Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Alex Albon had been enjoying a perfectly lovely sleep when he was tackled by 5'9 of high-strung ballerina. This tended to rather wake a fellow up.

"It's out," George hissed, catlike, her hand clamped over his mouth. "I just watched Lewis put it up. Come on!"

"Mrrmpj, whfhg hrmph?"

"I have no idea what you said."

"Hrrrryuu mmphj dhhhngh hrmph?" he said helpfully.

She glared daggers at him. "I didn't want you to scream."

Alex licked her.

"Ew, Albono, fucking disgusting—" she yelled in a whisper, yanking her hand away and scrubbing it on his bedsheet. "You've made your point, now put a shirt on, my god, can we go already!"

"Chill, Georgie," Alex yawned, groping blindly for a shirt in the pile by his bed. "It's literally dawn, why are you awake?"

George rolled her watery blue eyes. "Lewis implied yesterday that it would be up first thing today, and he always wakes up before dawn to stretch and go for a run. Q.E.D., it would be up early today. I've been hiding by the halls since 4, waiting for him to put it up."

Alex paused. "Should I be concerned that you’re stalking him?"

"You should be concerned for both of us, if you don't get up right now, because I will kill you if anyone sees the cast list before me." George smoothed down the front of her massive hooded puffer and jammed her feet back into her fluffy slipper-boots. She paused at the door, jittery and bouncing in place. "Let's go, now, please?"

He sighed. "Whatever you say, princess."

His hand snapped out and caught the slipper before it hit his face.

It started, of course, when Lewis decided they were going to put on The Nutcracker.

Of course, the Academy put on the Nutcracker often. They had done it both years she was in Juniors, and she had been cast as one of the Claras, and then they had done years of modern and neoclassical holiday stories, doing A Christmas Carol and some Snow-Queen ballet Alonso had whipped up.

But it was the first time that George was old enough, and good enough, to audition for the main roles.

George had auditioned for the Sugarplum Fairy, of course. George had always loved Christmas, ever since she was a child. Everyone would wake up, exchanging gifts, and George would help her mother cook a massive Christmas lunch, which they would all have late, and spend the next few hours in a stupor, before they all got dressed in their fineries and go to the ballet. Most years, Alex would be there as well, and they would sit silent and entranced through the familiar piece, before giggling the whole way home, where they replicated the routines the whole night long. Nutcracker had always been one of her favourite ballets, inextricable from fond memories of family and celebrations. She had always wanted to be the Sugarplum Fairy, magical and exquisite and a moving dream.

And George was good. She knew she was. In her audition, she had danced the variation with exacting precision and delicacy. She landed the string of chainé turns with a flourish, looking up to meet Lewis's eyes, and had seen him looking back with warm, smiling eyes.

"Good, George," he had said. George had ridden that high for days. She was still riding that high now.

There were always two casts for the holiday show, since the year Grosjean had danced a week straight of shows with the flu and collapsed, barely offstage, at the end of Act One of the last show. Since then, Lewis always double cast his main characters, alternating their performance nights, vowing to never let such gross negligence happen again. Alex would have auditioned for the Cavalier across her — they had been partners since even before Juniors, having grown up together and danced together the whole way — if not for spraining his elbow trying to rescue a cat from a window ledge. He had been cleared to dance, but not to do lifts; thus crushing George's dream to dance her favourite role with her lifelong best friend. Instead, George was stuck hoping that Lewis would cast her in the main role, even though her established partner was unavailable, and not stick some hopeless fuckwit she couldn't partner with across from her.

So, many near-sleepless nights later, when Lewis had mentioned casting going up soon, George had remembered the cast list going up the next day in previous years, and basically staked out the foyer noticeboard in the dark. So here they were now, George dragging Alex, half-asleep, to look at the cast list. Before the building lights were even on.

Alex frowned, scanning down the list. "I know we love the suspense, but there are about a million character roles. Would it really kill them to list the principals first?"

George rolled her eyes. "Don't be such a whiner. Nobody-"

"-likes a whiner," they said in unison. Alex pulled a face at her. He had been around George's family enough, spent enough time in class with George and her mother, to be able to recite their family slogans by heart. The two of them had made enough fun that they had the unreserved right to mock each other whenever either of them used it seriously. Alex turned back to the list, and made a whooping noise, quickly stifled by George slapping her hand over his mouth again. She glared at him, her blue eyes grey in the low light. "Shut up, do you want us both to get in trouble?"

He raised his eyebrows. George quickly removed her hand before he could lick it again. "Conduct yourself with decorum, Albono. Crikey."

"Crikey," he mimicked, waggling his eyebrows, his voice high and posh. "You're really saying that to the famous troublemaker, the-"

Rat King:
Alexander Albon

George let out a low noise of excitement, grabbing at and shaking him. "Oh my god, Alex! Yes! Congratulations!"

"I didn't want to sit out the show, so Lewis let me audition for a couple of solo-ish roles, and you know I love working with some of the juniors and some of the Academy school kids," he said, grinning.

"Oh, joy, you're going to terrorise everyone, aren't you," she sighed.

"The goal is to get someone else to go on in my costume for at least a bit of an act and see if anyone notices," he said. It was a time-honoured tradition at the Academy.

George rolled her eyes. "God help whichever juniors you rope into helping you."

They continued down the list. Alex leaned in over her shoulder, and giggled, half-stifled. "Exciting."

Clara:
Andrea-Kimi Antonelli
Doriane Pin

Nutcracker Prince:
Oliver Bearman
Arvid Lindblad

George tipped her head back to look at him. "Do you think Lewis is doing it on purpose?"

Andrea and Ollie were two of the most promising young dancers in the Academy's junior programme. Andrea was a bit younger than most of the dancers in the programme, and had joined halfway through the first year, citing a sudden family move. It was an open secret, really, that Toto had been scouting her for a while — had wanted her for the programme and then the company — and had scooped her up as soon as she was anything close to in the country. She had been the talk of the Academy — still was — and most of the students were hungry to see her perform, properly.

George had watched a junior technique class once, peering in through the massive windows, curious about the young protégé. She had spotted her right away. Little Andrea Antonelli stood with her back straight and her dark curls wrangled into a tight bun, and walked like she was spun from clouds.

Alonso had called for the next dancer for the combination, and she stepped forward, her chin lifting, and stepped into an arabesque, her fingertips and legs extending through the beat, before turning to step-step-tour jeté. She landed, her feet barely making a sound on the Marley floor, stepping into another arabesque. The jump repeated on the other side, and Andrea slid smoothly into a chassé-pas de bourrée-triple pirouette, stepping out of the turns into a double attitude turn.

"Look at her," George had muttered, envy rising as she watched the young Italian. "The height on that jump. The lightness, and grace. She's amazing."

Antonelli spun her way across the floor. Alonso had finished the combination with a series of pique turns, ending with an arch-backed pose. The young Italian reached the end of her piqué diagonal, chassé-d, and casually landed a double tour en l'air, rotating twice in the air, landing neatly in fifth and sliding smooth into the prescribed ending pose.

Fernando Alonso narrowed his eyes. Andrea Antonelli grinned unabashedly at him, a sheen of sweat across her face. His nose crinkled. Begrudgingly, he nodded approvingly.

"It took me forever to earn an Alonso nod," George hissed, furious. "At least two terms!"

"Look at Ollie," Alex snickered.

Young Ollie Bearman had watched with stars in his eyes as Andrea turned and leapt across the room. He had then missed his cue, surprised himself, bungled the entrance into the combination, and tripped, tumbling into a pile on the floor.

"Oh my god," George said with horrified delight, watching Ollie scoop himself back up and trudge, embarrassed, to the back of the room. Ollie was usually one of the sharpest dancers, one of the best jumpers, always nailing the combinations and hitting his marks.

"Oh my god," Alex yelped, elbowing her in the ribs, as Andrea, biting back giggles, slid towards him and started talking.

"Bearman," George said quietly, feeling herself blush hot with sympathy, "Jesus. Redeem yourself."

Ollie must have, because he and Andrea became fast friends. Ollie had a special talent for appearing soundless behind someone, shocking them half to death: some quirk of awkwardness and lightness on his feet that lent itself to his footwork and his jumps. George herself had been startled by Ollie appearing out of nowhere, though she had known him for years — since he was in the feeder classes and summer schools — and should have been used to it by now. Andrea, on the other hand, had the uncanny ability to detect him, even when he was actively trying to sneak up on her. Ollie called her Kimi, a nickname she had claimed only her family were allowed to use. He was half-Italian; she chattered away to him fluently while he attempted to respond in broken sentence segments. And yet, whenever they were asked about the other, both of them would blush and stammer, denying anything more than friendship.

The entire Academy had been waiting, with bated breath, for one of them to make the first move. George knows that Carlos swears, on his dance belt, that he had once seen Alonso watching the two of them flirt, and whack Ollie across the back of the knees with his cane in exasperation, after Andrea departed with a shy smile and wearing his jacket. Everyone was fed up with and yet fascinated by how they managed to circle each other, infatuated and yet oblivious. It was very entertaining to watch.

And now, he had gotten himself cast opposite Andrea, in the Nutcracker.

Alex snickered. "A bit of Christmas romance, perhaps? It's happened before."

She sighed. "You hook up with a partner's sister one time…"

"Hey," he said, eyes glinting, "I hear Seychelle still asks about you sometimes."

She threw her hands in the air. "That was three years ago! Besides, it's not my fault Nyck and his family moved back to the Netherlands that February."

"It is your fault that you made out with her backstage and got her lipstick on your costume," Alex laughed.

George carefully resisted the urge to throttle him.

She scanned the list, her heart in her throat, as she made her way past the list of character solo castings. And yet. Nowhere on the list did she see her name. Infuriatingly, she felt her eyes well up with tears.

