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Summary
For all his years of ballet training, he knows he could never move like this.
They bend where he’s ramrod straight. They’re liquid where he’s unerringly solid. They’re loose where he’s tight, laced up to move like perfection incarnate. They move with an ease that Erwin’s never known, despite onlookers insisting that he makes it look easy; it’s not easy—it never has been. He wonders if these dancers feel the same but, judging by the unfiltered joy on their faces, he doubts it.
He leans forward, instinctively, magnetized. He wants, suddenly, so badly, to try.
And then, he notices in his periphery: someone watching him.
“Here.”
Erwin blanches. And then he blushes. He turns to check—no, nope—Levi is talking to him.