Word Count: 618

Of all the things in his life that Paris had to question—his past, friendship, relationships, senshihood, his future—of all the things he tried and failed, there was at least one thing he could do that he would never have to question, one place he could go where he would never have to think or worry or fear.

He didn’t remember his first dance lesson, and he only vaguely remembered his first recital, but he remembered, as a child, the thrall, the excitement, the joy he felt in losing himself to the music, to the motions, seeing himself in the mirrors and imagining himself on stage, sharing his talent with all the hundreds of people who’d come to watch him perform. He had been doing it for so long he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he couldn’t. For nearly all of his life it was the only thing he’d ever truly known, the only thing he’d ever truly loved.

There was discipline in ballet. There was order and structure. It was formal, traditional, and elegant, but there was art in it, there was beauty and grace, and so much passion. It was rigid and precise where the rest of his life was disorganized and unregulated. It was safe. It was both an escape from and a release for all the things that made his life complicated. Ballet, in comparison, was easy—a strict, difficult technique, but welcome to him.

If he could slay monsters with nothing more than a single dance, he thought the world would already be saved, because he knew this—ballet—he lived it and breathed it and challenged it and won.

Tendus, pliés, cabrioles, grande jetés, assemblés, fouettés, pirouettes…

One, two, three… one, two, three…

It was the emotional side of things he’d had trouble with before, but it would not be long before he mastered that. He had so much emotion, felt so many things, had so many troubles, so many heartaches, so much built up and pent inside he needed an outlet to channel it through, and the only safe way, he knew, was this.

This way he could act as if it wasn’t his own. It was all in the performance. No one would know if he was being true to his own feelings, or expressing it for the sake of the art.

He looked at himself in the mirrors and he saw a small, pale, skinny boy lost in life and struggling to find his way, but then he closed his eyes and let the music take over, and he was somewhere and someone else, and all the things that beat him down ceased to exist.

“Paris…”

He stopped and looked up, gripping the barre in the middle of his exercises. The studio was empty. He’d chosen to stay after the rest of his class instead of rushing back to the store, if only to hide away and feel that sense of freedom a little longer.

Madame Volkova, his instructor, stood by the door that led into her office, the one that was covered in old black and white photographs of herself in her prime, dancing all the roles Paris wanted most to fill. With her were three others, another woman her age, not quite as severe looking and smiling gently, accompanied by an older gentleman and another man who seemed to be more spry and fit. They looked at him curiously, not bothering to disguise their intrigue, and Paris stared back with the same regard.

Madame Volkova smiled at him and made a gentle motion with one of her hands, beckoning him closer. “Come. I have some people here who wish to speak with you.”