Archive of Our Own ^beta

The studio should have been empty.

That was the only reason Viktor let himself step inside, to haunt the space where he had once lived, to press his palm against the cool walls and pretend, for a moment, that he was still capable of belonging here.

But the music shattered that illusion.

Not recorded tracks, not the crisp precision of a full routine, but the raw sound of feet striking the floor. A dancer, rehearsing alone.

Viktor had half a mind to turn around. He didn’t belong in these spaces anymore. He was not one of them. But curiosity held him in place, his fingers tightening around the grip of his cane as he stepped further into the room.

The dancer—the intruder, as Viktor irrationally considered him, was young, broad-shouldered, and powerful in a way that ballet rarely welcomed. His movements were strong, unrefined, carrying the weight of someone who thought power alone could shape beauty.

And yet.

Something about him held potential.

Viktor lingered in the shadows, watching as the dancer landed heavy on his feet, his technique almost there but just wrong enough to grate against Viktor’s instincts. He could see it, see the problem, see the solution.

It had been years since Viktor last spoke the language of movement. But some languages never truly fade.

"You are fighting against the ground," Viktor said, breaking the silence.

The dancer froze. His gaze snapped toward Viktor, startled, chest rising with heavy breaths.

Viktor didn’t waver.

"You rely on your strength," he continued, stepping forward. "That is why you struggle."

The dancer straightened, eyes narrowing in something between curiosity and frustration.

"You always make a habit of critiquing strangers?" The other man asked.

Viktor smirked, just barely. "Only when they need it."

He exhaled, rolling out his shoulders. "If you’ve got advice, then give it. Otherwise—"

"Otherwise you will continue making the same mistakes," Viktor cut in, tilting his head. "And what a shame that would be."

The other hesitated.

Viktor saw the exact moment he relented, the slight shift in his stance, the way his muscles lost their rigid hold. He wasn’t used to being guided, but he wasn’t unwilling.

"Then tell me what I’m doing wrong," He challenged.

Viktor adjusted his grip on his cane. "Dance," he said simply.

So he danced.

And for the first time in years, Viktor found himself moving—not in steps, not in leaps, but in something that felt painfully close enough.

Viktor watched.

Not in the passive way others might, with polite nods and murmured approvals, but with the sharp precision of someone who had spent his life shaping movement into something greater. He saw every flaw, every hesitation, every inch of wasted energy that should have been coaxed into grace.

When the dancer finished, his breaths were heavy, his stance uneven. He turned toward Viktor, expectant.

“Well?”

Viktor tilted his head. “You tell me. Did it feel right?”

He hesitated—only for a fraction of a second—but Viktor caught it.

“No,” Viktor murmured, as if confirming a thought rather than delivering a critique. “It did not.”

Exhaling sharply, the man dragged a hand through his damp hair. “Then what should I be doing?”

Viktor stepped forward, not close enough to invade his space, but just near enough to let his presence linger. His cane tapped against the floor lightly, rhythmically, as if mimicking the beat the other had yet to fully grasp.

“You are strong,” Viktor acknowledged. “But strength is not the foundation of ballet—it is merely the accent.”

“So, what? I hold back?”

Viktor sighed, shaking his head. “You misunderstand. Ballet is not about power. It is about trust—in gravity, in momentum, in the inevitability of movement itself.” His fingers twitched, as if remembering steps he could no longer take. “Your body does not shape the dance. The dance shapes you.”

To his satisfaction, the other man absorbed that, quiet.

Then, slowly, he reset his stance. “Fine,” he said. “Then show me.”

The challenge was simple. Painful.

Viktor had spent years convincing himself that he had nothing left to offer ballet—that it had discarded him, and he had done the same in return. But standing here, watching someone wrestle with the very thing he once commanded, he felt something unfamiliar stirring.

He could not dance.

But he could teach.

Viktor exhaled, tightening his grip on his cane. Then, with careful precision, he shifted his stance, not in a way that mimicked performance, but in a way that dictated control.

“Again,” he said.

The man moved, and Viktor watched.

He hadn't meant to linger. He wasn’t supposed to be here. But something about the way the stranger danced—full of force, all sharp edges and restless energy—kept Viktor standing in place, kept him watching.

He leaned against his cane, silent as the dancer pushed through another sequence. The steps were correct, but the movement wasn’t. Every landing was too heavy. Each transition lacked control. He was fighting against the very thing he was supposed to surrender to.

Viktor had seen this before.

“You are fighting gravity,” he said, voice cutting through the quiet.

The dancer stumbled. More from surprise than actual misstep. He turned toward him, breath labored, sweat clinging to his skin. His gaze was sharp and uncertain. This time, Viktor was deliberate in his corrections. His voice carved through the silence, each word a precise instruction. He dictated posture, adjusted momentum, pointed out wasted energy. Ballet had never been forgiving, and neither was he.

The night stretched long. The rhythm of their exchange replaced the music. The dancer listened, tried, reshaped his movements into something more controlled.

By the time he collapsed onto the bench, drenched in sweat, his frustration had softened into something quieter.

“You—” he hesitated, catching his breath, “—you talk about ballet like it’s yours.”

Viktor’s grip on his cane tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“I understand it,” he said simply.

A pause. Viktor braced himself for the words would come next when he glanced at his cane. Then, “Did you dance?”

The question was sharp but there was no judgement nor pity. Viktor did not answer immediately, but appreciated it.

“Yes.”

Nothing more.

The dancer studied him but didn’t push. Instead, he sighed, stretching out his legs in front of him. “Then why help me?”

Viktor tilted his head. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

There was a scoff, a shake of the head. “No. I just didn’t expect it.”

Neither had Viktor.

