned.

Max threw a soft ballet slipper at him. "It's a break for you, before I start running through that performance, and of course also homework."

"Max," Charles bit his lip. "you should not let- you should not be distracted."

"I am not," Max snarled.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

George did not care that Max wasn't talking to her. She did not. Just like she did not care how Max had stared at her all through pairs, and ended up in a pile on the floor. She did not care what Max had said to her afterwards, either. She already knew Max was mean. Max was always mean. George had just, somehow, forgotten it, or stopped believing it, at some point in the run up to the Nutcracker.

Now, she stood stretching at the barre in her practice tutu as Andrea Stella shouted down to the stagehand and adjusted the coloured lights across the stage. Plié, then an extension, up and higher to the front, pulling and rotating to the side, folding in at the knee joint to circle once-twice-thrice before extending back up, and lowering slowly. George shifted her weight, turning away from the barre, and bent low, one leg long and out behind her, relishing the burn in her limbs. She gritted her teeth. She had not started it. She had not done anything but dance.

"Stop avoiding Max," Charles had said, cornering her late one night. "You're both being stupid, and it's affecting both of you, and your dancing, and you need to sort it out."

"There's nothing to sort out," George said, ducking her gaze.

"Yes, there is," he said, staring sternly at her. "Even Lando's noticed."

This was true. It had all happened in the space of a week, and even Lando had noticed, and asked her why she was avoiding Max.

"I'm not avoiding Max," George had hissed out. "She's avoiding me."

Lando frowned. "By the looks of it, you're both ignoring each other, no? What happened? I thought you guys were becoming friends."

"I don't know," she muttered, very much aware and knowing. "Just… drop it, okay?"

"You just seem a bit… sad and distracted," Lando said. "Both of you."

"Leave it, Lando," Alex said, turning him away. George had fled back to the safety of her room, and done grande battements until she stopped thinking about it.

"George!" A voice broke her out of her thoughts. Ollie came bounding up, Andrea's hand in his. "How's it going?"

She straightened up. "Hi, Ollie."

"This is so cool!" he enthused, looking around, eyes glittering. "I've never danced on a stage like this! It's so weird, like, it's steeper than normal?"

"What? Oh," she said, smiling, "it's raked. Most stages are, but the Academy's one is a little steeper, like it is in Russia."

"Cool," Ollie breathed.

George could feel the force of Andrea's stare on her. Sweat prickled down her neck. Andrea elicited a strange feeling in her — something like admiration, envy, insecurity if she were brave enough to admit it. She was like a younger, better, more vivid version of herself. George had always envied vivacious, explosive dancers like Max, and now Andrea was something like Max, if with a cleaner, fresher base, and lighter lines.

And George knew Toto had wanted her. Oh, Toto wanted George too—George had caught him watching, in shows and rehearsals; once, in the lobby after a showcase, he had actually praised her, implied he looked forward to seeing her in his corps. But Toto had not scooped George up to put through his academy under his watchful eye, with an apprentice contract all but drafted up and waiting for a signature on graduation. George had not grown up dancing competition circuits under the Rosberg Academy name.

Of course, George had won a lot of things anyways. George, in all likelihood, had a contract waiting, too.

But George had worked for every inch of control, practiced every minute expression until her emotiveness was her greatest strength. To see it come so naturally to Andrea almost ached.

"Kimi was just saying that the weird stage made dancing feel weird, and that she was having some trouble getting used to it," Ollie said.

"Mate," Andrea hissed, elbowing him. Her cheeks were pink. "Stop, I do not need-"

"I mean, I could take a look, give you some tips?" George said. She remembered her first time on the stage, steeper than she was used to, fumbling on her toes down the diagonals—she remembered one of the French girls in Seniors taking her aside, giving her tips, watching her run through her piece.

Her big, brown eyes darted to her, panicked. "Oh, no, that is okay, if you are busy-"

George summoned her best gentle smile, faintly endeared against her will. It ached harder, how likeable she was. "No, it's fine, I was just warming up anyways."

"Ah, sorry, I do not want to bother you," she said, flushing darker.

"It's no bother," George said. "You're very good. You're fun to watch, and you have very good feet, very quick and clean and delicate."

"Ah, thank you, okay," the younger dancer said, ducking her head at the praise. "I, ah, I will show you the variation, where I am having trouble," she said, and all but fled to centre stage.

"Kimi won't shut up about you," Ollie whispered, watching her white figure flutter around the stage. "She adores you, did you know that? Don't be weird about it, I'm not supposed to let you know."

"I'm not being weird, you're being weird," George shot back. "It's fine. Andrea's an amazing dancer."

"Yeah, she is, and she's obsessed with you and Max. Like, she actually idolises you both — you especially, since you're both Toto's girls."

"Contracts practically guaranteed," she said drily. "I… maybe. I don't know. I think he will, but he might not. I think he's going to offer one to Max."

"Stop obsessing over Max," he groaned. "Jesus. Like, I know you're gay for her but it gets to a point, woman! She's really not all that, and you're so good."

"…Ollie. She is, quite literally, a generational talent. She has standing apprentice offers from multiple ballet companies! I, obviously, don't!"

He bit his lip. "I just- you're so mean about yourself, and the way you dance, and none of it's true. You're amazing, and people like you, and I don't understand why you won't see it."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn’t," she muttered. "I just… sometimes I wish it came easier, you know? I know it doesn't matter, because I'm better than so many of them now, but I wish it came easy to me, like it did to Andrea."

"George," he said, looking at her oddly, "you know you're naturally gifted as well, right?"

Her lips twisted. "Yes, I'm one of the top dancers at a prestigious ballet school with multiple competition awards, I do recognise that."

"Then why do you think you're not as good as a Junior?" Disbelief coloured his voice. "George, you practically have a contract guaranteed as soon as you graduate. Why does it matter that you worked harder than everyone, when you're better than almost everyone?"

Because I'm not Max, the words came unbidden to her tongue. George swallowed jerkily, shoving the thoughts back down. It was a moment of weakness—George knew, since that moment all those years ago, that she did not want to be like Max. She wanted to be herself—she wanted to be better. She pursed her lips, and said nothing.

Ollie rolled his eyes, watching Andrea spin towards them. "You need to be better at believing it when people say they like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she yelped. Andrea came to a stop in front of them, cocking her head.

"What's going on?"

Ollie was already softening into a grin, drifting to her side. "We were just talking about how George has issues believing people like her," he said.

“Oliver,” George said loudly, “we really don’t need to talk about this. Andrea, that was great, but your arms are a bit uneven on the pirouettes, your closing arm should come in with more force, it gives you better turning. You want to engage your core more when you’re balancing en pointe, shift your centre backwards-”

"You know,” he continued even more loudly, “like Max." Andrea had been staring at George, fixated and starry-eyed. At that, her head swung around to face him.

"Oliver."

Andrea looked confused. "But that is silly, Max clearly admires you, and you admire her, and are you two not friends?"

"No," he said, grinning wider, "like, like." He widened his eyes. Hers soon followed.

"Ohhhh. Is this about the crushes they have on each other?" she asked, nodding sagely.

George fought the urge to lie down, or punch Ollie, or run away. She threw her hands up. "Do you want feedback or not? Ollie, what happened to not telling anyone about this?"

Ollie looked confused. "But it's not anyone, it's just Kimi."

She buried her head in her hands. "Oh my god."

"Ah," Andrea said, all bright smiles, her sharp canines poking out under her top lip, "I was supposed to pretend I did not know? Okay, mate, we can do that." She affixed her face into a look of mock shock, the effect somewhat ruined by the grin that kept breaking through. "Oh my goodness, George, you and Max like each other?"

