Work Text:
At 7:58 am, the ninth studio, even with the blinds drawn, is flooded with the early morning sun. In conjunction with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the golden light is so beautiful it borders on surreal.
“He’s an early riser, huh?” Yasha says, craning her neck to peer through the glass panel of the door. She probably thinks she's being subtle. She isn't.
Beauregard grimaces from where she's tiptoeing to watch over Yasha's shoulder. “This is nothing. Our classes in Rosohna would start at 5:30 am. Fucking nightmare. Who's even a person that early in the morning?”
“Oh, he's so pretty. No one should have leg extensions like that,” Jester sighs, clearly so lost in admiration that she isn’t even listening to a word Beauregard and Yasha are saying. “Cay-leb, I’m so jealous that you get to dance with him.”
“I can't go in there,” Caleb says from the other end of the hallway. Just the thought of entering the studio is making his hands clammy. “Gods, Yasha, I regret everything.”
“No, you don't,” she says, amused.
“Right now, I do.” He wipes his palms surreptitiously on his sweatpants. Shit, this was such a terrible decision.
“I'm going in there to say hi,” Jester decides, and darts into the studio before any of them can say anything.
“Come on, just look at him,” Beauregard says, dragging Caleb over to the door. Against his better judgment, he peeks inside. Jester's already introduced herself to their newest guest, who bows low, hand over his heart. Gods, Caleb's gone weak at the knees.
Beauregard cuffs him on the arm, grinning. “Fuck, you've got it real bad.”
“How will I ever survive this, Beauregard,” Caleb whispers.
“You've never even spoken to him. Calm down.”
“I take it back. I can’t do this. Someone tell Master Yussa—”
“You earned this role, man. Be cool,” Beau admonishes. “Yeah, he's a fantastic dancer and yes, fine, he's a real hot boy and all that, but he's just a regular guy. Bit on the snobby side, but he’s alright. Well. Okay, he's kind of a big deal in the Dynasty, super rich political family, youngest first soloist the Rosohna Ballet's ever had—”
“Not helping, babe,” Yasha says gently as Caleb buries his face in his hands. She pats him on the shoulder. “You'll be fine, Caleb. You're not even a string bean anymore.”
“Yeah,” Beau says, grinning. “You're a big boy now, in your first big boy role! Get in there and make us proud.”
Without preamble, she shoves Caleb into the studio—he takes three steps and promptly trips over his own feet, falling flat on his face.
Ah, yes. He is a professional dancer, the personification of grace and poise, and this is exactly how he wants to meet his new pas de deux partner.
Caleb glances up, utterly mortified, to see Essek of den Thelyss staring down at him in haughty bemusement. To his unending dismay, the finely curved eyebrows raise in almost imperceptible surprise, violet eyes lighting up in recognition.
Shit, damn, and fuck everything.
“Ah, hallo,” Caleb manages. His face is so hot his ears may as well be on fire.
Thelyss’s lips quirk into a disdainful smirk. “As much as I enjoy the way you look at me from down there, we really do have to stop meeting like this.”
He has a lilting accent, his consonants slightly clipped just like his brother’s. He reaches for Caleb with both hands and helps him to his feet. His skin is so soft. Gods, he's even more handsome up close. Caleb's brain has completely forgotten how to make words.
Jester’s mouth falls open in a perfect O. “You've met before?”
“After a fashion,” Caleb mumbles.
“What do you mean, from down there?” she says, voice rising in pitch with every word.
Every second that passes only increases Caleb’s desire to crawl into a hole and die. “It—it’s not what it sounds like—”
“Hey, Essek,” Beauregard interrupts, to Caleb’s immense relief. “Remember me?”
“Believe me when I say I have tried very hard to forget.” Thelyss’s eyes have softened despite the sarcasm in his voice. “I see you are the same as always.”
“Did you miss me?”
When Beauregard slings an arm over his shoulders, he allows it, despite the irritated roll of his eyes. Caleb's distinctly aggrieved that even that is attractive. How unfair.
“What is that saying again? Any, ah.” He says something in a language Caleb doesn't understand, his voice dropping into something low and musical.
“‘Any port in a storm?’” Beauregard gasps dramatically, one hand clutching at her heart. “You wound me, Thelyss.”
“It is what it is. But enough of that now, Beauregard. Perhaps at the moment, some introductions would be in order,” he says pointedly.
