// Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand //
// Now she's in me, always with me //
// tiny dancer in my hand. //
"Tiny Dancer" -Elton John
Harry's POV
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"Big man, hurry up!" I call out into the bedroom, earning a glare from Mom in response.
She drops Nate's shirt onto his bed, "Y'know, you could get him ready, if you're in such a rush."
Wordlessly, I nudge her hip with mine, picking up the t-shirt from the mattress, "Fine, mumma, skedaddle."
With a kiss to my cheek and a flick to my arm, she starts for the doorway, "What trouble are you two going to get up to, sweetheart?"
I shrug, "Not sure. Phoebe's show starts at 5, so I'll take him somewhere for a couple hours and then head over for that."
Mom nods, a gentle smile spreading across her cheeks before she steps out.
The two of them wanted to go to Bee's show, but I talked them out of it. I had a feeling that my girl would've gotten overwhelmed if suddenly we all just showed up. She'd need some preparation for that. It's fine, though - when she catches a break, I'll bring them to every single show.
"What are we doing today, Nate?" I crouch down to sit eye-level with him, patting my hand against his leg, "I have Bee's show in a few hours. Do we want to go to the Pier? Or the park? What are you feeling?" I hold out my hands as I give him the options, waiting for him to pick our destination by grabbing at a hand.
Nate sits in his wheelchair, not strapped in yet, staring at me with a goofy grin, completely unmoving. I know exactly what he wants. He hasn't stopped talking about her since she left on Thursday. Little murmurs of "Eee!" like a never-ending cycle. Sometimes paired with giggles, sometimes paired with whimpers, or tears. I'd think he was mocking me if I didn't know any better.
Today is our brother day - a cloudy, chilly November Saturday. Perfect for watching a dance recital. But, first, Nate.
A sigh leaves my lips and I rest my cheek into my palm, "You want to see Phoebe, don't you?"
Instantly, a solar-powered smile bursts onto his face and he starts squirming around, chanting "Eee!" incessantly.
I'm a little worried about taking him to the show tonight, mostly because I'm not sure how Phoeb will react. I also know that Nate will lose his goddamn mind the minute that angel graces the stage. So will I, but at least I'll do it in secret. I don't want him to distract her. But he really wants to see her. And who am I to deny him? I can't blame him for wanting to see that goddess woman.
"Nate, buddy, c'mon," I try to reason. His green eyes bore into mine, unwavering in resolve. He knows he'll break me down eventually.
With a groan, I give in, dropping my forehead to his knees, "Fine, we'll go see Bee. But you have to promise to be good." I swear I see the understanding pass through his eyes when I glance up at him. "We'll go get some food and then go see her, capiche?"
When I reach for his shirt, the Bee chant ends and whining begins, "Dude, no, stop, you've gotta put a shirt on. You'll steal her from me if she sees these guns." I joke, squeezing Nate's bicep between my fingers.
His giggle spreads throughout the room, bouncing off of the walls and reverberating through my ears.
"Oh, so he gets to go see Phoebe, but we can't," Mom appears at the door again, arms crossed tightly against her chest.
My eyes roll on their own accord.
"Sucker. You just can't say no to him."
Another eye roll.
"Since when do you roll your eyes at me, Harry?" her tone is light, a smirk dancing on her lips. I know she saw me pinch Phoebe's side a few times the other day. I picked up the habit and I don't think I ever want to give it back. A little piece of my Bee inside of me.
"Goodbye, Mom, we're leaving." I announce, dramatically grabbing the handlebars of Nate's chair and wheeling him towards her.
"Nice try, hun, but I don't think Natey can go see Phoebe without pants on."
A gentle, chilly breeze blows through my hair as I strap Nate into his wheelchair, throwing the small bucket back onto the floor and shutting the door to the car, "Alright, big man, let's go see your girl."