"You two deserve each other," she sniped, and took great delight as they turned matching shades of pink.

"At least we haven't stolen your credit card," Ollie said.

"Or put glue in your soft shoes," Andrea continued, nodding sagely.

"Or eaten all your ice cream and left the container."

"Or secretly lengthened Alonso's stick."

"You-" George pressed her hands to her mouth, a laugh bubbling up. "You lengthened Alonso's stick?"

"It was very funny," Andrea said, crossing her arms. "He kept stumbling, when he was doing the gesturing in class, and he kept hitting the barres." She hesitated. "It was perhaps not so funny when he had more reach to poke us."

"And you didn't get caught?"

"What are we, amateurs?" Ollie said, also crossing his arms. George was grudgingly impressed. A lot of the stories she had heard were making a lot more sense now. She was torn between being glad she was graduating soon, to escape the chaos, and wishing she could be around longer to watch.

"I guess not."

"Exactly!" Ollie said, eyes bright. "See? Promise, we won't tell Max."

George sighed. "Ollie, pranking is one thing, but I really have no faith in your-"

"Tell Max what?" The dancer appeared out of nowhere, hooking her chin over George's shoulder. George froze, her face going hot.

"Hi, Max!" Ollie yelped. Andrea beamed, full-on sunshine and sharp canines, and waved.

"Max, hello!"

Max grinned back, reaching past George to pat her on the shoulder. "Hello, Andrea. Rehearsal going well?"

Andrea nodded, eyes shining. "So well, Doriane and I are learning a lot, really fast, and I keep telling her she's so lucky to dance with you."

"What am I, chopped liver?" George grumbled. Andrea flushed bright pink and ducked behind Ollie.

Max laughed, warm and hard. "Do not be silly, George, fishing for compliments of course does not look good on you."

"Oh, I didn't know we were speaking again," she fired back, crossing her arms. Max untangled herself to glare at her.

"Only because I am being the bigger person, and I of course want to hear whatever you don't want to tell me."

"The bigger person?" George yelped. "You're literally an inch shorter than me."

Max nodded sagely. "So you see, it is very difficult, but I am persevering, because I know how to be mature and communicate. Now, what is it I am not supposed to know?"

Andrea and Ollie had been swivelling between them like they were watching a game of tennis. At Max's words, they both jumped, eyes going wide. "Um-"

Quick, Russell, think of something—

"That she's in love with me!" Ollie blurted. Four identical expressions of disbelief whipped towards him.

"Sorry?"

Max snorted. She patted Ollie condescendingly on the head. "Oliver, you of course do not have to tell me George's secrets, but if you are going to lie, perhaps try a little harder?"

He blushed, pink to the tips of his ears. "I panicked, okay? You're scary! I didn't know what to say!"

"You are an idiot," Max said, rolling her eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "And also, clearly you do not return her feelings, no?"

"Erm," Ollie's eyes darted between George, Max, and Andrea. George felt almost sorry for him, if it wasn't so funny.

"What, am I not handsome and likeable?" she couldn't resist teasing.

"You are," Ollie stammered, "but, um, well-"

Max frowned. "Andrea, are you alright?"

Andrea bit her lip, her face colourless but for the two bright spots of pink high on her cheeks. "It is not so unbelievable, Ollie, that someone might be in love with you?"

Ollie's head whipped back frantically to look at George. Andrea's shiny brown eyes tracked the movement, and she ducked her head, hunching into herself. Ollie snapped back to stare at her, his hands drifting towards her.

"Okay…" George said, one perfectly plucked brow raising slowly. "Well. You two have fun figuring that out."

Max ruffled Andrea's hair fondly. "You'll be fine, little bird. You two need to stop being so stupid, but…"

Andrea sniffed quietly, rubbing at her eyes. She plastered herself to Max's side. "Can you help me with this sequence in the variation, I am finding it a little bit tricky, with the raking and the turns," she said in a monotone, her Italian accent so thick it was practically dripping.

Max shot a look at George. "Our children are useless," she said conversationally.

Ollie's jaw dropped. Andrea's fingers tightened on Max's arm. George pointed an affronted finger at Max. "I am not having children with you. These are our adopted menaces, at best. Our heirs."

"You can have the oblivious idiot," Max said snippily, as Andrea towed her away. "I'll take the misunderstood ingenue."

"What's that supposed to mean??" George yelled after her. Ollie's eyebrows crept higher, his face still flushed. He poked her hard in the shoulder.

"I think you should talk to Alex."

"This is your fault," George hissed, feeling somewhat offended.

"Maybe so," he said brightly, "but I'm still right!"

She rolled her eyes. "Only you could be so chipper after that interaction."

"Me and Kimi will be okay eventually," Ollie said, clapping her on the shoulder. "I'll take your advice, one of these days." He bounded off to bother Carlos, practicing his turns off to the side. George sighed, and trudged to where Alex was sitting in a quiet corner of the room, working through exercises for his arm.

He looked up as she approached, and grinned. "Hey, Georgiegirl."

She sat down across from him, and flopped limply against the wall. "The world hates me."

Alex looked at her sympathetically. "Is this about your crush on Max?"

George shot up. "How do you even know about that?"

"Ollie told me," he said, wincing and rubbing at his arm. "He said he, and I quote, 'thought I should know'. Also, it's really obvious and I'm shocked you didn't say anything. What happened?"

"Max," she gritted out between her teeth. "Ugh! She's so… she's infuriating! She won't talk to me, and then she'll fuck up her dancing because I'm trying to act normal around her, and clearly failing miserably, and come up to me in the middle of tech, and I can't stand her, and I can't stop thinking about her!"

Alex whistled lowly. "Damn. Okay. You've got it bad, George, I can't believe you managed to keep it in for so long. We're finally talking about it?"

"She danced with me, Alex," she muttered. "She danced with me, and it was magical, and we were so good. She was so good. She said she liked the way I danced…"

"Of course you realised because of dance,” he sighed. “How did Ollie, of all people, find out? I didn't think you'd realise for ages, and I can't believe you didn't tell one of us first."

"I had a bit of a breakdown at him, that's how," George said. "He was in your bloody rat costume, I thought he was you and spilled everything and he didn't say a single word!"

"George," Alex said, amusement dancing through his words, "Ollie wasn’t just walking around in my costume. Did you interrupt rehearsal because of your crush?"

Her face flamed. "It was an accident, okay? I thought it was over, and I was having a crisis!"

"Aww", he teased, nudging her leg. "You were having a crisis. No wonder you didn't bring it up again."

"Alex," she whined, turning her head to look at him, "I'm serious. What should I do?"

"I can't lie, George," he said, turning serious, "I think you just need to talk to her. And apologise."

"What?" she frowned. "Why am I the one apologising?"

"Because you ran off, and then ignored her for days?" Alex said, side-eyeing her. "Like, I get that you freaked out, but you two were sort of friends before this, weren't you?"

"I guess."

"Bit rude, then, to ignore a friend, even if you're having a crisis about her," he said. "I'd be pretty hurt if you ignored me."

"I didn't…" It sounded so stupid, now, to say it out loud, but, "I didn't think she'd notice!"

Alex facepalmed. "How would she not notice?"

"Lando didn't notice when I avoided him for two weeks," she pointed out. They both took a moment to think about the absurdity that had been.

"True," he said, "but he noticed you avoiding her, so you know it's bad."

George groaned, long and drawn out. "Alex, what do I do?"

"Talk to her!" Alex threw his hands up. "George, you literally just need to be normal around her. That's it. The bar is on the floor."

"It's on the wall, actually- okay, okay!" She ducked out of reach. "How? She's the one avoiding me now."

