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Mu Qing glares out at the sunlight as she steps off the bus. Already, there’s a horde of dancers in matching jackets clustered around the front doors to the hotel. She should have expected this. It is the biggest ballet competition in the country, full of only the best dancers. She just didn’t think there would be so many.

“Hey, can you move?” Feng Xin calls from behind Mu Qing. She’s lugging a massive duffel bag down the bus stairs. Mu Qing scoffs, but steps aside.

From behind Feng Xin, the only other relevant person on the bus steps down the stairs with the same amount of grace she’d use in ballet class. Xie Lian grins up at the hotel. “I’m so excited!”

Mu Qing crosses her arms and doesn’t reply, watching Feng Xin struggle to carry her duffel bag and drag her suitcase at the same time.

Upon seeing Xie Lian, the crowd of dancers in front of the hotel start whispering and staring, which is quite rude, if you ask Mu Qing, which no one ever does.

But how could they not? It’s Xie Lian, the Heavenly Ballet School’s resident prodigy, and the shining young star of the dance world. If Mu Qing was from any other studio, she’d feel threatened by Xie Lian, too.

Because this isn’t a festival. It’s a competition. And, quite simply put, the Heavenly Ballet School is kind of the best.

“Let’s go inside,” Mei Nianqing, their studio’s artistic director, urges, motioning for them all to get their bags out of the compartment under the bus. The other students follow out behind him.

Mu Qing ducks her head into the hold, spotting her black suitcase. She doesn’t need help getting it out. They’re all dancers, anyway—they have pretty damn good arm muscles from holding their arms in second position for an eternity.

Mu Qing drags her suitcase into the lobby, pushing past all the other crowds of dancers. And their stupid matching jackets with their studio’s name in an ugly script font. Honestly, Mu Qing is glad that HBS is too classy for that.

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” Feng Xin says, as Mu Qing nearly runs her over in an attempt to form a group with the rest of their studio.

Mu Qing glowers. “Language. There are children here.” Not really, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Thankfully, Feng Xin doesn’t have an opportunity to form a retort, because Mei Nianqing motions for everyone to shut up, though it’s miraculous that he can be heard over the chaos of a lobby full of dancers. 

“Everyone should go up into their rooms and put their stuff down now. If you’re over fifteen years old, you’re on your own to figure out dinner. Under fifteen, meet back down here in an hour. I’ll be reading off room assignments now.”

Mu Qing scans over the crowd. Even if she’s grown up with this group of dancers, that doesn’t mean she necessarily wants to share a room with any of them. Xie Lian would be okay, she supposes. But her worst nightmare—

“Mu Qing and Feng Xin, room 2122.”

Mu Qing is going to die. No, she’ll kill Feng Xin first. In the morning, Xie Lian’s going to walk in to find them both dead on the floor. Yep. That’s what’s going to happen.

“Xie Lian and Jian Lan, room 2123.”

Next to Mu Qing, Xie Lian smiles over at Jian Lan, who nods back. Maybe Mu Qing can convince Jian Lan to switch rooms with her—wait. No. No one in their right mind, especially Jian Lan, would room with Feng Xin.

Mu Qing tunes out the rest of Mei Nianqing’s list, instead focusing on pointedly ignoring Feng Xin. She runs her hands along her pointe shoes, tied to the outside of her backpack.

“Your costumes will be waiting for you in the dressing room tomorrow,” Mei Nianqing says. “And I’ll be doing room checks at 10 PM.”

The dancers all bob their heads in agreement, and Mei Nianqing waves them all off. For the younger ones, their chaperones bring them up to their rooms. Mu Qing is seventeen now, and is far beyond the era of chaperoned comp hotel rooms. Instead, she has…

Feng Xin. Ugh.

Mu Qing drags her suitcase over to the elevators, getting as far away from the group as possible and practically smashing the ‘up’ button to shreds. Maybe if she gets to the room first, she can just lock Feng Xin out.

Unfortunately, Feng Xin is following after Xie Lian, who waves her hand in the elevator door to hold it open for her. And Feng Xin gets into the same fucking elevator as Mu Qing.

The elevator is crowded with all the dancers and their absurd amounts of luggage. Mu Qing is glad her tutu is being transported separately, because there’s no way she’d be able to fit it in here.

“What floor?” Xie Lian asks. She’s standing closest to the wall of buttons.

“19,” someone calls out.

“14!”

“21,” Mu Qing and Feng Xin say at the same damn time. Mu Qing glares over at Feng Xin. Feng Xin is glaring back like she has a copyright on the number 21, and Mu Qing is infringing upon it, or something.

The elevator pushes on. Dancers get off. Mu Qing feels bad for the small number of normal people in this hotel, but it’s their fault for booking a vacation during the biggest ballet competition of the year.

Now, there’s just the three of them left in the elevator: Xie Lian, Feng Xin, and Mu Qing. Jian Lan must’ve gotten into a different elevator.

“It’s too bad you aren’t rooming with us like last time,” Feng Xin says to Xie Lian, crossing her arms.

“Oh…” Xie Lian bites her lip. “Well… I guess it’s nice that the two of you are sharing! You can get to know each other better! And I’d like to spend some time with Jian Lan, anyway, she’s so funny.”

Feng Xin mumbles something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “I’m funny too.”

The elevator doors open, and Mu Qing pushes past the two of them. She’s been on the bus for an hour, and she just wants to lie down on her bed. Xie Lian catches up to her. “Mu Qing! Do you want to come get dinner with us? There’s one of those old-fashioned diners down the street.”

“Sure,” Mu Qing says flatly. “Just give me a minute to change.”

“Let’s meet out here in, like, twenty minutes?” Xie Lian asks.

“Yeah,” Mu Qing says, scanning over the room door numbers until she finds hers. 2122. She taps her card on the door. She slips inside the room, dragging her suitcase along. Mu Qing can hear Feng Xin behind, her, but she chooses to ignore her until…

Mu Qing freezes as soon as she gets a full view of the hotel room.

You have got to—

“You have got to be kidding me,” Feng Xin says flatly, somehow voicing Mu Qing’s very thoughts.

Mu Qing glowers at their very alone, single bed. “You can sleep on the floor.”

“What the fuck? No, I have to perform tomorrow!”

“Yeah, well so do I,” Mu Qing argues.

“And what makes your variation more important that mine? We’re competing in the same fucking category!” Feng Xin drops her duffel bag in the corner.

“Hm, maybe you should get the bed, then,” Mu Qing says. She tilts her head to the side. “You know, so you’ll actually have a chance.”

“Shut the fuck up. I’ve won just as many times as you have.”

