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Every art form Izumi has chosen to revolve his life around has presented the same paradox — whether fashion, idol activities or ballet, they force companionship into an everyday that at the same time demands rugged individualism. He would be nothing without the networks he's formed throughout his years of work in the public eye, but those same people could just as well turn against each other when the industry gets more competitive.
So two people in a dance studio make for a room that's both too sparse and too crowded.
The timer ticks up to one minute and forty-seven seconds once Arashi gets to her feet. "You're getting better," Izumi tells her. "No use being like some of the corps de ballet dancers in my company, who take the time in between barre and centre to snack and check their phones. What's the point of getting into a flow state just to fall out of it?"
"Oh, I could be daydreaming right now." Arashi rolls her ankles precisely thrice, testing the wrap of the elastics and ribbons. The first few times she put on her pointe shoes, the elastics went undone in the middle of an exercise and nearly made her shoe fall off, threatening her ankle in the process. "You can hardly blame me for having an overactive imagination. Most young girls have dreamt of being a ballerina at some point."
"You're not young, though."
Arashi claps the back of her hand to her forehead in a mock swoon against the barre. "So cruel! Now I understand why people sigh about the wickedness of dance teachers."
Izumi grabs her arm and hauls her upright. "Don't lean. Let's start with simple rises, first position."
The ballerinas of old, practising backstage in the Teatro alla Scala, would rise en pointe rapidly before lowering to their ankles slowly in what is now called a scáfuri, meant to build up calf and ankle strength. But now, with pointe shoes being several times more advanced in both support and price, the time spent en pointe need not be briefly endured. So, with the beginning of pleasant piano music, Izumi stands behind Arashi as she places her hands on the barre and rises en pointe slowly. She holds her position for four counts, the only indication of her effort being the thin line of her mouth, before sinking back down through the next two counts.
For her fourth month of training to dance in pointe shoes, she could be worse — especially as somebody who hasn't had every muscle in her body stretched to their absolute limits, as most dancers have. Arashi exhales softly as she rises en pointe once more, eyes darting to look at him. He doesn't snap at her for that.
Arashi started out wobbling so badly, grabbing the barre like it was her last tether to life, that Izumi almost suggested she give up. She wouldn't have been the first — some dancers simply aren't capable of going en pointe, and he's lost contact with a few classmates from his old ballet school because their lack of ankle strength got them kicked out. Like every other art form, this one casts those unable to keep up from its gilded pantheon, and ballerinas-to-be fall farther than most.
But now, Arashi doesn't have to be told as the next piece comes on and she tendus to second position. That's when Izumi breaks the vow of silence that dancers are supposed to take on once they start to move — "You're not rolling your foot all the way past the box. Let's try that again."
Arashi lets go of the barre for a moment to shake out the tension in her hands, back muscles shifting above the hem of her leotard. "I'm pointing as much as I can."
"It's not enough, you need to be trying to have the entire box touch the floor." After Arashi tries again and fails, Izumi actually, honestly drops into a crouch and wraps his fingers around her ankle. "Tendu again, and this time engage your entire leg. It's just like doing a tendu with soft shoes but with more effort."
When her leg is extended halfway to second position, Izumi's free hand grabs the underside of Arashi's shoe, rosin scraping against well-treated leather. He pushes against the curve of her arch, yanking her foot towards him when he feels her try and bend her ankle the wrong way. A sickled foot could mean a stumble at best, a broken bone at worst.
Arashi fights him, of course, because even here she can't say no to a joust prettied up with ribbon and satin. Izumi sees a bit of the fire that prima ballerinas have in her, then, and holds on even as Arashi extends her point to an acceptable level.
"Hold that position," he orders, "for eight counts — one, two, three..."
He can see Arashi's calf muscles shifting under her tights, her lips pursed as she strains to keep her position. Izumi's almost considering offering her some form of encouragement before her leg twitches, breaking out of his grip to catch him in the chest.
The music doesn't stop as Izumi sprawls backwards, just narrowly avoiding hitting his head against the floor. "Fucking bitch!" He shouts on instinct, the lights flaring in his vision.
A stream of giggles quickly follows, then the familiar patter of pointe shoes against the dance floor. For a moment he thinks he's back in Florence, and then Arashi's smiling face appears above him. "I'm sorry," she says, not sounding very sorry. "I'm not very used to such rough treatment."
"Of all the things that make you unsuited to dancing ballet, your impertinence might be the most damning." But Izumi accepts Arashi's outstretched hand and gets to his feet. They return to the barre, and he yanks his hand away. "Regardless, I trust you'll be able to extend your tendu properly this time. If it goes back to being subpar tomorrow, I'll kick you back."
The rest of the barre exercises continue without many problems, though Izumi has to resist the urge to physically correct Arashi's form. Her sous sous, or rising en pointe in fifth position, could use a little work. The lines her legs form are still a little knobbly and rigid, with her knees not overextended the way a professional dancer's might be and her ankles aren't pressed together enough to support her all the way through.