"She literally came up to you when you were with the kids," Alex said, deadpan. George scowled.

"Yeah, but that was a clever trick, to throw me off balance. I couldn't even- It's not like we could've had a proper conversation then."

"Catch her off balance, then," Alex said. "Just be normal! You're… you're so normal," he pleaded, "please, you can be normal."

"I can't," George gritted out, "because I've only just realised I have a massive crush on her, and I'm having a crisis about it, and she's avoiding me."

"George," Alex said very sharply, "you're not being fair, because you started it, and it was mean to her. Max has liked you for ages, and- no, George, we’ve been teasing you about it, but it’s true. Even if you don't believe it, that's what Charles said, and I'm not supposed to tell you, only…"

"Only I like her too," George finished. She sighed. "Fine. Sure. I'll talk to her. It'll be fine. We can be friends again. Fuck."

"Friends." Alex waggled his eyebrows at her. "George and Max, sitting in a tree…"

"Not a word to Lando or Charles," she hissed.

"Talk to her, and I won't," Alex said immediately. George growled, annoyed. This was the oldest trick in Alex's book, and yet, inevitably, she fell for it every time.

"Fine, but you don't get to listen in."

Alex laughed incredulously. "Georgie, I would honest-to-god love nothing less."

"Okay, rude."

"Just do it," he said, draping an arm over her shoulders. The weight of it was warm, reassuring. "It'll be fine. You don't have to ask her out or anything-"

"Whatever, Alex," she said, blushing.

"-even if you want to," he finished with a wink.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

Of course, with her luck, George ran into Max at her check-up. Lewis mandated pre-show checkups, ever since someone had gone on-stage with a hidden flu and fainted halfway through a solo. It was common, in the Academy, for people to accidentally overwork themselves in the weeks leading up to the show, rehearsing new moves or simply practicing too hard.

George opened the door to the physio room, and collided with Max head-on. She listed sideways with the force of the impact. Max grabbed her arm before she fell over, lightning-quick and warm.

"Sorry," she muttered, ducking her head so she wouldn't have to meet her eyes. "I- sorry, Max."

Max dropped her like a burning coal. "Be careful with this one," she called back into the room, her eyes still fixed on George. "She never lets you know what she's really feeling, or what she really means. I also think she maybe has strained something, because she is dancing a little bit off — you are favouring your right a bit?"

She flinched. "How did you-"

Oscar walked over, snapping off a pair of gloves. "Thanks, Max, I'll, uh, be sure to keep an eye out."

"You should perhaps put them back on," Max said, nodding to the gloves. "I think she maybe has gotten some sort of disease. That is of course why she will not speak to me, and will not let me touch her?"

George flushed. "Max."

Max eyed her coldly, and turned away. Oscar sighed, and beckoned her in. "Right, what can I do you for?"

"Showcase check-up, isn't it?" She hopped up onto the examination bench.

George liked Oscar a lot. Oscar Piastri was one of the physiotherapists the Academy had on retainer right now. He was younger than the physio they had had when she was still in Juniors — he had only just graduated, and was working for the Academy as a part-time assistant, between his shifts at the clinic downtown. He was sweet, and funny, and wanted to go into sports medicine someday — he was obsessed with the cricket, a true Aussie. George, a shame to her British roots, simply did not get it.

"So how are we feeling today?" George jumped half a foot off the table, still staring at the door closed behind Max. Oscar laughed, waving a hand in front of her face. "Earth to George?"

She flushed. "Good, I feel fine."

"You dancers all say that," he said with a soft huff of amusement. "Uh, let's start with your ankles, since Max so kindly revealed that you're having trouble."

"I'm not having trouble," she said, outraged. "She's the one who fell and limped out of rehearsals, not me. With the number of times Lando's dropped me, honestly, it's a miracle I'm in one piece."

Oscar hummed lightly, rotating her ankles and stretching them out. "Right, well, you're hyperextended everywhere, and you've got a good crop of conditioning exercises, but I would like to see a little more stability there- push against my hand?" George flexed her feet. "Alright, yeah, you're a little weaker on one foot right now, and you probably need to rest it. How many hours are you dancing a day?"

George's lips twisted. "Like, seven or eight? We have technique classes, and rehearsals, and then I practice by myself a lot… and I'm doing a bit more modern this year, but it's show season, so I'm only doing two classes a week right now."

Oscar whistled lowly. "Yep, that's a recipe for overwork. You've got to take it easy, George."

"It's only till the show," George pleaded, "I'll take it so easy, after." It wasn't that she wasn't confident in her role, or her dancing. It was that dancing, sometimes, felt like all there was in the world. It was the only thing she wanted to do.

He shook his head. "No, you're cutting back this week, and then you'll be in perfect shape for the show next week. Drop modern for now and cut your private time in half—I'll check your bookings, don't think I won't—and ice and soak your feet. Your calves and ankles are a bit strained, which you should've noticed and said. Or," he noted her wince, "I would have noticed eventually, and pried it out of you, instead of having Max just tell me."

"I cannot believe the nerve of her," she muttered, crossing her arms. "Honestly! It's not her business whether I dance too much, or whether I touch her or not, or whether we ignore each other!"

"Hmm," Oscar said, smiling slightly, "sounds like she's concerned about your dancing. Maybe even about you."

"She's not," George scoffed with a vitriol that surprised even herself. Quieter, she repeated, "She's not. About the dancing, maybe, but not about me. She’s just annoyed that she fell, and she’s lashing out with unnecessary anger and borderline violence at me!"

Oscar looked up, his dark hair flopping over his forehead. "I don't know, George, I think she likes you."

"No she doesn't! She-" George could feel her heart in her ears. She knew it was true, she knew what she said wasn’t true, she knew she shouldn’t have avoided Max, should’ve been watching her, "-she's just… I don't know, she's annoyed that I'm avoiding her, and now she's avoiding me."

"Wow, I really don't miss being in boarding school. Stand up for me and bend? Yep, good, okay, now-" Oscar manipulated her torso, her arms, stretching her out and folding her joints. "Okay, no pain in the back?"

She shook her head. "She's a pain in the back," she muttered.

"It'll be fine, George," Oscar laughed, warm and light. "And you're also fine. I would soak your feet and theraband a bit, and check how you're doing your pointe elastics, but other than that, you're good. Just be careful not to overwork, yeah? You're going to be great, and I'd really rather not have to drop in to check on you if something happens during the show, since I'll be across town."

"Thanks," she grumbled, swinging herself off the examination table. "Who have you got left?"

"Mmm, just a handful of the kids," he said, looking down at his chart. "Oh, and-"

"Lando?" George said, surprised, as he burst through the door. She did a double take. He was wearing cologne. His hair was freshly brushed and perfectly styled. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for my check-up," Lando said, grinning. He caught sight of Oscar, and his face brightened. "Hi, Osc!"

"Hi, Lando," Oscar waved back, eyes soft and smiling. "How's the knee?"

George looked between them, and began to grin. "Lando, I didn't know you hurt your knee?"

"Oh, um," He stared at her, a deer in headlights. "Yeah, no, I just landed badly, it was fine."

"I'm glad to hear it," Oscar said. "It could've been quite bad, you know, a knee injury. You really have terrible luck, with all the near misses you have, hm?"

"Yeah, Lando," George said pointedly, "I didn't even know about these near misses. You shouldn't hide injuries from your partner, right?"

Oscar nodded emphatically. "Yeah, no, definitely, your partner needs to know whether you're good to dance or not." She threw him a look, half proud, half mocking, half glee.

"Not now, George," Lando muttered, blushing. Oscar was still fiddling with papers, meticulously copying George's notes into the digital system.

"I thought you said you were straight," George whispered, still grinning.