Mu Qing pretends to be very interested in the window. Now that Feng Xin has actually come up with a coherent, true thought, she’s less interested in this argument.

“You can do what you want. I’m meeting A-Lian for dinner, so—“

“I’m coming, too,” Feng Xin glares.

Mu Qing doesn’t respond, instead rifling through her suitcase to find a good outfit. It’s slightly warmer here than it is at their home. And Mu Qing’s current outfit isn’t exactly going out for dinner material—she’s been on a bus for two and a half hours, goddamnit.

Feng Xin goes into the bathroom and slams the door behind her, probably to flex her muscles in the mirror or something. Feng Xin is annoyingly muscular, which is rare for a ballet girl their age. While everyone else is focused on being thinner than what would be considered healthy, Feng Xin spends all her spare time at the gym. Lifting weights.

But Mu Qing doesn’t care about that! She quickly grabs a pair of black cutoffs and a tank top from her suitcase, then strips down to her underwear right in the middle of the room to change.

It’s not like there would be anything bad about Feng Xin walking in on her. First of all, they’re both girls, and second of all, practically everyone in their level has seen each other butt naked in the dressing rooms. By the time they reach the age of twelve, ballet dancers have entirely abandoned propriety.

Thankfully, Feng Xin doesn’t walk in, so Mu Qing grabs her phone and slips out of the room with not another word. She knows Xie Lian and Jian Lan’s room is just across the hall, and since Xie Lian isn’t out here yet, she knocks on their door.

“Coming!” Xie Lian’s voice rings from inside. “Actually, Jian Lan, can you—“

“Yeah,” Jian Lan says, and pulls the door open for Mu Qing, giving her a quick once-over. 

“Hey,” Mu Qing says.

Jian Lan nods. “Cute top.”

“Thanks,” Mu Qing says. She got it once when she went shopping with Xie Lian, but she doesn’t say that, because she knows Jian Lan won’t care.

Jian Lan slips back into the hotel room, and Mu Qing follows her. In the corner of the room, Xie Lian is standing in her bra, digging through a bag of clothes. “Mu Qing! Help me pick what to wear!”

“God, Xie Lian, it’s just dinner,” Mu Qing says, rolling her eyes, but obliges, kneeling on the floor beside Xie Lian to rifle through her clothes too. She frowns. “Do you have anything other than ballet warmups in here?”

Xie Lian shrugs. “Not really? I don’t remember what I packed.”

From across the room, Jian Lan calls, “If you want to borrow, something, I can—“

“No, I’m good!” Xie Lian replies, grinning triumphantly as she locates a… ratty, holey Kermit t-shirt. Only Xie Lian would own something so horrendous. “Hm, what bottoms should I wear with this?”

“You literally only have ballet stuff,” Mu Qing complains. “It’s, like, eighty-eight degrees out there.”

“The Real Feel is ninety-two,” Jian Lan adds, somewhat unhelpfully.

Xie Lian shrugs. “It’s fine.” She pulls a pair of leggings out of her bag. “Like you said, it’s just dinner.”

“Yeah but—“ Mu Qing is interrupted by a knock on the door.

“It’s Feng Xin,” Xie Lian says.

“I’m not answering it,” Jian Lan says, disappearing into the bathroom with a tube of lip gloss in hand.

“Want to come with us for dinner?” Xie Lian asks.

“Nope!” Jian Lan yells back from inside the bathroom. “I’d rather shoot myself in the head than have dinner with those two .”

Mu Qing isn’t really sure what she means by that , but she answers the door. Sure enough, it’s Feng Xin. Mu Qing scoffs and goes back over to Xie Lian, who is wearing more clothes now. “Let’s go!”

Xie Lian nods, grabbing a pair of ugly old rainbow crocs, and grabs Mu Qing’s arm. “Bye!”

“Bye,” Jian Lan responds flatly from inside the bathroom. Feng Xin looks distressed from just the sound of her voice.

Once Xie Lian has closed the door and the three of them are in the hallway, Feng Xin frowns. “The two of you are sharing a bed?”

“Yeah,” Xie Lian says. “What else were we supposed to do? Besides, it’s not weird or anything. We’re both girls.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing weird about it,” Mu Qing adds quickly. Not because she agrees, just because she wants to disagree with Feng Xin.

Feng Xin crosses her arms. “Then why are you—“

“Shut up,” Mu Qing says, rolling her eyes. “That’s different.” She presses the down button on the elevator.

“Literally how?” Feng Xin asks.

“Because you’re annoying, and Jian Lan isn’t,” Mu Qing says.

“How am I annoying—“

“You really want me to answer that?”

“Guys,” Xie Lian interjects. They both turn to her. “Elevator.” Xie Lian points at the open elevator, and Mu Qing ducks inside, Xie Lian and Feng Xin close behind.

The elevator isn’t empty when they get on. Inside, there’s a vaguely emo-looking girl about their age in black jeans (in this heat? Insane) and a fish t-shirt. Still, Mu Qing can tell she must be a dancer from one of the other studios—she’s standing in a perfect first position.

The girl gets off at the fourth floor, and the elevator chugs along, down to the bottom, where the three of them spill out. “Where do you want to go?” Feng Xin asks.

“Oh,” Xie Lian frowns. “I didn’t really think about that. We could just walk around and see what there is?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Feng Xin agrees.

“Are you crazy?” Mu Qing snaps. “It’s disgustingly hot outside. Let me check Google Maps.”

“It’s not that hot—“

Mu Qing ignores Feng Xin and opens her phone. There is, in fact, the old-fashioned diner that Xie Lian had mentioned earlier. However, right beside it, there is something even more beautiful—a shitty generic fast food chain.

Mu Qing holds up her phone, showing Xie Lian, who grins.

There’s this beautiful myth about ballet dancers, that they only eat tomatoes and organic celery and granola and shit. If Mei Nianqing had his way, that would be true, and Mu Qing pities those poor little ones who are stuck with him and their chaperones for the night.

However, there is nothing more appealing after a long day of dance than a plain old burger and fries.

“Onwards!” Xie Lian exclaims, pushing open the hotel doors and leading the way down the street.

“Hey,” Feng Xin says. She and Mu Qing end up walking right next to each other, against Mu Qing’s better judgement. “About the bed thing—“

Mu Qing walks faster, to catch up with Xie Lian.

“Hey, you bitch!”

Mu Qing smirks back at Feng Xin. “Sleep on the floor, asshole!”

Xie Lian looks at the two of them incredulously. “What is happening? ”

Mu Qing tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Feng Xin is being an idiot. Are you surprised?”

“Mu Qing. ”

Mu Qing and Xie Lian round the corner. Feng Xin has to jog to catch up, but when she does, she’s annoyingly not out of breath.