“Right, right.” Beauregard clears her throat. “Essek de'den Thelyss, this is Caleb Widogast, second soloist of the Rexxentrum Ballet, your new partner for the Marquetian dance.”
“So formal,” Caleb murmurs.
“When in Rosohna,” she says breezily, shrugging. “Caleb, this is Essek of den Thelyss, first soloist of the Rosohna Ballet, guest artist for the Winter's Crest performance.”
“A pleasure.”
Caleb tries not to stutter. “The pleasure is mine.”
“And you've met Jester,” Beauregard adds.
“Yep! We're best friends now.” Jester beams and takes Thelyss’s arm. He seems as surprised as Caleb that he permits it to happen at all.
“And that's Yasha,” Beauregard says, motioning toward the door—Yasha waves shyly from outside. Thelyss bows again, palm over his chest. He's so… so elegant. Next to him, Caleb is a boorish oaf.
“Anyway, we'll leave you guys to get acquainted,” Beauregard says, tugging Jester away from Thelyss despite her loud objections.
“Wait, where are you going?” Caleb protests. He fervently hopes he doesn't sound as pathetic as he feels.
“We're going to grab breakfast like normal people do at 8 am,” she says. Thelyss presses his lips together, as though trying not to smile. “You can come join us when you're done. If there's still anything left after Essek's done with you.”
“Beauregard,” Thelyss says, and whatever he says after that sounds an awful lot like a long string of curses in his language. She sticks her tongue out at him.
“Have fun!” Jester yells before the door slams shut behind them, leaving Caleb alone with Thelyss.
This is bordering on unbearable. Caleb has to make an active effort not to scratch his forearms.
“I... I'm sorry if I was late,” he says. He shifts his duffel over his shoulder, acutely aware of how shabby it must look next to Thelyss’s designer sports bag. “I hope you haven't been waiting too long.”
“Beauregard may have told you I am accustomed to starting the day early.”
“She did. You'll have to excuse us for the difference in schedules here in Rexxentrum.”
“Think nothing of it. I've just finished, in any case,” Thelyss says. He's still in his ballet shoes: dark canvas, split sole, two elastic straps crossed over the foot. “Take your time. I need to break in my new pointes anyway.”
“Ja, okay.” Caleb ducks his head, mortified at the thought of this immensely skilled dancer watching him do his barre exercises. “I will try not to take too long, Herr Thelyss.”
“Just Essek, please. I am not your teacher,” he says, lips turning up in quiet amusement. “And do not rush on my account. The last thing you want is to injure yourself.” He gestures to the sound system, and Caleb catches sight of a sleek black phone already hooked up to the speakers. “I can, ah. I can play the music for you? If you like.”
He sounds uncertain for the first time, the proud chin dipping a little, though he's still holding Caleb's gaze.
Oh. Talented he may be, but first soloist or not, he must be feeling terribly out of place here.
“It is alright if you would prefer not to use mine,” Essek adds. “I understand you might be more comfortable with your own—”
“No, please,” Caleb interrupts, “if you are offering, I would appreciate it.”
The hint of a smile flickers on Essek’s lips before he turns away. “Whenever you are ready, then.”
Caleb hurries to stuff his bag into a cubbyhole far away from Essek’s, tugging on his ballet shoes and tying his hair into a haphazard ponytail. Master Yussa won’t be at the studio for a while, in any case, and given the way Essek doesn’t seem to abide by Rosohna Ballet protocols where braids are concerned, he probably won’t care about Caleb’s hair.
There is already a barre at the center of the room. Caleb takes a few moments to warm up his feet and his calves, inspecting himself in the mirror as surreptitiously as he can. He’s dressed in his best sweatpants and a long-sleeved henley, but somehow, he’s still a far cry from how put together Essek is. Somehow, despite being curled up on the floor in nothing but a nondescript baggy sweater and matching black leggings, Essek manages the sort of effortless chic that Caleb could never hope to achieve.
Gods, he’s staring again. Stay on task, Widogast.
“Ready?”
“Ja,” Caleb says, breathless already.
It’s easier when the music starts. He settles into the familiarity of muscle memory. Dancing always sends his mind to a quiet place, soothing the frenetic buzz of anxiety humming just beneath his skin.