"I just… I really want this role," George said. She stared blurrily at her pink slippers, and tried to blink them away. "I really thought Lewis liked how I danced."

"Well, I have some good news for you," Alex grinned, his teeth white and gleaming in the low light, "because it says here you're the-"

Sugarplum Fairy and Cavalier:
Georgiona Russell & Lando Norris

The air flew out of George's lungs in an instant.

"ALEX!!!" she squealed quietly, throwing herself at him. "FUCK! YES!!"

"Congrats, Georgie-girl!" Alex yelled back in a whisper, picking her up and swinging her around. "I knew you'd get it!"

George span in place, feet fluttering in little coupé turns. Christmas showcase, and she was the Sugarplum Fairy. It was one of the most iconic roles ever. It had one of the most beautiful pas de deux pieces. Of course, there was the small problem of partnering with Lando Norris, but she was sure it would be fine. George was, as almost every boy she had danced with had said, an easy partner — technically perfect, and very easy to work with. It was everything she had ever dreamed of — her final year Christmas show, and everyone would be there, and they would all be watching her.

"Um. George." Alex's voice drew her out of her dreamy stupor. "Have you seen who the other cast is?"

"No, why?" George frowned, whirling around and stepping closer. "As long as it's not-"

Her eyes caught on the words, and her face dropped.

"Fuck," she whined, slumping backwards against Alex. "Of fucking course it's them."

In big, black, letters, the casting list proclaimed:

Sugarplum Fairy and Cavalier:

Georgiona Russell & Lando Norris
Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

George and Max had hated each other since their first year together at the Academy, back when they were still in Juniors.

Max Emilia Verstappen was famous. Daughter of Jos Verstappen, whose career was ended by a pyrotechnic malfunction on stage, Max had been trained for the ballet since she could walk. She had won almost every competition she entered, and been scouted by company schools immediately after that. The problems started after that — Max Verstappen was famous for being one of the outstanding talents of her generation, but she was more famous for being unable to keep a pas de deux partner.

It was not that she was not a good dancer, or that she was a poor partner. She was, according to most sources, brilliant to dance with — responsive, adjustive, and finely attuned to both herself and her partner. She could dance with anyone. The problem was that she was too good a dancer, too good a partner — very few, people quickly realised, could keep up. And no one wanted to dance with a woman who could outjump, outspin, outlast them, no matter how good she was.

And of course, Max expected anyone she danced with to match her standard — match her turns, her jumps, her flourishes and stamina; read the way she moved and respond in turn. And so Max danced, and her partners left, and then she joined the Academy and met Charles Leclerc.

Prix de Lausanne winner Charles Leclerc was also famous, and by some horrifying, insane quirk of fate, he had been the perfect match for Max. The first class they had together, they had clicked instantly, Charles somehow knowing by instinct how Max would travel, where Max would be, how to breathe and move and flow in sync with her.

"Keep up," Max had said, in her bored Dutch twang, and sprung into Alonso's complicated grand allegro, leaping and turning and grand-jeté-ing around the room. She had, of course, added her typical flourish. Very few people wanted to be doing the combination in the same group as her — she tended to use all the available space, and after a few crashes, people let her have the floor.

Charles' eyes had hardened, and he leapt after her, matching her step for step for height and turn, leaving space for her and sliding into space where she wasn't, finishing with a brilliant turn he continued until after the music was done. Max had looked at him, her eyes grey and wondering in the fluorescent studio light.

Charles had smirked back, quietly catching his breath, his face then still round with youth. "What, like it's hard?"

And then they had had their first partnering class together, and they had moved like they had been dancing together their whole lives, and that had been it.

Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc were the star dancers of the Academy. Their performance of Romeo and Juliet's bedroom pas de deux in last year's finals showcase had brought the whole theatre to tears. It was one of the most viewed videos on the Academy's YouTube page, second only to Lewis's solo from his graduation showcase. It was masterful. Max and Charles had somehow embodied the delicate, tender emotion of a first love's first night: Max, so harsh and unyielding in real life, giddy and soft with delight; Charles, a steady and delighted counterpart. They had danced like they were weightless; they were nothing but moonlight and emotion, two slivers of brightness dancing across the stage. George remembered watching from the wings, her fingernails digging pink crescents into her palms, her heart bitter and yearning.

And of course, everyone had seen their Black Swan pas de deux.

In the winter break of their third year, the Prince of Monaco had invited Charles Leclerc, 'and partner', to perform at the annual Charity Gala. Charles had been receiving invites for years; he had been an ambassador for Monegasque excellence and investment in the arts since he entered and won the Prix at fifteen. Charles was, the rumours went, personally sponsored and supported by the Royal Family. He had had a standing offer to join the Ballets de Monte-Carlo since he had won. Every year, the Gala showcased the best and brightest stars of Monaco and Nice, running a two hour performance and a five course dinner. Every year, Charles Leclerc was a starring act. Last year, Max had followed him home.

They had done the Black Swan pas de deux. It had been breathtaking.

That was when the Paris Opera had offered for Charles.

George would never admit it, but she had watched the video so many times that the image of Max smiling at Charles, sultry and eyes hooded, had been burned into her mind for weeks. Her Black Swan oozed sensuality, playful and flirtatious and inevitable, her footwork quick and darting, her hands elegant and lingering. Her fouettés had been otherworldly: 32 whipped turns, alternating singles and doubles in perfect time with the music, all while staying in the exact same spot. There she was, dark and glittering in the centre of the stage, turning and turning and turning and turning. Every time she looked at Max, she saw her Black Swan, and her heart thumped painfully in her chest, a confused maelstrom of fury and attraction pulsing behind her eyes.

George carefully chalked the feeling up to nothing more than professional jealousy, and never spoke about it to anyone.

There had been a time, once, where George and Max had almost been friends. George had been in her second year of Juniors when Max joined. They had been friendly, close to friends: Max was partnering with one of her best friends, and Max was very good, if a little cold and awkward. George had been obsessed with her Flames of Paris solo. She had wanted to be friends with her — someone who loved ballet as much as her, someone who was equal, maybe even better, someone she found funny and beautiful.

And then it had all fallen apart.

It had happened in the last variation class of the term. Lewis liked to give his Juniors challenges, encourage them to try and tackle challenging dances and character work. He had choreographed a short piece — longing, sad, lots of slow turns and yearning, drawn out movements; lots of long adagio bits, just the sort of thing George liked. The story to go along with it, Lewis had said, was up to the individual. You could be heartbroken. You could be grieving. You could be lost. Lewis had taught them the choreography, and popped out for a short break, letting them polish and individualise their interpretations without his input.

George had gone classical — she loved classical. Loved the Tchaikovskys, loved Giselle, loved the slow, elegant emotion of ballet. So of course, she based her interpretation off the restrained, elegant heartbreaks of Swan Lake. Her arabesques were exact, her port-de-bras exquisite. George ran through the routine, and, satisfied, slid to the floor in splits at the side of the studio.

Max Verstappen had come up to her.

"Why do you not go past doubles?"

George had done a quick double take. "Excuse me?"

"I have seen your turns," she had said. "You do not do more than double pirouettes; I do not think I have ever seen you try. Why do you not aim for more?"

The words had struck deep, in her heart of hearts. George knew she was a very precise, exacting, elegant dancer. She had seen the dancefluencers on Instagram, spinning like tops with no regard for artistry or interpretation or grace. It didn't mean that she had never wished, sometimes, that she could be a bit like them, that she could have that physicality to use properly.

"Variations don't always call for more than doubles," she had said. "Sometimes, when you do too many turns, it distracts from the piece."

"You say that, but you always overdo your extensions," Max had replied. "Your leg does not need to be so high always. It distracts from the piece."

George had laughed, high and sharp. "If you're jealous of my flexibility, you can just say, you know." Max was not inflexible, but she was on the less flexible side of dancers, and George was one of the most flexible dancers in the Academy, and she took a stubborn pride in it.

"Your hypermobility is something you must manage," Max had said, as if George hadn't been hearing this, hadn't known this her whole life. She shrugged. "You cannot be all flexibility and no strength forever."

"You're sloppy," she fired back, eyes narrowing to slits. "You throw yourself into every move; you're all emotion and barely any technique. No one will want to watch you."

Circus dancer, people had called her. Max jumped higher than anyone, could do more turns and do them more exactly than anyone. All she does is rely on her physical talent and her tricks. There's no artistry within her. George knew this was only partly true. Max was one of the most exacting dancers, when she wasn't throwing herself so far into the character she forgot it wasn't real.

George also knew that Max hated people saying it.

Max had laughed, harsh and jagged. "It is a matter of control, and ceiling, yes? I can of course choose to dial it down when the occasion calls for it, but if you cannot do more than a double, you cannot choose to dial it up at all."

"Better underwhelming than out of control," George had sneered, her composure slipping through her fingers. "You're so obsessed with your acrobatic tricks that you can't dance- you can't perform a variation like this, when there's nothing you can compensate with."

Max's face creased, refracting like steel and glass. Her eyes blazed with blue fire.

"Don't take your fucking eyes off me," she had replied, jabbing her finger into her shoulder.

She stepped into the centre of the studio. She breathed, and the music came on, and she started.

George had found that she couldn't. Max was electrifying. She danced on the edge of time.

Max held every move just a breath longer, coming down just a bit later, and yet she breathed the music, perfectly. She danced, and she lived the story, the feelings and reactions clear on her face, in the way she moved. She moved, and the music moved with her, moved for her. Time stretched out, and Max Verstappen danced between its gaps, coaxing every ounce of emotion out from the piece. She danced, sorrow in the lines of her neck, her arms, her legs, and it was heart-wrenching. It was pathetic. It was beautiful.