Xie Lian fans her face slightly. “You’re right, it is hot.”

Mu Qing shrugs. “At least we won’t have to warm up as much before we perform.”

“Oh, good point…”

They reach the restaurant, and once Mu Qing slips inside, she’s overwhelmed with the comforting scent of grease and salt. Her stomach feels heavy already, but she knows it won’t be a problem by tomorrow morning. It’s fine.

The three of them go order their food, and once they have it—damn, that was fast—they slip into one of the stick vinyl booths, Mu Qing and Xie Lian on one side, Feng Xin on the other.

Feng Xin picks up a fry. “Mei Nianqing’s going to be so pissed if he finds out about this.”

“What’s he gonna do?” Mu Qing asks, sipping her soda. “Besides, we have Xie Lian with us—that’s practically guaranteed immunity to any punishment.”

“Huh?” Xie Lian looks up.

Mu Qing rolls her eyes. “You get away with everything . Don’t pretend not to notice.”

Xie Lian shrugs, changing the subject because she knows what Mu Qing is saying is true. “Are you excited to perform tomorrow? I love both of your variations, they’re so pretty…”

Feng Xin nods. “I swear to god, though, if that annoying girl from Ghost City Ballet is here—“

“Oh, Hong’er?” Xie Lian asks amiably, twirling the straw from her soda between two fingers. “She was sweet, wasn’t she?”

“She was, like, ten,” Mu Qing scoffs. “And a little bitch.” On that, she and Feng Xin can agree.

“You shouldn’t talk about someone like that, Mu Qing,” Xie Lian chides.

“Why not? Feng Xin does it all the time.”

The rest of the dinner passes by with more quiet bickering. Mostly, they’re all pretty tired from the morning’s rehearsal and then the bus ride. Feng Xin doesn’t seem to be arguing with Mu Qing with as much vigor as usual.

As they walk back to the hotel, Xie Lian sighs, looping an arm through Mu Qing’s, then pulling in Feng Xin on the other side. “This is kind of crazy.”

“What?” Feng Xin asks.

“I don’t know,” Xie Lian says. “The three of us, we’ve been dancing together since we were babies, and now we’re competing at basically the biggest competition in the country—it is crazy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Mu Qing agrees, quietly enough so only Xie Lian can hear. Then, she frowns. “What time is it? Mei Nianqing is doing curfew checks, remember?”

Feng Xin fumbles with her phone for a moment. “It’s only 8:13. We’ve got time.”

Xie Lian grins. “Just come back to the room with me! I’m sure Jian Lan won’t mind—“

“She will,” Mu Qing smirks over at Feng Xin. “She’ll mind if it’s her .”

“Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

જ⁀➴

Feng Xin stands behind Xie Lian, arms crossed as Mu Qing knocks on the door to Xie Lian and Jian Lan;s hotel room. There’s faint laughter coming from inside—maybe Jian Lan invited someone over? Whatever, it isn’t Feng Xin’s business. Not anymore.

The door opens, and the one who answers it is not Jian Lan—it’s that emo girl in the fish shirt they’d seen in the elevator. She raises an eyebrow, scanning over the three of them, then walks away, the door still open.

“Let’s go!” Xie Lian says. She steps inside, Feng Xin and Mu Qing right behind.

Jian Lan isn’t alone—the little floor space that remains in the hotel is occupied by a group of people sitting in a circle. Jian Lan waves at Xie Lian when she sees her. “Hey! Come join us!”

Xie Lian sits down in the circle. “What are you doing?”

“Truth or dare,” Jian Lan says, pointing to the bottle in the center.

“Oh, fun!” Xie Lian says.

Jian Lan glances over at Feng Xin and Mu Qing, still standing in the door. Feng Xin looks away quickly so she doesn’t have to meet Jian Lan’s gaze. “They can join too, I guess.”

Mu Qing sits tentatively in between Jian Lan and Xie Lian. “Isn’t Mei Nianqing doing curfew checks?”

Jian Lan shrugs. “Not for another hour and a half. It’s fine!”

Feng Xin sits down, but since Mu Qing and Xie Lian are both so close together, she picks a spot on the other side of the circle, in between the fish shirt girl and a girl in light green.

Jian Lan tilts her head to the side. “We’ve got new people, and I guess we never really introduced ourselves. Can we all just say our name… and our company?” She winces. “God, I sound like a teacher. I’m Jian Lan, Heavenly Ballet School.”

“Mu Qing,” Mu Qing says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I go to HBS, too.”

“I’m Xie Lian,” says Xie Lian. “Heavenly Ballet School!” Of course, everyone already knows her .

“Ling Wen,” says the girl next to Xie Lian, maybe a few years older than Feng Xin, and looking utterly exhausted. “Xuli School of Ballet.”

The boy next to her grins. “Pei Ming. Xuli School, also.”

Next, is the fish shirt girl. “He Xuan. Ghost City Ballet.” Feng Xin glances over at Xie Lian. That Hong’er boy transferred to Ghost City Ballet after he got kicked out of the Heavenly Ballet School.

Now, it’s Feng Xin’s turn. “I’m Feng Xin, I go to the Heavenly Ballet School.” The group nods, and it’s the next girl’s turn.

“Yushi Huang,” says the girl on Feng Xin’s other side. “Xuli Ballet School.”

It makes sense that there are a bunch of kids from Xuli here, too. After the Heavenly Ballet School, they’re probably the second most advanced school in the region, and a lot of their kids end up in the Heavenly Ballet Company.

The girl next to Yushi Huang smiles. “I’m Shi Qingxuan! I’m from Fengshui Pre-professional Ballet Company.” Fengshui Pre-pro is one of the fancier boarding schools. Audition-only, very elite.

The boy who introduced himself earlier as Pei Ming smirks. “Is your brother here?”

Shi Qingxuan glares. “He isn’t. Go fuck yourself.”

“Gladly.”.

“Okay, everyone, shut up!” Jian Lan says, waving her hands so they all quiet. “We haven’t even spun the bottle yet!” With that, she takes the bottle into her hands and spins it with a flick of her wrist.

Feng Xin watches it whirl and whirl in the center of the circle, until it finally lands—with the tip pointing to her . Feng Xin.

Feng Xin swallows, looking up at Jian Lan. Next to Jian Lan, Mu Qing is smirking.

“Truth or dare?” Jian Lan asks, looking bored.

“Dare,” Feng Xin says. Everyone knows that truth is a coward’s choice. If Feng Xin picked that, Mu Qibg would never let her hear the end of it. 

Jian Lan’s eyes flicker over the circle, before she smirks. “I dare you to do seven minutes in heaven.”