Yet here he was, reshaping footwork, correcting posture, guiding movement. The echoes of a past he had tried so hard to forget.

When the silence stretched too long, the dancer leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed.

“I don’t even know your name.”

Viktor exhaled.

For a moment, he considered leaving it unanswered. But something about this night, about the movement shared between them, convinced him otherwise.

“It's Viktor.”

The dancer studied him. Slowly, he nodded.

“Jayce.”

“You’re back.”

Not a question. A statement.

Viktor exhaled. “Unfortunately.”

Jayce smirked, shaking out his arms. “Well, since you’re here—you might as well make yourself useful.”

And so Viktor did.

Their lessons were rarely structured. Viktor never demonstrated; his body had long since betrayed him. Instead, he spoke in corrections—sharp, precise, demanding. He dictated posture, adjusted momentum, criticized without hesitation. Ballet had never been kind to him, and he saw no reason to be kind to it.

But Jayce never backed down.

He took each critique with unshaken determination, swallowing his frustration and reshaping it into effort. Every time Viktor expected him to quit, he didn’t.

That night, Jayce was sprawled on the floor with his bottle of water when he said, "I think I would have liked to see you dance."

Viktor stiffened.

Jayce caught the slip but before he could apologize Viktor spoke. “I never had the strength you do.” 

Jayce glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly.

“That surprises me.”

Viktor smirked—just barely. “I built myself on precision. On control. Not power.” He tapped his cane lightly against the floor. “Unlike you.”

Jayce exhaled, studying him like he wanted to piece together something unseen. “You ever miss it?”

Viktor didn’t answer immediately.

He knew the truth. He had spent years mourning movement, longing for the feeling of weightlessness, of stretching past gravity’s hold only to surrender to it again.

But saying that aloud felt like admitting something too raw.

So instead, he said, “Some things never truly leave us.”

Jayce held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Viktor let the silence settle.

Then, deliberately, he adjusted his grip on his cane and said, “Now—again. You’re still landing too heavily.”

Jayce groaned. “You could let me have a moment of victory.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Ballet does not permit mercy.”

Jayce grumbled something under his breath before standing up and resetting his stance. “Fine,” he muttered, shaking out his shoulders. “But I will get this right.”

Viktor smirked, just barely.

“We shall see.”

Jayce did not get it right.

Not at first. Not even close.

His movements were stronger, more refined than before, but he still clung to power like a crutch instead of a tool. Each step had force where it needed softness, each transition carried weight when it needed air.

And Viktor had no patience for half-measures.

“Again,” he ordered.

Jayce exhaled sharply, sweat beading at his temple. He reset his stance and moved, determination burning in the lines of his body. Viktor watched, dissecting each motion with precision, letting his critiques fall quick and merciless.

“You still hesitate before landing. That pause disrupts the movement.”

Jayce gritted his teeth, adjusting.

“Your shoulders are tense. Stop holding them like you’re bracing for impact.”

Another correction. Another attempt.

“Your arms—softer.”

Jayce froze mid-movement, his arms still held too rigidly, too tightly. Viktor sighed, stepping closer.

“You’re holding tension here,” Viktor said, gesturing toward Jayce’s shoulders. “It travels down to your arms, making your movements stiff.”

Jayce frowned, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. “I don’t feel tense.”

Viktor tilted his head, studying him for a moment. Then, without a word, he reached out, his fingers brushing against Jayce’s forearm.

The touch was light, deliberate. Viktor’s hand guided Jayce’s arm downward, adjusting the angle, coaxing the tension out of his muscles. His movements were precise, almost clinical, but there was something unspoken in the way his fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Here,” Viktor murmured, his voice softer now. “Let it fall naturally. Don’t force it.”

Jayce swallowed, his gaze flickering to Viktor’s face. The closeness between them was sudden, unexpected. He could feel the faint warmth of Viktor’s hand, the steadiness of his presence.

“Like this?” Jayce asked, his voice quieter than before.

Viktor nodded, his hand still resting lightly on Jayce’s arm. “Better. But you’re still holding back.”

Jayce exhaled, trying to focus on the correction, but his thoughts were scattered. Viktor’s touch was firm yet careful, his guidance precise, and for a moment, Jayce forgot about the dance entirely.

Viktor stepped back, breaking the moment. “Again,” he said, his tone returning to its usual sharpness.

Jayce blinked, resetting his stance. He moved, this time with more fluidity, more grace. But the memory of Viktor’s touch lingered, a quiet echo in the back of his mind.

When he finished the sequence, he turned toward Viktor, his breath steady but his thoughts anything but.

“Well?”

“Improved,” he said simply.

Jayce smirked, shaking out his arms. “You could just say I’m getting better.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Do not mistake progress for perfection.”

Jayce chuckled, the tension easing slightly. But as he reset his stance, ready for another attempt.

The lesson stretched long into the night, the exhaustion creeping into Jayce’s limbs visible, but never enough to stop him.

He was relentless.

And Viktor found himself admiring that, despite his own nature.

By the time Jayce collapsed onto the bench, breath heavy and muscles aching, the frustration had faded from his expression. He was still unsatisfied, but something about the night had settled between them—an understanding, unspoken but real.

“You don’t sugarcoat anything, do you?” Jayce asked, staring up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling as he recovered.

Viktor smirked slightly, adjusting his grip on his cane. “Ballet does not permit mercy.”

Jayce let out a dry chuckle. “You said that already.”

“Because it remains true.”

The silence stretched, comfortable in a way neither had expected.

“You didn’t just learn ballet,” Jayce murmured, turning his head toward Viktor. “You became it.”

It wasn’t a compliment. It was an observation.

