Chapter Text
Alex has a very long list of things he needs to worry about today. He needs to worry about being on time to his first dance class of the year. He needs to worry about impressing his new teacher, who he’s heard is somehow even stricter than his old one. He needs to worry about making sure his dad never, ever finds out that he was even at the studio at all.
He didn’t think he’d have to worry about getting run over by a skateboard.
He’s almost to the door of the building when someone slams into him, sending him falling to the ground. Whoever it is collapses next to him.
“Aw, man, you dinged my board,” the person groans.
Alex climbs to his feet. “I dinged your board? Dude, you ran me over, you’re lucky I didn’t—“
The skater stands, long dark hair falling around sharp cheekbones and concerned brown eyes, and Alex’s brain shuts off.
Pretty, his mind supplies, unhelpfully. Then it adds, Ow.
Alex looks down to the source of his pain and almost passes out. He’s scraped his knee, but that’s not what catches his attention. His focus goes right to the massive hole in his tights surrounding the scrape, right where the delicate fabric emerges from under his shorts.
The skater follows Alex’s eyes to the tear and cringes sympathetically. “I’m sorry, man. My hair flew into my eyes and I couldn’t see you. I’ve got some bandaids if you want one.”
Alex knows he should say that it’s very kind of him to offer, and that he’s not really worried about the scrape so much as his ruined tights, but his brain has gone into overdrive because none of this was on his list of things to worry about today, and yet this one little incident has ruined everything. He’s going to be late, and his teacher will hate him for it, and then he’ll see the giant hole in his tights and he’ll get called out for violating dress code. He can’t even buy a new pair from the little shop inside the studio because he spent the last of his busking cash on a desperately needed new pair of drumsticks, and he can’t use his credit card because his parents would see the charge and then he would be fucked.
So he knows he should say thank you and accept the bandaid, but all he can manage is a rough, “Whatever,” before pushing past the skater to go inside and find Carrie.
He hears the skater scoff behind him. “Okay, asshole.”
Alex ignores him and manages to stop Carrie right before she enters studio A, pulling her away from the door. “Do you have any tights I can borrow?”
Carrie rolls her eyes. “You’re, like, half a foot taller than me.”
“Okay, then can I borrow some money to get new ones? I’ll pay you back.” They both know he won’t, but he offers every time anyways. Carrie’s dad, Trevor, is the one who pays for Alex’s lessons and everything he needs for them, and the one time Alex genuinely tried paying him back Trevor responded as if he’d suggested murder.
“Dad took my credit card away after I got caught at that party,” Carrie says. “Just ask him to buy you more after class. We’re going to be late anyways.”
“No, Care, I—“ He he doesn’t get to finish, because she pushes him through the door. There’s a small step up into the studio, and his foot catches on the ledge, sending him stumbling straight into his new instructor.
Alex scrambles back. “I’m so sorry, sir.” He’s heard of Caleb Covington before. He’s one of the most accomplished ballet instructors in LA history. And one of the most terrifying.
The man looks Alex over with shrewd blue eyes. “What’s your name?”
Alex swallows hard, trying to suppress the rising tide of anxiety in his throat. “Alexander, sir.”
“Are you aware of the dress code, Alexander?”
“Yes, sir, but you see, I got knocked over outside—“
“Next time, don’t step into my studio without proper tights,” Caleb snaps. “And don’t be late again, either.”
Alex bites back his anger as best he can. “Yes, sir,” he grits out.
Caleb, satisfied, and moves to the front of the room. Alex drops his duffel bag by the door and takes off his shorts. As he does so, someone jostles his shoulder, rather aggressively, and Alex looks up in time to see the skater from earlier push past him, his long hair now in a tightly-wrapped bun.
Of fucking course he has to be in this class, Alex thinks. Not like today could get any worse.
Alex takes him in and notices that he’s wearing a leotard and nude tights instead of a white t-shirt and black tights—the female uniform, not the male one—and a key around his neck, which is just a blatant violation of the dress code. Loose jewelry can lead to injuries, and Alex can perfectly imagine that thing whipping around and smacking someone. Alex looks to Caleb, waiting for him to call him out for it, or for being even later than Alex, but Caleb just nods at the skater and calls the class to attention, sparking a tiny flame of rage in Alex’s gut.
“Welcome,” Caleb says. “I’m your new instructor, Caleb Covington. I’m sure some of you may have heard of me, but I just transferred studios from Hollywood Dance Academy with my child, William.”
He gestures to the skater, and Alex’s heart plummets. Of course he had to go and piss off not only his new instructor, but his instructor’s kid as well. All the eyes in the class turn to William, and for a moment he seems to shrink away from the attention, but then he catches Alex’s eyes and raises his chin proudly. It feels like a challenge, and Alex hates him just a little bit more.