But, having argued with his ballet master in Florence about the kind of image he gives off, Izumi's aware that demanding all dancers adhere to the classical silhouette is bound to leave some out — some that have trained just as hard, if not more than their colleagues who can pull off the perfect ballets blanc imagery with no effort at all. So he simply gestures for Arashi to stand at the centre of the studio, her feet turned out in first position. "Of course I know how pointe exercises work in theory, but there's only so much I can teach you. There are some things that even I haven't learnt."
"That's natural," Arashi says airily. She rises en pointe for a few seconds, hands flung out haphazardly to balance herself. "Ballerinas are typically the star of the show. Boys like you only exist to do the heavy lifting and twirling us around."
"Yet last I checked, I was the one teaching you. And you're hardly a real ballerina; only professionals who get promoted to principal dancer deserve that title." Yet it doesn't take a seasoned professional to see that the gap between dancer and danseur appears miles wide. Not many ballet students are able to start out dancing as one then take on the other as the years go by, their bodies having been trained to either dance en pointe or emulate flight. The number who have made that leap and still have professional careers as adults is even smaller.
If either of them were alive a hundred years ago, they wouldn't have had the chance to learn ballet, let alone try to be good at it. Even now, the theatres within which the art form was created hem and haw for ages before giving people like them a chance to shine on their hallowed stages. But knights are nothing if not arbiters of fairness and justice, and Izumi will stop at nothing for himself — and Arashi, he supposes — to be seen in the same light.
"Arms in bra bas," he clarifies, picking up his phone. "Without the barre to support you, you'll have to engage your core and your lower back muscles so you don't fall over. And remember to plié before and after going en pointe."
Of course Arashi doesn't look shaken, even though Izumi has spent every lesson this past month visualising her crashing to the floor whenever she does pointe work away from the barre. Dancing en pointe is a struggle enough already, even more so for somebody starting to learn in their late teens. But then, he's never known Arashi to turn down a chance to make herself look nicer, no matter how difficult.
"What's wrong?" Arashi glances at him, hands on her hips. "Was I too stunning? Are you scrapping your lesson plan and figuring out which actual variation I should learn first?"
"In your dreams." Izumi starts the music again. "After you're done with rises in first position, we'll go straight to second, then fourth and fifth. No need for me to babysit you."
As she begins, Izumi cannot help bracing himself for a gasp or a crash, or even the heartrending cry of a dancer who knows that their career has been cut short. But it never comes. Arashi has never suffered a fall worse than a hasty stumble in her three years of idol training. Still, some shrivelled frigid part of Izumi knows that it's not impossible for him to stop the music and demand she take off her pointe shoes, to quit before she grows too confident for either of them to handle or before she gets hurt. Nothing comes of such risky performances when he's the only one who can appreciate them.
Then the first exercise ends and Arashi tendus to second position, the curve of her leg, from her hip down to the satiny sheen of her shoe, an elegant arch against the grey floor. She doesn't turn her head, but her eyes flick towards him between each rise. They've been each other's audiences for more than a decade, it would be unconscionable for him to leave her behind now.
On the last rise, Arashi tips forward and doesn't right herself in time. Something like a hot coal in his chest, Izumi rushes towards the centre and grabs her hands before she can fall.
Arashi slams back onto her heels, hunching over with a sigh. "I did everything you told me to."
"Then you're not doing them well enough." He has no idea what else he can say, with only two years of company experience under his belt. It's not lost on Izumi that his footsteps as he ran were the whisper of his soft shoes, not the brisk click-clack of a teacher's shoes, with them taking part in none of the actual dancing. "Go have a stretch and try again. If you want any more feedback, you're going to have to find an actual teacher."
"Ah, but I won't be able to talk back to an actual teacher the way I do with you." Arashi doesn't let go of him, swinging her leg around to release tension.
Of course, neither of them states the obvious. Arashi will never take ballet classes outside of ES for the same reason Izumi knows it might take him twice as long to be promoted to soloist. Regardless, he will work hard, pour blood, sweat and tears to be the best performer possible, and never do it with his head down.
"Let's go again," Arashi says, squeezing his hands. "I think I might be able to talk Hibiki into giving me a ballet-ish part in our next production — it's what our unit is known for, thanks to you — and it won't do for me to be stumbling around like a baby deer if that happens."
"If you're not cut out for dancing away from the barre — "
A faint sting radiates from his calf, made even worse by the pointe shoe. "Maybe I will find a teacher who actually believes in me."
"It's not that I don't believe in you, Naru, it's that you're so mediocre while dancing en pointe that you're likely to break your ankles if you keep going. When that happens, don't come crying to me when you miss a bunch of gigs — "
Arashi lets go of Izumi then, but not without giving him a harsh shove to the shoulder. "Again," she repeats, and the resolve in her eyes almost makes him step back. "I don't care how many times I fall, we'll stop when I say so."
