Word Count: 1705

The morning of his first performance, Paris awoke and stumbled into the bathroom to curl over the toilet and throw up.

He told himself it wasn’t nerves, because, really, there was nothing to be nervous about. He’d done the dance over a hundred times now, had practiced and worked his a** off to prepare for this one chance to prove to himself and to everyone else that he could make it, that he was good enough, that he wasn’t just some amateur with foolish dreams of dancing parts that weren’t meant for him. He’d been to the rehearsals, he’d donned the costume, and he’d been on stage enough already to know that there was nothing to be frightened about in the audience. He would hardly see much of them anyway.

But he was nervous, and he could do nothing to ease it.

He could barely force himself to eat. He threw together a simple breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs but only managed to force down half of it before his stomach couldn’t bear it anymore.

He spent most of the day pacing, and went to the theater wringing his hands and fidgeting around, trying to find something to do, something to focus on to distract himself from the fact that his stomach was turning uncomfortably and his heart was fluttering away in his chest. He threw up twice more, but with very little left in him to begin with, much of the effort was spent hunched over the toilet dry heaving and gagging on nothing. When it was over he chugged water and gulped down a power bar, and sat by himself bouncing his leg up and down, searching out a clock to remind himself that there wasn’t much time left.

His costume was ready—cream and pink and gold, lace and ribbons, and the sparkling tiara to top it off. He dressed quickly, tights and tutu and shoes, pulled his hair out of his face, curled on top of his head, and had one of the other dancers check to make absolutely sure that his make-up was okay. Hardly anyone who didn’t know already probably wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was a boy. He certainly looked the part, whether or not he was truly ready for it.

Paris told himself he was. Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be?

“You’ll be fine,” Ross-the-Nutcracker-Prince told him right before the show was about to start.

Paris managed a strained smile in response. He believed him, but for some reason it wasn’t enough to make the discomfort and the shaking go away.

“Just remember to smile,” his friend joked, tossing him a charming grin. “No one wants to see a frowning Sugar Plum Fairy.”

He heard the music, saw the dancers, but for once Paris was unable to pay attention to the story and the movements. Backstage, he wondered who had come to see him. Momma Gallo was there, he knew, and his own mother had flown down from New York to watch, but he hadn’t seen either of them yet and he wondered if it would have been easier if he’d talked to them beforehand. Was Mr. Gallo there, too? Not Peter, surely? Maybe Chris?

Probably not Chris. He’d never said one way or the other whether he was going to attend one of his performances, and Paris hadn’t bothered to ask. He hadn’t wanted to know the answer. He still didn’t. If he was there, it meant Paris would try too hard to impress him and potentially mess everything up.

If he wasn’t there, it meant Chris didn’t care enough to see him do something he loved, to see him make something of himself.

After a while, Paris began to fear his upset stomach and wildly beating heart would make it impossible for him to dance, but then it was time and he went out on stage, and he found that his stomach immediately began to settle. His heart slowed to something steady and rhythmic, and everything else cleared from his head as if it didn’t matter at all.

The audience was quiet. He didn’t bother trying to look over them for anyone familiar and he didn’t let his eyes settle on any particular face, though he made sure to look ahead into them, sure and focused. It wasn’t hard to smile. He didn’t even have to force it. It came naturally, as did the happiness and the relief and the comfort and the passion, because he was onstage and he was doing what he enjoyed and dancing the way he’d always wanted.

For a span of two minutes and forty-eight seconds, Paris was able to forget everything else. He forgot how horrible he’d felt all day, how poorly he’d slept the night before. He forgot about the last four months and all of his problems with Chris. He forgot about the last year and all of the danger and stress that came with being a senshi. He forgot that he was Ganymede. He forgot that there was a war. He forgot that the world was a terrible place, because here it wasn’t. It was good and wonderful and bright, and he was happy, and he knew he could be happy as long as he had this.

That was true magic.

It wasn’t anything like the things he encountered on his patrols—the youma and the power and everything that came with the transformations. None of that could ever compare, because it was bloody and wrong and it made no one happy.

But this was different. This was a magical dance to the song of a celesta, in front of hundreds of eyes full of wonder and intrigue and awe and joy.

This was purity and grace and light.

He came to a stop when it was over, held the pose and heard the raucous applause from the audience, and moved to the center of the stage to take his bow. His heart was beating a little faster, but it was from excitement, not nerves. He never stopped smiling.

Paris wondered how he could have ever been nervous to begin with.

The rest of the show went by in a blur. His pas-de-deux with the cavalier passed just as easily as his first dance had. It was over before he knew it, and they all took their bows to a standing ovation and then hugged and congratulated one another backstage, where it was loud and full of laughter and excitement. The adrenaline was still pumping, but it felt good. He felt weightless and free.

“Paris?”

He was on his way to change out of his costume and back into his street clothes when one of the other dancers stopped him.

“Someone left this for you.”

He paused to look down at her outstretched hand, which held a single rose—not red or pink or yellow, but blue.

“Who…?” he asked, though his brain was already supplying him with a few ideas.

“I’m not supposed to say,” the girl replied, bright eyed and grinning.

Paris didn’t try to force the information from her. Instead, he reached out for the rose and took it in hand. There was a small piece of paper attached. He spread it out and saw writing on one side, and looked closer to read.

‘Here’s to creating something beautiful.’

He turned away before she could see the tears that gathered in his eyes, and went to change without letting himself think about what it meant.

His eyes were still wet when he left through the lobby, after changing from his costume and washing the make-up from his face. He carried the rose with him, lightly fingering the petals as he went.

Only two people were waiting for him—Mrs. Gallo and his mother.

Momma and Mom.

“Baby…” His mother reached him first, pulling him into a crushing hug. Her eyes were wet, too, and her voice trembled slightly. “I’m so proud of you.”

He smiled at her, one of the first true smiles he’d shown her in a long, long time, and took the bouquet of red roses she had for him as Momma Gallo came forward to hug him, too.

“You were so beautiful,” she gushed, kissing his cheek and stroking his hair without pulling him too far away from his mother. They both crowded around him, taking it in turns to pet and coddle and shower him with compliments and praise.

“It’s a little late, but why don’t we go get something to eat?” his mother suggested. “Your father’s tired and had to go home as soon as it was over, but Claire and I wanted to take you out to celebrate,” she said. That she and Momma Gallo had already become fast friends was not lost to him, but his attention was grabbed by something else she’d said.

“Dad was here?” he asked. His heart gave a lurch in his chest.

Momma Gallo smiled broadly. “Of course he was. He was sitting next to Chris.” She paused and widened her eyes, and brought her hand to her mouth in surprise. “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Paris didn’t even have a chance to register the fact that his eyes had grown blurry before he felt wetness on his face.

Chris… Chris had been there…

Chris and his father.

“Baby…” his mother tried, reaching out for him again. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

He could do nothing more than shake his head and rest it along her shoulder as she held him, clutching at his bouquet and the blue rose and letting himself cry for all the things that had happened to him, and all the things that were yet to come.

His mother rubbed at his back. Momma Gallo drew close again and brushed at his hair.

Paris took their care and their comfort and their understanding and wrapped himself within it, though his thoughts and his heart were with another person, on a set of golden eyes and a handsome smile and warm hands that made him feel as if he were worth everything.

‘Here’s to creating something beautiful.’

Life was beautiful, Paris thought, and he was finally truly living.