"And I thought you and Max didn't have a thing going on?" Lando hissed viciously. "So why is she waiting outside, like an anxious boyfriend?"

George flushed a bright, treacherous red. "I don't- we're not- she is?"

He jerked his head at the door. "Passed her when I came in, didn't I?"

She sighed. "I won't tell if you don't."

"Deal," Lando said immediately, nodding so hard his curls bounced. "Now get out and let me work my magic!"

George gagged dramatically.

Outside, Max was indeed leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for her. She peeled herself off the wall as George came up to her, scowling, and followed her down the hallway together. It was tremendously awkward. George's mind strained for something to say—some way to start the conversation, to apologise. The hallway was silent, a gaping space where footstep or conversation should've sat — they were both dancers, light on their feet.

"Well?" Max broke the silence.

George turned to look. "Well, what?"

She rolled her eyes impatiently. "Well, what did Oscar say?"

"Oh." Disappointment, inexplicable, welled up inside her. "Um, yeah, he said I was all clear."

"Good," Max said, stilted and short, and turned on her heel.

"Max, wait," she blurted. Max stopped. She didn't turn back around.

"What?"

George stared at the back of her head, the dark blonde, almost gold of her hair, fluttering in its low ponytail. "I… is your ankle okay?"

Even without seeing her face, she could tell she was rolling her eyes. "It is of course fine. It was not so bad."

She still wouldn't turn around, still wouldn’t look at her. George swallowed. "I'm sorry."

Her shoulders tensed. "For what?"

She took a deep breath. "I didn't mean to avoid you. I mean, I did, but I'm sorry, because that wasn't very nice of me, and it wasn't your fault, and I don't- I'm sorry. Max, I'm really sorry. I freaked out after the rehearsal, because I figured out how it was supposed to be, and I got caught up in trying to fix it with Lando, and it got taken out on you-"

Max sighed, long and loud. "Georgiona."

Her hackles rose.

"You are such an idiot," she said, crossing her arms. "You could've just said, you know?"

"It was poor of me," George said quietly. She wanted to reach out, to touch her, to comfort her, to feel the way she lived and breathed and moved. Max sighed again.

"You could not help it, I suppose. You really are perfect for the Sugar-Plum role."

"I'm sorry," George winced. "What does that even mean?"

Max turned, and there was a strange light in her eyes, glittering and sharp and blue. She shook her head. "Nevermind. It is okay, George, as long as you stop being stupid."

"Can we be… are we good?" George worried her lip between her teeth, suddenly nervous. Max didn't say anything, turning the question over in her mind, her eyes fixed on George's.

"See you at dress," she said finally, her teeth peeking out in her smile. George's heart fluttered.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

Max jabbed viciously at a button. On screen, Lando's sprite fuzzed and fell off the track.

Lando threw his hands up in frustration. "Max!!"

"What??" Max mimicked his tone. Her sprite did a little victory dance, and Max laughed at the screen. Dress rehearsal run-throughs could be so boring. Lewis liked doing a full day of dress — a full run-through of the show in the morning, and then polishing individual variations or group dances after lunch. Currently, she and Lando were huddled in a corner, mismatched Sugar-Plum and Cavalier, sitting in their glittering costumes, waiting to be called. It would be a while yet — Lewis was still running George and Kimi through their scene currently, and Charles had vanished off somewhere.

"I cannot believe you," Lando hissed at her. "How are you so good at everything?"

She grinned. "You of course know I did not grow up with video games, and of course this is your Switch, so you just need to, as they say, get good."

"You've been practicing," he accused in a whisper.

Her eyes widened. "With what console? You're just rusty and distracted."

Lando pointed at her threateningly. "I'll find out, someday. If Charles is sneaking you my console to play on, I swear to god…"

Max held her hands up placatingly. "I would never do such a thing!"

Lando sighed and flopped down onto the wooden floorboards. On stage, Andrea was running through one of her Clara variations, light and floating. She was really good, Max thought distractedly to herself, very expressive and sharp. Andrea and George jumped the same way. It was like they stepped and sprung, and the air itself decided to weigh more than them, lifting them up to float for a bare second before they landed again. Max had to thrust herself into the air and trust the throttling to keep her up.

Andrea twirled across the stage, and Max caught a glimpse of Oliver's expression, starry-eyed and rapt, and snorted. "When do you think the juniors will finally get over themselves and get together?"

Lando laughed, a cascading, squawking sound. "Mate, you're one to talk!"

She glared at him. "What do you mean?"

"You and George, obviously," he said, rolling his eyes. "What on earth is going on? You like her, and she likes you, and neither of you are doing anything about it!"

Max flushed, hot. She hated the way she blushed, patchy and unattractive and over-warm. Not like George — George was a pretty blusher, pink blooming high in her cheeks, trickling down her ears and down her neck instead of flooding mottled red. "She doesn't like me, not like that."

Lando rolled his eyes harder. "Sure." He made a kissy face at her. "Max and George, sitting in a tree…"

Max gagged.

"I'd say if it doesn’t work out, give me a call," he teased, raking his eyes dramatically up and down her body. It startled a laugh out of Max, loud and clear. From the corner of the stage, George turned to look, frowning, "but I'm pretty sure I'm not your type."

"Not quite, no," she giggled, pressing a hand to her mouth.

"Besides," Lando continued, winking, "I'm pretty sure George would kill me."

"Alright," she sputtered, "what about you?"

"Me?"

"Charles said you have been getting injured a lot recently," Max said, grinning.

Lando bolted upright. "Charles- oh, I'm surrounded by traitors. Nope, no such thing, I'm super in shape, hale and healthy as a principal dancer should be."

"Bold words, Lando, for someone who has visited the physio about four times this week," she shot back. Lando grumped.

"I'm just trying to make sure I'm in top shape."

"Yes," Max smirked, "I bet you would like to be on top of his shape."

"Shut up," Lando squawked. "Oh my god, Max!"

"He's cute," she shrugged. "A bit old for you, but you like them older, don't you?"

"He's not that much older than us," he said shrilly.

Max mock-gasped. "Are you finally dating an age appropriate man?"

He crossed his arms defensively. "I date age appropriate women!"

She snorted. "I would not call that dating."

"Whatever," he whined, flopping back down. "It's not like anything's going to happen before winter break, anyways."

"Sure," she shrugged. "If you say so."

"He's so cute," Lando groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Oh my god. He has dimples. And moles."

Max made a face at that. "But he's Australian."

He twisted to look at her. "You're one to talk."

She stared at him. "So are you??"

"Yeah, I am," Lando said, waggling his eyebrows. "Anyways, Danny said he's going to visit soon, and I hear he's single right now."

"Shut up," Max hissed furiously. "That was of course years ago, and nothing happened, and nothing is going to happen! We are just good friends. You could say the same for yourself, no?"

"Except there's someone else I like."

She rolled her eyes. "Lando, I have of course made no secret to you that I like George Russell, it is not my problem she doesn't like me back."

"You really are an idiot," Lando said in wonder, hauling himself upright. "Also, Lewis is beckoning us over."

Max looked over her shoulder, to where Lewis was indeed waving them over. Cursing quietly, she straightened her tiara and smoothed down her tutu, and followed Lando over to where the others stood.

"Ah, good, Max," Lewis said. "The stage is a bit slicker than normal today, and George noticed it felt wrong." Behind him, the aforementioned dancer flushed. "I think you and her should go down to the shoe closet, get some more rosin, get some spares for the show while you're at it."

"Okay, Lewis, thank you," she said. Lando grinned at her.

Max sighed. Behind her, George was already heading. She patted Lando on the head. "Have fun in pirouette hell."