Feng Xin is about to ask with who , but—

“With Mu Qing.”

Maybe Feng Xin should have picked truth. 

“ What? ” Mu Qing protests indignantly. “Are you insane?”

Jian Lan just shrugs, all nonchalant. “I think it would benefit you two.”

“You—what—“ Feng Xin sputters, gripping the carpet in her hands. “There’s no—I don’t—“

Pei Ming grins. “I second this.”

Feng Xin looks desperately to Xie Lian for assistance, but she’d busy chatting up a storm with the girl from Fengshui Pre-pro. She probably didn’t even notice they were playing truth or dare.

“Fine,” Mu Qing sulks. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Yeah,” Feng Xin adds, her throat dry. “It’s not like anything’s going to happen, so—“

“So I don’t even know why you picked me,” Mu Qing says, glaring at Jian Lan. “It’s stupid.”

Jian Lan smirks back. “Sure.” She passes the bottle to Shi Qingxuan, who gives it a wild spin, and Feng Xin opens the door to the bathroom.

Mu Qing steps inside, and Feng Xin closes the door behind them. Mu Qing leans against the sink, glowering at Feng Xin.

“ What? ” Feng Xin asks.

“Nothing,” Mu Qing says, rolling her eyes. “This is useless.”

“Um. Yes,” Feng Xin agrees. She sits down on the floor against the bathtub. “I’m too tired for this.”

“From rehearsal this morning? You only ran your variation once.”

“Yeah, but then we had to sit on a bus for five million fucking hours—“

“Not five million,” Mu Qing corrects. She picks up a tube of lip gloss that’s resting on the sink. It must be Jian Lan’s. “Two and a half.”

“Shut up,” Feng Xin glares. She pauses. “How many minutes has it been already?”

Mu Qing pulls her phone out of her pocket, checking the time. “Less than one. Get over it, you’re stuck with me.”

“We still need to solve the bed problem,” Feng Xin comments.

Mu Qing shrugs. “Whatever. We can share. It’s not a big deal.”

“It kinda seemed like a big deal earlier—“

“Only ‘cause you were making it one.”

“ Me? ” Feng Xin can’t even believe this. Mu Qing was the one doing all the complaining on that matter.

“It’s not like sharing a bed is a big deal—“

“It is when it’s you!” Shit . Feng Xin doesn’t know why she said that. Fuck. Shit. Fuck .

Mu Qing stalks closer. Feng Xin resists the urge not to curl up in a ball and die. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m only saying—“ Feng Xin is on a roll. An uncontrolled, chaotic one, going straight down a hill with no brakes. She can’t stop now. “You’re just fucking insufferable !”

“ Insufferable ?”

“But, like in a good way? I don’t fucking know, just leave me alone—“

“Feng Xin. What are you trying to say?”

Feng Xin has kinda wanted to say this for a while. Just not… in this way? And while she’d be eager to blame Jian Lan for putting them in this situation in the first place, she’s also a little bit thankful. 

“You… uh… you’re pretty.”

“ Oh .”

Feng Xin nods, wondering if it would be possible to knock herself into unconsciousness with Jian Lan’s bottle of hairspray sitting on the sink. She’s so screwed. 

Mu Qing is glaring down at her. “Stand up.”

“Why—“

“Just stand up, Feng Xin.”

Feng Xin does. 

Then, Mu Qing puts her hands of Feng Xin—one on her shoulder, one around the back of her neck. It’s like partnering, except it isn’t, because all of a sudden Mu Qing is kissing Feng Xin. 

What the fuck. 

For just a moment, Feng Xin freezes. Mu Qing’s lips are cool and soft against hers—tasting faintly of cherries, the real kind, not the Chapstick. 

And then it’s over. Mu Qing pulls away quickly, leaning back against the sink like nothing happened. “How many minutes do you think it’s been?”

Feng Xin isn’t sure how Mu Qing expects her to form a response, after that just happened. 

“God, Feng Xin, you—“

“You just kissed me,” Feng Xin says slowly. 

“Yeah?” Mu Qing says, looking confused. She turns around and leans closer to the mirror, inspecting her eyeliner and fixing it with her fingernail. “It’s seven minutes in heaven. What were we supposed to—“

“Turn around, Mu Qing.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you can’t just do that and then not fucking look at me!”

Mu Qing turns around slowly. Much too slowly for Feng Xin’s comfort. She can practically hear her own heartbeat—or maybe it’s Mu Qing’s? Feng Xin’s still standing numbly in the middle of the bathroom, the world spinning around her at a million miles per hour. 

“Mu Qing—“

This time, Mu Qing pushes Feng Xin backwards, uo against the wall, and this time, it’s messier, not as gentle as the first. 

This is something Feng Xin’s noticed about Mu Qing though. Even in rehearsal or class, she’s always inclined to action over words, and this action? Well, it’s more than clear. 

Too soon, they part, and Mu Qing drops her arms from where they’d found their place around the base of Feng Xin’s neck. “Happy now, Ju Yang?”

“You really had to bring that up now?” Feng Xin asks, still a little breathless. She brushes a finger along her lips.

“Always,” Mu Qing smirks, looking over Feng Xin. “Ju Yang, forever eternal.”

One typo on the name of her variation one time , but it seems no one is eager to let Feng Xin forget that anytime soon. “I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

“I’m pretty sure that would get you disqualified from the competition.”

જ⁀➴

Feng Xin sleeps on the floor. She justifies it with the fact that there is no way she’d get any sleep on a bed with Mu Qing—especially after what happened in Jian Lan’s bathroom. 

In the morning, she wakes to Mu Qing shaking her shoulder. “Feng Xin.”

“Ugh,” Feng Xin says, rolling away from her. Unfortunately, she’s in the tiny floor space between the bed and the window, so there isn’t far to roll.

“Do you want breakfast, or not? We’re competing in three hours.”

“Damn it,” Feng Xin mutters, forcing herself to sit up. “Why do I do this again?”

“Dance? No idea.” Mu Qing rifles through a plastic bag hanging from the doorknob. “Pretty sure Mei Nianqing is trying to starve us, also.”

“No surprise,” Feng Xin says, coming over to see what’s in the bag. Instead of getting a hotel breakfast like normal people, Mei Nianqing insists all the dancers eat whatever crap he’s thrown into their healthy breakfast bags. 

And there’s literally an iHop visible from the window, sticky waffles in syrup screaming Feng Xin’s name. 

“Yogurt,” Mu Qing says, handing Feng Xin a container. “And granola bars. Great.”

Feng Xin glances at the yogurt apprehensively. “Tomorrow let’s just sneak down to the hotel breakfast.”

