Work Text:
Dancing is my passion. I've been in classes ever since I was a little kid. In fact, these days, it's almost therapeutic. I often find myself dancing in the most unexpected of times, times when I could be just as easily crying my eyes out. Putting up with my almost non-existent dad's bullshit, contemplating the meaning of life, all that stuff. I must think too hard into things. I've been told too many times about how I should let little things go, or that I should just get on with my life. What life is there to get on with? Dancing is my life, and I've fucked that up too.
Here's the deal. My troop and I versus the other most popular street dance group in town. We win, we go to the finals. We lose, we take up ballet. A whole year of a shitty girly dance that nobody even cares about any more. Fuck that other group, they had Mikasa. How the hell was my group supposed to win against her? Connie, Sasha and Ymir - my teammates, well, they all hate me. They keep saying I'm the one who screwed up. Fuck you, guys. They're only saying that because I'm the leader of the group. So, yeah. We took up ballet. We're only allowed to enter another street comp if we win the ballet finals, because that makes complete bloody sense. I hate it. It's too slow. There's no sharp, intricate movements. Point your leg out. Put it down. Jump. Spin. Job fucking done.
Except, it's not like that for my instructor. He's only my age but he's been at it for years. He seems like a nice, sweet guy - the kind anyone could warm up to. That is, until, he starts teaching you. It's like there's some switch in his brain that only gets activated when he's telling you what to do. Fuck up a landing? He won't have it. Start again. Do it better. Make it perfect. It... It's not him. I can see that. It's like he turns into some different person when he teaches. I sometimes wonder, maybe it was a difficult upbringing that influenced this. He refers to his mom, how she would never accept the crap we give him in class. Maybe she pushed him too hard. He's the best ballet dancer, but at what price? Sometimes I don't think he wants to do ballet at all, like he's jealous of my street dance skills or something.
I'm on the beach right now as I think about all of this, actually. I'm not doing any kind of practised routine. I'm just dancing. I have my earphones in, and my body moves to the rhythm perfectly with every song that comes on. It's pitch black out here, the only light being a nearby street lamp, but I know the beach fairly well. There's nothing to trip over. The tide's out. I'll be fine. These movements I'm making are soothing. I feel so relaxed when I dance. It's just that this time, this dance isn't like my usual random un-choreographed beach routines. First position, second position... Damn, this ballet crap is sinking into my spare time, too. I suddenly feel much less relaxed. I can't stop myself, the routine I've practised for weeks with my instructor is playing out here. It's as if I have no control.
I finish the routine. Before I can slip back into my usual style, I can hear clapping over the bursting music from my earphones. In the darkness, someone has been watching me. I pull out the wires and switch off my music, looking around desperately for the clapping. In the dim orange light from the street lamp, a silhouette is approaching me.
"Nicely done, Jean. You actually did it perfectly this time." My instructor's been watching this whole time. How the fuck did he know I'd be down here? Maybe he recognises my tiredness in our classes - it's midnight. How did he know to come here? Has he been following me?
"Hate to break it to you but I'm not in session." I tell him, panting. I'm breathless from my whole performance.
"Still, it was almost professional." He tells me. He sounds more relaxed here than he does in classes, which is a huge shock for me. Where did his feisty perfectionist side go? "You know, you- You're almost better than me." It's so dark that I can barely see his face, but I can tell he's blushing. What's coming over this guy, huh?
"Marco, there's no reason for you to flatter me. You told me to get out of the dance studio yesterday." I mutter. My words seemingly take him by surprise, because it takes him a moment to speak up again.
"Sorry about that. I get... Stressed." He informs me. He's like a whole other person. He's acting how he looks; a sweet, kind, freckled sixteen year old dance student who teaches amateurs in his spare time for school credit.
"No kidding." I find myself laughing. "Why are you watching me, anyway?"
"When you're out of classes, you do your own thing. I don't have to force you to do anything in particular. The routines you pull off... They're amazing." Marco Bodt, Mr perfectionist ballerina, is amazed at the shitty midnight flailing I do out of boredom and general hatred of the world.
"Why'd you find this so impressive when you're the best ballet guy in town?" I question him. I may hate the style, but I have to admit he does it well.
"Your stuff is more interesting. If I could, I'd probably take it up myself." He tells me.
"Why don't you, then?" I have to ask. I'd love to see his take on something like this. He shrugs, looking down at his feet.
"Time, mom..." I knew it. "...I'll just stick to what I know, thanks." He sounds sad. I can see why. I can piece it all together. When this guy first started teaching me, I hated his guts. How dare he push me to perfection? Little did I know, he was only teaching me the way he'd been taught himself. Go big or go home. No wonder he's so great at dancing. If he was anything less, well, he probably wouldn't dance at all.
"I'm sorry." Is all I can say to him. I don't know what else to say, or if I'm even allowed to say anything more.