And Viktor, for once, did not refute it.

Instead, he stood, his cane tapping rhythmically as he walked to the door. “Rest. You’ll need it.”

Jayce scoffed, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again, looking at Viktor with something quieter.

“You’re coming back tomorrow.”

Not a question. A statement.

Viktor didn’t bother correcting him.

Jayce grinned when he saw him, the confidence in his expression laced with just enough satisfaction to be irritating. “Knew it.”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “Do not presume too much.”

The lesson had stretched longer than either of them intended.

Jayce was breathing hard, muscles burning from exertion, but he hadn't stopped. Viktor had seen it in him from the beginning—the determination, the refusal to yield, the sheer force of will that had carried him through each correction, each critique.

But tonight, something was different.

"You hesitate before landing," Viktor said, sharp but not cruel. "Still."

Jayce exhaled, frustrated. "I’m trying."

"Trying is not enough."

Jayce turned toward him, irritation flickering in his expression. "Right, because you never had to try anything in your life?"

The words were defensive, biting, but Viktor only raised an eyebrow.

"Do you believe I was given skill? That I did not fight for every step before it was taken from me?"

Jayce stiffened, something unspoken passing between them.

Viktor rarely acknowledged the weight of what had been lost. He rarely let himself. But standing here, in this empty studio, in this familiar rhythm of movement, he couldn’t deny that it was still there. The memory of it. The shape of it.

Jayce swallowed, gaze lingering on him. "You miss it."

Viktor did not answer immediately.

Instead, he took a slow breath, and stepped closer—not enough to invade space, but enough for his presence to be felt.

"Again," he said.

Jayce didn’t argue. He reset his stance, inhaled, and moved.

And this time, for just a moment, Viktor felt it too.

And this time, something shifted.

It wasn’t perfect—not yet—but the hesitation was fading. The weight in his steps no longer fought against the ground but worked with it. Viktor could see the difference, could feel it in the way Jayce’s energy flowed instead of clashed.

For the first time, Jayce landed without resistance.

He held the final position, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, waiting for Viktor’s verdict.

Viktor watched him, gaze sharp, considering. He did not rush his response.

Finally, he spoke. “Better.”

Jayce huffed a quiet laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead. “That’s all I get?”

“You expect praise for something you should have done hours ago?” Viktor asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jayce grinned, shaking his head. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

Viktor smirked slightly, but didn’t reply. He stepped forward instead, assessing Jayce’s posture, scanning for the flaws still lingering. His fingers twitched at his side, old instincts pushing toward correction.

Without thinking, he reached out, adjusting Jayce’s wrist with a careful touch.

Jayce stilled, watching Viktor’s movements.

The correction was precise—gentle but firm, Viktor’s hand guiding him into place. His fingers lingered briefly, just enough for Jayce to feel the weight of his presence, to register the closeness neither of them had acknowledged before now.

Jayce’s breath was steady, but his pulse betrayed him.

Viktor didn’t comment. Didn’t pull away immediately either.

His touch was careful, restrained, but something had changed between them. A shift neither had named.

When he finally let go, Jayce exhaled slowly. “You do realize you never told me what was wrong with my arms.”

"You fixed it before I had to say anything.”

Jayce blinked, caught off guard. Then, something knowing tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Good to know.”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “Do not be insufferable.”

Jayce grinned, stretching out his arms. “Too late.”

Viktor sighed, shaking his head, but the amusement in his expression was difficult to hide.

Just like the past two days, their 'training' ran all through until late at night. Jayce stretched, rolling his shoulders as the ache settled deep into his muscles. Viktor had worked him hard tonight—more than usual, with fewer allowances for his frustration and more exacting corrections than ever before.

Not that he minded.

Mostly.

Jayce exhaled, still catching his breath, then glanced at Viktor, who was already gathering his things, preparing to leave without ceremony.

“Wait,” Jayce said.

Viktor paused but didn’t turn fully toward him.

Jayce wiped sweat from his brow, then jerked his chin toward the door. “You want to grab coffee or something?” The suggestion was casual enough, thrown out without hesitation, but Viktor hesitated regardless.

Jayce noticed. “What, do you not drink coffee?”

Viktor exhaled through his nose. “I do. I simply do not see why you are asking.”

Jayce scoffed. “Because I’m asking. Do you always need a reason for things?”

Viktor studied him for a long moment, gaze sharp, unreadable.

He had spent years avoiding unnecessary attachments, avoiding places and people that dragged him too close to the remnants of what he had lost. But here, in this empty studio, in the quiet weight of another long session, something about the offer felt different.

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was habit.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Viktor sighed, adjusting his grip on his cane. “Fine.”

Jayce grinned, victorious. “Good. Because if you said no, I was going to follow you anyway.”

Viktor shook his head, but there was amusement in his expression that hadn’t been there before.

Jayce stared at Viktor’s coffee like it had personally offended him.

It wasn’t just sweet. It was excessive. A graveyard of sugar packets sat beside Viktor’s cup, the once-dark liquid now lightened to the point of absurdity.

“You—” Jayce blinked. “You drink that?”

Viktor raised an unimpressed eyebrow as he stirred the drink, completely unfazed. “You act as if I am committing some great crime.”

Jayce leaned forward, watching as Viktor added yet another sugar packet. “You told me earlier that ballet does not permit mercy,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the disaster in Viktor’s cup. “But apparently, your coffee does.”

Viktor took a sip, utterly indifferent to the judgment. “I see no correlation.”

Jayce scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “How does someone so precise about literally everything drown their coffee in sugar like a child?”

Viktor set his cup down with deliberate calm. “Precision has its place. And so does indulgence.”