I took him to his very favorite restaurant - true 5-star cuisine. McDonald's. There are few things in the world that Nate loves more than chicken nuggets. They're his kryptonite, even though he tends to end up with honey mustard all over his face and clothes. Shocking, really, considering I have to feed him each nugget. Thankfully, we managed to get out unscathed, with no more honey mustard than a napkin could solve.
Nate also gets car sick easier than anyone I've ever known. Something about the autism giving him an extra sensitive stomach. So, I've learned to keep a bucket in my car, just in case. You learn some time between the first and sixth time you have to clean vomit out of your car that maybe there's a better solution. All of which to say, he didn't get sick on the drive to McDonald's or to Battu, so I'm really fucking proud of him.
My heart feels on the verge of escape as I wheel Nate towards Battu, the thought of seeing Phoebe take the stage making my throat close in on itself. She sets fire under my toes, that beautiful siren woman. Like she's reeling me in to swim inside of her brain.
I murmur to Nate as we cross the parking lot, "Okay, remember what we talked about at dinner. Freak out to yourself. She's mine, so no stealing. Don't get sick. Don't have a seizure. Got it?"
He, unsurprisingly, doesn't say anything, instead focusing on the door and squirming a little underneath his winter coat. The moment we step inside, I wheel him to the side to unzip his coat. While I maneuver him out of it, a swish of blonde hair and purple tutu flashes in my peripherals.
"Oh my gosh, you're Harry, right?" her voice sounds full and too-peppy, with a hint of shovel scraping against concrete.
I force half of a smile out. All I want is to get settled into a seat with Nate. "That's me."
She nearly cuts me off before I finish my response, "It's so nice to meet you. I know Phoebe's really excited that you're here tonight." Her fingers lightly dance across my forearm and I have to resist pulling it away as her tone drops, "I can see why she's obsessed with you."
"I-" I try to start, but she barrels through, back to the chipper pitch that has my eyes on the verge of a somersault.
"And who's this?" She cranes her neck around my arm to look towards Nate.
My stomach flips, ricocheting into my chest. Searing coals press into my lungs, scalding; making me feel helpless and desperate. I sidestep to block her gaze, fear wrapping like a coil around my throat at the unknown reaction awaiting me the moment she really sees Nate.
He's the sweetest boy; angelic and radiant and miraculous. But people look at him and they recoil. They stare at his little body strapped into his wheelchair like he's a captive animal. They watch with silent judgement as he squirms or shakes his hands around or makes noise as if we can't see their eyes glued to him. They try to talk to him, coo and dote, but step back, scandalized, when he doesn't say anything in return. The last thing the two of us need before seeing Bee is some girl gawking like Battu just became a zoo.
"My brother. We've got to go find a seat." I mutter out gruffly, not bothering to hide my sudden distaste for the situation.
She seems unfazed, her fake stage smile plastered across her cheeks, "I hope you enjoy the show! I'll be on stage right before Phoebe; maybe I'll see you in the crowd. Good to meet you, Harry. And-?"
Her chin juts towards me - through me - in reference to Nate, but I ignore it, "Same to you. Good luck."
As quickly as possible, I pivot on my heel and start walking with Nate into the auditorium. He doesn't seem to mind, middle fingers curling slightly inward against his jeans.
"Love you too, buddy."
Front row. Phoebe's going to kill me.
I couldn't pass up the opportunity to sit as close to her as possible. That, and I needed to have room to situate Nate's chair. Or at least that's what I'm going to tell her as her palm makes contact with my shoulder later. His wheelchair is sat cockeyed from my seat, half in the aisleway, and he looks fascinated by the big red stage curtains, eyes wide in amazement as the spotlight rolls against it while we wait. I lean forward as I talk to him, letting my chin rest against the handlebar.
Phoebe's solo is smack dab in the middle of the set and the suspense makes me want to rip my hair out the more and more times I ruffle my fingers through it. My conversation with Nate ends as soon as it starts when I realize any thought I have to say revolves around Phoebe and the show.
As the lights go down in the auditorium and the tense hush falls over the audience, I can't help but grab onto the wheel of Nate's chair for some sense of stability. My heart pounds mercilessly against my ribcage; I can't imagine how Bee must be feeling.