"Speak for yourself," Lando said. "I get to swordfight Alex, you get to spend time with George."

"You're not the Nutcracker Prince," Max threw over her shoulder. "You don't get to do the fun parts."

"I'm still helping out," Lando shouted after her retreating back. Max turned quickly only to check Lewis wasn't watching. Then, she flipped him off.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

Max caught up to her in the corridor. "What happened?"

George pressed her hands to her warm cheeks, finding them damp and clammy. She was too old to be making mistakes like that, especially at dress rehearsal. In truth, she had not needed resin — she had just needed a moment. The stage was slicker, but she had just needed a moment to compose herself.

"I don't know," she replied, voice quiet. "I just can't do it today for some reason."

"George," Max said bluntly, "the show is in two days. You were fine at tech, and you were fine this morning on the full run, you just need to get it together."

"I know," she flared, "but I can't right now, okay? I just needed a moment!"

Max stepped back, hands held up in front of herself. "Okay. That is fine, George, you cannot always be on." The unsaid but hung in the air. George bit her cheek and said nothing. That was the problem, with wanting validation; criticism from Lewis hit so much harder, especially when it wasn't something she had already noticed and was trying to fix.

"What did Lewis say?" she asked. George shook her head. She couldn't bring herself to speak. Lewis hadn't even said anything, just looked at her and Andrea, mildly dissatisfied, not-quite frowning. He had just run segments of the piece over, and over, and over. That had hurt, more than anything, the thought that her variation was so poorly done that there was nothing to be said about it.

"Do you think maybe you were fine, and he was thinking of something else?" she said gently. "If he has something he wants you to change, or if he has comments, he always says, no? I think perhaps he saw Andrea was not so used to it, all the light and costume and stage, and he wanted to make sure everything was fine."

"Maybe," George said, shaking off the heavy cobwebs of doubt, "maybe. I'll ask him later."

"Good," she said, and opened the door to the pointe closet with a flourish. "After you."

George loved the shoe closet. The size of a large bathroom, it was packed from wall to wall with dark mahogany shelving, stacked and stuffed full of satin pointe shoes, organised by brand and size. The first time she had been allowed to take shoes from it instead of only using her own, it had felt like magic. Like somehow, she had made it. She was the real deal.

Max rummaged through the shelves, digging through the drawers at bottom, full of miscellaneous items and scraps. It was weird, to look at Max while they were both in costume — it was like looking in a warped mirror, a shorter, blonder, more muscular version of herself. There they both stood in identical pearlescent tutus, crusted over with silver and sparkle, wide pastel skirts stiff and flat and high. Max turned to say something, and raised an eyebrow. "Is there something on my face, George?"

George shook her head, embarrassed at being caught. "Sorry. No, um, yeah, I was just looking at the costume. It's gorgeous this year, isn't it?"

"It is," Max said, staring straight at George. George met her eyes, blue striking against blue like flint, and flushed hotly predictably.

"Right. Um. What were we here for again? The rosin?"

"I think I have found some," Max said, straightening up. "It's not the brand Lewis likes, but it will work fine for us, I think."

"Great," George said, stretching up to look through the shelves of satin. "Just hang on a minute, yeah? I might as well get a couple of spare pairs to break in, just in case."

"Have you not already prepared a pair of shoes for each night?" Max asked, cocking her head. "You are of course so organised, and I have seen you breaking in shoes everywhere."

"Well, yes, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared-"

"Everywhere, George. I saw you whacking them on the pavement outside the other day," Max said, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

George sighed. "I just go through them so quickly, even when I glue them! I can't help it, and before you ask, I don't like how Gaynors fit, even if they last longer."

"Of course they fall apart, you are British and traditional, so you wear Freeds even though your feet may as well be some sort of archery bow, with that bend." Max shook her head. "You are going to go broke, George."

"Doesn’t matter," she grinned cheekily, "when our shoes are subsidised, especially performance ones. Those ticket sales have to be for something, don't they?"

Max laughed, throwing her head back, and George was struck by the colour in her cheeks, the shine in her eyes, the way she self-consciously tucked her hair behind her ears, even as it was slicked back tight in a bun. George was seized by the desire to hold her, to be her, to watch her forever.

The door slammed shut with a sudden thud. A loud click echoed around the room, dust slowly re-settling across the floor.

"George," Max said, her voice suddenly small, "did the door just lock itself?"

She whirled around. "What?" She wrenched at the handle. "Shit."

"Happy April Fools!" someone sing-songed through the door.

The realisation struck her like a preternatural bolt from the sky. "OLIVER BEARMAN," George shrieked. "It is the middle of December."

Ollie cackled, the sound loud and pealing. "You'll thank me later!"

George slammed her fists against the door. "Oh, you are in so much trouble when I catch you."

Ollie's footsteps faded down the corridor, his laugh trailing after him. George shoved her bangs out of her face, squinting in the dim light of the room. "Shit. How did he even lock it from the outside?" She peered into the lock, hands still fidgeting with the handle. "Do you reckon we could bust the lock with our bobby pins? If James Bond could do it…"

"It's not going to work," Max said.

"How do you know that?"

Her voice was perfectly even. "It of course happens in movies, but you cannot actually pick locks with hairpins, or at least I have never been able to."

George turned. Max had pressed herself into a corner of the room, her arms crossed tight over her front, the stiff flat folds of her tutu smashed against the stained wooden shelves. She ducked her head, as George's eyes met hers, biting down on her lip. George's hands fell away from the lock. "Do you have a better plan?" The words came out softer than she expected.

She shrugged, a tiny stiff movement. "Someone will notice eventually. Charles, or Lando, or Ollie will feel bad about it. It is lucky, that we have a little break in the piece right now, no?"

George took a tentative step towards her. "Max, are you… okay?"

"It's fine," Max gritted out from between clenched teeth. "I just. I do not like dark, enclosed spaces."

George hesitated.

George had grown up with two distantly older siblings, a father who ran the family business, and a mother who taught her dance. George had grown up with Alex, spent her summers and afternoons in the studios. George had, above almost all things, grown up loved.

Everyone had heard the rumours about Max's father. George remembered, at competitions, how the girls would huddle, whispering about how scary he was, how good he had been, how there had been a video of him screaming himself hoarse at her after she won a second place. How someone swears they saw her sitting, alone, on the roadside, her father and his car nowhere in sight; how Max's tights were paler and more opaque than everyone else's. George remembered, now, how young Max had looked, standing alone at the barre. How lonely.

She had tried to ask Charles about it, once. Or, to be more accurate, she had joked about it, once, with Charles. It had been after a particularly gruelling pointe class, where George had gone into the class already exhausted and come out of it almost crying with frustration, her feet sore from falling out of her fouettés. Charles had been in the cafeteria when she stormed in, her face white with anger.

Wordlessly, he handed over what was left of his croissant. George bit into it viciously, relishing the flaky, buttery layers on her tongue. "That was ridiculous. I should just quit. I hate dance," she spat through a mouthful of pastry.

Charles sighed, eyes glittering with laughter. "George, you have this conversation every week, and everyone knows you do not really mean it."

"I do this time!" George gestured at him with her croissant, crumbs scattering over the table. She started shredding it into tiny golden slivers. "I don't want to dance if it means dancing with Max Verstappen! She's so fucking perfect all the time, she's just so fucking good, she's never had a correction a single day in her life!"

He huffed. "You know that is not true."

"Isn't it?" George crammed the rest of the pastry into her mouth. Charles made a mournful sound. "She's never even had to fucking try. She just storms in, with her perfect hair, and perfect feet, and perfect turns, and perfect fucking life, and outdances the rest of us. If I had grown up like her, with a director for a father and a million private tutors, I'd be as good as her. I'd be better-"

Charles's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, hard. George cut herself off with a squeak. Charles's green eyes were hard and cold in a way she had never seen before. "Leave it, Georgiona." No one ever called her by her full name. "Don't talk about things you don’t understand."

