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Jean wasn’t expecting to see sunlight when he woke up. Typically, his alarm was set before sunrise as an extra precaution for when his inner clock failed him. But today, as he slowly came to grips with the situation, he saw it was already half past nine.
“Shit,” he muttered. There went the morning.
A series of light knocks directed his attention to the door. It wasn’t a surprise, no doubt they were going to ask why he was late for morning check-in. “Come in.”
“Happy birthday!” Breo cheered, bounding in to give him a hug.
“Ah, it’s that again already?” he asked, briefly leaning into the touch before pulling away. “And my alarm didn’t go off because…?”
“Would you believe me if I said it was his idea?” winking, Breo gestured to Andore.
Setting a laden tray on the rumpled bedsheets, Andore leaned over to kiss Jean’s cheek. “Only the best rest for my favorite birthday boy. Besides, I had to buy some time to make all this.”
“Well, that makes sense. I guess burnt toast over here didn’t help out after all.” Jean smirked, eying Breo over his cup of coffee.
“I’m ignoring that as a gift to you, even though you promised to stop bringing that up.” Breo pulled out an envelope from his jacket and offered it. “Although this is your actual gift.”
Jean exchanged his coffee for the envelope and slit it open with his thumbnail. Inside was the sort of birthday card he expected; playful yet sincere. The inscribed handwritten message was much the same, but what really caught his attention was the slip inside.
“It’s one of those theater season passes, for the ballet,” Breo explained, leaning his head against Jean’s shoulder. “I figure, y’know, since we’re in the riding off-season, you could catch a few shows.”
Clutching the card in his hand, crumpling it under his grip, Jean swallowed hard. “I–thank you. Excuse me, I’m just going to take a shower before eating.”
He fled to the en-suite, closing the door behind him. Resting against it, he heard the muffled beginning of a conversation. As much as he was tempted to drown it out with the shower, part of him wanted to hear the details.
“What were you thinking?” Andore hissed.
“I just thought he would like being able to see some ballets!” he argued before lowering his voice. “What’s the matter with that?”
Groaning, Andore's voice levelled out. “You know he doesn’t dance anymore.”
“Well, yeah. That’s obvious, he founded the team.”
“No, not like that. He doesn’t. At all.”
A moment of silence stretched until Breo spoke again. “Oh. I didn’t…know.”
The silence returned afterwards. Flexing his fingers, Jean stared down at himself, the body that had betrayed him countless times over. His skin crawled as his muscles tightened and twitched, a coiled spring that wouldn’t be sprung.
There was the sound of footsteps padding by; Andore, if he had to guess, with Breo following suit. Silence reigned yet again. Waiting until his heart rate settled back into a steady rhythm, Jean wrenched the door open.
Despite his initial assumption, he found Breo where he left him, still standing on his bedside. Freezing for a moment in the doorway, Jean ultimately sighed. He wasn’t going to hide again. Not from Breo of all people.
“You don’t need to apologize," Jean said, stopping Breo from even starting. Sitting on his leg, he started to eat, cutting into the pillowy eggs with sharp and precise strokes. It was perfectly cooked, of course. Andore knew what he was doing.
Jean accepted the still warm coffee, taking a long sip. Seeing Breo’s standard puppy dog expression, he leaned over and snapped his fingers. “Sit down. Eat something, I can’t handle all of this.”
Satisfied by the way Breo started to eat some of the berry bowl, Jean continued to eat, forcing himself to go slower than his usual habit. Andore would have his head if he saw him gulp this down. Listening for a moment, he spoke again.
“Where’s Andore?”
“He went out for a ride.” Licking some blueberry juice from his thumb, Breo’s eyes flickered over to the crumpled birthday card.
It was obvious that this wouldn’t go away. Setting down his fork, he took the card, studying it again. “They’re called performances.”
“What–”
“Ballet performances. Not shows. Shows make it sound cheap, like some circus.” Rolling his wrist, Jean shrugged. “That’s what I think, anyway.”
“I see.” Breo bit down on his lip.
“Did Andore scare you off that much?” he asked. “Tch. He’s overprotective.”
“But you left so quickly and–”
Stopping him by holding up a finger, Jean held his chin up. “It was a childish reaction, nothing more. I have nothing to be ashamed of, I shouldn’t have acted like I did.”
“Ashamed of? Jean, what happened?” Grasping onto Jean’s outstretched hand, Breo looked at him pleadingly. “I’m an idiot for not thinking about your feelings, sure, but I don’t know anything about what you went through.”
“It’s nothing significant.” Jean said. He slipped out of the grip.
“Clearly it is!” Breo argued.
At times, Breo seemed impossible to deal with. “You know,” he began, thinking of a suitable barb. “For someone who is so committed to collecting data in an impeccable memory, you clearly don’t know a lot about a person.”
“I know plenty about people, which is why I don’t know about you, you perfect machine!”
The exclamation lingered.
Smiling, Jean started to tap his fingers against the air. “I’m glad you think I’m perfect.”
“Although…” he saw his fingers moving, unable to stop them. “I’m definitely not a machine.”
Rubbing a hand over his neck, Breo took a deep breath. “Sorry. Uncalled for.”
“I trained in Mariselle from when I was eight, ended up as a principal dancer at the Spanish National and toured all over the world. My career ended with an onstage collapse,” Jean said, words blunt. “Those are the highlights.”