Mu Qing nods in agreement. Then, she says, “Eat your yogurt. We need to be ready to go to the theater soon.”

Feng Xin nods, swallowing her yogurt and her nerves as she tosses all the stuff she’ll need for the performance in her bag. Undergarments, tights, hairspray, bobby pins, and makeup. So much makeup. 

Fifteen minutes later, yogurt consumed, Feng Xin and Mu Qing both grab their bags and head out of the room. In the elevator, Feng Xin sees that guy from Jian Lan’s get-together last night. 

Pei Ming smirks. “How was last night?”

“Fine, thank you,” Feng Xin snaps. She and Mu Qing exchange an annoyed glance. Pei Ming raises an eyebrow. “Good luck today.”

“Thanks,” Pei Ming says. “You too. With the competition, and with her .”

Mu Qing glares. “I’m right here, you ass.”

“Like I said,” Pei Ming says, looking back at Feng Xin. “Good luck.”

In the lobby, Feng Xin and Mu Qing find the other seniors of their company. The little ones will be competing tomorrow, but both boys and girls senior divisions are today. 

Xie Lian waves. “Are you excited?”

“Obviously,” Mu Qing says. “And excited to get into costume, too.”

“Oh right,” Xie Lian recalls, “They were adjusting the fastenings on yours, right? I haven’t seen it yet.”

Mu Qing shrugs. “It’s just the typical Satanella variation tutu. Black, lace, choker, all that.” She pauses. “It sounds like I’m describing, like, lingerie. Whatever. Feng Xin’s the one with the exposed tit.”

Xie Lian chokes. “ What? ”

“Shut up,” Feng Xin says. “It’s not exposed, I’m wearing a leotard under… and it’s supposed to be, like, Greek.”

“I’m suddenly thankful for my very basic Aurora tutu,” Xie Lian muses. 

“Yeah, you should be,” Jian Lan cuts in. “I’m doing the Nikiya variation, remember? The cultural appropriation goes crazy.”

“That’s all ballet is,” Mu Qing says. “Granola and cultural appropriation.”

Xie Lian gives her a thumbs up.

“Let’s go,” Mei Nianqing says, waving them all along. 

The hotel is a couple blocks away from the theater. On their walk over, they pass both the iHop and the fast food restaurant where they ate dinner. And there’s a Tim Hortons too. Feng Xin stares at the Timbits, visible through the window longingly, until Mu Qing drags her along. 

Once they make it to the theater, Mei Nianqing brings them to an area where all their tutu and costume bags are marked with a big printed sign reading ‘Heavenly Ballet School. 

Feng Xin spots hers in the pile. She doesn’t wear a tutu, but, unfortunately a Greek chiton with the “exposed” boob that Mu Qing had mentioned earlier. It’s packed away in a big black hanger bag with the name tag: Feng Xin, HBS , Diana Variation . 

Mu Qing slings her tutu bag over her shoulder, carrying her dance bag on her other shoulder. “Let’s go, asshole.”

Feng Xin glares back, but follows her. “Bitch.”

“Whore.”

“Slut.”

It seems some things never change. 

They find their way to the dressing room, Xie Lian and Jian Lan, and some of the other senior girls at their heels.

“Looks like we’re sharing,” Xie Lian says, pointing to the sign on the door. 

Girls Senior Division: Heavenly Ballet School, Fengshui Pre-Professional, Xuli School of Ballet

“Oh, Shi Qingxuan’ll be in here,” Jian Lan says. “Ling Wen, too—though I think she’s in the 18+ division.”

They go inside. The room clearly wasn’t intended to be a dressing room—tables are pushed against the walls, chairs sitting upside down on top of them. Someone wheeled in a big ballet mirror. 

The Fengshui girls are already there, sitting on the floor in a rough circle, hair and makeup already done. Shi Qingxuan waves excitedly at Xie Lian. 

The XSB girls are also there, though they don’t seem nearly as friendly as the Fengshui girls. They’ve all got identical expressions—focused, resigned, with just a touch of resting bitch face. Feng Xin spots Ling Wen, sitting in the corner, typing away on a laptop. Yushi Huang is next to her, twisting and untwisting a green ribbon between her fingers. 

Feng Xin drops her stuff on the floor in front of a mirror. Mu Qing comes up next to her. “Can we share a mirror?”

“Yeah,” Feng Xin says, nodding. Mu Qing’s wearing a lip gloss that looks like the one that had been sitting in Jian Lan’s bathroom yesterday. She must have borrowed it. 

“Mu Qing! Can you do my eyeliner?” Xie Lian calls from over near Shi Qingxuan. “Yours always looks so good.”

“Give me a second,” Mu Qing calls back, “but yes.”

Feng Xin pulls out a tin of hair pins, a thick hair gel stick, and a hair net, and gets to work on her hair in front of the mirror. For Diana, she’ll need a slick-back low bun, so she gathers a ponytail. 

In the mirror, she watches Mu Qing doing Xie Lian’s eye makeup, across the room. Mu Qing pinches her lips together in concentration, holding Xie Lian’s chin up like she’s a beautiful in-progress masterpiece. Selfishly, Feng Xin wishes Mu Qing would hold her face like that. 

Feng Xin twists her hair into coils, pinning them down so hard her scalp could bleed. Once her bun is done, not a stray hair in sight, she starts her makeup, watching Mu Qing all the while.

Mu Qing finishes up with Xie Lian’s eyeliner, then comes back over to Feng Xin, starting on her own makeup. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Feng Xin responds absentmindedly, searching for her lip gloss. Once she reaches through all of her makeup, she realizes: she must have forgotten it. “Shit.”

“What?” Mu Qing asks. 

“Forgot my lip gloss,” Feng Xin says. “I only have the matte stuff.”

“Want to borrow mine?” Mu Qing asks, holding up five different tubes, all in different shades.

“Yeah, thanks,” Feng Xin says, selecting a clear shade, since she already has bright red lipstick on. 

She pulls the wand out of the the tube and swipes it across her bottom lip, noticing the way Mu Qing is staring. Feng Xin presses her lips together, transferring the gloss from her bottom lip to her top lip. Mu Qing is still staring.

“What?” Feng Xin asks. “Is it on my teeth?”

Mu Qing shakes her head quickly. “No. No, it’s not. Looks good.”

“Thanks,” Feng Xin says. Is Mu Qing okay? She just complimented Feng Xin. On lip gloss application, of all things. She’s probably just a bit on edge, because the competition is so soon.

Mu Qing looks over Feng Xin’s face. “Your blush isn’t blended enough.” There’s the insult. Mu Qing is just fine. 

