Chapter Text
January Stirling’s death knell was not a death knell at all, but a phone call. He’d only just gotten around to going to the doctor last week; Swan Lake had eaten his life. It was nothing but rehearsal and performance, day in and day out for months, to the exclusion of aught else—he only went at his director’s insistence, and only after closing night. It turned out to be the biggest mistake of his life.
The doctor had frowned when January mentioned his hip pain, almost offhandedly on his way out the door. “You said you’re a dancer?” she inquired, brow furrowed. It had only taken a little further probing for her to reach her hypothesis of labral tears, “probably two or three of them, because of the severity,” and to recommend the cessation of ballet that instant. January had protested, but she had merely waved him off; sent him home with a referral to Radiology at some hospital and the crushing knowledge that his life had been irrevocably changed. All that was left was to find out how much it had changed—to that end, he’d gone to the hospital, gotten the scans, and was now waiting with bated breath for the outcome.
The interim was depressing—of course it was. January thought he reserved the right to be depressed after the complete and total destruction of everything he’d worked for since the age of eight. He did what drills he could, but now he had stopped, dancing through the pain had gotten much harder—meanwhile, the company wouldn’t even let him through the door. That’s how he ended up spending at least a week doing the same sad rotation between his bed, the sitting-room floor, and the computer, researching the best private surgeons for tendon repair near London.
The all-important call came, as important phone calls always seemed to come, at an inconvenient time; someone’s birthday party, house strung with streamers and everyone tipsy off of red wine or cheap beer. January abandoned his game of UNO, cards sliding across the table, and hurried outside into the humid night, eager to hear the results of his scan.
“This is January,” he said by way of greeting.
On the other end of the line, Dr. Lawrence cut right to the point. “Mr. Stirling, I’ve got your results in. Are you somewhere private?”
“Private enough.”
She sighed. January could almost see her unimpressed stare over her rimless glasses, shot at him a million times through the course of this terrible ordeal. “Well, I’d just like you to know that it’s serious. We’re looking at surgery, and at least three months of physio. Even after all of that, it’s unlikely you’ll be dancing again.”
January’s extremities were all gone over to pins and needles, Dr. Lawrence’s voice turned tinny and distant. Unlikely to be dancing again.
He spent a very long time in silence, turning the fact over and over in his mind. It was over; just like that, it was all over.
Slowly, he became aware of the phone call he was still on, Dr. Lawrence trying to get his attention on the other end— “Mr. Stirling? Mr. Stirling, are you still there?”
January grit his teeth, hung up on her, and stormed inside. It was so just so stupid—in every movie, there was something massive that ended the dancer’s career. A bad fall, an injury from a rival, something big and dramatic and life-changing; none of this sorry mate, career’s over, take it up with the massive tears in your hip nonsense. But fate had no such courtesy for January.
Anger still boiling in him like a pot that had been left on the stove too long, January stormed back into the house to sulk, feeling curiously isolated from his own surroundings. It was like he had taken a backseat in his own body; like his autonomic nervous system had overridden any of January’s own desires.
Apparently, his autonomic nervous system wanted to sulk in the corner of their director’s sitting room with a can of beer. Couldn’t blame it, really.
January didn’t know how long he sat there, watching everyone else enjoy themselves—when he wasn’t panicking about where he’d go from here, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if this is what the rest of his life would be like. Would it all be an extension of this party—drinking and watching everyone have fun without him via the company Instagram?
It was only when Annie settled into the armchair next to him that he was pulled out of his own self-pity. “Hey,” he greeted her, not looking up from his beer.
“Hi, you.” she said gently. “All right? How are you doing?”
“Eh. Pissed off, mostly,” he informed her carefully; carefully, because you sounded like a prick if you went around whinging about your problems every time someone greeted you with an all right, especially if the career of the person you were talking to had been cut violently short much the same way. “They want me to get surgery.”
Annie nodded, her expression the picture of sympathy. “Well, that’s to be expected. You’ve lived and breathed ballet for…?”
“Twenty-eight years,” he supplied miserably.
She sighed. “Yeah. It sucks, it really does. But there’s other options—your life’s not over yet.”
