Chapter Text
Simon
Baz leaves the stage to massive applause (some people might even be on their feet). He's smiling and waving, looking picture-perfect despite the sweat and heaving shoulders.
One of the aids hands him a water bottle, and he smiles at her gratefully before downing it. She takes the empty bottle back without being asked, and another aid gives him a towel, which he uses to start mopping up his sweat. His cheeks are flushed, and pieces of his black hair are coming undone from their neat bun, framing his face.
I don't know how he does it. Whenever I get off stage after a performance my costume is soaked and my face is completely red. My curls are a sweaty disaster and my smile is too big to hide my nerves. It isn't a good look (I've seen the footage). Baz, on the other hand, looks just as beautiful as he always does.
It isn't fair.
There's always a commercial break while contestants catch their breath before they get their scores from the judges. Once the time is up Baz is going to go meet them and get his perfect thirty firmly cementing his lead in the current ranking. He's first, and I'm dead last (figures).
After Baz gets his perfect score, it's my turn, so I'm waiting off in the wings until they give me the signal. Baz is still smiling (probably because he knows just as well as I do that he's getting that thirty) until he sees me. His smile drops and he's giving me his patented bored expression. The same expression he's been cultivating since we were kids.
"Snow," he greets me cooly.
Suddenly there's a camera recording us. Internally I sigh.
I had hoped that this would be over now that we're out of training. I hoped our audience would be tired of this drama and focused instead on the competition. But no apparently people are just as invested in Baz and I's relationship as ever. It is one of the highest drawing factors this season if the producers are to be believed.
A part of me thinks that had I known this was going to happen, I wouldn't have tried out for this show at all. If I knew that Baz would be here and not only that but that I would have to pretend I dated him while we were in school and broke up with him our last year, I wouldn't have bothered. Sure the winner gets a full-ride scholarship to Juilliard and ten thousand dollars on top of that (not to mention all the contacts I'll be gathering the further I get), but even all of that shouldn't be worth the trouble of living with Baz again.
We spent our entire schooling rooming together at Watford from age eleven to eighteen, and I hoped that I would never have to see him again after we graduated. Of course, the universe isn't that kind.
I auditioned for this show, got in by some miracle, making me the happiest I'd been since I'd been accepted to Watford, and all that came crashing down when they assigned me my roommate and Baz Pitch was standing there sneering at me.
At least this time, we're not sharing a room, just a suite, but it is still awful. It is just like back in Watford constant petty arguments over nothing and passive-aggressive feedback. We don't physically come to blows anymore, but it's always a close thing.
After a few weeks of this, the higher-ups brought us in to discuss it. I was a nervous wreck I thought I was about to be kicked off the show (before we got to perform even), but it turns out once we explained that yes we knew each other from school, and yes we never got along, they instead came up with a way to make it work for them as they put it.
I thought that they'd just turn it into a school rivalry (which would be accurate), but no instead, they turned us into bitter exs.
I don't know where they got that from honestly. I thought the truth was much better, but ratings were ratings, and Baz had agreed, and I never back down from his challenges, so I agreed too.
I've not come this far to lose to Baz again.
I'm not even sure what he's doing here, to be honest. It isn't like he needs the money (his family is loaded). Hell his mother was a teacher at Watford, a legendary dancer in her own right. He doesn't need to be here. He could get into Juilliard easily, just like he got into Watford. By the power of his last name alone.
I actually need to be here. I was lucky enough to get into Watford on a scholarship. I couldn't have afforded it otherwise orphan that I am. Just like I can't afford to go to Juilliard without this scholarship. Sure the money would be nice too, but it's the scholarship I'm here for (and the contacts), I want to be a dancer. It's all I've ever wanted to be, and I refuse to let Baz take that away from me.
The camera is still in our faces waiting to catch this latest spat. I cross my arms. "Baz," I say in the same cold tone (or at least that's what I'm going for), "How's your foot?"
Baz sneers. "It's fine." I know it's a low blow. The damage to his foot almost lost him his place in the show, but I can't resist. He looks too smug. I need to remind him he's just as human as the rest of us. "How's your floor work?"
"It's fine," I bite out.
"We'll see, won't we?" he says dismissively. Like he already knows, I'll fail.
I don't know what to say to that, so I default to glaring.
Baz smirks again then turns on a neat heel. "I'm going to get my score, Snow. Try not to stumble this time."
"You try not to stumble!" I yell back. Lame so lame.
Lame enough that Baz doesn't even bother to respond. I'm treated to a view of his back. I give it a glare for good measure (maybe my eyes can burn him) before turning around. The camera is still there capturing everything, and the cameraman gives me a thumbs up.
I hate reality TV.
Baz
My legs are wrapped around Snow's waist, one of his arms around me, his left hand holding my knee. I got one hand behind his head and the other gripping his shoulder. My right side is pressed against his heaving chest, and I can feel the slight shake of his thigh from where my foot is curled around it.
It's a precarious position, and we haven't even started spinning yet.
"Don't drop me," I warn him.
"I'm not going to drop you," he growls back. "I haven't dropped you yet."
"Yet being the integral word here," I drawl.
Snow huffs instead of answering.
There's a camera to my right (close enough to be difficult to maneuver around even if Snow wasn't holding me aloft) and our choreographer Vincent standing to my left watching us for mistakes.
"Baz loosen your grip on Simon's shoulder," Vincent instructs.
"If I do that, he'll drop me," I argue.
"I'm not going to drop you," Snow says again.
"You need to trust him," Vincent says and approaches us. He taps my hand on Simon's shoulder. "You'll need a looser grip so he can transition into a side hold."