Caleb is a creature of habit, as his friends know well, but somehow, the change in music isn’t bad. It’s even better today because he doesn’t have to fiddle with his ancient machine of a phone to get the speakers to cooperate—all he has to do is say pliés, please, or ronds de jambe, and Essek obliges him. The music selections even keep more or less the same tempo that Caleb is accustomed to, letting him fall into his usual rhythm despite the differences in melody.
It isn’t until Caleb is doing the center exercises that he realizes that Essek’s pointe shoes are still in their small bag on the floor in front of him, despite what he’d said earlier about needing to break his shoes in.
Caleb throws a questioning look at Essek, who is watching him with his arms crossed, the beginnings of a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Is something the matter?”
“No, it is nothing,” Essek demurs, looking away from Caleb to reach for his bag. The pointe shoes that fall out of it are brand new, dark satin the precise shade of his skin, with elastics and ribbons to match.
Caleb swallows, trying to gather his courage. Then he decides to seize his chance—how often is he going to get an opportunity to work with one of the most talented soloists in the Dynasty?
“If you have any feedback for me, I would welcome it.”
Essek’s mouth turns down at the corners. “That hardly seems proper. I am your partner, not your teacher.”
“Well, I value my partner’s thoughts as well as my teacher’s.”
“Is that so?” Essek tilts his head to one side, as though thinking hard. “Very well, then. Do your adagio,” he commands, startling Caleb as he rises to his feet in one smooth movement. “I will walk you through the steps.”
Oh. Caleb blinks at the sudden change in pace, but he hurries to comply. He takes his place in the center of the studio, arms in bras bas, feet in fifth position, croisé, head turned to the right.
You already know the steps, Yasha’s voice echoes quietly in his head. Just dance. Let the rhythm move you.
One deep breath.
The music begins. This, at least, is familiar—the strains of a solo from Don Eshteross.
Caleb lets his limbs move, just the way Yasha has taught him. The key to responding, he has learned, is not to think too hard. To trust his body to drive.
“Plié, allongé,” Essek says. “Lift your leg. Higher. Pas de bourrée. Now, port de bras around. Pirouette… and close. Développé en face, two, three, four. Square your hips. Good.”
By the time the music ends, Caleb is breathing hard through his nose, but Essek is still watching him in the mirror. He lifts his chin, defiant.
“Good,” Essek repeats quietly, nodding. The approval warms Caleb to his toes. “You are much stronger than you look, Caleb Widogast.”
“Danke, Herr Thelyss. I have been working hard.”
This time, when Essek smiles, a dimple appears at the right corner of his mouth. Gods above. If Caleb hadn’t just finished the longest adagio of his life, he would have blamed his rapid pulse on that one tiny divot in that delicate cheek.
“The work has paid off, it seems,” Essek says. “Again. Left side.”
Perhaps it’s a combination of wanting to impress coupled with a sincere desire to improve, but by the time the clock strikes nine, Caleb is exhausted.
“You know what?” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Now I understand Beauregard’s warning about not making it to breakfast.”
Essek actually laughs aloud. He takes Caleb’s hand to accept the bow as Caleb kneels at his feet in reverence. “She would know. Count yourself lucky—she had to endure this at the crack of dawn from my own master.”
“She’s a much better dancer now because of it, I’m sure,” Caleb says, groaning as he sinks to the floor. His thighs are going to complain very loudly about this impromptu change in pace tomorrow morning.
“I will allow you a break. You have earned it,” Essek says, amused, making himself comfortable in the spot next to Caleb.
Caleb takes a long pull from his water bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Essek breaking in his pointes.
The vamps are pressed down between two cool palms, easing the stiff glue without damaging the box. The shank is scored with a thin, sharp blade, just below the nail in the sole that holds the shoe together. Then each shoe is bent double. Heel pressed against outer sole along the scored line until the shoe is bent into a right angle. Last, satin ribbons sewn one finger width down from the seam, a crisscross of elastics right next to the ribbons.
The whole process takes Essek a total of five minutes and forty-three seconds, the sewing another fourteen minutes, eleven seconds. An impressive speed compared to Caleb's twenty-three minutes, nine seconds total to get his pointes in order. Not that it's a competition. But Caleb can't help but feel self-conscious about it anyway. Laying out his sewing supplies alone already takes him fifty-seven seconds at a minimum, and that’s on his good days. Granted, Essek takes much fewer steps than he does—
“You are staring like a baby ballet student seeing a company dancer for the first time,” Essek says, interrupting Caleb's reverie.