Jayce narrowed his eyes, as if he was witnessing something deeply unsettling. “You know this is completely ridiculous, right?”

Viktor smirked slightly, lifting his cup again. “Perhaps.”

Jayce exhaled, muttering under his breath, but didn’t push further. He took a sip of his own drink, shaking his head as if resigning himself to this newfound knowledge.

The silence stretched, not awkward, just there. Comfortable in the way that neither of them expected.

Jayce tapped his fingers against the side of his cup, his gaze thoughtful. “You keep surprising me.”

Viktor hummed, setting his drink down again. “That is concerning.”

Jayce huffed a laugh, but there was something softer in his expression now. “Not really.”

The city outside hums in quiet rhythm beyond them. The conversation could have ended there, but neither of them moved.

Maybe, Viktor thought absently, this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

Jayce tapped his fingers absently against his cup, watching the steam curl upward. The café had quieted, the hum of distant city slipping into the spaces between their conversation. He shifted in his seat, exhaling before speaking. “Can I ask you something?”

Viktor didn’t look up. He stirred his coffee, slow and deliberate, but his posture stiffened just slightly.

Then, without waiting, he answered.

“I was injured.” The words were flat, practiced. “During a grand jeté.” His fingers tightened around the ceramic cup, remembering. “Mid-flight, I felt it—before I even hit the floor. My knee gave out, torn through the muscle and into the joint itself.” Viktor exhaled. “They tried to repair it. They couldn't.”

Jayce didn’t respond right away. He let the words settle, picking apart the weight of them.

“The landing must have been brutal,” he murmured, quieter now.

Viktor huffed softly, something like amusement but not quite. “Pain becomes secondary when your world shifts in a single moment.”

Jayce studied him, watching the way his hand remained steady around the cup, the tension sitting just beneath his expression.

“You don’t talk about it much, do you?”

“There is little point.” Viktor’s voice remained even, but Jayce could hear the edges of something underneath it, something worn smooth by time but never fully faded.

But something about tonight made him say more than he normally would.

“I had perfected the move,” Viktor continued, voice sharper now—not in anger, but in something colder. Resentment. “I had done it a hundred times, landed it flawlessly in rehearsal, in performance. It was nothing new. There was no hesitation. No mistake.” His grip on his mug tightened. “And yet, the one time it failed, it was final.”

Jayce exhaled, slow. “So it wasn’t you that failed. It was your body.”

Viktor’s jaw tensed briefly, "One and the same, no?" He said with a bitter smile. “I knew before I hit the ground,” Viktor admitted. “Before the pain even reached me. I knew.”

Jayce leaned back slightly, letting the weight of that sink in. He could say a thousand things. None of them felt right.

So instead, he murmured, “It sucks.”

Viktor smirked, just barely. “A poetic observation.”

Jayce scoffed. “What, you wanted something deep? I could’ve gone with Tragedy molds us into the echoes of who we were meant to be, or whatever.”

Viktor grimaced. “Spare me.”

Jayce grinned, but it faded slightly as he watched him.

“I meant it, though. It sucks.”

Viktor met his gaze properly for the first time tonight. He studied the words, their weight, their sincerity.

His fingers relaxed slightly around his cup, the tension in his posture easing as Jayce’s words settled between them. "It sucks." He parroted back.

Jayce leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his gaze steady but softer now. “You know,” he began, his voice quieter, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone care about ballet the way you do. Not just the movements, but the meaning behind them.”

Viktor tilted his head, studying him. “It is not merely movement,” he said. “It is language. It speaks when words fail.”

Jayce nodded, his expression thoughtful. “That’s what I mean. You don’t just teach me how to move—you teach me how to feel it. Like it’s something alive.”

Viktor’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile. “Perhaps that is why you are improving.”

Jayce chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Or maybe it’s because you don’t let me get away with anything.” Viktor smirked, but his gaze lingered on Jayce for a moment longer than usual. There was something in the way Jayce spoke, the way he looked at him—not just admiration, but understanding. Jayce hesitated, then leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the side of his cup. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

Jayce grinned, but it was softer now, almost shy. “Yeah. It is.”

,

The e café hums with distant life. Viktor didn’t respond immediately, but his gaze softened, the sharp edges of his usual demeanor smoothing just slightly.

For the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar—a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee in his hands. Viktor stirred his coffee absentmindedly, eyes focused somewhere beyond the window. The remnants of the lesson still lingered in the way his fingers twitched slightly, as if correcting movements Jayce had made hours ago.

Jayce tilted his head, the question simple, not carrying any weight. “You ever teach before?”

Viktor took a sip of his overly-sweet coffee before answering. “Not officially.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Viktor smirked slightly but didn’t respond.

Jayce studied him, watching how he carried himself even in stillness—the posture, the precision, the way movement seemed ingrained in him even if he no longer practiced it himself.

“You don’t seem like the patient type,” Jayce mused.

Viktor exhaled, setting his cup down. “I am not.”

Jayce grinned, shaking his head. “And yet, here you are, putting up with me.”

Viktor rolled his eyes, but the amusement in his expression was unmistakable. “Perhaps you are more tolerable than most.”

Jayce raised his cup slightly, a mock toast. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Viktor hummed, letting the silence stretch again—not awkward, just easy. The routine of their lessons had given them a rhythm, one neither had planned but both had settled into.

Jayce exhaled, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You’re coming back tomorrow, right?”

Viktor glanced at him, then at the window, then back at his coffee.

“Presumptuous,” he muttered.

Jayce smirked. “Accurate.”

Viktor sighed, shaking his head, but didn’t deny it.