He doesn't bother letting Arashi goad him into a staring contest. The two of them could bicker all day, but they've got things to do after this. So Izumi prods Arashi in the sternum before going to switch the music on again. "Fine, it's your funeral. But we're only repeating each exercise once today, no matter how desperately you want to masquerade as a real ballet dancer."
In response, she purses her lips in a way that looks objectively kissable but admission of which would have to be waterboarded out of Izumi. "I'll make it count."
Arashi stands in second position as the music starts, and even now Izumi can feel his heart in his throat. But there's a sharpness to Arashi's gaze now, the supple lines of her limbs reinforced with steel. Her right arm curves fluently in front of her as she tendus to fourth position and continues, voiceless while her every movement sings of freedom and new horizons. Unpolished as she is, Izumi can't bring himself to look away.
She looks like she's daring to touch the sky every time she rises en pointe, chin raised and a smile on her lips despite the occasional wobble. Every ballet dancer has likely wanted to achieve what seems impossible to regular people — most want to support their entire body weights on the tips of their toes, or leap so high it seems like they can defy gravity. Of course, the two of them want to rise so high that any hurdle to their careers simply becomes another speck on the ground. Izumi can only dare to dream of the day he flies for the sun and isn't sent careening to his death.
Most dancers with that dream wise up before they get burnt alive, but neither he nor Arashi are the type — "don't focus your gaze too high up or you might fall backwards," Izumi tells her.
So Arashi looks at him instead, because of course she does, and Izumi shuts his mouth. He doesn't call out the critiques he longs to give, content to watch the studio lights halo Arashi's golden hair and illuminate her careful ascent.
As she begins her rises in fifth position, twin gazes turn towards the mirror. Izumi has nothing more to say. Coltish and amateur as she is, yet so infuriatingly sure of herself, Arashi manages to seize a few seconds of stardom for herself. It's in those tiny periods of time when she's en pointe that it seems she's reached her goal, that she's skipped over the years of toiling to appear like an etoile.
But when the exercise is over and she sinks to her heels, the rounded arms of her bra bas are a little uneven where they curve in front of her, her legs crooked in their crossed fifth position. Without the self-assurance that Arashi possesses, brilliant and unbreakable as a diamond, it takes every dancer a lifetime to reach their most perfect selves. Izumi might die a flawed performer, and he briefly wonders if Arashi has ever feared the same.
"Same time tomorrow, yes? The sooner I can move past hopping up and down as slowly as possible, the better." Arashi runs a hand through her hair, a drop of sweat darting down a toned line of her exposed back. "We should hold a recital once I'm steadier on my feet — you know, like we did at school but without the stakes, and preferably without the nasty names you used to call me."
"Tch, let's wait until you can stand en pointe for more than three seconds at a time." Though Izumi would be lying if he doesn't imagine Arashi as a full-fledged ballet dancer then, sequins and rhinestones just barely rivalling her radiance, her legs swathed in tulle to hide the strength needed to send her twirling around the stage. "And yes, the same time tomorrow. If you keep this up we might be able to move on to more complex exercises."
Arashi lowers herself to the ground to untie her shoes. The elastics leave faint marks around her ankles, and she unwraps the padding around her toes as though airing out a wound. "Ooh, what if we performed a duet? Then you can hold me up and there's a lower chance of me falling over."
"I wouldn't say no to a pas de deux — but not because it'll make you look better. Dancers don't just get spun around and lifted without putting in the work, you know." On the off chance he gets to perform a pas de deux with his company instead of dancing in the background as a nameless side character, Izumi becomes all smiles and hands around waists, the massive bitch that gives his ballet master a headache set aside for now. It's not because he's working around ladies, as the others in the corps de ballet might speculate. The moment another's hand is placed in his, he imagines lilac eyes and songs in his native language, navy uniforms and giggles in between sugared insults. Twin souls clawing to the top, holding onto each other the whole time so at least one person can always bear witness to their beauty.
The pointe shoes swing from Arashi's hand as she gets to her feet. She approaches him, satin and cardboard knocking in between them, until he can see where her lipstick has faded. "What's the reason, then? You don't perform with anyone less talented than you."
They're both dressed for the occasion, if Izumi pulls her in for a kiss now they'd look like they're practising the pantomime section of a ballet. But when he feels hands try to untuck his shirt from his tights, he pushes them away. "You're right, so you better not slack off when I'm using my precious time and effort to teach you. And you shouldn't have taken off your pointe shoes before reverence."
Arashi grabs his wrists, tugging until it's his turn to stumble. "Don't go putting yourself on a pedestal. We're closer in skill than you think."
Before Izumi can rebuke that obviously false statement, Arashi blots the last of her lipstick on his cheek and then runs out of the studio. Her exit is completely silent, save for the sound of the door closing behind her.
There's enough time for Izumi to do some variation practice, just as he planned. But, standing in this silent room, he suddenly can't see himself dancing alone, the only words ringing in between phrases his own. So he bows at his own reflection and walks offstage.