“So someone’s sent you over here to reassure me, then?” January queried. “My options are changing careers at thirty-six or spending three months on crutches and even more time in physio just to maybe keep dancing as a hobby. I have to say, I’m not feeling very reassured.” He was trying for joking; it came out rather more depressed than that.
Suddenly, a thought hit him. “What made you stop? Why’d you start teaching instead of getting surgery?”
She shrugged. “I don’t really know. I guess—I just came to this fork in the road. I could take the hard way—you know, physio and surgery, be in pain all the time but have most of my old capabilities back, or I could just live my life. And I considered it seriously for a while, but…I think I was just done. I’d done everything I’d wanted to do, and now teaching scratches the itch easily enough.”
Well, that was something. January turned it over in his mind; would he be okay with that? Teaching ballet at some school in Moscow, watching everyone else have what he couldn’t? Abruptly, he found that the answer was no—he wasn’t done just yet.
“You know,” Annie started, “I don’t want to push you into making a decision one way or the other, but when I was in physio, my doctor talked to me about a surgeon named Okonkwo. Allegedly, they’re one of the best; got Valentin back on his feet last year. They’d probably take a look at you.”
January couldn’t believe what they were hearing. “And they’ve worked with dancers before?” Nobody else he’d talked to had even known what to do with him, just told him to sit down and pray it didn’t get worse. If he had a real shot at dancing again, he was going to seize it with both hands.
Annie nodded. “Yeah.”
“Sounds excellent. Who do I need to email?”
She sighed. “Well, that’s the thing. They practise in Tharsis—Tharsis, Minnesota.”
Well, shit.
73 days later
January inclined his head in greeting at the pair of receptionists manning the front desk at the hospital.
“Morning, January!” one of them called out—they were young and doggedly determined to learn and remember the name of every single regular. January supposed that included him, now. He didn’t know why that sent such a bolt of uneasiness through him. It’s just for a couple more weeks, he told himself. Just until your labrum is properly healed. Then you can fuck right back off to London.
The smile he shot at them was thin, and January hoped it didn’t seem forced. “Morning.”
Because the building was a terrible steel-and-glass labyrinth with no regard for the laws of Euclidean geometry, January had to make several turns down a technically-straight hallway to reach the waiting room for physio. Normally, it was empty—the reason January had chosen 8:30 on Mondays for his appointments in the first place—but today, someone else had stationed themself in the corner, directly where the massive floor-to-ceiling windows met regular drywall.
January settled in a chair across from them and tried to occupy himself with his phone, scrolling idly through Instagram. It was a futile endeavor, though; he found his attention drawn irresistibly to the person directly across from him, an odd sense of dèja vu chewing at the edges of his brain.
At first glance, they seemed like some sort of academic—the sort of tweedy person most at home in a lecture hall, or at an academic conference for some esoteric field. Slouchy knit blazer, tweed trousers, the whole nine yards. However, the way they held themself belied the impression; they shone with sheer confidence, the kind of self-assurance that only came with extreme skill or extreme arrogance. It wasn’t an attitude common in any of the academics January had ever met. He was curious to see which one it was.
As January watched, a phone started ringing from somewhere. Maybe-An-Academic scowled and started checking their pockets, eventually liberating an impressively recent-model cell phone.
“Senator Gale speaking,” they said evenly; recollection hit January like a bolt of lightning. He wasn’t typically the sort to recognise politicians—he was neither in the field nor Too Involved, as people who recognised members of the state legislature often were—but most politicians weren’t in the habit of putting their faces on the yard signs that their gubernatorial campaigns gave out.
January scrutinised Gale, now engrossed in their phone call. Yes, it was certainly the same person—the same glittering, fathomless black eyes, the same face as pale and distant as a full moon.
“My answer is no, and that’s final.” January caught them saying—he tuned back in, fascinated.
“Look, we simply don’t have the energy capacity to be taking in extra people right now.” they continued sharply. “If Governor Song insists on the resettlement program, countless people are going to die. It’s just a fact—the energy grid is already overtaxed.”
Oh, shit; January had heard of this. The wildfires in Canada had started up again—out of season, but wasn’t that just par for the course with what was happening to the planet—wrecking the air quality and destroying acres of people’s properties. Large swathes of the land had become uninhabitable for the time being; with no other options, the Canadian government had looked to the United States for help.