Time slipped by unnoticed, shaping itself around late-night lessons and quiet conversations. The studio had become familiar, the corrections second nature, the rhythm of their routine steady despite the weight of unspoken things between them.

And then, one night, Jayce broke it.

“I have an audition,” he said, rolling out his shoulders as he set his bag down, the words casual but carrying an undertone Viktor couldn’t quite ignore.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, adjusting his grip on his cane then asked; “For what?”

Jayce tilted his head. “In Giselle.”

Viktor hummed. He hadn’t expected this—not because Jayce wasn’t good enough, but because some part of him had quietly settled into the idea that their lessons belonged only to these walls.

That ballet, in this space, in these moments, was something between them.

And now, Jayce was taking it beyond that.

Viktor pushed down the absurd twinge of something dangerously close to jealousy, shaking his head. "Albrecht.”

Jayce grinned. “That’s the one.”

Viktor exhaled, tapping his cane against the floor with measured precision. Giselle. The tragedy. The redemption. The weight of movement crafted not by sheer force, but by technique and grace—the very things Jayce had been fighting against since the first night he stepped into this studio.

“It is not the most demanding role in terms of difficulty,” Viktor admitted. “But if you lack refinement, it will show.”

Jayce scoffed. “And here I thought you’d congratulate me.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Why would I congratulate you when you have yet to succeed?”

Jayce huffed a laugh, dragging a hand through his curls. “You really don’t hand out praise, do you?”

Viktor smirked slightly. “Earn it first.”

Jayce shook his head, but there was excitement settling beneath his teasing words—something eager, something genuine. Viktor recognized the way ambition curled in the edges of his posture, the way drive shaped his stance.

Albrecht.

A role Viktor had once danced.

A role Viktor had once owned.

And now, he was teaching someone else how to become him.

Viktor inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Your technique will need refinement.”

Jayce’s smirk softened slightly. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I have you.”

Viktor shook his head, but the faintest hint of amusement lingered at the corner of his lips. “Do not assume I will go easy on you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The night stretched later than usual, their session lingering in the quiet weight of corrections and repetition. Jayce moved through the sequences, refining posture, controlling his landings, adjusting each step with the precision Viktor demanded.

But something felt different.

Jayce noticed it when Viktor corrected him—his critiques were just as sharp, just as precise, but his posture was subtly different. The tension in his frame was heavier tonight, his grip on his cane a fraction tighter, as if he were holding something back.

Jayce let the silence settle for a while, let Viktor focus on the movements, before finally speaking.

“It’s the role, isn’t it?”

Viktor’s gaze flicked to him, calculating. “What do you mean?”

Jayce exhaled, rolling out his shoulders. “Albrecht. It’s why you’re more—” he gestured vaguely, searching for the right word “—on edge than usual.”

Viktor studied him for a moment, his grip still firm around his cane, but his expression remained unreadable. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

“No,” he said, voice measured. “It was Romeo.”

Jayce blinked. He hadn’t expected that answer.

Viktor exhaled, adjusting his stance, rolling his wrist briefly before letting it settle again. “I was performing Romeo and Juliet when it happened. The grand jeté in Act Two—the same movement I had rehearsed a hundred times before, flawless.” His jaw tightened. “Until it wasn’t.”

Jayce frowned slightly, shifting his weight onto one foot. “I thought Giselle would’ve been harder on you. More emotional. But Romeo…” He hesitated, then met Viktor’s gaze. “Was it because of the role, or because of how it happened?”

 “Both.”

Jayce didn’t push. He could see the way Viktor’s fingers curled slightly tighter against the wood of his cane, how his shoulders carried something heavier than their usual sharp posture. He didn’t have to press for details—Viktor had already said enough. Jayce studied Viktor for a moment, watching the way his fingers flexed subtly against his cane before stilling, as if forcing himself to remain composed. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders before muttering, “I guess that means I can’t afford to mess up this audition, huh?”

Viktor exhaled, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Indeed.”

Jayce huffed a small laugh, then glanced back at him, something quieter settling between them. “You never say what you actually mean.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Elaborate.”

Jayce tilted his head, considering him. “You say I need refinement. That I can’t rely on power alone. That Giselle demands grace.” His voice softened slightly. “But what you mean is—you’re worried.”

Viktor’s fingers tightened briefly around his cane before he sighed. “Concern is not the same as doubt.”

Jayce smirked. “So you do think I can pull it off.”

“I think you have potential.”

Jayce grinned, stretching his arms overhead. “I’ll take it.”

Viktor rolled his eyes but didn’t refute him. Instead, he gestured toward the studio mirror. “Again.”

Jayce groaned. “We just had a heartfelt moment and now you’re making me do more work?”

Viktor smirked, sharper this time. “Unless you would prefer failure?”

Jayce muttered something under his breath, but reset his stance regardless.

Viktor watched him move, watched the way his corrections were already sinking into muscle memory.

Jayce arrived at the studio expecting to see Viktor—expecting the usual sharp critiques, the familiar bite of instructions that refused to coddle him.

But the studio was empty.

Jayce frowned, checking the time. Viktor was punctual, always. He didn’t run late. He didn’t cancel.

He waited longer than he should have, stretching out his arms, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake off the unease creeping in. Maybe Viktor had gotten caught up in something. Maybe he’d show up any minute now, annoyed but ready to throw Jayce into another grueling lesson.

But the minutes passed. The space remained empty.

Jayce sighed, sitting on the studio floor as he typed out a message.

[Jayce:] You okay? You never miss practice.

He stared at the screen, waiting for the read receipt to flicker on. A minute passed, then another. Viktor wasn’t the type to ignore messages, but he also wasn’t the type to give explanations unless directly asked.

Finally, his phone vibrated.