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I can imagine her backstage counting and bouncing like a bunny rabbit, trying to keep her muscles warm and pliable. Just like she is in the mornings, or really late at night. Drippy fudge or melty ice cream, so painfully sweet and moldable. Giving in to each and every last demand with an abundance of grace. My generous lover. Soft, smooth Bee.
Get a grip, Harry.
By the time I finally manage to shake Phoebe from my thoughts and check in on Nate, who's been staring, transfixed, at the tiny dot of red light marking the end of the stage, the blonde girl from the lobby crosses the floor.
She walks to the center of the stage and slowly raises her foot to rest just below her knee. The gentle music starts playing and her movements begin, a sense of deja vu washing over me. I feel my head subconsciously cock to the side as I watch, wracking my brain for any recollection. She moves across the stage effortlessly, meeting my eye and winking, before taking off towards the other end of the auditorium.
And then it hits me.
Phoebe's choreography. She's doing Phoebe's choreography.
Why the fuck is she doing Phoebe's choreography?
A rock is sent whizzing around in my brain, clattering against the inside of my skull. I want to stand up and say something. I want to climb onto the stage and push her back behind the curtains. I want to do anything. But I can't. I'm frozen, mouth agape, watching as this random girl dances the solo I watched Bee pour herself into in that studio room.
Blood is simmering through my veins as I sit, glued to my chair, hoping desperately that Phoebe isn't watching from the sidelines. My teeth stay gritted together, grinding harshly against one another as she finishes out the final part of the dance. The crowd erupts in applause, the sound mocking and angry in my chest. She catches my eye and I watch the corner of her lip twitch upwards, igniting a fire in my bones. The only thing keeping me from storming after her is the knowledge that my beautiful girl will be the next body gracing this stage.
I don't want her to read anything other than pride off of me, so I let out a hot breath and lean in towards Nate's ear, "Buddy, guess who's next?"
He turns to look at me, a wide smile spreading across his face. As if he couldn't have cared less about any of the other dancers. As if only Phoebe matters.
He's not wrong.
The closed curtains rustle a little on stage, heavy and dark and shielding my Bee away from the spotlight. I can feel my heart pounding in my throat, threatening to choke me out, in anticipation.
At the very instant the red curtains start to draw backward, Nate shouts out, "Eee!" Reflexively, I cover his mouth with my palm, gently shushing him. But the tight coil in my stomach erupts into a swarm of buzzing hornets as Phoebe's shoulders shake a little in laughter. Dizzy. Goddess. I don't deserve to stand beside her; the world should drop to their knees at her very presence.
Her music starts and I have to bite my tongue against the quiet, confused murmurs surrounding me. But, then she starts moving; starts dancing. And it's like moths to light - all eyes are zoned in on her. Hanging onto every last line of her leg drawing through the air, of her arms painting brushstrokes of color onto an invisible canvas.
It's like she and the music become one. One, solid force. Brick wall. Tsunami wave. A combination of power and beauty. I'm not sure where Phoebe ends and where the music begins - each note picking up where her leg leaves off, the tilt of her chin cutting off the holds. Fluid arms, conducting a masterpiece of movement that I can't peel my eyes away from.
A piece of me forgets that Nate is at my side - likely just as entranced as I am. My blinders are up - all sights set on Bee. Like she's the only goddamn thing that matters. Because she pretty much is the only goddamn thing that's ever mattered.
She looks like a genuine angel up on that stage. I swear I forget she's real; like she's merely a figment of my imagination. My beautiful daydream girl. She's too stunning, too enthralling, to be some mortal thing.
I nearly have to pinch myself.
The spotlight reflects off of her and blankets her in a warm, fuzzy glow. Picture perfect, gorgeous girl. Her eyes are blue, cloudless skies, and if I look hard enough, I can see the twinkle in them from my seat.
