This should have been done months ago. Like, back in February. So I'm saying it takes place then. orz
Word Count: 2025
Romeo, it turned out, was an utter b*****d.
Paris had met his fair share of ballet divas. Hell, he'd even admit that he had his own tendencies to be a prima donna depending on the situation. He thought it was unavoidable in his line of work. Someone somewhere was going to take things too seriously—wasn't that the way with everything, though? As far as Paris was concerned, they all took things too seriously, so intensely focused on the music and the story and every precise movement that anything—any needless interruption, any useless diversion, any uncalled for or unfair critique, any delineation from the path or the plan or whatever it was driving them to be the best—risked an outburst of temper and frustration that perhaps fairly earned them their reputation.
Even he and Ross, despite the amiable companionship they’d displayed off the stage and outside the studio, had inevitably butted heads over one thing or another, and had lapsed from the joking and teasing that had defined their working relationship into stupid arguments Paris couldn’t even remember the exact cause of once they were over. Under the amount of pressure that was placed on them—by themselves, by other people—he supposed it wasn’t too difficult to understand. Ballet was a highly competitive and therefore highly stressful world, one that required not only talent and natural ability, but an extreme amount of dedication as well.
“Your timing is all off!”
Max Reynard was the youngest son of a ballet pair that had once been prominent in the Paris Opera Ballet, and he acted like one who expected to follow in their footsteps—except that he was in Destiny City instead of France and a dancer of unexceptional talent instead of extraordinary, though he insisted otherwise. He was greedy and arrogant, an overbearing jackass who had no reservations against cutting someone else down to size, but who absolutely refused to accept a word from anyone else that deemed him anything less than perfect. He was a whore for the spotlight, a prima donna of the first degree, and probably the most frustrating person Paris had ever met in his entire life.
And that was saying a lot.
“My timing is off?” Paris challenged him. “What’s the problem, can’t even see around your own inflated ego to keep up? Mommy and Daddy tell you you’re going to be some big star? If you actually believe that then I feel sorry for you, because there’s no way you’re going to get anywhere with such mediocre talent!”
“Mediocre?!”
It was a stupid, pointless argument. Paris acknowledged that even as it was happening, but if he didn't let out some of the pent up steam that had been building all afternoon he was going to go crazy.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I offend you?,” he said, and sounded not at all apologetic. “Don’t worry, I’m sure there’re a few companies out there who might take you on because of your name. Being a Reynard must be pretty respectable in its own right, even if you are stuck in a third rate program at Destiny City University, dancing pity roles given to you by a department that places more importance on the attention it can gain than it does the talent required to actually make it!”
“That’s funny coming from a Gallo,” Max sneered.
“LeFay,” Paris corrected him, his voice low and clipped, almost threatening except that he wasn’t a very threatening looking person at all.
The correction itself was more or less useless given that Max was right—at least as far as his surname was concerned. Paris was a Gallo now, and though he had felt no burning compulsion to change his name and cast aside his father or his father’s family, there was a sense of security that came with being a Gallo. It had been an instinctual reaction to take Chris’s surname as his own and thereby formally link himself with Chris’s family, who had been more like his own family than any of his other relatives had ever tried to be.
He had, however, kept his father’s surname, not attached to his new one but preceding it, wedged there between Donatien and Gallo like a second middle name. To the rest of the world he would gladly introduce himself as Paris Gallo.
To the ballet world he refused to be anything other than Paris LeFay.
“Funny how you get to pick and choose when you want to be one or the other,” Max said snidely.
He was not an unattractive young man as far as his appearance—his personality, of course, was another story entirely. Blue eyed, with a head of thick, glossy black hair, he made a striking image on stage despite the fact that there were countless other dancers in the world that outstripped him when it came to sheer talent. Unfortunately, Paris and Max had butted heads since the moment they’d been paired together. If they both weren't such good actors on stage, Paris would have been concerned about their ability to pull off being madly in love with one another.
There was something in Max's voice as they argued, some mocking tone that seemed far more rude than anything Paris had said thus far. Paris tried to ignore it. Things people said in the heat of the moment weren't always an accurate representation of who they were as a person—on the other hand, sometimes it turned out to be a very accurate representation of who they were, but he didn't really care to figure it out at the moment. Besides, Paris had made it personal first; he supposed it was only natural for Max to retaliate in a similar way. But there was something about that mocking tone that set Paris on edge. The last comment hit a nerve.
A quiet little voice in the back of Paris's mind said it was because he didn't know what the proper argument was against it.
