Chapter Text
He was late, as per usual these days, and for a moment he considered changing out of the abysmally ugly uniform but when he chanced a look at the clock hanging in his dorm, he decided that the too-big clothes would have to do for now. He’d rather be uncomfortable for a few hours than have the school call his father and face the consequences. Just a bit more, he promised himself and he’d be out of school anyway.
Believing a boarding school all the way in St. Petersburg would fix everything about Fyodor they didn’t understand, had been foolish. His parents tried to claim that it was for his own good, a chance to further develop his musical talent at a conservatory. He’d have preferred if they’d skipped the lies and attempts at saving face and had simply been honest. He couldn’t stand when people lied for the sake of preserving feelings. Still, as much as he despised it, he understood that on occasion, the necessity to save face arose and in those moments, it might be smart to lie. This, however, had not been one such occasion.
The hallways were identical to Foydor’s prior school, entirely too old but covered in the last traces of attempted modernization. The windows had been replaced, and most of the stucco had been removed by now. It wasn’t ugly per se, Fyodor had never much been interested in aesthetics of any kind, but he couldn’t say that the school was particularly pleasant to be in. He could only hope that the rehearsal room he was scheduled to be in would be more appealing.
Technically, he was meant to be in class, which would have been much preferable to his current destination, but the headmaster had insisted that upon his sudden arrival the subsequent lack of an audition—entirely thanks to his parents’ money, no matter what they claimed—that he should join one of the rehearsals. A chance to gage his ability and, from what he’d been able to gather, possibly earn him a seat in the ballet orchestra.
The strap of his cello bag dug into his shoulder painfully and he adjusted it as he walked, hoping the room would come into sight soon. It was far too early to be doing this much walking as far as he was concerned and he’d much rather be in class right now, if he had to be anywhere, doing something productive. He’d never been a terribly big fan of ballets, hadn’t understood where the appeal in watching people bounce around the stage was, and playing for a rehearsal was frankly the last thing he wanted to do this early in the morning, on his first official day of school. There were approximately a billion things he could think of that sounded appealing, and a ballet class was not one of them. In his nearly 18 years of life, he’d successfully avoided any and all physical activity, now sitting by and watching an entire 90-minute lesson seemed entirely counterintuitive. His only luck was that he was enrolled in the music department, which was about as far from physical movement as it could be.
He rounded a corner found himself face to face with a low, wooden door, a cramped hallway leading toward it, with benches lining the right side in front of the door, water bottles covering it. On the door, there was a sign on it that read 'Rehearsal Room 3, do not disturb while occupied'. Deciding to ignore the warning, he opened the door and watched as several heads snapped toward him. Inside were the headteacher, Mrs. Ivanovna, a dance teacher, three students, and a woman sitting at the piano. Next to her was a chair with a music stand. Mrs. Ivanovna nodded in greeting. He set his cello next to the chair and pulled it out of the bag, getting ready.
"Play the plié first and then the rond de jambe," Mrs. Ivanovna said sternly, foregoing a greeting on account of the already quickly moving time. The three dancers in the room, two girls and one boy, sighed and went to stand in position at the barre. Mrs. Ivanovna must have explained the situation beforehand. He’d expected far more side-eying from everyone involved but received only a curt nod from the dancers and a judging glare from the headmaster for being late.
Fyodor began playing the first song absentmindedly. It wasn't hard, as expected of a warmup, and he'd played it often enough already. His mother had insisted he learn songs commonly used in ballet if he was going to a school for the arts, not to mention the years upon years of she’d spent attempting to instill some level of interest in ballet in him, to no avail. For once, her insistence on bringing up a ‘cultured’ child, seemed to pay off. It gave him the freedom to relax this early in the morning, a few more minutes to find himself and wake up fully.
His eyes swayed from the music stand in front of him to the dancers standing at the barre, doing their warm up’s diligently. The girls moved gracefully, although he saw them stumble occasionally, glancing at one another to catch up on the steps.
The boy, though, seemed tired in a way the girls weren’t. It was striking in the way he’d shake just the smallest amount when moving to relevé, arms a little slower than the melody asked for. He had the usual tight smile on his face that the teachers insisted they all wore but it looked pained, as though it was stamped to his face, taped there with metal screws to keep it from slipping. After every repetition, he'd slack a little bit. Not enough for the teachers to call him out on it, but enough for someone who made it his hobby to study others to notice. The smile wavered further when they moved to bend down to grande plié, his feet shaking and his breath stuttering as he came up again, fourth position bending his feet awkwardly. His shoes were worn out and old, stains covering the bottom of them. He wore a huge scarlet sweater on top of his black shirt, making him look all the paler in the early morning light. His black tights looked old and not very warm. Certainly not warm enough for the cold room. Fyodor wondered absently whether he’d been here long, and the school had simply broken him, or whether he’d come here recently and was still adjusting to the environment like Fyodor was. He was inclined to believe it to be the former.
