Chapter Text
Steve was at home, working on a design draft for work when he got a text from Natasha. My bike is in the shop. Can you pick me up from rehearsal?
Steve set his stylus down and chewed his lip, looking down at the screen. “Rehearsal” must mean that nonprofit dance company Nat started dancing with last year. She mentioned it once, a passing comment during a game of darts. Steve suddenly felt bad that he didn’t know what was going on in Natasha's life, but then again, if Nat wanted him to know, he would know.
He opened the keypad. Sure. What time? Send me the address.
He set his phone down and reached for his stylus. The deadline for the draft was tomorrow, and while an advertisement for a new clothing shop that seemed to sell only overpriced denim may not seem like the end of the world, Steve’s was the primary income earner, and eating and paying the mortgage was generally important.
After a minute his phone buzzed again, and Steve glanced down to see a text from Natasha with the address lighting up the screen. A community center a half hour's drive away. We're done at 7:30 the message finished. Steve checked the time - he'd need to leave in about an hour. He made himself finish adding texture to the denim-esque icon in the center of the design before tapping out. I’ll be there.
He became so engrossed in his work that the hour was almost up when he stood up to stretch. A familiar but unwelcome rush swept up his body and took over his vision when he stood. A swarming gray like TV static everywhere he looked, Steve grimaced and stood still, waiting for his heart rate to adjust. His own fault for getting up too fast. He’d been having POTS symptoms since he was in his teens, but some things never get easier.
He padded across the living room to a short hallway and tapped gently on the closed door. “Ma?” he said quietly, poking his head around the door. Sarah Rogers was awake, propped up by pillows, doing something idly on a tablet. She glanced over as he came into the room.
“I'm picking up Nat from dance rehearsal across town. Need anything while I'm out?” Steve put his large hand over hers, feeling her veins sticking out through worn skin.
Sarah gave him a wan, tired smile and shook her head. Despite the weariness that tugged at it, her eyes still sparkled with warmth. “Is it leftovers for dinner tonight?”
Steve nodded. “Unless you’d like something particular, but we still have soup. I told Sam not to eat all of it.”
Sarah laughed, and then sighed from the exertion. “Okay, my angel,” she murmured.
Steve placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before leaving. Though it was routine by now, part of him still wasn’t used to seeing his strong, brilliant mother – a longtime nurse and his only parent – frequently bedridden by the disorder that crept along her muscles and bones. She had been talking about going back to taking some shifts just before this most recent flare up put her in bed for the last two weeks.
Rush hour was long over by the time Steve hit the road, and it was dark by the time he parked. Bright lights illuminated the metal letting on the stone exterior that read “Francis Community Center.” Steve felt more than heard the upbeat electronic music pulsing from the other side of the wall.
He whistled as he pushed the door open. The outside didn’t look like much, but he took in the spacious interior with wide eyes. This looked nothing like the worn down one-room community center near home where he used to take weekly modern dance classes. There were three dance studios along the hallway to his left, and benches along the adjacent wall. A sign down the hall indicated an art studio upstairs. To his right was a hallway, the sign above listing “OFFICES, RESTROOMS, GYM/POOL” with accompanying arrows. A corkboard next to his shoulder was bursting with flyers, posters, upcoming programs, and events. He even spotted a few personal artist business cards. Maybe he could tack up his graphic design business card. They could do with some side income.
“Rogers!”
Steve started at the voice and spun around to see Natasha walking up to him. She had a black leotard and leg warmers on, and her hair was in a tight bun, a few loose strands floating around her face. Despite the sweat glistening along her skin, she wasn’t even breathing hard. Behind her, a couple other women in similar attire slipped out the studio door, picking up their water bottles from a line of them next to the door. “We’re actually going another half hour. I’m sorry you have to wait.”
Oh. Steve cringed internally. Sitting and waiting, as easy as it sounded, was exhausting for a number of reasons. Longer than five minutes upright in a chair and his back started twinging in pain. More often than not, his blood pooled into his feet and put him at risk for blacking out when he stood up. Especially when there wasn’t something else claiming his attention and distracting him from the discomfort, it was a lot of effort when every cell in his body screamed at him and begged to do anything else.
“No problem Nat,” Steve offered a small smile. No need to make her feel bad about something outside of her control. He should have brought his sketchbook.