She is absolutely luminescent. My sunshine baby. Warm and bright and all-consuming. Meanwhile, I sit in my chair, slack-jawed. Fully consumed by that incredible woman. My sweet siren, beckoning me in. Gentle wind chimes calling me home.
Flower petals and fluttering hummingbirds and dragonfly wings. Razor blades and sparking lighters. A beautiful duality. Her light, effortless movements paired with the muscles ripping through her legs and bulging out against her tights. All curves and valleys and sharp edges and soft and soft and soft. A product of the heavens and everything good in this world wrapped up into one.
If I focus enough, it's almost like I can hear her breaths puffing through her teeth. The quiet buzzing of her hums during especially intricate pieces of choreography. The slight click of her ankle when it extends in a certain way. It's like I can hear the harps of a million cherubs each time her awarding-winning smile radiates into the audience. My symphony.
She overloads my senses in a way that is so overwhelming it brings a few rogue tears to my eyes. I keep catching whiffs of her perfume with every turn sequence, honey and lavender floating in the air and trapping me in a cloud. My fingertips yearn for a trace of her skin, so smooth and seamless. Soft. I can almost hear her focused 8-count breathing in my ears, can nearly taste the lipstick that curves along her perfect lips, can feel her very existence deep in the very pit of my belly.
She's impossible to take your eyes off of. She's incredible. And awe-inducing. And all mine.
And in that moment, I realize I love her.
Goddamn, I love her.
Without any warning. No signs or signals. Sudden pure, deep, unfiltered love seeping out of my pores for this beautiful goddess woman.
Loving Phoebe is a full-body experience. Like she can climb into the depths of your soul and take residence there. Her heavenly laugh rattling your core at all hours; the piercing blue of her eyes making you float and fall simultaneously.
I feel tuned in directly to her; tethered by some kind of invisible string. She's all I can focus on; all that's on my mind. No matter how hard I try to pull away, I can't. My eyes, mind, thoughts are all glued to her.
Phoebe. Phoebe. Phoebe.
Her name like a silent prayer. A prayer that I would drop down on my knees and scream to the skies above for.
The music falls to a gentle stop and so does Bee, sitting down on the stage and tucking her head into the crease of her shoulder away from the crowd. I feel the warm volcanic pressure in my chest burst, and I can't help but jump to my feet as applause echoes around the auditorium. Deafening.
Phoebe. Phoebe. Phoebe.
I tuck my fingers into my mouth and whistle loudly, relishing silently in the way her shoulders shake again, almost imperceptibly, in recognition and laughter.
When she finally stands up and turns to face the audience to bow, a reservoir of tears builds up behind her eyes. Two pools of endless sea.
Phoebe. Phoebe. Phoebe.
I pull my gaze away from her to find that well over half of the auditorium is also on their feet for her. A standing ovation for my perfect ballerina. Nate's squirming in his wheelchair, flapping his hand so frantically he keeps smacking my arm.
I whistle again and this time she shoots her head at the sound, eyes locking onto mine instantly. That familiar electricity runs all the way down to my feet and when she smiles, I swear I stop breathing.
I can read that smile like a goddamn book. It's the kind you never want to put down. The kind that you hide underneath your sheets past bedtime with a flashlight in hand to read. Her emotions pour out of that smile and I find myself committing it to memory so that I never forget the unfiltered joy on her face.
Phoebe. Phoebe. Phoebe.
My heart swells like a balloon, so full of pride and love and happiness and that bittersweet feeling you get when the credits of a movie start rolling. My graceful powerhouse. So deserving of every second of this.
I blow her a kiss, one she catches on her cheek with a slight upward tilt of her chin, and bite back yelling that I love her.
Phoebe. Phoebe. Phoebe.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
She gracefully leaves the stage, her tutu lightly bouncing with each step she takes. Once she's out of my sight I sit back down in my chair, noticing that the roaring in my ears silenced and the room dimmed at her absence. My chest hollows out as my back hits the seat, and I start replaying her solo in my mind like my favorite record while I pretend to be invested in the other dancers' performances.
