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One would think that after being in this position dozens of times in his life, Wilbur would be used to the churring anxiety that comes when he’s waiting behind the curtain for his turn on stage. But hilariously, he wasn’t, every time he was there it felt completely fresh and new.
His hands felt sweaty, and the room felt far too hot and crowded. There were other dancers backstage too, of course, other teenagers in sparkling leotards, waiting in anticipation for their own solos. But nobody really spoke to each other, everyone too nervous to do much else than listen to their coaches pep talks.
Wilbur was willing to bet that none of them felt quite as awful as he did, however. Every second that passed was another second he debated telling his coach Phil, he was ill, and couldn’t get on. He wouldn’t do that of course, not after all the work he’d put into being here, but he wanted to so badly.
There were still a few numbers before he had to go on, at least, that’s what Phil had said before he went to check in with one of the other soloists from their studio. Normally by this point, he would be running through the choreography in his head, or stretching a little, just to be a bit looser by the time he got on stage, but he just couldn’t focus on it.
He couldn’t think about anything except what had happened the last time he’d been at a competition. It had been absolutely humiliating, and quite possibly the worst moment of his entire life.
Wilbur still remembered how hot the lights had burned on his skin as he’d sobbed.
The pain was unbearable, but the humiliation of going down during a routine was somehow worse. It hadn’t even been a solo- he’d been with his team at the time, and he’d let them all down. They never talked about it in front of him, but Wilbur was sure they spoke about it when he wasn’t around, how they’d be so close and able to score platinum, if only he’d been able to stay on his feet.
The worst of it all, is that his back had never been the same. It could’ve been worse, Wilbur knew, but his dreams of being a professional dancer were basically crushed. The twinges when he moved ever so slightly wrong were enough to cement that in his mind.
“Wilbur?” A familiar voice behind him whispered, and Wilbur felt a warm hand grab his own. “Hey? Are you okay?”
He turned, finding Quackity standing behind him, the navy blue company sweater tied around his waist, leaving him in the black tank top he wore underneath. His hair was up loosely, strands escaping the elastic and framing his face.
Wilbur wasn’t sure what he was doing back there, as far as he knew Quackity’s own solo was long after his.But just the sight of his boyfriend brought weight off his shoulders, and loosened the lump in his throat.
“What are you doing here?” Wilbur asked, shooting a look over to the dancer on stage. He remembered her, she was a few numbers ahead of him. “I thought we weren’t allowed back here until it’s your turn!”
Quackity shrugged. “Phil called, he was worried about you, thought you were gonna panic or vomit or something.”
“He- uh- he wasn’t exactly wrong.” Wilbur admitted, squeezing Quackity’s hand. “I just psyched myself out, that’s all.”
There was a brief pause, before Quackity began leading Wilbur deeper backstage. “C’mon, let’s get you somewhere to sit.” He said, finding a spot along the wall that wasn’t as crowded as the rest of the small area was.
They sat together, Wilbur resting his head on Quackity’s shoulder. He watched silently as Quackity shot Phil a text letting him know to come grab them during the number before Wilbur’s. Then, once the message was sent Quackity put his phone down to hold Wilbur’s hand instead.
“What’s psyching you out?” Quackity asked, tracing Wilbur’s knuckles with his thumb. “Is it your back?”
Wilbur sighed, shutting his eyes. “Of course, what else could it be? I haven’t been in front of any judges since it happened, and I’m just… What if I fuck up? What if I fall and it just proves to everyone that I can’t do it, and this whole year of getting back on my feet was for nothing?” Wilbur said, words spilling out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them. “I just… I don’t want to fail and let everyone down, again .”
Quackity hummed softly, and leaned his head on top of Wilbur’s. It was definitely kind of awkward for Wilbur, with their height difference, but it didn’t matter. “You won’t fail, if it helps. You’ve worked so hard, and you’ve made so many actually fuckin’ healthy habits this past year, and I’m so proud of you.” Quackity paused, and squeezed Wilbur’s hand. “But, if something does happen? I’ll still be proud and I’ll still be here for you, because you still made it here. But sometimes things just don’t work the way we want them to, even if we do our best to make it that way.”
“Even if I’m really embarrassing?” Wilbur asked.
“Especially if you’re really embarrassing.” Quackity agreed, laughing and giving Wilbur’s hand another squeeze.
The past year and a half had been hard, on both of them. Wilbur didn’t know what he did to deserve Quackity sticking by him through everything to get to this point. But it must’ve been some incredible thing, because Wilbur wouldn’t trade Quackity for anyone else.
He always knew how to help, always. Even if his methods usually were a little more confusing and awkward than this.
“Thank you.” Wilbur muttered, opening his eyes once more, staring at the stray glitter on the floor. “I love you.”
“I love you too, even if you’re a bit of a dumbass.” Quackity teased, but Wilbur knew he was sincere.
Regardless, he played along first burying his face in Quackity’s shoulder. Then, scoffing and biting back, lightly murmuring, “Shut up.”
They sat in silence for the rest of the numbers until Phil came to get them. Then, they stood, and Quackity had wished him good luck with a soft kiss pressed to his lips.
Wilbur still felt anxious, but he was ready. More ready than he’d been earlier at least.
Phil followed him over to the taped line on the floor, the last spot one could stand and not be seen by the judges. The person on the stage currently danced beautifully their steps were light and graceful and they seemed to live in the music.
And then they stopped with the music, frozen in time.
Wilbur took a deep breath, he was up next. He ran through every procedure he’d been taught at previous competitions. Don’t move if they play the wrong music, stay in place even if there are delays.
Then the judges introduced his song and studio. And it was time, there was no turning back now. He moved across the stage, feeling the eyes of the judges boring into his soul as he stopped in the center, sliding into the starting position with ease.
One second past, then two, and then the music began. It was a slow, sad piece; Wilbur had been the one to suggest it to Phil, it wouldn’t be too fast to dance to with the mostly-healed state of his back. Which had proven to be true, especially because any moves that so much as pulled the wrong way were cut and rewritten.
The beginning was easy, mostly smaller movements that didn’t really take him off the ground as jumps and leaps had proven difficult when he’d first returned to class. Any smaller jumps done during the first section didn’t keep him in the air for very long.
He was more focused on the dramatics of the song, of the agony poured into every bar and carrying that out within his movements. The idea he and Phil had when choreographing the number was to focus more on telling a story than technique.
As the music grew faster, frantic , Wilbur knew the final stretch had begun, which also just so happened to be the most difficult section of the number. What had started out small, had turned into bigger and bigger leaps. His back had twinged painfully on the last one, but it was almost over.
Wilbur ended the dance with a short floor section, freezing with a hand clasping desperately at his chest as the music stopped. He stayed there for another split second, before rising to his feet, and giving the judges a bow.
And then he walked off stage, finding Phil and Quackity where he’d left them. His hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat, and the black tank top he’d been wearing wasn’t fairing much better, but he’d made it through the whole number.
“You did so good!” Quackity whisper-shouted, taking Wilbur’s hand in his. “I told you that you could do it!”
Phil patted his shoulder, leading the two of them out from behind the stage. “Great work Wilbur, it was nice seeing you out there again.” He praised.
Wilbur smiled at the two of them, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his chest. “Thanks, I- I did it … Holy fuck, I did it.”
He rode that high all the way back to their changing room, where a heat pack was waiting for his back. Then, when the time had come for Quackity to take the stage, Wilbur had filed into the auditorium to cheer him on as well.
In the end, he hadn’t scored as well as he used to. But, with Quackity’s hand in his own, as he accepted his high-gold pin, Wilbur found he didn’t mind all that much.
Because he’d done it.