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The journey had been… interesting.

Where he had held onto Auguste for safety and cover just hours ago, this time he found himself holding on for the sake of the other man’s balance and dignity. The long walk back up the hill had been marked by a strong arm around the paler man’s waist and it remained there as he steered him through convoluted directions to a dance studio he had never even known existed. Maybe there had been peculiar eyes, curious glances, but Matteo was the last person to care and Auguste - well, the tipsy little imp was too far gone to really notice much, he thought.

“Are you sure this is the place?”

Dark brows furrowed as he stared at the unmarked door, then rose as the coal eyes flitted down to the man that stood next to him. He had gathered himself and, at last, let go of Auguste’s waist so the smaller man could start fishing out his key unhindered.

Tipsy eyes roamed the exterior, then turned down to look at Auguste instead.

“Sorry, I’m skeptical. Do you have your key?”

He was still very much under the influence, even as they climbed the hill to leave, as Matteo had put it, his special place, or however he’d said it. Auguste felt the heat in his cheeks, the sluggish way his legs seemed to work as he forced them to move, but walking in fresh, clean air and the fact that he was being supported by a rangy arm around his waist helped take off some of the edge.

It did not mean he was sober, but at least his mind was slightly less drugged feeling than it had been prior. Auguste had his own arms at his sides, merely letting Matteo guide him as he dragged out directions from his mind automatically, and it was only when that arm slid away that he realized they had stopped and were now in front of the door.

Auguste sucked in a breath. He hadn’t been here in years, hadn’t even tried to come back after he’d left. It was a private studio, rented out by people here and there, but mostly by Auguste himself. The only reason it hadn’t been left completely abandoned in the time he’d been gone was because the place hosted recitals on the weekends and a few classes on the weekday mornings. Afternoons and evenings had always been reserved for Auguste.

The last time he had been here was the time before he’d gone to meet...someone.

He couldn’t think about that. Not now.

Auguste fumbled in his jacket for the keys. He dropped them with a jangle, stooped, and picked them up again, his heart pounding unreasonably fast, his chest feeling tight.

“I, um.” His mouth was dry. “It’s...it’s been a long time.”

Some of the tipsy was easing off, though it still managed to take the edge off of his better emotions. Auguste pushed the key into the lock and twisted it.

The door led into a side hallway, and down the hallway was a large, empty room that had a glossy hardwood floor, mirrors all along one side, and a barre fastened in front of them. It smelled faintly of pine sol and flowers; someone had clearly been in to clean recently.

Other than that, it was empty. There was no one around.

Auguste took another sharp, painful breath.

“I...I don’t know…”

He trailed off, his eyes fixed on the room. It looked daunting in a way it never had before.

Matteo wasted no time stepping over the threshold. The door shut behind them and left the pair in early afternoon shadow, standing at the end of a hallway that Matteo was sure came right out of an anxious dream. It was long, daunting, with a room that Auguste was staring at like he might break down at any moment. His first instinct was to ply the man with more tequila but he didn’t necessarily think that was the answer if what he was trying to do was convince Auguste he wouldn’t fall flat on his face or fail at remembering this entirely.

Instead, he set his bag down just inside the door, careful to make sure the bottle didn’t crack as it settled with a clink. Looming over him like this made Matteo feel like a puppet master - it amused him, so he simply set his hands on those sharp shoulders and gave a gentle push. His fingers didn’t fall away as he did; there was no turning back.

“Put one foot in front of the other, Auguste, come on. It’s just a room. This is just a hallway.”

The fingers curling over his pronounced collarbones squeezed a little in what he hoped was reassurance. He wasn’t the best at that. His foot stepped forward and pressed to the inside of Auguste’s, lining the sole of his chuck up against his instep. Then the other moved so that he could nudge his toes into the other heel. It was a pointed motion that said if Auguste didn’t walk, Matteo was very likely going to make him.

“We’re being impulsive today, remember? Stop thinking.”

Auguste didn’t hear the clink of the bag on the ground, but he did feel the hands against his shoulder blades propelling him forward. If he’d been in a less inebriated state of mind, he would have shot a look of irritation over his shoulder at Matteo’s presumptuousness, but as it was he merely swallowed hard, trying not to be sick with anxiety over this.

One foot in front of the other. A gentle squeeze on his shoulders, which, coming from this particular man, felt strange and unfamiliar and almost ironic, considering they’d been squabbling since they’d first met. Auguste felt one of Matteo’s shoes pressing against his foot, and then the other, so they were moving like an awkward, four legged creature; stumbling a few steps before Auguste finally managed to get his own feet moving so that Matteo wouldn’t have to make him.