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “That certainly feels like an apt comparison. Pardon my fascination.”
“My shoes are custom-made, if you were wondering why my modifications are minimal.”
Caleb’s lips turn up at one corner, rueful. “You miss nothing, Herr Thelyss.”
“Essek,” he corrects. He pulls his pointes on, flexing and pointing his toes to mold them to the shape of his feet. Caleb notices the soles have small letters written on them in pen. He knows enough of the elven alphabet to recognize the glyphs: left, right.
“How do you do your shoes, then?”
“Just minimal breaking in for me as well. My pointes are custom-made like yours, but only because I have friends who make them for me. At their insistence, not mine.”
“Who, if I may ask?”
“Brenatto. Yeza Brenatto, specifically.”
Essek’s eyebrows nearly climb to his hairline in surprise. “You are friends with the Brenattos? Of the Brenatto School of Ballet?”
Caleb nods. “I never attended classes there myself, unfortunately, but circumstances made it possible for me to meet Veth Brenatto, and we became fast friends.”
Essek hums. “I must admit I envy you a little. Those must have been fortuitous circumstances.”
“You might call it that,” Caleb says, his lips twitching. If Essek doesn’t know what Veth is like, Caleb isn’t going to tell him. Veth is an experience in herself. He certainly isn’t going to tell Essek that he and Veth met in a prison cell.
“But to answer your question, the biggest adjustment I make is to cut half of the shank out of my shoes entirely, from arch to heel.” Caleb gestures at the highest point of his arch—his feet aren’t anything to write home about, but with Yasha’s help, his feet are the strongest they have been since he started dancing professionally again. “I wasn’t blessed with nice arches, so I find my feet look better without the restriction of the shank.”
“Fascinating. It is the other way around for me.” Essek removes his left shoe and points his bare foot for Caleb’s benefit—he has beautifully high arches, his taped toes curving so far they nearly touch the floor. “Flexible feet lead to notoriously weak arches. I cannot do without the support.”
“The grass is always greener on the other side, as they say here in the Empire.”
“Indeed. But we make do with what we have.”
Caleb leans against the cool glass of the mirror behind him as Essek puts away his sewing supplies, arranging them neatly in a leather bag.
“How are you finding Rexxentrum so far?”
“Well enough. The sun is quite strong.” Essek’s mouth twists. “But if Beauregard was able to adjust to the darkness in Rosohna, I should be able to learn to tolerate this.”
“If evening rehearsals would be more comfortable for you, we could speak to Master Yussa about it—”
“No need,” Essek says, waving an imperious hand. “I can manage.”
He gets up and starts rolling his feet, rising on demi pointe first, then all the way up to the tips of his toes on full pointe, bending his shoes back and forth. The ribbons pool in shiny folds at his soles.
Caleb glances up at the mirror to see Essek watching him with one eyebrow raised.
“Come, Caleb Widogast,” he says in a voice that makes all the blood rush to Caleb’s face. “I am not finished with you yet.”
–
Halfway through their fourth rehearsal, Caleb thinks he’s beginning to recognize the warning signs of irritation in Essek’s face. The downward tilt of his haughty mouth, the tightness around his eyes. The way he excuses himself as quickly as he can without being rude to take a long pull from his water bottle.
Caleb stands at the barre at the opposite end of the studio. Ostensibly, he is stretching out a cramp in his left calf. In reality, he is watching out of the corner of his eye as Beauregard meanders over to Essek. She collapses next to him on the floor, nudges his elbow with her own.
Right on cue, Essek softens. A wave of unreasonable jealousy sweeps through Caleb—when has Essek ever looked at him like that?—before he gives himself a mental shake. Don’t be stupid, he tells himself sternly, but he’s still staring out of the corner of his eye when a few minutes later, Essek gets to his feet and follows Beauregard to an empty spot near one corner of the studio.
Essek rises en pointe and lifts his leg in arabesque. Beauregard has one hand on his ribs, the other on his inner thigh.
Oh. They’re about to try the lift that Caleb and Essek have been trying to master for the past half hour, albeit with little success. Caleb’s stomach twists itself into a tight knot.
He watches Beauregard’s mouth move in the mirror. Ready?