[Viktor:] I am sick.

Jayce frowned. Viktor’s responses were always painfully brief, but something about this one was worse.

[Jayce:] You could’ve just told me instead of making me wonder if you dropped off the face of the earth.

A pause.

[Viktor:] I presumed you would manage without me for one evening.

Jayce scoffed. Typical.

[Jayce:] How bad is it?

Viktor took longer to respond this time. Jayce could almost see him debating whether answering was worth the effort.

[Viktor:] Manageable.

Jayce rolled his eyes. Vague as ever.

He tapped his fingers against his knee, thinking. Then, before he could second-guess it, he typed out another message.

[Jayce:] You home?

Another pause.

[Viktor:] Why?

Jayce huffed a small laugh. Suspicious, even now.

[Jayce:] Because I’m coming over.

The typing bubble flickered on and off, like Viktor was trying to compose something sharp enough to make Jayce reconsider. But whatever resistance he had, he eventually gave up.

[Viktor:] Do as you please.

Jayce grinned, standing up and grabbing his things.

Jayce soon found himself stood in Viktor’s apartment, arms crossed, watching as Viktor sat stiffly on the couch, posture tense, fingers curled lightly around the armrest like he was bracing himself.

Something wasn’t right.

The soup sat untouched on the table. Viktor’s usual sharpness was dulled, not with fever or exhaustion—but with something deeper, something heavier.

Jayce exhaled. “It’s not that you’re sick, is it?”

Viktor’s jaw tightened briefly, but he didn’t respond.

Jayce frowned, stepping closer. “It’s your leg.”

Still, no confirmation. No denial, either.

Jayce dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. “You could’ve told me. Hell, you could’ve told me yesterday when it started hurting—because let’s be real, this didn’t just happen overnight.”

Viktor’s grip tightened on the armrest, his gaze flickering slightly. “It is manageable.”

Jayce scoffed. “You could barely walk to open the door, Viktor.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken.

Jayce inhaled slowly, dragging a chair closer and sitting down, letting the tension settle. “Does it happen often?”

Viktor exhaled, shifting his weight minutely, as if adjusting for comfort that wouldn’t come. “Sometimes.”

Jayce studied him, watching the way his fingers twitched slightly in restraint, the way his posture—normally sharp, controlled—looked more like something forced tonight.

“…Does it ever go away?”

Viktor smirked faintly, humorless. “No.”

Jayce exhaled, nodding slightly, like he was piecing something together in the silence. He wanted to press further, wanted to demand why Viktor had refused to say anything, why he had let himself suffer alone, why he hadn’t—

Jayce let out a slow breath, and instead, simply said, “I’m staying.”

“That is unnecessary.”

Jayce grinned, leaning back. “Oh, I know it is. But I’m doing it anyway.”

Viktor sighed, rubbing his temple. “You are insufferable.”

Jayce shrugged. “I prefer determined.”

Despite himself, Viktor smirked slightly.

And Jayce knew, for once, Viktor wasn’t going to argue.

Jayce leaned back in his chair, watching Viktor shift uncomfortably on the couch. The tension in Viktor’s posture was impossible to ignore—the way his fingers gripped the armrest, the subtle wince when he adjusted his position.

Jayce exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “You know, you’re really bad at this whole ‘letting people help you’ thing.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I do not require assistance.”

Jayce scoffed. “Yeah, sure. That’s why you look like you’re trying not to fall apart.”

Viktor’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Jayce stood, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of the couch, close enough to make Viktor glance at him warily. “Alright, hear me out,” Jayce said, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. “What if I gave you a massage?”

Viktor blinked, caught off guard. “A massage.”

Jayce grinned. “Yeah. You know, to help with the tension. Loosen things up a bit.”

Viktor stared at him, clearly debating whether to dismiss the idea outright or humor him. “You are not a physical therapist.”

Jayce shrugged. “Nope. But I’ve got strong hands and a good sense of pressure. And you’re clearly in pain, so what do you have to lose?”

Viktor leans back slightly, his grip on the armrest loosening just a fraction. “You are relentless.”

Jayce smirked. “And you’re stubborn. So let’s call it even.”

After a long pause, Viktor sighed, shifting slightly to give Jayce access to his leg. “If this worsens the pain, I will hold you responsible.”

Jayce chuckled, rolling up his sleeves. “Noted.”

He started carefully, his hands firm but gentle as he worked over the tense muscles. Viktor didn’t say anything at first, but the way his shoulders relaxed slightly, the way his breathing evened out, told Jayce he was doing something right.

“You’re not terrible at this,” Viktor muttered after a while, his tone begrudging.

Jayce grinned. “High praise coming from you.”

Viktor huffed softly, but there was no real bite to it.

The silence between them was comfortable now, the weight of the evening easing with each passing moment. Jayce’s hands moved with care, his focus entirely on Viktor, and for once, Viktor let himself relax—just a little. Jayce’s hands moved with careful precision, his focus entirely on Viktor. The tension in Viktor’s posture was still there, but it was easing—slowly, reluctantly, but undeniably.

“You know,” Jayce murmured, his voice softer now, “you don’t have to act like you’ve got it all under control all the time.”

Viktor exhaled, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “Control is necessary.”

Jayce smirked faintly, his thumbs pressing into a particularly tight spot. “Yeah, but you’re human, too. You’re allowed to let go sometimes.” Jayce leaned forward slightly, his hands steady as he worked over the tension in Viktor’s leg. “You’ve been carrying this for a long time, haven’t you?”

Viktor’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest, his grip tightening before loosening again. “It is irrelevant.”

Jayce shook his head, his expression softening. “It’s not. Not to me.”

