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"Guys, from tomorrow we'll collaborate with the dance star of the Kingdom of Italy. Show up for the rehearsals half an hour earlier, so that you'll have time to get to know each other." It was the announcement with which the choreographer welcomed the company of dancers that morning. As they warmed up, the usual chatter rose between stretching, barre movements and rehearsals of a few steps, but at the center of the discussions that time weren't the people usual topics, but the excitement and expectations around that dancer.
"I've heard that he's so good that he's contested between choreographers all over the world but that he refuses if he can't take his sister with him" Michelle seemed more than enthusiastic about that news, wasting no time talking about it with her friend Francis, who was busy warming up at the barre with her.
"Come on, that's enough. It's not polite to gossip behind other people's backs and soon the rehearsals will begin" Arthur scolded them, who had just finished warming up.
"Come on, Art. We were just having a chat" but although Francis tried to lighten the atmosphere, he felt a little tense: he didn't know whether or not to hope that the dancer everyone was talking about was who he thought.
The day passed by quickly. The rehearsals were demanding but after all that wasn't a show like others. They would open the later winter season of New York's premier theater, even the President would come to see them. They had to be more than perfect.
"What are we doing tonight? Shall we go to the picture house?" asked Michelle, untying her dark hair from the bun she wore when she danced.
"Today is Daniel's day off. They wouldn't let you in with us"
"Stupid law" was the girl's comment to Arthur's warning. In those years, the fact that Michelle could dance with them was already a miracle, realized thanks to her extraordinary talent in ballet. Arthur and Francis were the only ones in the company who treated her like a friend, not caring about the color of her skin or the opinions of others.
"I heard from Bonnie-"
"Who, your Friday friend?"
"Yes, her. As I was saying, Bonnie said that they have recently inaugurated a new ballroom open to everyone, down in Harlem. I think it's called Apollo Theatre" Francis replied at the end, ignoring his friend's sarcastic joke. Although they were friends, the two often teased each other, seeming more like enemies than anything else. They had started as rivals at the beginning of their career as classic dancers in that company but coming from families who had fled to the new continent because of the Great War and the love for dance led them to become friends. Michelle's arrival had only added more to their days (and Francis was sure Arthur had a soft spot for her). This suspicion stemmed from the obvious interest that his friend showed in her, from his being protective and from trying to stay close to her on their occasional outings. That evening was no exception.
Once they entered the Apollo Theatre, Arthur had wasted no time in agreeing to dance with Michelle. It was a new genre of music, called swing, but it had struck the girl from first listening. Francis preferred to have a beer before joining them, both to try what the bar had to offer and to leave them alone for a while.
"How I missed good beer" he commented, after taking a sip. Although Arthur knew every speakeasy in Manhattan, nothing beat legal alcohol.
"If you call this beer, it's clear you've never been to the Weimar Republic." That voice's accent was strange but it certainly indicated a foreigner.
"My father always says that too" Francis replied, starting to turn with a smile to the stranger, but as soon as he did he suddenly stopped smiling.
"Vash!" was the only thing he exclaimed: behind him was the protagonist of his colleagues' discussions. With his stern demeanor reflected in his green eyes, Vash Zwingli didn't seem the least bit impressed by the encounter.
"Hi Francis." The Frenchman's blue eyes were veiled with a mixture of sadness, longing, happiness but also a certain anger, as he watched him sit next to him.
"I suspected you were the dancer my company will collaborate with."
"You could have written to me at least once..." Francis said again, lowering his eyes to his beer. He hadn't heard from him for six years, since he had left their dance school in France to return to America.
"I made you a promise." The Frenchman's face opened into a sad smile.
"You're always too serious" he said finally, in a tone of affectionate exasperation, placing a hand on Vash's fist-clenched one. Francis felt it quiver slightly, noticing that even though his expression hadn't changed an inch, his ears had turned red. For a moment, memories of his sixteen years came back to him, of Vash's ears turning red after spending minutes watching him dance. The promise he was referring to, Vash had made to him on the last night they had spent together before Francis' departure: he had promised that he would reach him and, one day, dance together on the same stage as professionals. That the next time they saw each other again he would have kept his word. Moments of silence followed, before Vash said anything.
"So, how do you have fun around here?"
"Chatting, going to dinner, to the picture house... dancing in clubs." Vash stood up, freeing his hand, beginning to mingle with the crowd under the gaze of the other, who left the glass half full to follow him.
In a few steps they found the harmony of the past, even if the steps and music were different, as if they were born to be dance partners. In the meantime they began to talk: Francis told him about the company, about Arthur, Michelle, about his return to America; Vash spoke of his sister, of his travels to the countries of the old continent. But of all the speeches and questions, only one they dared not ask, the only one that really mattered to them.
"Are you dating anyone?" In the end, it was Vash who took courage. Again the blush made its way to his ears, causing Francis' stomach to tighten, and he shook his head. It was at that moment that Vash's expression changed for a moment: he was relieved by this news. The Frenchman's heart began to beat faster, while alcohol and blood began to go to his head. But it was when one of the others dancing pushed the Swiss against him that Francis snapped.
He dragged Vash out of the room by one arm from the back door and, once in the empty alley, wasted no time in pushing him against the wall and kissing him. Vash didn't object, but put his arms around his neck, pulling him even closer to him. Suddenly they were no longer in a dark American alley but in a room in France, when they were seventeen, the first time they had made love. After all, even that kiss had the flavor of a first time.
"Is your hotel far away?"
"No, but Lily's there"
"Let's go by me, then." Hoarse and panting voices.
The journey was a torture for them who, as soon as they closed the front door behind them, immediately resumed kissing, taking off their clothes, returning to touch each other as they used to do until their separation. It was as if not a day had passed.
The following morning they would separate and then see each other again at the rehearsals, where they would certainly have given proof of the great harmony that had always distinguished them, revealing that they had been students at the same school only to their friends. Francis would introduce him to Arthur and Michelle and Lily, Vash's sister, would be happy to see him again. Of their affection... it could only be noticed through dance.