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Regaining his place in the center of the room, the bounce of his heels on the polished wooden floor echoing across the empty room, Jean shakes off the residual stiffness in his limbs. He stretches his arms far above his head and grunts in approval when he hears his back crack with a satisfying pop. The disk keeps turning aimlessly in the CD player for a few seconds longer so Jean closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing pace.
Sweat rolls off his brow and along his jawline, drawing salty tracks on his cheeks; they tickle as they make their course downwards, the drops soaking the collar of his loose top. Every muscle aches and rolls in the best way under his skin; steam erupts out of his pores in invisible waves and wraps his body in a thick layer of heat. His fingers itch to feel the pulse of music muffling the distant purr of cars on the street below, to sense the notes come alive under his touch and play with their imaginary strings until they line up with his every step.
It's a part of the deal when you choose to dedicate your life to dancing; you've got to make one with your body and mind, to learn the language in which they communicate. Jean has danced to this song enough times to anticipate every key and order his body into submission so that the push and pull of each muscle matches perfectly the accord of each string. It's in his blood. However, it also requires something that Jean desperately lacks: the ability to lose control.
The thing is that Jean is known to be a hothead who thrives on risk on the daily; he has done enough stupid stuff on impulse in his short life to frighten any seventy year-old lady into a cardiac arrest and has even scars to prove it. But dance doesn't ask you to climb a dangerously sharp-looking rock with bare feet nor does it ask you to drive your father's car into a corn field, when you don't actually possess a driving license and the cast around your ankle makes it almost impossible for you to hit the brakes, all of this while Connie doesn't stop shouting from the passenger seat like a mad man, his own seatbelt unbuckled and flying freely against the wind.
Trust him, he'll never do something that stupid ever again but that's besides the point.
When he considers the possible outcomes of running head first into trouble, he decides to do it by his own free will. Or rather does the reckless little voice in his head that he listens to more often than not.
No, dancing demands of you something far more scary: to rely on something primal, a gut feeling that Jean is supposed to let take over him willingly. And therein lies the rub.
Call him a bullheaded asshole or a 'control freak' as Connie had so kindly put it once; he just hates not feeling in charge of his own body. It's a human thing, right?
The sheer idea of shutting down his brain and grant permission to the instinct-driven part of his brain to take the lead makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn with unease. No matter how many hours he spends sweating blood, sweat and tears, how desperate he gets and how badly his limbs start to shake with exhaustion when he drives his body too far; there is always this invisible thread holding him back and preventing him for giving his absolute best.
But Jean has to keep trying.
His teachers have made it crystal clear: he has to overcome his block if he hopes to be a part of the next regional contest, and as deceiving as the results are so far, he grits his teeth against the pain and hits repeat until he cannot physically stand anymore.
Quitting simply isn't an option to him.
His eyelids fly open when the first verse fades and is replaced by the rhythmic beat of electronic synthesizer and claps of hands. Jean snaps, unleashing the stamina buzzing in his veins with just enough control to make his moves as smooth as silk, his socked feet gliding on the wood with barely the whisper of sound.
The ghost of a smirk cracks on his lips as he pushes through the energy curling on his inner thighs and calves to propel himself on the ball of his feet and turn; he spins once, twice, enough to make the shapes of the room blur and clash back into frame when his right foot strikes the ground in a halt.
Left arm, knees, two, three, four steps, collapse.
His back arches against the ground in a body wave and with an electrifying thrust, Jean is back on his heels, launching himself forward in a graceful arch of limbs, his lungs begging for oxygen and his heart walloping in his chest.
Jean doesn't listen and keeps moving.
He gets lost somewhere between the myriad of sounds and sensations flooding his system, wired nerves chasing after the hit with an unyielding thirst. His mind rockets back and forth between the call of a voice dripping honey and concealed fire and the sequence of moves he had learnt to perfect with practice and time.
