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“So, are you a blogger, Uncle Frank?” Mary, one of his dozen nieces, almost screamed, trying to outshout the clamour in the dining room. Francis sighed and poured himself half a glass of whisky. Surely, no one would look at him funny after this kind of questions he had to deal with.

“No,” he answered, feeling the soothing warmth of the liquid as it slid down his throat. “But I do have a blog on Instagram.”

Mary looked impressed that Uncle Frank even knew what Instagram was.

“How many followers do you have?” came a voice from his left, belonging to Daniel, his twelve-year-old nephew, who sounded genuinely interested. A few other kids were listening now, their eyes flicking between him and their parents, who were deep in conversation about less exciting topics. It seemed that this family holiday, the kids were on a mission to unlock another distant relative in their vast family tree.

“About 40 thousand,” Francis muttered into his glass. It was actually 46 thousand the last time he checked, but that wasn’t something he wanted to brag about.

Mary gasped, and Daniel now looked at his uncle with newfound respect. If things kept going this way, Francis might just land in the top three of the family’s favourite uncles—a ranking far more impressive, in his world, than any 46 thousand followers.

“And what do you post about?” Daniel finally asked.

“Politics?” Natalie, a teenager whose face resembled Francis' when he was young, drifted into conversation.

“Oh, no, wait—history!” Daniel shouted, as if he'd just had an epiphany.

Francis shook his head, taking a sip of whiskey.

“Ship models?” Mary suggested, less enthusiastically.

“Ballet,” Francis answered shortly, watching the respect in the kids’ eyes vanish in an instant.

“Uncle Frank is an excellent artistic director and ballet critic,” his sister interjected, trying to defend Francis' dignity among the Crozier teenagers. It didn’t work.

“How can you direct if you don’t know how to dance?” Natalie asked, smiling a bit unkind. Whose child was she, anyway?

“I know how to dance, I just don’t do it myself.” he explained, leaving Natalie and the others either unimpressed or confused.

“Coaches don’t run, right, Frank?” Simon, the husband of his eldest sister—and a profound fool—chimed in. Francis poured himself another drink.

There were two reasons not to get drunk this evening—apart from the usual warnings from doctors or the sanctimonious moral authorities. First: he didn’t want to end up in a fight with one of his many relatives, which was almost inevitable with so many opinionated people crammed into one room. Second: tomorrow morning, he was expected at the Royal Ballet Theatre at the invitation of James Clark Ross. He’d prefer to meet him without a pounding headache and a greenish pallor.

Still, it was 8 p.m., two whiskies down, and the questions were getting too uncomfortable. He made his excuses, kissed his tiny, elderly mother on the cheek, and prepared to leave. Her skin was thin as parchment, and she smelled faintly of stale house air.

“So early, Francis?” she exclaimed, gripping his wrist with surprising strength.

“I’ve got to meet James tomorrow morning at the theatre. He wouldn’t say why, so it might be something important.”

“Oh…” She paused, and for a moment, Francis thought she’d lost track of the conversation. Then her expression sharpened again. “Will the Sophia lady be there?”

His mother had never met Sophie. They’d never gotten that far. But Francis had talked about her enough to give the impression he wasn’t a lost cause—not anymore.

“It’s a done deal, Mom,” he replied. “We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh…” she said again, her gaze drifting to the side, her eyes a little cloudy. “But don’t worry, darling. I’m sure you’ll find a perfect lady who’ll be happy to be your wife.”

“Mom…” He sighed. “I’m forty-five years old. Let’s quit this topic, shall we?”

“Darling, even your niece Tammy found herself a party, and she is… a dyke, as they say. They’re even planning to have a child!”

Tammy had married her girlfriend a few years ago, creating an awkward situation for Francis.

“There are enough Croziers out there,” he said with a mild smile, though he wasn’t sure his mother could see it. In the kitchen, someone crashed a glass while furiously arguing, as if to underscore his point.

“It’s not for me, darling,” she replied, smiling thinly.

“See you, Mom,” he said, leaving before the conversation could loop again.

***

It wasn’t that he wanted to die. It was just that things had become too complicated—and too unbearably boring. He’d lost his sense of purpose, the passions that once drove him now spread thin across monotonous days.

There was his mother, who needed care. There was his siblings and their the ever-expanding flock of children, a mix of chaos and occasional adorableness. And then there was James Ross. Ever since James had become Chief Executive of the Royal Theatre, the balance between them had shifted, though James either didn’t notice or refused to acknowledge it. Maybe they were never equal, Francis had just failed to see it.

Francis still had Tom Blanky, the seasoned conductor of the Theatre’s orchestra. They remained close, but their friendship seemed to have narrowed into a cycle of drinking and laughing over backstage gossip, nothing more.

It felt like being surrounded by distant stars—points of light that made it possible to glimpse the outlines of his world, but never enough to stop him from stumbling in the dark.

He needed a sun, a moon—something big enough to make it possible going forward. If there even was something worth moving for.

“Don’t look at my father that way,” a familiar voice beside him pulled Francis out of his spiraling thoughts. He realized he’d been staring blankly at an old poster on the Theatre’s wall—a young James Ross Sr., poised mid-leap in Giselle.

James Clark Ross was smiling at him, a bit mischievously.

“Glad you came.”

“Sure,” Francis replied, finding himself smiling too, the heavy thoughts fading into the background. Whenever James was near, Francis always forgot what exactly he’d been brooding over in their friendship. Somehow, James had a way of making him feel welcome, no matter what.

James started down the hall, his phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah… No, tell them to hold up a bit. We’ll be there in ten minutes. No, but he will.”

Francis frowned slightly, feeling like a bystander to the theatre’s inner workings. It had been nearly six years since he’d last worked with the ballet theatre, trading production for teaching and critiquing from the sidelines. He didn’t miss the political squabbles or the bureaucratic mess that came with the job, but moments like this made him almost sorry.

James, on the other hand, was a natural in this world—effortless, as if it were part of his DNA. Some might say it plainly: “born into the right family.”

“Something to drink?” James asked after they had settled into his office. It took a moment for Francis to realize he meant tea or coffee. The clock on the wall read 11 a.m.

“No, I’m good. So, what’s so urgent that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

“First of all, wow. Nice way to greet a friend you’ve been ignoring for the last few months…”

“I didn’t—”

“Okay, fine. You answered in three-letter words, but sure.” James waved a hand, the dramatic way all ballet dancers do this gesture, even those who haven’t stepped on a stage in ages. Francis both loved and hated it.

“Second…” James’ smile faded as he bit his lip, his gaze growing more serious. “You know there’s a new season coming up in a few months. It’s going to be a big rebranding for the theatre. Something like ‘Classics for the Masses’ type of thing.”

Francis tilted his head, skeptical, but stayed silent.

“Don’t give me that look, Frank,” James narrowed his eyes, his tone sharp. “It’s being pushed by the Ministry. And, of course, there’s extra funding attached.”

As Francis always said, James was a natural in the office politics as well as he was great on stage some years before that.

“So, obviously, we had to pick something universally loved, but that could still be reinvented…”

“Are you trying to sell me something? Is there a PowerPoint presentation for this?” Francis smirked, but there was a thread of agitation in his voice.

“We’ve chosen Swan Lake,” James said, letting the words hang in the air.

Francis shrugged, not seeing the problem.

“John Franklin is the artistic director.”

Francis let out a suppressed chuckle. That was why he was here. That was the issue.

“Look, James, if you dragged me all the way here to ask not to talk shit about your big premiere in my review, you’re overestimating my interest in whatever Franklin is doing. And if you think I’ll be petty because of Sophie, trust me…”

Ross shook his head slowly as Francis gained speed, his words tumbling out.

“I didn’t ask you to come for that. I asked you because I know something’s wrong with the ballet, Frank. I’ve seen it, and it’s dull—bland, like boiled broccoli,” James finally interrupted.

Francis scowled, uneasy, the words settling in his chest like stones.

“And what do you want me to do?” Francis asked, his voice rougher than he intended. Why did he even care?

James clasped his hands together, letting out a long, resigned sigh.

“I just want you to look at it, okay? You can tell me what you think… or, if you’re up for it, you can help make it better.”

Francis met James’ gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly. Even now, years later, James still exuded that effortless authority, that quiet confidence only a smart and a beautiful man can have. He knew Francis would come if called, knew that he would help if asked. Even when he hadn’t been the obvious choice. That was the problem between them.

“Well, you appointed Franklin for a reason, right? You should have some faith in the man.” The words left Francis’ mouth with an edge, bitterness lingering like an aftertaste.

“Oh, come on, Frank!”

“Besides, there are only three months left. Not much can be done.” Francis felt himself edging toward the door, a deep, sudden urge to get home taking over him. James stood up too, confusion and tension mixing in his posture.

“John was forced on us, as well as a choice of some dancers,” James explained quickly, his voice tinged with frustration. “Minister Barrow’s preferences.”

Francis paused, his fingers curling around the doorknob. He could feel his cheeks flush. He probably looked ridiculous—an angry tomato beside an elegant gentleman.

“I asked for you as the director, you know,” James said softly, his tone unexpectedly gentle. Francis snorted, cutting him off.

“Yeah, like I’m some kind of renowned director for my reinvented classics.”

Francis wasn’t just red now; he was clenching his fists, his body stiffened. James noticed that, his gaze locked on Francis’ hand.

“Your ballet was good, Francis. It was beautiful, complex, and…”

“…and ahead of its time or anyone’s comprehension, apparently. Yeah, I remember.” The words were a sharp, bitter reminder of something he though was out of his system for a long time.

Suddenly, Francis felt drained. Empty. No more.

“Just take a look at it, okay? Just tell me what you think.” James’ voice softened, almost pleading. Francis looked at him, as James looked at his watch – it’s been ten minutes he talked about on a phone. He knew Francis couldn’t say no. That was Francis’ problem, and not James’.

***

“Oh, Francis! What a surprise!” exclaimed John Franklin, though his gaze flickered to Ross for some reason.
Francis greeted Franklin with a slight nod. He hadn’t seen the man in years, not since their grand break-up with Sophie. Franklin had aged, grown heftier, and become even more imposing than Francis remembered. There was nothing to suggest that John Franklin had ever been a ballet dancer—apart from his Wikipedia page. Yet he seemed content, exuding an air of confidence.

“I asked Francis to come and take a look at our production, to get a sense of the scale of what’s happening,” explained Ross in that posh tone he reserved for speaking to older people—a tone Francis despised.

“Oh, I see! Well, don’t don't spill all the juiciest backstage secrets on your social media, young man!”

Francis thought of retorting that he hadn’t been young for at least a decade and that if he were to share the “juiciest backstage secrets,” he’d probably be sued for distributing pornography. Instead, he held his tongue.

“Okay, don’t let us distract you,” said James, settling into the third-row seat in front of the stage. Franklin nodded, flashing a quick smile before turning to give instructions to the stage manager. He seemed vaguely unsettled by Crozier and Ross’s presence, casting them uncertain glances now and then.

“It’s mostly just stage blocking at this point,” Franklin said hurriedly as he moved closer to the stage.

“We’re not here, go on,” James replied with a smile.

The stage lights were on in an odd, flat wash, illuminating everything evenly. Only one musician was present next to the piano—a young, blond man with expressive eyes who looked slightly out of place. Yet, as Francis took in the scene, a familiar thrill stirred within him he always had before a performance.

Several dancers clustered at the back of the stage, their silhouettes starkly outlined by the omnipresent glow of the spotlight. They wore leotards and tights in muted, somber tones, chatting casually with a stage manager. One of the male dancers, his narrow face etched with curious creases and framed by shoulder-length dark hair, turned his gaze toward Francis as if sensing he was being watched. Francis was certain they had never met, yet the man’s face felt oddly familiar Unsettled, Francis averted his eyes, though the dancer’s long-limbed figure lingered at the edge of his vision, refusing to fade entirely.

The final instructions were given, and a brief silence settled over the space, taut and expectant, before the pianist struck the first notes of a lively waltz melody. In that instant, it felt to Francis as though everything beyond the stage had ceased to exist, frozen in time until the music stopped.

The dancers—about ten of them—swept onto the stage with a few elegant, fluid steps. Francis had seen Swan Lake countless times, enough to anticipate every move of the classic choreography by heart. A tall dancer with the familiar face took his position beside the ballerina portraying the Queen Mother.

“Who’s Siegfried?” Francis asked quietly, his gaze fixed on the dancer he couldn’t quite place.

“It’s James Fitzjames. He’s new, you probably haven’t seen him” Ross murmured in reply. “Barrow’s pick.”

Francis studied Fitzjames more intently as he moved through the stage, the pieces clicking into place as he recalled the face from his Instagram recommendations. He was bombarded daily with profiles of aspiring ballet stars—young, ambitious performers who believed social media could catapult them to fame. Evidently, it could.

“He’s fine, though,” Ross added, glancing at Francis.

In Francis’s opinion, being merely “fine” wasn’t enough to warrant a spot as a principal dancer.

“Odette, you know—she’s Seline, one of Sophie’s former students.”

Francis nodded, not letting the comment distract him from the jubilant opening dance of the first act.

“Benno is Graham Gore. He’s been in the Corps de Ballet here for a while,” Ross continued as a powerfully built dancer joined Siegfried-Fitzjames on stage. “Henry Le Vesconte is Von Rothbart, and the Jester is Charles Des Voeux.”

“Did Palais Garnier have layoffs?” Francis muttered, drawing a faint smile from Ross.

With his focus locked on the stage, Francis’s entire demeanor demanded silence. His eyes darted over the dancers, scrutinizing their movements, their expressions, the precise way a hand landed or the emotion—or lack thereof—on a face. The more he observed, the more his disappointment deepened.

The performance wasn’t bad. The dancers were technically skilled, landing each move with impeccable timing—even Barrow’s protégé, plucked from Instagram. “James-something” as Francis called him. He did well in the first act, expressing a radiating confidence, power, and athleticism. His long arms moved expansively, appearing even longer than they actually were. But when the second act arrived, nothing had changed. Siegfried’s movements remained strong and regal, as if his stage partner and love of his life weren’t even there. The choreography was fine; Odette was fragile and tragic, just as she should be. Francis saw traces of Sophie’s influence in the way her student danced the part. But the dance itself felt almost meaningless. Empty. No, it wasn’t bad. It was boring—a cardinal sin in Francis’s eyes, worse than poor form or sloppy technique. By the end of the second act, he almost felt the urge to stand up and stop these elaborate acrobatics.

Franklin, however, seemed pleased with the performance. He gave one of the French dancers a tip on how to raise her hand in a specific scene and praised the ballerina. “Magnificent, darling.”

Ross glanced briefly at Francis, whose face had turned assour as milk under the sun, then stood from his chair.

“Thank you so much, gentlemen. Keep up the good work!” he announced cheerfully to the dancers, who were pausing for a break between acts. They nodded gracefully, murmuring their thanks. “Thank you, John,” they said as Ross turned to Franklin.

“Hope you’ve enjoyed the performance. I think the girls and boys here are really doing a great job,” Franklin said.

Franklin looked slightly out of breath, despite having been seated most of the time, and almost unwell. Francis knew he had this effect on the man ever since Sophie had introduced him to the Franklin family.

“I hope I’ll be invited to the premiere,” Francis said, trying to say something without sounding rude.

“Capital!” Franklin smiled at him, seeming relieved as he turned back toward the stage to catch his breath.

“What do you think?” Ross asked as they walked into the hall, the sound of the piano resuming, punctuated by the thumping of jumps on stage.

“I actually liked the Jester. Maybe they should all be Jesters—that would at least be a fresh take on the classics,” Francis replied after a long pause. Ross made a face.

“There’s nothing funny about this, Frank. I’m not about to start my very first season as the head of the theatre with a failure,” he said the last word almost inaudibly. There it was—the pride, the hubris, all ballet dancers seemed to carry within them. It probably came with the job description.

“Okay. Well, they can move, but what’s the point of technique if Siegfried has the same chemistry with Odette as he would with a wooden log?”

Ross suppressed a laugh, punching Francis heavily on the shoulder.

“So, it’s a joke to you?” he exclaimed as they walked down the hall.

“It’s not my problem, fortunately,” Francis answered, almost feeling a sense of relief as he said it. Saying “no” felt like reclaiming some of his dignity. It wasn’t that he wanted Franklin to fail, but knowing that he could do better gave him a guilty pleasure.

“It’s not your problem, but it could be your opportunity,” James replied, almost half a minute later. “I think I could make you a Second Artistic Director.”

“It’s not a thing, is it?”

“Well, I’d do my best for you,” James smiledalmost tempting. That smile had once been enough to send Francis spiraling back into heated thoughts. Now, he only observed James from a distance. Before Francis could speak or say something he might regret, a familiar voice interrupted the silence between them.

“What are you doing here?” Thomas Blanky approached them with his usual lively gait, though his limp was evident. James looked at the conductor with a slight sense of disappointment, even though they, too, were good friends. Francis found himself smiling, almost drifting toward Blanky with his cheerful demeanor.

“James, stop harassing Francis. You know he’ll write anything you want on his stupid blog and people will take it as gospel,” Blanky teased, squeezing Francis’s arm.

“That’s true,” Francis grinned at Ross, who now was visibly irritated.

“We’re rehearsing The Magic Flute thingy next hour and a half. Want to join? I’ve got some Porto from our last tour.”

“Don’t do it, Tom!” Ross exclaimed, watching as Francis slipped from his grasp.

“Promise me you’ll think about my offer!” James called out as Blanky led Francis in the opposite direction toward the small concert hall.

“I will!” Francis shouted back, feeling almost as they were students again.

“He won’t!” shouted Blanky in reply, absolutely unaware of what they were talking about.

***

After Blanky and his orchestra finished with Mozart, they moved to the musician’s lounge—a modest space in both size and decoration. As it turned out, Blanky and company had toured not only Portugal but also France (Pinot Noir), Armenia (Cognac), and Scotland (Whiskey).

“Actually, the whiskey’s from Tesco,” Thomas confessed, but by then, Francis didn’t care. Musicians drifted in and out, a few persuaded to join Blanky and Crozier for a drink. Edward Little, the lead trumpeter with wide, deer-like eyes, nearly choked on the cognac but recovered quickly by launching into his opinions about the theatre’s renovations. Silna, the cellist, gathered her things and left, exchanging polite nods with Francis and Blanky as she departed.

“She’s silent, you know,” Blanky remarked. “And a genius. Doesn’t talk at all, but plays like a god.”

“Can she hear?” Francis asked, perplexed, his head swimming lightly from the drink.

“Of course, she can hear, you schmuck. How else would she play?”

The other musicians faces blurred into an indistinct image as the cognac bottle reached its halfway mark.

“What did Ross want?” Blanky asked, just as Francis felt blissfully untethered.

“He offered me a job. Fixing up what Franklin’s done—or, more accurately, hasn’t done.”

“Will you take it?”

Francis was about to say no when the blond pianist from the ballet rehearsal entered the room.

“George here has been sacrificed to the ballet rehearsals,” Blanky explained, now half-sprawled across the small sofa. “How does it feel to play music that was never meant for the piano?”

“The real music doesn’t care which tool you use to bring it to life, Mr. Blanky,” George answered quietly, his voice soft but confident. He gave Francis a small smile and moved on.

“These young men… Spiritual. Love that,” Blanky declared, pouring more of the amber-coloured liquid into their glasses. “We musicians, we’re the lucky ones.”

“Hmm?”

“If the performance’s shit, Tchaikovsky still slaps.”

Francis followed Blanky down the narrow corridor to the back entrance, meant for staff. As evening fell, the theatre began to fill with visitors eager to hear Puccini’s La Bohème, which Blanky would be conducting in about an hour.

“You don’t want to run into Ross while loitering in the hallways drunk,” Blanky said, sensibly. He didn’t seem as intoxicated as Francis, still carrying himself with a cheerful demeanor, while Francis felt the weight of reality settling back in. The hustle of the theatre, the sense of belonging to something big, almost physically tugged Francis away from the exit. Thomas, pushing him toward the door counterbalanceв that force. They found themselves in a wardrobe room near the exit.

Francis wanted to ask Thomas if he had would make the right choice in turning down James' offer, if he was too old for the theatre world, a world now split between social media and politicians’ offices, too weak to face Sophia every day. But before he could speak, a deep, unfamiliar voice interrupted his unprepared confession.

“Mr. Crozier? Wait!” A tall figure approached, and Francis recognized him as Siegfried-something-James. He was dressed in grey sweatpants and a hoodie now, looking older up close than Francis had pictured from his third-row view earlier. A man’s face was full of sharp lines like if someone forgotten to soften the edges of his face after it was carved out of stone. Francis wouldn’t call him beautiful, not in the way Ross had been at his age, but by the look on his face, no one had ever told him that.

“Mr. Fitzjames,” Blanky greeted him. “How’s the grand premiere coming along?”

“James, please,” the young man smiled, shaking Blanky’s hand. Francis kept his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. The floor swayed slightly beneath him; fortunately, Blanky still had his hand firmly on his shoulder.

“I just wanted a word with Mr. Crozier,” Fitzjames said, turning his gaze to Francis. “If now isn’t convenient, maybe we could meet up for a coffee or something.”

As Fitzjames spoke, Francis felt a dull throb in his temples.

“What exactly do you want to talk about, Mr. Fitzjames?” Francis asked finally. The dancer’s eyebrows arched slightly, surprised by the cold reply.

“About the ballet. I thought I could use your experience to educate myself on…” Fitzjames trailed off, likely only now noticing Francis’s state. The confusion and disapproval flickered across his face, but he hid it quickly.

Francis felt a surge of anger. He was expected to apologize to this man?

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Franklin to educate you?” Francis nearly whispered, feeling his tongue betray him. “Or Mr. Barrow? Or really any elderly man around here. I’m sure they’d enjoy your company.”

“Okay, that’s…” Blanky intervened, squeezing Francis’s shoulder with a grip only a seasoned pianist could have.

“The—Barrow?” Fitzjames looked genuinely confused, no signs of anger on his face. “Wait, have I done something to offend you? We’ve never met— is it personal somehow?”

Francis looked at the bewildered face of the poor Siegfried, feeling sudden sadistic pleasure from his confusion.

“That would require some personality on your part,” Francis mumbled under his breath, feeling unsteady.

“That’s enough,” Blanky hissed, but Fitzjames seemed not to hear Francis’ words. He frowned, watching Francis struggling with standing up straight.

“It’s been a long day, James. Old friends reunited, you know?” Blanky said smoothly. “Francis is waiting for a cab, actually. Maybe next time.”

