Heel slide out, right leg extended. Slow unfolding of right arm, palm up. Relax fingers. Left hand on chest. Delicate. Calm. Relax. Relax. Control your breathing. Tilt right. Chin up. Don’t look straight. Face slanted, eyes skyward. Hold pose, two seconds. Leg in, pirouette. Extend left leg. Go to knees, graceful, remember, graceful.

Contemporary dancing is not the same as ballet, but there are things that stem from it, moves that have grown and developed from the most basic of ballet steps. Auguste has been dancing his entire life, and though the beginner ballet classes he took in childhood are long since past, he still remembers every word of what his instructors have said to him.

The purpose is to make it look graceful. Flawless. Effortless. You want to make it look as though you are exerting nothing and gaining everything.

Auguste dips forward, one hand arched behind his back, palm down, the other arm cradling his stomach, but not touching, simply bent, as though to touch would be a mortal sin. One leg is forward, toe pointed, while the other is slightly bent, Auguste balancing himself on that single leg, all of his weight resting on this position.

Make it look effortless.

Nothing is truly effortless, Auguste knows this. He straightens, then does a quick spin before leaping into the next movement, twisting around so that his feet slide across the hardwood floor, Auguste going to his knees. He flips, stomach to the ground, palms braced against the floor, legs in a neat splits position before he snaps them together again and flips again, spinning himself onto his back and twirling to his feet.

He’s breathing heavily, but he’s trained himself to hold back; sweat is starting to bead at the fine lines of his hair, but Auguste’s expression is calm, almost joyful as he moves. Dancing has been a part of him for so long that it feels as though he’s flying sometimes, which sounds incredibly cliche, but he can’t help it, because it’s true.

It is the only thing that really and truly keeps his heart in place.

He thinks of Colin, when he dances. Of Nadia, of Lorne, of their little family. Of the ones that keep him solid, of the people who have not yet left him, of the hearts that beat behind their chests, each step a flutter of a pulse, each breath he takes a reminder that he is alive, alive,alive. Each leap he successfully lands is another day of this life that he is living. Each pirouetted spin is a cycle of remembrance that he has been fortunate, so fortunate, to be where he is.

The tempo is rising. He can feel it thrumming through his veins as he slides, and he can feel it in his heart as he breathes.

I am loved, he thinks, and then, But I am lonely.

Lonliness is different from being alone. Auguste knows he is not alone. He knows this as he drags a chair into the middle of the dance floor, sits down on it, and then spins around it in one fluid motion, body moving in an arc to accommodate, to not actually touch the chair. His fingers slide onto the wood, and he flips it aside, twisting, a leap that has taken him several months of hard practice as Auguste vaults himself over the chair.

Nadia has Lorne and Colin. Lorne has Nadia and Colin. Colin has Nadia and Lorne and Auguste and Bjorn. Auguste has no problems with any of this, he is not the jealous sort and never has been. He knows how much Colin loves, how much Colin has to offer with that big heart of his, and it’s a facet of him that has always been adored.

But Auguste does not have what any of them have. It’s never bothered him before, and he’s not entirely sure why it bothers him now - although that isn’t quite the word, either. It’s not that it bothers him. It’s that he’s wistful of it, longing for it, for

Something. He isn’t even sure what he wants.

The tempo is slow now, the rhythm gentle. Auguste’s arms wrap around himself, as though giving an embrace to his own flushed shoulders, his eyes dropping as he slides his leg across the floor.

Arms out. Extend. Extend. Fingers relaxed, not stiff. Pirouette. Drop. Flip. Spin. Flip. Spin.

The music comes to a drawn out stop on a long, lingering, sweet note, high and clear, that resonates throughout the empty studio. One of Auguste’s arms is extended, the other with careful fingers pressed to his chest, where he can feel the rapid beating of his heart.

It is not the end.

Slowly his arm lowers. Slowly he straightens, his face flushed pink in the mirrors that line one wall of the room. His pale hair is slightly damp, sticking wetly to his cheeks. He can see the rise and fall of his own chest as he begins to calm, his pulse taking some time to return to normal.

Another song begins, and Auguste starts to move once more.