“Thanks.” She gave him a grateful upturn of her mouth before jogging back into the studio. The music had switched to some sort of classical piano. A march or a waltz, something. Music wasn’t Steve’s expertise.
Well, he was here already, so he may as well watch their rehearsal. Steve eased onto the thinly cushioned bench, wincing already as his back started to protest almost instantly. He was going to need to stand up and stretch a couple times before Natasha was done.
Sighing, Steve looked up and observed the rehearsal for the first time since he came in. The windows to the studio were beginning to fog at the edges with sweat. There were about a dozen or so women in the studio, in a variety of solid colored leotards, some with leg warmers or socks, some in tights and some with bare legs. A woman who looked to be in her late thirties, with short blond hair swept up and wearing a high-necked black tank top was clearly the instructor, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror and calling out the occasional direction. The dancers were going in pairs, starting in opposite corners and doing grand jetés en tournant across the floor – Steve recognized the step from a contemporary jazz class he tried once. Too hard on his body, but it was a fun experience, minus needing to nap most of the following day to recover from the fatigue. It wasn’t until the modern dance class for beginning adults he took later that the instructor taught him how to modify for his conditions. Dance became more enjoyable after that. It inspired him to modify all of his workouts, too.
Settling into the bench a little more, Steve’s eyes swept up and down and the dancers whirled past the window, noting the elongated fingers, shoulder blades, leg muscles rippling. His fingers itched for his pens and sketchpad.
And then he stepped into view.
He must have been in Steve’s blind spot in the corner of the room where the window stopped, along one the wall he couldn’t see. But here he was, running into the center opposite Natasha. He was dark haired and lithe, bangs flying wildly as he leaped. He spun and landed, other leg sweeping out behind him, arms outstretched. He looked absolutely beautiful, sweat dripping down his whole body, soaking his white t-shirt which gave way to black tights and matching ballet shoes. He and Natasha crossed, their curved arms almost touching before gracefully running towards opposite corners.
Wow. Steve swallowed. His mouth was suddenly very dry. He had to be the most beautiful person Steve had ever seen in his life. He blinked, and realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it, coughed and glanced around even though the rest of the hallway was empty.
Now on the opposite side of the room, Steve watched as the dark-haired dancer pushed his sweaty bangs back and stretched absentmindedly as he watched the others. His jaw was strong, graced with the barest hint of a shadow. His eyes were an ambiguous blue-green, and his dark brows were drawn together, thinking, as the instructor called out a direction. He did some tiny hops, shuffling forward as the line of girls moved forward, his turn coming up again.
Steve watched him cross the floor two more times, utterly enthralled. When Dark Hair leapt and turned, his eyebrows were raised slightly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his parted lips. His damp bangs were flung into his eyes every time his head whipped around at the end of the jump, but they couldn’t hide the expression of bliss and longing in his eyes and he looked past his fingertips. As if this wasn’t a rehearsal under fluorescent lights, but a performance on a grand stage to an audience held spellbound.
Abruptly, the music stopped and changed again. “Line up everyone. Let’s finish with lifts,” Steve heard the blonde instructor say. Some of the dancers let out a cheer, and Dark Hair laughed and smiled good naturedly, glancing at the ground and then back up-
Right at Steve. Sharp, clear eyes met his own wide and awestruck ones. A flush swept over Steve’s face and he jerked his gaze away, far too sudden to achieve its purpose. He studied the mottled grey of the ceiling for what felt like twenty years before daring to look back. He could feel the laughs and pitying looks already.
But despite what the anxiety and embarrassment said, no one was looking at him. In fact, Dark Hair was standing in the center, entirely focused on lifting each of the dancers as they ran up and did a grand jeté. It was fluid, the motion as he wrapped his hands around their ribcage and lifted them, nearly above his head, before lowering them with equal control and grace. Steve couldn’t stop staring at the back muscles straining under the sweat-soaked shirt that clung to his skin. Dark Hair was facing away from him, and Steve flushed again as his eyes drifted down briefly to the curve of black tights.
He had a sudden urge to have that man’s hands around his waist. Steve didn’t know half the steps they were doing, but what if he did? Or what if Steve’s hands were on the other man’s waist, lifting his slender figure into the air? Steve felt his breath catch in his throat. Whatever pain his back was in from sitting here for thirty minutes was worth it. He’s pretty sure he’s never going to forget this absolutely beautiful stranger.