Now, Francis felt a sharp anger toward Blanky, with his patronizing tone and steady grip on his shoulder. What the hell did he know about what was going on, playing the same tunes over and over for centuries?

“Hold on, Thomas,” Francis said, gathering what little strength he had to sound coherent. “If a young man wants advice, I can give it to him right now—no need for coffee dates.”

Fitzjames straightened his long figure, crossing his arms over his chest, as if preparing for some of his ballet moves. Francis almost laughed, but instead, he coughed.

“It’s more than jumping around and looking good in tights, Mr. Fitzjames. Something you won’t learn from your mentors or patrons. Acting requires depth, sacrifice. If you can grasp that.”

Thomas took a deep breath, while Fitzjames stared him down, dead serious. For a moment, Fitzjames’s expression shifted, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Funny you accuse me of improper relationships with Mr. Barrow, while saying I look good in tights,” he said, and if it was meant as a joke, no one laughed.

“If good looks are all you’ve got, you might as well stay on Instagram. Not in the theatre,” Francis replied suddenly, his voice cutting through the fog of drunkenness.

“Look, it’s your cab,” Blanky said, seizing the moment to break the heavy silence. He waved to the cab driver from the doorway. “See you, James.”

Blanky paused, turning to Fitzjames. “Don’t take it personally. Long day.”

The fresh air filled Francis’s lungs as he stood still on the stairs for a few moments. When he turned back, the tall figure in the doorway was gone.

By the time Francis navigated through the traffic to his apartment, night had fallen. The day’s fragments from the theatre jumbled together in his mind like some grotesque, inhuman entity: Ross’s disarming smile, Blanky’s untamed gray hair, Franklin’s sweaty forehead, Sophia’s composed profile—even though she hadn’t been there—Fitzjames’s wiry forearms, and the perplexed expression on his face as he looked at Francis.

He tossed his keys and jacket onto the shelf by the door and headed straight for the kitchen, where the bar was. He knew that another drink might drop him to the floor or leave him retching. It was either that or the relentless din of intrusive thoughts. He craved the numbness desperately.

He was pathetic, and he knew it—in a way that gnawed at him. He wanted to belong to all of it, to be an equal part of the world he had just left behind. But it wasn’t his to claim. It never had been. He was never a dancer—never could be; a single glance in the mirror was enough to confirm that. He wasn’t born into wealth. He wasn’t even effortlessly charming or resilient like Blanky, who could dismiss even a Chief Executive with ease. He thought of himself as talented and knowing of ballet and theatre but even this thought now felt like a lie. 

Francis crashed on a couch almost spilling his whiskey. A room swirled a little and settled again. Maybe he should have agreed to Fitzjames’ offer for coffee or something more. He knew these boys from the ballet, had quite a few interactions with them back in the days. They were all as one charming, lean and athletic which made Fracis look short and stout even when he wasn’t in such shape as he was not, deep into his forties. They all want something of him - a small part in the ballet, a recommendation, a praise or just a good intercourse. He didn’t mind, having his own moment to claim something he could never be and could never had. These situationships always left him hollow and sick but at least he had a moment.

Maybe he should have used Fitzjames to feel that one more time, given the fact the man wanted something of him first. A phone Francis forgotten about vibrated in his pocket. A message from Blanky appeared.

“la bohème was le bomb. You’re good?”     

“yeah”

“talked to fitzjames, he’s chill about that talk. don’t think of it.”

“I don’t”

A thumbs-up reaction appeared on his screen in response. Francis took a deep breath, then a long sip of whiskey, and typed “James Fitzjames” into the search bar. A slightly photoshopped picture of a smiling man with sharp features appeared, making Francis scowl like it wasn’t him who had typed that name. The first link led to the Royal Theatre’s page, with Fitzjames looking calm and mysterious in a black-and-white photo. His bio was brief: born in London, trained at The Royal Ballet School, then a vague mention of “performing in leading roles across the globe,” followed by a grand “comeback” this year as a leading dancer at the Royal Theatre. Francis could have dug deeper, but his fingers mindlessly clicked the second link, landing on @jf_james's Instagram page. The follower count was well past one hundred thousand, which Francis deliberately ignored.

He scrolled without purpose, pausing briefly on one photo or another. There was Fitzjames in a plain t-shirt, sitting on the stairs of the Royal Theatre, smiling into the camera. His eyes were dark, almost coal-like, and warm—something Francis hadn’t noticed during their brief exchange. No surprise there. Fitzjames’ jeans were tight around his slim hips, and for some reason, that seemed more appealing than the well-defined lines of his thighs and ass in rehearsal tights. Another photo showed him in the ballet studio, taking a selfie in the mirror. A generic caption accompanied it, along with a string of comments full of affection.

Of course, he was an attention-seeking narcissist—something Francis had long since learned to tolerate. Men like Fitzjames thrived on praise, drooling and whimpering at the right words of adoration. Looking at Fitzjames, Francis thought it would probably take a simple line like, “Aren’t you a beautiful boy?” to have him in bed. Maybe something about his talent: “You were so good today, I could watch you all day.” Francis closed his eyes, letting the images cloud his mind. He could almost picture it clearly: Fitzjames brushing his hair back before kneeling, his back arching perfectly—the way he’d been trained to pose all these years. Before Francis knew he felt his cock stiffening; something that hasn’t happened in months now. He wasn’t even admiring Fitzjames, thinking the man’s features lacked gentleness and elegance. But it seemed his body had a different opinion. Francis put down the glass and squeezed the bulge, a pleasure almost painful. No, that’s not how he would act with Fitzjames. He would turn Fitzjames back, no gaze of the black eyes, face down. Francis would undress him fully and get a good look at the toned back, tracking the curve of the spine. He would squeeze his slim hips tightly – they probably would fit perfectly into his palms - until Fitzjames whined. He would get into this tight ass roughly, pressing nails deeply into the skin, until both of them are reduced to the primitive state of the giver and the taker.

Francis still haven’t addressed the tense pressure in his jeans. Instead, he gripped the phone in his hand that was lying on his belly, and took a deep breath. The image of Fitzjames blurred in his mind, as if he had seen too little of him to form a proper image. He felt dizzy as he opened his eyes, the phone’s screen blinding him for a moment. He opened the page with photos, tapping mindlessly on the latest one from the rehearsal studio. Again, a mirror selfie, phone clenched in long fingers of Fitzjames. Several heads poked into the frame, all smiling. These were the other dancers: Graham Gore as Benno, a French guy as the Jester (he was actually good), and another older French man as Von Rothbart, his arm wrapped around Fitzjames' waist. Are they fucking? He’s French, for God’s sake. Of course, they are. A bitter taste lingered on Francis’ tongue, as if he had been robbed of the last illusion he had left for himself. Posted an hour ago, with thousands of likes and hearts filling the comments. The caption read: “Despite what’s been said, ballet shouldn’t be snobby or too complex. Not being understood isn’t a flex. Simplicity is a real classic.” A dumb star at the end. Francis scoffed, all his previous desires now feeling sticky and dirty. He grabbed a glass from the floor and downed it in one go. The taste was awful, his body protesting, urging him to stop. He froze for a moment before typing into the comment section. As he sent the comment, an overwhelming wave of fatigue hit him. He set the glass down, his phone slipping from his hand as he sank into a dark, monotone sleep.

Francis opened his eyes, eyelids heavy as a sarcophagus lid. The phone vibrated next to his ear, skidding across the floor as though trying to escape the apartment. The vibration stopped, replaced by the ping of a new message. Francis moaned softly, closing his eyes again. His body was sore from having crashed on the couch, but his head surprisingly wasn't aching. He was still a little drunk, he realized.

After a few minutes—or maybe half an hour—he finally reached for the phone. Three missed calls from Ross, seven unread messages to his private account.

James Ross:
“‘Giving people shit instead of classics is also not a flex.’ REALLY, FRANCIS?”
Delivered 22:13

“Mindy from PR sent it to me, asking if you might consider deleting it, ‘cause our account is flooded with questions about this exchange.”
Delivered 22:45

“I’m trying to sweet-talk Barrow into adding you to the direction, and meanwhile you’re jumping on a leading dancer with a massive following? Great.”
Delivered 23:08

“DELETE IT FRANK.”
Delivered 23:36

“Okay, never mind, too late. There are like 500 comments and 13,000 likes.”
Delivered 02:15

Tom Blanky:
“When I wrote not to think of it, I didn’t mean to reject the concept altogether”
Delivered 22:55

“Fitzjames closed the comment section but someone already made a twitter trend, lol”
Delivered 23:20

Francis scraped himself off the couch, feeling his age more acutely than ever. He almost crawled to the bed, his body protesting with each movement. He was fucked up—nothing new, but this time, he would need to make things right with James. Ross obviously, although Fitzjames' face kept drifting into his thoughts as well. He was too dizzy to summon any anger or shame as he collapsed onto the bed, falling back into sleep immediately.

The phone rang twice before Francis finally stirred. He blinked up at it, the battery nearly dead. 12 p.m. James Ross was calling. Francis may have been a drunk, a shitty friend, and a miserable mess, but he wasn’t a coward. He took the call.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, dry and uncooperative.

“Frank, is that you? For fuck’s sake,” James's voice came through, laced with agitation. Francis cleared his throat, trying to muster the right words.

“Look, about that…” he started.

“John Franklin had a stroke,” James cut him off. It took a few moments for the words to sink in.

“He’s dead?” Francis asked quietly, instantly thinking of Sophia, who must have been devastated.

“No...no, he’s at the hospital with Jane and Sophie. He’s fine... as much as he can be,” James answered, his voice calming down.

“Oh…” Francis struggled for something to say, blood pounding in his temples. “Wait... is it because of the fight in the comments?”

“What…” James paused, clearly trying to process what Francis had just said. “No, I don’t think John even used Instagram. No.”

“Right,” Francis muttered.

“I need you to come to the theatre today,” James said, his tone shifting. “If you agree to pick up the production.”

“Right,” Francis replied, his head still fuzzy.

“Will you?”

“Yeah.”

“And Frank? No more shit-talking with Fitzjames. I can’t have it, not right now.”

Chapter Text

Act I
Prince Siegfried and his friends are drinking, and peasants enter to congratulate him on his coming of age; Queen Mother announces that her son should marry, choosing a bride from the young women to be presented to him at a ball the following evening .

Fitzjames took a moment to process the news about Franklin. John hadn’t been the most inspiring director to work with, nor did James find his artistic vision particularly compelling, but he wasn’t a mean person—a rarity in the world James now found himself in. They’d been given the day off, and James decided to tackle the neglected tasks that had piled up over the months since he’d taken on the leading role.

He paid a visit to his brother Will, called a landlord about a dripping faucet, picked up some fine cheese from the local dairy shop, and finally bought fruits and vegetables—half of which, he knew, would spoil before he ever got around to cooking them. He changed his bedsheets, applied a face mask, and read a book on the evolution of genes. What he absolutely didn’t do was dwell on the things Crozier had said to him yesterday.

“…you might as well stay on Instagram. Not in the theatre”. And what did James do? Stayed on Instagram. Still somehow did it wrong.

He tossed his phone into the darkest corner of the flat, determined to ignore it, and certainly didn’t fight the urge to scroll through Crozier’s page to figure out why, exactly, the man had been so annoyed with him.

James clung to the comforting thought that no one could truly dislike him—not after they got to know him. Not interested – probably, but not hateful. He’d never really disliked anyone himself, always finding a way to bridge misunderstandings, to forge a friendship or at least a truce. It was his special feature. He’d even managed to befriend a mean French boy in ballet school who used to gossip about him relentlessly when they were fifteen. Now, they were best friends.

He hadn’t mentioned the backstage interaction with Crozier to Dundy. Le Vesconte was already far too thrilled about the chaos brewing in the comments on James’ post.

“Do you think he called you shit, or all of us?” Dundy had asked gleefully, phoning as soon as the drama unfolded.
“What?”
“In the photo. There are four of us. Do you think he saw us and went, ‘Damn, these guys are awful, I should start talking shit about them on the Internet,’ or was it just you?”
James knew who Crozier referred to.
“Dundy, I don’t want to think about it.”
So he didn’t. Not really. He only spent an hour—or two—scrolling through the verbose posts of the older man who had seemed to hate him on sight for no fucking reason. The post about political repressions and ballet was interesting, though.

Next morning, he hurried to the Theatre right away, getting message from Seline that a new director might be announced today. Apparently, the rumor had spread like wildfire, because the large studio they used for their morning routines was already crowded. Nearly a dozen dancers filled the space—a rare sight before 10 a.m. Some were stretching, others chatting in small groups. Gore was bent over, struggling to fix his flats, while Dundy sat cross-legged near the speaker, engrossed in his phone.

“Here comes Sir Siegfried!” De Vouex’s voice rang out as James stepped in. The young dancer gave an exaggerated bow, the kind he used on the stage.

“Do you use Stanislavski method acting again, Charles?” James shot back, his tone sharp but his smile soft. “Don’t forget to leave the clowning behind when we’re done.”

A few girls in the corner giggled as De Vouex mock-pouted.

“Rude,” he muttered, returning to his warm-up.

James had just started changing into his training clothes when the studio was abruptly filled with the pounding drumbeat and wild cheers of a pop intro.

“Not this again, Henry!” someone groaned over the deafening blast of a familiar song.

Dundy had developed a habit of hijacking the studio speakers with pop playlists during warm-ups, and his current obsession was the Spice Girls, which, Dundy was certain, contained a perfect balance of rhythm and energy to start a day. James fought to keep a straight face as he caught Graham’s pleading look, silently asking for help.

When you're feeling sad and low
We will take you where you gotta go

Unfazed, Le Vesconte broke into small steps to the beat, lifting his arms as if he were leading a retro aerobics class.

Slam it to the left (If you're havin' a good time)
Shake it to the right (If you know that you feel fine)

De Vouex joined in without hesitation, moving his hips and shoulders freely. Their limbs were moving in the chaotic, yet, rhythmic way. 

Chicas to the front!

Both of them leapt in the perfect sync toward the cluster of ballerinas in the corner. The girls shrieked and waved them off, laughing, while some younger dancers joined their ridiculous routine. George Hodgson opened the door and closed it immediately, not entering the room.

Dundy caught James’ eye, grinning with unrepentant smile. James couldn’t help but smile back. Despite the grumbles coming from some corners of the studio, this silly tradition always brightened his mood. He never joined himself but watching the carefree chaos unfold filled him with a light, happy feeling.

Hai, sí, ja! Hold tight!

James moved to join Graham, who was warming up next to the barre in a quieter, less chaotic manner. As the next song began to play, Le Vesconte mercifully turned the volume down a little. James stretched his arms, his hand wrapping around the cold handrail. James always took his time with the warm-up, which might seem a little too elaborate and time-consuming to some, but James wasn’t twenty anymore. He’d seen what happened to the ligaments of those who refused to take their time.

“So, who do you think will direct next?” Graham asked, assuming James knew more than he did. James might have known, had he not spent most of the previous day cycling through his interactions with Crozier in his mind. He hesitated for a moment.

“There are only a few real options,” James replied. “Most of the big-name directors are already tied up with other performances, and with only three months left until the break—well, August’s vacation season, it doesn’t leave much time till September.”

“Maybe Ross will do it?” Graham suggested.

“He’s never directed anything,” James said, shaking his head.

“And he’s swamped with work already.” Fairholme—who had entered quietly a few minutes earlier and had been listening to the conversation without interrupting—chimed in.

“He manages not just ballet but opera, too.”

“Opera?” Dundy stopped dancing, turning to them. “What the hell does he know about opera?”

Fairholme raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think opera singers are so different in terms of management than us?”

“They’re loud,” De Vouex quipped, joining the group. The music continued to play in the background with no one dancing to it.

“You’re loud,” Dundy shot back with a grin. “And you can’t even sing.”

“Or dance,” one of the Little Swans muttered, passing by and shooting De Vouex a sharp look.

De Vouex raised an eyebrow. “And you let this bullying happen?” he asked James, as if expecting him to step in as the authority figure.

Before James could explain that he wasn’t remotely capable of containing either Dundy or, worse, the ballerinas, the door opened.

As the speaker blared, “If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends,” James Ross entered the room, his expression as dead serious as a funeral director’s and not the theatre’s.

“Shit,” Le Vesconte hissed, lunging for his phone to cut the song.

James barely had time to register Ross before Francis Crozier followed him in.

“If you wanna be my lov—”

The music stopped, leaving the dancers standing awkwardly, now upright and poised, their cheerful energy vanishing like a popped bubble.

“Ladies,” Ross began, his strict yet measured tone cutting through the silence, “and gentlemen,” he added, sparing a pointed glance at Dundy. “As you know, our dear John Franklin has suffered a stroke. He is stable now but will require several months of recovery.”

The dancers shuffled subtly, their earlier levity feeling wildly inappropriate now.

“You likely know Francis Crozier,” Ross continued, gesturing slightly to the man beside him. Crozier’s expression was as welcoming as a blobfish’s face, though he managed a perfunctory nod and a strained smile. “He will be stepping up as artistic director to ensure the premiere goes smoothly.”

James felt his chest tighten, his face growing stiff and numb as if hit by a gust of icy wind. He instinctively craned his neck, quickly fixing a mask of composed calmness over his features. The man standing next to Ross looked nothing like the sloppy drunk James had seen clinging to Blanky the night before.

Crozier was tired, grumpy, yes—but also entirely in command. His light blue eyes swept the room with a gaze that was both confident and penetrating, a stark contrast to the soft, often distracted look Franklin wore. It wasn’t a comforting kind of scrutiny; it felt deliberate. Yet, James felt a pulse of excitement stir in his chest. A new beginning. Surely, a man like Crozier—someone who seemed to love ballet more deeply than even its performers—would recognize James’ passion and dedication. He watched Crozier intently, his gaze steady and brigh.

Le Vesconte, standing nearby, shifted his focus between James and Crozier before rolling his eyes with a sigh.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Act II

Following a flock of swans shortly after celebration, Siegfried meets a Swan Queen, At the Swan Lake whilst they are alone the Swan Queen comes to Siegfried in the human form of Odette and tells her story. She is under the spell of an evil magician, Von Rothbart, and reveals that by day she and her friends are turned into swans. That subjection will only end when she is loved and married to someone who loves her.

“Again.”

The first week passed in a haze. A new schedule, new faces, a new office, and a new assistant. A young gentleman with bright eyes and a calm voice named Thomas Jopson. He was attentive, unquestioning, precise, and persistent. A gem.

“No,” Francis said, his tone firm. “You don’t want to swirl her around like that. At least look her in the eye.”

Fitzjames silently returned to the starting position, waiting for Hodgson to begin the music again. Seline looked somewhat upset but didn’t show it.

“Again.”

The first act went well enough. Fitzjames radiated noble vibes, as though he’d been training in front of mirrors his whole life. His interactions with the Queen Mother and the crew were natural, seamless, without objection. But Francis considered the first act the least important. After five days of rehearsals, it was more about ensuring synchronization than anything else. So, he let Gore, De Voeux, and the corps de ballet go, keeping only the lead dancers to dive deeper into the second act.

“Stop. What’s with the hand flexing? You look like you’re signalling for help, Mr. Fitzjames.”

Fitzjames shook his hand, returned to his position once again, and waited for Hodgson to start. Seline looked at Fitzjames with a concern.

“Again.”

The second act wasn’t going smoothly. Fitzjames moved with the energy of someone who had spent years on stage, but every time they reached the Pas de Deux, something went wrong.

“You need to hold her hand gently, not like you’re greeting a friend at the pub.”

Fitzjames placed Seline on the floor, breathing deeply. The creases on his face seemed even deeper now as he looked at Francis. Their gazes locked.

“Again.”

The music played again, and it was growing darker outside.

“Now you’re mirroring her arm movements. Stop. No swan arms—he’s human, for God’s sake.”

Francis stood up from the uncomfortable wooden chair that had been grating on him for hours. The chair screeched. Crozier moved toward Fitzjames, who was still holding Seline in the middle of a movement. Francis took Fitzjames’ arm, straightened it, and felt a surprising coldness in his fingers. He lowered Fitzjames' arm a bit, pressing his forearm down firmly. The muscles under the skin were tight, taut, and the skin felt like it had been windburned. Francis felt the muscles under his fingers tensing. He pressed harder than he needed to, almost rudely.

“The fact that he’s in love doesn’t mean he’s lost his natural state. Again.”

***

“Have you thought about a time slot to meet with Fitzjames, sir?” Jopson asked as they walked through the corridor toward Francis’ office.

“What for? I’ve seen him every day for the past ten days,” Francis replied, feigning ignorance. He conveniently “forgot” that Ross had asked him to meet with every solo dancer in an informal setting. “To boost morale,” Ross had explained. Francis had done it, begrudgingly, during the first week—meeting everyone except Fitzjames. That memory of their unplanned and deeply awkward interaction in the back hallway still lingered. So did the interaction that happened in Frances’ mind only that day as well.

“Mr. Fitzjames asked. And Mr. Ross did, too,” Jopson said, his tone steady and professional.

Francis glanced sideways at Jopson. Persistent, as always.

“Alright,” Francis conceded, sighing. “But not tomorrow. Thursday.”

“No problem, sir.”

“And Jopson?” Francis added, slowing his steps. “Not in my office.”

There was something deeply unsettling about the idea of Fitzjames in his office. It wasn’t just the proximity—it was the aftermath. If Fitzjames sat in one of his chairs or touched anything, Francis had the irrational but overwhelming sense he’d have to replace it. The very thought made him uncomfortable.

Jopson didn’t press him. Instead, he paused briefly, as if considering alternatives. “Outside the Theatre, sir? Any specific place in mind?”

Francis stopped walking for a moment, wracking his brain. A café? Too intimate. A restaurant? Even worse—it would look like a date, and the mere idea made him laugh bitterly. Definitely not. A pub was out of the question; Francis made his best for the last ten days not to mix work with alcohol, especially when trying to maintain some semblance of authority. He briefly thought of the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting at home and fought the urge to call it a day right there.

“McDonald’s will do,” Francis said finally. “It’s a minute walk, right?”

Jopson raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, but to his credit, he didn’t comment. “So, lunchtime?”

“Sure,” Francis said, walking away before he could change his mind.

***

“So… we’re going to McDonald’s,” Fitzjames said, his tone tinged with bemusement as he followed Francis across the road toward the brightly lit restaurant. “I thought it was a joke.”

“It wasn’t,” Francis replied curtly, not breaking stride. “We’ve only got half an hour, and I’m not waiting twenty minutes for an eight-pound reheated croissant.”