Finishing the Plié, Fyodor moved on to the rond de jambe, his fingers moving across the strings painfully slowly.
When the teacher announced the exercise all three of the dancers made a face and Fyodor spotted one of the girls turning to glance at the boy, the smile slipping as they shared a look of disgust. Apparently, Rond de Jamb wasn't the favorite. Fyodor didn't understand until they began the exercise. The gruesomely slow tempo made for a heavy strain on all limbs involved, leading the boy to shake even more as he lifted his leg higher than he seemed capable of. The exercise dragged on for what felt like hours, a never-ending spiral of circles and infinite repetitions. Fyodor watched the dancers bend backward then towards the ground as he came to an end of first repetition, then turn at the barre and do it all over again. It looked beautiful but Fyodor couldn't imagine having to will his body into positions that seemed entirely unnatural. He was sure that the dancers were already used to these exercises and could probably do them in their sleep but that didn't stop them from looking pained when the teacher announced that next was Battement dégagé. They sighed and took their place waiting for Fyodor to begin playing. He turned the page quickly to find the correct song and began. The song was familiar and easy to follow. It was over faster than the previous two. After that followed another song, tendu. The dancers seemed to dislike this one less. It was amusing seeing which ones they liked and which ones then seemed to dislike. He found it particularly interesting to find that anything that had a slower tempo, immediately led a barrel of discouraged smiles and solemn nods as the teacher reminded them of the exercise.
Between songs, when the teachers were either talking to each other or the pianist, the dancers stood together, leaning on the single barre, chatting aimlessly amongst themselves. He could only hear bits and pieces of the teachers’ conversation, something about his performances, but he was too pre-occupied to be worried about their verdict. Whatever it was, he’d find a silver lining to it. If they decided he wasn’t good enough to play for the ballet, then he’d be free to go back to the musical department and forget about all this until graduation. If they decided he’d stick around and join the ballet orchestra, well then, he’d have one more thing to put on his CV and his parents would leave him alone. Either way, he wasn’t particularly worried. One more year and he’d be out regardless.
Much like the teachers, the students too, seemed to be entirely caught up in gossiping about him. He couldn’t bring himself to care though. What they thought of him was of no importance, they could think whatever they wanted, it didn’t matter. In the grand scheme of things, they were simply students, nothing more. He’d likely never see them again after graduation, and possibly even here at school, he’d be far away from them. Sure, they were good, but he doubted they were the elite for whom he’d be playing. There was no way that this was all the school had to offer in terms of dance.
They continued chattering quietly until the teacher clapped, "Nikolai,” she called, and the boy snapped to attention, “Irina, Darya, get on with it."
Whatever was coming, it didn’t require the barre anymore, and he watched as the three took ahold of each end of the barre, with the boy pushing in the middle, rolling it to the side to stand under one of the windows.
Fyodor heard the boy, Nikolai, mutter silently, "Can't we just skip center for once?"
Irina and Darya giggled but didn't say anything. The dance teacher glared at Nikolai, and he quickly shut up again and got into position, standing front and center between the two girls as they formed a triangle of sorts. Fyodor was instructed to repeat the last few songs again, the three in the middle re-doing all the exercises they'd just done, with much apprehension. Fyodor had to admit, it was far too early in the morning for this much movement, if anyone would care to ask him. He was, however, impressed that they were able to perform the exercises without the help of the barre, though he'd never say that out loud. If it was up to him, ballet would be entirely removed from schools and kept to theaters, away from early morning lessons.
Center went by quickly and Fyodor couldn't have been happier. The movements were the same as before and it got boring quickly watching them do the same things over and over again. He couldn’t imagine teaching and having to see this day in and day out, nothing ever changing. None of the dancers seemed to enjoy it anyway. Fyodor found that, although he usually found other people's suffering entertaining, this was a very boring kind of suffering that even he had to admit, was frustrating.
His prayers for faster, more lively songs, were as per usual not answered, and instead all he got was a piece that even to him, was entirely too slow. He’d hoped for something that might prove entertaining to watch. He was instructed to play arabesque first, then attitude and then developpe, none of which fulfilled his hopes. The arabesque, as beautiful as it was, it was equally as painful to watch. He didn’t need to dance to know that it was painfully strenuous. The movements, although graceful and elegant, were all the same, one leg held high behind them while they stood on the other doing various arm movements or turning their body entirely. The part that made it painful to watch, though, was Nikolai. His hands trembled and his leg shook slightly. He looked tired and worn out and in no shape to be doing any of these movements.
Frighteningly, he looked beautiful in a way that Fyodor was afraid he might collapse any second now, shattering like a vase pushed off a counter. It was intriguing, watching someone so pretty—there was simply no other way to describe Nikolai other than pretty—be so openly hideous in his ability to exist peacefully, disrupting the alleged gracefulness and romance of the song with his pain and fear of failing. Fyodor found his eyes drawn to him unwillingly, unable to move away from the fragile beauty falling apart in front of him at 8 in the morning, as the sun went up behind them over the roofs of St. Petersburg.