Feng Xin examines her blush in the mirror. “Where?”

“Let me fix it,” Mu Qing says. “Come over here.”

Feng Xin resists the urge to make a ‘that’s what she said’ joke. Instead, she sits closer to Mu Qing. 

Mu Qing reaches over, brushing her fingers across Feng Xin’s cheek. Her fingers are cold, but pleasantly so—and her nails are perfectly shaped, despite being bare (a requirement for dancers).

Feng Xin swallows, looking down slightly so she doesn’t have to meet Mu Qing’s eyes. 

Mu Qing pulls away. The red in Feng Xin’s cheeks is not just from the blush. 

“Mu Qing, we should talk about last night—“

“I need to warm up,” Mu Qing says shortly. “You should too.”

“Yeah,” Feng Xin mutters. Mu Qing moves away, but Feng Xin can still feel the ghost of her touch on Feng Xin’s cheek. 

Not looking at Mu Qing, Feng Xin starts moving through a pilates series to get her joints and muscles a little ready. Around the room, other girls start to be doing similar things. The Fengshui girls are all doing some incredibly synchronized ab routine to a Tina Turner song. Feng Xin decides not to ask. 

Then, she moves on to stretching. Starting with lunges, then sliding into a full split, and rolling from her left to her middle to her right split, then back again. Feng Xin grabs her dance bag and slides it under her front foot so the angle of her split increases, then goes through the routine. 

At some point, Xie Lian comes over. “Here’s a run of show.” She hands Feng Xin a sheet of paper with a spreadsheet printed on it, with everyone’s name listed alongside their company and variaition. 

Feng Xin finds herself quickly. Feng Xin - Diana Variation from Diana and Acteon - Heavenly Ballet School. 

Then, below it: Mu Qing - Satanella Variation from Satanella - Heavenly Ballet School, followed by Xie Lian - Aurora Act III Variation from Sleeping Beauty - Heavenly Ballet School.

“We can all go backstage together,” Xie Lian says happily. “Just like when we were little…”

“You’re feeling very sentimental, aren’t you,” Feng Xin remarks.

“How can I not be? In a year, we’ll all graduate, and maybe go to different companies and never see each other again—though I do hope we all get spots with Heavenly Ballet Company, wouldn’t that be amazing?”

“It would,” Feng Xin says, glancing over to where Mu Qing is talking to Ling Wen quietly in the corner.

Xie Lian tracks her gaze, then pinches her eyebrows together. “What exactly happened in that bathroom—“

“Twenty minutes until the performance begins!” Shi Qingxuan calls, which spurs movement all over the dressing room. 

“Shit,” Feng Xin says. “We should get into costume.”

Xie Lian nods. “Yep. Let me grab mine, can you hold a blanket or something up for me?”

Feng Xin nods. “Let me get my costume bag.”

Feng Xin holds up the towel for Xie Lian to change behind it. In a moment, Feng Xin puts the towel down, and smiles at her friend. 

Xie Lian looks beautiful—a true princess Aurora, in her sparkling wedding tutu. Yet, the jewels on her tutu could never outshine her dancing, or the sparkle in her eyes. 

“You look amazing,” Feng Xin says.

Xie Lian smiles back. “Thank you, Feng Xin.”

Feng Xin blinks. Maybe Xie Lian’s sentimental speeches were getting to her, but the corners of her mouth twist, and suddenly, she wraps Xie Lian in a hug—not caring that it’s crushing the front of her tutu, because she knows Xie Lian won’t care either. And Xie Lian hugs her back.

Then, Xie Lian whispers in Feng Xin’s ear. “Mu Qing likes you, you know. You two should try to figure things out.”

Feng Xin nods, then pulls away, fluffing up the front of Xie Lian’s tutu again to fix what was messed up in the hug.

Mu Qing comes up beside Feng Xin. She tilts her head to the side. “You know, the pink flowers on the tutu go well with your hair because of the warm undertones.”

That’s Mu Qing-speak for, you look absolutely drop dead gorgeous and I could kiss you right now .

Except Xie Lian isn’t the one Mu Qing kissed.

“I’ll change next,” Feng Xin says quickly, dragging over her costume bag. The other part of her costume, the prop bow, will be waiting backstage. The quickly ducks behind the towel that Xie Lian is now holding up, and strips down to her tights and skin-tone leotard, then pulls the costume over it: a heavily embellished leotard with a red Greek chiton sewn over it.

And yeah, the costume is designed to look like only one of her boobs is covered, but she has a leotard on! Mu Qing was being ridiculous. “Done,” Feng Xin announces, and Xie Lian pulls away the sheet.

“Pretty,” Xie Lian says, admiring the gold embroidery on the edges of the sleeves.

“My turn,” Mu Qing says, bringing over her tutu bag. “Xie Lian, can you—“

“Yeah, no problem.”

Feng Xin sits back down in front of the mirror, getting a big brush and dusting gold glitter across her collarbone and shoulders. It’s ballet. You can never have too much glitter.

After a moment, Feng Xin turns around, wondering if Mu Qing’s done yet so maybe she can borrow that lip gloss instead… but upon seeing Mu Qing, Feng Xin wonders if she’ll ever be able to form a coherent sentence again.

Mu Qing is standing in her tutu, Xie Lian behind her, folding up the towel. The tutu is beautiful—a black tulle skirt with lace overlay and silver embroidery along the edges, with matching lace and silver on the bodice. The bodice itself is a subtle black velvet, and the matching choker—

Mu Qing notices Feng Xin looking. “What?”

“I… um… nothing,” Feng Xin says, trying to look anywhere but Mu Qing’s face. Because while the tutu is beautiful, it isn’t the tutu that’s the problem, it’s the girl wearing it.

“That tutu is stunning ,” Xie Lian says, putting into words what Feng Xin couldn’t seem to say. Xie Lian glances at Mu Qing once more, then down at Feng Xin—and she fucking winks.

Mu Qing thanks Xie Lian quietly, then sits back down beside Feng Xin, pulling a zip-up hoodie over her shoulders to stay warm.

She looks so beautiful.

If Feng Xin was a different person, she’d be worried—threatened, even, by Mu Qing’s beauty, especially when they’re in such close competition, but Feng Xin isn’t a different person, she’s just Feng Xin, and Feng Xin knows for a fact that Mu Qing is so, so pretty.

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing says. “Can you do me in to the tutu?”

Feng Xin nods numbly, and she and Mu Qing stand, Feng Xin gripping the hooks and eyes on the back of Mu Qing’s tutu.

Tutus are designed to be oppressive, really—tightly starched satin holding a dancer together and upright, and making them sparkle under stage lights, but Mu Qing wears it with such ease. 