Gale paused as the person on the end of the line made their rebuttal, pinching the bridge of their nose as though warding off a headache. “Two thousand people is more than we can afford to take on. We’re anticipating one of our worst winters on record—we cannot ask the people of this state to suffer power cuts during that time period.” They paused again. “Alright. Well, pleasure doing business with you.”
The call was hung up, and the cell phone stowed; Gale sighed, turning to January with a self-deprecating look on their face. “Apologies for subjecting you to that.”
January started—he still hadn’t quite gotten used to the friendliness inherent to the culture here. It was a bit absurd; no one would dream of talking to a stranger in a waiting room in London or Moscow. “It’s fine. Work, am I right?” January quipped, doing his best impression of someone who had ever had to send an email as part of his job.
Gale sighed. “Indeed. What do you do?”
January flushed with embarrassment—he always felt ridiculous talking about it in public. “I’m—well, was—a ballet dancer.”
Gale leaned forward, looking fascinated; genuinely interested, instead of the false veneer people sometimes put on when they were trying to be polite. “Really? Would I have ever seen you in anything?”
Oh, Christ. “Yeah. I used to be principal dancer at the Royal Ballet.”
“That would explain the accent—you’re a long way from home. And now what are you doing?” Gale inquired.
January’s heart sank. As much as ballet was difficult to talk about, this was worse—he was doing nothing. Blowing through his savings at a hotel downtown, mindlessly scrolling Instagram and watching reality TV. Waiting for Dr. Okonkwo to clear him to dance again. “This.” he explained, with a very distinct air of forced casualness. “Came here for treatment—tore my hip. Got some surgery. Now…just waiting.”
He sighed “Sorry. That’s massively depressing, I’ve just realised.”
Gale had the grace not to cringe. “Don’t worry—I asked.” They extended a hand for a handshake. “I’m River Gale, but I suspect you knew that already.”
“January Stirling,” he responded. “Sorry, I’m not very solid on American politics. You’re a…?”
“State senator. So, we’ve got a bicameral legislature—a bit like your Houses, but ours are both elected. There’s 67 state districts; the Legislature has two officials elected from each, the Senate has one. Proposed bills get debated there, and both need to pass it before it goes to the governor for approval.” they explained. “Does that make any sense?”
“Not really, but it couldn't possibly be worse than the British system. Why’s the power your problem?” January inquired.
Gale sighed. “As with most of the problems in our democracy, I’m on a committee; picked from the unfit to do the unnecessary, as it were.”
“And Minnesota won’t take in the wildfire refugees because of the power.”
They winced. “So you were paying attention. Indeed.” they confirmed, shifting into what January immediately clocked as their Speech Voice, “Renewable energy is wonderful, both for the community and the environment. However, we rather rushed into the implementation of it in our community.” They sighed—the Speech Voice dissipated. “We sold the contract to a gas company that decided to branch out into solar; they are, obviously, not doing well. I don’t really…” Gale trailed off.
Something about that rubbed January the wrong way. It was just such a waste of power—if you had the ability to change something, you did it. You couldn’t just lie down and say oh well, nothing we can do, suppose those people are just going to have to die— it was a failure of duty. Senator Gale was failing those people.
Heart in his throat, January said his piece. “With all due respect, Senator—absolutely not. You said you had a certain amount of dominion over the power? Then fix it. Where else are those people going to go? I realise it’s not that simple, but you have an obligation to try.”
January felt terrified the instant that the words left his mouth. What now? There was nothing in his mind but fear; fear of the the yawning dropoff of uncertainty, the unknown.
Gale leaned back in their chair, prosthetic clicking as they took their weight off it. Their jet-black eyes glittered. “Mr. Stirling, infinite apologies if this is too forward—but would you like a spot on my team?”
January was startled. “What?”
“You’re brave enough to fight me on things,” Gale explained. “Not many people are. I’m running for governor; it would be useful to have someone like you on the Gale 2026 team.”
January didn’t have to think about it for long; what else was he really doing? “I’d be honoured, Senator.” he responded, and they smiled.
“River Gale?” A voice called from the front desk, and Gale inclined their head to January.
“I look forward to working with you,” they said, and if January was willing to admit that that smoked-whisky voice did something odd to his heart, then—well. That would just have to be dealt with later. Much later, if he had anything to say about it.