cross-posted on ao3! author note: first time writing something outside of the bts fandom so um, wish me luck lol
each chapter is inspired by a song from this playlist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhRtmk7vm3k ! this one is inspired by sanctuary by joji
one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, three- an error. it was out of line, it's flawed, it is unpredicted, it is ugly, it is disgusting, and nobody wants an imperfection. agility, balance, coordination, a sequence, flexibility, that is lovely, that is wanted. falling, choking, gasping, begging, crying, a simple flaw in the sequence felt like dying. nobody wants to hear of how that duck had become such a gorgeous swan, yet filled with such hatred towards the rest of the other ducks. once an ugly duckling became a beautiful swan, would a swan choose to lose its beauty once again? the weak duck was foible, proving it wasn't enough, it was a shortcoming. children had hoped for that, adults wished for it, to be of someone greater. to feel special, pretty, to feel like a special swan out of all the others.
the true story of the ugly ducklings seems to remain unspoken, the hideous truth that is hidden. had no one thought of the other plausible perspective of the graceful swan? when night fell, the self-loathe swallowed him. he wanted to be loved therefore, he needed to be in line-one, two, one, two. he needed to be separated from the unwanted, he needed to be associated with the beautiful swans. he was a swan, feathers covering him in innocence. adorned in jewels, dripping in elegance, he captured beauty and grace. but who is to say that he wasn't the one trapped in the lake instead? swimming in circles, it is secret that the pitiful swan would eventually sink if it didn't leave the water soon. when the morning arose, the feathers shimmered, far too charming than what meets the eye. even as it begins to set, the crystal lake reflecting an ombre of oranges and reds melted perfectly with his dance. but it was too much, far too deep, the mud beneath was grabbing at his legs. the surface was gorgeous, oh it truly was. the performance the swan gave was wonderous, such a whimsical time. within the lake, the hunters, the predators, the evil, couldn't lay a finger on the swan. he was safe there...right?
"george, demonstrate for us." a head tilt, a nod. everyone knew of it too, it was a simple exchange. "perform, understood." it was a thursday, a gloomy one, the greys and gentle pastels of blue were overshadowing the sun as if it were in mockery of its inability to provide light. london, home to the royal swan university, in all its glory, had established itself in high regard. it won countless awards over the years, producing nothing but elite ballet dancers since the nineties. only the best of the best were allowed on stage, which meant no imperfections. this included anyone with less than the standard that was taught. there had been controversy with paid admissions but it was no secret that no matter what, those who could not withstand the harsh programs would crumble. a broken mirror, a shattered doll, pieces go missing and are no longer needed. the creators couldn't care less for the rest of the dolls if it meant there would be at least one flawless one produced. it didn't matter if the 'flawless' doll was crying, scratching at the throat for air. what did matter was that the doll stood with poise on that stage, as if it were a beacon of pure light. one that would intimidate others with its brightness but draw them in as if there were moths to a flame. oh, the horrors the woeful dancers went through, of course, everyone wanted to be part of that light. it was so attractive, it was so seemingly perfect, but it burns to be in that light. killing a little part of themselves each time just to shine for others, it was a cycle. a simple one at that, yet so, so, complex.
the sound of music began to fill the air as george stood up, shoulders back, head held high. swan lake, one of the most difficult pieces in ballet had been the name of the piece to be performed at this year's competition. "pyotr ilyich tchaikovsky composed this piece, sometime between 1875 through 1876. the critics deemed it ugly, it wasn't pleasant to the ears, the dancers complained about the pacings, it just wasn't good to them. now, today? it is such a popular piece, an iconic one you may say." a pause, sir hendrey turned his head to george who had already begun the piece with the soft embrace of the instruments behind him. "now, what made this piece so legendary was not only the discovery of the talent behind the composing but also the story. the tragedy, the romance, the sacrifice, the-the, the emotion! another man known as julius reisinger gave the music a story- look at that, a fouette, one of the most difficult turns. well done george, so challenging, oh aren't you just beautiful!" the man continued to ramble onward, teaching history whilst describing ballet. sir hendrey usually meant no harm really, he was a fine fellow that had been teaching ballet for nearly twenty years. at the age of nearing sixty, his head of grey hair with his nose with a slight curve to it gave him a sort of charm. he has often nicknamed himself a dancing gnome, with soft smiles reflecting whenever he'd crack his corny jokes once in a while. with that said, however, he was strict with a tendency to rub his nose and squint before yelling at a poorly performed routine. nonetheless, if you did impress him, you would be fine for the majority of the class.
george quite liked him, many others did as well. far more than madam esmée, a french woman who found fame quickly since her early childhood-the world knows her as one of the most ruthless teachers. george didn't question her after seeing her perform live when he was only fourteen. madam had earned the status as a prima ballerina assoluta; an incredibly rare title awarded to an extraordinary ballerina or ballerino of the generation. madam esmée's family established the university, naming it in honor of the first piece performed by the head of the family; swan lake. for the first time in years, the performance this year would be swan lake, a tribute after the death of madam esmée's great grandmother who passed away recently. it must fall nothing short of perfection. madam esmée would make sure of it, and she made sure the dancers were treated in a similar fashion. walking around, with the clack of her shoes and the tap of a wooden stick, her eyes of a faded brown glared at the dancers with each mistake before critiquing their movements.