Fuck.
I'm in love with Phoebe Mitchell.
Phoebe's POV
What the fuck?
The adrenaline pouring through my veins as I exit the stage does enough to distract me from whatever the fuck just happened. My legs are lava and Jell-O all at once and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, masking out all other sound. Harry. Harry and Nate.
My dance could not have gone more perfectly.
The music spread into my bones, each note driving through and catalyzing the movement of my limbs. Soft and graceful, but hungry and carnal. Deep. Digging, grating, against my insides. That feeling took over again - where the auditorium morphs into expansive mountains, endless fields, raw nature. My lungs don't need oxygen, my stomach doesn't need food, all I need is dance. A yearning so deep inside of me it feels instinctual. Like maybe I'll die if I don't turn myself over to the music. To the movement. I need it. And so I danced. As if it was my first time on stage, naive and innocent, indifferent to mistakes. As if it was the last time I'll ever dance again, soaking up each and every movement; making it count.
The buzzing high pitfalls immediately as I see Lacey, dressed in a little purple tutu, with Claudette at her side, old lanky arms crossed tightly around her body.
"Phoebe Mitchell." Cheese grater bitch. "I am appalled at what I've witnessed tonight."
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words come out.
Instead, Lacey speaks up, voice sounded choked up, "I worked so hard on this piece to make you proud, Claudette. I asked Phoebe for some advice and she stole my choreography."
Dread seeps below my skin, spreading and covering every last inch of my body. Like toxic waste - sludge and tar. Dread and anger and deep, deep sickness. In fact, I dart my head around a little to find a trash can in case I need to vomit.
What the hell?
"Wha-?" I try to start, but Claudette raises a hand to cut me off.
"I thought it was made clear that dancers were to keep the material performed at Autumn Arabesque. To not only blatantly disregard studio decisions, but then to steal material from a fellow dancer-"
"But, I-" I try, desperately, to defend myself, but I can feel my throat clenching in on itself. The panic settling right under the surface of my skin. Close enough, but still invisible. Lurking just beneath the water.
Lacey said we could choreograph if we wanted to.
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"I have gotten word, as well, of your absence from work hours, while you were, instead, running around with some male. I do not condone such behavior within my studio."
My stomach drops. I know where this conversation is headed. One of those moments you don't think you'll be familiar with until suddenly you know all too well what's about to happen. It's not worth fighting; there's no changing her mind.
Dancers are disposable. Especially here, where so many of us fight to find our own place. My time is expired. It's time to throw me away. Buy something new to fill the place I will leave. Claudette knows that I know. Lacey knows that I know. I can tell by that fucking smug look on her face.
I'm not even that hurt, although maybe that's the shock talking. I shouldn't be surprised and so I'm not. I've learned what people are like; I know that they're ruthless and cutthroat and selfish. I thought Lacey and I were friends; I thought she was looking out for me and trying to help...
I guess I just have Luna and Harry, after all.
I just want to see Harry.
I grab onto my opposite elbow to brace myself as Claudette's mouth opens again, "I will not tolerate less than my studio deserves. I suggest you take your belongings with you when you leave tonight. I no longer want you to represent Battu."
A dream crushed all in an instant. Within five minutes - on top of the highest mountain peak to rolling down the jagged side. Beaten. Ironic, really. Battu. I should've known from the start.
Battu, both inside ballet and outside ballet, means beaten. If there's one thing I've felt these months at Battu, it's beaten.
I don't know how long I stand before Claudette and Lacey, and then only Lacey when the bitch turns on her stupid kitten heels and clacks off, the shreds of my heart peeling away from one another, before I hear her gentle scoff like razorblades.
I'm so pissed at myself for letting my guard down. For letting people in. This is what I fucking get.
"I hope Harry enjoyed the show. He's real cute. Kind of a douche, though, with that kid."