Yes, Essek says, and Beauregard’s grip tightens for a moment—and just like that, with what appears to be next to no effort, Essek is suspended above the ground, arms and legs extended in elegant lines from delicate fingertips to pointed toes.
Like that, Beauregard says, nodding. Essek smiles, small and secretive, as he studies them both in the mirror.
Beauregard sets him down carefully. From here, Caleb can no longer tell what they’re talking about, with the way their heads are so close together. Something about Essek’s form, perhaps, given the way they’re gesturing. The placement of Beauregard’s hands.
They try the lift once more, and it is, if anything, even more enchanting the second time around. When Beauregard walks the length of the room with Essek still aloft, it is as though Essek is gliding in midair.
Caleb cannot help but sigh to himself. Essek and Beauregard are so well-suited to each other. Why is it so easy when they rehearse together? Why is it so difficult when it is Caleb dancing with Essek?
Caleb’s thoughts are promptly interrupted by Beauregard herself throwing a sweaty arm around his shoulders.
“What’s got you thinking so hard?”
“Just tired, that’s all,” he says automatically. He glances behind him and sees that Essek has resumed his spot on the floor, this time on his belly with his legs open in a split on either side of him. His hyperextended knees make the lines of his body so pretty to look at—
“Exandria to Caleb,” Beauregard says. “You’re being real fucking obvious with the staring. I’m just gonna put that out there.”
“It's just that… I don't know. I don’t think we’re doing very well,” Caleb admits in a low murmur, looking away quickly before Essek can see him.
Her eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”
Caleb makes a helpless gesture. “He and I. These lifts shouldn’t be so difficult. You and I have done them a thousand times before. But with him—”
“Hey, man,” Beauregard says sternly. “Don’t get all up in your head about it. It was shitty for me and Essek in the beginning too, okay? I know you’re comparing—don’t even try to pretend that isn’t what’s happening here, Widogast,” she adds, lifting a hand before he can object. “It took us a fuck ton of classes and rehearsals together before he got comfortable enough. You just have to put in the work.”
She must see the expression on his face, because she steers them a little to one side before she lowers her voice. “It’s tough for him too, okay? You gotta be patient. I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but he’s trying. He is. And he doesn’t do that for just anyone.”
“I understand, ja,” Caleb says, sighing.
“I put in a good word for you with him before all this even started,” Beauregard says, clapping him on the shoulder. “The two of you, you’re both talented dancers in your own right. He knew that before he got here because I told him so, and now he knows it for himself after rehearsing with you. Just, you know. Give it time. You’ll figure it out.”
–
One, two, three, four—
The music begins very low, strings playing a repetitive, haunting rhythm.
Enter from the wings, stage right. From here, Essek is just visible on the other side of the stage in Caleb’s periphery.
Cross to stage left, arms outstretched. Caleb’s path intersects with Essek’s as he mirrors Caleb’s steps, until they finally face each other, each of them on either side of the stage.
Caleb kneels in a stately bow. Essek keeps his head high, but extends his arms toward Caleb. You may approach.
The first hurdle at precisely twenty-eight seconds: a front walkover, one hand only. This, Caleb can manage without difficulty after practicing endlessly with Yasha and Jester. Palm flat to the ground, supporting his weight as he lands directly in a seated position on the ground. The other hand is offered to Essek. Come here.
Essek approaches, violet eyes fixed on Caleb’s face the entire time. He must walk a delicate line between submission and deference under Essek’s gaze. Caleb lies flat on his back, arms splayed out, as though baring himself for Essek’s examination.
He braces himself as Essek raises his leg behind him in a graceful arabesque. When he drops his leg, Caleb lifts his arms and catches Essek around his lithe waist, rotating him in a full circle overhead. The entire sequence is a single seamless movement, as though Caleb is nothing more than the axis upon which Essek turns—
“Ah, ah. Stop.”
Essek exhales through his nostrils, just hard enough to ghost over Caleb’s skin.
Master Yussa’s eyes are narrowed in a way that Caleb is all too familiar with. He sighs internally. His arms are so tired. Essek is a slight man, but lifting someone clear off the ground while lying flat on the floor is hard.
Caleb sits up, readying himself for whatever criticism Master Yussa has this time. But to his surprise, Master Yussa simply gazes at them for a long moment before he says, “That’s enough for tonight, I think.”
“But Master Yussa—”
“I will not have you pushing yourselves more than you ought to.”