George watched her, and felt something hard and hurting and sour lodge in the back of her throat. The piece was sad — it was heavy. It was heartbreak, defeated and quiet and aching. It was simple, for a variation, a series of slow turns and long extensions. Max danced it, and she was desperate — begging, craving, asking for something, wanting it back.

Max danced it, and she was magnetic.

She finished, holding the ending arabesque longer and melting, almost collapsing, out of it, in character even after the end. Then, she straightened up, eyes darting around, and she was just Max, ballet student, standing not quite self-consciously in the middle of a room, with everyone staring at her.

The studio was silent for a long moment.

Lewis had broken it with a firm "Very good, Max. Simply lovely," before clicking his fingers for the next person. George had moved to the centre, the tips of her pointes dragging on the Marley, her head still spinning, breathless. The music started, and she floated into the variation, dignified and elegant and grieving. She had danced her heart out, every move perfect and beautiful and expressive, muted.

She had pushed into the renversé, and her ankle had wobbled, the pointe shoe catching the floor wrong, and slipped, barely stopping herself from crashing to the ground. Furious, face burning, she had rushed through the rest of the variation. She had known, as soon as she finished, that it had not been as good as Max's. That it had not made up for her fumble.

Lewis had praised her, pointed out her masterful control through the developpé, the way she had held the arabesque and extended through her fingertips and feet. Her ankle still twinged from the fall, a mistake she shouldn't be making — couldn't afford to make, now that she was in professional training. She still couldn't get the image of Max, dancing, the wretched sorrow on her face. She had felt like she had lost something.

"George!" Max had followed her, after class, rushing down the hall to catch up to her. "Your dancing, I thought it was very beautiful, but of course when you stepped into that renversé, you-"

"Stay the fuck away from me, Verstappen," George had snarled, trying not to cry. "I don't need your help. I don't want to dance like you. I would rather cut my feet off than dance like you."

She had left Max standing there, eyes wide with shock, her hand still outstretched reaching for her shoulder. Max's eyes had hardened, and in the next class they had had together, they had done nothing more than eye each other up icily.

They had been on vaguely frosty terms ever since.

George pushed open the door to Studio 4 to see Max and Charles already there, huddled stretching in a corner and yapping away. She rolled her eyes, dropping her bag at a spot near the centre, and stretched herself out over the barre. Great. She expected Lando would be late, as usual. The man was chronically unable to keep his life in order.

A noise sounded from behind her, and she tensed, anticipating.

"Naughty, naughty, naughty, Russell," Max said, her flat Dutch accent butchering her imitation of George's. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. "Sneaking out to look at the cast lists. Lucky you didn't get caught, really."

George's hackles rose, along with her pulse. "How did you know that?"

Max shrugged, insouciant. "My room looks out over the foyer." She smirked. "Of course, I saw you arrive as well, of course. I was hiding by the alcoves."

"You don't actually have to beat me at everything, you know," George snapped, resisting the urge to pull off her pointe shoe and bash Max's face in with it.

"But it's so much fun," the Dutch dancer winked. "You are so much better when you are not perfectly composed and perfect, you know?"

George's hands tightened on the wooden barre. She shut her eyes, taking a deep breath, and bent over her extended leg, relishing the strain on her tendons. Anything to take her mind off the infuriating creature that was Max Verstappen.

"Charles and I were surprised to hear the casting," she said, her voice moving closer. She pronounced Charles's name the French way — Sharl, all long vowels and soft consonants. George opened her eyes to see Max standing right over her, leaning on the barre. "You are usually with Alex, no? It will of course be interesting to see you and Lando, especially since you do not so much like changes."

George straightened up. "Listen here, Verstappen-"

The door slammed open. Lando rushed in in a flurry, tripping to the barre. He dropped his bags and sweatshirts in a pile where he stood, and straightened up, flashing Lewis an apologetic grin.

In unison, George and Max rolled their eyes.

Lewis coughed quietly, and the room snapped to attention. "Pliés, please. Let's make this quick and get warmed up properly, and then we can start rehearsals, yes?"

George turned her back pointedly on Max to face the barre. Her body could speak for herself. The music started, and she forgot everything else.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

On his third attempt to watch them run through the Sugarplum lifts, Charles threw his hands up in frustration. "My God, Lando, this is not how you are supposed to do it! The Sugarplum Fairy is not supposed to be on the floor!"

Lando glared at him, awkwardly half-bent, one hand still on George's ankle. "Thanks, mate, I hadn't figured that one out."

"Haven't you?" George said, twisting around to look at him from where she was on the ground, Lando's attempt to catch her barely breaking her fall. "Because I'm getting a bit tired of the floor."

Lando let go of George's ankle. George collapsed with a quiet oomph. Max rolled her eyes. "You two of course need to get a grip."

She gritted her teeth. "Thanks, Max. That was really helpful."

Max shrugged. "It was not. I was being sarcastic. What about the lifting is going wrong?"

George tried very hard not to wail. She wasn't sure she succeeded. "I don't know!"

Unfortunately, the small problem of partnering with Lando Norris had turned into a large one.

George had almost always partnered with Alex, ever since they started pas de deux classes at 13. This was in part because they had grown up together, and had already been comfortable around each other. It was largely because they were both tall. Alex was a respectable 6'1.5, looming over most dancers. Lando Norris, on the other hand, was the champagne flute of ballet dancers. At a modest and compact 5'10, he was shorter, slender, and very aerodynamic. Lando jumped and spun beautifully, but his height meant that he had always partnered with shorter women, who were tiny, small-boned, and had about the weight and grippability of a champagne bottle.

George was not that.

George, at 5'9, was just slightly too tall for a ballet dancer — en pointe, she ran the risk of towering over partners who were on the shorter side. She was… managing. The ballet world was changing their stringent standards on body shape and size, and George knew, with rock-solid conviction, that she was good enough to convince a company to risk taking her, even if she would stick out slightly on height in the corps. It simply meant that she would be that much more easily noticed, and have that much more opportunity to be noticed and promoted.

That was not a concern Max had to consider. Max Verstappen had been on every company's radar since she debuted in international competition at twelve. Max also came in at 5'8, the taller end of average, and a little stocky, and lean, her arms and shoulders well defined. Next to the 5'11 Charles Leclerc, they were a perfect pair.

All of this to say, George and Lando had been fast friends for years, but they had never danced together before, not until Lewis decided to cast them this year. Now, they were two weeks away from opening, and Lando still kept dropping her. So when Lando had texted her for practice after male variation classes, George had of course shown up. She had expected Charles to be talking to Lando in the corner of the room, two lithe figures comparing notes on the solo. She had not expected Max to be there, or involved in the discussion.

"Lewis does not let me take male variation classes even when I ask," Max explained, rolling her pale blue eyes, "so I have Charles and Lando teach me after. I think it is good practice, and of course my father wants me to know how to dance everything. He has of course asked, but Lewis was very firm on not giving anyone different treatment for reasons like these."

George felt a brief twinge of sympathy. Max's father was notorious for being crude and harsh, haunting the halls of competition venues, a permanent scowl on his face. George had seen Max dance. She could believe that he had forced his daughter to learn male variations until she could dance them as well as, and even better than, the men themselves.

Max continued, and as it so often was with Max, George felt her goodwill crumble and disintegrate. "And of course Lando has said that you are practicing the pas, and you two have been having trouble, so he has asked me and Charles to stay and help if we can."

"Right," George said, throat dry. "Thanks."

"It is no problem," Max shrugged, pink dusting her cheeks. "I love dance, and talking about dance."

"So do I," George flared on instinct. Max stepped back, eyes wide and blue.

"I did not mean-"

Lando appeared between the two of them. "Maxie, stop hogging my partner, unless you're giving her tips on being lifted?"

George's irritation built, bubbling hot and itchy under her skin. Max looked at Lando, confused. "I do not think George needs the tips, I have of course seen her with Alex, and her Bayadere and Kitri, and she is very good at lifts."

Lando rolled his eyes. "Whatever. C'mon, George."

He yanked her to the centre of the room, and they moved into their starting positions, and confusion at Max's compliment rolled hot down George's spine. She stepped towards Lando, and he lifted, and something slipped, and they once again ended up fumbling to stay upright.

"I think perhaps you two are lacking a connection?" Charles suggested tentatively, watching them glare at each other. "I do not think you two trust each other very much."

"It's really hard to trust someone who keeps dropping me," George said, crossing her arms. "I know I'm a bit taller than Lando's usual partners-" by about half a foot, her brain snidely interjected, "-but he should be able to balance and compensate."

"We can't all be freakishly tall like Albon," Lando complained in his European drawl. "I've never had this problem connecting with any of my partners, and I've danced with some pretty tall women when I was in Belgium."

"Well, just because you slept with all of your other partners," George snarked. Lando was a famous playboy. Lando was famously loyal to someone for only the length of a production, or a partnership.

Lando flared at her. "It's not my fault you only like girls!"

A near-silent grunt came from Max, Charles's elbow suspiciously near her ribs. She glared at him, and kicked him, hard, on the back of his knee. He glared back, suddenly competitive, and they proceeded to tussle.

George ignored the sounds of the scrap. "It's not my fault I won't sleep with you, and it's not my fault I'm tall."

"I can't help it if you're too tall and heavy!" Lando said. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

George stiffened, the snide remark landing sharp against her spine. That wasn't fair. George was tall and naturally willowy, the length of her limbs lending itself to the illusion of narrow length. George was slender, and flexible, and injury prone; she worked harder than almost anyone to build the muscle essential for dance, and strengthen her joints to prevent injury. As a taller dancer, she looked thinner, but was understandably a little heavier than the shorter girls Lando was used to picking up and tossing around. As a taller dancer, it was also difficult, or at least different, for Lando to partner her.

A skilled partner should be able to compensate. Lando just complained.