A volcanic explosion resounds in my chest, shooting lava up through my throat, the words searing my tongue as I try to hold them down. The momentum sends my foot forward, taking a step closer to Lacey's stupid fucking frilly tutu. "Don't you fucking talk about him." I swallow back the fire, "I can't believe I trusted you. This is bullshit and you know it."
She smirks at me with nothing but pure evil in her every feature as I pivot to find the one person I know can piece me back together.
As soon as I step into the auditorium, I can feel the magnets pulling my chest towards his. The deep, yearning, pulsing need to be close to him. When he sees me, the smile that spreads across his face is electric – recharging each frayed nerve in my body. Nate starts squirming in his wheelchair, too, rivaling Harry's light.
"My perfect Bee. Tiny dancer baby. Holy fuck!!" he bounds towards me, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist and spinning me in circles like I'm the best thing he's ever known. He kisses and kisses and kisses the side of my head, almost as if he can't believe I'm real.
I can't stop the smile that breaks free, and I dig my head into his neck, inhaling his warmth. When Harry puts me back down, I'm immediately crouching down beside Nate.
"Hey, bud, how'd you like it?" I run my thumb along his fist, my heart soaring when he wraps his fingers loosely around it, smiling so wide it pulls a giggle from his throat. "I'm so glad. Thank you for coming."
Harry clears his throat awkwardly and I feel a blanket of tension fall on top of my shoulders.
"Harry, wh-" I turn to look at him and am instead met with a tall man dressed in a very formal suit, "Hi."
"Miss Phoebe Mitchell?" he lowers the clipboard in his grip to glance at me through a pair of glasses.
All I can do is nod in response while I rise to my feet, holding my hand out for him to shake.
"I work with the Golden Gate Ballet Company." I swear my lungs turn into steel. "I discussed with Claudette about your participation in our production of Sleeping Beauty, but she said that she let you go."
"Phoeb?" I hear Harry's concerned voice, but it doesn't process. In fact, nothing really processes except for the sound of my heart pounding behind my ears.
The man continues, "While I'm not sure of the specifics, I was astounded by your performance tonight. We are casting for the spot of Aurora – would you be interested?"
Relief. Fluttering feathers rustle through my stomach, downy and gentle. My knees sag, liquifying into nothing. The barbell is pulled off of my chest and all I can feel is air. Light air like gaseous sunshine. Yellow world. Pale and bright and weightless. My stomach twists in a good way. My eyes burn in a good way. I feel like passing out. In a good way.
I choke out a, "yes," too in shock to care about how stupid I must look, gawking at this poor man like he's a circus animal.
He smiles and I'm so relieved and delirious that I almost want to frame this random man's goddamn smile, "Great, that's fantastic news. I'll be reaching out to you within the next few days with details. We'll have you come in and run a few parts before we contract an actual offer. But, Miss Mitchell, you're a real talent."
And, with that, with my dream is handed to me on a silver platter after it was just ripped out from under my feet. He walks away without another word. And I'm frozen in place, fingers gripping tightly onto the edges of my tutu. Shock doesn't come close to describing what I feel.
Harry's voice is the only thing that brings me back to reality, "...Bee?"
An inhuman squeal floods into the space between us as I turn and throw myself at Harry, squeaking out a "what the fuck?!"
"What the hell just happened?" he sounds winded, just as lost as I am.
"It's a long story," I murmur into his shoulder. I feel out of my own body; like I'm watching someone else latch onto my boyfriend. Like I'm watching someone else hear the question they've waited their entire goddamn life to hear.
"Did you just get asked to dance?"
I nod, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
He hums in satisfaction, squeezing my body even closer to his, "Peking?"
Peking.
"Please."
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Well...a lot just happened. Sorry for the whiplash? We'll piece everything out in the chapters to come. BABY CAUGHT A BREAK!!!!!
Thank you for 3k - I can't wrap my mind around that many pairs of eyes reading my silly little words. I try to make sense of it on twitter if you want to hear extra sappiness: @/_screamingcolor. Anyways. Thank you, always. I appreciate you.
Stay Gold ♡
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