Feng Xin starts with the bottom hook and eye, pulling them together, and sliding the latch into the slot. There are maybe about two inches between Feng Xin’s face, tilted down in concentration, and Mu Qing’s neck. 

Feng Xin does the next hook and eye. Mu Qing’s back flexes slightly as she shifts from foot to foot. Hook. Eye. Mu Qing’s eyes, piercing, as she’d stared into Feng Xin’s last night after pulling away from their kiss.

Hook! Eye!

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing whispers. “Do you—“

Yes .

“I didn’t finish my sentence,” Mu Qing says.

“…I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” Feng Xin realizes.

Mu Qing turns, the top half of her tutu still undone. She grabs Feng Xin’s hand. Feng Xin hadn’t noticed before, but she’s wearing lace gloves that match her tutu and choker—all part of the iconic Satanella variation costume. “Let’s go,” Mu Qing mutters.

“Why—“

“Just fucking follow me.” Mu Qing drags Feng Xin away from the mirror, past the Xuli girls stretching and the Fengshui girls taking selfies, past Xie Lian, out the door, and into the hallway.

“Mu Qing—mmph!”

Suddenly, Feng Xin can’t protest anymore, because her mouth is otherwise occupied. Mu Qing’s hands are cupping her cheeks, pulling her closer. The front of Mu Qing’s tutu is itchy against Feng Xin’s legs, but she doesn’t mind.

Feng Xin sinks into the kiss, one arm wrapping around Mu Qing’s waist, the other, pressed against the back of her head, pulling them even closer together.

Mu Qing kisses like a dancer—soft, graceful, and really nothing more than a simple exchange of energy not unlike ballet partnering. Feng Xin can feel the soft velvet and the lace appliqué of Mu Qing’s tutu under her fingers, and even when Mu Qing pulls away, she doesn’t let go of the other girl’s waist.

“Is this…” Feng Xin says, rubbing the lace fabric of Mu Qing’s tutu between two fingers. “Is this going to be a thing now?”

“Do you want it to be a thing?”

“Yes,” Feng Xin responds, “A lot.”

Mu Qing kisses her again.

જ⁀➴

“Feng Xin, Mu Qing, Xie Lian, on deck,” a staff member ducks into the room. “Feng Xin, you’re on in ten. I trust the two of you know how long you have after that?”

Feng Xin nods, and behind her, Mu Qing wrings her hands aggressively.

Feng Xin is generally very good at not getting nervous. But obviously, something like this is stressful. It’s not the fact that she’s doing a solo—she’s done plenty of solos before. It’s the fact that the audience is all dancers, girl and boys trained sixteen hours a week to have impeccable technique—which means they’ll be able to see any flaws in hers.

It also isn’t helpful that she’s the first dancer from Heavenly Ballet School to perform this evening. Curse you, alphabetical order.

“Let’s go,” Xie Lian says, grabbing Feng Xin’s hand with one hand and taking a reluctant Mu Qing in the other. Feng Xin peels a leg warmer off her leg, scans herself—no hair ties on her wrists, no warm ups (one time, she forgot to take her bike shorts off for a show, and was wearing them the whole time under her Nutcracker party girl dress).

“Let’s go,” Feng Xin echoes, and allows Xie Lian to drag her out of the room as all the girls chorus their ‘good lucks’ and ‘merdes’. Feng Xin glances at Mu Qing for a moment, and Mu Qing is looking straight back… the eye contact burns. Mu Qing’s lipstick is slightly smeared.

“Your lipstick,” Feng Xin says, pointing to Mu Qing’s lower lip.

Mu Qing touches it, dabbing at the skin with her finger. “It’s smeared.”

“Yeah.”

“Your fault.”

“I know,” Feng Xin says. 

Xie Lian looks between the two of them curiously. “Are either of you going to tell me what happened last night—“

“After the show,” Mu Qing says quickly. “I don’t want to distract you.” 

“We don’t want to distract you,” Feng Xin adds.

“Kinda seems like you already have,” Xie Lian says, shrugging. “But it’s okay! We’re all going to do great.”

“We are!” Feng Xin affirms.

They reach the door to the backstage. There’s a big sign on it that says, in thick letters, ‘Quiet! The Audience can hear you.’

If only there was a single dancer who ever actually heeded that warning. Feng Xin’s talked past these signs, both backstage and onstage, too many times to count.

Xie Lian tugs open the door, and Feng Xin and Mu Qing follow, Mu Qing walking in sideways so her tutu doesn’t get messed up.

Some kind person placed a tin of hairspray on a little plastic table, and the whole room reeks of the scent, from stressed dancers plastering their hair down to their scalp one last time before getting on stage.

Next to it is the prop table, and Feng Xin spots her wooden bow--spray-painted gold, and neatly labelled alongside a couple other Diana bows for other girls doing the same variation. She picks it up, turning it over in her hands.

Through the door, Feng Xin can hear music—the Awakening of Flora Variation, to be exact—playing, and she knows that door must lead to the theater, which does not help with her nerves.

The same staff member from earlier pokes her head out from that door. “Feng Xin, Mu Qing, please come backstage. Xie Lian, please wait a moment.”

They all nod, because they are nothing if not polite ballet girls, then Feng Xin and Mu Qing exchange a glance, and step through the doors.

Instantly, Feng Xin breaks out into a smile—how could she not? This is the best part of dancing. Tape marks on stage floors, backdrops hanging from ropes and pulleys, and bright, blinding, sparkling lights. The theater is a hazy dream.

The Awakening of Flora girl finishes, and another girl walks out of the wings to perform her variation: The Fairy of Wit, from Sleeping Beauty.

Feng Xin takes a deep breath. One more minute, then it’s her turn. She rolls through her feet in her pointe shoes, checks her ribbons, tugs on the bobby pins holding her headpiece down.

Feng Xin glances at Mu Qing. The variation currently performing is almost over.

“I would kiss you right now,” Mu Qing whispers, “but I don’t want to smudge your lipstick.”

Feng Xin smiles. She can’t help it.

The variation on stage finishes with a flourish in the music, and Feng Xin steps into the wings, away from Mu Qing.

“Merde,” Mu Qing whispers.

Feng Xin rolls her eyes. “Fuck you.” Then, she steps out onto the stage.

“Feng Xin from Heavenly Ballet School, performing the Diana Variation from Diana and Acteon in the ballet La Esmeralda,” comes over the speakers, but Feng Xin doesn’t hear.

She stands in b-plus in the center of the stage, staring up and out into the darkness of the audience. The stage lights catch her eyelashes. Feng Xin takes a deep breath, settling into her character.