one of the few who had received a compliment from madam esmée was george. george had counted them, each time he'd receive one, he would write it down in his journal. a leather one, with rips on the side and a crumbling texture. it was running out of pages from all the rambling he had done through the last three years at the university. he began to write small notes since he graduated high school and he refused to use another one, his first crush had given it to him after all. it was at prom, he remembered, of course he did, he truly felt like a prince at the time. no, he became a prince after receiving the journal. cinderella had her glass slippers, george didn't really have that privilege with his oversized glasses and touseled hair that was done last minute when his mother forced him to attend since "the tickets aren't cheap george, just go! live a little!" he went alright, it was boring. a boy, he had dark brown hair, he was adorable, george didn't know of his name, he only knew that he hung out with 'the boys' on the weekends and was definitely one of the popular kids that everyone hated but was still hot so nobody could really complain at the time. it was towards the end of prom that the brown-haired boy won his crown, nothing surprising there. he kissed the cheek of the queen before flashing the crowd a smile that lit up the room with cheers. george felt oddly embarrassed, he fantasized if he were there instead, not the king but the queen. the guilt suffocated him, how embarrassing was he that he thought he had the right to have such a despicable thought.
he stood at the corner, wallowing in annoyance towards himself and perhaps a bit towards his mother. that was the case before the boy approached him, "hey! i don't know your name but i'm supposed to hand out these journals as a graduation gift since i'm prom king. this one's brown and it's not really my favorite color so here. you can have it, i guess." the boy stared at george with a quirked-up eyebrow, signaling for him to grab the journal or do something about it. george swore it could've been his cinderella moment if he didn't take a step forward and trip on his shoelaces. he didn't have the movie scene where the guy holds onto him and gives him that magical twirl into his arms. nope, he fell forward into the poor boy's crotch. apparently, george didn't have hands because face planting into the guy's abdomen before hitting his nose on the guy's balls was the way to go. miss cinderella wouldn't approve of this behavior, it was embarrassing and made it into the top ten worse moments he'd never want to relive. thinking back to it, it was lame, such a weird thing to get his heart beating. not the cock and ball faceplant moment. not that. it felt like hell, thankfully nobody saw but with his bottled-up feelings for his crush and his unfitting suit that was far too big on his petite body, he wanted to cry.
it dawned on him that he hadn't said an apology yet and so he looked up from his puddle of shame and tried to open his mouth before the brown-haired boy interrupted him with a burst of laughter. that night, george would say that he looked even more handsome, crouching down with his hand messing up his previously perfectly-gelled hair. george didn't cry because he felt like he was being bullied or anything, it was just so embarrassing. in the blue lighting provided by the disco ball, the boy finally stopped his laughing fit with a soft sign. "look man, we both know that was an accident but- oh my god are you about cry? god, i swear i wash my dick i didn't know if it was the sweat from dancing or-" george shoved his face into his palms and wanted to die on the spot because, god, this is just the cherry on top of the cake, wasn't it. in a muffled voice, he replied. "this is terrible, i'm awfully sorry about that. just give me my journal and leave...please..thank you-" "dude you're good, here, i'll leave the journal here but- wait, your shoelaces are untied. here, let me just-" george felt warm hands gently grab at his ankle, pulling it foward. feeling the movement, he looked forward and god, he felt the heat come to his face, painting his pale skin with rose colored blush. the close proximity, he could almost hear the soft chuckle that radiated off of the boy. looking downward, he hitched his breath, a pair of hands much larger than his own began tying his shoelaces. that night, for the first time, he actually thanked god, buddha, some universal being for allowing his awkwardness to come to this. "well, see you dude. this just made my night so much better after i found out miss prom queen over there cheated on me. oh, no oversharing, my bad. anyways, here's the journal, and uh, goodnight!" he kept the journal with a soft smile, a genuine one that didn't happen anymore after he entered the university. time was of great importance to him and his schedule was simple. he wouldn't let the distraction of other things get in the way of that. as a result, he felt that attachment to the last thing that made him happy.
despite the entire situation, george liked it, and somewhere deep down, he wished that he could rewrite the entire prom experience. he wanted to maybe even try confessing, it was probably the best memory he had in his high school days, besides the time he got a dog or when his mother baked cakes with him. it comes close to the time his mother brought him to see his very first ballet performance, the one that madam esmée danced at. he told his mother he wanted to dance just like that and with a ton of convincing from a pair of rounded eyes through fogged up glasses and pouty lips, he was placed into his first ballet class. people often call home a place that is physically there or family, maybe even friends. but that lame journal wasn't just a home. altogether, that journal was his sanctuary, he found refuge in that brown book. it held his fears, the past crushes he had, things he fantasized about, his dreams, pretty much everything. in small writing and tapped polaroids, the journal made george feel safe.