Max squirmed out from the pile of wrestling dancer she and Charles had formed, and frowned grumpily at Lando.

"It is of course not her fault if you are weak and pathetic," she said, rolling her wide blue eyes. She wrapped one hand around George's waist, the other sliding under her thigh, nudging the leg into attitude.

"Sorry," Max murmured in her ear, and she shivered at the brush of air. Without warning, her hands tightened on her and lifted.

George let out an undignified shriek. Before she could panic, her muscle memory kicked in, and she sprung, and all of a sudden Max was holding her in arabesque clear over her head, and it felt like she was flying.

Her breath caught in her throat. How is she doing that? She marvelled at the feeling of Max's hands under her, the ease with which Max was lifting her, and chanced a brief look down. The movement slanted her centre of balance forward, and she felt herself wobble precariously, sliding around Max's hands. Max tipped her head up almost imperceptibly, blue eyes meeting her own, widening.

"Hold still," she hissed, shifting to compensate for George's misalignment. "George. I've got you."

For some reason, George believed her.

She arched her arms, fingers fluttering, and she was a star, ethereal and untouchable and unkillable. Max slowly turned on the spot, rotating the two of them. Her hands were firm and warm on her, so much smaller than Lando's disproportionately massive paws, and yet so much steadier.

Her fingers clenched, and George felt the toss before it came. Max threw her into the air, and George pulled into herself, spinning, and Max caught her in a fish, dipping her low.

There was stunned silence.

Max set her down gently. "See? It is not George's problem at all."

George felt the tips of her ears burning. She coughed lightly, extricating herself from Max's arms, and lurched towards her bag for a fortifying sip of water.

"Besides," she continued, "it should not be so difficult; we are both short, so it is of course easier to have George high enough for the shoulder-sit lifts."

Lando was silent, mouth agape with astonishment. "How… I don't… Max! What the hell?"

Max blushed a deep, unbecoming red. "Close your mouths," she snapped. Her hand closed around Charles's wrist, and she stalked out of the room with him, her pointe shoes clacking against the floor.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

"Maximiliaaaaaa," Charles cooed, as soon as they were out of earshot. "What was that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Max snapped. "That was nothing."

"That did not look like nothing, that looked like you wooing Georgiona Russell with your big strong arms!"

She whirled on him. "I said that was nothing!"

Charles looked at her, her face screwed up in a scowl and still bright red, and put his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. If you say it was nothing, it was nothing. Do you want me to help you with your essays?"

She rolled her eyes. "You of course just want me to help you with yours."

"Of course," he said, passing her water. "You are so smart, and so wonderful, and such a good and helpful partner." He widened his eyes, looking for all the world like a pathetic green-eyed dachshund puppy.

"Charles, I almost dropped out of high school," she said, unscrewing it and taking a swig. "I do not think you want me to help you write an essay on the history of the Monegasque Opera House."

Charles looked briefly offended. "You know it is called the Opéra de Monte-Carlo. And it is wonderful! It is a Garnier! It is more beautiful and better built than the Paris Opera House."

This was not the first time Max had heard this rant. Charles had very strong opinions about the Palais Garnier. For someone who was considering apprenticeship offers from Paris, he had a weird vendetta against their Opera House. "Then it should be easy to write about, no?"

"But it is so hard," he whined, draping himself over her shoulders. "I do not know how to do this essay!"

"You picked the topic."

"You just want to see me suffer, " Charles pouted.

Max finished her water, rolling her eyes. "It is not the first day you have met me, Charles. Of course."

"On the topic of hard," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "You are so wet for Princess George. George Russell, who for sure likes women."

She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. "I am not wet, and George Russell has nothing to do with anything!"

Charles upended his Hydroflask over her head. "Well, you are now."

Max tipped her head back. A thin trail of water trickled down her forehead, dripping off her chin and leaving a dark puddle on her navy leotard. "Charlie. What the fuck."

"Must be the water," he quipped, eyes sparkling.

Max scowled. The plastic bottle crumpled in her fist.

The first time Max had seen George, it had been at some ballet competition intensive. George was very beautiful now: tall and willowy, all high cheekbones and expressive blue-diamond eyes, exquisite extension control and strong, high arches. But the first time Max had seen George, they had both still been in their pre-teens; George was a lanky teenager, all too-long limbs and sharp elbows and knobbly knees, tripping over nothing as she walked. Her eyes were too big for her face, massive blue pools that disconcerted people when she looked at them too long. They had both been very young, and very flexible, and George had the most beautiful arches Max had ever seen.

This had, of course, been before Max realised she liked women.

Max Verstappen hadn't believed in love at first sight, or anything close to it, until two people. The first was Charles Leclerc, with his safe hands and crooked smiles and ability to keep up, to match her perfectly. It had taken a single technique class, and about two minutes of partner work, and Max was hooked. Charles, as the kids said, matched her freak, and Max had never known a better partner.

The second was Georgiona Russell.

Max had sneered at her internally all through the technique classes, even as she had been struck dumb by those glittering eyes. Tall, lanky, flexibility and extensions she doesn't know how to use well; she will of course be one of those dancers who whip their legs around like it makes them special to be made of rubber bands, and be able to do nothing but the soft, bland, boring roles. What a waste.

And then George had stepped on the stage in red, and danced Kitri's variation from Don Quixote, and Max couldn't tear her eyes away. George was electric. George had stepped into, and through, the solo, and breathed the cheeky, darling character to life. Max had known, then, that George was someone she would be watching for the rest of her life.

Max met her again at the Academy, and realised, without any shock, that George Russell had grown up to be beautiful, and clever, and expressive, and a brilliant dancer. Max had, as she grew up, lost some of the flexibility. George had somehow gained more. She had also gained an exacting, aggressively precise degree of control over her body. Max had seen her with her friends outside of class, comparing party tricks. George could hold an arabesque exactingly, long enough for a row of dominoes to be lined up on and knocked over on her leg. George could do a developpé 180° in any direction, and balance a full wine glass on the tip of the pointe shoe of her working leg as she did a rond de jambe. George could do an adagio and make herself look like she was moving through molasses, like she was light refracting through water.

Max watched, and felt something dark and yearning inside her liquefy, flowing pale through her veins. Max watched her, and never wanted to look away.

"You are very odd with George," Charles had said once, in second year. Max had come to find him, pulling away from the little quartet, and George had gone icy and silent, and Max had gone statuesque and blunt. "You must not hold a grudge about the Variation Class Incident, and you do not normally mind when people are annoyed with you, because you are so much better than them, so it must be something else."

"I of course like her," Max had said carelessly, thoughtlessly. Charles's eyes widened. George's animosity towards Max was well known, to say nothing of how close Charles and George were. Max had not, before Charles carefully explained it to her, realised that George truly disliked her, and why. "She is very beautiful, I think, and lovely, and of course one of the best dancers in the school."

"She famously hates you," Charles had said bluntly. Max had shrugged.

"So? Most people do. It does not matter, Charles, there are more important things to be thinking about."

His green eyes had gone sad, then. She had changed the subject.

Max had been raised by her father. Her mother had danced. Then her mother had had her. Her father had danced, until he physically couldn't anymore, and then he had directed, and choreographed, and taught, until he had one too many outbursts, and the ballet world got sick of him. Her mother had her, and then Victoria, and when Jos took Max and moved away to train her, to compete internationally and learn from the various few masters he stayed in touch with, she had said nothing. Max's childhood had not been lonely, exactly — her father was always there, and her teachers, and whoever else was in class, and it was always the same crowd of young dancers at the competitions — but she had never been very good at making friends.

Max's father was Dutch, and an asshole. A lot of people took her to be the same.

You will need to beat all of these girls to be a ballerina, her father had said to her when she was young, before she had even gotten her pointes. They had just finished the first day of a summer intensive. Max had trailed shyly in the crowd of giggling young girls, making hesitant conversation through her thick Dutch lisp. Jos had been waiting outside, at pickup, his face in a quiet scowl. You will be better than all of them. All of these girls would stab you in the back for a chance to make it. You don't need any of them. You must be willing to do the same. He had made her perform the class for him, and kept her at the barre for hours, shouting corrections about her feet, her head, her hands.

The next day, when Max went back, one of the other girls had tried to pull her into conversation. She had scowled, like her father. I do not want to talk to you. We are here to dance, yes? We do not need to be friends to dance. Leave me alone.

Charles had seen through her, but Charles was special. Charles was her partner. Charles was as brilliant as she was, and loved it as much as she did. Charles did not mind if Max was blunt, or angry, or rude with her corrections, because he understood, and being good mattered more than being nice. It did not matter, to Charles, if Max made it, because if Max made it, Charles would have too.

But it mattered, to a lot of other people. It mattered to George Russell. And Max had never learnt to make friends. Max had only ever learnt to dance.

And now Max and George had spent almost four years together, dancing around each other, the two brightest stars of the Academy. Along the way, the hostility had melted into icy, exacting politeness. It was hard, to sustain bitter vitriol, when you spent so much time together — they were in all the same classes, and Charles was friends with George's lot, and Max and Charles were basically a unit. Max watched, and learned, and felt something muted and glowing tug on the strings in her chest. George was kind. George was funny. George was whip-smart and brilliant, and worked harder than anyone could see at dance. Max knew that she would never dance like George — she did not want to dance like George — but she could not help but want to be her, be with her, be hers.

Max wanted, at least, to be her friend.

Max rolled her ankles under the library table, toeing her shoes off. She cracked her feet against the floor, the noise loud and layered. Charles winced. "You know that's not good for you?"

"Mhmm," she said distractedly, staring blankly at the page. Charles frowned. He nudged her lightly under the table. "What's wrong?"

Max startled, meeting his eyes. "What? Nothing. I was just thinking about the showcase, and the holidays."