George sniffed, feeling strangely chastened. "It's just Max. What is there to understand? Why she's such a fucking show-off?"

He exhaled quietly. "Max is used to being held to a different standard. Just because she is dancing better does not make her a show-off. This is simply how she was made to do it, and so this is how she does it."

George's mind had flashed blank. From the back of her mind, the old competition rumours welled up. "Her father-"

"Is a good dancer," he interjected smoothly. "It is true, of course, what you said. Max would not be where she is now, if he had not brought her up the way he had. And we have all seen the videos — all of them, yes, George — and he is, if nothing else, a good dancer."

She hesitated. "…But not a good father?"

He gave her a long, slow look. "It's not your business, George. Just leave it."

They had gone back to normal the next day. George had never brought anything like it up again. Now, George watched as Max Verstappen shuddered in the stale air of the closet, her blue eyes grey in the low light, and realised she didn't want to know the answer. That everyone had known all along.

"Max," George asked carefully, slowly, inching towards her. "You're shaking."

"Fuck off, George," Max muttered, drawing into herself. George watched her, unblinking. Max scowled at the floor, her fingers indenting her arms, and slowly fell still. They were very close together, face to face in the pointe shoe closet, the flat edges of their costumes almost denting to fit, and George could feel the air distorting from the tremble of Max's hands.

Wordlessly, she reached out. Her long pale fingers closed over Max's.

Max grasped back so tightly it almost hurt. Her hands were clammy, her entire frame so taut George could almost see the veins in her arms. She squeezed her hands. "I'm here."

She rolled her eyes. "I know you are." Her voice was shaky. George breathed out, long and low and light, and didn't let go.

They sat there in silence, watching the dust motes swirl, glowing, in the low light.

"You were right, in Juniors, when you called me sloppy," Max said, her eyes closed as she leaned against the wooden shelves. "I was sloppy. My father wanted me to be better than anyone else, in everything. And I of course wanted to be the best, and of course I grew up watching Uncle Michael, so I did not learn to turn and jump like the other girls."

George bit her lip, her mind flashing to the afternoon so long ago. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "Do not apologise. You did not say anything that was not true. I was sloppy back then, of course, my father wanted me to jump higher and turn faster and screw technique when I was doing it. There is a reason, you know, that I have the reputation I did. The pianists used to have to speed up for me when I danced." She sighed. "I was of course furious with him at the time, but Lewis refused to let me join in male technique classes. He would set limits, for each exercise or variation, how high I could jump, how much I could spin. I think if not for him, if not for Charles, I would have been forced to quit a long time ago."

"No," George said, "I was wrong. You're a born performer. I've never seen you lose control."

Max laughed, a harsh, humourless sound. "You're seeing it now."

George could feel her feet jittering against her own. She wiggled where she was sitting almost next to Max, the wooden floor splinters catching on her tights. Quietly, she inched over until her shoulder was pressing into Max's.

Max took a loud, shaky breath, and George realised with a start that she had been holding her breath this whole time. Her grip tightened, something like fear coursing through her chest.

"Ouch, George," the Dutchwoman muttered. "A little bit too hard."

"Sorry," she said, flinching, her hand loosening, pulling away. Max's fingers fastened around hers before she could withdraw.

"That of course does not mean- you are very silly sometimes, George."

She blushed. "Alright, well, I'm only silly around you."

"I wonder why that is," Max said, low and amused. "Perhaps I bring out the best in you."

George pressed her free hand to her hot cheeks, and looked away from her eyes, blue and bright in the dim. She cast about for something to say- "Your dad kind of sucks."

Immediately, she wished she could take the words back, childish and awkward as they were. It was Max whose grip tightened now, Max whose face went stony and complicated, before being forced into something lighter, almost open.

"Everyone says that, for some reason."

"Sorry," she mumbled, embarrassed. "I shouldn't- I don't know. Everyone made allusions to it, but I never… I don't know. He sounds… difficult."

"My father was… he is a contradiction," Max said, tracing patterns in the dust. She wouldn't meet George's eyes. "He wanted me to be the best, so he enrolled me in everything, and made sure I could do it, and do it better than anyone. But then when I could, he was disgusted by what he had made, what he had done—he had half turned me into a man, into something no man could dance with—and so I was not allowed to perform any of it, but I was not allowed to lose it either."

George tried to imagine it — Max, without the explosive jumps that ornamented her pieces, without the strength and technicality and tension that underlined all her variations. A version of Max that was like her, like Kimi, fast and clean and expressive, a beautiful dancer—an ordinary dancer. A version of Max, somewhere, who couldn't have danced with her like that. She swallowed thickly. The thought of it was almost too painful to bear.

"He is my father," Max continued. She shrugged. "It is what it is."

"It doesn't have to be-" George stopped, lost. "You're not your father, you know."

"Maybe so," Max said. "Maybe it is something you can outgrow, out-train. I grew up with Schumacher's son, he was not very good. My father says I jump like Uncle Michael."

George had grown up with a dance teacher for a mother. Max, apparently, had grown up with the Greats, and her former dancer father. Uncle Michael, as if Michael Schumacher, one of the greatest dancers of all time, was just someone who showed up at Christmas dinners with arms full of gifts and tickets to the Nutcracker; as if the Red Baron who flew across the stage could be just a normal man, pulling crackers at the dinner table. George thinks about the way Max brackets her jump and turn sequences with a tilt of her head, brash and proud and haughty, the way she launches herself into the air like there are jet engines in her feet, and her breath catches.

"Yes," she murmured, "you do."

"I am of course better than him now," Max continued, "but… he is still my father. I still… It would be nice, for him to be happy with my dancing, to be proud of me."

George could feel her heart cracking between her ribs, pressed flat and open like an old pointe shoe. Her mother had always been so proud of her — her dad had not really gotten it, but he had been proud too; her siblings, all those years older than her, were always so happy for her. Even now, as they got older, and life got busier, and the farm got harder to run, they always made space, if not time, for her. For Max, growing up almost alone, she couldn't imagine how difficult it was.

"I am sorry I made fun of you," Max said abruptly. "I was not kind, when I was younger. There was a time no one wanted to teach me, or dance with me, because of my father, and then because of me. I was not… I was of course a great dancer, but I was not always very nice."

George hesitated. All those years, she had thought Max had meant to be cruel. Now, years later, she was realising that Max had just assumed that George, like her, wanted to put the craft before her own feelings. Max, unlike George, had already known who she was, what she was, and what she was going to become.

"I hated you for a long time after the Variation Class Incident," she muttered. It had been so small, in the grand scheme of things, but to her younger, insecure self, it had somehow felt like everything.

"I know. I'm sorry. I have wanted for us to be friends for very long, but of course I did not manage to do it." Max huffed, self-deprecating. George could feel the puff of air against her top lip. "I am hoping that we can be alright now, of course?"

George bit her lip. "I don't… Max, there's nothing to forgive. I was younger, and sensitive, and I wished I could be better, and you were the best, and I was… It doesn't matter." Max's fingers twitched. "I would rather we be friends who can make each other better, yeah?"

Max's hands clenched. She tilted her chin up, meeting her eyes. "Just friends?"

George's voice died in her throat.

"My father was of course not happy when I told him I liked women," Max segued casually. "He thought it was… improper, for a dancer, especially with principal aspirations." She shrugged. "Of course I do not care, I will dance how he likes and how he taught me, but I will also dance how I want, and like who I like."