All of a sudden, the door opened and a rush of bodies, dampness, and the smell of sweat, cotton, and spandex streamed out into the hallway. The dancers picked up their water bottles, taking sips in between pants as they headed to the dressing rooms. Steve scrambled to his feet, cursing mentally as his face went cold. He staggered, put his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths until he felt his heart rate adjust.
Dark Hair was leaving the studio, an easy smile on his face despite looking thoroughly spent. Steve saw him approach the door and started to panic, his heart rate picking back up. There was no way he could just stand there casually while the most stunning person he’d ever seen walked by, dripping sweat and wearing nothing but a thin damp t-shirt and tights -
“Hey.” It was Natasha walking towards him, bag slung over her shoulder and zipping up a hoodie.
Steve all but grabbed her wrist and dragged her out the door. “Hey, we gotta go.” He walked so fast across the parking lot it was practically a jog.
“What’s the rush, Rogers?” Natasha crinkled her brow at him, but got into the car after Steve unlocked the door, fumbling with his keys, breath erratic. “Do you need your inhaler?”
Steve sunk into his seat, starting the engine and shifting into gear like a getaway driver. “I’m good Nat.”
“You’re being weird.” She took a sip of water, making a choked off sound as Steve pulled a sharp turn into the street. “Jerk, you made me spill. What’s wrong with you?”
“I…ah.” Flashes of dark bangs plastered to a damp forehead and lean thigh muscles ended that sentence before Steve could even start it. He could feel the cold stare of Natasha’s eyes on him, and he stubbornly kept his eyes on the road. “Just didn’t want to get in the way of everyone packing up.”
Nat took a loud sip of her water, which translated out to: You’re full of shit but I’m going to drop it for now.
When they pulled up in front of Natasha’s apartment complex, Steve cleared his throat. “How many days a week do you rehearse?” He kept his eyes on the dashboard.
“Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays.”
Today was Monday. Five different sirens started screaming in Steve’s head, but he just nodded to Natasha and said goodnight.
• • • ♕ • • •
Sam was lying on the couch, one of his enormous psych textbooks propped up in both hands and his reading glasses perched on his nose when Steve walked in. He mumbled something that sounded like a cross between “Hey” and “Hmph,” which Steve returned in kind without even thinking about it. Sam had been renting out a room with the Rogers’ for long enough they were long past formal greetings. Besides, he and Sam had known each other since high school. They even dated briefly while they were in college – if you could call one-and-a-half stilted dates and two self-conscious kisses that were equal parts too wet and too dry “dating” – before deciding they were best as friends.
“How was your day?” Steve asked, making a beeline for the fridge. If he was lucky, there was still some soup left.
“Internship. Good. Long.” Sam replied around the highlighter pen held between his teeth, because they were long past complete sentences too.
“Mom eat?” Looks like she did. The soup container was nowhere to be found. That meant Sam ate when he came home too, which was good.
“Yep. Came out and sat on the couch for an hour too.” Steve raised his eyebrows at that and glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who mirrored his expression. Maybe she was on the upswing out of the flare up.
“Did you get enough to eat?” Steve folded deli meat into a slice of bread and inhaled it in two bites.
Sam looked at him over his reading glasses, giving him a little squint. “What am I gonna say to that?”
Steve scoffed and turned around, reaching for another piece of bread.
“Worry about yourself, Rogers.” Sam droned on from behind him.
“I’m not the one in grad school, Sam.” God, they were like an old married couple, the amount of times this conversation had happened in the last year and a half.
“Fuck off,” came the ritual reply. Steve smiled.
It wasn’t until Steve was on the verge of sleep that his thoughts wandered back to the rehearsal, replaying every twist and curve of Dark Hair’s movements across the studio floor. Even with his lithe form, Steve had stared most at his face, the damp hair and bright eyes and jawline his fingertips ached to touch. His face heated up as he thought about the split second they made eye contact. Fuck. The most beautiful person Steve had ever seen, and he was never going to cross paths with him again.
Unless. Steve felt his stomach twist. Natasha had said they met Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays.
Oh, what the hell.
On a surge of adrenaline, he reached for his phone. His eyes squinted almost shut when the backlight assaulted his eyes. He tapped out a message to Natasha before putting his phone on silent and rolling back over:
need a ride again tomorrow? :)