Fitzjames made a noncommittal humph and followed him inside. He looked out of place—dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, his posture still betraying the same disciplined look he carried in rehearsal. Somehow, the contrast made him look even more incongruous in the fluorescent-lit world of McDonald’s.

Francis noticed Fitzjames’ hesitation as he hovered near the digital menu, scanning it with the furrowed concentration of someone tackling an unfamiliar chore. It was a low blow to bring a ballet dancer to a fast-food chain, Francis realised, but couldn’t deny the tactical edge it gave him. He had made a promise to himself before this meeting: no barbs, no snapping, no unnecessary coldness. Rehearsals were one thing; he could be harsh there. But here? He was determined to remain neutral, professional.

Before leaving his office, Francis brushed his hair, checked his shirt, drank a strong black coffee to steel his nerves. He wasn’t drinking on Theatre grounds anymore, a self-imposed rule he’d stuck to. But this particular coffee, ironically was labeled "Irish” and he, well, was Irish. Francis entered the restaurant with the purest of intentions: to make this work. Not for himself, and certainly not for Fitzjames, but for the performance. For the work.

As Fitzjames continued to deliberate, Francis suppressed a sigh and approached the kiosk himself. “Do you need a recommendation?” he asked dryly, glancing at the screen.

Fitzjames turned to him with the faintest hint of a smile. “Black coffee and ice-cream will do, thank you.”

“For lunch?” Francis replied, raising a brow.

“If you don’t want me throwing up a cheeseburger for dramatic effect,” Fitzjames said. Francis, realizing they had rehearsal right after lunch, nodded curtly.

“Oh, make it a chocolate one,” Fitzjames added as Francis navigated through the desserts.

They sat in the corner of the restaurant hall with their orders. Fitzjames was rigorously mixing his ice cream, seeming perfectly at ease. Francis realized, with some surprise, that part of him had expected Fitzjames to be nervous and out of place—perhaps even glancing disdainfully at the people or the food here. But he wasn’t. It took him no more than a few minutes to adapt.

The shift threw Francis off balance. Worse than that, Fitzjames acted as the tension and fights from rehearsals had never occurred. For a moment, Francis even wondered if he’d imagined it all in some fever dream or a delirium.

Fitzjames remained absorbed in stirring his ice cream until he caught Francis’ gaze. Crpzier bit into a French fry and asked neutrally, “How long have you been at the Royal Theatre, then?”

Fitzjames took a spoonful of ice cream, pausing thoughtfully before answering.
“About half a year or so,” he replied, glancing curiously at Francis’ meal. Surely, he’d seen fries and nuggets before?

“And before that?”

Fitzjames arched his brows slightly as he licked his spoon. “They’ve given you our files, haven’t they?”

Francis had indeed received files—courtesy of Jopson—on all the soloists. He’d even glanced through some of them. But the one labeled “James Fitzjames,” sitting conspicuously at the top of the pile, had been deliberately left untouched.

“Didn’t get a chance to go through them,” he said. “So?”

Fitzjames chewed the inside of his cheek briefly, setting his ice cream cup down on the table.
“Before this, I danced at the Mariinsky Theatre. And two years before that, with the Shanghai Ballet Company,” he said evenly, though his eyes didn’t meet Francis’.

To Francis’ knowledge, performing with the Mariinsky—or  Shanghai—was the kind of thing most dancers wouldn’t stop talking about. Yet Fitzjames simply returned to his ice cream, unbothered.

“Is it good?” Fitzjames asked suddenly, nodding at Francis’ nuggets.

“Do you want one?” Francis replied, caught off guard by the question. This meeting was taking an increasingly strange turn.

“Nah,” Fitzjames said plainly. “Maybe next time.”

“Which of the theatres did you like more?” Francis pressed, not understanding why Fitzjames avoided the topic. He clung to this subject as if it could unravel the man in front of him, and finally let him feel normal around him.

“Mariinsky, I guess. They do things quite differently in Shanghai, which is hard to grasp if you're from somewhere else—with theatrics, visual ceremony almost. And with Mariinsky, you know, it's precise, sharp—classical tradition, really,” Fitzjames said thoughtfully, stirring his spoon in the melting ice cream.

“That would explain something,” Francis said, immediately regretting it. He shoved a few fries into his mouth to create a pause. Fitzjames looked at him seriously, all of his unbothered demeanor slipping away.

“What do you mean?”

“You mimic something you saw before. You can’t do that in Shanghai Ballet, because you are not used to it.”

Fitzjames’ face went still, as if Francis had just delivered tragic news. He placed his hands on his thighs and looked Crozier directly in the eye.

“It’s classical ballet. There’s a certain choreography to follow,” Fitzjames began, as if presenting a legal defense. Francis scoffed— the man was utterly unaware of what was truly wanted from him. Maybe it was partly his fault. Fitzjames looked at him with concerned brown eyes, as if Francis were the one imagining things.

“Yeah,” Francis grunted. “And there are only twenty-six letters to use, yet Dickens and Chaucer wrote something entirely different.”

Fitzjames moved his jaw, and Francis felt heat rising in his chest, his blood beginning to boil as he stared at the man across the table. Incompetent, unaware, ungenuine. Yet, Francis couldn’t stop looking at him—the way his edgy jawline moved, too sharp for anyone’s face, his eyes too dark for his light skin. Francis remembered the dry skin of Fitzjames’ arm under his fingers. A little too dry and rough for a ballet dancer, it felt so different than the boys he had hooked up with, years before. Fitzjames would annoy him much less if he acted as he truly was—a pretty hollow thing—but Fitzjames put all his effort into pretending he wasn’t. Mimicking.

“You need to stop trying to act like Baryshnikov or Nureyev. You’re neither of them,” Francis added, wiping his fingers with a napkin. This meeting was over, whether Fitzjames wanted it to be or not.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” Fitzjames asked, his calm demeanor finally cracking. Francis stood up, towering over him. He needed a fucking drink if he was to survive the next few hours of rehearsal with Fitzjames.

“Look in the mirror and try to act as yourself, for once.”

***

Last month has been brutal. July was usually James’ favorite month—not just because of his birthday but also for the close of the performance season, with the promise of a summer break ahead. This year was different. There was no public applause to enjoy, no stage to shine on, as he was consumed by endless rehearsals for September’s premiere. The word “again,” barked by Crozier, echoed in his ears long after he left the theatre each night. He hadn’t planned anything for his birthday, quietly hoping the troupe wouldn’t turn it into a spectacle.

“Thirty’s no joke. You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself,” Dundy said, presenting James an elaborate cupcake topped with a single candle, as the other dancers clapped. “Gore and I can vouch for that.”

“You’ve only been thirty for two weeks,” Gore reminded Dundy, who mouthed, So what? in reply.

Crozier hadn’t joined the celebration, limiting himself to a curt “congratulations” later that evening.

He and Seline had struggled through the second act for nearly a month—Crozier remained unimpressed, especially with James, but eventually moved on to the third act. Seline’s transformation from the gentle Odette to the almost predatory Odile was undeniably striking, and James found himself envying her. Sophia, her mentor, had returned sporadically to the theatre, keeping her sessions brief and focused, mostly working with Seline and the other ballerinas in a smaller studio. It felt deliberate, as though she were avoiding Crozier. Whenever Sophia was nearby, Crozier’s behavior worsened. Rehearsals stretched from four hours to five, sometimes even six, with only a brief break near the end. Crozier always came back from those breaks slightly disoriented, and James was sure he caught the faint scent of whiskey lingering around him.

Dundy had been around more often now that his part was being rehearsed, mostly moving between Seline and James with slow hand motions and an expression so treacherous it was almost palpable. His presence only seemed to make things worse for James. Every time Crozier scolded him, criticising his performance, James could feel Dundy’s eyes digging into his back with disbelief.

“Don’t just hold her, have her,” Crozier snapped when James wrapped his arms around Seline for the pas de deux. It had barely been two minutes. “God, this is boring as hell,” he muttered under his breath. “Again.”

They started again.

“Stop.” Less than two minutes in. Hodgson stopped, looking in the window with dread, “Why does Le Vesconte look more interested in her than you do? He’s her father, for God’s sake.”

Again.

*** 

“Are you sleeping well, Mr. Fitzjames?” Dr. Goodsir asked, the youngest of the medical staff, assigned to do a regular check-up before the August break.

“Call me James, please, Doctor,” James almost pleaded. He had never really liked his name, but after hearing Francis bark it all day—Stop, Mr. Fitzjames; Let’s wait until Fitzjames gets it right—it had begun to sound like a mockery.

“All right, James,” Dr. Goodsir replied, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “Do you? Sleep well?”

James said he did. Dr. Goodsir didn’t push any further.

Sleep had been elusive for weeks now, offering only a faint, unsatisfying sense of recovery. Each night, James lay paralyzed, acutely aware of every point where his body touched the mattress. His eyes stayed shut, his limbs still, but his thoughts barely dimmed before the alarm would jolt him awake. He wrapped his battered feet in layers of band-aids every morning, concealing the unhealed calluses so no one in the studio would give him that concerned look and send him to Dr. Stanley. Even on the longest days, James took meticulous care of his feet—changing bandages, soaking them in warm water—even when exhaustion threatened to pull him under. It’s fine, he thought, ripping off a band-aid with grim determination, you can’t expect these things to be easy.

“The way he’s treating you - it’s bullshit,” Dundy whispered one afternoon, the moment Crozier stepped out for what everyone suspected was his "whiskey break." “He’s picking on you for no reason.”

“He must have some reason in mind,” James replied, brushing off the comment, though Dundy didn’t look convinced.

James noticed: Crozier almost never touched him during rehearsals—something any mentor would do now and then to correct a dancer. He would gently reposition Seline’s arms or adjust Dundy’s posture with force. But Crozier barely touched him at all, despite James being the one taking the most criticism. It was as though James were unclean, something to be avoided.

Yet, when Crozier looked at him, James could feel the weight of the man’s gaze cutting deep, seeing into him in a way no one else did. Had no one ever looked so deeply before? Or had no one ever cared to try? Crozier was the only one who seemed to care enough to look that far—and clearly, he disliked what he saw. James couldn’t help but think that if he ever understood what exactly Crozier saw in him, he might finally be able to get the dance right.

The thought of getting the dance right gnawed at him more every day. It transformed and grew into almost a living thing, taking up the space in his chest and making it hard to breathe sometimes. If he could just get it right, he thought, Crozier would finally see it, see him, the way no one else did. So every time he landed from a jump or held Seline, he’d glance up, hoping for a flicker in those cold blue eyes across the studio. It never came. He was searching for some kind of worth in the gaze of a drunk old man who didn’t give a damn about him—and James hated every damn second of it. But he kept doing it. Again and again.

“Again, Mr. Fitzjames.”

It's okay, he thought, you can’t expect these things to be easy.

“Any complaints?” Dr. Goodsir asked. James’s feet ached, especially the arch of his right one, but that was to be expected, he argued. The doctor tilted his head, scribbling down a few notes.

“And how would you describe the level of pain when it happens?”

James forced a smile, irritated by the concern in the young doctor’s voice. He was taking this check-up a bit too seriously.

“A normal amount,” James shrugged.

Goodsir removed his glasses, looking at him as though he were a child giving the wrong answer to the easiest question.

“The normal amount of pain is no pain, James,” he said with a faint smile.

Chapter Text

As the theatre emptied late at night, James stared into the mirror, unblinking. He knew he had something to offer.

James lay on his back, pulling his knee up, stretching his hamstrings. A strange sensation rippled through his leg and settled in his foot, a light tingling. He turned his head toward the mirror, assessing his chances. Was he beautiful? He’d been told he was, and he had no reason to think otherwise. Maybe not in the way young James Ross had been, a face painted by some Renaissance artist, but in his own special way. He knew that from the admiring glances he received here and there. Was he still beautiful? Still young, though not by ballet standards. Not much had changed in the past years. Maybe he’d gotten a bit rougher, more angular, lacking the vitality of the younger dancers. Wasn’t he exciting? Wasn’t he worth something more than a cold gaze?

He arched his back, stretching an arm out to the side, feeling the spine decompress.

Maybe Crozier preferred young boys, that repellent, ugly habit some theater authorities had—he wouldn’t be the first or the last. The idea of it disturbed James. Maybe Crozier was just completely straight—a tragic case like Graham. Or maybe Crozier just didn’t like him. Not his body, not his character. Simple as that.

Before James could finish his evening stretching routine, a familiar face appeared in the doorway.

“We’re going to the pub. Dundy told me to get you, cause—and I quote—‘James takes you more seriously than me,’” Graham said, not stepping into the room. He had a rosy glow on his cheeks, the kind you get after a good performance.

“He’s right about that,” James chuckled, sitting up and crossing his legs, resting his hands on his knees.

“Will you go? We’ll only have a glass or two,” Graham asked again, looking like he already knew the answer.

James smiled almost apologetically. “No. I have to finish here.”

“You know, you can’t impress all the old white dudes out there?” Graham said plainly, no judgment in his tone. He was the straightest person to ever step into this room, yet understanding the problem perfectly.

“Yeah,” James agreed, “but I can try, right?” he added with a sly grin, hating the way Graham looked at him.

“Right,” Graham said, pausing for a second. “But you’ve got to come out with us next Friday.”

“The last Romeo and Juliet performance this season,” James realized. Gore’s first season in the leading role of a ballet he loved so much.

“Next Friday it is,” James said firmly, giving his friend a smile in return.

“I’ll tell Le Vesconte that you take none of us seriously!” Gore shouted from the corridor  with a chuckle.

***

James stared into the pan with the face of a man resigned to his fate. He knew he had to eat something before heading to the theatre, but the scrambled eggs he used to love now smelled like a sewer for some reason. He forced the food down without a change in expression. His right foot ached, the numb irritation radiating up to his knee, not enough to be painful, but enough to be a constant annoyance. It hadn’t gone away after the night’s rest, like it usually did.

He swallowed another bite, eyes drifting to his bare feet. He hadn’t changed the bandages yesterday, collapsing into bed the moment he got home. The brown stains on the coloured band-aids around his joints did not look good. He knew that peeling off the first layer could uncover the blood stains that were not there yesterday morning. No time to redo them. The thought that today was Friday offered a slight comfort—he could attend to the failures of his body later: rest, clean the wounds, maybe even pay a visit to the theatre’s masseur, Mr. Bridgens—something both Dr. Stanley and Dr. Goodsir had recommended over and over.

As he washed his face, he glanced at the mirror. The reflection didn’t lie: pale face, dull skin, and tired eyes. James scoffed. He’d ever thought he could seduce anyone with this? What a joke. He brushed his hair, eyeing the reflection like it was an enemy. His vain hope to be liked by some middle-aged alcoholic with a tooth gap and a scruffy face—that’s what had led him to this.

There was something worse than being disliked by Francis Crozier. “Delivering a mediocre performance is worse than delivering a adorable amateur dance,” his ballet school tutor used to say. He could endure Crozier’s harsh words and impolite insinuations as long as it led to a good performance. He knew he was capable of it. He shoved his swollen feet into his shoes, gritting his teeth. He just had to get through this day. Everything would be better tomorrow.

“Struggling with choreography now, Mr. Fitzjames?” Crozier’s voice cut through the room, his hands behind his back, the blue shirt tightening across his chest in a weird way. James met his gaze, flexing the arm that had slipped during the lift, almost causing Seline to fall. He wanted to explain that his arm had gone numb after hours of lifting, but he kept silent. Embarrassment mixed with anger washed over him, but there was also a twisted curiosity about where this would lead. Dundy breathed in and out loudly in the corner of the room.

“James, let’s ask Sophia to step in. It’s not going anywhere,” Seline said quietly to him, still in his arms, concern in her voice.

“You can speak freely, Mrs. Kouros. I’ve never stopped you, have I?” Crozier’s voice turned sharp as he locked eyes with her, making sure she knew he’d heard her.

“We could really use a break, Mr. Crozier,” she said, unfazed. “It’s been a long day.”

Crozier’s gaze stayed fixed on her, the tension in his neck visibly growing. The mention of Sophia seemed to hit a raw nerve, and James could almost feel the anger bubbling up inside Crozier. Before he could respond, the door creaked open, breaking the silence.

“Hi, lads,” Blanky entered awkwardly, sensing the tension he’d interrupted. “And Seline,” he nodded at the ballerina. “Hope you’re not terrorising my boy George here?”

Crozier glanced briefly at Hodgson, then back to Blanky.

“I could use a snack before the buffet closes,” Hodgson said and Seline looked at him with gratitude. James realized he hadn’t moved, his eyes locked on Crozier’s red neck, still standing out against the light blue shirt.

“And I have half an hour before Romeo and Juliet, okay?” Blanky said, stepping closer to Crozier, almost pulling him toward the exit, sensing the need to clear the room.

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” Crozier replied, his eyes flicking from Seline back to James. He paused for a moment, as if he wanted to say something to him, but only exhaled and left.

“Don’t,” James warned Dundy as he approached. Le Vesconte stepped back, silently exchanging glares with Seline.

It took almost half an hour for Crozier to return. James, lost in his thoughts, snapped back to reality when the door banged open. He stood up, feeling his body heavy and exhausted.

“Shall we?” Crozier said, taking a seat, his gaze unfocused. James felt a wave of nausea at the sight of him, almost smelling the liquor he knew was the reason of this long absence. He still pushed himself up. Hodgson sighed and placed his half-eaten Sneakers, the second one, on the piano, ready.

“Act three, scene three, dance of Odile and Siegfried. Mr. Hodgson, please,” Crozier commanded, crossing his arms. James and Seline stood side by side, Le Vesconte two meters to the left.

“One, two, three.”

The music started. Seline ran toward James with sharp, fierce steps, flashing him a smile that was almost too arrogant. He assisted her in pirouettes, hand at her tiny waist. He lifted her in a grand jeté, this time without his hand slipping, and wrapped his arms around her.

“Look into her eyes, goddammit, Fitzjames!” Crozier shouted, causing Seline to almost jump in his arms. “Proceed!”

Seline put her seductive mask back on, though it wasn’t without struggle, then continued the dance, crossing toward Dundy, who greeted her with a fatherly yet sinister look, brushing his hand against her cheek. James fought to compose himself in these few seconds, trying to remember what he was supposed to feel, his thoughts tangled together. He glanced at Seline with an intense glare, grabbed her by the waist, and leaned in, feeling his right foot tremble slightly.

“Jesus Christ!” Crozier barked.

James almost dropped Seline once again, shifting his weight to his other foot. Crozier sat still, arms crossed, eyes narrowing.

“Seline,” he sneered, his smile almost venomous, “maybe you should wear a wig. Maybe if you look more like him, Fitzjames would finally show some interest in you.”
The words landed like a strike, reverberating off the walls into a tense, suffocating silence. James felt his body go still, as if something inside him had disconnected entirely.
“Alright, that’s it,” he heard himself say, his voice cold and distant. He turned and walked toward the door.

“The rehearsal isn’t over, Le Vesconte. Stay put!” Crozier’s voice echoed behind James’ back.

He made for the bathroom, considering walking straight out of the theatre altogether—flats and ridiculous outfit be damned—but veered toward the sinks at the last moment. Cold water ran over his trembling fingers, numbing them, until his breathing slowed. He splashed his face, the icy sting calming him down a little.

The door opened before he’d thought to lock it.

“This where you decide to stage a dramatic exit?” Crozier’s sharp voice sliced through the small space.

James turned, shoulders tensing as Crozier crossed the room in two purposeful steps. His presence filled the room, hot and suffocating. James looked into man’s face – it wasn’t about the rehearsal. Not about the performance.

“The fuck do you want?” James snapped, stepping back reflexively, his hands flexing. The tension in the air hinted that this could get physical.

Crozier stopped just short of him, too close. The smell of liquor hit James like a wall. The man’s eyes, no longer distant, burned into him.

“No matter how you got here, Barrow or anyone else’s bed. You can’t fuck your way to a good performance, Fitzjames,” Crozier stamped his words sharp enough to draw blood. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, as if restraining them. James swallowed the chill creeping up his spine. He wasn’t about to back down – he never did – and certainly not to him.
“That’s right,” he shot back, his voice low. “Because anyone would rather die under a bridge than touch a miserable drunk like you.”

It was a cheap insult, and James wished he could take a high road instead bit it was too late, he was too tired for that. Crozier didn’t shout, as James expected. He didn’t even flinch. Instead, his mouth curved into a smirk, revealing the gap in his teeth. He took a deliberate step even closer.

James stepped back, his shoulders colliding with the cold tile wall. He was probably stronger—he could shove the man away if he wanted to—but somehow, Crozier’s gaze held him in place, pinning him down.

“Have you ever loved anyone, James?” Crozier’s voice was low now, the venom stripped away and replaced with something unknown. The way he said his name felt too intimate, like it didn’t belong in the air between them. “A woman?” Crozier scoffed, his gaze dragging up and down James, dissecting him. “A man? Your mother, perhaps? Anyone other than yourself?”

James blinked, unsure whether to laugh or lash out. Crozier didn’t wait for an answer.
“If you had,” Crozier went on, his voice dripping disdain again, a familiar emotion, “even for a second, it might’ve cracked that shiny plastic shell of yours. Might’ve let something real through.”

James should have pushed the man away, but Crozier was too close now, his wrinkles and scars clear in the oppressive space between them. James froze, trapped against the wall. He should have walked away, ended it, but instead, he let the poison spill.

“To which emotions do you refer as love? The fucked-up mess you had with Sophia Cracfort?” he scoffed, tilting his head. “That’s sure to bring out emotions. Pity, mostly.”

The words landed like a hit. Crozier’s face darkened, his body stiffening. James felt a sharp push to his chest, driving him harder into the tiles behind him. One of Crozier's hands gripped his arm, while the other hovered just a few centimeters from his face. The weight of Crozier’s body pressed against him, hot, smelling of liquor and rage. Crozier’s hand moved slowly from James' face to his neck, landing on his shoulder. For a split second, James thought Crozier would grab him by the throat, but instead, Crozier rested his thumb on James' neck, just beneath the Adam’s apple. The thumb rested on his skin; no pressure applied. Almost if it wasn’t supposed to be intimidating. James went still, his breath halting.

“You’re just a dumb pretty boy,” Crozier muttered, his gaze not meeting James' eyes but lingering somewhere on his neck. “There’s no point in it.”

He stepped back abruptly, his hand leaving a ghost of heat on James’s skin. Crozier glanced at him one last time, that smirk flickering back, before walking out and slamming the door behind him.