“I’ve been told you’re all exceptional dancers,” Caleb continues, “which is why I expect the best from you. For our recital this year, we’ll be performing The Sleeping Beauty.”
A murmur of surprise and excitement sweeps through the room. The Sleeping Beauty is one of the most challenging ballets, right up there with Swan Lake. Prince Désiré is a coveted role, and Alex decides right then and there that there’s nothing he wants more.
“Yes, I know this dance is a challenge even for professionals,” Caleb says, “but I have faith that you all will exhibit the hard work and dedication necessary to pull it off. This week we’ll start by learning audition routines, and in two weeks I will select our leads.”
Carrie leans over to Alex and whispers, “That role is so yours.”
Alex grins at her, but he can’t help but feel the anxiety clawing at the back of his head. He’s the best dancer in the class besides Carrie—not something he brags about, just a fact, but a fact that he’s proud of—but if William is Caleb’s son he’s probably been dancing his whole life. Alex only started four years ago, and now he’s on both the Covingtons’ bad sides, so of course Caleb will choose his son over him.
“Line up at the barre for warmups, please,” Caleb orders.
Alex and Carrie head to their usual spot on the barre, with Carrie behind him. Their class is pretty small, so there’s usually no one in front of him. Unfortunately, this leaves room for the newest addition to the class.
“Nice tights,” Alex snarks as William slides into the spot in front of him. “What, your daddy’s the instructor so dress code doesn’t apply to you?” He’s aware he’s being a dick, but he’s having a really bad day and this kid seems to dislike him just as much so what’s the harm in taking out some of his stress?
“At least mine don’t have holes in them,” William shoots back, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Caleb starts leading the warm up and Alex notes with frustration that talking to him isn’t even remotely distracting William from his perfect form.
“And whose fault is that?” Alex says. “Maybe you should take that key off before you injure someone else.”
This seems to strike a chord. William whips his head around and snaps, “Maybe you should mind your own business.”
“William,” Caleb calls. “Alexander. You both know better than to speak in class.”
William shoots Alex a final glare before turning back around.
They don’t speak to each other for the rest of class, but every time their eyes meet, William’s glare gets a little colder.
After an excruciating three hours, class finally ends and Alex throws his shorts on before following Carrie out to where her dad’s car is waiting by the curb. Carrie gets in and rolls down the window so Alex can lean in and talk.
“Hey, Uncle Trev,” Alex says.
Trevor pulls down his sunglasses to get a better look at him. “Hey kiddo, how was class?”
Alex shrugs. “Could have been better. Hey, um, I kind of ripped my tights...”
Trevor waves his hand. “Say no more. Thirty bucks enough?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect.”
Trevor pulls out his wallet and hands over two twenties. “Keep the extra. Need a ride home?”
“Nah, I’m gonna walk to the studio and change before I head home.”
Trevor nods. He knows the reason Alex can’t go home in his uniform, and he never pushes him about it, something Alex is endlessly grateful for.
“See you later for dinner, then?” Trevor asks.
“Yeah. Thanks, Trev.”
Trevor and Carrie wave as they drive away, and a part of Alex wishes he could drive away with them. At this point, he considers the Wilsons and the Molinas to be more his family than his actual parents.
He heads into the tiny store in the back of the studio, greeting the cashier as he enters. He grabs a pack of tights, throws it on the counter, and slides the cash over.
As he waits for the cashier to ring him up, he glances around the store, freezing when he hears voices out in the lobby.
“Dad, please—“
“My mind is made up, William.”
The cashier hands Alex his change, and Alex takes the tights before slinking over to the store entrance, peeking out into the lobby.
William has changed out of his uniform into ripped up shorts and a tie-dye crop top, sort of the opposite of what Alex would expect a Covington to wear outside the studio. Caleb looms over him, still in his uniform.
“You can’t keep doing this,” William insists. “It’s not fair—“
“Everyone will get their equal chance,” Caleb says, sounding like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“You know that’s not true. I don’t want to—“
“I have to get ready for my next class. We can discuss this at home.”
Caleb strides into Studio B, slamming the door shut behind him. William lets out a frustrated groan and drops into a chair.
“What’s the matter, William?” Alex says, stepping into the lobby. “Your daddy won’t just give you the lead?”
“It’s Willie,” he snaps, with much more force than necessary, in Alex’s opinion. “And I was asking him not to give me the lead, asshole.”
This, admittedly, surprises Alex. That’s actually a really cool thing of him to do, and Alex is about to apologize when Willie continues, “I wanted everyone to have a fair chance, but since you’re being such a dick, maybe I will put myself up for it.”
Alex snaps his mouth shut, narrowing his eyes. “Alright. Fine. May the best man win.”
Willie winces. “Fuck off.” He grabs his bag and skateboard and storms out the door.
Now it’s Alex’s turn to groan and sink into a chair. What has he gotten himself into?