“You–you collapsed?"
“That’s what I said, yes.” Jean stood to brush the crumbs off his loose tanktop.
“And you became a duelist?”
“I was always a duelist. It was a thing in the company. I just went to make it a priority afterwards.” Jean winced at the memory of those earlier days. “With difficulty.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Breo whistled, shaking his head. “Couldn’t be easy, dueling with your injuries after that.”
“Injuries? No, I wasn’t injured. Nothing more than lingering wounds, anyway. My knee is completely shot and since I’ve had more sprained ankles than I can count, those aren’t doing great either.”
There was more. Of course there was more, the back pain, calf cramps, hip aches, the state of his feet, he could go on and on. But Breo was already looking horrified, so he stopped himself from continuing.
“Then, your collapse was something else?” Breo asked, his horror leading into confusion.
“Mental,” he supplied.
“I mean, yeah, that makes sense. Shit, it must have been stressful.” Breo looked off in the distance for a moment. “I dated a couple of dancers, they always complained about everything.”
“It’s cutthroat. I loved it. There was nothing better than rising to the top, getting the part, being the best, all of that.”
“You…really?” Breo’s brow furrowed. “But I thought you and Andore became a pair in the first place because you couldn’t stand to see people lose.”
“Ah, that, that,” Flapping his hand, Jean huffed out a sigh. “It’s different. Dancing was less personal. Or, more personal. It was just me, auditioning alone. Even with my partner, in the corps, whatever, I was focused on how best to play my part. Dueling, eh, it’s a different beast. Seeing someone else’s face, it’s not easy. Most of the time, anyway.”
Propping his cheek on his bent knee, Breo hummed. “Then you found Andore, didn’t you? You never said how you became D-Wheelers…”
“The tag duel circuit. It was worth getting the licenses in the long run since we had the upfront costs. Worked out, no?”
“I’d say so,” The framed photo of their victory at their first tournament resting on the bedside table and the trophies in the living room was enough proof of that conclusion.
Putting his hands on his hip, Jean bent at the waist to eye him directly. “Is that enough for your precious data collection?”
“Yes…” Breo trailed off, keeping his gaze averted.
“Out with it,” Jean commanded. “What is it now?”
“I just feel stupid, getting you that thing,” he confessed.
Picking up the indicated ticket again, Jean read it over. “It’s not a bad deal. I don’t know who performs there now, but it was a nice enough theater.”
“Really?” Breo perked up.
Sometimes it was just too easy. Still, it was impossible not to enjoy it.
“Really,” Jean affirmed. Stretching his arms upright, feeling his tank top rise up past his stomach. “And I do need that shower. Help me, will you?”
“If you insist,” he seemed far more willing than his words suggested.
“Nothing more than business,” Jean warned in advance, pulling off his shirt.
Breo crossed his heart with the tip of his finger. “Promise. Whatever the birthday boy wants.”
“Ugh. I don’t know why either of you fuss so much about this sort of thing.”
Matching Jean in terms of undressing, Breo gave a nonchalant shrug. “It’s just fun, y’know? A special day, just for you.”
“It’s not that important.” Stepping into the bathroom, Jean turned. “Get in here, will you?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sheesh, always a taskmaster.” Taking his socks off, Breo dropped them in the crumpled pile on the floor.
Stepping into the shower, Jean braced his arms against the wall to keep himself steady. Showering was far from his favorite activity in his daily routine. Andore's place had a bath, that was easier on his joints. Of course, having an extra pair of hands helped immensely.
Breo had done this before, he knew what to do. It was a large shower, after all, Andore had paid his time here as well. Arching his back, Jean felt the sponge’s soapy lather dripping down his shoulders. With the water rushing over them, there was no capability or need to speak.
Closing his eyes, Jean breathed in the scent of peppermint as Breo worked in his shampoo. It was worth feeling unsteady for being able to enjoy this…until it wasn’t. The sudden headache that split his skull was enough to make him sink to the floor.
Shutting the water off, Breo bent down. “Need some meds again?”
“It’s…fine. It should pass.” Fully sitting, he pressed against the slick tiled walls. He had a whole regime for this sort of thing, curated for his array of aches, pains and conditions, but it wasn’t worth being drowsy the rest of the day to avoid some pain.
“Alright,” While he didn’t seem convinced, Breo didn’t broach the argument. “I’ll finish up here then.”
“It’s–oh, that’s tender,” Jean winced as Breo’s hand pressed too hard against his side.
“Ah, sorry, sorry. I’ll be careful.”
Going forward, he was careful in every stroke of the sponge. Jean stared at a crack in the tile to avoid catching Breo’s passing gaze as he cleaned off the lather. This shouldn’t matter so much to him. He knew Breo, and Andore, didn’t see him as weak by any means, but the contrary feeling was too prevalent to ignore.
“That’s enough,” he murmured. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” Once he pressed a kiss to Jean’s forehead, Breo slid the shower door open to step out.
Clutching his knees, Jean folded himself tightly against the bracing air invading the comfortable steam of the shower. Eventually, the pain eased, allowing him to relax. It took longer to actually stand, long enough that Breo had vanished.
It was only after he got dressed that Jean heard the sounds from the kitchen.
“What’s this?” he asked, still towelling off his damp hair.
“Dishes. You were done eating, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Jean rested against the fridge, eying Breo at the sink. “But you hate the dishes.”