"When we spin, I'll loosen it," I say.
Vincent doesn't look impressed. "Trust that Simon can take your weight."
The cameraman had followed Vincent and now comes even closer. The lens is practically in my face, eager to capture every second of our trust moment.
I hate reality TV.
I had a chance to win this thing before they paired me up with Snow. Partner dancing is worth more than the individual and choreography categories put together. Meaning if Snow and I score low, it will severely cripple my overall score even if I manage to ace both the individual and choreography categories.
It is possible I can keep my first place ranking, but I'll need perfect scores for both individual and choreography even to have a slim chance, and a better partner pair can easily beat it.
Agatha and Vincent, for example, are already amazing, and they only met a month ago. Snow and I literally grew up together; we know each other's style exceptionally well, but that doesn't matter because all we do is fight.
I should have seen this coming. The judges told us that they'd pair us off according to chemistry and strengths, but that's bullshit. Obviously, teams were chosen by the producers whose only goal is high ratings, which means drama.
Which means Snow and I are pretending to be bitter exs forced to pair up together. Oh, the audience will love this.
I knew going in that this competition would be tough. We're responsible for three routines per week, an individual routine that we choreograph ourselves, a partner routine that we choreograph to teach to another team, and an additional partner routine choreographed by another contestant. I knew it was going to ask a lot of me, and I was willing to put in that work, but I never signed up for being partnered with my childhood crush who hates me.
It's cruel, really. Being this close to him and knowing he hates every minute of it.
Vincent is still looking at me, imploringly. "Fine," I say and loosen my grip. I immediately feel less supported, but if I fall at least I'll have proved my point.
"Good," Vincent says. "Simon bend your left knee and tilt Baz backward, then let go of his right leg and swing into a right side hold. Baz once he lets go of your right leg, drop your left, and kick out with your right as he swings you. Got that?"
Snow and I nod.
"Good, let's see it then."
Snow swallows and bends his left knee, but instead of slightly tipping me back, he overshoots it, and we both go down in a tangle of limbs.
I get the breath knocked out of me, and Snow bumps his head harshly against my shoulder.
"Get off me," I say, shoving him.
"I'm trying," Snow bites back as he violently attempts to untangle us.
From my place on the floor, I turn and give Vincent my best condensing stare. Vincent sighs in response. "You guys okay?" he calls.
"I just got dropped and then tackled," I drawl. "So, no."
Snow finally manages to free himself, and he gets to his feet without offering me a hand up—this time, I give the camera a look.
He crosses his arms. "You leaned back," he accuses.
"I'm supposed to do that, you numpty," I say, sitting up.
"Not that far back," he says.
"You just need a tighter hold," I say. "I could feel you shaking."
Snow's ears turn red. "I wasn't shaking!"
"Yes, you were," I say and stand up.
Vincent clears his throat pointedly. Snow and I both look at him. "I hadn't choreographed this routine with you two in mind," he says and rubs his forehead. "If I had, I would have made it much shorter."
"Well, we weren't expecting it either," I say bitterly. "Take it up with the producers."
Vincent sighs again (he has been doing that a lot). "From the top then." He waves a hand.
Simon
I do feel a little bad about dropping Baz, but he was leaning too far back, so it is his fault too. Now we have to take it from the top again, and I can see Vincent losing patience with us.
Baz and I take our starting positions on opposite sides of the room and walk towards each other, Vincent counting us.
Once Baz is close enough, I reach out my hand and spin him into my arms. My left hand is on his back along the bottom of his ribcage. My right hand is holding his left. Baz has his free hand on my shoulder, and I lead him in a tight turn, then use my hold on his hand to twirl him away from me and then spin him back until he's in my arms again. Baz wraps his left leg around my bent knee and leans back into my hands, his right arm extended. I give it a beat, then yank him back into closed position and into a double reverse spin. He follows my lead and extends his left foot out as we glide across the floor. I pull us back to the middle then use my hold on him to transition us into sidestep, our heads facing the same way and our knees bent forward. From there, we mirror each step and kick up our feet, interlocking our legs on the downbeat, then spinning back around until we're facing each other again.
I twirl Baz away from me, and he spins twice before facing me again and walking towards me. I meet him halfway, grab his hand back, spin him towards me and catch him when he throws his legs around me, our momentum enough for me to spin around four times.
Baz's legs are wrapped around my waist, one of my arms around him, my left hand holding his knee. One of his hands is behind my head the other gripping my shoulder. He's pressed close against me. His foot curled around my thigh as we spin.
It's strange. We've never been this close. Of course, I've never done lifts with another man before, let alone Baz, and we rarely had a routine together back in school. I've never been this close to him. Never felt his breath against my neck or his hands in my hair. There's something about it that's making my heart race and my chest feel tight. Maybe because Baz is taller than my typical partner and heavier and so it is more challenging to lead him?
That's probably it.
Baz's hand loosens on my shoulder, and I tighten my grip, drop my knee, and tilt him back. This time he stays in my arms as I swing him again. I let go of his leg, and Baz uses our momentum to spin away. He reaches out a hand towards me, which I use to pull him back into a low dip.
"Much better this time," Vincent says, but I'm barely paying attention. My focus is on the recent discovery that Baz has green in his eyes and that his face seems less guarded right now, almost soft.
It's there and gone quickly enough that I think I imagined it. Baz is anything but soft.
"Yes," Baz agrees. "Snow didn't drop me this time."
I glare at him. He gives me a smug smirk.
So I drop him (on purpose this time).