Dundy found him in the backyard, near the black entrance. James had no idea how much time had passed—he had been standing for what felt like an eternity, alone, pinned to the restroom wall by nothing but his own confusion. He couldn't just walk back into the rehearsal hall—not now. So, almost like a child, he climbed the narrow staircase somewhere in the back of the building. The other dancers used to hide from the master and sneak a cigarette here during the day.

"Everyone’s gone," Dundy announced as he climbed onto the cramped step beside James and thrust James’ sweatshirt into his hands. It was getting chill. James nodded absently, his gaze fixed on his dance shoes, now stained with the grime of the street.

“All is well?” James asked after a pause.

Dundy shook his head uncertainly, fishing around in the pockets of his pants.

“Hodgson got a trauma now probably but otherwise…”

After a moment, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Under any other circumstances, James would have grimaced at the cigarette smoke and scolded Dundy for clinging to such a self-destructive habit. For the briefest second, James felt an urge to spill everything, to let the storm in his mind pour out unchecked. But the chaos inside him refused to take the shape of words. Le Vesconte took a deep drag on his cigarette, scanning James side-eyes in silence.

“He didn’t…” Dundy frowned, hesitant to spell out what he meant. As if merely naming the violence could somehow hurt James all over again.

"No," James shook his head.

“Right”

“You’re not coming with us?” the man asked, taking another drag from his cigarette. James could feel the smoke clinging to his skin, his hair, his clothes. Perhaps it would help mask the scent of Francis—sharp and bitter—that still seemed to linger in his nostrils. It took him a moment to realize he’d been asked a question.

“I’ll tell Graham you can’t make it. He’ll understand.” Dundy nodded faintly.

Wordlessly, James plucked the cigarette from Dundy’s fingers, earning a slightly surprised look.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” James said. “I’ll fix this. I promise.”

Dundy studied him for a moment, his expression shadowed with thought. James took a deep drag from the cigarette, the thick, acrid smoke filling his throat before he could even breathe it in properly.

“Do you want me to stay?” Dundy asked, watching him carefully.

James shook his head, suppressing a cough. “No, no,” he said quickly. “I just need to sleep. I’ll finish up here and head home. As Dr. Stanley always says, if you don’t plan to wrap it up right…”

“…then don’t start at all,” Dundy finished with him, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Leave the cigarettes, will you?” James added as Dundy began to descend the stairs.

James quietly eased the door open to the rehearsal hall, now shrouded in darkness. His belongings were neatly folded in the corner by one of the other dancers. The silence and gloom of the room had swallowed everything that had happened just a few hours earlier. He slipped off his ruined ballet flats, casting a brief glance at his battered feet. He wiggled his toes, as if checking whether they still obeyed him after everything he had forced them to endure. The heavy movement echoed up the arch of his foot, his ankle, and the outside of his shin.

James flicked on the light along the wall, where the mirror hung, casting a faint glow across the room. His pale reflection emerged, faint and ghostly, as though an apparition had appeared in the room. He stared at himself in the mirror, trying to see the man who had stood before Crozier that day.

“Dumb pretty boy,” the words of the man echoed dully in James’s head. But he wasn’t a boy anymore.

James tilted his head, touching the deep creases on his cheeks, the ones he’d had even in his youth, though they were more pronounced now with age. His skin on his cheek was rough, with a hint of stubble—barely noticeable, but felt under his fingers. His hand drifted down his neck, lingering just below his Adam's apple. He swallowed instinctively, pressing his fingers against his throat a little harder. It probably would have felt like Crozier’s grip, had he allowed himself to act on it. He let this sensation hang for a moment. No, it was just a light touch, barely noticeable, almost trembling, as if at that very moment Crozier had sensed the pulse of warm blood beneath his skin, the faintest breath, and feared disrupting something inside James.

“Don’t grab her,” James remembered Crozier’s words, when the man had once again scolded him, his face twisted in displeasure, his tone dripping with contempt, for his dance with Seline in the second act. “He’s met someone special, someone he’s never met before. Touch her only as much as you can’t help but touch her.”

James abruptly pulled a hand away from his throat, recoiling slightly from his own reflection, which had passively endured the firm grip on its neck. He hastily glanced around the room, as though fearing someone might have caught a glimpse of his thoughts. The room remained empty.He let out a sharp breath and shook his head. He wouldn’t let himself lose control—not with a month and a half left until the premiere.

He needed to focus. Clear his mind of everything unnecessary. Finish his practice, get home, and go to bed. Ballet had always been James’s anchor, a way to impose order on his thoughts, even when the world around him felt like a boiling cauldron of chaos.

Inhale—exhale, leap to the left. Inhale—exhale, leap to the right.

In the midst of a jump, the body had no choice but to align itself, forcing the mind to follow. Anything less, and the inevitable fall would come—both body and mind knew this truth.

One-two-three, a turn on pointe, arms extended for balance.

James instinctively began counting out the rhythm of a melody, one Hodgeson had been endlessly playing for days without ever finishing it.

One-two-three. A leap to the side, to where his partner should have been. A bow.

Perhaps Crozier disapproved of his movements, but what did he know about the sense of control, the clarity that precision could bring, as it did now?

Inhale—two quick spins—exhale.

Love? Here? It was an illusion, fit only for those who had never danced six hours straight. Love couldn’t be captured in meticulously crafted movements to a complex rhythm. Everything James had ever known of love had been jagged and uneven.

Fourth position. Leg lift, one pirouette, another pirouette.

Everything close to love had been trembling bodies, erratic breathing, fevered embraces, and rough, grasping hands.

Another spin, and another.

A body sprawled on a bed, pinned beneath another’s weight. Anything more than that was only a deeper chaos.

Spin, spin—keep your breathing steady.

Eyes that saw straight through him. The unsynchronized breaths of two bodies pressed together.

Without breaking his sharp turns, James tilted his head, trying to catch his reflection in the mirror, which blurred with his frenzied movements. His motions were jagged, his balance off, his breath ragged. His face—nearly desperate, caught between confusion and the yearning to understand—was almost unrecognizable, distorted.

Spin, again, again.

Fingers gripping a wrist, pressing his hand against the cold wall. Fingers closing around a throat—not to choke, but to reassert control over the body. Not with violence, but almost gently. James stretched his neck, instinctively offering it to an invisible hand, before realizing what he was doing.

Another spin on pointe, a missed exhale, and before James’s mind could catch up, his right leg buckled under the strain of his weight, throwing him off balance.

The sharp stab of pain shot through his leg as he crashed down, landing hard on his backside, barely catching himself with his hands. He froze, staring at the traitorous foot that had given way. His entire body seemed to hold still, refusing to send any signals to his brain.

“No,” he said firmly to himself. “No.”

Slowly, he moved his foot, and a dull, unpleasant tingling rippled up his leg. Not that bad.

“No,” he repeated, his movements deliberate and cautious, as though he were cornered by a predator. He began shifting his limbs to rise, but the moment any weight pressed onto his foot, a searing pain shot through it, forcing him back onto the floor.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Act II

Siegfried discards his crossbow. He and Odette dance, professing their love.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen"
Francis swept into the rehearsal studio where Friday’s disastrously aborted session was set to resume. He didn’t glance at the dancers, deliberately arriving fifteen minutes late to give them time to dissect the scandal, express sympathy for Fitzjames, and prepare to work. Muted greetings answered him, quieter than usual. Clearly, Friday’s incident had left its mark.

Francis sank into the cursed squeaky chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and scanned the dancers. His brow furrowed involuntarily before his gaze swept over them again. A wave of nausea, courtesy of a weekend spent drowning in the bottle, suddenly returned with vengeance.

"Where is Fitzjames?" he finally asked. Gore and Le Vesconte exchanged glances but said nothing, their eyes skittering off to the side.

"De Vouex?" Francis’s sharp gaze pinned the young man who had made the mistake of looking at him. De Vouex mumbled something incoherent.

"Do I need to ask each of you individually, like in kindergarten? Gore, Fairholme, Le Vesconte—where is your colleague?"

The word colleague dripped with sarcasm, and it showed in Le Vesconte’s expression, uncharacteristically dark.

"He’s sick," Gore finally offered in an overly polite tone.

Francis raised an eyebrow. "With what?"

He surveyed the dancers again, who were now nervously glancing at one another.

"He didn’t specify…" Le Vesconte began cautiously. "But he sounded unwell."

"Maybe a virus," Gore chimed in, nodding earnestly. "A cold…"

"A flu…"

"Chickenpox?" De Vouex added.

"Seasonal depression…" Le Vesconte suggested, just as a ray of summer sunlight mockingly lit up his curly hair.

"Yeah? Vitamin D deficiency? Scurvy? Tuberculosis?" Francis asked, shrugging slightly with a suggestive smile.

"Not impossible," dancers agreed, nodding as it was something reasonable.

"Is this some kind of goddamn joke?" Francis barked, cutting through their increasingly absurd guesses before they moved to other sections of International Classification of Diseases. The dancers instantly fell silent, their gazes snapping to the director with unease. Francis rose abruptly from his chair, sweeping a sharp gaze over the group of dancers. The air suddenly felt stifling.

“And I assume you are absolutely unaware when is he planning to get back?” Francis hummed. Dancers remained silent.

"Gore, you’re dancing Siegfried’s part today," he announced, watching as the young man’s face instantly fell.
"But…" Gore began, leaning forward slightly.
"You’re the cover for Fitzjames, aren’t you? Then bloody cover," Francis snapped, cutting him off before striding out of the studio.

He wasn’t feeling well either—not just now, but all weekend. Perhaps he and Fitzjames had exchanged some malevolent bacteria, being far too close to each other in that cursed restroom. Now he was afflicted with the same ailment, and the entire production risked falling apart because of one moment of too much unwanted - for some - proximity.

“Thomas, can you check which doctor was on duty Friday evening?”
Jopson quickly but composedly rose from his seat, giving a short nod before beginning to type. Francis tugged at his shirt collar, which felt suffocating against his neck. This feeling had come and gone throughout the weekend, making Francis breathe heavily. At one point, he considered the bitter irony of sharing John Franklin’s fate. But a few glasses of whiskey he had right in the morning of Saturday had dulled his symptoms, smothering them like a dusty pillow.

“Just a moment… Dr. Goodsir,” Thomas reported, clicking his mouse and squinting at the screen. “Is something wrong, sir?”
“You know what’s wrong, Thomas,” Crozier wanted to snap—he’d learned early on that Thomas’s ears were everywhere.

“I need to discuss Fitzjames’s sick leave with the doctor,” he said instead, noting the slight widening of Thomas’s eyes. Apparently, he didn’t know everything after all. “I need to assess how serious it is.”
“Shall I come with you, sir?” Thomas asked, half-rising from his chair again.
“That won’t be necessary,” Francis replied with a raised hand. “Please, keep an eye on the rehearsal in the main hall. I’ll return shortly.”

He was unwell, no question about it. Perhaps he should take a leave himself.

That weekend it had taken him nearly a full day to admit he had crossed every permissible boundary that Friday—not only in the cramped restroom but also during the rehearsal. The realization swept over him in a wave of sticky shame, more unbearable than the sudden bouts of breathlessness. Disgust with himself spread like poison through his veins—swift and inescapable.

When the toxin reached the depths of his mind, vivid memories overwhelmed him. The surge of rage at Fitzjames’s words, followed by sudden self-pity. His hand on Fitzjames’s neck, long and slender enough that his broad, ungainly fingers might have snapped it in two. Yet instead, he had an urge to cover that bare neck, shielding it—from anyone with unkind thoughts, including himself.

At that moment, Crozier later realized, if Fitzjames had shown the faintest sign of consent or interest, he might have given in that instant. He would have leaned in and touched Fitzjames’ skin with his lips. That was the one boundary he hadn’t crossed.

Had Fitzjames noticed? Had he seen through the haze of Crozier’s erratic behavior to recognize the turmoil of a broken, drunken man—someone who, given the chance, would have kissed his hand rather than pinned it forcefully against the wall? Or had he been too frightened by Crozier’s reckless outburst, too revolted by his very presence, to see any of it?

Francis remembered the confusion and unease in James’ eyes and hoped it was the latter.

He let out a bitter chuckle, only for another wave of wretched self-pity to crash over him, tightening its grip on his chest. Even if he had been kind, even if he had been noble, Fitzjames would never have truly wanted him. That’s why he was so unkind to him.

A miserable drunk like you…

Amid the pounding blood in his ears and the ringing in his head, a result of too much alcohol, that weekend he finally came to a realization: the sooner he accepted it, the easier it would be to be in the same room with Fitzjames. Once he let go of the illusions, he could imprison his desires within his mind, sealing them away, and prevent another repeat of the events from Friday. This would spare both him and Fitzjames from unnecessary tension that Francis provided all this time. That morning, struggling to pull himself together, he went to the theater with a clear intention: to fix everything, to restore the boundaries that had shifted. To admit defeat in a battle his counterpart hadn't even been informed of. Now, this plan was starting to fall apart right before his eyes.

He knocked on the door that said “Dr. H. Goodsir”

"Mr. Crozier," the doctor greeted, though his tone carried more of a questioning surprise, as if caught off guard. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Crozier rarely meddled in the medical matters of the dancers, and he certainly didn’t intend to address his own health within the confines of the theater. He’d hardly ever had reason to interact with Dr. Goodsir and knew little about him beyond what Blankly had shared: “Good man, working on a dissertation about some kind of injuries, chasing after my first violinist, son of a bitch”

What Blanky hadn’t mentioned, however, was how young the doctor was—or the way he carried a piercing, all-knowing gaze, as though he instantly understood everything about Crozier. Others might have called it a routine visual assessment, the kind any doctor conducts upon meeting someone. Crozier, however, thought of it as a visual autopsy.

Almost involuntarily, he straightened up, rising above his doubts, and offered a restrained smile in response to Goodsir’s calm and warm one. The doctor clearly knew something.

“Yes. Not for me, but for our production,” Crozier said, declining the patient’s chair. This left Goodsir no choice but to rise himself, highlighting their difference in height. “You put Fitzjames on medical leave last Friday?”

The doctor’s friendly demeanor shifted. His expression turned from amicable to professionally concerned.

“You didn’t see my email?” Goodsir began, only to stop mid-sentence, realizing the futility of the question. “Yes, I sent Mr. Fitzjames on leave,” he said evenly, “for the next week.”

“A week?!” Crozier’s indignant exclamation burst out before he could stop himself. Goodsir flinched slightly but remained composed. “We’re a week away from August, with all its vacation gaps…” Crozier added, his tone softer now, as though trying to backtrack from his earlier outburst.

“Mr. Crozier, my responsibility is the health of this theater’s staff,” Goodsir said, his gentle smile returning, though a faint chill still glimmered in his brown eyes. “And Mr. Fitzjames needs this week. Perhaps even three.”

"Why?" Francis asked tersely.

The doctor hesitated for a moment, then sighed softly and removed his thin glasses.

"Because Mr. Fitzjames is unwell and needs time to recover."

Crozier scoffed. This is some kind of bloody mutiny, he thought. The resolve he had promised himself—to endure every difficulty and humiliation to restore some balance with Fitzjames—was beginning to crack. And that gangly bastard wasn’t even here.

"Unwell with what?" Crozier pressed, the weight on the final word betraying his growing irritation. "Dr. Goodsir, as the director of this production, I should know what’s happening with my dancers."

Instead of faltering under Crozier's argument, Goodsir offered a gentle gaze.

"As the director, perhaps you should ask your dancer directly"

Crozier nearly laughed, startled by the audacity that suddenly revealed itself beneath the doctor’s otherwise modest demeanor.

"Are you serious, Doctor?" he asked, his face twisting into a wry, humorless smile.

"Doctor-patient confidentiality, Mr. Crozier," Goodsir replied, his tone impeccably respectful and free of aggression.

Francis held the doctor’s gaze for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing as if testing him. Goodsir, still wearing his faint, unflappable smile, met the scrutiny without flinching. Finally, Crozier gave a short nod, as though conceding to himself, biting the inside of his cheek.

"That’s right," he said curtly, turning toward the door.

"Perhaps there’s something else I can assist you with?" Goodsir called after him.

"Good day, Doctor," Crozier replied without looking back.

***

"Shall we continue?"

"What?"

"Shall we continue?" Gore repeated.

Four pairs of eyes fixed on Crozier. The stillness of the room was broken only by the labored breathing of the dancers. Hodgson folded his hands over his knees, joining the others in staring at Francis with a faintly vacant expression.

"Yes, yes, continue," Crozier replied dully, his voice thick, as he struggled to sit up straight in his chair. Gore exchanged an uncertain glance with Seline, while Le Vesconte silently stepped aside.

"Act Three, Scene Five," Francis announced, struggling to remember. “Proceed”

Hodgson struck the piano keys forcefully, the sharp notes jolting Crozier out of his fog for good. Act Three, Scene Five—the moment Siegfried realizes he has betrayed his beloved for another. Crozier watched the dancers move, piecing together the narrative. The pivotal scene, one they had never quite reached with Fitzjames.

Gore was competent—earnest, dramatic, even—but utterly out of place. His wide shoulders and muscular frame made him an good Romeo, a powerful Spartacus, even a compelling Prince Désiré. But here, in this role, he felt like a striking figure sketched in the geometric lines of constructivism, set against the serene classical perfection of a pastoral landscape.

Crozier said nothing. Perhaps he had grown too accustomed to the perpetually looming, elongated presence of Fitzjames—the figure that now, even in his absence, seemed to obscure everything else in the room.

The rehearsal ended on time.

***

"The Fitzjames file, please, Thomas," Crozier requested.

Jopson lifted his gaze, those eyes of his always reminding Crozier of the porcelain doll his elder sister used to cherish. That look could mean many things at different times, but now it was a clear, unspoken "And what’s this about?"

“The Very Bad Director has been subjected to a vote of ostracism,” Crozier explained dryly. “Don’t, Jopson,” he interrupted before the assistant could protest. “I’m not blind. If no one’s willing to tell me what the problem is, how am I supposed to fix it?”

His words carried a thin edge of desperation that Jopson, perceptive as ever, surely didn’t miss.

“Mr. Fitzjames’s file is on your desk, sir,” Jopson replied, his gaze shifting briefly to the untouched folder resting at the far edge of Crozier’s workspace.

Jopson knew — knew better than most — what might lie at the heart of this supposed ostracism aimed at his superior. Rather, he was aware of many other justifications: the whiskey bottle hidden in the bottom drawer of the desk, the muttered words Francis let slip when he thought no one was listening. Jopson never condoned such behavior, yet he never tried to steer Crozier back on course either, even when it was clearly needed.

The nausea from his lingering hangover had finally subsided by evening — conveniently, just as his body had begun craving its first glass of whiskey. But not now. He sat down at the desk, where everything was arranged with meticulous care, from the computer to a stamp he had never once used. Opening the folder, he found Fitzjames’s address printed in small type alongside his social security number and a phone number, buried near the bottom of the page.

“It’s less than a fifteen-minute walk from here,” Jopson said quietly, meeting Crozier’s heavy-lidded stare.

Crozier hadn’t mentioned the address aloud, had he? Jopson’s apologetic glance said it wasn’t necessary. Crozier let out a gruff hum, his lips twisting into a crooked smirk.

“Do you have something you’d like to say, Thomas?”

“Only that I’m certain this visit will leave a favorable impression — on both you and Mr. Fitzjames.”

Crozier narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

“I have full confidence in your ability to handle any social interaction with composure and tact,” Jopson replied smoothly, his tone as neutral as ever.

“Odd thing to tell me right now,” Crozier muttered, closing the folder with deliberate finality.

Jopson offered a faint, knowing smile, brushing off any hidden implications Crozier might have inferred.

***

Francis was oddly grateful for the dreary London drizzle. It wasn’t heavy enough to soak him through, but the persistent drops striking his face offered a welcome distraction from the conversation looming ahead. The confidence in his social skills that Jopson had so optimistically declared seemed to dissolve with each step further from the theater. A swarm of thoughts buzzed incessantly, preventing him from constructing even an imaginary version of the dialogue to come.

Francis was well past forty, no stranger to the feeling of being unwanted in an interaction with someone who preoccupied his mind. If you burn the same patch of skin over and over again, does it grow tougher, calloused to the pain? Or does each new burn peel closer to the nerve? Francis walked with a steady stride to find out.

Fitzjames lived in a three-story Victorian building painted in a stark, hospital-white. Of course, he was. The entrance was wedged between a boutique selling obscenely expensive orthopedic hipster shoes and a bakery with a glowing neon sign that read “Sexy French Waffles.” Francis had braced himself for many things, but not for the fact that he would have to buzz in to get inside. The existence of intercoms had somehow slipped his mental map of the modern world. Now, he stood staring at the worn button labeled “J. Fitzjames” as raindrops drummed against his head, relentless and maddening, like some variation of Chinese water torture.

“Are you going in, or will you just stand there all day?”

The scratchy voice startled him, and Francis turned to find a tiny, wizened, but remarkably elegant old woman clutching an oversized umbrella.

“Something seems to be broken,” Francis offered for no discernible reason, accompanying the statement with a polite, restrained smile.

“Who are you here for?” she asked sharply, her tone carrying the same precision as her appearance.

“Uh... Fitzjames. James Fitzjames,” he answered, unnecessarily clarifying as though the name might legitimize his presence.

The old woman’s face brightened suddenly, as if the clouds had parted and allowed a ray of sun to slip through.

“Oh, James! Don’t just stand there. Come in. That infernal thing breaks all the time,” she said with a knowing nod at the intercom, nudging Francis aside to unlock the door herself.

“James gets visitors from the theater all the time,” she continued as they stepped into the narrow, dimly lit hallway. “Such delightful young people! Polite, charming, and so very cultured. And how do you know James?” she asked, deftly slicing through the thin veneer of camaraderie she’d extended to the theater crowd and leaving Francis squarely on the outside.

“I’m his colleague at the theater, not a dancer, though” Francis replied curtly, following her up the narrow staircase.

“Ah, I thought as much. You don’t look like family either,” she rattled on, casting a glance over him with the incisive eye of elderly English women who have long mastered the art of judgment disguised as obvious observation.

Francis parted ways with her on the second floor, narrowly escaping further speculation about whether he was not Fitzjames’s uncle, father, or some other unfortunate relation. He climbed the final flight of stairs to the third floor, exhaling sharply before knocking on the door.

For a few moments, there wasn’t a single sound behind the door. Francis had enough time to run through several scenarios in his mind, each explaining the lack of movement on the other side: perhaps Fitzjames wasn’t home and dashed off to Italy for a grand escapade, or perhaps Fitzjames’s cold, lifeless body was already being gnawed on by some gigantic rat.