“Not as much as I love you,” Breo said easily, starting to fill the sink.
That shouldn’t have affected him that much. Breo loved things casually, Jean knew that, he was too easy-going not to. He’d heard Breo say he loved the street cats, for crying out loud, there was nothing beyond the quip. There shouldn’t be, at least. Jean pressed his knuckles against his mouth, rapidly trying to parse the heaviness in his chest. He needed to sit.
Settling into his desk on the other side of the room, he rested his elbows and folded his hands. Breo was humming. Giving up on muddling through his tangled emotions, he opened his laptop. There were a swarm of e-mails, as always. Questions, mostly, from the press, sponsors, the team’s employees, and quite a few from fans.
It still felt strange, having fans like this. The ballet world was less fan-orientated. No matter how good he was, the average performance viewer didn’t see him, just the role he was playing. Here though, things were different. Particularly for Andore. Even skimming through the compliments and requests for school report interviews, most of them were focused on him. He was their star, after all.
Perfect. This was all going according to his plan. Andore could handle the competition, Breo was capable enough too, and he was managing them both effectively. Although, maybe it was becoming too effective.
This was helpful, having people around who trusted him, people who would help him, but having people that loved him wasn’t part of the plan.
“More coffee?”
Flinching at the sudden voice, Jean cleared his throat. “No. No, I’m going to the training center.”
“Suit yourself,” Breo said nonchalantly. Sitting on the couch, he opened the newspaper data stream, sipping at his mug of freshly brewed coffee.
The domesticity spurred him to move faster. Drying his hair, Jean didn’t bother styling it like usual. With any luck, he would avoid seeing anyone– Andore should be done with his training now, he was probably on his way back to his place. Even if he was coming here, they probably would pass each other.
Tossing the used towel into the overflowing laundry basket, Jean looked for his workout bag before remembering its contents were also in the basket. Pulling his wardrobe open, he snatched one of his backup bags. Slinging it over his shoulder, he gave Breo a brusque goodbye, letting the door lock behind him.
He waited for the elevator for fifteen seconds before starting down the stairs; it was only six flights, doable enough on his knee. Still, his breathing echoed through the garage, until he got to his D-Wheel. The moment he put on his helmet, his attitude changed. Every time he started to ride, his body felt different, more stabilized.
This was one of their older models, the one he used to get his license, but it still served him well. The route to their training centre was drilled into him, and as he leaned into the curves of the road, it all felt so familiar. With the engine rumbling steadily, he let his mind go blank. For this ride, he didn’t need to think about anything that had to do with the team’s management or the team members.
But when he pulled into the parking spot, beside the one that Andore typically used, he saw the signs of recent use. With the sight of those tire marks, the thoughts returned with even greater abundance, and annoyance on his part.
Stalking past the reception desk, Jean shoved his ID card against their designated quarters to force the doors open. There too, were the signs of Andore. The smell of his body wash wafted from the showers, his locker was left open, there were even protein bar wrappers left on the counter. After sweeping them into the trash, he splayed his hands on the cold granite. Training. Some training would get him in the right mindset.
“What the…” Words failed him as he unzipped his bag. The smell of rosin and leather was enough to tell him what this was.
This was one of his backup bags– a backup dance bag. He didn’t have a clue how this was brought to the front of the closet. Still, he could get some spare clothes from one of his partner’s lockers, or there might be some lurking at the bottom of his. Although that was clearly logical, as he pressed his ballet shoes between his hands, logic didn’t win out.
Even though it’s what he wanted, once he was wearing his once typical practice attire, Jean didn’t feel anything beyond discomfort. It wasn’t just that these clothes were musty, which they were decidedly were. Now that he was wearing these shoes he once relied on, there was no stability. Unlike his D-Wheel, a solid beast that he could control, these shoes were paper-thin.
There wasn’t anything to rely on here. His steps were hesitant, his eyes trained on following his feet as he walked towards the lower room. With a mirrored wall and wooden floor, it would do for ballet exercises. Once he saw himself in the mirror, his feet immediately pointed in first position, his arms in bras bas.
First position, second position, third position, fourth position, fifth position.
His body reacted in time to his thoughts, going from one position to the next in rapid succession. From there, everything went just like it used to. He warmed up, his hip responding to the stretching with the standard buzz of pain. While it was enough to be noticeable, it wasn’t debilitating, not yet.
With his muscles stretched, he itched to move more. He didn’t have any music but he had years worth of choreography honed within him. Moving to the center of the room, Jean raised one arm, with his hand bent in the proper position. Letting it linger for one beat, then two, he snapped it down before beginning.
It was a modern piece, one that he had choreographed for an audition season. His best moves, all amplified to their fullest potential, in order to hide his weaknesses. He didn’t dare attempt some of his more difficult stunts now, not when it’d been so long. Moving in tight steps, he tried to ignore the temptation to try his signature. The triple tour en l’air.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t ignore that temptation forever.
He tried it and only managed a double. Then, a single with a frankly terrible landing. Grimacing from the impact, he continued. His steps were hastened, his body was growing more and more tired, but his determination had a stubborn hold on him. His steps were becoming wooden, slow and heavy. Every scrap of feedback his instructors ever said, or more accurately, yelled, at him were resurfacing.