Viktor’s gaze flickered toward him, sharp but unreadable.

Jayce met his eyes, his hands still moving with careful pressure. “You don’t have to do this alone, Viktor. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

The silence stretched between them, heavier now, but not suffocating.

Viktor exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction more. He didn’t answer—not directly. But the tension in his posture eased, and for the first time, he let himself sink into the moment.

Jayce smiled faintly, his hands steady, his presence unwavering.

And Viktor—despite himself—let him stay.

The apartment was silent except for the steady ticking of a clock somewhere in the background. Viktor shifted slightly, adjusting his position on the couch, the dull ache in his leg persistent but no longer unbearable.

Jayce had fallen asleep.

It wasn’t surprising—he had spent the evening hovering, making sure Viktor wasn’t suffering in silence, filling the space with conversation as if his presence alone could ease the weight of the night. And now, exhausted, he had slumped against the armrest, his breathing slow and steady, curls mussed from where he had shifted in sleep.

Viktor breathing softly, watched him for a moment.

Then, carefully, he stood—steadying himself before grabbing the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch. He unfolded it slowly, moving with quiet precision as he laid it over Jayce, letting the fabric settle around his shoulders.

Jayce murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, shifting slightly, but didn’t wake.

Viktor hesitated, gaze lingering on him longer than necessary. Then, without thinking—without questioning the instinct—he leaned down, pressing the faintest kiss to Jayce’s forehead.

It was brief. Barely there.

But when Viktor pulled away, something unfamiliar settled in his chest.

Something soft. Something dangerous.

Something inevitable.

Viktor shook his head slightly before settling back into his own seat.

Jayce stirred again but didn’t wake.

And Viktor let the quiet stretch between them, letting himself sink into the warmth of the moment—just for tonight.

Jayce turned as the studio door opened, expecting Viktor’s usual sharp stride, the quiet authority that came with his presence.

Instead, Viktor stepped inside with a bottle of wine in hand.

Jayce blinked. Then, with a smirk, he gestured toward it. “If I’m not mistaken, the wine comes after the audition.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, setting the bottle down on the piano with his usual precision. “That is tradition. But tonight, we make an exception.”

Jayce chuckled, crossing his arms. “You really don’t do things like a normal person, do you?”

Viktor smirked faintly, “Normal has never been the priority.”

The space was familiar, but tonight, it felt different—not weighted with practice, not driven by critique. Just quiet. Just them.

Jayce raised an eyebrow, stretching out his shoulders. “In the studio? Thought this was sacred ground.”

Viktor smirked faintly. “It is.” He pulled out two glasses from his bag, setting them beside the bottle. “But even temples require reflection.”

Jayce huffed a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabbed the corkscrew. “That’s the fanciest way you could’ve said ‘let’s drink before I throw you to the wolves tomorrow,’ huh?”

Viktor leaned against the piano, watching as Jayce opened the bottle. “You are ready.”

Jayce paused, looking up at him.

Viktor wasn’t the type to say things he didn’t mean, and he certainly wasn’t the type to offer reassurance without reason. The weight of his words settled in the space between them, something unspoken but felt nonetheless.

Jayce poured the wine, handing Viktor a glass before lifting his own. “To what?”

Viktor considered the question briefly, then murmured, “To what comes next.”

Jayce grinned, clinking their glasses together. “I’ll drink to that.”

They settled into the quiet, the polished floors stretching around them, the mirrors reflecting something softer tonight. Viktor watched Jayce sip his wine, the anticipation in his posture tempered slightly by the moment.

Jayce set his glass down, glancing at him. “You’re not gonna say ‘don’t screw up,’ huh?”

Viktor chuckled, shaking his head. “You already know.”

Jayce smirked, leaning back against the barre. “Thanks, Viktor. For all of this.”

Viktor took a slow sip of his wine, studying him. Then, setting his glass down, he finally said, “You earned it.”

The studio hummed in its familiar silence, but tonight, it carried something different.

Jayce let out a soft breath, running a hand through his hair. The weight of tomorrow was there—lingering beneath the wine, beneath the quiet—but for now, it wasn’t crushing him.

He glanced at Viktor, watching the way he leaned against the piano, the way his fingers rested against the stem of his glass.

“You ever miss it?” Jayce asked, voice low, measured.

Viktor didn’t look at him right away. He took a sip, thoughtful, before finally murmuring, “Every day.”

Jayce studied him, watching the way the admission settled between them, unspoken but palpable.

“Do you ever wonder,” Jayce continued, “if things could’ve been different?”

“Wondering changes nothing.” Viktor sets his glass down. 

Jayce smirked faintly. “You sure?”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, finally turning to face him fully. “You think wishing for a different past alters the present?”

Jayce shrugged. “No. But I think acknowledging it matters.”

He stared at Jayce, as if searching for something in the words—not a challenge, not a critique. Just truth.

Jayce shifted, setting his own glass down before speaking again, his voice quieter now. “You taught me everything I needed for tomorrow. You gave me more than just technique, more than just steps.” He inhaled slowly. “You gave me something to believe in.”

Something flickered in Viktor’s gaze. A hesitation. A shift.

Jayce stepped closer, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was breaking some unspoken rule. “I want to make you proud.”

Viktor smiled, small but heartfelt and genuine. “You already have.”

Jayce swallowed, something warm curling in his chest at the words.

The space between them was different now—charged, fragile but steady. Viktor’s gaze was sharp, thoughtful, lingering in a way it hadn’t before. Jayce hesitated only for a second. Then, carefully, he leaned in.

Viktor didn’t pull away.

And when their lips finally met, it was nothing rehearsed, nothing practiced.