"Me too," George blurted clumsily. "Women, I mean. Like, liking them. I—I also like women."

Real smooth, Russell, she scoffed internally. Great job.

"How convenient," Max said, the corners of her lips turning up.

"Shut up," she said, her nose wrinkling. Ugh, the embarrassment. "It's not… whatever. Not everything is about you."

"But this is?" They were suddenly very close. George was struck by her, by the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she breathed. A few strands of blonde had come loose from the slicked back hair, and they fell around her forehead now, and George was struck by the urge to brush them out of the way.

"I really liked dancing with you," Max whispered, and her eyes were very blue. George could see a faint smatter of freckles on her left temple. "We were very beautiful. Of course I hope I am not wrong when I think perhaps you have also never felt like this before?"

"No," George whispered, and they were so close. George could feel the warm brush of Max's breath from her nose on her skin, the drag of her long lashes across her cheekbones as they fluttered shut. Her heart was pounding in her ears, a dull, warm roar. "You weren't wrong at all."

Max laughed, a soft puff of air. "I would like to dance with you again, if you…"

They were so, so close together. George shut her eyes, and her lips were brushing Max's jaw. Max twitched, and her lips parted, and George could feel it, a hint of lips against her own, neither of them moving closer. Neither of them pressing in.

"Yes," she whispered, leaning in. "Yes."

There was a burst of light and sound.

"Girls!" Alonso bellowed, slamming the door open. George flinched away from Max, colliding hard with the dark shelf behind her. "I cannot fucking believe this! The two best dancers, trapped in a closet together! You are lucky that Charles Leclerc was concerned with how long you both had been gone! And your costumes, ay dios, hopefully the costumers will be able to fix it before the show."

"Sorry, Señor," Max mumbled, faux-contrite. "It's just a bit of dust and creasing, it should be fine. It's my fault really," she lied flawlessly. George's gaze shot over. "I didn't prop the door open right, and it shut."

Alonso rolled his eyes, the movement shifting through his entire body. "Ay, kids these days! There is no time to be dawdling, we must go now, we still have to run the big scene at the end! Come now!" Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the room, long confident strides down the hall. He didn't turn back to check if they were following. George suppressed a giggle, looking to Max for a response. Max grinned back, rolling her eyes lightly.

"Alonso is of course always like this." She brushed herself off and looked expectantly at George. "Shall we go?"

George hesitated. She held her hand out.

Max's grin deepened. Wordlessly, she took it, and tugged her after the ballet master, two mirror-images running down the corridor together. George felt warmth suffusing her fingertips, spreading like the sunrise through her chest.

"You must reconsider your choice of partner, Georgiona," he threw out behind him as he billowed down the corridor back towards the stage. "Albon was sufficient, if a bit boring, but Lando is like a hyperactive puppy! This will not do at all!"

Max's hand tightened on hers. When George looked over, her eyes were very blue under the fluorescent corridor light, glittering and crinkled with the effort of holding back a laugh.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

Alex looked up when George stormed noisily into his dressing room.

"I," she gritted out, "have a lot of new items on my to-do list."

"Oh, really?"

“Yes, Alex.” She slammed her hands down on the table of the vanity, bracing herself against the edge. "I am going to kill a man."

"Big ambition there, George," he yawned, unfolding himself from the chair in the corner. "You're a bit busy now for it, anyways, what with the show."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Yep. I need to break in my spare shoes, and then I need to pack my show bags and practice my makeup, and I need to learn to pick locks, and then I need to let my parents know when my trains get in, and order the show recordings for them."

"Why," Alex asked conversationally, "are you learning to pick locks?"

George looked up. Alex flinched. She knew her expression was something awful, her brows clenched and her eyes tinged red. "Because Ollie locked us in the pointe closet, and I almost kissed Max."

A loud disappointed groan sounded behind George, and she jumped about a foot in the air. "You chickened out?" Ollie Bearman appeared behind her, soundless and omnipresent. "That's not fair. You're hopeless! You need to take your own advice."

George scowled, her hands curling into fists. "Oliver, you need to stop meddling."

Ollie looked despondent. "What? Why? Me and Kimi have been scheming so hard." He pouted. "I wish people would meddle for us. This romance thing is so difficult!"

Alex rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "You are actually so oblivious it hurts. I have had to listen to Carlos complain for literal hours, because ay Alex, today Alonso showed up at rehearsal to get Andrea and Ollie to demonstrate how to find chemistry and be comfortable with a partner to the younger classes, and obviously that is the class where he makes us stand nose to nose for ages, and then hug for ages to get used to other bodies, and Alonso came back fuming because it didn't work, and now my quads are sore.”

Ollie scowled. “Wait, that wasn’t-”

Alex continued in his put-on Spanish accent. “Ah, for goodness sake Alex, today I told Ollie to 'lock down his girl' before someone stole her, and Andrea just giggled and said that he did not need to worry, because she liked dancing with him, and I actually cannot stand you guys any longer!"

Ollie looked vaguely affronted. "Why is your roommate talking about us?"

"Why aren't you doing something about your Kimi?" Alex shot back.

"Not the point," George cut in. "Oliver, I'm serious. You need to bleedin' stop this." Her accent was collapsing and sharp, folding in and out between the sharp British vowels trained into her and the clipped, bitten off consonants of her Norwich childhood. Ollie looked at her, his brow creasing at her tone. "You can't just mess around in people's lives without knowing everything, okay?"

"I don't," he protested. "It's not like you don't like her, or she doesn't like you, we're not forcing anyone together, it's just giving you a little push."

George breathed in deeply. Ollie was too young to have heard the same rumours as her on the circuit. "Ollie, I'm badly claustrophobic," she lied through her teeth. Alex shot her a look, unreadable. "That was awful and stressful for me, okay? I freaked out, and it made things really awkward, because Max didn't know what to do."

"Oh, fuck," Ollie's eyes widened. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry, George, I didn't mean to-"

"Exactly," she cut him off, her vowels snippy and sharp. "You had no idea. You have to stop messing around, before someone gets hurt, or it affects the show! You're lucky that Charles noticed we were gone, really, or it might’ve been worse. We would’ve gotten in serious trouble for your prank."

The younger Brit ducked his head. "Fuck. I'm really sorry." With his head hanging low and face contrite, he looked like nothing more than a dog who had been caught chewing shoes to bits. She deflated at the sight, the fight draining out of her.

"Just… no more shenanigans, okay? Not until the shows are done."

He perked up. "Does that mean post-show is fair game?"

George massaged her temples. "If you can somehow pull it off when we're in different countries over the break, sure."

"Brill," he grinned. "If you haven't gotten your shit together by then, I'm-"

"No more closets," she cut him off.

"That's fine," he said brightly, "Kimi and I will come up with something you'll never see coming."

"How would you like it if I shut you and your Kimi in a closet," George muttered, annoyed.

Ollie's eyes lit up. "Would you? I think-"

He started rambling on about Andrea, and Alex leaned over. "You’re not claustrophobic, I’ve shut you in a suitcase before. What really happened in that closet?" he whispered.

George's hands curled into fists. Inexplicably, she sniffled. “Did you know- I think Max's dad used to lock her in closets?"

Alex's face spasmed, cycling through a series of emotions. "Jesus."

"Yeah." George pressed the heel of her hands into her eyes. An image floated into her mind — Max, still an awkward teen, not yet grown into her smile, but already with astonishing control of her limbs. Max, young and talented and awkward and alone. "Jesus Christ."

She sniffled again. "And she's so good. She’s so funny, and so kind, and she’s so good. She's… she's such a good person, and we could've been friends, if I hadn't been so caught up on everything!"

"She's not exactly the most approachable," Alex pointed out.