Redirecting his attention, he forced his inner tempo to slow. He stretched out his limbs in his standing positions, while lengthening himself with every possible movement. This wasn’t any trained choreography anymore, it was rougher than even his worst performances, and it was terrifying.
His legs were shaking. At any possible moment, he could fall, and have everything crashing down again. Squeezing his eyes shut as he turned and spun, he feebly tried to block out the memories of his time on stage. It couldn’t hurt him, not now, not here. But even when he opened his eyes, it felt as though he was still there. He was at the beginning of what would be his very last solo, moments before everything fell apart.
He landed the triple tour en’lair before collapsing onto the floor.
It took him far too long to hear the sound of applause over the sound of his pounding heart beat.
Moving onto his side, pushing himself up on his elbow, he wheezed. “What are you doing?”
“People are meant to applaud after a show, right?” Andore asked, coming down with a sports drink.
Gnawing at the lid, Jean finally wrenched it off and drained half of it in a gulp. He hadn’t felt this close to dying in a long time. Exhausted yet restless, he pushed himself upright and began to stretch, forcing his muscles to relax again. Groaning, Jean found his voice again.
“After a performance,” he managed to correct. “How long?”
“Eh, a while. Didn’t want to interrupt after all. I forgot my sunglasses.” Andore explained, holding them up.
“It’s cloudy today.”
Andore shrugged, sitting crosslegged. “I figured it was better to be safe.”
“Breo told you I was here, didn’t he?” Jean asked, the questioning a suitable distraction from his tight muscles.
“Maybe he did.”
“You didn’t have to bite his head off earlier. I was going to tell him the details eventually,” Jean said nonchalantly, although he doubted he would have.
The statement broke down Andore's lingering shields. “I just didn’t think he would do something like that.”
“It was a ballet season ticket, not a puppy,” he pointed out. “If anything, I’m impressed he remembered I was a dancer at all.”
Jean watched as Andore’s shoulders deflated slightly. Was his ego that fragile? Leaning over, he pressed his fingertips against Andore's cheek. “I liked my breakfast, you know.”
“Good. You’re out of eggs now,” he said in response.
Still cranky, it seemed. That required a different tactic.
“What were your times?” Jean asked to change the topic.
“Down by thirty percent. I think I can use that new deck soon.” Andore smiled as Jean perked slightly. “Happy, eh?”
“Oh, of course,” Jean purred. It wasn’t a complete farce, he was both pleased and impressed, he just wanted to up it a notch for the moment.
Andore responded well, beginning to explain the details about his training and how he could use their newly crafted deck. Continuing his cool-down, Jean listened intently. By the time Andore ran out of things to talk about, his muscles were as rested as they could be.
Still sprawled on the floor, Jean stared at the ceiling. This was exhausting. The physical toll was one thing, but the pressure of having both Breo and Andore to deal with was another matter entirely.
“Breo said he loved me,” he confessed.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“He said it to me too.”
“He did?” Jean asked.
“He got a flat, a while ago, stayed at my place for the night. We shared the bed and…” Andore hesitated.
“You don’t have to tell me the details,” he clarified, even though he could take a guess.
Andore settled on the floor beside him, fully lying down. “It was nice.”
“When did he say it?”
“After. We had hot chocolate.”
“Do you think he meant it?”
“Do you?”
Remembering Breo in the shower, at the sink, on the couch, Jean had to sigh. “Yes.”
“Well…that makes two of us.” Andore held onto Jean’s hand. “On both parts.”
That confirmed Jean’s fear. In fact, it was even worse than he imagined. He had two people in love with him, people who were his teammates. This was going to turn into a nightmare before his very eyes.
“You didn’t have anything else planned for today, did you?” he asked, cradling Andore’s hand to his chest before letting it go.
“For your birthday? No, not really. Well, maybe dinner but–”
“I have other plans.” Jean lied. “Sponsor meeting.”
“Really? That’s great!”
“Is Breo still at my place?”
“Don’t think so, he said he was going to leave right behind me.”
“Excellent. I’ll call you both later.” Jean sealed it with a light kiss.
Accepting it, Andore rolled up to a standing position. “Break a leg with the sponsors.”
“I’ll try my best.” Jean said, listening to the sounds of Andore starting to leave.
Then, he rolled onto his side, pressing his legs up against his chest. He could get through this. His career was just beginning. Again. He failed once at ballet, twice when he tried to duel solo, and now he was trying another one that involved two other people.
Who somehow ended up loving him. It still didn’t seem real.
He had to get a grip on himself.
His body ached for a week afterwards, finally leading him to cave. He broke into Andore’s apartment for a bath. Having keys to everyone’s apartments worked out for such things, even if it was on the indecent side.
Soaking amidst lavender bubbles, he rested his eyes. It hadn’t been an easy week. The arguments were one thing, those could be handled. The lingering tension on the other hand, was truly aggravating. He tried to push past it from every possible angle but both Andore and Breo were brushing him off. He’d seen their duels this week growing in intensity, almost to the breaking point.
Splashing his face with the lavender scented water didn’t do much for him. Or his eyes. Swearing under his breath, Jean reached over to get a towel, which is precisely when he heard the front door open. Freezing his place, he waited. The bathroom door was only ajar, he had the opportunity to remain undetected for a bit longer.
“What were you thinking today?”
“Are you blaming your performance on me? It’s not my fault you lost.”