“Impulsive,” he murmured, his heart beating very fast. “I still…”

But he trailed off, lapsing into silence. They’d reached the end of the hall and were standing a few feet into the spacious dance room, wide and open. Around the corner were the changing rooms and at another bend was the front desk, but both were deserted, he knew this instinctively. This was not a time when anyone would be here.

It was just him. Him and his fake boyfriend, who was being irritatingly pushy.

The emotions were curling through him, making him want to turn and run. Auguste stared at the familiar, hardwood floor, scraped in a few places from bags or equipment being dragged across them. The barre, which had been broken at one end by an irate dance mom before it had been replaced by that same mom after a lawsuit. The far wall where Auguste had sat and leaned against it so many times, just thinking about...everything.

Auguste took a breath.

“It...looks the same,” he said quietly. “Like nothing’s changed.”

Even if everything else had.

Matteo stopped forcing Auguste into stride when he started walking on his own but his fingers didn’t unwrap from their grip on his shoulders until they were standing, at last, in the room that he had been so unnerved by. They uncurled, one after the other, and slowly released him - he did hazard a side eye, like he was afraid the pale man might run, but he said nothing.

Dark eyes rolled up from him and took in the room around him instead. Honestly, It didn’t seem like much to the dark haired miscreant but he wasn’t going to say that out loud. Maybe if circumstances had been different and he hadn’t been the one to drag the other man here, maybe if he didn’t know that there was some melancholy lurking just beneath his pale, thin skin that seemed to strike empathy with his own brand. Maybe if…

“Why wouldn’t it?”

Matteo shrugged and walked across the room to the barre, starting at one end and dragging his rough fingers along the slick surface. His feet were heavy and loud here, echoing in the sparse, deserted room like they belonged to a man that had never had grace in his life. He only stopped as he came face to face with the mirror at the far end, studying himself. In a quick moment, he pulled the hairband from around his wrist and tucked his thick, unruly locks into a messy bun at the top of his skull.

He was a little vain, it seemed.

Then he was looking at Auguste’s reflection from where he stood with his back to him, studying the way he was taking it all in.

“Would it be easier if I didn’t watch you?”

He almost - almost - missed the feeling of Matteo’s hands on his shoulders, if only because he had needed the solid weight of them to remind him that he wasn’t alone; or rather, that he wasn’t just a ghost in the hollow shell of his own body, because that was what he felt like most of the time these days.

He didn’t answer the question. Everything else had changed; why hadn’t this place?

The room was simple. No frills, no fanfare, no nothing. There weren’t any windows in this part of it, but the lobby area was just around the corner, and the light from outside filtered in, so they weren’t in pitch darkness. Instead, they were in a quiet, gray sort of light that was still plenty enough to see.

Matteo looked out of place in this room. He loped across towards the mirror, fiddling with his hair, and Auguste watched him, because it was easier to watch him than to try and decipher his own anxiety about this place. Quick hands swept the messy dark hair up into a bun, equally as messy, and then dark eyes were rising to meet his own, reflection to reality.

Auguste let out a small, humorless laugh.

“No,” he said, “If you don’t watch, I’ll never...even start.”

He still wasn’t sure he was going to start now. But if he didn’t have someone watching him, holding him accountable, he was never going to get anywhere.

Move, he told himself, move.

Auguste took a deep breath, trying to focus. Tried to be steady. He reached up and undid the buttons of his jacket and shrugged it off, moving to lay it across the barre so it wasn’t on the floor. Underneath he was wearing a pair of black leggings and oversized white teeshirt; typical dancerwear for someone who said he didn’t dance anymore, but it was all Auguste had in his wardrobe.

The shoes were toed off and pushed against the mirrored wall. Auguste didn’t look at his own reflection but instead turned to look at Matteo, wondering why he was bothering.

“Go...sit,” he said. “Um. Maybe against the wall.”

Matteo watched him calmly in the reflection on the spotless mirror, the way he slowly went through the motion even though he didn’t want to. It was impressive considering how he could see the anxious energy written into his boness, almost like a static that danced across his skin and made him second guess everything about what he was trying to do. He was quiet, though, until Auguste finally turned and looked him straight in the eye.

Dark, wide eyes slid sidelong and he nodded, sparing Auguste whatever comeback he might have expected.

“Alright,” the voice was low between them, “do you want me to… play music or something?”

Did people dance without music?

He was taking steps backward, one by one, slow and steady so that his eyes really never left Auguste - he had said he needed him to watch and the dark haired boy was clearly being over dramatic about that. As his shoulders brushed the flat of the far wall, he slid slowly down and settled into a comfortable sprawl against it. One leg went straight while the other stayed crooked, and his head leaned back against the plaster. He had a way of looking comfortable no matter where he was, maybe because he was just comfortable in his own skin, but his eyes were still glued to Auguste.