"The holidays!" Charles brightened. "It is so sad you cannot come with me to Monaco this year, the Prince has asked about you, and Arthur misses you, he says he will be able to outjump you soon."

Max huffed, amused despite herself. "He can try. He has only recently started at Princesse Grace, no? Perhaps he should wait a few years."

Charles pointed a pen at her. "Be nice, or you do not get to race with me and Jules and the others next time you are here!" He paused. "What are you doing for the holidays?"

Max shrugged. "Mama has told me I am coming to Belgium for Christmas, and then I will probably come back to the dormitories and study, and teach the outreach classes over the holidays."

Charles snorted. "You? You will terrorise the children."

"Hey!" She kicked him under the table, eliciting a yelp. "I am wonderful with children. Besides, it is dance, how hard could it be?"

He laughed, the sound loud and carrying. "Oh, Max. You will have so much fun. They are going to devour you."

Max rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Charlie. I can handle some children."

"How is Victoria?"

Her mouth twisted to the side, the feeling sinking heavy in her stomach. Victoria was in high school, and studying to be an architect, and they only spoke on birthdays and holidays. "I think she is fine. It will be good to catch up."

"Will they be picking you up, then, after your showcase?"

Sophie and Victoria hated flying. "No, Vicky has got some school event to go to."

"And…" He trailed off. "Is your dad coming?"

Max shrugged again. "I don't know." Jos enjoyed keeping everyone on their toes. "I don't think so, because I am not spending Christmas with him, so he will probably not bother to come and watch. Lewis records the shows anyways, and we all get recordings, so he will be able to email me what he thinks about the performance."

"That is not what I meant," Charles said softly. Last year, Jos had briefed Max for two hours backstage after the showcase, after everyone had left. Charles had, of course, stayed. He had thought someone had to. He knew Max would rather he hadn't. He was sickeningly glad that Max had come home with him for the holidays, that Prince Albert and the Academie were so charmed by him and dazzled by their dance that they had immediately issued a formal invite for Max to join him at the Gala — An Exhibition of Monagasque Talent had featured a pas de deux that year, instead of a string of Charles's favourite variations.

Max's father had not been pleased that she had been whisked out of the country; he was, however, very pleased that she had been noticed and chosen by the royals, for their Gala. Max had spent the entire winter break at Charles's house, roughhousing and dancing with his brothers, helping his mother in the kitchen, sorting through the garages with his father. Charles came from a family that loved movement — his brother was a dancer, his stepbrother was a director and financier, his godfather, who might as well be his brother, was a racing driver, and his father had flown, in his youth.

It had been the best Christmas of Max's life.

Max's phone buzzed. She glanced at it on instinct, unable to avoid seeing the message: Either way, send me recordings of your rehearsals, Lewis will not push you enough, he will make you sloppy and weak. I will not watch subpar dancing, especially not from my daughter. She clenched her jaw, feeling her teeth grind, and shoved her phone deep into her bag. Charles's green eyes darted to the bag, still buzzing with messages, then to the expression on her face.

"It's fine," Max said, trying to smile. "He's always like this. He is not here."

"Max…" Charles hesitated, eyes worried.

"It's fine!" Max shoved her phone deep in her bag, and tried her best to not think about it. "Can we just focus on the work, please?"

Charles's mouth twisted, but he nodded, and they fell silent, heads bent over their papers. Under the table, he pressed his foot to hers. Max felt a hot swell of affection.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

"I don't know, Alex," George said, sipping on her iced tea. "It was just… weird! It was so weird. She just lifted me like I weighed nothing." I felt so safe in her hands, she didn't say.

"Georgie, you do basically weigh nothing," Alex laughed, stirring his own.

"Not to Lando, apparently," she muttered viciously. "I love you both, but I will never forgive you for leaving me to dance with him."

"He can't be that bad," he said, taking a sip of his hot tea. He made a face. "God, what the fuck, I keep hoping I'll like herbal tea this time and I never do."

"But he is," she snarled, her hands clenching around her cup. The plastic crackled and bent under her grip.

"What are we talking about?" Lando bounded up and flung his arms over their shoulders. He spotted the mug in Alex's hands, and brightened. "Ooh, tea!"

Before anyone could say anything, he nicked it from his grasp and took a sip. His face screwed up with disgust. "Ew, what the fuck?"

"Serves you right," Alex said, sticking his nose in the air. "It's alright, you can have the rest of it."

"I thought you were done with herbal teas," Lando whined. "That was disgusting!"

George smirked. "Alex was just saying you couldn't be that bad as a partner."

"Oh, I am," he laughed. "George isn't great either — sorry, Albono, I know you two are soulmates or whatever, but she's not my cup of tea — but I will say, it's mostly my fault."

"That's what Charles told me," Alex said, nodding. "Georgie is fragile. You can't just drop her willy-nilly."

He made a sound like a cat gagging up a hairball as she elbowed him, hard.

Lando shuddered. "We can't be worse than… well, you know."

George shoved him, frowning. "That is the lowest possible bar, Lando!"

There had been two nightmarish months where Alex had been asked to partner Max, in the last term of Juniors. It had been two of the worst months of all of their lives.

Charles had gone home. His father was ill. His mother was inconsolable. His brother was trying to make it into the Académie Princesse Grace, and his family was falling apart. He had walked into Lewis's office one afternoon, eyes red and brimming over, and walked straight out to the airport. George had heard about it from Alex, who had heard about it from Lando, whom Charles had texted he was leaving.

He hadn't mentioned coming back.

Lando, panicking, had called Alex, who had called George, who had raced over from the library. They had all ended up in the room he shared with Charles, George and Alex frantically packing an overnight bag of casualwear and dance clothes as Lando tried to cram snacks, hastily acquired and makeshift gifts, and care packets in.

All three of them had frozen when Max opened the door. She looked down at them, half-disdain, half-worry. "What is going on? Charles has vanished, and he is not answering my texts, and someone told me they saw him leaving. It is a school day, he of course cannot just leave the campus, so something must be wrong."

Lando bit his lip, and said, carefully, "Something's happened back home."

Max's face cracked, and for a minute, George forgot to forget that Max Verstappen was just a young dancer, a young girl, terrified for her best friend. Her face had set, her chin lifting. "I will of course go to him — I will go with him."

The three Britons exchanged a look. George's heart ached for Charles. George's heart ached for Max, half of a pair left behind.

Alex sighed, and shoved the bag, bursting at the seams, into Max's hands. "You're his partner. Take care of him." He patted himself down. "Does anyone have money for a taxi?"

Between the four of them, they managed to scrounge up enough bills and change. George shoved the pile of currency into the pocket of Max's jeans, blushing at the contact. "Good luck."

Max looked at them, haughty. Behind her eyes, there was a sheer veneer of terror. "Thanks."

She had stepped into the taxi, and the taxi had driven off, a blur of colour in the street, and promptly gotten stuck in traffic.

Hours later, Max stepped out of a taxi, her face tearstained, twisted into a scowl, her eyes pink and puffy. Lando had reached out, concern in his silvery eyes. "Max… are you okay?"

Georg felt a pit open in the bottom of her stomach. "What happened with Charles? What did you say?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Max had snapped, her voice cracking, and shoved past them. George had watched her go, worry and fury and sadness warring inside her. Max had scrubbed at her eyes, shoulders imperceptibly shaking, and turned the corner, and vanished.

There had been two months till their final exam, which determined whether they moved up to Seniors, stayed in Juniors, or left the Academy; it consisted of technique assessments, group, variations, and crucially, partner work. Max's partner had just left her. Max had gone to Lewis, and Lewis had given her Alex.

In retrospect, George didn't fault Lewis. There were only so many possible partners. Alex was, alongside Lando, clearly one of the best male dancers in the programme. He was very tall, and very good, and very, very adaptable. He was also the oldest boy in the programme, the most experienced. Lando, back in Juniors, had still been tiny, shorter than half the girls, not strong enough to lift anyone taller than himself. So of course, Lewis would ask Alex to step in for Charles and dance with Max. This did not even mean that Alex had to stop partnering George, only that he danced with both of them, separately, in their partnerwork session.

It had gone badly wrong.

George and Max were very different people, and very different dancers. What they were, in common, were painfully intense. George was used to dancing with Alex, to spending basically all their spare time together. They danced the same, thought the same. Max was on a completely different wavelength. She and Alex just did not click. That was where the issue was — George and Max, equally neurotic, equally brilliant, equally devoted to their art and selfish about it, and at the heart of it, Alex: kind, ambitious, determined to keep up with them both.

As the exams got closer and closer, the practices ramped up in intensity, and Alex started fumbling. Badly. It was very difficult to execute the same set of technical exercises with two different people, and learn two different duets on top of it. Where Alex used to have time away from school and dance, his free time was now taken up by practicing for his variations, his pairwork with George, and his pairwork with Max. Where he used to be confident, and sleek, and steady, he began slipping; making foolish mistakes.

George missed Alex. George had to watch him fade away, right before her eyes.

"What are you doing to him?" George cried at Max one afternoon, pulling her aside after History class. "You're going to break him!"

Max had shrugged. "It's not my fault he can't keep up."

"Just because your partner left you doesn't mean you have to ruin mine," George had hissed back.

Max had reeled back like she had been slapped, eyes pale and glassy. "Fuck you, Russell."

George started pulling back from Alex. She had been dancing with Alex her entire life, she reasoned, so it would be fine if they practiced together less. George would polish her solo variations, and she would run through what parts of the pairwork she could on her own, and she and Alex would simply adapt to each other. Alex needed the time to work with Max, to somehow meld himself to her and make it work. George had known Alex since she was ten. They would be able to fit to each other.

She was wrong.