“Not that. You can’t touch me like that, not in a team meeting! If we got caught–”
“We didn’t. Now that we’re at my place though, who could catch us now?”
“If you keep talking like that, you might just get me in the mood again.”
That did it. Standing from the water, not even trying to be quiet about it, Jean snatched his clothes. Fumbling as he got dressed, he tried to think of some sort of confrontation before ultimately giving up. All he wanted to do was to get out of here. He couldn’t be a leader here, not now.
Yanking the door open, he saw Andore and Breo agape in the middle of the room.
“Don’t let me stop you,” he said, pushing past them to get his shoes.
“Jean, we–I–it’s not what you think, trust me.” No matter how pleadingly, Andore’s choice of words didn’t help the situation.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Jean asked. “I think that I just wasted all my fucking time. This was ridiculous from the start, I shouldn’t have let any of this happen. We’re meant to be a team, not–not something like this.”
Not letting them cut in, he continued. “This is why everything fell apart this week, isn’t it? Whatever is going between you two is going to ruin all of this and I–”
Jean stopped himself. Re-centering himself, he left it at that. This wasn’t something that needed to be explained further.
“We are a team, now more than ever.” Breo argued.
“You were the one you said we could motivate each other to win,” Andore pointed out, pressing his hand against his chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever dueled this well before.”
Despite Breo’s agreement to that effect, Jean couldn’t let this go. “All week you two have been getting on each other’s nerves, because you wanted to hook up, and you think you’ve been dueling well? That doesn’t mean shit!”
To his annoyance, the two merely looked at each other. If only to fuel his rage further, when Andore spoke again, his voice was gentle.
“I have some shrimp in the fridge. Did you want me to make paella?” he asked.
“And I have some strategy questions, if I could get some advice,” Breo said, hand resting on his deck case.
“There’s no need to coddle me,” Jean grumbled, although he didn’t pull away when Breo grabbed his hand to drag him over to the couch.
“You didn’t eat lunch,” he pointed out, sitting on the couch and patting the seat next to him.
Andore brought over a bottle of chilled water and glasses before scurrying back to the already sizzling pan. Accepting the hint, Jean poured two glasses and took a long sip. Rearranging his position, he breathed into the glass, watching the water move. It had been a while since he drank some water and his breakfast seemed like a very long time ago.
He could stand to wait until after dinner to finish his argument.
As he listened to the sounds of Andore cooking and Breo’s rambling about his deck, Jean felt his eyes start to close. Sinking against the cushions, he struggled to keep himself awake and ultimately didn’t succeed.
“Jean? Jean, wake up, food’s ready.”
“Buh?” he said blearily, before snapping to attention. Food. Dinner. His teammates.
Jerking upright, he narrowly avoided a collision with Breo’s forehead. Dodging it, Breo laughed. “You’ve sure got some reflexes. Sleep well?”
“Enough,” he groaned. Forcing his way off the couch, Jean managed to fight past the stars in the eyes to collapse into a kitchen chair.
Ignoring the pain and the chit-chat from his teammates, Jean ate hungrily. Andore’s paella ran spicier than he preferred, but this was the fuel he needed to keep himself going. Swallowing the last spoonful, he coughed into a napkin before making his stand.
“I’m not having your relationship ruin this team,” he said flatly.
“It’s not our relationship, it’s our relationship,” Breo countered, gesturing to the three of them. “You’re in this too, Jean, we love y–”
“Stop saying that,” Jean interrupted. “It doesn’t matter, this was one thing when we were just casual but this is going too far. If something happens between us now, everything will go south.”
“But that could always happen,” Andore wiggled his spoon for emphasis. “There’s all sorts of other things that could cause us to break up, no?”
Jean did know that. He thought of such situations more often than he wanted to. No matter how much he understood the premise behind Andore’s argument, there wasn’t a chance he could let this continue.
“There’s still mitigation that can be done to prevent things like it,” he muttered, eying the already open bottle of wine on the table. Usually he avoided drinking in front of other people; nowadays, it was strictly a solo activity.
“There’s no sense in denying pleasure to delay pain. If we’re happy now, why can’t we enjoy that?”
“We’ll be strong together,” Breo said, echoing the shared premise.
Gnashing his teeth together, Jean considered his options. Fighting back further wouldn’t help anymore, not against their convictions. If anything, that would make all of this even worse, particularly if it did break up the team. He could feel his body ache, a constant warning of the destruction that could come.
Getting the wine, he pulled out the stopper to pour himself a liberal amount in the waiting wineglass. Taking a fortifying sip and another, he relished the feeling.
“Fine,” Jean gave in with a sigh. “If that’s what needs to happen, that’s what needs to happen.”
The wine flowed that night, as they ended up settling down to watch a movie. While Andore and Jean pressed against each other on the couch, Jean made his space on the floor. As the opening credits rolled, he started to stretch, toying with his overexerted muscles.
He hadn’t watched the first two Duel Detective movies, which didn’t seem to matter. There was a train, a murder, and a surprisingly large detective group struggling to solve the case although it seemed rather simple.
Despite the limited case writing skills, it was ultimately the duel plausibility that got his attention. That being, the lack of duel plausibility.
“Oh, come on!” Breo exclaimed. “That’s not how a deck out works! Who wrote this?”
“Whoever it is doesn’t have a clue about deck structure either.” Sighing, Andore paused the movie. “I’ve gotta get changed, these jeans are digging in.”