Finally, there was a shuffle, a muffled curse, and then a familiar voice reached his ears.
“Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s Francis... Crozier,” he replied, as though there was a chance Fitzjames might forget his name.

Another pause followed, during which Francis held his breath, straining to catch any sounds of movement. For one agonizing moment, he thought Fitzjames might have simply walked away from the door, retreating further into the apartment, uninterested in dealing with him. But then the voice returned, sharp and irritated.
“And what do you want?”

“I wanted to check on you and...” Francis’s mind blanked, his thoughts dissolving into static. “...discuss the situation going forward.”

Not the right words. Not even close to what he’d intended to say.

“Have you been drinking again?” came the pointed question through the door. Francis took a deep breath. This conversation was bound to be difficult, but it was already clear that Fitzjames was determined to make it unbearable.

“No,” Francis replied evenly, relieved for once to be telling the truth. “Look, could you open the door?”

“What for? So you can finish off the survivors?” Fitzjames shot back.

“Oh, come on!” Francis started, his voice rising, but he stopped himself mid-outburst. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, forcing his tone into something calmer. He’d promised himself. “Could you stop answering my every phrase with a question?”

Another pause, then the faint creak of metal. The door opened a crack, just enough to reveal Fitzjames’s narrow face peeking out from the shadows.

“That’s how conversations work, in case you didn’t know,” said Fitzjames sourly.

He looked haggard. His hair was messily piled atop his head in something that might have once resembled a bun but now looked more like a ruined bird’s nest. Dark circles hung under his eyes as though he hadn’t slept, and he was wearing an oversized T-shirt that hung limply off his frame. Francis felt sure that the delightful young people from the theater had informed Fitzjames that he was looking for him but Fitzjames either hadn’t believed Francis would appear in front of his door or simply hadn’t cared.

“I’m listening,” Fitzjames said flatly, standing rigid in the doorway.

Francis couldn’t help but think the scene resembled something out of a romantic comedy: the rain-soaked lover boy at the door, pouring his heart out to the love of his life. Except Francis was neither a boy nor anyone’s lover, and Fitzjames looked nothing like Keira Knightley in Love Actually. Gathering himself, Francis finally spoke.

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry for what happened,” he said, his voice measured and steady. Breathing suddenly felt a little easier. “And I’d like it if we could move past it—for the sake of our work.”

Fitzjames scoffed lightly, his eyes fixed on Francis’s face as if searching for something.
“Well, you’ve said it now,” he replied, his tone as dull as the dim light in the hallway.

Francis knew he should find something more to say, a phrase sharp enough to pierce through Fitzjames’s wall of indifference, to pry loose some semblance of forgiveness or agreement. Instead, he found himself merely watching the subtle shift of Fitzjames’s jaw as he swallowed, the stray lock of hair dangling near his ear. Fitzjames’s gaze flicked briefly over Francis, then turned inward, scanning his apartment.

A small, sharp pang stabbed at Francis’s chest, lodging there like a splinter. What if Fitzjames wasn’t alone? What if he had someone—a companion who had spent all this time listening patiently to his complaints about Crozier? Someone polite and charming. That was Francis’s cue to leave, surely, not to tempt fate.

But instead, Fitzjames shifted aside, his voice breaking through Francis’s thoughts.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked, almost offhand. “Until the rain lets up.”

Francis couldn’t tell what lay behind Fitzjames’s invitation—an unexpected deference to rank, innate politeness, or perhaps some need to regain the upper hand—but he stepped over the threshold without hesitation, following Fitzjames inside. The entryway was narrow, furnished only with a coat rack and a mirror. Francis pushed back his wet hair, which clung to his forehead. It didn’t make him look any more presentable, but at least he no longer resembled a shell-shocked lieutenant from the trenches of the Great War.

The apartment was modest, its clean lines of minimalist furniture softened by the presence of a few antique pieces. It was less luxurious than one might expect for a central London address, but every detail carried the quiet precision of someone who cared about appearances.

“Want anything? I’ve got tea, kombucha, and… water,” Fitzjames offered, leaning against the kitchen doorway with the casual grace of a heron, one leg raised a bit and pulled back. Francis was used to dancers assuming strange, almost inhuman positions with an ease that suggested they’d forgotten how ordinary bodies worked.

“Tea,” Francis replied shortly, half-expecting Fitzjames to toss him a tea bag from across the room and leave him stranded in the hallway. Instead, Fitzjames gave a curt nod and walked toward the kitchen with an uneven gait that set alarm bells ringing in Francis’s mind.

It took no more than a few steps—each one off-balance —for Francis to see it.

“You’re limping!” he exclaimed. He followed Fitzjames into the apartment without waiting for an invitation, his mind already racing ahead to the implications.

“You know, it’s one thing to insult me in the rehearsal, but showing up at my home to do it is a bit much,” Fitzjames spoke, throwing a sardonic glance over his shoulder as he reached for the kettle.

“This is serious, James,” Francis said, his voice low and steady now, though he could feel the heat rising behind his words. He tried to meet Fitzjames’s eyes, but the man turned away, fiddling with the tap as he filled the kettle with water. “What happened?”

“I didn’t realize our bathroom argument had bonded us to the point of first names,” Fitzjames muttered, leaning heavily on his good leg as he set the kettle on the stove. There was a bitterness in his voice that mirrored the weight Francis himself had given to their quarrel.

“It’s just an ankle sprain,” Fitzjames added, retrieving two mismatched cups from the cabinet. “Nothing serious.”

“You can’t even put weight on it,” Francis pointed out, watching as Fitzjames shifted unsteadily from one foot to the other. Fitzjames pressed his lips together, the slight tightening of his jaw betraying his discomfort.

“For God’s sake, let me do this,” Francis said, stepping toward him. “Sit down. Please.”

He braced himself for a barbed retort or some theatrical refusal, but instead Fitzjames exhaled heavily and lowered himself into one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. With a resigned sort of grace, he swung his injured leg onto the neighboring seat and leaned back, letting his head drop against the wall.

“The tea’s on the second shelf to the right,” he said, watching Crozier with subtle interest.

Crozier opened the cabinet and stared at the rows of metal tea tins.

“You don’t have tea bags?” he asked, catching Fitzjames’s faintly amused look. “Of course not.”

“I lived in China for a few years. Changes a person,” Fitzjames reminded with a sour smile.

Francis didn’t have an answer for that, so he busied himself with the teapot, grateful for something to do with his hands. As he rummaged through the drawers in search of a teaspoon, he pulled open one that revealed the trash bins. Among the discarded wrappers and scraps was a familiar brown paper bag stamped with a bright yellow M. Francis froze, then quietly shut the drawer.

He cast a sidelong glance at Fitzjames, whose response was to tilt his head and begin tapping his fingers on the table.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Fitzjames said finally, his tone flat. “I’ve got it under control.”

Francis shook his head, his mouth twisting slightly as if tasting something bitter. He might think whatever he wanted about Fitzjames, but the man had never given anyone reason to doubt his self-control.

“I know,” Francis replied softly, continuing his search.

When the tea was ready, Francis placed the cups on the table and took the only free chair, directly across from Fitzjames.

“Don’t,” Francis said firmly when Fitzjames shifted, clearly intending to lower his injured leg from the chair beside him. Fitzjames paused, his sharp gaze meeting Francis’s, searching his face for any trace of hidden motives.

“Leave it,” Francis repeated calmly.

He could have explained that the recovery of his principal dancer was a professional priority, or that he didn’t want Fitzjames to suffer unnecessary discomfort in his own home. But he said nothing. Fitzjames, after a wary moment, leaned back into his chair, his leg remaining where it was. For a fleeting second, his eyes lingered on Francis, studying him with an unreadable expression.

The silence between them deepened, punctuated only by the rhythmic patter of rain against the windows. Francis’s gaze fell to Fitzjames’s feet. The skin on his toes and joints was mottled with bruises and scabbed-over cuts, as though someone had deliberately sanded it raw, having no mercy. In places where the dried blood didn’t cling, the flesh was discolored—shades of yellow and blue. Francis knew that ballet dancers have these, but seeing them on someone he knew made his stomach tighten with unease.

Fitzjames must have noticed Francis’s stare, but didn’t acknowledge it. He simply stared into his cup of tea, fingers curled tightly around the ceramic. Francis thought about asking why Fitzjames had hidden the injuries, but stopped himself. It was a pointless question, they all do that, Fitzjames is no exception. He wondered instead how much effort it had taken Fitzjames to conceal this for so long, to keep up appearances.

“The last big injury you had,” Francis finally said, breaking the oppressive quiet, “was on your right ankle too, wasn’t it?”

Fitzjames’s head snapped up, his eyes, almost black, narrowing. He looked as though Francis had crossed an invisible line.

“You actually read my file,” Fitzjames said. “Is this an interview?”

“You’ve already got the job,” Francis replied, trying to inject a note of lightness. He even managed a small smile—the same one he used to reassure Blanky or Ross. But Fitzjames wasn’t either of them, and the attempt landed with a dull thud.

“If it were up to you, I’d never have gotten it,” Fitzjames said, his tone razor-sharp. “Barrow or no Barrow.”

The smile slid from Francis’s face like water off glass.

“I didn’t mean…” Francis began, his voice quiet but firm, as though stating a fact he couldn’t let go uncontested. He had said it, hadn’t he?

“Don’t,” Fitzjames interrupted with a dismissive wave, settling himself more comfortably in the chair. His expression was unnervingly calm, as though they were still talking about tea preferences. He rubbed a hand over his face, and for the first time, Francis could see the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, the weeks of tension finally surfacing.

“You’re not wrong,” Fitzjames continued after a pause, his voice unsteady now. “Not about the promotion-through-the-bedroom gossip. Not about the way you delivered your opinions.” He paused again, and the silence hung heavy between them. Francis shook his head in quiet confusion, as though he has never been right about anything in his entire life. “But about everything else? You were right.”

“James, you’re talking this way because you’re hurt,” Francis began, his voice edged with concern. “Your body’s pain is clouding your judgement…” He trailed off, fully aware that James’s words were coming from a far deeper place than the surface explanations he was offering. James cast a fleeting glance around the room, then back to Francis, his eyes filled with a hope that he might be understood.

Francis felt the chill run through him. He’d pushed too hard, pressed too much, and now the man before him was breaking apart without even knowing the real reason why.

“I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s not acting, it is bullshit, isn’t it? I know it and I can do nothing about it.” James’s voice cracked, and his hand gestured erratically, sweeping over himself, the room. “All of this…” His hand moved again, more insistently. “It’s a farce. I see it, and you were right to—”

“Stop, James. Stop.” Francis’s words came fast and firm as he reached out, catching James’s hand mid-gesture. The younger man’s wrist fell into his grasp, soft and unresisting, as though his strength had been drained along with his certainty. Francis tightened his hold gently. James stilled, his dark eyes locking onto Francis.

 “Even if I’m right about something I’ve said,” Francis said softly, his voice steady but low, “and I know myself well enough -  I’ve been wrong so many times… we’ll figure this out, alright?”

He wanted to say together. The word hovered on the edge of his tongue, burning, but instead he faltered. “For the sake of the production.”

James blinked, and then nodded, giving Francis a small distracted smile, gaining back control. Only then did Francis let his hand fall away, releasing James’s wrist from his grasp.

For a brief moment, Francis could still feel the warmth of James’s skin against his palm, lingering like an ember, before James pulled his hand back.

“I’m really tired, Francis,” James said in apologetic tone, though his body remained stiff and unmoving. “The night was shit.”

Francis nodded, withdrawing his hands as if he’d overstepped somehow, the gesture awkward and uncertain. Rising from the table, he moved slower than he meant to, fumbling for the right words.

“I’d like to check on you tomorrow… or maybe the day after,” he said carefully. “Might bring some food from the grocery store…”

 “We have deliveries, you know.” James replied which sounded less harsh than a simple why would you do it?

“…or some medicine, if you need it.” Francis barely finished the sentence, feeling James’ gaze on him—warmer now, and just for a moment, startlingly unguarded.

“You don’t have to handle it yourself, surely,” James replied after a pause, his voice quiet. James stood as well now, moving to the door slower this time. His limp had worsened, as there was no reason to hide the full extent of the injury now. “You could ask Jopson, for instance.”

“Jopson is a production assistant, not my personal one,” Francis said firmly, shrugging into his damp coat.

James smirked, his sharp eyes glinting with something teasing, disregarding the discomfort of the injured leg. “So, it is personal, then, hm?”

The jab landed and Francis felt its sting—another reminder of his perceived failings. James’ an unhappy grin followed revealing white teeth that were just a little uneven, Francis noted suddenly, yet so pretty to him.

“If you’re still planning to use my ‘experience to educate yourself’,” Francis answered plainly “we can do that.”

“Alright,” James nodded, a smile still on his face.
Francis watched him for a beat longer before heading out.
Pretty, Francis thought once again.

***

SelineK:
How are you, James?

JamesFJ:
Much better! How are rehearsals going?

Graham Gore:
Crozier couldn’t give fewer fucks about me and Dundy blasting Army of Lovers every morning, so NOT GOOD. Come back, please.

Dundy:
wow, I thought we were all fans of classics here, but okay.
@Graham, would you prefer if Crozier shouted at you?

Graham Gore:
I’d prefer if you stopped abusing the aux cord.

Dundy:
James, tell Crozier tonight that Graham also wants to be shouted at. He feels left out.

JamesFJ:
:/

Graham Gore:
Why would James tell Crozier tonight? He’s at home on sick leave.
Dundy!
Don’t delete the text!
WHY WOULD—

James switched off his phone and let it drop to the floor next to the sofa. He closed his eyes with a sigh—God really had sent Le Vesconte to test him. He should get up off this bloody sofa and clean up a bit, but somehow his leg was already tired from standing too long in the shower. Now he was resigned to the sofa, his injured leg propped on the armrest despite the damn thing’s misleading name.

The phone buzzed, a call notification flashing on the screen. James groaned before answering.

“Sorry about that,” Dundy said, his voice entirely lacking remorse as far as James could tell.

“It’s fine. We’re not doing anything improper. It’s not a secret, really,” James muttered, shifting his toes to try and alleviate the dull ache spreading through his ankle.

“It’s a shame, though,” Dundy prattled on. James could hear the familiar sounds of the theatre’s bustling backyard in the background. “You deserve a good old shag after everything that man’s put you through.”

James nearly choked on air, heat rushing to his cheeks like.

“Jesus, Dundy. You know you don’t have to say everything you think.”

“How else would you know what I’m thinking?” Dundy replied, and James could practically hear the mischievous grin in his voice. “Anyway, I’m sure that old man is full of surprises—like any other mediocre-looking guy with anger issues.”

“You don’t even know if he’s gay,” James shot back, immediately regretting that Dundy had managed to drag him into this conversation.

“I’m sure he is. For you, Mr. Fitzjames.”

“We’re just talking.”

“Sure. There are plenty of positions where your mouth is free.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Communication is key to great sex, and with—”

“I’m blocking you until tomorrow.”

“Alright, I’ll text you later.”

James sit up on the couch, his eyes scanning the room. Well, at least this time his hair was washed and brushed.

He hadn’t lied; he was feeling better. Last Friday, after Doctor Goodsir had sent him home with a couple blister packs of pills and the threat of reporting him to Doctor Stanley, James did everything he could to make himself worse. He smoked the last of Le Vesconte’s cigarettes and, for some reason, ordered McDonald’s—damn nuggets and fries. It all sat like a brick in his throat, whether from lack of habit or because it reminded him too much of Crozier.

The dull, pulling pain in his leg kept him awake, so he spent the weekend drifting in and out of consciousness, dragging himself between the bed, the bathroom, and the couch. That was where Crozier found him—on the edge of his own misery—when he showed up on his doorstep, wet like a stray dog. James should have turned him away; he should’ve slammed the door and kept his pride intact. But he didn’t. He couldn’t muster that kind of willpower at that point and still scolded himself for it. His willingness to prove some guy he’s good, dammit.

And now, for three days, Francis Crozier had been visiting him after rehearsals, a bag of something in hand, that careful, polite smile on his face. James knew why he came—guilt, maybe shame—but even that was enough for him. He hated how he acted around Crozier: hungry for attention, approval, almost manipulative to get it. All it took to make Crozier look at him like that was to destroy his own leg and risk his career, the production even. And as much as James didn’t want to admit it, he would do it again. He was better, his injury – not necessarily.

"At least your calluses have healed up a bit. They look better," Crozier remarked that evening, as yet another debate about the differences between Marius Petipa's and Sir Frederick Ashton's choreography reached a dead end. James felt a flush of heat rise in him, as though just the thought of Francis evaluating his appearance was somehow indecent. He couldn't see Francis's expression, sprawled out again on the couch, while Crozier sat in the armchair at the head, like a therapist at a session. "Left them alone for six days," he added casually.

"I’d look better altogether if I just left ballet for good," James replied, staring down at his foot. Well, begging for compliments now. Bravo, James. Francis stayed silent, and James was left to wonder what kind of expression had crossed his face. He fixed his gaze on the dimly lit wall, hardly breathing.

"You’re fine, James," Crozier said quietly, finally. James felt an urge to fill the silence, to erase the emptiness left by his own self-centered words, as if he were afraid that Francis would see him once more as that arrogant vain man he had seen during their first meeting.

"This damn leg is healing so slowly. I’ll see Doctor Goodsir on Monday. Maybe he’ll give me a nerve block, and I’ll be able to get back," James rambled, arching his neck to try to catch a glimpse of Crozier’s face. He was sitting in the chair, legs spread wide, looking strangely relaxed—an entirely different version of the man James had never seen during rehearsals. James took a picture of it in the back of his mind. Crozier chuckled softly and took a sip of his now-cold tea.

"You don’t need to worry about that," Crozier replied, watching James shift awkwardly. "Most of the dancers are on break, the musicians too. Unless you plan on dancing alone, to a flute, with a busted leg," he gave a crooked grin, and James reluctantly turned his face back to the wall. Yes, James knew—he still had three weeks in September to finish rehearsing, and he knew the choreography by heart. But what if he couldn’t handle the rest?

"What if my leg’s not fully healed by then?" he asked, his voice wavering with self-doubt.

"Then you’ll ask Doctor Goodsir for that block," Crozier replied pragmatically.

It was late. The conversation had dwindled to nothing. James searched for reasons—any at all—that would bring Crozier back tomorrow, and the day after, anything to stretch this fragile little universe somehow had been created out of nothing. Just a several days more before it all shattered again, before the chaos of production swallowed everything and left no room for this.

“But you are taking care of your ankle, aren’t you?” Francis’ raspy voice broke the quiet.

James could feel Crozier’s eyes on him—sharp, unnervingly precise, as though they could strip him down to the truth. He swallowed, trying to figure out what Francis was looking for. He could turn around, meet that gaze head-on, but it would ruin the moment—break it for good.

“There’s not much you can do right now, but wait,” James finally answered. He let the words drift for a moment, already forgetting what Francis had asked in the first place. “I’ve got the painkillers, and ice for the swelling. Goodsir gave me some anti-inflammatory cream, but it doesn’t seem to do anything, so…”

His voice trailed off into the quiet again. The silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock and his slow, steady breathing, suggested to James that a lecture was coming—something reasonable, no doubt, about how he ought to take better care of his injury. But Francis said nothing, merely shifting his weight slightly in the chair.

“These creams have a cumulative effect. You shouldn’t have ignored it.”

James opened his mouth to argue—that touching his ankle was unpleasant, that the cream was useless, that there was no reason to worry about him. But before he could, he heard movement just beyond his line of sight, followed by Francis’ voice.

“I can help you, if you want.”

The low, raspy tone of Francis’s voice made James freeze. His whole body stiffened with tension, an involuntary reaction he couldn’t shake. Francis seemed to pause too, waiting for an answer. It was a simple question—so why did it feel loaded?

“Uh… yeah, the cream’s in the cabinet by the window,” James croaked, his voice refusing to cooperate. He heard Francis get up and watched his figure disappear into the dimly lit kitchen. A few seconds later, Francis returned, holding a small white tube. He perched on the armrest of the sofa, his back to James but angled slightly toward his outstretched foot. The man looked calm, and for a moment, James cursed himself for ruining what might just be an innocent gesture of kindness.

Francis unscrewed the cap with deliberate precision, squeezing a small amount of cream onto his palm. James, still trapped in a tense, frozen state, felt a sudden wave of discomfort wash over him—a prickling self-consciousness creeping in. His feet were battered, marred with calluses and peeling skin, like they’d been dragged over gravel for months. Even if he wanted me, James thought, his stomach tightening traitorously, this isn’t where he’d start. He silently cursed Dundy and his absurd insinuations, forcing himself to relax.

He couldn’t see Francis’s full expression—just the outline of his profile, partially obscured by shadows cast by the dim lamp. The angle made it look like Francis was hiding something, but James knew better. The sofa was too narrow for both of them, and Francis was simply settling into the most comfortable position. Still, James found himself staring so intently that Francis turned slightly, meeting his gaze with a calm look over his shoulder.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” James mumbled, quickly shifting his eyes to his ankle. Francis nodded and, with deliberate care, took hold of James’s foot in one hand while spreading the cream over his injured ankle with the other. The coolness of the ointment made James flinch, a sharp contrast to the heat coursing under his skin.

“If it hurts, just say so and I will stop” Francis murmured, glancing back again.

James nodded quickly, swallowing down the words that threatened to spill the fact that he wouldn’t stop Francis—not for anything.  Francis’s profile betrayed no tension or excitement. His jaw, its soft contours so unlike James’s own, held a relaxed stillness that James couldn’t help but find quietly fascinating. His sloped shoulders rested easily, and the broad span of his back, covered by a dark blue shirt, blocked the faint light of the nearby lamp, casting them both in shadow.

James inhaled deeply, then exhaled, doing so as silently as he could manage. He let his eyes flutter shut, allowing his thoughts to retreat and the sensation on his skin to take over. Francis’s fingers moved with a deliberate gentleness, gliding over the skin, skirting the aching ligament beneath as though he instinctively knew where the pain hid and how to avoid it.

When the cream had absorbed, Francis shifted his thumb to the arch of James’s foot, pressing along its length with a steady motion. James barely managed to suppress a startled jerk, this time not from pain but from the ticklish sensation. The pressure eased the tension in his toes, making them splay slightly of their own accord. A faint, unbidden sound clawed its way up James’s throat, but he caught it just in time, letting it escape as a sharp exhale instead.