To Caleb’s surprise, Master Yussa lifts Essek’s chin up with the tip of one delicate forefinger. He says something in what Caleb recognizes as his native elven tongue—whatever it is, it makes Essek drop his eyes to the ground, with nothing more than what sounds like a quiet acknowledgement in response.
Master Yussa leaves not long after their reverence with his usual admonition not to be late for class tomorrow, leaving Caleb alone with Essek in the studio.
The silence stretches so long that Caleb is squeezing his forearms tightly just trying to resist the urge to scratch by the time he manages to work up the nerve to speak.
“I am sorry. It has been a frustrating evening, I know, but I will do better next time.”
Essek turns his head slightly. He doesn't quite meet Caleb’s gaze over his shoulder, but it is enough that Caleb can see his expression in profile. His lips are pressed together in a thin line, exhaustion pulling at the corners of his eyes.
“We share the blame in this. In fact, I would even say that this time, it is my fault more than it is yours.” Essek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I—I do not know if Beauregard ever mentioned it, but it takes me some time to adjust to a new partner.”
“That doesn’t matter. I am the same, anyway.”
Essek laughs, a short, brusque sound. “I should remember to thank her. She endured me somehow. Even in Rosohna, I… I have been told I have a reputation for being difficult. I am aware that this is not incorrect.”
Caleb steps forward, unsure if his proximity would be welcome. “Does this have something to do with what Master Yussa said to you just now? If you don't mind my asking.”
A beat. “I, ah. I cannot quite translate it directly into Common, but it is an Elvish saying—something about how even the fey-born live by the rising and the setting of the sun.”
Caleb must have let some of his confusion show on his face, because Essek cracks a small smile. “As I said, it does not translate very well. But in essence, it is a reminder that even we need rest,” he says. He ducks his head and begins tugging at the knot of one ribbon tucked neatly at his ankle. “Master Yussa has spoken to me about it once before. He… he knows it is very different in the Rosohna Ballet, because nearly all the dancers are drow—many retire sooner than they have to because pushing oneself to the utmost limit is something of an expectation.”
What must Essek have endured to be first soloist already at his age? The thought is deeply concerning, to say the least.
“In that case, we must take Master Yussa's words to heart.”
Essek doesn't answer. He pulls his shoe off, a faint hiss escaping through his gritted teeth. Caleb can't help but wince when he sees the blisters that have formed, some new, others half-healed.
He dismisses Caleb's worry with a single wave of his slim hand. “It happens. You know how it is.”
“But we've just been practicing the lift sequences most of this evening. Your feet have barely touched the ground,” Caleb says, bewildered. “And I can't imagine our classes are any more difficult than what you had in Rosohna—”
And then it clicks. Essek's chastised expression in response to Master Yussa's words, the blisters on his feet, his own admission of intense pressure. The youngest soloist of the Rosohna Ballet, and now the first ever artist they have permitted to guest with another company outside of the Dynasty.
“You have been rehearsing on your own,” Caleb says softly. It is not a question. “On top of all the rehearsing we already do together.”
Essek turns his face away. “It is nothing I have not done before,” he says, and there is something stubborn about the set of his jaw. “And… and I do not have much else to occupy my time with anyway, outside of dancing.”
Oh.
It hadn't taken Caleb long to notice that Essek is almost painfully private by nature, reticent in sharing even the most mundane details about himself, despite how charming he can be when he's in the mood. Not once has he accepted their invitations to dinner, not even with Beauregard cajoling and threatening him in turns. As far as Caleb knows, Essek has only ever permitted himself the occasional meal with Beauregard, and always at his apartment. But Caleb thinks what might have been self-imposed solitude in Rosohna has shifted into isolation now that Essek is in Rexxentrum.
Caleb marshals his courage and places his hand on Essek's forearm. He does not miss the way Essek stiffens under his touch, his eyes flicking to Caleb's hand before fixing warily on Caleb's face.
So much of Essek's body is familiar to Caleb. The slight dip where Essek's trim waist meets his hips, the feel of his ribs rising and falling against Essek’s hand. But he has never touched Essek outside of the context of their rehearsals. Certainly nothing this deliberate.
It is but the smallest of touches—why does it feel so electric?
For a moment, Caleb can hardly even dare to breathe.
But Essek only sighs. “I am sorry. I do not mean to be such a… what does Beauregard call it, a downer?”