Breo looked down at Jean, who was rolling his ankles. “You still good down there? The couch is fine, y’know.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Pushing himself upright, Jean stretched out his back before returning to the couch.
Having Breo immediately snuggle against him wasn’t a surprise, but when Andore returned to sit on his other side with the same intention was quite surprising. Still, as the movie resumed, he didn’t fight against the weight.
For a time, it was comfortable. When it wasn’t, all he had to do was shift his weight. His partners moved apart, he pulled his legs up to cross them and that was that. The movie continued and so did their criticisms, as the movie decidedly did not improve itself.
“Well, that was a disaster,” Andore rolled his eyes, immediately pulling up its details to see other people’s reviews.
Leaning his head on his shoulder, Jean read alongside him. At least, he tried to read, despite how much his eyes wanted to close. How was he this tired?
“You’re not getting on a D-Wheel at this rate,” Andore smoothed back Jean’s hair. “Stay here, why don’t you?”
He hesitated to answer. Breo broke in as he stood. “Well, I got to get going. I’m already late for a vid chat. Training again tomorrow, right?”
“9 AM.” Andore nodded, watching him leave.
Jean pushed himself upright, folding his hands tightly to keep himself awake. “Weren’t you two going to spend the night together?”
“Eh, there’ll be time for that later. Right now, there’s just you, love.”
“I don’t want to get in the way,” he murmured, his sleepiness overtaking his reasoning.
Wrapping his arms around him, Andore lifted them both up from the couch. “You’re not. Right now, you’re just getting into bed.”
Helpless to stop it, Jean found himself resting on Andore’s bed, folding himself into a ball against the soft sheets. Drowsy, his thoughts drifted from hither and yon. By the time Andore joined him, it was becoming impossible to keep his attention on anything.
“You smell like lavender,” he murmured.
“You left the bath water in.” Andore tugged his pillow into a suitable position.
“Mhm.”
“It’ll be better tomorrow,” he promised.
Jean cracked an eye open. Andore slept with a lamp on and in the warm light, he could see his smile. “What do you mean?”
“Training. You’ll see. Things were just…uh, tense.”
Shifting his legs, Jean felt dampness brush against his bare skin. Burying his face into the sheets, he could smell the cologne Breo used. It smelled fresh. He didn’t have an elaborate duel to solve this mystery, particularly when he realized how long he slept earlier. Clearly, it was long enough for them to relieve that tension.
If it worked, it worked.
That mandate proved true. The next day’s training session, the practice matches they had over the weekend and the meeting with the organizers for the Atlantis Cup all went far better than Jean thought they would. He found himself content more often than anxious.
He danced again, giving him the inspiration to include some of his warmups into the team’s shared exercises. Even when he had to go to his cousin’s wedding, he didn’t find himself hating it half as much, not when he could message them afterwards. There was peace to be found that night, as he laid in a hotel bed, staring at the glow of his messages that connected him to them.
That connection aside, he still relished his time to himself. He overheard Andore and Breo talking about moving in with each other to save on rent, but that wasn’t something he wouldn’t even consider. He could, whenever he wanted, have his apartment all to himself. It wasn’t like the others spontaneously came over.
Well, most of the time they didn’t.
“Oh!” Andore said, surprised to see Jean opening the door from the inside.
The feeling was mutual. “I didn’t think you were stopping by,” he said, nevertheless stepping aside.
“Thought we could have a casual meeting. Breo’s downstairs, he got caught talking to the receptionist.”
“She does have a soft spot for him,” Jean mused.
“If you’re heading out though, we can go–”
“No.” he interrupted. “I was just going to the store, I’ll be back soon.”
Taking the hint, Andore started taking off his boots. “Be careful, the snow’s starting.”
“Any requests?”
“Something I don’t have to cook,” Andore smiled, tiredness behind his eyes. “I’m wiped.”
Jean nodded. He was about to leave with that before hesitating. Letting the door close for the moment, he palmed Andore’s face and kissed him. Parting his lips, he made the kiss deeper. When the contact broke, he felt strange. But Andore’s smile was genuine now, which made any of that strangeness worth it.
He took the stairs again. By the time he exited through the lobby, Breo wasn’t there and Veronica the receptionist didn’t pay him any mind. The cold air bit at his ears once he emerged into the beginning snow, leading him to bury his chin in his coat.
On his walk, he was forced to think about dinner. He just checked his kitchen and the results were rather dismal. Regardless, he could manage something edible. Browsing the grocery store’s shelves, he thought of Andore’s tastes before realizing he knew little to nothing of Breo’s. Did he prefer meat to seafood? Did he like anchovies? What did he eat?
Clutching the lemon he selected, Jean exhaled sharply. It would be fine. Breo would survive, unless he was allergic to something. He didn’t remember seeing anything like that in their team documents but that didn’t mean he didn’t have any.
Jean ended up with a jumble of ingredients along with entirely too many beverage options. The snow was growing stronger when he finally started to trudge back home, which only added to his irritation.
“Oi! Your mail is piling up,” Veronica held up a roll of papers, secured with an elastic band. “We’re not a post office, y’know.”
He didn’t deign to respond as he snatched it. If he had slightly more energy, he wouldn’t have left without a quip, but he dared not risk exploding. There was dinner to make.