“This area’s really tight,” Francis remarked quietly, his tone clinical but not detached. He glanced at James with that same calm gaze. “You’d benefit from seeing Mr. Bridgens more often.”

“You say that like you’re an expert,” James muttered. He hated how disappointed he felt when Francis withdrew his hands.

“I have some experience,” Francis replied simply, his face betraying no amusement or mockery. He stood up and disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of water running filled the room, and James’s thoughts spun, landing bitterly on Sophia Cracroft.

She’d danced in the company until recently, her movements refined and effortless. She taught the next generation now, a natural mentor. The weightlessness James had felt under Francis’s hands evaporated, replaced by the dull, familiar throb in his ankle. He clenched his jaw. How easier it would be for him just now if he could be Sophia for a moment.

Francis reappeared in the doorway, drying his hands on a towel.

“I should go,” he said simply.

James moved to stand, but Francis placed a damp hand on his shin, stopping him with a faint smile.

“Don’t get up. I know my way out.”

James stared up at him, lips parted as though to speak but finding no words. He lay back against the sofa, watching Francis leave, feeling the weight of a thousand unsaid things pressing down on him.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he blurted, despite all the things he’d thought of earlier to give Francis reason to come back again .

Francis paused at the door, a small, light smile forming on his lips.

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

Act III

A t the ball Queen asks her son which of the women he favours to be his wife. ‘None’, he replies to her annoyance. At a sudden fanfare Baron Rothbart enters with his daughter Odile, whose resemblance to Odette strikes the Prince. They dance; Mother Queen and Rothbart announce a betrothal.

“Giselle?”

“No.”

“Don Quixote?”

“No.”

“Nutcracker?”

“No,” James said with a cunning smile. “But I danced Mouse King part a few times”

Francis cast a sideways glance at James. The game seemed to give James as much pleasure as it did burden to Francis.

"But you had a leading part at the Mariinsky?" Francis pressed. James shifted on the couch, now facing him, feigning indignation.

"You accuse me of lying on my resume?” James frowned. “I did. So, giving up?"

Crozier held his gaze with mock severity and, though the playful edge was unmistakable, James narrowed his eyes and gave Francis a serious look. He reclined again, stretching his legs across the armrest. The blisters were nearly healed, and the bruises had turned a yellowish hue. His sweatpants slid down slightly, exposing his calves, their muscles sharply defined. Francis briefly wondered if it would be odd to place his hand on James' ankle, as though the ritual of applying ointment for three days had given him some unspoken claim. It wasn’t just a passing thought—it had become something he pondered often, perhaps more than was appropriate. With the theater in its "dead season," his thoughts kept returning to James—his legs, his arms, his face. He still hadn’t crossed any lines that was set inside Francis’ mind. James raised an eyebrow, his expression a quiet prompt. Ah, yes—the game. Crozier was meant to guess which leading role James had danced at the Mariinsky, as it hadn’t been listed in the file, and James refused to tell him outright. Sure, Crozier could have looked it up online, but now it felt too personal to resort to an internet search.

"Well then, a clue?" Francis said, his voice a subtle signaling his own helplessness. James gave a generous nod and leaned back, hands behind his head, watching Francis' face. Oh, he enjoyed it.

"Does this character remind you of yourself?"

"Physically?"

"No, in behavior and character," Francis replied.

Now, James' face darkened with the weight of thoughts, giving Francis a few seconds to once again study the young man lying beside him. It had been much easier to do this two days ago, when James lay the other way, unaware of Francis' wandering gaze. Back then, Francis indulged in it without shame, as though James’ turned-away eyes made his heated stare invisible to both the world and to himself.

"Yeah, probably," James finally replied, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Francis didn't look away, his eyes fixed on James' face. He is determined, almost foolishly selfless. Noble, to some extend. Full of desperation. Imperfect just enough to be real. Francis smirked, meeting James' intrigued glance.

"Solor from Bayadère," he said confidently, settling back in his chair with satisfaction.

James straightened up, now sitting upright. His voice, tinged with mild displeasure, responded, "I’d never get involved with a dancer."

The words came out as though Francis had accused him of some deadly sin. Francis smirked, genuinely.

"And why's that?"

"Not my type," James replied, tilting his head. His dark hair fell slightly forward, and for a moment, Francis nearly reached out to push it back. If he had a self-proclaimed right to the ankle, then Fitzjames' face was uncharted territory, and therefore dangerous one—once he would begin his exploration, he risked becoming lost in it forever.

Of course, he had already ventured there. It was in his nature—unable to stop when necessary, incapable of keeping promises made to himself. How many times had he sworn off drinking, avoided bringing up marriage with Sophia, and now, vowed not to touch James? Yet here he was again. Naturally, he had his excuse—James asked every night to come tomorrow, being locked up by Goodsir and Stanley for another week. But Francis knew, as surely as he knew anything, that he would’ve found an excuse to show up anyway. Instead of distancing himself from temptation, he chose to remain close to it.

To spend a sleepless night in a warm bed with a duvet. To stick to the diet while working in a bakery.

James lowered his feet to the floor and edged closer to the chair where Francis sat. Their knees brushed, and Francis fought the urge to sit up straight, pressing his legs together.

To get off the drugs in a crack house.

"So, what's your type, then?" he asked, feeling as though he were tumbling into an abyss.

"Perpetually displeased older men," James replied, tucking behind his ear the very strand Francis had been contemplating. A tightness seized Francis's throat, sharp and sudden, like a spasm. James wasn’t smiling; his dark eyes held something unusual, something Francis had rarely seen directed at him, and so recognized with unnerving clarity. Desire.

Francis instinctively leaned back, disbelief clouding his senses. Surely, he was mistaken. Surely...

"Bold men," James said, his voice low and steady, as though he might startle Francis if he spoke too loudly. Yet, there was an unwavering certainty in his tone, like a mantra he'd rehearsed countless times. His hand settled lightly on Francis's knee, his gaze steady and unflinching. With deliberate slowness, his index finger began tracing faint patterns over the fabric of Francis's trousers.

Francis thought briefly of laughing, a reflex to shatter the hypnotic spell cast over him. But James's touch disrupted every coherent signal from his mind to his body. Francis exhaled heavily, granting James’s fingers free rein to continue their slow, deliberate movements.

"Beautiful," James added, and Francis furrowed his brow as if the compliment had overstepped the boundaries of common sense. James merely smiled, leaning in ever so slightly, just a few centimeters closer, his hand sliding fractionally higher along Francis's thigh.

Francis looked into James’s eyes again, searching for an anchor in their depths. But now he saw not only the flickering heat of desire but the gentler, steady glow of tenderness. That was far more dangerous.

"Rough," James finished, his voice soft, almost reverent. He lowered his gaze to the marks his index finger had left on Francis's thigh. "Like the cliffs of the northern sea," he added quietly.

"So, you won’t tell me which part?" Francis asked, forcing his voice to stay steady. He acted as though he didn’t realize what was happening, as though he hadn’t been pushing this boundary further every day. James lifted his gaze to meet his eyes.

"I will, if you want me to," he replied plainly. Francis somehow knew he didn’t want to tell him—not really. If he did, he would have said it already, no silly games. Francis shook his head slightly, a faint smile spreading across James’s face as his finger traced the fabric of Francis's thigh once more.

James stood up, and for a brief moment, Francis thought the moment had passed. Maybe James would offer him tea, ask if he could come again tomorrow, say his goodbyes. But instead, Fitzjames dropped slowly, putting all his weight to one leg, to his knees in front of him, so close that Francis's knees brushed against James’s chest. James met his gaze, serious as he was during rehearsals, his eyes dark, almost hungry. His hand slid higher up Francis’s thigh, the warmth of his touch following the same path to Francis's groin.

"James, what are you doing?" Francis asked, his breath catching in his throat.

All the young dancers he’d been with—they’d never really wanted him. They wanted to be fucked, craved attention, maybe some fleeting benefits from the action. Some were just drunk. But James wasn’t drunk, was he?

“I, uh… I want to…” James stumbled over his words, keeping head low, only dark hair visible. Francis could feel his hot breath on the inner side of his thigh. “I want you to enjoy it as much as I do,” his hand was sliding up to the fly, stopping just a few centimetres away. James raised his head, meeting Francis’ gaze just for a second. His lips were pressed thin together as he searched for words. Francis suppressed the groan. This view alone would be enough for him to spend in his pants, hadn’t he been restraining himself with every ounce of strength. His prick pressed against the fabric almost painfully now.

“This doesn't commit you to anything” James continued, so quietly that Francis could barely hear him through the pounding of blood in his ears. “And if you don’t want to, it won’t change my opinion of you…”

"James," Francis said, as if his words alone could make James see the gravity of what was unfolding.

"I know you're not like this... and you might enjoy it more if I were a woman, but..." James was mumbling now, his words tumbling out with as he had a gun pointed to his head. Even though his voice was shaking, his hand still reached Francis’ crotch, pressing on the distinctly expressed bulge.

"If you tell me to stop, I will.” James faltered, his voice wavering as if the weight of his words had caught up with him mid-sentence. “I'll do whatever you say, as I always try..."

“James,” Francis interrupted. “Stop talking.”

The weight of James’ palm on his agonizing body was heavy enough to deal with the words right now. James froze before him, so close now that he almost fully fit between Francis' legs, his shoulders brushing against the fabric of his pants.

It's been two shitty years. He could allow himself something he wanted for once. If a young man desired him—whatever questionable reasons lay behind it—why not let it happen? Right, fuck it.

He placed his hand over James' fingers, still rested on his crotch, and slowly moved it upward, towards the button of his pants. He could feel the tension ease from James' shoulders as the young man let out a shaky exhale. Fitzjames' long fingers quickly unzipped the fly of his pants, fast enough to keep Francis from questioning why James would do such a thing at all. Was it a strange way to show gratitude for the care? Was he bored? Or was it an odd attempt to lure Francis into the theatre's drama, to be used later? He looked and James, who’s fingers dived into unbuttoned pants. The same James who had looked at him gently and smiled softly just a few hours ago. Francis wanted to lift James' face, to reassure himself that look was still there, but the warm dry hand quickly took over his thoughts. James made an approving grunt as his fingers squeezed the delicate skin of Francis hardened cock. Francis leaned back, pressing harder to the palm of the hand.

God, it felt too good. Had it always been this good? It had been too long for him to remember. He’d been drunk most of the time anyway. Now, with his mind clear, the touches felt sharp, like the edge of a razor blade.

"Oh, it’s gonna be a problem," he thought, just before disconnecting from reality entirely. He struggled to keep up with the rhythm of James movements. They were confident and precise now, revealing how skilled James was, stroking Francis at his full length. Francis breathed heavily, like someone who had just run a marathon, his entire body frozen in a sweet, taut tension.

"Francis," James' voice dragged him back to reality as his hand pulled away, the action almost feeling like a cruel joke. Francis blinked, struggling to focus and met James' foggy gaze. "Let me..."

James hands pulled Francis pants down to his thighs, making Francis to squirm awkwardly in the armchair. He looked up at Francis, his cheeks flushed, look almost confused. He bit his lower lip, as if wanting to speak but unable to find the words. Before Francis could respond to unsaid confusion, James pushed his hair behind the ears and lowered his head, covering Francis’ cock with his mouth. The wet and hot sensation made Francis flinch, exhaling loudly. James grabbed Francis outer thigh, squeezing the soft flesh almost painfully as hid head moved up and down. He did it with diligence and intensity, putting in the effort as he did on stage, Francis realized.

“James, you’re so good, fuck—” He muttered, his voice raspy, drawing a suppressed moan from below. By the way James’ lips tightened around his prick and the pace became more strained, James craved it. Of course, he was. What a sweet boy he was, he wanted to tell him but choked on air. Francis ran his fingers through James' hair, a first for him. It was so silky and smooth that he chastised himself for not fixing that stray lock earlier that evening. James let out a muffled moan as Francis pressed his palm onto his neck, making him move faster.

“James, fuck, you’re…”

He ought to tell him how wonderful he was. He must know the way he makes Francis feel. Still, Francis couldn’t say a word, gasping for air and squeezing James’ tense neck that moved too fast now.

“James—”

For a moment, it felt as though he'd been shot in the head, all sensation draining away. Then, in the next instant, a wave of heated pleasure surged through him. He felt a comforting warmth of James’ mouth for just another few seconds before he moved away. Francis felt bare and cold but couldn’t move, still pressing his head against the back of the chair, closing her eyes.

Fuck.

He didn’t see if James swallowed the spent or spat it out, he couldn’t even open his eyes until he felt the grip on his thigh loosen and the hand withdraw. He locked eyes with James, whose lips were swollen and pink. James lightly touched his mouth and gave Francis a hesitant smile before attempting to stand up. Francis hurried up to extend his hand to help James but before he managed to put his pants back on and cover his dick, which now was lying on his thigh almost shamefully, James was already standing, gripping the sofa for support.

“You alright?” Francis asked, trying to zip his pants slowly with a semblance of dignity. James met his gaze with a look of confusion, as if he had forgotten for a moment that Francis was still there. He shifted his weight, wincing slightly as he moved his injured ankle.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” James replied, offering a smile that didn’t quite match the look in his eyes. “You?”

Francis nodded, still seated in the armchair as though he were rooted to it. Should he get up? What would he even do? Kiss Fitzjames? Hug him? Maybe just a pat on the shoulder?

“I need to tidy up. I’ll be back in a moment,” James said softly and walked toward the bathroom, moving with a slight unsteadiness. When the door closed and the sound of running water filled the room, Francis let out a muffled groan into his hands.

Shit. Fuckin A, Francis.

His mind raced, the weight of the event sinking in without needing words. Something profoundly wrong had just happened. It was like hitting something with a car—sitting there in the driver's seat, feeling the absence of movement beneath the wheels, knowing it was bad but unable to make it real. His body reacted before his mind caught up. He knew he'd fucked up. His chest tightened, a dull ache spreading across him, as if the reality was hitting harder than he could handle. What should have been confined to his thoughts now stood before him in full, vivid color. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the reality of James—his presence, his touch—was far more thrilling, far more intoxicating than his mind had ever dared to imagine. He’d hit something, and he was far too scared to get out of the car and face the consequences. Like those who can’t bear the weight of what they’ve done, he had to run.

He needed to leave. He needed air before the tight grip around his chest paralyzed him completely. He got up from the chair, still stained with the memory of what had just happened, and passed by the bathroom, where the water was still running. He paused for a second, a bitter thought flickering through his mind. "Bold man, as if." He knocked on the door, his heart pounding.

"Yeah?" James called, turning the water off.

"Everything’s fine?" Francis asked, pressing his forehead to the doorframe.

"Yes, I’ll be out in a minute." James’ voice was steady.

A long silence followed. Francis fought the urge to ask, Why the fuck would you do that? but stopped himself, the words twisting in his throat.

“Look,” he said, his voice flat. “I need to go now.”

He could’ve come up with a polite excuse, a lie of some kind, but his mind screamed at him to leave, like a fire alarm blaring in his ears. On the other side of the door, James fell silent for a several seconds. No movement.

“Alright,” James said, his voice devoid of sadness or confusion. "See you tomorrow, then?" he added, his tone unchanged.

“I’ll text you." Francis managed to say, forcing the words out.

“Alright,” James repeated, the sound of the water turning back on following his words. Francis fled, slipping out of the flat without facing the fear that had taken shape—a thirty-year-old man with the silkiest hair he'd ever touched and the darkest eyes that had ever looked at him.

He didn’t show up at Fitzjames' the next day. He didn’t text him either. Francis dealt with his failures in the only way he knew best: isolation and whiskey. He texted Ross, saying he was feeling unwell and wouldn’t come in until the end of the week. Ross replied, he though Francis was already on vacation. He sent Jopson off to rest and settled into the kitchen, facing the bottle of whiskey with a clear intention: to drink until his physical discomfort surpassed his emotional one.

It was a sort of celebration of the new low Francis had managed to hit. He couldn’t keep his hands off the bottle, couldn’t keep his tongue in check when he should have. Now, edging toward fifty, he realized he couldn’t even keep his dick in his pants. For such accomplishments, a drink seemed well deserved.

James hadn’t text anything that day either.

The problem was, now that he had tasted James’ touch, Francis would never be able to walk away from it. He’d crave it—those touches, confident and tender all at once. He’d want to explore him, feel his hands on his skin, his lips on his mouth. And Francis knew himself too well. He wouldn’t stop.

Inevitably, James would be disappointed. Francis wouldn’t be the bold, beautiful and rough like some fucking cliff anymore—just the perpetually displeased, aging man. James would see him for what he truly was, no matter what illusions he had now, and that would be the end of it. And only Francis would want to be with him as much as he did now. Francis knew this, and knew it would be better to jab the sharp sting of a broken bottle into his eye socket than to endure that again.

James would be disappointed in him. Perhaps it had happened the moment James had started unbuttoning Francis’s pants. Or maybe it was happening now, as Francis had run away, leaving James vulnerable and alone to wonder what he had done wrong. “You’re not unlovable, Francis. You’re just making yourself so hard to love,” Sophia had told him in the heat of one of their arguments. She was a smart, experienced woman who knew when to step back from Francis. James was young and naive, but he would eventually reach the same conclusion.

The worst part, Francis realized—after nearly four glasses of whiskey—was that he really had started to like Fitzjames. Not just his body or image, but the way he looked at Francis, how he calmly handled his jabs, how he brewed the best tea, how he spoke a little Chinese and Russian, and how he smiled when it wasn’t expected. They could have been friends, albeit unequal ones, but Francis wasn’t unfamiliar with that. They could have worked together and easily helped each other bring their ideas to life. But now, all of that was ruined.

Well, never mind, thought Francis, taking a sip of his fifth glass, no longer distinguishing his own thoughts from the whispering of the alcohol. You’re not that bad, after all. Fitzjames liked you so much he climbed onto you. Francis smirked to himself. Yeah, right. And now what? Fitzjames is barely thirty, you’re almost fifty. What’s he going to do with you in five years? Ten? James has his whole life ahead of him, and there’s no moral reason to ruin it, if he’s even twisted enough to want to spend the rest of your life with you.

Somewhere between his sixth glass and “stopped counting,” Francis collapsed onto the couch. He considered the armchair—better to avoid choking on his own vomit in sleep. That was too grim a fate, even for him. But the armchair reminded him of Fitzjames, of the way he’d folded his legs beneath himself, sitting on the floor next to Francis. The couch it was, death be damned. He lay back, the glass still clutched in his hand.

Sleep came fitfully. Vivid images flickered through his mind, half-dreams that yanked him awake at intervals. The clatter of the glass hitting the floor. The pale rays of sunrise slipping through the open curtains. The insistent buzz of his phone.

The dreams were cruel—shifting from Fitzjames passing him in the hall without a glance to the warm press of lips on his own. From unanswered calls to texts that read, “Will you come tomorrow?” A twisted demo reel of what was to come.

Eventually, Francis dragged himself off the couch, nauseous and trembling. He gulped down water with shaking hands, his stomach twisting in rebellion. His phone buzzed again from where he’d left it on the kitchen table, the sound making him flinch. Somehow, he already knew who it was.

The message glowed on the screen:

Fitzjames:
Ok, I know how that sounds but please hear me out

Francis stared at it like it wasn’t real. The dots appeared, signaling another message on the way, and he dropped the phone as if he was ambushed. After a moment, he picked it back up, nausea rising up as he bended.

Fitzjames:
I found a recording of the ballet you directed with Ross. I’d like to watch it together.
Just that

Francis groaned aloud. Reality was worse than any nightmare, and Fitzjames had made it unbearable without even knowing. The messages now showed as “read.” The typing indicator blinked on and off a few times, then stopped. Francis stared at it, transfixed, like a child watching Peppa Pig.

Fitzjames:
Maybe tomorrow or this weekend, if you’re up for it

Crozier inhaled sharply and began typing.

Francis M. Crozier:
I’m going to visit my family in Ireland this weekend. A birthday.

Fitzjames:
Alright. I see.

Instant reply. No typing bubble. Nothing. Francis stared at the screen, willing something else to appear. He took a deep breath.

It’s gonna be a problem.

Francis M. Crozier:
do you want to go with me?

It’s gonna be a big fucking problem.

***

James studied his reflection in the mirror, narrowing his eyes. Something wasn’t right. The white T-shirt—neither too loose nor too tight—looked fine. The grey cashmere cardigan, slightly oversized, hung just right. Sure, ballet dancers and cardigans were a cliché, but he liked it, and it wasn’t as if Banbridge, Ireland, demanded business casual. His hair was meticulously styled side part that now felt too precise, too deliberate. That was it. He cared too much.

With a quiet sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, tousling it just enough to feign nonchalance. Not that the effort mattered—by the time he stepped off the plane in Belfast, the wind and travel would undo it all anyway.

He’d been doing fine the past two days, or at least he’d convinced himself he had. A carefully cultivated indifference had carried him through. When no word came from Francis the next day—after “the event,” as he’d begun calling it—something sharp and unsteady lodged itself deep inside him. He shoved it aside before it could take hold. After all, how bad could it be? Worse than before the injury? Unlikely.

Still, doubt crept in. Had he rushed things? Probably. Did it matter? Not really. What was done was done, and he’d gladly do it again if given the chance. The future was a distant, foggy thing, and he avoided looking at it too long. The past was worse. He refused to revisit yesterday—refused to linger on the heat of Francis’s breath so close to his skin, on the feel of fingers slipping through his hair. The way he said his name.

No. It was fine. When you stumble, the worst thing you can do is freeze. Letting the world see your hesitation—that was the real failure. If you trip, you regain the rhythm, rejoin the dance. James knew the routine by heart, knew how to keep moving even when the steps faltered.

So that day, he applied the useless ointment himself, went through the motions of Goodsir’s dull exercises. Foot rotations, endless and tedious. He carried on as though nothing had changed, until the night betrayed him. Sleep refused to come. He lay awake, touching his hair, trying to summon the memory of Francis’s hands, the sensation of it—but it was useless.

Did Francis despise the whole thing? James doubted that. And yet, the thought crept in, unbidden: if he were a woman, perhaps it would have been easier. Maybe Francis wouldn’t struggle so much to accept what James offered. But he wasn’t. And he wasn’t some timid, delicate thing either.

If Francis didn’t want this, he could have just said so. It wasn’t as though James had expected a proposal, for God’s sake—though, by all accounts, Francis didn’t seem to have much trouble proposing in certain other situations.

After a sleepless night, James sent the message. Yes, he’d tripped again—so what? The answer to it came in Francis’ short text: “do you want to go with me?” James stared at it with the dumbest smile ever appeared on his face. Sometimes you just fall in the most graceful way, right?

