Word Count: 2341

“Hey,” a voice said in greeting just as a hand touched Paris’s shoulder to call his attention to owner’s arrival.

Paris looked up from the text he’d been composing on his phone, greeting Ross with a small smile and a “hey” in response as Ross took a seat across from him at the small table Paris had commandeered for their use, carrying with him a cup of coffee and one of the egg and cheese sandwiches he seemed so fond of.

The café Paris had chosen for this rendezvous with his friend from the dance company—one of the few he could actually call a real friend in such a place as that, notorious as the companies often were for their inner rivalries and the intense competition that existed between hundreds of dancers fighting their way to the top—was one near the DCU campus, complete with dim lighting, quiet chatter, and the indie music he was beginning to associate with college life and the many places around campus that catered to it.

“Nice bangs,” Ross said, motioning with a nod of his head and a curious lifting of his eyebrows. “Your instructor lets you wear them like that?”

Paris’s hand lifted before he could think anything of it, fingering the straight, fashionable bangs that fell over his forehead as the result of a recent style change. Days ago he’d thought he was in dire need of it, symbolic as the new style was for all the other changes that had been occurring in his life, as well as his efforts to take more positive steps forward. In a way, he was shedding himself of another eventful year as he grew closer to finding himself and deciding exactly who he wanted to be.

“I asked her,” he answered. “She said she didn’t care as long as I gel them back for performances.”

“Nice,” Ross observed. “It’s a good look for you.”

“Thanks,” Paris said, smiling gratefully.

With his friend’s arrival he quickly finished the text he’d been in the middle of typing to Chris, sending it off and sliding his phone shut with a ‘snap,’ and then depositing it into the leather handbag that rested in his lap. A cup of hot chocolate sat on the table in front of him, next to an empty plate that had only recently been cleaned of its scone. He grabbed his hot chocolate to sip while Ross took the first few bites into his sandwich.

“How’s school going?” Ross asked as he chased down a particularly large bite with a healthy swig of coffee.

“Fine, I guess,” Paris said.

“Just ‘fine’?”

“It’s more normal classes than dancing right now,” Paris explained. “Math, history, all the boring stuff. I’m trying to go ahead and get all of my general studies out of the way so I can just focus on dancing after that.”

“Don’t get out of practice,” Ross warned him.

“I’m not. I do what I can in my free time at the studios on campus. The rest I do at home.”

“And how’s your dance class?” Ross asked. This time he sounded concerned, taking a break from his snack to stare across at Paris with somber blue eyes that matched the tone of his voice.

“It’s great,” Paris happily replied. “Better than all my other classes. I wish it was longer, or at least more than two days a week. I mean, some of the girls are…” he trailed off as he tried to decide how he wanted to explain the situation, eventually settling with, “petty. About me, I mean. Critical about themselves, and either critical or jealous toward everyone else, depending. It’s not too bad. It’s just a few of them. The rest are alright.”

Ross continued to study him carefully, perhaps examining Paris’s expression to make sure he wasn’t making light of the situation or lying about its effect on him. Paris had no need to hide anything and so made no attempt at a poker face. His experiences in his first few weeks at DCU hadn’t been any different or any worse than anything he’d already faced before.”

“I’m so bummed, though,” he continued when Ross made no move to dig further.

“Why?” Ross asked.

“Because it’s Nutcracker season!” Paris lamented, setting his hot chocolate down to pout and slump against the side of the table.

“You’re not doing it on campus?”

“We are!” he said. “But it’s still not going to be as good as last year. I’ll probably be stuck as a snowflake or a reed flute, even though I’m way better than half the girls in my class and my instructor saw me dance the Sugar Plum Fairy last year. She said so when she told us about the auditions.”

“So why won’t she let you do it again?”

Paris rolled his eyes, pushing himself back up to sit correctly, and began gesticulating with his hands as he replied. “Because she’ll want to let one of the other girls have it so they don’t feel like I’m being favorited or something stupid like that. Which is so bogus. It’s not favoritism if I happen to be the better dancer. But maybe if she satisfies them now I can get a better role later on. I want Odette or Aurora.”

Ross’s mouth slid into a smile as he laughed quietly at Paris’s complaining, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“I’m assuming you’ll be the prince again,” Paris said.

Ross shook his head before swallowing. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” he replied.

Confused, Paris perked up to pay better attention, bringing his hands back down to the table. “Did something happen? Are you injured?” he asked in quick succession.

Ross laughed again. “No, nothing like that,” he said. He, too, lowered his hands, placing his sandwich back on its respective plate.

“I’m leaving Destiny City,” he explained.

Paris’s first thought was for the war. It was amazing sometimes how it had managed to become so deeply ingrained into his life that his mind somehow saw everything that happened as a cause or an effect of it.

He never knew who was like him or what side they might be on if they were, and so he tried to assume that everyone else in his life was normal and remained as ignorant of the strange goings-on in the city as he used to be, at least until such a time that he discovered that wasn’t true. As a result, he discussed it only with the people he knew for sure to be involved and, more importantly, on his side, and he usually restricted those conversations to his powered life only. It was best to keep them separate, even now—or as separate as it was possible to keep two sides of the exact same person.