Entering the apartment, emblazoned with light, heat and laughter, was enough of a restorative for him. Breo immediately came over to take the groceries and Jean’s burden was lifted in more ways than one. Time would tell him more of Breo’s preferences, just as it did with Andore’s.
Luckily, it turned out that they liked anchovies and pasta.
The salt lingered on Jean’s tongue as he dried the dishes Breo washed. Turning to put his pan back, he caught sight of Andore resting on the couch, his arm draped over his forehead. He was exhausted, seemingly choosing to suffer in silence. Far be it for Jean to dissuade such a choice.
Regardless, when the dishes were done and Andore was going over his deck with Breo, Jean rested against him on the couch. He had to look at his mail, after all. Doing mock calf raises against the soft couch couches, he pulled off the elastic. The letters spilled out onto his chest, leaving him holding the glossy magazine that bound them all.
“Breo, what’s this?” he asked, holding up the magazine for inspection.
“Wha–oh.” Breo winced, setting his cards down. “Ah, when I got you the ticket, they asked if I wanted to subscribe to the trope’s magazine for you. Shit, I should cance–”
“It’s fine,” Jean assured him, already beginning to page through the magazine. He ought to speak to Breo more about that situation, but that wasn’t something he could do here.
Skimming over the articles, the only names he recognized were that of the ballets and a few choreographers. Understandably so, it was a local troupe. Still, he found himself almost longing to see the name of one of the people he shared the stage with. He had so many partners over the years, it wouldn’t have been entirely impossible that one of them ended up here in some capacity.
Reaching the end of the magazine, he looked over the calendar of upcoming performances. Seeing one in particular brought him to pause; a combination between a medley of famous dances and a short new piece. It would be short, he knew that he didn’t have plans that evening, and it would make sense to get some use out of Breo’s present.
Looking up at Andore, he didn’t broach the topic of seeking company for the performance. Not tonight. Folding down the corner of the magazine, he set it aside to go through the rest of his mail. Bill statements, mostly, with a handful of team assessments from various tournament sponsors. Letting the evening pass by quietly felt as though it was the most strategic move.
Andore recovered during the week. He didn't explain himself, at least not to Jean but the increase in his mood was evident. Despite that aura of stability, Jean waited days until he brought up the idea of the ballet to him and Breo. The only reason he brought it up then was because he was running out of time to secure the tickets he already looked at.
Despite him planning out a script, with branching routes for variations depending on responses, there seemed to be no need. To his mild annoyance, they both readily accepted the suggestion of an evening at the ballet, rendering all his preparations useless. Regardless, he answered their questions about preparations and secured his selected tickets with ease.
In theory, there was nothing wrong with that night.
Even the weather cooperated, remaining clear throughout the evening. Leaning against the outside wall of the theater, Jean stared up at the last glow of the lingering sun, his blazer not keeping him warm in the slightest. He was early, too early.
Watching the trickles of the audience file into the theatre, Jean studied their attire. Semi formal, which was about what he expected. Openly staring at a man’s peacock blue jacket, he flinched at the feeling of someone touching his arm.
“Breo,” he greeted, once the startled feeling passed. “That’s quite the shirt.”
“Too much? Ah, I knew I shouldn’t have gone for a print.”
“It’s fine. The colour suits you,” Jean reached over to adjust his collar, smoothing it out.
While his hands were there, he cupped Breo’s neck to rub away a smear of grease. “Working on your D-Wheel again?”
“Ah, rats. Got caught again, huh? I showered, I promise.” Nuzzling against his hand, Breo shivered a bit. “Your hands are cold.”
Moving his hand away, fingers flexing, Jean tapped his foot reflectively. “It’ll be warm inside.”
Once Andore arrived in his standard charcoal suit, he was able to put that declaration to the test. The theater lobby had an air of grandeur although it was cut with the scent of must and the unfortunate combination of far too many colognes and perfumes. Jean itched with the uncomfortable feeling of ignorance; this wasn’t where he was for his performances.
As they showed their tickets and waited for the doors to open, he wondered about what must be happening backstage. Chaos, no doubt. No matter how well polished a company, there would always be that sense of desperation before a performance. Now, even when he went along with the crowd to find their seats, Jean had his own sense of desperation.
Pausing at the row of their seats, there was an unmistakable lump in his throat as he looked over the theater inside. Once again, this was not his typical view; what used to be his typical view.
“Here, I’ll be on this end,” Andore offered, shuffling into the otherwise empty row. He took the rightmost seat in their selected three.
At Breo’s gesture, Jean took the middle, folding his hands tightly in his lap. They were starting to quiver in tune with the pent up energy around him, the excitement of the upcoming performance. The curtain was already up, revealing the scenery for the first performances. As it was meant for a variety of dances, it was a simple arrangement of pillars, hedges, benches. A minimalist garden scene.
Breo had the program up on a screen, scrolling through the descriptions. He probably made some comments, Andore likely replied but Jean didn’t hear either of them past his thoughts. This would be fine. Logically speaking, there was nothing he had to do apart from sitting here. So why was his heart pounding so hard?
It didn’t stop, even when the lights dimmed and the first dance began. It wasn’t one he danced before which seemed to ease the stress on his nerves. But after that concluded, with polite applause on the part of the audience, there was the prince’s introduction from Celestial. While it wasn’t his first role, his biggest role or even a particular favorite role of his, it was still one of his. It was on his resume.