The music starts. 5! 6! 7! 8!

Plié, arabesque tilt, glissade, cut through coup de pied, pique into an attitude turn. Again!

The music transforms Feng Xin from herself to Diana, bow in hand, goddess of archery. Her skirt swishes against her thighs as she does each step. The bow is growing warm in her sweaty hands.

Feng Xin reaches the hardest section of the variation: eight Italian fouettés, possibly one of the hardest kinds of turns in ballet (and much harder than normal fouettés, in Feng Xin’s opinion).

She breathes, settling into her fourth position for just a split second, focusing her eyes on the barely-visible red exit sign at the back of the theater--the perfect place to spot in order for her turns to stay structured.

Plié, developé, fouetté! Eight times over. Feng Xin grips the bow over her head, holding her arms up in an almost-perfect fifth position after each turn. Faster than it should have been, the turns are over, the audience is clapping politely, and Feng Xin is moving through the next section of the variation.

A count of ballet runs, precipite, piqué arabesque, bow still in hand, like she’s shooting some ancient prey.

Chassé back, tourjeté jump, pique arabesque again.

Almost there. Almost fucking there.

As Feng Xin chassés back against, she catches a glimpse of a girl in a black tutu and choker in the wings--grinning like a fucking idiot. And Feng Xin is grinning like an idiot, too.

Feng Xin sets up at the corner of the stage for the last bit of the variation--three piqué stepover turns, occasionally called lame ducks, into a tendu to finish. Her legs are sharp and precise underneath her as she steps into each turn.

Land in tendu, finish, pull one arm back like she’s shooting her bow, and the crowd applauds.

Out of the corner of her eye, Feng Xin sees Mu Qing in the wind, clapping, and Feng Xin thinks her heart could explode right there.

Feng Xin curtsies and runs off the stage like a dancer. As soon as she’s behind the sight lines, where the audience can’t see, she doubles over, gasping for breath.

Then, over the speakers: “Mu Qing from Heavenly Ballet School, performing the Satanella Variation from the ballet Satanella.”

Feng Xin stands suddenly, even though she’s still out of breath. The stage manager motions for her to move along. “That’s my… friend,” Feng Xin whispers. “Can I watch her?”

“Of course,” the stage manager whispers back. “Just clear out ASAP, okay? Beautiful job, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Feng Xin breathes, moving over slightly so she has a view of the stage without being in the way of the crew.

Mu Qing’s music starts, and Feng Xin’s heart jumps in her chest.

Watching Mu Qing dance is like watching a metronome, a machine, a beautifully crafted ornamental timepiece. 

Each step is precise and exact, but each movement is so full of emotion. Mu Qing is a perfect Satanella.

The stage lights catch on the sparkling lace on Mu Qing’s tutu as she moves through the steps of her variation. Feng Xin’s prop bow is digging into the palm of her hand, she’s clutching it so tight.

Mu Qing’s makeup is, as always, expertly done for stage, too, but it’s her lip gloss in particular that catches Feng Xin’s eye. 

The stuff from Jian Lan, the stuff in that bathroom last night, the stuff that Feng Xin had been wiping from her own lips in the hotel bathroom after truth or dare, even if she knew she’d wear that lip gloss on her lips forever, if it was applied in the same way.

Feng Xin catches herself holding her breath as Mu Qing moves through a series of knuckled piqué-souteneaus, tiny, quick turns, as precise and mechanical as the rest of the variation.

Mu Qing is flirting with the audience, too, as required of Satanella. A wink tossed in the judge’s direction after an echappé, a smug smile. Mu Qing is Satanella, and Satanella is Mu Qing.

All of a sudden, Mu Qing’s variation over, and she’s curtsying to the audience, and Feng Xin is cursing herself for not being the first one to clap, but she claps all the same.

Mu Qing walks off the stage too slowly for Feng Xin’s liking, but as soon as she’s off, she tilts over slightly, the post-performance fatigue setting in.

Then, she looks up and sees Feng Xin. Their eyes meet, and Mu Qing is grabbing Feng Xin’s hand like she did earlier in the dressing room, and Feng Xin knows exactly what that means.

“Don’t you want to watch Xie Lian--”

“I’ve already watched her variation a thousand times, it’ll be perfect,” Mu Qing says dismissively. “However, Ju Yang, if you don’t kiss me to oblivion right now, I might go to the judges and tell them you’re trying to emotionally sabotage me.”

As soon as they’re out of the backstage, tucked behind a rack of costumes, Feng Xin obliges.

જ⁀➴

“Now, for the Girls’ Senior Division Classical,” the award announcer says. Feng Xin’s entire body tenses, because now, every word matters.

“In sixth place, Jian Lan, Heavenly Ballet School,” the announcer says.

Xie Lian, from her place beside Feng Xin, lets out a wild cheer as the crowd applauds. Mu Qing gives Jian Lan a high five as she passes by on the way to get her award.

“In fifth place, He Xuan, Ghost City Ballet.”

“In fourth place, Shi Qingxuan, Fengshui Pre-professional Ballet Academy.”

Three more names, and Feng Xin can already hear them: Feng Xin, Mu Qing, and Xie Lian.

“In third place, Yushi Huang, Xuli School of Ballet.”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing exchange a glance, eyes widening in unison. Is it possible that one of the three of them didn’t place? That’s never happened before. Especially at a competition that is so strictly in classical ballet, which the Heavenly Ballet School is the best in.

“In second place,” the announcer begins, and Feng Xin’s heart is beating at a thousand miles per hour, “we have a tie.”

Mu Qing stares at Feng Xin, the shock in her eyes mirroring how Feng Xin feels.

“Both from the same school…”

Feng Xin takes Mu Qing’s hand, already getting ready to stand up, because now, she knows.

“Feng Xin and Mu Qing, from the Heavenly Ballet School!”

They stand up together, hands still entwined. From behind them, Xie Lian is screaming her head off, and clapping like her life depends on it.

At the podium, one of the judges hands a trophy to Feng Xin, then one to Mu Qing. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Mu Qing says.

“Yeah, thank you,” Feng Xin echoes, not taking her eyes off the way Mu Qing is grinning. They go to join the rest of the line of girls standing with their trophies.

“Now, in first place, winner of this year’s competition…”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing turn their heads to Xie Lian, still sitting down on the floor, as do the heads of practically everyone in the room.

“Xie Lian from Heavenly Ballet School!”

Feng Xin shares a smile with Mu Qing as Xie Lian comes up to get her trophy, then stands in line next to Feng Xin.

As the audience goes wild, Feng Xin takes Mu Qing’s hand again when they both curtsy to the audience, and everything is perfect.