Alex adapted to Max, and Max would pull ahead once more, her ceiling arching higher and higher and higher. Alex tried so, so hard, but Max had been called 'unpartnerable' before Charles for a reason. George saw Alex less, and less, and less, and worried, and ached. She had cornered Alex one evening, slumped over a pile of work. It had been the third time he's been late for, or outright missed, their practices. George couldn't even find it in her heart to be mad at him for it.

"Alex," George had said. "This is unsustainable. I'm talking to Lewis."

"Georgie," Alex had replied tiredly, "he can't do anything. The numbers don't work out right, and no one else can switch or double partners this close to the exam."

"Fuck off, Albono," she had said, her voice sharp with worry. "Just let me figure it out before you ruin both of us, alright?"

George had begged Valtteri, two years above her, to do it. Lewis had allowed it, in the circumstances. Valtteri had agreed, and George had resigned herself to it. Things with Max did not get better. It became familiar to see Alex and Max limping down the hallways, bruised and annoyed and sniping at each other. Alex started falling asleep everywhere. Max started snapping at anyone who so much as looked at her, which made matters worse. Alex stopped talking to anyone other than Lando, George, or Max; stopped doing anything other than eat, sleep, and dance. Max got into a fight with one of the French dancers in Seniors, who had danced with Alex when they were both still in Juniors and had snarked at Max about being unable to manage the same. None of it had helped the matter.

She had overheard, once, Max crying in the girls' toilet, quiet muffled barely-there sobs. And then-

"Charlie, I'm sorry, please. I don't know how to do this without you. It's not going well, it is all falling apart," Max had whispered into the phone, tears thick in her voice. "I don't know what to do."

George had left, eyes stinging, sticking an out-of-order sign on the bathroom door as she went.

Three days before the exam, Charles Leclerc had come back, as suddenly as he had left. Lando had woken up, and Charles had just been there, in the twin bed across the room, and Lando had screamed and launched himself at him, waking up half the floor.

His father was fine. He would never work again, but he was alive. Charles had found a sponsor to fund his brother, and to keep his family afloat. Charles had come back.

George had been walking down the halls with Alex, Charles and Lando ahead of them, when they had run into Max. All of them had stopped dead in their tracks. Max's pale blue eyes were wide, and wet, and shaking.

Charles had moved first.

He stepped forward, opening his arm, and Max had stepped into him without hesitation.

"It was just an inchident, alright? It does not matter. We are here now," Charles had said. "I will not leave you behind again, but you must promise the same."

Max had closed her eyes, burying her face into his shoulder. "Alright."

George bit her lip and looked away when Max started crying, silent and nearly motionless.

Lewis let the four of them take the exam a few days late. Charles passed with the highest distinctions the Academy had ever seen. All of them had moved up, in the end. George thought, sometimes, that she hated them for what Alex had gone through.

Lando cackled, the sound loud and echoing in the common room. "Maybe if it had been you instead of Albono, George, it would have gone much better."

George rolled her eyes. "Please. I can barely lift my luggage up the stairs each term, and you think I could partner Max? You're ridiculous."

"No, you're ridiculous. We all saw what happened in that studio. Max can be the Alex to your… well, you." Lando rolled his eyes. "Fucking Max Verstappen, she's so perfect, so strong, she's so much better than both of us or whatever." He turned to Alex, expression pleading "Albono, mind giving me some tips on new partners? I don't really want it to go the way yours did, and you've been dancing with George for years."

"I'll go over old videos with you later, we can work on it and I'll give you some tips," Alex said. "You're a good dancer, Lando, you just need to get out of your head and also get a grip."

Lando pouted. "I can't help being short."

George stared at him incredulously. "I also can't help being tall?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm working on it! I'm just not used to your centre of balance!" he said, pouting harder. He looked ridiculous, wet lip jutting out, eyes stretched wide.

She throws her hands up. "It's not like Max was either!"

Lando waggled his eyebrows. "Well, you two definitely seemed quite compatible earlier."

To her horror, she flushed a bright, incriminating scarlet. "We are not compatible. We're not even friends."

Alex's eyebrows crept towards his hairline incredulously. "George."

"It's only because Lando's so awful with me," she continued, her face heating even more. "You could put me with literally anyone else, Charles or even Carlos, and I'd look compatible with them, next to Norris over here."

"You're awfully red," he prodded. "Is there something you want to share with the class?"

"No," she insisted, "I'm just embarrassed at how Max managed to pick me up so securely the first time, and Lando still drops me after weeks. That's it!"

"Georgie's got a cru-ush!" Lando sing-songed.

"I do not!" She shrieked, launching herself at him. Tea went everywhere. "You filthy liar! You're such an exaggerative gossip!"

"Is that any way to talk to your dance partner," he said, twisting to avoid her tickling fingers. "Jesus! George! Knock it off or I'll drop you! Alex, help!"

"I really don't think that's an effective threat," Alex said, from where he had jumped up onto the back of a chair to avoid the carnage. He perched there, like a large cat, and took a dramatic sip of his tea for effect, where he immediately gagged. "You already drop her."

"You all hate me," Lando whined, trying to look pathetic. He succeeded. Most of the time, he looked a little bit pathetic. This did not work on George, whose eyes narrowed or Alex, who just laughed.

"Yes," she deadpanned, pinning him to the rug by sitting on his chest. "This is because you are evil."

"No, I’m just right!" he squealed. George's fingers had found their target.

The door opened. All three of them looked up, half-guilty. Max stood there, frowning. Her hair was up in a loose ponytail, bangs framing her face. She was wearing casual clothes, a cropped red sweatshirt with a cat on it and jeans so skinny George could see the shape of her kneecaps through them. George could see every curve and shadow of her toned thighs, her muscular calves through them. She swallowed thickly, her chest suddenly warm and fluttering.

Max crossed her arms, and scanned the room. "Have any of you seen Charlie?"

"Nope," Alex popped the 'p' obnoxiously. "He'll show up, he always does."

Max looked at him roosting on the chair, and her face did something odd as she opened her mouth to ask, before clearly deciding it wasn't her problem. She turned away, and frowned. "Russell, why are you so red?"

"Shut up, Verstappen," George said, sounding strangled. Her voice cracked.

Lando burst into helpless cackles, writhing free. George covered her face with her hands and slumped against the back of the sofa, and seriously considered killing everyone in the room. Usually, she was glad that they had made it into the Academy, and that they had, when Charles joined the Academy the year after the three of them had, immediately adopted him into their group. Of course, it helped that Lando was his roommate. Right now, George wished she had never started ballet in the first place, let alone gotten to know Lando, his roommate, or his roommate's partner.

The aforementioned roommate burst into the room. "Cheri, I am here! We can go! George, are you feeling alright?"

"Shut up, Charles," she moaned. "Lando is being an asshole. I'm having a moment."

His eyes lit up. "Oh? Then we shall leave you in peace!" He winked, and bounded out of the room. Max slowly waved goodbye, perplexed, and turned to follow him out of the room.

The door shut behind them.

"By the way," Alex said, eyes glittering, "Charles definitely thinks you should get with Max. He thinks you two really had a connection in the studio."

"A CRUSH," Lando hissed loudly, grinning wide enough that all his weirdly pointy teeth were on display.

"Can we just play Mario Kart, like we were planning on doing," George announced loudly. She determinedly quashed the flutter of her heart.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

George started seeing Max Verstappen everywhere. She told herself this was not a problem. It very much was.

Of course, George had always noticed Max. It was hard not to, when Max was her best competition, when Max was the best dancer in school. She had always been hyperaware of where the Dutch dancer was, which combination group she was in, where she stood at the barre. She had always been overconscious about the way Max danced, the way she moved, the elegant lines of her body as she crossed the floor. That was fine. George had always been an envious, jealous hater.

But all of a sudden, George noticed Max in the library, strands of blonde hair falling out of her bun, the way she chewed her plush lips while thinking. George noticed her long bottom lashes, her thick knuckles, the brusque way she walked. George noticed Max in the studio, her tanned, toned shoulders, the strong lean lines of her arms, the long curve of her neck. She noticed the way Max's jaw set before she breathed and moved into the combination, her small pleased smile at Lewis's praise, the flash of teeth as she laughed. She noticed how, when Max laughed at Charles and Lando's jokes, her bright eyes darted briefly over to George.

Most of all, she noticed that whenever she looked at Max, Max was already looking back at her, eyes glittering like the Monaco sea, bright and blazing and blue. George met her eyes, and Max stared back, and the corner of her lips quirked upwards.

George looked away, ears warm, heart racing.

Max and George had been spending a lot more time together. This was inevitable, when you shared technique classes, advanced classes, variation classes, and pas de deux classes; to say nothing of how they had rehearsals and show coaching together. All this to say, they were perhaps something approaching friendly, if not quite friends. So when George headed towards the practice room she had booked, and a soft, flat voice asked to join, she hesitated instead of leaving outright.

Max Verstappen hovered by the door of the studio, her shoulders stiff, looking incredibly awkward. "I of course have to work on practice as well, and we can help each other with our pieces, yes?"

"I will of course not say anything if you do not want me to," she continued, "but all the other practice rooms are booked out, and I would of course like to dance, if you do not mind so much sharing the space."

George hesitated.

Lewis had suggested they rehearse together, give each other tips and learn from each other, absorb the best of the other. Max and George had, with incredible synchronicity, decided they would not, in fact, be doing that. The way George had glared at Max's smirking face, in their first principals' rehearsal, when Lewis said it, might have contributed to the sudden burst of agreement between the two.

But now, George and Max were something approaching friendly. And so George found herself warming up and yanking on her white practice tutu as Max did the same across the room. Max tied off her pointe shoes in neat double knots, tucking the ends away, and looked up. George flushed, startled, her head whipping down to her own shoes.

"Do you want to go?"

Her head snapped back up. "I'm sorry?"

Max stood in front of her, hands on her hips. "Do you want to go, or shall I go first?"