George shook her head wildly. "Yeah, but you're all friends with her. I should've- I should've done something, I should've given her a chance, she was so lonely, I didn't- Why did I hate her so much?”

“She said she wished we could've been friends earlier," she said, and burst into tears.

Ollie froze, panicked. "George?"

"It was so awful and I think I might love her and the way she dances and I've wasted so much time when we could've been friends this whole time! We could've-" George choked off. "We could've been friends. We could've danced together."

Alex shot Ollie a look. Without a word, Ollie went. Alex turned back to her, his eyes soft. "Hey. Georgie, hey, it's going to be fine. There's still time."

"When?" Her voice was crackling, thick around the lump in her throat. "I've wasted so much of it, and we're about to graduate, and I don't know what to do, Alex. I really like her."

"It's Christmas. It's the most romantic time of year," Alex said softly. In the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes, correcting him — magical, not romantic. "She likes you. You might as well give it a try."

"But what if it doesn't last," George said, the tears pressing hot against her throat. She couldn't stand it, if it happened, and it didn't work, and she never felt like that again. She couldn't lose it, the way she had felt when they had danced together, the way she still felt whenever she thought about it. She blinked, and she could see the image of Max burned into the back of her eyelids in that space between seconds, her lips tantalisingly close to hers.

Alex shrugged. "But what if it does?"

On opening night, George huddled backstage as Max, Charles and Alex warmed up, costumes pristine and makeup perfect. Max and Charles would open the show, and they would dance alternate nights, and she and Lando would close it. Lando was warming up the kiddos, tweaking their little Christmas party costumes, smoothing their nerves and cracking jokes, doing little tricks and sleight-of-hand for them as they nervously jittered backstage. George stood there, awkward and aloof, watching Alex lead his crowd of young rats in warmup.

The opening bars played, the orchestra sequestered in the pit under the stage. Lewis motioned for places and silence, waving the non-performers out of the way. Somehow, Lando managed to trip over a coil of curtain rope as he weaved through the crowd, almost sending the whole place crashing down. George took the opportunity to wind through the crowd until she was next to Max, in her pearlescent tutu, a mirror of her own. Their hands brushed, and Max turned towards her, half-lit by the stage lights.

"Break a leg," she whispered.

Max turned and grinned at her unabashedly, all teeth. "Thank you."

"You're going to be great."

Her smile turned sharp. "I know."

George watched from the wings as Max and Charles danced onto stage. The stage lights refracted off the rhinestones of her bodice, throwing a sea of stars across the audience. They were so beautiful it almost hurt to watch. George watched as Charles lifted her and tossed her and dipped her low in a fish hold, something aching below her breastbone.

Max smiled at Charles, her eyes warm and sparkling, and George turned to go.

The shows passed by in a flurry of light and tulle and sweat. Alex took her out for dinner after her first night, and they grabbed kebabs afterwards, talking late into the night curled on the couch and soaking their feet. Max and Charles got into a hissed argument backstage about whether the Balanchine or the original Nutcracker was better—one of their odd quirks, given that they were in agreement—and almost missed their cue. George watched every show, hidden backstage, perched at the nooks in the back of the auditorium. She knew Max did the same. But the show was the show — there was no time for anything but the rigmarole of waking up, eating, stretching, getting ready, and dancing.

One night, after their show, Ollie burst into her dressing room, makeup smeared across his face and grinning wide enough to light the city up, and said, "I kissed Kimi!"

"Oh my god, finally!" George yelled, elated. "Wait, why are you telling me?"

"Gabi's still cleaning up," he said, eyes shining, "and a bunch of us are going out after the last show, so I'll tell them then. But I kissed her in the wings, after curtain call, and… it was great," he said, softening into a smile. "It was really great. I think it'll be really great."

"About time, Bearman," she laughed, shoving him lightly. "Good job!"

"I have to go," he said, still beaming, "but I just wanted to let you know. I’m not going to waste my time or my chance, George.”

George looked away from him, something complicated swirling against her spine.

“And also, it's your turn now," he fired off, and disappeared in a whirl of red and white. George stood there, impressed and annoyed, and couldn't help but laugh.

On the night of Max's last show, she showed up early backstage, inexplicably nervous. Max was beautiful—Max was always beautiful, when she moved, when she danced, when she smiled, when she breathed. Lando was already there, giggling inanely at Charles's attempt to walk in a handstand—he kept bending over backwards, his waist flexible enough to touch his feet to the floor.

"Max," George said, and Max turned to look at her, eyes lined show-black, show-bright, and the world slowed for a second. She swallowed, nervously smoothing down the front of her ruffly dress. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Max followed her trustingly. "Of course. What's up?"

"Last show, huh?" she said, trying to smile. Max's eyes were too bright, her lips too plush in the rosy lipstick. "I watched. You were very beautiful."

A slow smile spread across her face, coy and warm. "So were you."

George took a deep breath, and managed to get the words out with some effort: "Are you doing anything after the show tonight?"

Max looked faintly puzzled. "Well, Charles and I will probably go out to dinner, like we always do, and then I will probably go home and rest, and maybe pack."

"No," George said, hands flexing nervously, "I meant- do you want to-"

The door slammed open.

"MAXY!"

5’10 of bearded Australian barrelled through the doors, beaming. "Didja miss me?"

Max inhaled sharply. "Oh my god, Daniel??"

"In the flesh," he crooned, opening his arms wide. Max launched herself into them, hugging him tight, and he picked her up and spun her around. "How have you been?"

"Daniel!" Lando came barrelling down the backstage, tackling Daniel into the floor. "Holy fuck, I didn't think you'd actually come!"

"You know I'd never miss an opportunity to watch either of you dance," he said, grinning. "Gotta see how you've replaced me with Charles, y'know?"

"You of course also have to come tomorrow to see Lando and George dance," Max prattled, "they have managed to become very good, somehow-" she ducked Lando’s attempted shove, "and of course I will be going, so you must come."

"I'm here all week," Daniel grinned, "so whatever you like, Maxy."

George watched the way Max lit up, her eyes coming alight, and felt her heart sink. It didn't matter, then, what she had planned, what she had thought, what Max herself had thought. Daniel Ricciardo lit up the room, swallowed all attention like a collapsed sun. Max wasn’t looking at her, anymore, and all of a sudden she couldn't bear it.

"Okay, well, break a leg," she said mechanically. Humiliatingly, her voice almost cracked. Max's brow creased, a delicate line down the middle.

"George? What-"

She didn't wait for her to say another word. She turned on her heel, fighting with all her might to stay perfect and poised, and left.

At the far end of the corridor, she stared at the bag she had left in the corner, and tasted ash and iron in her mouth.

"George?" Lando skidded around the corner, stopping in front of her. "Are you okay? You left- oh."

She looked at him, and she knew her eyes were red-rimmed, and her lip trembling. "Yeah, I, um." Her words failed her. "Yeah. Oh."

He looked between her, and her bag, and the way she was ducking her head, and his eyes widened. "Oh. Oh, George. Fuck. Um. We can still get Max, there's still time to talk to her, she doesn't care about him that much, really-"

"The show must go on," George muttered under her breath. She sniffled, and scrubbed a hand across her eyes, knowing she was smearing her eyeshadow, too tired to care.

Lando continued as if he hadn't heard her. "Georgie, promise, he's not-"

"I don't care, Lando," she bit out, swallowing something that tasted like tears and pride. "Don’t tell Max, okay? It literally means nothing to me."

On the way out the stage doors, she tipped her bag upside down. The bouquet of roses fell limply to the sidewalk, scattering dark red across the icy snow. George picked it up and shoved it bitterly into the trash.

END ACT 2.