'Nothing's gonna bring me down,
So I gotta reach out,
There's a way out,
Praying feet don't fail me now,
You're all I've got'
Trying another approach by focusing his control on the tempo and letting go of the reins holding his boiling energy back, he feels the edges of his safety net starting to fray. He spins in another blurred twist and when it finally gives in, it's not the music that accompanies his moves but it's the voiceless command of his body that harmonizes with the notes.
It's terrifying, it's everything he fears yet Jean doesn't stop. Above it all, it feels exhilarating.
He holds back the screams of his rationality at the back of his mind, allowing his body to drive him and not the other way around. He trades his place of the leader with that of the spectator's, observing himself move through different lenses and it's...odd. The feeling is different but not in a bad way. He finds it is rather fun.
Jean watches his body awake and move with definite precision, his limbs finally coaxing into motion moves as fluid as water and yes, this is it, and God, he's flying.
Naturally, he doesn't hear the low creak of the door being pushed nor does he notice the dark haired boy peering inside the room; if anything, his strides only become more energetic, his body quivering with snaps of lean muscles until he runs out of breath and yet, his iron-clad determination to push through his newly shattered boundaries doesn't allow him to rest until the very last second. He feels ecstatic.
The song dies as he falls to the ground and leaves the room silent apart from Jean's ragged breath and the idle sound of a disk turning on itself.
The wooden floor is cool against his burning skin where his body has gone limp, his hands resting on his stomach and moving with each intake and expulsion of air. Jean lies here for a few quiet minutes, face cast towards the ceiling as the rush of endorphins crashes down his bloodstream, the tip of his fingers and toes still tingling in the aftermath.
Jean exhales a content sigh and screws his eyes shut, relishing in the sweetness of his aching muscles and the gratifying absence of thoughts plaguing his mind for the first time in two days. Well, that is until he makes out the sound of light footsteps coming from his right. He wonders if he can pretend some stranger hasn't just bursted right through his bubble if he screws his eyes shut tight enough, the same way he did when he was a little kid.
If you can't see it then it's not real, that sort of thing.
He laments on his lack of psychic powers when the offender's pace doesn't falter, taking a few steps further into the room and stopping somewhere next to his head. The stranger clears their throat politely so Jean cracks one eye open with reluctance, intending to send the guy's ass fly back to where it came from but his bite dies on his tongue when his furious glare meets a pair of warm brown eyes hidden behind a mass of dark curls. Oh.
"Foxes, huh?" Marco hums softly, a cocky grin plastered on his face and Jean swears he feels his heart pump all the blood in his body right up to his face, the steam pouring out of his ears, all of it. At his silence, Marco's amused expression slips into a slight frown creasing between his brows and Jean realizes he has just gaped at him like a dumb fish instead of talking like a functioning human being. Duh.
"You've got anything to say about my song choices, Bodt?" Jean manages to mumble with great difficulty, his face burning something fierce. He hopes the other boy mistakes his tomato red face as the natural flush from exertion. He's actually pretty proud with himself for venturing an attempt at cockiness, as wobbly and unsure as it sounded. Whatever. He's trying.
The soft chuckle he gets in response makes his stomach flip and oh man, please do that again. Jean's gaze flicks over the dimples at the corner of Marco's mouth where the freckles scatter to the side of his chin. He licks his lips and wrinkles his nose when he tastes the metal of his piercing, his gaze trailing down Marco's chest to find some kind of distraction from very kissable looking lips but sadly Jean has never been in luck's good books.
He swallows back the dryness in his mouth and lets his eyes follow the path of muscles stretching under Marco's black t-shirt, tight enough to be flattering yet not too revealing, and hum...
The hook in his chest gives a sharp tug where it meets the knot in his stomach, sending his heart flying up his throat if the choking sound he covers as a cough is anything to go by.
You poor fuck, you've got it bad.
"Thought you were more of a Justin Bieber type of guy, that's all" Marco shrugs casually, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder with a teasing glint in his eyes.