“You aren’t,” Caleb is quick to reassure him. “I know something of what that’s like, Essek, to want to hold everyone at arm’s length like this. But you must know, no one here is trying to compete with you.”
“Not even you?” Essek asks, so quietly that Caleb almost thinks he might have only imagined it. But there is no one here but the two of them.
“Not even me,” Caleb says, and tries not to think about how Essek must have been treated in the Rosohna Ballet in the past for him to be so suspicious of his fellow company dancers. “You are my partner, Essek. Is it so hard to believe I might want to offer you support outside of our classes?”
A beat. “I… I suppose not.”
“Then let me be your friend. It’s not only Beauregard who cares about your well-being—I do too, and so do Yasha and Jester, and all the others. Even Master Yussa.”
Essek ducks his head, as though ashamed. “I would like that, I think. Not that Beauregard has been anything less than accommodating of me, of course, but…” He swallows visibly. “I do not want to be a burden.”
“Essek, she doesn’t think that. None of us would ever think that.” Caleb squeezes Essek’s arm in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture before he lets go. “We have all seen each other at our best and worst. It’s just what we do for each other—we’ve all given something up to be here, ja? Even you. And no one understands that more than we do.”
Essek nods. “I appreciate the sentiment, Caleb Widogast. And, ah. I wish to return the favor somehow, but my experience with friendship is… limited.”
Caleb waves this off. “It’s not a favor. That’s the whole point. If you really want to do something for me, maybe you can help me figure out what it is about our lifts that Master Yussa is having a problem with this time.”
To Caleb’s surprise, Essek sits back for a long moment, worrying at his lip. His hands are moving in small, circular gestures that Caleb recognizes as the choreography of his last few steps right before Caleb lifts him off the floor in their second lift.
After a moment, his hands drop in his lap.
“I think I may have a solution, but… it will require some, shall we say, unconventional measures.”
This piques Caleb’s curiosity. “And by that you mean?”
“How do you feel about taking a dance class with me on Da’leysen? That is our next day off, yes?”
“A dance class,” Caleb repeats, uncomprehending. “Not ballet? At another studio?”
“Yes, to both questions. But for a myriad of reasons, it will have to be something of a clandestine affair,” Essek says. For some reason, there’s a ghost of a smile hovering about his mouth. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Caleb says before he can second guess himself. “As long as it isn’t anything that will get you deported.”
Essek actually lets out a huff of laughter at that. “It will not. I can promise you that much. I will text you the details on the day, if you are amenable. Most likely it will be scheduled in the early evening.”
“That works,” Caleb says, already mentally blocking out the entire day for whatever it is Essek’s got planned. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”
Essek saves Caleb’s number on his phone before he asks, “Shall I give you mine?”
“I already have it,” Caleb says without thinking. He only realizes his egregious mistake when Essek stares at him, not saying a word. “Wait, no,” Caleb says, floundering. “It’s not—what I mean is—”
“Was it Beauregard who gave it to you?” Essek asks in a flat voice. “Or someone else?”
Caleb swallows. “It was… someone else?”
Essek’s eyes narrow. “Who?”
Now he’s done for. “Do you remember when I, ah. I went to watch you and Beauregard dance Adelina?” Caleb’s ears are burning. He’s never actually mentioned this aloud, other than the one time Essek hinted at it when they had first met. “I was a little to one side of the orchestra pit. I think you might have seen me.”
Essek presses his lips together. “Yes, and?”
“There was someone who helped me and Yasha get into the theater from backstage,” Caleb says, hurrying through the admission before he can lose his nerve. “I don’t know—he gave me the program right before we left, and he had written your number on it. I didn’t get his name, but he signed it with a ‘V.’”
“V,” Essek repeats. To Caleb’s surprise, he throws his head back and lets out a peal of laughter, followed immediately by something Caleb has now come to recognize as heartfelt cursing in Undercommon.
“I’m sorry…?” Caleb says tentatively.
“No, no,” Essek says, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “That was Verin. My dalnar—I mean, my brother.”
“He said something similar,” Caleb remembers. “Dalni was the word he used—I apologize if I mangled the pronunciation.”
“No, that is correct,” Essek says, shaking his head. “It is a diminutive for the appropriate word, which is dalninuk, or elder sibling. All of this to say, he is an incredibly disrespectful little shit.”