For some reason - a reason he couldn’t fathom - he found it hard to look away from Matteo. Auguste’s eyes met his in the mirror and held, watching as he backed away, steadily moving over towards the wall.

“No,” Auguste said, “I…”

He didn’t move just yet, but watched, letting Matteo get settled. Something about those dark eyes made him nervous; or maybe it was just the remnants of the alcohol still in his system. Maybe it was the fact that he was about to dance - to really dance - for the first time in over a year. He’d done things on and off - small, shapeless, unimportant routines in the safety of his own place, but nothing more. Nothing except stretches, and even then, that had not been a regular thing.

He took a breath, and then, somewhat unwillingly, broke eye contact with Matteo in order to step over to the corner of the room on the opposite side of the barre. A sound system was hooked up, thrumming slightly as he flicked on all the switches with more automatic movements than actual intention. Auguste’s fingers moved to pull his phone from from a side pocket on his leggings and he plugged it in, skimming over a few playlists before he stopped.

His thumb hovered over the name, uncertain, his heart beating very fast. He had not done that routine in so long. He knew it by heart, but whether or not he could do it again…

He pressed play.

It gave a small intro first; static sound, the song not immediately beginning, which gave Auguste a moment to get back to the middle of the room. He lifted his gaze, heart pressing against his ribcage, and lifted his gaze to meet Matteo’s once more in the mirror.

His feet didn’t want to move. He felt trapped.

The first few notes began to play.

And he moved.

It was instinctive; he hadn’t intended to. Hadn’t even thought he was capable of moving. But his heart and his body knew what his mind had locked up, and it was through muscle memory and soul memory that his feet shifted, one step in front of the other.

It was tentative, almost. His steps faltered. One shifted wrong, and he nearly fell over. It was a quick rebalance, his chest heaving for breath. An arm outstretched, moving past the screw up, following the choreography he had ingrained in his body like nothing else, because he had practiced this routine seven days a week for two months straight until there was nothing but pure body memory.

He could feel the music thrumming through him like blood in his veins.

The outstretched hand lowered, just a little, and then, as if he had never stopped doing it, had never walked away at all, Auguste’s body moved on instinct. His back foot pushed at the same time that his front leg slid forward and then he was arcing in a singular, perfect forward flip without the need of a trampoline or springboard to propel him into the air.

He landed hard, the soles of his feet hitting the floor, and it hurt, because he hadn’t done this in over a year and because he wasn’t used to it anymore, the burn already beginning in his calves. But he didn’t stop, and he didn’t slow down.

Arms out. Legs bent, feet outward. Tiptoes. Reach up. Kneel. Hold. Shift back. Hold. Reach up. Sit. Look forward. Shift back. Hold.

Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead. Auguste’s hair was damp around his flushed cheeks, and yet he was still moving, unable to stop. Some of the moves were messy, precision gone with time, and once he overbalanced again, nearly collapsing to the ground in the process.

His gaze rose, and found Matteo’s in the mirror.

He stood up again.

Sideways. Look sideways. Move. Forward. Back. Reach out reach out -

This time it was a backflip, done without a lead up to it; only sheer muscle memory and the need to keep going, don’t stop biting through him, a persistent heartbeat that rang in his ears. His back and torso arched, forming an almost perfect circle as he curved through the air, and then he was landing again, as though it was the easiest thing in the world.

It wasn’t. Every part of him hurt. Every part of him ached, throbbed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to stop.

He didn’t.

His face was wet, and not just with tears. He could feel the burning sensation all the way up his legs, his arms, and he flipped again, feeling the air rushing past himself, flipped once more, flipped a third time; a series of quick and thoughtless movements that had him landing almost on his tiptoes.

The music reached a crescendo. He pirouetted, moving, and his eyes were stinging.

An arc. A shift of position. The twist of his body.

The music slowed again. So did Auguste, and the tension was so thick in his body that it was evident in every sharp, jabbing movement. He curled in on himself, not ending the routine the way it was supposed to be, with his arms open and loose around his torso, but instead bent over, his hands in his hair, gripping.

The music stopped. Auguste was breathing so hard his whole body was moving with it, gasping to fill his lungs. Every inch of him was shrieking in pain, including his heart.

He made choked noise in the back of his throat and bent forward in on himself, hands still in his hair, and, without warning, screamed into his knees; a loud, painful, guttural noise ripped from his throat that carried with it every second, every agonizing second of pain that he had felt over the last two years, screaming until nothing was left of him.

And then he was done, and he was still curled up on his knees, gasping for air again, wanting to remember how to breathe.

Matteo hadn’t known what to expect.

The first melancholy notes of the song shocked the room like a bell tower. It was such a stark contrast to the grainy, gray silence that had surrounded them that even slouching, comfortable Matteo felt the tone in his bones and had to sit up a little straighter.