"Excuse you-" Jean splutters indignantly, rising on his elbows to find some of his dignity back at the revolting accusation, which only makes Marco laugh harder, his laughter soft and charming and Jean hates to say he feels heat flare up straight to his roots at the sound of it.
The taller boy extends one hand to help him up which Jean considers only for a second before he grasps it gratefully, another wave of heat rising up his cheeks when he notices how smooth and warm Marco's palm is.
Marco hauls him up to his feet without much effort, smiling kindly down at Jean who curses his brain for being so damn slow whenever the freckled boy is around. He becomes suddenly hyper aware of where to put his hands and moves to stuff them in the pockets of his sweatpants when he realises a tad too late that those don't actually own pockets.
Of bloody course.
Marco cocks a curious eyebrow at his ever growing muteness and still Jean drowns further into his embarrassment, hoping for a meteor crashing on Earth right this second, the ground swallowing him up, anything- because God help him, his voice has plummeted down somewhere next to his heart has melted into a bloody puddle on the ground.
Marco clears his throat after a beat of awkward silence, though he sounds almost shy when he speaks again:
"I didn't mean to pry, sorry. I heard the music down the hall and thought I'd come to see who was training" he explains, rubbing one finger under his nose and fixing an imaginary stain of dirt on the floor and he's so cute when he's shy, wow-
"I didn't mean to bother you" he breathes finally, staring anywhere but his direction.
Jean's eyebrows shoot up behind strands of ashen gold at Marco's sudden lack of confidence. He was supposed to be the hot mess of the two, Marco never had to be ...afraid? of him. The idea alone is ridiculous. Why is he being so shy suddenly? The redness on Jean's face returns with a vengeance when Marco's gaze flickers his way behind his bangs but somehow, his lips part and he maintains enough composure to croak a very eloquent: "'S okay".
Smooth as ever, Kirstein. Bravo.
For what feels like the hundredth time in the three weeks he has known Marco, Jean cringes at his own awkwardness and prays for the mercy of lightning striking him down into oblivion. At least his brain hasn't tracked down the word-vomit path yet. That's a small solace in the chaos that is this trainwreck of a conversation.
Marco shoots him another apologetic grin, looking relieved although Jean has no idea why he looks so nervous to talk to him.
"You, um..." Marco starts but seems to back-pedal just as quickly, a flash of white pearls catching the daylight as he bites on his bottom lip and his cheeks blossom a pretty pink color Jean tries very hard not to dwell on and fails miserably. It goes without saying, he is fucked.
"You did well back then, by the way. Your moves are neat."
Okay, so Marco had watched him dance. That's a thing that happened. O-okay.
His heart stutters stupidly in his chest with a ridiculous ba-dump sound Marco can probably hear with how ridiculously loud his heart is hammering in his chest. He doesn't know what to reply without puking the plethora of butterflies swirling in his stomach all over his sockets so he keeps his mouth shut and shakes his head quickly, hoping Marco will take his awkward attempt at thanking him as it is. The other boy exhales a short puff of breath that brushes off the silky bangs shielding his eyes back on his forehead, his cheeks flushed prettily. Jean is unable to tell if the fact makes him even more flustered or just plain confused. Apparently, it's both.
Humour him, he's a mess.
"Thanks", he mumbles with another rake of hand through his hair so he actually has something to do with it, the longest strands pointing at different ends on the top of his head. He keeps his gaze pointedly fixed to a point on Marco's chest but quickly diverts it when he realizes it isn't helping his case at all. Marco surprises him by taking a step towards him though, leaving three or four feet between them that Jean both curses and blesses the heavens for.
The faint musk of deodorant and cheap shampoo invade his nostrils as Marco leans closer to him, rubbing his index finger under his nose absently for the second time. Nervous habit, Jean notes at the same moment he remembers breathing is a thing.
"So, um, you...Youwannagoforadrink?" Marco eventually blurts out, his cheeks blooming an interesting shade of cherry red and wait...what?