In an attempt to drown out those thoughts and ignore Max's presence, Paris closed his eyes to the rest of the studio and made an effort to center himself. He rose up on pointe from fifth position and held it, completely still, finding that point of perfect balance that both thrilled him and calmed him.
Don't get worked up, he told himself. Max doesn't know anything.
“Are you listening to me?” Max demanded.
Arrogant. Just ignore him.
“Great, so we're playing that now, are we? Aren't you a little old to be giving anyone the silent treatment?”
Let him whine. Don't give him the satisfaction of having your attention.
“I guess we're not going to get anything done today.”
Maybe he'll get bored and go away.
“Being a Gallo isn't the only thing you get to pick and choose, is it?”
“Shut up,” Paris said, unable to hold his tongue.
“Why should I?”
“Shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself.”
“I'm already embarrassed,” Max said, and there was an obvious note of derision in his voice. “Paired with the department novelty. You want to talk about pity roles and the attention the department's going to get out of this? Okay, fine. Why do you think anyone gives you the time of day? You think they'd actually give you the part if this wasn't a third rate program?”
Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him.
Paris should have returned to silence, let Max talk himself out until he gave up and left. Or, if Paris had to mount a defense, he should have focused on JMax's other comments, remarked on his time with the Destiny City Ballet and the positive reception he'd received while he was with them. Focus on talent and leave everything else out of it. That was all that should matter, wasn't it? Talent? If he let Max know the rest of it bothered him, what would stop Max from continuing to use it against him.
Paris knew he'd become something of a novelty. As unfair as he thought it was, he'd accepted it when he'd been given the role, and he didn't generally have much of an issue if that was how the department wanted to view him so long as he had the opportunity to prove that the talent was there as well. Success came with sacrifices, and more than anything Paris wanted to be a successful dancer.
But it bothered him to have his novelty status pointed out to him by another novelty.
Pick and choose, Max said.
Paris didn't think that was fair.
And it pissed him off.
He fell out of fifth position and launched himself at Max before he could think better of it. For the most part he wasn't thinking at all, but relying on instinct to defend his wounded pride and the hurt feelings he didn't want to admit had been hurt. He reached out to deliver what he hoped would be a sound punch to Max's face—not aggressive, he told himself, but defensive.
Unfortunately they were not alone in the studio. The other students who served as witnesses chose that moment to intervene. Paris found himself being restrained by hands that tried to be comforting, while a few others placed themselves between Paris and Max. One or two of them tried to encourage Max to back away.
“Let it go, Paris,” someone said.
“He doesn't know what he's talking about.”
“Cool it, guys.”
“Just ignore him.”
“He didn't mean anything by it.”
“Let go of me,” Paris said.
Of course Max had meant something by it, and the fact that the others didn't seem too concerned about it pissed Paris off even more. They only wanted to stop the fighting and salvage the show, not get into the causes of it and start another debate.
Paris jerked himself away when a few of the pairs of hands loosened, but didn't move forward again. Max was already being guided back and Paris didn't much feel like following. It wasn't worth it. Max was just one a*****e among many, using whatever means necessary to get the reaction he wanted and prove a point. They'd finish the show and then go about their business, and with some luck Paris might be able to avoid being paired with him again. Max was a junior, Paris was a freshman. Sooner or later Max would be gone, out in the world to discover that everything Paris had said about him was true, and Paris would be right where he was, making a slow climb up the ladder of success.
Right where he was.
That thought gave Paris pause and he stopped to stare into space, earning a few curious glances from students who couldn't seem to decide if it was safe to go about their business again or not.
Suddenly there was a part of Paris that he could no longer ignore, clamoring that he did not want to be right where he was.
Destiny City had been his home all his life. He hardly knew anything else, though he'd known from an early age exactly what he'd wanted to be. He'd fought for it, pushed himself to prove that he had what it took, forced people to take him seriously, fought tooth and nail to be able to live a dream he'd held close to his heart since his earliest memories. And now that he had it, now that it was within his reach, so close he'd touched it on many occasions, he realized that there was still something missing. He'd spent the last nine years ignoring it out of fear, abandonment, confusion, and stubbornness, and it took one smug a*****e mouthing off about things he couldn't even begin to comprehend to make Paris stop and actually listen to himself.
Paris turned away before anyone could say anything else, rushed to grab his dance bag and shove some of his things back into it, and then left the students in the studio to dwell in their own confusion.
He had enough to wade through on his own.