Center dragged on forever and somewhere between adage and arabesque, Fyodor lost track of time, entirely focused on Nikolai, wondering whether he’d be able to hold on or whether he’d crash and fall any second.
When he came to again, playing entirely on instinct, the three had begun performing different steps all of which apparently belonged to the Allegro portion of the class, not that Fyodor had any inclination of what exactly that was meant to be but as long as it was faster, he didn’t care. The only reason he even knew what was going on half the class was that the teacher seemed to assume that her students were dimwits and announced every exercise.
With a start, Fyodor realized, as he watched Nikolai finish a set of petit allegro—the combination drove Fyodor insane and the teacher stepped in numerous times to correct everyone involved—that for the first time since his mother had begun dragging him to ballets, he wasn’t bored. Watching Nikolai, as pained as he looked, move across the room with a level of grace that seemed positively impossible to maintain while shaking, was fascinating in a way Fyodor had never seen before. Something about the porcelain skin and the blood-red sweater made Fyodor waver from the music stand over and over again, entirely focused on the boy dancing in front of him. He decided in that moment, that his earlier inquiry had been ridiculous. There was simply no way that Nikolai had transferred here recently. The familiarity with which he moved through the room, following the teacher’s command as thought it was his own voice telling him what to do, betrayed a deep-seated knowledge of the school and everything and everyone that came with it.
Now that the steps were faster, the teacher began clapping along, walking around them occasionally correcting their movements. Whenever she saw fit, she stopped Fyodor, raising her hand to signal for him and the lady at the piano to stop, so she could explain the steps once more, turning so her back faced them as she demonstrated. Her voice turned sterner by the second and as it did, the shaking disappeared from Nikolai’s body, replaced with a terrifyingly stony determination to do exactly as she said, following her every movement to the centimeter, not a single movement out of place as she barked out commands and repetitions whenever she saw an invisible mistake. It made Fyodor wonder whether this was really a test for him or for the dancers. Perhaps he’d been wrong in assuming he was the only one being tested, that the three students had been picked only because they had a free period in the morning. Perhaps, he should have rather assumed that the three people standing in front of him were here for the same reason he was. A test of skill for whatever the following year had in store for them.
Miss Berberova, the teacher as Fyodor had finally learned her name was, was entirely displeased whenever Nikolai laughed at a mistake or giggled at a correction. She frowned and waved him off, but never scolded him much more than that, creating a strange equilibrium of understanding between the two as she corrected him and he laughed, never to make the mistake again.
Until now, Nikolai had been wholly average. The two girls had seemed to be better at most of the movements but now that they'd gotten faster, he seemed to excel. When they finally got to pirouettes, Nikolai was the best he'd been all class. It was fascinating. His hair whipped after him, falling out of the high bun he’d had it folded in, the braid flowing easily as he turned.
Toward the end of class, he forced himself to pay more mind to the music as it got more complicated, too fast for him to both watch Nikolai and play correctly. It ended with a flourish of repertoire, a short variation run through for all three of them, before the sound of clapping filled the room and Fyodor found himself packing up his things to leave for his next class. “Come tomorrow again,” Miss Berberova told him as the dancers disappeared out of the studio to drink, “Tanya is busy during third and fourth tomorrow and I have the little ones then. I want you here at 9.50 on the dot, do you understand?”
“Of course,” he promised and finished zipping up his cello bag. “In the same studio?”
She hummed and nodded, “I’m always in studio 3. Don’t be late again.”
“I won’t be,” he assured her. She gave him another disapproving look and dismissed him just as the bell rang to signal the beginning of the first break. He sighed tiredly and pulled his bag over his shoulder, passing through the door into the hallway where Irina, Darya, and Nikolai sat on the bench, water bottles in hand as they mumbled quietly. The three looked up as Fyodor passed but none of them said anything, only watching as he disappeared into the quickly filling hallways. Fyodor had expected them to leave in favor of getting changed to get ready for their next class but heard them moments later, returning into the studio, as piano music filled the hallway and practice resumed.
He shook the thought off and beelined up to the third floor to drop off his cello and get his bag, before making his way to his first real class of the day. He’d never liked French much, but for now, he reasoned, he’d be able to suffer through it for another 90 minutes before he’d be free to have lunch and get lost in music class.
As the classroom filled with students, he moved to the back, finding a seat in the corner by the wall where he could see everyone, and made himself comfortable, waiting for the following 90 minutes to pass by quickly. Above him, he heard the familiar sound of allegro dripping through the ceiling, and he wondered how long they’d be practicing today. The teacher arrived and Fyodor dismissed all thoughts of the prior lessons, forcing himself to focus on French instead. There was no point in letting himself drift.