George shook her head, feeling like an idiot. "No, well, you can go first if you like. I'll… watch."

Max raised an eyebrow. "If you are sure," she said doubtfully. She plugged her phone into the speaker system, cueing the end notes of the male variation, and took her place on the floor. The music started, tinkling and light, and Max stepped onto her toes and picked her way across the room.

George gritted her teeth, something like envy and want warring in her chest. Her own Sugar Plum Fairy was classical, beautiful and elegant and light, intricate and flourishing. Max's Fairy was light, yes, but quick and darting. What she did not do in footwork, she made up for with speed. Max had a way of dancing something very fast, adding her little spin, and breathing in a way that made the whole step feel new, different, full of life. George liked her own interpretation; it worked for her, she made it work. But as Max danced across the floor, desire pressed heavy on her chest, seeing Max bring the character to life in a way she had never even considered. Even as she tried not to stare, she couldn't help but watch.

Max held the ending pose for a single beat, and dropped out of it, heading immediately towards George. "So, what did you think?"

"Perfect, as always," George said. Max smiled, bright and somehow pained. "Thank you, but you would of course think that."

Georg frowned. Yes, of course she would think that. She thought Max danced it better than any principal she had ever seen, once the veneer of Christmas Magic and untouchability of being a principal dancer was stripped away. Max, however, seemed to think differently. "I do not think the footwork was quite light enough, and I think I was rushing a little in the middle, and I do not work so well with the lighter pieces, sometimes. My Fairy is a little bit cheeky, and it only works when Charles balances it out a little, I think."

George looked at her, and the words bubbled out before she could stop them. "Do you ever think you're too hard on yourself?"

Max paused, startled. Then, she laughed. The sound rang like a bell through the mirrored room. "Yes, Charles and Lando often say, but I think they are of course just being nice."

George rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm saying it, and I'm not exactly nice to you, am I?"

"That is true," Max said, still grinning. "Maybe I will have to listen, then."

Something warm and satisfied curled up at the base of George's spine.

"It is your turn now, I think," Max said, nodding towards the centre of the room. "To be the main character, and it is my turn to sit beautifully on the sidelines, but perhaps not so beautifully as you do."

George let out a laugh, a sharp, short burst of air. "That's not fair."

"How is it not fair?" Max frowned, smoothing down her dark blonde bun. "It is your practice time. You of course should practice, if you need to. I will not be in the way."

"You're going to be- you'll be watching me!" George snapped, gesturing at the mirrors. "I don't want to have someone watching me and judging me when we both know it's not a finished piece!"

"I like it," Max said, smiling. Her teeth were oddly flat and even. "You're a good dancer. It's nice to watch you practice."

George crossed her arms. "Come off it, Max."

"George," she said, her voice low and smooth, the faint lisp of Dutch across her words, "I would not lie to you. I of course enjoy very much watching you dance."

George rolled her eyes, flushing. Max Verstappen did not 'enjoy' watching anyone dance, least of all herself. "You're just being nice because I gave you practice time."

Max worried at her plush bottom lip with her teeth, and George's eyes snapped towards the motion. Internally, she cursed herself for it. "It is not because of that. I do not care about the booking."

George rolled her eyes, a sigh like the sinking of the Titanic building inside her. Everyone knew Max Verstappen was obsessive about practice time. The rumour was that she slept in front of a mirror so that she could be at a barre as soon as she woke up. She was so preoccupied with the blatant lie, she almost missed what Max said next.

Almost.

"I of course have booked a room with Charles, and he is no doubt wondering where I have wandered off to, but I honestly just wanted to watch you dance. You are very beautiful, you know."

George's wide blue eyes froze, mid-roll. She blinked quickly, eyes dry and welling at the same time. The ceiling of the studio was very well maintained, rows of clean fluorescent lights embedded in the white. Unbidden, she felt a flush rise high in her cheeks. She scrabbled for her voice. "Are you- you're skipping practice?" she croaked. For me? went unsaid.

Max shrugged, insouciant and loose, her pale, toned shoulders rolling with the movement. "I am practicing with you right now, am I not? I just did the Sugar Plum variation. You're the one who isn't practicing."

She had the audacity to wink. She had, George thought viciously, the audacity to look extremely cute when she was being witty.

"Are you going to dance or not, Russell?"

Her pointe shoes clacked across the marley floor. George smoothed down her practice tutu, took a deep breath, and lifted her chin. The music started. George stepped onto her tiptoes, met Max's ice-blue eyes, boring into her, and immediately stumbled.

Max sighed. "Close your eyes! Pretend I'm not here!"

Easy for you to say, she thought viciously, You never seem to pick up on if anyone else is there.

"And stop thinking mean thoughts about me!"

George startled, and almost fell out of a turn. Max paused the music. "I can tell you're having ungenerous thoughts about me. Your mouth does this thing, when you're thinking of something funny or bitchy."

"Fuck off, Verstappen," she said, pressing her hands to her face. "You're one to talk."

Max wrinkled her nose. "I cannot help it. I am Dutch, and you have met my father. I was doomed from the beginning. You, however, are the Academy's darling. You're British, you have to be nice. I do not."

George scowled.

"Stop being annoyed that I'm watching. Start dancing like you mean it," Max nodded towards the centre of the room. "Do it from the top, and stop thinking. You're beautiful. You could dance any role."

The words struck at something in George. "I know I could."

Max grinned, sharp and toothy. Her cheeks bunched up when she smiled, properly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. George felt her heart rate pick up, and scowled peevishly at her own reflection. "Well, show me, then."

George smoothed down her tutu compulsively, feeling fire race down her spine, spinning lattices of light across her arms, and glared at her. "Don't take your fucking eyes off me."

Max's eyes crinkled. She pressed play.

The music started, and George stepped onto her toes, and let the worries and annoyance fall out behind her. George piqué-d across the room, feet arching under her, foregoing the traditional two-footed chaînés for a series of quick, dainty, finicky single-footed travelling turns. Max had slipped into delicacy through speed. George, she decided, would do it with footwork, so quick and darting it almost looked illusory. As she stepped and turned and fluttered around the room, she could feel the ice blue sheen of Max's eyes, pinning her through her sternum, watching her as she danced.

As the music drew to an end, she came to a stop in front of Max. Max stood there, eyes glowing in the dim fluorescents, arms crossed over the front of her navy leotard.

George blew a strand of dark fringe out of her eyes. "Well?"

Max shrugged. "You have to lift your hips more, on the arabesque-retiré section, but you already knew that. Deeper pliés if you have the time, it gives you a stronger foundation."

"That's it?"

The corner of her mouth lifted. "George, I am not Lewis or Fernando. I am not actually one of our teachers, you know. You of course could have done some things better, but I of course enjoyed watching you, of course."

George felt a little silly. "It's just… you're Max. You always have something to say about the way people dance, about the technique, the emoting, the sloppy hands… you really don't have any other comments?"

Max scowled. "You do not need my help with the emoting, everyone of course knows you are a very expressive dancer. Your footwork was very clean, and your hands very exact. What do you want me to say, George? You're a beautiful dancer."

"Stop-"

"I mean it," Max said, her eyes bright blue and oddly focused. "You're beautiful, George."

George blinked, her long lashes fluttering. When she reached for words, they weren't there.

There was a soft hesitation.

The ending coda of the Sugar Plum pas started playing.

Max pulled away, uncoiling her arms, and grinned. "Should we keep going?"

Without waiting for a reply, she strode up to the corner of the room, spreading her arms with a flourish, and launched herself into a series of travelling jumps and jetés and turns. George watched her, mouth agape. Max threw herself into every jump, rocket-powering herself upwards, suspended in the air. Stray strands of blonde slipped from her bun, whipping around her face as she spun and spotted and leapt.

"You're- going- to miss- your cue," Max panted between jumps. George couldn't help it. She laughed, the sound high and clear. She smoothed her tutu down, and darted to the middle of the room, and sank into a series of attitude fouttés, her arms spread and fingers light. As she turned and spotted, she could distantly register Max slowing down and stopping, her blue eyes becoming the fixed point for the spot. George stepped out of the sequence, spinning towards Max, and she met her where they should be.

In unison, they stepped into arabesque, turned, leapt, and spun across the diagonal, perfectly in sync. George could feel a grin tugging across her lips, pushing at her bright cheeks. Dancing with Max was fun. Dancing with Alex felt like dancing with an extension of herself, but dancing with Max felt like playing with fire, like pushing herself to the limits, like racing muscle memory to stay in the rhythm. From the corner of her eye, she could see glimpses of them in the mirror — dark blue and pale turquoise, Max her synchronised shadow as they danced.

Max's hand wrapped around her waist, and they stepped, arabesqued, and Max lifted her into a grand jeté like she was nothing more than a tutu itself. They stepped, and Max's hands were on her waist and lifting, and George was springing into the air, her feet fluttering and switching as she did. Max set her down, and, heart pounding, George started spinning around Max as she flung herself into a la second turns in the middle of the room. She counted the beat of Max’s turns against her heart. Even as she focused on not tripping over herself, she couldn't help but watch Max. Max was good, as good as, if not better, than half the men in their year.

Max executed a particularly clean triple, arms raised high, and landed with a flourish, and then they were stepping in front of, and around, and in front of each other, both of them somehow knowing exactly where the other was. And then Max's hands were on her waist, and George was plié-ing, and then she was turning, and Max was spinning her, her hands warm and steady and firm, and then George slipped, and Max's hands caught her, correcting, and she was holding her up with one arm, as they slotted into the ending pose of the coda.

George gasped for breath, spent from the jumps. She could feel Max's chest heaving where it was pressed against her back. She stared at them in the mirror.

"That was great," Max rasped in her Dutch drawl. George pulled away to face her, mind racing. Before she could catch up with herself, she blurted out—

"Max. Be my partner."