And then, in a matter of a few seconds, he felt like he shouldn’t have been there at all.

It wasn’t because Auguste was bad - quite the opposite, really. Matteo could pinpoint the motions that were a little weak because of whatever weight or muscle mass he had lost but, too, he could read the familiarity in his bones with every motion. It was strong and exposed, weak and emotional, furious and absolutely helpless all at once. Every emotion he had seen storming in Auguste’s eyes was pouring out of him and he was offering it up to the open world like a sacrifice. It was raw and personal. Every note of the song, every sweep of his pale limbs, made Matteo feel more and more out of place.

He was a dark, angry blot next to the life that was crying out from Auguste’s motions.

When Auguste finally, painfully, came to a finale Matteo found that his breath was hitched in his chest. If the other man had spared even the smallest moment to notice him, he would have seen the slacked jaw and the wide, curious eyes. He didn’t, though. He doubled over and screamed like it was the culmination of every winding, jabbing, flowing, aching motion he had poured out of his heart. It should have made Matteo feel more uncomfortable but it didn’t - it was real. And honest. It might not have been his pain but he understood it.

With his slacked lips shifting into a frown, Matteo pushed himself up very carefully and crossed the floor as quietly as he could. There was nothing he could say to make this better but in some way, it was his own doing. He settled behind Auguste and slid his legs to the outside of his smaller ones, then forced his hands into the gap between his stomach and his knees, until he could press the flat of his torso into Auguste’s bent back.

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even affectionate. Matteo was making an anchor of himself because a long time ago he had needed that, too.

He could feel the way Auguste’s heart was hammering against his chest, he could feel his lungs gasping and his body shaking, and instead of giving him some false, bullshit ‘it will be okay’ or ‘time heals everything’, he just concentrated on his own breathing so that it might beckon Auguste’s to match it.

He had no breath to scream anymore. It had died in his throat, eventually waning off into a hoarse little sound and then nothing at all. Every part of Auguste was in pain in some form or another; his legs and calves were shrieking, and his back was throbbing, and his chest was aching and his head was spinning, and his heart -

-he sometimes wasn’t even sure if he had one of those anymore.

He didn’t notice the silence in the room once the music had stopped. Didn’t notice the shifting of a person, nor the footsteps drawing nearer.

He did notice the arms that encircled his waist, the legs that bracketed his and for a few seconds, it was all instinctive, a fight, Auguste jerking, gasping, hands flailing in an effort to shove off whoever it was that was trying to restrain him or whatever was happening because he didn’t want to have to stop or be forced into that box again.

But he felt the press of a chest against his back; felt the steady heartbeat thrumming through to his own, and Auguste realized that it was Matteo. Matteo, who was saying nothing, doing almost nothing, except holding him. Not in an effort to trap him, or to romance him. But to simply hold on and make sure that Auguste had something to ground him.

The fight slipped out of Auguste, dissipating. He stopped struggling, stopped moving and then slumped back against the lean man behind him, chest rising and falling rapidly, his pulse skyrocketing everywhere, too fast and too much. He could hardly breathe, could hardly move at all.

But he could still feel Matteo, solid and unmoving. An anchor. Something to hold him in place without breaking him.

It felt like a long time before Auguste relaxed completely, collapsed almost bonelessly against Matteo. His heartbeat was still fast, but it had slowed, and his head was tilted a little to one side so that the top of it brushed under Matteo’s chin, hair sweaty and messy. The alcohol had burned off, and he was too aware of his senses, Auguste’s throat dry and sore.

“...I see I haven’t scared you completely off yet,” he said dully, voice hoarse. “I have to say...I’m surprised.”

At first, Matteo worried that his instinct was a mistake. Jerking hands fought against his grasp and he nearly let go - at the last moment, the tension snapped, and he felt Auguste settle back into his bones.

Good.

Dark eyes closed and he drew deep, steadying breaths to try and coax Auguste back from the dark place that he had let himself slip into. Emotion was important, it was what made humans what they were, but it was as violent and fickle as the ocean. Matteo knew that it could drown those that didn’t respect it.

He slid his arms tighter around the smaller man as he relaxed, at last, and leaned his body back into Matteo’s solid chest. Forearms paralleled one another low across his belly despite the way he could feel the sticky, sweat-slicked skin dampening his shirt beneath them. The physical part was easy, holding onto him seemed natural, but he was glad that Auguste couldn’t see his face.

“I’m grouchy, not shallow,” he mumbled lowly. Every word made his chin brush the top of the pale, damp hair beneath it and even though he wasn’t the one that needed this, he had to admit that it was comforting even to his little, shrunken heart. “I told you I would help you do this, so I have.”

A deep, steady breath made his chest rise and fall beneath Auguste, shifting the man up and down with the swell.

“I hope you don’t regret it.”