James swore he was on his very best behavior: no lingering, mournful looks in Francis’s direction, a carefully maintained ten-centimeter gap between their legs on the flight, and not a single ill-timed joke to make things awkward. When they met at the airport, Francis barely acknowledged him at first, his eyes bloodshot, his movements sluggish. Hungover, no doubt—and, judging by his expression, already regretting the invitation.

Francis scanned him head to toe with an unreadable look. “Give me your bag,” he said abruptly. “Stanley’ll kill me if he knows.” Without waiting for a response, he grabbed James’s far-too-stuffed leather bag—the kind no one in their right mind would pack for a one-night trip—and hoisted it with a grunt.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Oh, wow,” James managed as the cab dropped them off in front of the large, two-story brick house after a half-hour ride. “It’s a proper house!”

He couldn’t explain why, but he hadn’t imagined Francis growing up in a place like this—not luxurious, but spacious and tidy. The lawn was perfectly cut, the bushes trimmed, and at least three cars were parked neatly by the garage.

Francis glanced at him with what might have been the first genuine smile he’d offered all day.

“Yeah,” he said casually. “And I have twelve siblings and fourteen nieces and nephews, by the way.”

James looked at Francis, waiting for the joke to be finished, but instead Francis hefted their bags and strode toward the house.

“You what?” James asked, frozen in place as he took in the size of the house—at least six bedrooms, judging by the exterior. Realizing Francis might not be joking, James hurried after him as quickly as he could without risking another ankle sprain. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Maybe fifteen nieces and nephews,” Francis added offhandedly. “If Charlotte’s had her new one by now.”

James barely had time to process the thought as they reached the front door. The noise from inside spilled out even before Francis turned the knob—a chaotic symphony of laughter, clattering dishes, and overlapping conversations audible from the street.

Francis didn’t bother knocking. He simply pushed the door open.

“No one’ll hear you knocking,” he explained, stepping aside to let James in.

The entryway revealed glimpses of the commotion—a lively gathering unfolding in the room to the left, the faint clatter of dishes and voices coming from the kitchen ahead. But the only figure immediately visible was a dark-haired toddler sitting on the floor, surrounded by a collection of shoes.

“That’s Jim,” Francis said flatly, as if introducing a colleague, while removing his own shoes, much to the baby’s apparent fascination.

“Hi there, little guy,” James said, crouching slightly to smile at the child, who stared back at him with wide, unblinking blue eyes. The toddler didn’t break eye contact as he stuffed a shoelace into his gummy mouth with perfect, toothless determination.

“Should he be doing this?” James turned to Francis, raising an eyebrow.

Francis gave him a look, then glanced back at the child, shrugging his shoulders with a clear message: I’m not getting involved in this.

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” came a voice thick with an Irish accent as a man in his early forties breezed by, carrying some unknown dish from the kitchen to the clamor of the living room. “Building up immunity to bacteria, I suppose. Come on in!”

Francis shot James a meaningful look.

“Is it Francis?” someone shouted from across the living room as they began shrugging off their coats.

Two teenage girls peeked into the hallway before disappearing in a flash.

“It’s Uncle Frank—and some guy!” one of them squealed in a high-pitched voice that carried through the house.

James chuckled while Francis clenched his jaw, visibly suppressing a groan.

“Thomas or James?” came a question muffled by chatter. The girls’ heads popped into view again.

“No, the new one!” they yelled back, disappearing once more.

“We can hear you, dammit!” Francis bellowed, unable to hold back any longer. A burst of giggles echoed down the hallway in response as the chatter in the room continued.

“Sorry about that,” a woman in her fifties said as she emerged from the living room. She looked strikingly like Francis—same features—but shorter, with longer hair streaked with gray. “This family needs to learn some manners. Welcome, James. I’m Jane.”

Before James could respond, she pulled him into a hug. He stiffened for a moment, caught off guard, but relaxed quickly as she gave him a smile. She smelled of cinnamon, bread, and wine.

“Frank, dear,” she said, turning to Francis and planting a kiss on each of his cheeks. He scowled but didn’t protest. James couldn’t help but smile, imagining a much younger Francis enduring the same routine as a boy. He had no elder sisters—or any sisters at all, for that matter—and the thought of such unabashed affection was a strange, almost foreign concept. It must have felt nice.

They stepped into a spacious room where half the area was dominated by several tables pushed together, piled high with an overwhelming array of food. The air hummed with conversation and laughter, as more than twenty people of various ages filled every corner—some seated, others standing, a few casually leaning against the walls. The clinking of forks against plates, the lively chatter, the scents of diverse dishes, and the general buzz of the crowd could disorient some, but not James. He prided himself on entering any crowded room with the unshakable confidence of someone ready to conquer it—a skill nothing, not even Francis’ presence, could shatter.

At the far end of the table, James’s gaze landed on an elderly woman in a grey wool jacket. She was about eighty, her eyes clouded with the veil of near-sightedness almost all old people had, and her hands trembled slightly as she moved her knife and fork. Yet her back remained as straight as a soldier’s, and everything about her presence suggested that nothing in this house happened without her knowledge. James would have recognized her as Francis’s mother without effort, though he had never tried to imagine her before. Something about her presence, so resolute yet tender, made James’s heart tighten unexpectedly.

“Evening, everyone,” Francis announced with a polite smile, raising his voice just above the chatter. Then, louder, he called, “Hi, Mom!”
His mother’s lips curled into a fond smile as her blurry eyes searched for Francis’s figure.

"Everyone, this is James. My colleague," Francis said, taking a clumsy breath before adding, "and a friend." He glanced up at James and he smiled softly, nodding as though he were standing on stage, acknowledging a crowd he couldn’t possibly address individually.

"James...well, everyone," Francis finished with a weary exhale, as though the words had taken more effort than they should.

“Hi, James!” the group chorused in a disorganized burst, their voices overlapping chaotically but somehow pronouncing his name in the same strange, endearing way Francis did.

Francis leaned in closer to James, his breath brushing against his ear as he whispered, “Don’t bother trying to remember the names—you’ll never manage.”

James resolved right then and there to learn every name, down to the last lace-chewing child or a neighbour’s pet.

“So glad you boys made it! Sit down, eat first, all the chatter later!” called a warm, cheerful, slightly crackling voice om Francis’ mom, imbued with the gentle authority of someone well-practiced in managing gatherings.

Like the parting of the Red Sea, the crowd shifted, creating a path for Francis and James to take their seats. Clean plates and glasses materialized before them as if by magic, and James could feel the weight of curious eyes studying him with lively interest.

It was impossible to maintain any semblance of personal space with Francis among the crowd packed around the table, and James tactfully ignored the way their elbows and legs occasionally brushed against one another. He stole a glance at Francis, catching the subtle strain in his expression. Yet, despite it all, James felt a spark of exhilaration. His gaze roamed the lively room with the unrestrained curiosity of a child let loose in a candy store.

“Wine?” someone asked, leaning toward James.
“Yes, please.”
“We’re so glad you came!” a woman exclaimed, passing a dish toward him. “Francis never brings anyone around because he’s afraid we’ll embarrass him. Potatoes? Meat?”
“Yes, thank you,” James replied, smiling as he caught Francis muttering, “That’s right, I am.”
“And we made Pavlova, just for you,” another woman whispered conspiratorially, her smile playful. “Don’t tell George—he thinks it’s for his birthday.”
“Jesus, Sally,” Francis snapped. “Just because he’s a ballet dancer doesn’t mean he automatically likes Pavlova.”
“But I do! Really, I do!” James interjected, laughing, easing the tension. Sally, he made an effort to remember, beamed triumphantly at Francis, who rolled his eyes but said nothing.

James noticed that Francis’s glass was conspicuously empty as he exchanged a few quiet words with one of his brothers. Meanwhile, someone had unceremoniously plopped a heap of mashed potatoes onto Francis’s plate, which he was now painstakingly separating from his salad.

“Tell me when it gets too much, and we’ll make our excuses to the hotel,” Francis said, his voice low.

“No way I’m leaving before I get that Pavlova,” James replied with a grin. “But don’t worry, I’ll behave.”

“It’s not your behavior I’m worried about,” Francis muttered under his breath.

James turned to him with a gentle smile, allowing the first sips of wine to lower his guard. Francis shot him a brief look before scoffing softly, as if some private thought had crossed his mind.

***

Two hours in, Francis was already ready to retreat to Belfast and lock himself in the hotel. He loved his family, and he enjoyed these gatherings, but they always became too overwhelming. You couldn’t sit there without someone striking up a conversation, but if you moved to another room, everyone noticed, as though the presence of twenty-something other people wasn’t enough. But James? He was thriving. Surrounded by almost all of his sisters, their spouses, and a few kids, he was in the midst of telling a story—a scene reminiscent of The Last Supper, but with more Irish faces and a better gender balance.

Francis retreated to the back of the room, leaning against the wall. He kept listening to the chatter, ready to step in if needed. Finally, he allowed himself a glass of booze, feeling the warmth spread through him, while keeping an eye on Fitzjames and counting his wine consumption.

“So, how are the preparations going?” Margaret, the youngest sister, drifted over to James. He took a sip of wine, buying himself a few seconds before responding.

“It’s a lot of work, but Francis is doing a great job putting it all together.” He glanced at Francis, giving him a look that seemed to say, See? Best behavior.

“Is he a strict director?” Jane asked, ignoring Francis’ loud exhale. “He’s always been so serious about that, even with us. I’m kind of afraid to imagine what he’s like at work.”

“Well…” James smiled with practiced charm. “You can’t be a good director if you’re not harsh enough.”

A loud murmur passed through the group, Margaret asking, “Harsh? Even with you?”

“You can’t have favorites in ballet,” James replied cheerfully, lying through his teeth. Francis felt his stomach drop, his eyes locking with Fitzjames, who was pointedly not looking at him.

“Francis, did you bully the boy?” Jane exclaimed, adopting her elder-sister tone. Francis felt like a child who’d just ruined a new pair of trousers while playing football, meeting her gaze as she turned toward what appeared to be the new Fitzjames contingent.

“He’s not a boy,” Francis protested. “He’s thirty.”

James flashed a grin, all teeth.

“That’s not how you were raised,” Jane said, giving Francis a serious look.

“You said you were born in London—you’re English?” John interjected, his voice cutting through the conversation. Francis frowned, instinctively bristling. Asking a question like that in a house full of Irish people wasn’t outright rude, but it certainly wasn’t inviting. John’s gaze flicked to Francis, the silent expression on his face clearly adding, no favourites in ballet, right? Oh yes, they were brothers – Francis did this shit all the time.

The room fell silent, a collective pause as everyone turned to James. Francis tensed, ready to jump in with some half-baked response to deflect the attention, but James remained composed.

“I’m actually half Portuguese and half English,” he said with a casual smile, and the room erupted in a chorus of ooohs.

“Really?” Francis asked, raising an eyebrow at James while the others shifted their focus to discussing the best Portuguese dishes. James nodded with a grin.

“That wasn’t in your file, hm?” he said through his glass, still smiling. “Why would they even have those?”

Francis endured the dinner, the singing of Happy Birthday, and even managed a decent toast before he started to withdraw. But as soon as he mentioned leaving, his mother interrupted with a firm declaration: “Absolutely not! I haven’t even spoken to James properly. Your childhood room is just fine for both of you.” And that was that. At that point, James was thoroughly drunk, though he had behaved as promised, and Francis, too tired to argue, gave in without a fight. He can manage another few hours, can’t he?

“Can you even eat these? Uncle Frank says ballet dancers don’t eat shit!”

“Language, Simon,” Francis snapped, shushing the teenager.

Retreating to the far end of the table as the night wore on, James and Francis found themselves among the younger crowd, the memories of Francis’s last-party trauma still fresh. Fortunately, the little brats weren’t paying him any attention this time. James plunged his fork into the dessert with a satisfying crunch.

“I can, but in moderation,” James replied, with the precision of a children’s TV host. “Which, you know, can be difficult. But you know what I love more than sweets?” He paused dramatically, much like Dora the Explorer on screen. “Mashed potatoes!”

“Me too!” Linda, a six-year-old, squealed with excitement, finally finding her moment to contribute. “I love mashed potatoes!”

“Right!” James grinned, and Francis couldn’t help but smile too, watching the child beam with pride at her ‘correct’ answer. “And when I was in St. Petersburg, where I was cold and alone, mashed potatoes were the only thing that brought me home.” The children grew quiet, hanging on his every word. “So I ate them so much that my ballet master used to say,” James switched to a thick Russian accent, “‘Come on, James, why so much potatoes? There’s no ballet about Kolobok yet!’”

Laughter erupted from the kids at the harsh expression James pulled and his spot-on accent. He smiled, satisfied, and took another spoonful of dessert.

“What the hell is Kolobok?” Simon asked.

“Language, Simon,” Francis muttered wearily, but his gaze was locked on James, scrutinizing him, trying to peel away another layer of this man. Surely, it couldn’t all be just for show.

James smiled, unruffled.

“Oh, Kolobok? It’s a living ball of dough… or a round bread, with a face but no limbs.” He spoke quickly, as though hurrying to explain. “He leaves home to have an adventure, but eventually gets... cannibalized.” He smiled at the older teens, Natalie and Daniel, who seemed to get the joke more easily than the younger ones.

Harry, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. “He wasn’t cannibalized, though,” he said, his tone thoughtful. Francis had always thought Harry was the smart one, at least he wasn’t spotted eating shoelaces in his earlier age.

James tilted his head, genuinely interested. “Hm?”

“Cannibalism is when one eats another member of their own species,” Harry explained patiently, taking bite of dessert. “And Kolobok wasn’t eaten by another ball of dough, right?”

James’ expression shifted as if he was genuinely considering the correction. “You know what?” he said. “You’re absolutely right. He was eaten by a fox. Recognizing your mistakes is the first step toward improvement.” He raised his glass with the last few drops of wine in it and, for some reason, looked at Francis.

Francis held his gaze, not knowing why he couldn’t look away. Slowly, he sipped his whiskey, the silence stretching until it became uncomfortable.

“Do you want some?” James said, glancing at the Pavlova with a teasing note in his voice. “I know it’s for ballet dancers only, but I think I can make a deal with you.”

Francis shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Oh no, eat it. You deserve it,” he said, his voice softer than intended. He felt an unfamiliar stirring in his chest as their smiles seemed to sync in some unspoken way.

How much easier it would be for him if James messed this up—if he said something inappropriate to a relative, got too drunk, made a scene, or simply became an uncharming puppet for the evening. That would break the spell. Yet, he found himself trapped even worse and somehow not even cared about it.

“Oh, James! I know! Let’s do a TikTok dance!” Mary exclaimed, waving her phone in front of him. James blinked, caught off guard—the first time that evening he'd been genuinely confused.

“Since you’re a real dancer!” she added, clearly expecting a yes.

He glanced around at the other kids, then back at her, offering a faint smile. “Well… I’m not sure how to dance to that.”

“What’s the point of being a dancer, then?” she complained.

James chewed his lip, considering how to respond.

“A man’s got an injury—let him be. Anyway, where are your parents?” Francis intervened, his voice taking on a commanding tone as the children scattered away from James to form a new circle. James gave him a small smile, his focus drifting back to the dessert he absentmindedly poked at.

As the crowd began to disperse, and the few who had earned the stay for the night in exchange for cleaning got to work, Francis finally exhaled, his tension lifting. Standing at the sink, he dried dishes with a towel, watching as his mother conversed with James in the now quiet living room. She took both of his hands, speaking to him with a methodical intensity, while James listened closely, his expression serious, his head slightly bowed toward her. The two of them looked like conspirators, but Francis hesitated to interrupt.

For a brief moment, he turned his attention to the dishes, and when he looked back, he caught James’s eye. The man had already risen, and there was an unmistakable upset in his posture. Though the dim light and distance made it hard to discern, Francis though he noticed tears in James’s eyes. His mother squeezed James’ hands one last time before letting go.

“Are you ready to go?” Francis asked, trying to catch James’ eye again.

“I’ll be out for a few minutes. I’ll be right back,” James replied, quickly heading toward the hallway. Francis watched him leave with a sense of unease.

“Hey, Graham, what’s mum been saying to him?” Francis asked quietly, turning to his brother, who had just emerged from the living room carrying a tray of dirty cups. Graham, the youngest, still enjoying the privilege of his own room despite his age, glanced toward their mother before shrugging.

“I only heard the usual motivational mantra,” he replied, his brow furrowing slightly. “Strange, isn’t it?”

Their mother had a habit of doing this. When they were children, and there wasn’t enough time to go around, she’d take one of them by the hands, look them in the face, and speak a few words of quiet reassurance. The words changed, but the ending was always the same: “You know you’re special, aren’t you? What a joy it is to know you.” Francis looked at his elderly mother, now on her feet, picking at crumbs on the table that only she could see.

“I haven’t heard that since I was a kid,” he muttered quietly.

Graham nodded, setting the cups down by the sink, much to Charlotte’s displeasure, in charge of washing.

“It’s odd to say that to a grown-ass man with a bright career,” she scoffed.

“When you’re eighty, thirty-year-olds seem like children,” Graham remarked.

Francis simply nodded, not wanting to continue the conversation. As a child, he’d always found those words meaningless, but for some reason, during the hardest moments of his life, they’d come back to him—her voice speaking them in his mind.

Francis entered his childhood room, the one he had shared with John for years before John left to study abroad. The space felt too small, and he couldn’t quite remember how they had ever fit two beds in here. Now, there was only one bed, and a mattress had been laid out on the floor by one of his siblings. He placed James's oversized bag beside the bed and his own next to the mattress. His back wouldn’t thank him in the morning, but at least he wouldn't wake up with a hangover. You can’t have everything.

He managed to pull off his shirt and was just about to put on a t-shirt when James stumbled into the room.

"Hey," James said quietly, giving him an unreadable look as Francis adjusted his shirt. Francis knew how he came across and had long since abandoned any efforts to present himself differently than he was. Take it or leave it. Still, the way James looked at him made him feel a little too exposed. James pulled a light blue pyjama from his bag and began undressing without hesitation. The leotards and tights he wore for ballet left little room for fantasy, but the simple act of changing clothes made Francis look away, as if something improper were unfolding.

“How’s your ankle?” Francis asked, finally moving toward the mattress.

“Honestly? I have no idea,” James answered, casting a glance at him from above. “I had too much wine to feel anything. But it’ll be fine. A few more days before we go back to the theatre.”

Francis nodded silently. He should be stressing about the upcoming production, not whatever this was.

“Thank you for inviting me,” James added, sitting on the bed—way too small for his frame. “Your family is amazing.”

“I bet they like you more than me now,” Francis scoffed, and James shot him a sly look.

“Actually, I’ve secured invites to Jane’s and Sally’s birthdays,” James said with a grin. “And Charlotte’s baby baptism. Maybe I’ll even become a godfather,” he added, his eyes twinkling at the thought.

“You’re not Non-subscribing Presbyterian, are you?” Francis laughed quietly. James gave him a challenging look before flicking off the light.

“Surely, I’ll figure something out.”

A dim sliver of moonlight filtered through the dusty window, casting long shadows across the room. Francis fidgeted on his mattress, restless, unable to find any comfort. James lay motionless on his side, facing the wall. Francis could feel he wasn’t asleep. The questions swirled in his mind, questions that had been building since the dinner, questions he knew would have no answer unless he asked them now.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Francis finally broke it, his voice a little rough.

"That thing your master at Maryinsky said… about Kolobok and all that? It was cruel, and absurd to say to you."

He could hear the faintest shift of movement, James turning toward him, and then, a soft laugh.

"Yeah, you're right," James said, the words coming slowly, as though he were carefully choosing them. "But he was fine otherwise. Most of the time, anyway. Taught me a lot."

Francis's chest tightened, a flash of anger burning behind his ribs. The thought of James making excuses for people like that, people who treated him as less than... It reminded him the way he acted, and the idea that James might think the same way about him made his blood boil.

"You need to stop justifying shitty behavior by pointing out the good they might’ve done," he said, the words sharper than he meant.

James was quiet for a moment, as if surprised by the sudden edge in Francis’s voice.

“I don’t let words that aren’t worth it sink in,” James replied, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. “But if there’s truth in them, then you can learn something. Doesn’t mean I believe everything I hear, just that I know what’s true.”

Francis’s mind flashed to a memory: Fitzjames, broken, sitting at his kitchen table, whispering, “You were right, it’s a farce, you were right,” while Francis had sat there, helpless, unable to stop him.

Francis pushed himself up, sitting upright on the mattress. His heart was pounding, the words he needed to say clawing at his chest.

“These people don’t know shit about you,” he said, voice firm. “And they have no right to belittle you. I stand by that, even with everything I said before.”

James gave a slight nod, but Francis could see the quiet struggle in his face.

"But you were right," James murmured, barely audible. "Even if you didn’t know it. Even if it came from a place of hate."

“I’ve never hated—” Francis began, but James shook his head, cutting him off.

"Remember what you said?" James's voice was low, shadowed by the darkness. "That I got my role through Barrow’s bed?"

Francis’s frustration flared. “Jesus, not this again…”

“I didn’t sleep with any of them,” James said slowly, as though each word was a burden. “I was lucky George Barrow just wanted to use me for access to parties with ballerinas, nothing more. I never liked the man, but I made him think we were friends, because I knew who his father was.”

Francis sat up straighter, raising an eyebrow as he regarded James. The memory of how much wine James had consumed that evening surfaced, and he figured that might be doing some of the talking now. “James, that’s just how the theatre works,” he said, his tone measured but firm. “Sometimes you have to play nice with people you don’t like. It’s part of the job.”

James swallowed hard and turned toward the window, the moonlight catching his face and sharpening its edges. The glow carved his features into something somber. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was lucky George Barrow never wanted anything more.”

He paused, his jaw tightening as if the words he was about to speak were a physical weight, dragging him inward. Slowly, he turned back to Francis, his expression hard and brimming with something close to anger—though not at Francis.

“But if he wanted to fuck me,” James said, his voice going unsteady at the last word, “I would’ve let him do it. No question about it.”

Francis recoiled, his stomach churning. The instinct to dismiss James’s words outright, to wave it all away with a simple “You’re drunk!” was strong—but he didn’t. Something about the rawness in James’s voice stopped him.

“James, that’s absurd,” he said instead, his voice firm but laden with concern. “You can’t blame yourself for something you haven’t even done!”

James’s voice rose, filled with an odd conviction. “I would’ve done it, Francis. If it meant I’d get what I wanted. I would’ve let him do whatever he wanted, just to get the fucking position!”