Viktor had thought about this before—not in detail, not in fantasy, but in the fleeting what-if of moments that never quite became. Yet now that it was happening, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t calculated. It simply was. A breath caught in his chest, something tight and uncertain, not because he didn’t want it, but because wanting had always come with weight. But Jayce was here, warm and steady, offering him closeness without demand, presence without expectation. The way their mouths fit together wasn’t perfect—Viktor tilted his head slightly, adjusting, searching for the rhythm between them. And then Jayce made a quiet sound, something low, something sure, and suddenly it wasn’t about searching anymore.

Viktor let himself sink into it.

Heat pressed against his ribs, not from urgency, but from understanding. Jayce kissed like someone who had meant to, like someone who had always known that this would happen eventually, and that certainty made it easier for Viktor to believe in it too. Fingers curled against fabric, anchoring. Viktor let himself lean in, just slightly, just enough to feel the full weight of this moment without pulling back. His breath mixed with Jayce’s, warm, lingering, carrying something wordless between them.

Later that night, between kisses, Viktor soon found himself stood nearby, watching him, the wine forgotten on the piano. His stance was measured, but there was a subtle ease to his posture, as if—for once—he wasn’t holding himself so tightly together.

Jayce glanced up at him, smirking slightly. “You ever get tired of correcting me?”

Viktor exhaled, shaking his head faintly. “I would have stopped long ago if I did.”

“Ever get tired of ballet?”

Viktor was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he murmured, “Never.”

Jayce studied him, watching the way the words settled in the air—simple, absolute.

“What would you do if you hadn’t gotten hurt?”

Viktor rolls his wrist absently before resting his hand against the piano’s surface. “Dance.”

Jayce smirked. “You already do.”

Viktor huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Not like before.”

Jayce tilted his head, watching him. “Maybe not. But it’s still there.”

Viktor glanced at him, something lingering in his gaze before he shook his head again—less dismissal, more acceptance.

“Let it be here. Just for tonight.”

Jayce held out his hand, steady, unwavering, an invitation without expectation.

Viktor stared at it, his fingers tightening around his cane. “Jayce,” he murmured, shaking his head minutely. “I can’t dance. It’s impossible.”

Jayce didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. His voice was warm, resolute. “Then don’t think about dancing. Just lean on me. Let me carry some of it.”

Viktor inhaled, his grip still firm, his body still grounded in restraint. But after a moment—tentative, reluctant—he shifted.

He leaned his cane against the piano and his fingers curled around Jayce’s hand, light at first, then steady.

Jayce took a breath, moving gently, a quiet rhythm syncing between them as Giselle’s Act II pas de deux filled the space. He swayed, easing into the music, guiding Viktor in something that wasn’t choreography, wasn’t precision—just movement, just existing within the sound.

Viktor exhaled, letting himself move—small, barely perceptible shifts, but present nonetheless.

Not a dance. Not like before.

But something close enough.

Jayce met his gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. “See? You don’t have to do it alone.”

Viktor didn’t answer. He simply held on.

Their movements were subtle, unhurried. No grand steps, no practiced choreography—just quiet, deliberate shifts, the weight between them shared without a word.

Jayce’s grip was firm but easy, guiding Viktor through the rhythm with quiet assurance. Viktor followed, measured, never reckless, always controlled.

Jayce tilted his head slightly, studying him. “You know, tomorrow, when I step on that stage…” His voice was steady, not dramatic, just honest. “It won’t just be me out there.” Viktor's gaze flickering up to meet Jayce’s. Jayce gave a small shrug, as if the words didn’t carry the weight that they did. “I’ll dance for you, too.”

Viktor was silent for a moment, but something shifted in his expression, a flicker of understanding, something unspoken but acknowledged.

He didn’t offer gratitude, didn’t say anything sentimental. But when Jayce leaned in again, pressing a slow, steady kiss to Viktor’s lips, Viktor met him halfway. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just acceptance.

Viktor exhaled, shifting slightly, his fingers tightening around Jayce’s hand—not enough to pull away, but enough that Jayce could feel the weight of something unspoken.

“For a long time, I told myself that I had accepted it,” Viktor murmured. “That mourning would change nothing, that ballet was simply something I had lost.” Jayce held steady, watching him carefully. He didn’t speak, just listened. Viktor shook his head slightly, his grip flexing. “But acceptance does not erase grief. And grief does not mean that something is truly gone.”

Jayce swallowed, something warm pressing against his chest, his heart beating, in awe of the man in his arms.

Viktor inhaled deeply, gaze flickering to the studio around them. “I spent years believing that stepping into a place like this would only remind me of what I could no longer have.” He exhaled slowly. “But tonight… it does not feel like loss.”

Jayce studied him, watching the way those words settled between them.

Viktor’s fingers lifted and curled slightly against Jayce’s neck. “Tonight, it feels like returning.”

Jayce leaned in again, Viktor met him with quiet certainty, his grip firm, his movements steady, not rushed, not tentative, but entirely present.

Jayce swallowed, adjusting his stance to keep Viktor close, deepening the kiss without urgency, just intent, just knowing. Viktor exhaled against him, shifting slightly, pressing back, not with caution, but with purpose. It was slow, deliberate, something that carried the weight of everything unspoken without needing to explain itself.

When Viktor finally pulled back, his breath was slightly uneven, gaze sharp but softened, something rare settling in his expression.

Jayce smirked faintly, brushing his thumb over Viktor’s knuckles. “You still with me?”

Viktor huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Obviously.”

Jayce grinned, pressing one last fleeting kiss to his jaw, letting the moment settle—undisturbed, unquestioned. Viktor didn’t let go. And Jayce, predictably, didn’t either.