He bites his lips and waits for Jean to reply, big brown eyes searching for his slightly clearer ones as he scratches the thin hair of his undercut.
"I'm sorry, what?" Jean honestly asks, brow knitting in confusion. The other boy shuffles on his feet, readjusting his bag back on his shoulder with a frustrated huff that Jean hopes isn't aimed at him. Oh no, Marco is frowning, he's clearly upset but he hasn't said anything wrong, has he?
"Do you want to go for a drink...with me?" Marco reiterates more slowly, albeit hesitantly, biting at his lip and yeah, that's it, Jean is totally lost now. He could laugh at the literal beeping 'ERROR, ERROR' computer noises screaming in his head if he wasn't currently preoccupied with keeping all his organs in the right places. He doesn't find it in himself to care that his heart skipped something like thirty beats in the space of ten seconds because Marco Bodt, Marco-smiles-that-could-end-wars- Bodt just asked him out and is this a dream? A particularly cruel dream at that.
Did he just-?
Marco must have taken Jean's silence the wrong way because he deflates visibly under his incredulous gaze, his face falling as he opens his mouth to apologize Jean realizes with horror but the blonde beats him before he has any chance to reel back.
"You...you mean, like,...on a date?" Jean repeats, utterly dumbfounded by the turn of events and looking like a complete gold fish but really, what's new?
"On a date w-with me?" he specifies for both Marco's sake and his own. He has to make sure he isn't going nutters and starting to take his fantasies for realities. There's surely a limit to how pathetic he can get in front of the boy he has been crushing on since day one. Isn't it?
When the taller boy shakes his head vigourously and starts gnawing at his thumb, eyes averting to the ground once more Jean purses his lips in a thin line to prevent his heart from fleeing straight out of his mouth and crash against the window.
"Yeah, a date, that's...that's the word" Marco confirms with a blush, the assurance in his voice faltering towards the end of the sentence. Jean stares at him, eyes wide and completely at lost for words. A mad grin starts to bloom at the corners of his lips which he tries to conceal behind a closed fist, his grin quickly bursting into a baffled (and definitely unattractive) snort. Dragging a palm down one side of his face to scrub at the heat there, he's still processing the miracle that just occured when he notes Marco's rich skin turn a shade paler, taking his surprise as apparent mockery. If Jean was physically able to kick his own ass, he swears he would send himself flying up to Mars.
"Oh! Oh no, no I mean yeah, fuck , yes! of course" he blurts out gracelessly, and here goes the word vomit.
"A date...with you! That...that sounds great, Marco" Jean groans, frustration building in his chest. He meets the dark haired boy's warm gaze, the golden brown shining with so much hope that Jean feels like he is simultaneously floating and imploding from the inside.
Marco doesn't seem to mind that Jean can't formulate a proper sentence to save his life by the way his broad smile grows wider and fonder at the sound of his name, the freckles on his cheeks vanishing behind a flash of bright red. Y-Yeah, that's...infinitely better.
"G-Great! Um, I'll find you after practice at 6, if that's okay with you?" Marco stammers and it takes Jean all his strength not to kiss him here and there, sweaty smelling and all.
"Sure" the blonde beams as he takes another lingering glance at the freckled boy who returns it in favour with a dizzying smile.
They decide for a meeting point at a bar in the city center, Jean feeling rather giddy and dubious this isn't his brain playing tricks on him the whole time Marco stands there and waits for him to enter his number into his contact list. The door shuts behind him as he leaves for his hip-hop lesson, trailing a musk of cheap shampoo and flowery fabric softener in his wake that makes Jean's stupid heart miss a few beats.
Waiting another extra seconds to make sure Marco is well and truly gone, Jean slumps to the ground ass first and tries to stifle a shameful squeak, biting his lip so hard it feels numb, his face hurting from smiling too hard.
He can't stop thinking about the way Marco shot one last smile in his direction, his lopsided grin brimming with promises, before the door closed behind him with a soft click.
The feeling of free falling has never tasted so sweet.