“Essek,” Caleb says, shocked into laughter.
“It is true,” Essek retorts, lifting his chin. “I suppose he has at least spared me the bother of giving you my number.”
“I apologize if it would have been a bother,” Caleb says, his lips still twitching with amusement.
“That is not what I meant,” Essek says, as though chastened, but he softens into a smile when he sees Caleb laughing. “I see. You are teasing me.”
“I am,” Caleb agrees.
Essek sighs. “Well. I suppose it is the price I must pay for friendship. Beauregard has already taught me this lesson once before.”
“Then it will be no hardship for you to learn it again, knowing you.”
To Caleb’s surprise, Essek’s gaze flicks up at him, a glint in his eye that Caleb might have called mischievous if it had been anyone else but Essek.
“Just you wait until Da’leysen,” Essek murmurs.
Caleb isn’t sure if it’s meant as a promise or a threat. Either way, the shiver that goes down his spine doesn’t feel like a bad thing at all.
–
5:00 pm at the Court of Colors. Do not be late.
I am never late, Herr Thelyss.
Good. I recommend you bring a pair of cycling shorts and a sleeveless top. Skintight clothing would be best for today.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Caleb shows up at 4:50 precisely, just to be sure. It’s a good thing he does, because Essek shows up after just five minutes.
“You were going to be early just to make me think I kept you waiting,” Caleb accuses him.
Essek’s lips curve into a small smile. “Well, seeing as you were here even earlier than I was, I will take advantage of the plausible deniability.”
Caleb is surprised at how well Essek seems to know this part of the city—he weaves in and out of the crowds of people occupied with sightseeing and shopping with ease, navigating through one winding alley after another until they find themselves before a rather decrepit establishment. The Eyes of Nine, the sign proclaims in swirling letters, with an elaborately drawn red eye serving as its logo. A hastily written CLOSED sign is slapped onto the door.
“This doesn’t look like much of a dance studio,” Caleb says cautiously.
“That is because it is not.” Essek pushes the door open and makes his way inside where a dark-furred tabaxi glances up at him from the immense array of liquor bottles that have clearly just been delivered.
Oh. It’s… a bar?
“Well, look who it is.” The tabaxi bares her teeth at Essek, the point of a fang glinting despite the dim light. “You’re early.”
“Always,” Essek says easily. “It is good to see you as well.”
He descends the stairs without waiting for an answer. Caleb nods at the tabaxi, wary of the way she’s staring at him suspiciously.
“Where are we?” Caleb whispers to Essek.
It is so dark in the basement. Caleb can barely see. To his surprise, Essek grabs his hand, leading him forward.
“Come,” he says, “we are almost there.”
There is a knock on what sounds like wood, followed by silence. It stretches so long that Caleb jumps when the door is flung open, flooding the basement with studio light.
“Well, hello,” a voice says in a drawl that sounds oddly familiar to Caleb’s ears.
When his eyes adjust to the brightness, he’s shocked to see who’s leaning against the doorframe. A tiefling with a smirk on his full lips, his unblinking red eyes fixed on Caleb and Essek. Caleb almost says Mollymauk, or Kingsley. But the black robe slipping coquettishly off his left shoulder betrays nothing but smooth skin beneath the luxurious fabric where the twins bear a matching peacock tattoo that snakes up their necks and down their torsos.
“It’s been a while, darling,” he says, an arm wrapping carelessly around Essek’s waist. “I’m glad you still think of me after all these years.”
To Caleb’s utter surprise, Essek only smiles. “As if I could forget you.” He tugs Caleb forward by the hand. “I would like you to meet Caleb Widogast, my new partner. Caleb Widogast, this is Lucien Tealeaf.”
“It is good to meet you, Herr Tealeaf,” Caleb manages. The red eyes are strangely daunting. “You… you are not related to Mollymauk and Kingsley Tealeaf, by any chance, are you?”
“Oh, my beloved younger brothers,” Lucien says, his mouth twisting. “Estranged, of course. But you don’t want to hear about that—come inside, I don’t like keeping clients waiting out here—”
“Clients,” Caleb repeats. His voice comes out a little more high-pitched than usual. “You are the teacher at this studio?”
Lucien only turns to look at Essek, a finely curved eyebrow raising.
Essek’s face cracks into a grin, broad and triumphant. “So. Have you ever tried pole dancing before, Caleb Widogast?”