A single, perfect blonde eyebrow arched.

George swore internally. Externally, she said, "No, I mean- Ugh! You're impossible! Lando's so unsteady, and whenever we practice, we're too busy trying to get it right to try and get it performance level. Whatever. It was stupid. You were great out there. You're a great dancer."

"It was not stupid," Max said. "I will of course help you, if you want me to."

George grinned nervously, her fingers playing with the edge of her tutu nervously. "Don't drop me, Verstappen."

Max rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Don't you trust me?"

She flushed. The corner of Max's lips hitched, and she held out her hand.

George rolled her eyes and placed her hand into it. Max squeezed it hard, once, and pulled away.

= ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ = ❆ = ❅ =

For the first time in a while, Max felt nervous about dancing.

It was not that she was unfamiliar with the piece. She had learnt it, cobbled it from videos and Charles and Lando, and she knew what it felt like, on the other end, when done right. But it was with George, and she had never done this before.

She breathed in deeply, the plasticky clean smell of the room familiar and comforting, and exhaled, opening her shoulders and canting her head. Max stood posed at the back corner of the room, across from George. The opening bars of the pas rippled out, and she walked towards the middle of the room, George mirroring her movements across her. As they both stepped up into a closed fifth, their eyes met, blue glancing across blue. Max stared back.

George's lashes fluttered, and her nose wrinkled imperceptibly, and she looked away, stepping down and away.

The music swelled. George placed her hand into Max's outstretched palm, and Max spun her, and George placed one hand on her shoulder, and the other one back in her hand. She turned, and Max twisted, her hands finding her waist and spinning her in time to the music. As they stepped away again, their eyes met. Max's breath caught. George's eyes were soft, and sparkling, and very, very blue. She stepped towards her again, and Max couldn't tear her eyes away, watching as George Russell danced herself into an otherworldly being.

The Nutcracker pas de deux was the most beautiful piece in all of ballet. Max had always loved it. Her father had been noncommittal about it, thinking it was theatrical and acrobatic and unimpressive, treating the male dancer as nothing more than a piece of furniture, or a glorified forklift. Max felt differently. To her, it was the greatest non-narrative love story in all of ballet.

There was an intentionality behind every move, a quiet yearning and belonging between the two dancers. Every move was purposeful, beautiful, connected. The dancers, unlike in other pas, were always touching. In each step, each pirouette, each arabesque, they were touching, their hands clasping, or their fingertips brushing, or one of them holding, supporting the other. Whenever they stepped away, they were drawn back together even more strongly, colliding with the force of their need for each other, like a collapsing binary star. IIt was a piece of two dancers finding love, and life, in the other.

Max had always loved the Nutcracker pas de deux. It was, she thought, the most beautiful and most technically challenging of any of the classic Tchaikovsky ones. It had one of the only good pieces of music in the entire ballet. And, of course, the story behind it broke her heart. Max had not understood fully until she met Charles — she had only longed, in a lonely and buried corner of her brain, to be loved and missed like that, and she had given up hope for it. She had not thought it mattered, whether she was loved, as long as she could dance, and dance better than everyone else. And then she had met Charles, and he had fit into her life like he had always been meant to be there, and she had, all of a sudden, understood. All of a sudden, she knew what it meant to love someone, to miss someone, to the point of creation.

She had not realised she was crying, the first time she danced it perfectly with Charles, until he had pointed it out, his hands steady and his voice soft. He had not said anything else — he had not needed to. He was there. They had danced. That was all they needed.

George stepped to the opposite corner of the room, the two turning to face each other, and darted towards her. Max's hands clasped around her waist, blue eyes meeting blue like a flash of lightning, and George bloomed, long and languid extensions melting into a low penché. Arabesque, turn, and Max was promenading George as she arched soft against her arm, her neck long and soft, head tilted out toward the audience. Max stared at the sharp lines of her side profile, and felt the sharper ache of want, deep in her chest. George smiled, demure, and stepped away.

What she had not known, she realised with a soft ache, was how different the Fairy and the Cavalier's roles were. The Sugar Plum Fairy was the main character, and the Cavalier was always there. The Sugar Plum Fairy danced, and the Cavalier watched, and waited, and held her, and helped her fly. He yearned. She was his purpose, and though she loved him, he was not quite hers. George would not look at her, because the character did not call for it, and Max, in character or not, could not help but watch her.

Max dipped George low, and they slipped into a delicate sequence, fluttering across the diagonals of the room, George's grand jetés light as Max lifted. The entire time, Max's eyes were fixed on George, watching as she performed for the invisible audience, awestruck by the beauty of her practice.

And yet, she always came back.

George floated into a series of bourrées across the floor, bracketed on each end by a supported penché, and Max followed her path, leaping after her, sinking to a low lunge to support her. George met Max's eyes through the mirror as they travelled, and a wide smile tugged across her face. As she swept her leg up and sank into Max's arms, Max could feel her hands trembling, her eyes sparkling with joy. They would not speak — they were mid dance; but they did not need to. They launched into a string of arabesque jumps, Max lifting her higher and higher with each jump, and on the last one, tossed her high, hands leaving her waist for barely a millisecond, and felt the vibration of George's laugh as Max caught her, and knew they were both thinking the same thing—

This is fun. This is so much fun.

The music swelled lowly, as George and Max danced across the floor, stepping and leaping and spinning George in endless pirouettes, and George stepped away, and met Max's eyes. It was just a split second, and George was moving towards her, and Max hadn't assuaged the worry in her eyes, the fear, but it didn't matter. George stepped towards her, and Max clasped her hand, braced her other one on her waist, and George was being lifted upwards, as Max held her up as Lando couldn't. She could feel George panting lightly against her palm. She set her down gently, and they stepped away from each other, and came together again, Max bending and launching to lift George into a shoulder sit, leaning and stepping out to compensate as she wobbled.

Max could feel the sharp bones of George's derrière digging into the muscle of her shoulder. She set George down, and George fluttered about the room, coming back to Max, spinning in a series of assisted fouettés. George spun once, and again, and twice, three times, faster and faster and faster, her hand always coming back perfectly to find Max's, as if they were a pair of magnet dolls. George spun, and spun, and leant, and Max dipped her against the rotation, and George was darting to the corner of the room again, eyes fixed on her, her face more real and serious than any character, now, as if Max held the answer to everything.

George ran and jumped, and Max caught her in a shoulder sit, and spun her around into a fish, swooping her so low her fingertips almost brushed the ground. Her legs were firm, and warm, and Max felt, suddenly, that she would rather die than drop her. She set her down again, and felt George falter. The last lift was… difficult. Lewis had told them to pick lifts that worked for them, and Charles and Max had obviously gone for high, convoluted, dangerously beautiful lifts. Lando and George hadn't even tried anything past shoulder sits, given their troubles with it. But Max knew George had seen them practicing their lift sequence, just as George knew what lift Max was thinking of finishing on, and Max, more than anything, knew George needed it. Wanted it.

She widened her eyes at George in the corner. Do you trust me?

There was a bare hesitation, George's shoulders tensing. Then, she set her mouth, eyes hardening with determination, and launched herself towards Max.

Max slid one hand under her glutes, against her seat, her other hand grabbing firm around George's ankle, and she pushed, and she was lifting George in an attitude clean over her head.

The laugh bubbled out of George, terrified and exhilarated and everything, all at once. She could feel her elbow threatening to lock, but she braced herself and held firm. That movement was too much, and Max dropped her as she overbalanced, catching her in a fish and swooping her low before setting her down. George stared at her, bare inches from her face, her back to Max's chest, unmoving as the music continued around them. Max's lips quirked up. George just looked at her, her eyes wide, blue, expressive, and unreadable.

They darted down to her lips.

But the music was still going. Max lightly nudged George and pulled away, the distance immediately leaving her freezing, and George snapped out of her trance, rushing through the turns as they stepped and spun in slow, elegant synchronicity. As they came to the end of the diagonal, George pulled to a harsh stop, colliding with Max, and Max caught her on instinct, hands curling around her waist. George stared at her, her brow lightly crinkled, her feet flat and parallel, her hands resting on Max's shoulders.

"George?" Max whispered, the sound a sliver of air. George frowned harder.

"What are you," she asked softly, almost to herself.

A million words ran through Max's head.

"I'm here," she said simply. She tugged George to the middle of the room, turning her as she stepped into an arabesque, stretching it into a developpé, finishing with a simple long pirouette, before bouncing through the series of arabesques and grand battements that marked the ending.

George twirled one last time, and Max caught her, and they slipped into the ending pose, George braced against her, held up by a single arm, leaning off one pointe shoe.

Max could feel George's heart pounding through her back; could see her chest rising and falling, like a bird in flight. Her leotard was damp, clinging to the shallow curve of her back. Under her fingertips, Max could feel the dip of her spine. She couldn't stop staring at their reflection, dark wrapped around light, her own arms holding up the lean, strong lines of George's body. George met her eyes in the mirror, and Max felt like she was drowning, like she had sprung into a grand jeté and forgotten how to land.

"That was beautiful," Max said, the words hushed and echoing strangely in the empty studio. She could feel her own heart rabbiting against her ribs. "We are very beautiful together, do you not think?"

"I… I don't…" George swallowed thickly. Max felt the shudder against her sternum. George's lashes fluttered, casting long shadows over her high cheekbones, darkening her diamond-blue eyes. The tips of her ears were very red.

"I have to go."

At the door, she stopped, turning back to meet Max's eyes through the mirror, expression agonized. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and hesitated. Max bit her lip, suddenly nervous. She was not afraid of many things, but she was almost afraid of what George was going to say now.

Without saying anything, George turned and fled.

Max stood there, arms wrapped around nothing, and desperately tried to get air back into her lungs.

END ACT 1