“Jean, what’s–” Even though Andore spoke in a whisper, he was still shushed by another irate audience member.
In response, Jean clutched at both armrests, his fingernails digging into the polished wood. At the sight of the action in the dim lighting, both Andore and Breo clasped his hands. Their warm grip didn’t falter even when he clung to them with all the force he could muster.
The performance ended and he relaxed temporarily. Coming to his senses, he looked down to see the marks he left on their hands. Despite the clear signs of pain, their gentle grip didn’t falter. Jean closed his eyes as the music resumed and let his mind picture the performance.
He could never dance professionally again, even if he ended up wanting to.
That realization was something he should have had long ago. Perhaps, in part, he had already come to terms with that, but at this point it seemed close to unbearable. His hands clenched again, crushing his partners hands in his grip as he started to tremble. It was starting to hurt.
If he was hurting, then Andore and Breo must have been feeling all the worst. Yet, they still held on. Opening his eyes, his chest tightened at the sight of the pas de deux on the stage. Fuck. This shouldn’t be having this effect on him, it had been years since he quit.
He suffered through the rest of the selection. Even if it felt like his spirit was being cut from his body, Jean didn’t dare leave his seat. Only when the curtain was lowered with thunderous applause for intermission did he release his grip. Stumbling past Breo’s legs and the other audience members in the aisle, he shoved through the doors and escaped into the lobby.
His legs couldn’t hold him up anymore. Collapsing onto the window bench seat, he folded over onto the table, supported by his arms. He could hear the hub-bub of the theatre’s audience spilling out to enjoy cocktails before the rest of the show. Jean couldn’t bring himself to pull himself together. Even when the bell sounded to signal the end of intermission, he didn’t move. There wasn’t a chance he could bring himself to return to that seat.
After a few more minutes, which seemed far longer, Jean raised his head. Blinking under the light, his eyes focused to see his partners talking by the bar. Resting his cheek on his hand, he waved his other hand to signal them to come over.
“You didn’t have to stay,” he said, once they did.
“We’re here for you,” Andore pointed out. Taking a seat on the opposite side of the tablet, he gestured back to the theatre door. “Dancing was nice though. Not as good as yours.”
“Don’t try flattery,” Jean flicked the air as a warning sign.
Breo leaned over the table, his expression shifted to something more serious. “Are you okay?”
Biting back a quip, he sighed. “Probably. I’m not going back in there any time soon.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“Hmm,” Jean hummed as he flexed his hands. It was a tempting offer. But then he saw their hands, still marred with the half moon marks and scarlet scrapes from his fingernails.
“Let’s get a drink. If you’re up for that,” he clarified his offer, standing slowly.
Immediately, Andore pulled up a map of the area to find a bar, sparking discussion in that front. Once they were outside, Jean tugged on Breo’s sleeve and offered his arm. After a moment, Breo took it in his. Allowing himself to rest against Breo’s arm, Jean felt the same sort of support he felt while riding.
The bar wasn’t crowded enough to be completely overwhelming, a boon to be certain. Regrettably, the waiter was in a chatty mood, lingering at their table a touch too long for Jean’s comfort. At least the others could supply enough small talk to remain polite.
“Oh, you were at the ballet? What, didn’t you like the show?” the waiter said with a laugh, finally setting down the drinks he was holding hostage.
“Performance,” Andore and Breo corrected in the same voice.
Jean wasn’t quite sure if it was that simple answer or the resulting blank expression on the waiter’s face but he simply couldn’t help himself. Bursting into laughter, his chest soon hurt from the physical exertion. By the time he was able to calm himself and wipe the tears from his eyes, the waiter was gone.
“I don’t say it that much, do I?” he asked, sipping at his beverage to soothe his ravaged throat.
“It ended up sticking with us for a reason,” Andore dryly remarked.
Jean smiled, enjoying the sound of Breo’s admonishment and Andore’s wry response. Just listening to them was enough to reset himself for the moment. The drink was awful and overpriced, but it was an excuse to continue lingering in that moment.
At that moment, the longer it took him to finish this drink, the better.
Eventually, it had to come to an end. When he eventually parted ways with his partners, Jean still felt full rather than being hollowed out. Even opening the door to his dark and lonely apartment was perfectly fine.
As he went about settling in for the night, he found traces of his teammates dotted around. He slipped on the sweatshirt he openly stole from Breo’s closet to rest on the couch with a glass of the wine Andore brought over earlier in the week. Then, as he scrolled through his music library, he settled on the score from Celestial.
Hearing the soft beginning of the first act, ‘Opal Reunion’, Jean closed his eyes. He had to feel this ache, he had to let these feelings pass once and for all. No matter how much he thought this was already done, that his logic ruled over his wounded heart, this night at the theatre proved him entirely wrong.
He felt sick by the time the score came to an end. The wine was gone, he was exhausted and it was far too late for him to be awake. Crawling into bed, Jean didn’t feel healed whatsoever. Forcing himself to check his messages, he was met with a pair of private good night messages and group message chatter about their upcoming practice matches.
Letting the glow of the screen fade into the darkness, Jean exhaled, forcing him to acknowledge both the past and the future. He once felt the warmth of the stage, just like he now had the warmth of his partners. Even with his exhausted state, verging onto sleep, he knew that neither was inherently better or worse, merely different.
The warmth would still be there.