Ganymede was as deeply entrenched in the war as he felt comfortable being, but Paris was, for all appearances, as normal as any other civilian whose life remained untouched by the burden of magic and war.

But being powered was, of course, not the only way he knew people to have somehow been involved or affected by the war. His best friend had moved out on his own to avoid being sent away due to the state the city was in; somehow there had been civilians in Elysion at some point, not to mention the attack on what had seemed to be a normal summer camp and all of the deaths that had occurred at the Surrounding later that same year. Anyone could be affected by it whether they were directly involved or not, though Paris wished his friends, at least, could be spared that experience even if no one else could.

For now, he did what he could to school his expression, but he couldn’t be sure he didn’t appear mildly worried.

“What?” he asked, quietly, letting some of his confusion show. “Why?”

Ross’s smile widened. “Because I signed with the Boston Ballet,” he said.

That left Paris gaping, probably as much as he would have if Ross had said something about being a knight and needing a break from action. He didn’t know what he felt more—relieved that Ross’s departure was due to the normal progression of a normal life; happiness that Ross, who was a talented dancer on top of having proven himself to be just as good of a friend, was getting the opportunity to take his career to new heights; sadness that one of his friends would be leaving him behind; or jealousy that he would be here and Ross would be off living his dream.

“No you didn’t!” Paris exclaimed, thrill warring with disbelief. “When?!”

“Just this past weekend,” Ross said. “I leave next week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!” Paris demanded.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” Ross explained. “That’s not really the sort of news you tell someone over the phone. You’d have been pissed if I texted you about it and you know it.”

Paris had to admit, Ross had a point. Still, the mix of emotions remained, difficult to wade through but easy to understand. Eventually, he crossed his arms over the table and rested his head on top of them as he mumbled, “Ugh, I’m so jealous.”

Ross laughed and reached across the table to affectionately tug at the neat bun Paris had pulled the rest of his hair into earlier that day. “Just wait until you finish school,” he said. “You don’t think someone will come along and scoop you up?”

“That’s not the point,” Paris whined, lifting his head back up to effect a pout. “The point is you’re leaving me.”

The truth was, his jealousy went two ways. He had been the one to decide on his own to go back to school and take the more non-traditional path to becoming a professional dancer, putting his career on hold for a few years to acquire the degree he didn’t necessarily need but had come to desperately want because of what it would prove. He could have continued with the company he’d been brought into a year ago, or found another opportunity elsewhere, but he’d chosen not to. Yet even though he acknowledged that, he could not help but feel jealous over Ross’s professional success, no matter how happy he might also be for him.

Jealousy, too, stemmed from the sense of abandonment he always carried around, which rose up to make itself known now as it always did when something came up to change his relationships with those he cared for most. He didn’t want to lose one of his friends, one of the only ones who really understood how he felt about dancing, his aspirations, and his need to reach them. He didn’t want to think of Ross making other friends, or dancing with other people, when for the last year he and Ross had been as close as friends could be in a company without that friendship turning in to something more.

“Hey,” Ross said, not unkindly, “at least this way I’ll be in a good position to put in a good word for you.”

Paris’s pout did not falter and he felt no better. “How can you just leave me?” he whined, more for the sake of whining than because he was upset, though he’d be lying if he tried to pretend as if he wasn’t.

“You’re such a brat,” Ross chuckled, reaching across the table again to give Paris’s shoulder a teasing shove. “Shut up and tell me you’re happy for me.”

“Of course I’m happy for you,” Paris insisted, “but, come on, you know you’ll miss me.”

“How could I not?” Ross joked back, bringing a hand to his heart dramatically. “Your beautiful face is all that brings me joy in all of my dark, lonely days.”

Paris made a noise of discontent and gently kicked Ross’s shin beneath the table.

“Okay, okay, I’ll miss you!” his friend said with another laugh and a broad smile. “I’ll keep in touch, I promise.”

“You’d better,” Paris groused.

“But you have to promise to take care of yourself,” Ross replied, and this time there was no laughter and his smile grew smaller, his eyes once again showing their concern.

Paris frowned back, not in annoyance or in anger, but in regret. “I will,” he said.

Ross stared at him for a few seconds, his sudden serious demeanor remaining until he was satisfied that Paris meant it. Then he settled back in his chair with a grin back in place and a note of playfulness in his voice as their teasing conversation, interspersed here and there with actual emotion, resumed.

Paris let his friend talk about his plans, and he let himself feel excited as he heard them, gushing over Ross’s good fortune and falling back into the ease they’d always felt around one another. He told himself he should be happy, and he was, but there was a bitterness there beneath it all, as there always seemed to be beneath most things, and a fear that he would never have the chance to follow his dreams the way Ross so easily could. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how good he was or how great he eventually became, as long as the war continued there would always be something holding Paris back.

Ross would be gone, dancing his heart out in Boston, and Paris would still be here in Destiny City, protecting his friends and family while praying for an end to it all, and trying to make it in one of the only ways that was left to him.

That was the life he’d committed himself to, and though he often regretted that it had to be this way, he knew he would have made the same decision again if given the chance.

Sometimes, sacrifice was necessary, whether or not is was fair.

‘Dance, ballerina, dance; you mustn’t once forget, a dancer has to dance the part.’