"Boys, shut up!" Charlotte's muffled voice came from the other room.

James lowered his gaze, his voice barely a whisper. “Shit, I would’ve done it to you, if I had to… if I hadn’t fallen for you so badly.”

Francis’s heart skipped a beat, but instead of responding something reasonable, he found himself smiling—a smile that he couldn’t quite control, even as James, sensing the shift, looked up at him with a gaze that was both serious and raw.

“You think that’s funny?” James asked, his voice trembling, as if on the edge of either an outburst or a breakdown. Francis shook his head, but the smile treacherously grew even bigger as he tried to hide it. “Are you mocking me?”

“Did you just say you fancy me?” Francis asked, trying to keep his voice low, even though he should have been screaming about it.

James tilted his head back, closing his face with both hands to suppress a muffled groan. Francis remained seated on the mattress, in his childhood room—a place that was never meant to host such significant events again, yet here they were.

"So you find this hilarious, don't you?" James asked, looking down at Francis with a serious expression, though his face softened just slightly.

"I find it wonderful," Francis replied, his smile gentler now. His mind was buzzing with so many questions—why? Why me, out of everyone? But for now, his thoughts felt clearer than ever. "I’m coming up."

He rose with a quiet grunt, cursing his knees, and moved to sit beside James, who remained still, watching him intently. There was something in James’s expression, a flicker of apprehension, though Francis couldn’t quite place it.

“I shouldn’t keep pulling you into this without your consent,” James murmured, his gaze skimming Francis’s face. His eyes were slightly hazy, softened by the warmth of the evening—the wine, the laughter, the sheer intensity of the night. Perhaps it was that lingering heat, Francis thought, that had loosened James’s grip, allowing these words to spill out unchecked.

Francis raised his hand, hesitating for a moment before gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind James's ear. His fingers lingered near James’s ear, and he felt a soft, imperceptible lean into his touch.

“There it is,” Francis whispered, drawing James closer. Their lips met, a kiss that felt more like an exhaled breath than an act, soft and hesitant. James tasted faintly of red wine, with a lingering sweetness, powdered sugar perhaps, from the dessert he’d claimed was his favorite. Or was that simply him? Francis wasn’t sure, but he needed to know.

When he pulled back, it was only a fraction, just enough to see James’s face.

James’s tongue traced his lips, eyes focused on Francis. “What’s ‘it’?”

“My consent,” Francis answered with a quiet smile, his voice laced with something tender. “For whatever you decide to pull me into next.”

James’s eyes fluttered, his lips curling into a smile that seemed to light up his whole face. Francis found himself momentarily frozen, unwilling to break the moment, even for another kiss.

“Does that mean you feel the same way I do?” James asked, his voice barely audible, his lips barely parting.

Francis leaned forward, his mouth finding James’s once more, pressing softly against the smile that had captivated him.

“Does that answer your question?” he murmured against James’s lips.

James, his voice barely a whisper, replied, “I’m not sure I got it. Can you do it again?”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Chapter Text

“God, look at that one,” Dundy said aloud something any other person would have whispered, once again.

James pulled his gaze from the distant figure of Francis at the entrance to the theatre hall, the outlines of his stout frame barely distinguishable but somehow endearing. Francis was talking to James Ross, who stood tall, arms elegantly crossed over his chest. They were laughing. What were they laughing about? James frowned, then glanced at Dundy, who was eyeing the orchestra pit from the stage with the same predatory look a snake might give a bird’s nest it’s about to pounce on.

“Who?” James asked.

“He’s like a lost lamb,” Le Vesconte continued, avoiding the question entirely. “Do you think he cries during sex?”

James rolled his eyes, offering silent condolences to the relatively new members of the orchestra, who were caught in the crosshairs of Dundy’s not-so-subtle scrutiny.

“God, and I thought Hodgson was miserable,” Dundy added, his gaze never leaving the musicians, who were busy chatting and tuning their instruments.

“You do know they might hear us…” James began, suddenly recognizing the mischievous glint in Dundy’s eyes. “Wait… you fucked Hodgson?!”

Dundy’s grin spread wide, but he only said, “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Bullshit,” James retorted. “You shag everything in sight, and you never stop yapping about it.”

Dundy made an exaggeratedly indignant face, which only made James bite back a laugh.

“Well, you won’t tell me anything about you and Mister ‘He’s-Probably-Straight,’” Le Vesconte added, casting a quick glance at Francis, tearing his eyes away from the musicians for a second.

“There’s not much to tell,” James shrugged, doing his best to hide a smile. Francis must have felt the weight of James’s gaze because he looked up and waved. James returned the gesture with a smile. Dundy let out a long, dramatic sigh.

James wasn’t lying, though. The closest he and Francis had come to anything resembling intimacy was that night at the Crozier family house. Yet, that episode had ended with Francis’s quiet, yet raspy breath in James’s ear: “I am not having you for the first time in my childhood bed with half of my family next door, alright?”

Fair enough, James thought. Still, the thought of what might have happened that night had spiraled in his mind relentlessly over the past six days.

After leaving Banbridge, everything had accelerated like they’d been sucked into a hurricane. Francis was called to the theatre right away to meet with the art direction team, communications, and human resources. That left James with just a day and a half of solitude before being called in for another injury evaluation not just by one doctor but all three of them. He was released from the doctor’s office with a bandage he was supposed to wear during every physical activity, strict orders to show up for physical recovery every goddamn morning at 9 a.m., and even stricter instructions that he could dance, but under no circumstances was he allowed to jump for at least a week. How the hell he was supposed to dance without jumping remained a mystery. Dr. Stanley, however, had offered a succinct solution: “Or you could do as you please and jump if you’re ready to end your career a little sooner.” How much sooner, he hadn’t bothered to clarify.

Of course, there were moments when James and Francis managed to steal a taste of each other. A quick kiss, a fleeting touch on the back in the empty dressing room, a firm grab of Francis’s hand on his ass just before they rushed out of the bathroom for yet another meeting. But nothing more. First costume fittings, stage arrangements, second fittings. Even if he had been allowed to dance properly, there was no time for it. James wanted both—to dance and to be touched by Francis—yet, neither was within his reach. Not yet. His patience grew thin and only the trainwreck of upcoming premier distracted him from his desires.

“Who cleaned the stage?” Francis’s voice sliced through the hall as he dragged his shoe across the floor of the stage, inspecting it. Jopson muttered something in his ear.

“Mr. Hickey, what were you thinking?” Francis snapped. “It’s not a skating show. Why is it as slippery as ice? Unless you’re planning on having the dancers break their necks, kindly redo your work.”

The short, nimble man offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and nodded. “Sure, Mr. Crozier.”

Francis looked up at James, his eyes trailing slowly, scanning him from head to toe. James wasn’t wearing anything unusual, nor did he look particularly different, but the way Francis’s gaze lingered on the exact spots his hands had wandered just days before made James’s knees threaten to buckle.

There was no way he could hide how much he wanted Francis—hell, everyone probably saw it. Miserable, really. But at that moment, he didn’t care. As long as Francis saw it too. And judging by the way his pupils dilated, he absolutely did.

“Sir,” Jopson’s quiet voice broke the spell. Francis had been staring at James for too long. Crozier licked his lips and finally tore his eyes away.

James didn’t. He kept his gaze fixed on Francis. How dare he look that good in a plain shirt and jacket, with just the faintest hint of light stubble on his face? That stubble—it would prick the skin in the most maddeningly delightful way, brushing against his neck… or, even better, against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

Oh no.

James quickly turned his eyes away, only to meet Dundy’s gaze, his poorly concealed mocking smile.

“Sarah from communications wanted a quick chat with you about a quote for the press release. While the stage is taken,” Jopson added with careful precision.

Francis frowned. “Haven’t we done that already?”

“That was for the website announcement. This one’s for the media,” Jopson explained. Francis’s expression darkened even further.

“Fine. Gentlemen, finish your costume fittings. We’ll start staging in an hour. Pass it along.” He addressed James, Le Vesconte, and Gore, who lingered in the shadows behind the stage.

“James,” Francis said with a polite nod before turning to leave.

“Francis,” James replied, nodding back.

“God, it was painful,” Dundy declared once Jopson and Crozier had left the stage, giving James a consoling pat on the shoulder.

James opened his mouth, ready to fire back with something sharp, but Dundy was already leaning over the edge of the stage, peering into the orchestra pit.

“Hey, hey!” he called out, catching the attention of a dark-haired young man with big, sad brown eyes framed by lashes so absurdly long that James felt a flicker of jealousy. The man looked around, clearly hoping Dundy was talking to someone—anyone—else.

“Yes, you, trumpet boy!” Dundy grinned. “Hi, what’s your name?”

The guy clutched his trumpet like it was a lifeline, mumbling something James couldn’t make out from where he stood.

“Nice to meet you, Edward. I’m Henry Le Vesconte, but you can call me Dundy. All my friends do.” Dundy’s voice dripped with charm, the kind that could probably talk a snake into giving up its skin. James sighed, recognizing the start of yet another one of Dundy’s acts.

“Dundy, come on,” James muttered.

Le Vesconte raised a hand to silence him, never taking his eyes off his prey.

“Do you play in Don Quixote tonight? You do? Really? Well, I dance Espada—you know, the matador. Yeah. No, of course you can’t look at the stage. Even though you won’t see me dance while playing, I could still dance for you tonight. How about it? Maybe I’ll show you some moves later, and you can show me how that trumpet of yours works. It’s not just about blowing into it, right?”

“Jesus,” James muttered, quickly making his exit, hoping to escape before the conversation veered even further off-course—only to find himself cornered by the costume designer in the corridor.

James stared into the mirror as an elderly dressmaker fussed with the waist of a snug-fitting jacket, pinning the fabric here and there. The garment—a modernized doublet in deep blue with golden embroidery—clung to him like a second skin.

“Oh, you look lovely! A real prince!” the old woman exclaimed, straightening with a groan.

James offered her a polite smile. He supposed he did look nice, but nothing stirred within him as he studied his reflection. It was as if he were looking at someone else entirely. These costumes they always gave him—tight-fitting, baroque, endlessly ornate—they all blurred together. Whether he was dressed as the Mouse King, Siegfried, or Mercutio, they somehow felt the same.

His female counterparts had all the luck, he thought. Their wardrobes were far more diverse—colorful saris that clung to hips, thighs, and chests, or flowing, sheer dresses that seemed to float around them. Silky and smooth, those must have felt incredible against the skin. He cut off the flow of thought before it could arrive at any definitive conclusion.

Before heading home, James took a detour from the dance studio to the exit, winding his way through the offices of management. It was well past ten, and he hoped Francis—likely buried under a mountain of approvals and arrangements—would be alone. Jopson would probably still be there, of course, but the chance to steal one last glance at Francis before leaving was too tempting to resist. He knocked on the doorframe, resting his head on it, as Francis looked up from the laptop. His eyes were red and the hair was a mess, all his sight screaming that a man needed his rest. Still, he offered James a tired but genuine smile. Jopson was not there, although his things were still on the desk.

“No luck getting out of here before midnight?” James asked, strolling into the office and settling into the chair in front of Francis.

Francis grunted, shaking his head.

“I have no idea what any of this has to do with being a director,” he sighed. “We’ve only got two weeks left, and these guys can’t even get the stage set up properly.”

He paused; his blue eyes of arctic ice colour warm somehow. They say the ice in the Arctic is melting, alright.  “How are you?”

James crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair.

“Ah, you know. Physiotherapy, comms asking me to post on Instagram, costume fittings,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Honestly, I can’t wait to get back to real rehearsals. Even if you’re going to hate my acting, at least I’ll get to be near you.”

James felt his dignity slip away at that moment, vanishing without a trace. He leaned forward, instinctively placing a hand on Francis’s knee. Francis jolted, as if shocked by electricity, his body stiffening in response. The memories of such a gesture seemed to linger, unspoken, in the air between them. Oh, please, Francis, tell me I’m not the only one who’s longing for this. Don’t make me say it again. Francis took James’s hand from his knee, cupping it gently between both of his, meeting his gaze with an intensity that sent a shiver through James. Then, with a dry, quick kiss, he pressed his lips to the palm of James’s hand—a simple, gentle gesture.

“Thomas can get back any time now,” Francis muttered, his breath warm against James’s skin as he tried to warm the hand in his.

James mumbled in response, his voice distant. “There’s no one in the restrooms on the ground floor near the canteen. It’s for staff only, and almost everyone’s left.”

How lucky James was not to know his ancestors—if they could see him now, they'd be screaming from the heavens and hell alike. He didn’t care. All he could think about was those wide hands on his back, his ass, the weight of Francis pressing him down, kissing him so roughly that no makeup could ever hide the aftermath. These fingers, which one might describe as decidedly non-aristocratic in their thickness, James knew were just right for him. Others could think anything, but James knew these fingers would be so good on him, inside him. They would fit perfectly in him. His mouth watered, his body responding like a Pavlovian dog. Francis shook his head faintly, squeezing James’ hand once more, and James struggled to let a disappointed cry.

“James, I’m not that bendy to make it worth doing in a toilet,” Francis said quietly, his fingers now tracing circles on James’s knuckles.

“I’m bendy,” James smiled, though a hint of whine crept into his voice. Please, please, I’ll do everything myself, just—please, Francis. He stopped himself from crying aloud once more.

“James.” Francis’s voice was firm as he let go of James’s hand, replacing it with his palm against James’s cheek. “You’re not listening. I am not having you for the first time in a dirty fucking toilet,” He frowned, licking his lips, his gaze briefly flickering to James’s mouth, as if considering something. “I won’t.”

“Oh, come on, Francis. I’m not a lady, or royal blood,” James began, the words tumbling out faster than he could stop them, his cheek pressing into the warmth of Francis’s palm.

“Yes, but you’re so much more.” Francis’s eyes darkened, his tone shifting from soft and gentle to something hotter, more definitive. “I want to study you properly, James. I want to know which spots on your body make you moan and which ones make you shiver,” His thumb brushed over James’s lower lip, coaxing his mouth open in response. “I want to attend to your needs properly, the way you deserve. Can’t have a pretty boy treated any other way, right?”

With Francis’s voice now raspy and heavy, James couldn’t help but wonder what kind of effect the man next to him was trying to achieve. Because if it was meant to deter James from the idea of getting pounded by Crozier as soon as possible, it had failed spectacularly. Francis pulled his hand away from James’s face, leaving James to exhale in quiet disappointment.

“You’d better attend to those needs soon enough,” James quipped, his tone light but betraying the truth behind the words. “Before they start dragging down my already lousy performance.”

As with most of  jokes, this one was only partially a joke. Francis shot him an unimpressed look, likely concerning James’ evaluation of his performance.

“Tomorrow. At your place—it’s closer to the theatre,” Francis said after a pause, his voice low as faint footsteps echoed in the hallway.

“Tomorrow,” James echoed, standing and getting ready to leave.

Francis leaned closer, his breath warm against James’s ear. “Think you can hold out without touching yourself until then?” he whispered.

James’s face burned, his composure threatening to slip just as Jopson stepped into the office.

“Mr. Fitzjames,” Jopson greeted, his brows furrowing in mild confusion as he watched James make a hasty retreat.

“Thomas,” James replied with a curt nod, walking briskly past, his cheeks flushed a deep pink.

***

James walked from the kitchen to the bedroom. He tossed the decorative pillows off the bedspread, only to place them back again. Why did he even have these pillows? Not knowing what else to do with them, he marched back to the kitchen with exaggerated purpose.

Should he start with a romantic dinner in a situation like this? The premiere was just two weeks away, which meant a strict and clean diet for all the dancers. Steamed chicken breast and lemon water? Hardly the foundation for a romantic evening. Maybe he could order something special just for Francis? He’d be arriving from the theater late at night, probably without having had dinner.

James forced himself to stop pacing the apartment with intensity of a man possessed, made himself to break free from another spiral of pointless thoughts. His gaze fell on the phone screen, where a brief message from Francis, sent ten minutes ago, glowed softly: “I’ll be in 15 minutes.”

It was almost eleven at night. James began biting the inside of his cheek, unaware of what he was doing until his reflection in the hallway mirror caught his eye.

Where was this nervousness coming from? Was it simply because he had thought about it too much? James’s mind cruelly dredged up yesterday’s teasing remark from Francis—“Think you can hold out without touching yourself until then?”—and even now, James’s ears burned at the memory.

There was nothing to worry about, he told his reflection. He was young, attractive, and confident in his ability to please in bed. Francis’s closeness to his body was unlikely to reveal any shocking new truths. Well, maybe just a few details. James pressed a hand to his right side, just below his ribs, and stared defiantly into his reflection. The mirror returned his gaze with the same stubborn intensity.

With a sigh, James walked to the kitchen again and poured a bit of dry red wine into a glass. It had been sitting there for days, half-forgotten. He poured just enough to avoid feeling terrible during tomorrow’s rehearsal – a real one, finally – but enough to calm his nerves.

This wasn’t about appearances—his or Francis’s—though the thought of discovering Francis’s body more intimately excited James more than he cared to admit. The real issue lay in the suffocating doubts that always accompanied intimacy, doubts he knew far better than intimacy itself. What if he was rushing into this, craving Francis’s touch only to feel nothing but emptiness afterward?

He had learned that emptiness all too well. The feeling when a sweaty, sticky body slid off him, mumbling meaningless words of admiration, while he stared at the ceiling, hollow. It wasn’t the fault of those other people—it was his own problem. But if he placed the weight of solving it onto Francis, he risked ending up in the same place again: lying in bed, his vacant eyes tracing the patterns of the ceiling while the sound of someone else’s breathing filled the silence. Maybe if could figure out what exactly was wrong with him in these five minutes, he and Francis could be something entirely different? A knock on the door brought James back to reality. James gulped down the rest of the wine and hurried to the door.

“They let you go alive,” James smiled as he opened the door to let Crozier into the apartment.

Francis let out a barely audible chuckle, briefly turning away from James to hang his jacket on the coat rack.

“I had to make my escape under the cover of night. Hopefully, there was no tail,” he said, finally turning back to James with a grin that revealed the small gap between his teeth—a feature that gave the older man’s face a roguish, almost boyish charm.

James smiled back, but the expression came out strained, something he chastised himself for instantly. Francis’s grin faltered, replaced by a faint furrow of his brow. His gentle gaze lingered on James’s tense face, studying it carefully.

“There’s something…” Francis murmured, his hand gently brushing against James’s lips. “Looks like a lipstick stain,” he added, his expression one of intrigue—something James couldn’t quite decipher.

“Oh,” James said, barely audible. It must have been a stain. From the wine. He didn’t own any lipstick—he’d only tried it once or twice, and the red had looked ridiculous on his thin lips, he thought. Francis’s gaze lingered, studying James’s lips as if he were seeing them for the first time.

James opened his mouth to explain that it was wine, when Francis spoke again, quieter this time.

“It suits you.”

The air seemed to vanish from James’s lungs, leaving a vacuum in its place. His chest tightened, and inexplicably, his eyes watered. Any fears he had, disappeared the moment Francis’s lips touched his. He felt like home.

James felt the commanding kiss from Francis deepen, pulling a soft, almost plaintive moan from his lips. Francis's arms encircled his body with a firm grip, arching him backward in a way that made James feel as though he might lose his balance.

For a fleeting moment, he felt weightless—small, delicate—forgetting his own height, the hard angles of his body, and the solid muscle beneath his skin. Their shared structure, the precarious equilibrium of their two bodies, swayed slightly, unable to rely solely on Francis’s stability.They broke apart, James stumbling awkwardly as he landed on his nearly healed leg.

Francis shifted his electric gaze from James’s face to his leg, as if silently asking a question. His breathing was heavy, and his soft, light hair was disheveled in the most attractive way James could imagine.

“It’s fine,” James whispered, realizing he was also struggling for breath. He swallowed hard. “The bedroom’s that way.”

Of course, Francis already knew where the bedroom was. He’d been in James’s small apartment often enough to figure out that the door next to the bathroom led there. Francis placed a steady hand on James’s back, just between his shoulder blades, his grip broad and encompassing.

“Let me,” Francis said softly, guiding James’s hands to wrap around his neck. James, bewildered, stared at Francis as his palms rested against the firm column of his neck.

Before James could fully process what was happening, his feet left the floor. A sudden rush of realization hit him—he was being carried. James nearly let out a startled yelp at the unexpected motion, but Francis held him firmly, his grip unwavering. Step by deliberate step, Francis moved slowly in the direction James had indicated, carrying him toward the bedroom.

“Stop, Jesus! I’m heavier than you think,” James said, suddenly breaking into laughter.

Francis, though flushed from the effort, showed no real sign of strain. Instead, he shot James a playful look, his expression teasing but steady. James felt an odd mix of emotions—awkwardness, amusement, surprise, and a spark of exhilaration, as if he had just discovered an entirely new flavor or color.

“You’re not heavy at all,” Crozier replied, clearly lying. “You are perfect. Besides, Goodsir was very clear—no physical activity unless absolutely necessary.”

They finally reached the bedroom, and with a dramatic exhale, Francis set James down on the bed.

“But it’s absolutely necessary, I wager,” James whispered, his laughter fading into a thrill as he pulled Francis down onto him. The weight of the man settled perfectly, pressing him into the mattress, making it almost too difficult to breathe.

“Seriously, Francis, don’t try to impress me—I’m already impressed. Because if you pull your back, this production will have two cripples, which is too—”

Francis interrupted him with a kiss. It wasn’t diluted by laughter or wit, nor was it rough or greedy. It was gentle, brimming with tenderness and —love, James thought, though he wouldn’t have dared name it. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the unspoken words carried in that kiss.

“…too much,” James finished breathlessly when their lips parted.

“You talk too much,” Francis murmured against James’s neck, his hand slipping beneath James’s T-shirt.

“I thought I was perfect,” James tried to laugh, but the sound wavered, betraying his nerves. He needed to shut up, to relax, but instead, tension gripped him—even as the warmth of Francis’s touch spread over his skin like a balm.

James’s hands wandered aimlessly over Francis’s back, the firm muscle giving way to softer sides. Hot under his touch, he wondered in his agonising mind if there were freckles scattered across Francis’s back, hidden beneath the layers of shirt and undershirt. Would they reveal themselves in the dim light of the dark bedroom?

The thought stirred something in him. James imagined himself on Francis’s lap, legs wrapped securely around his torso, his own neck arched just so—a pose that had driven past lovers wild. The familiar mechanics of seduction tugged at him, and he began to move, hands instinctively seeking the buttons of Francis’s shirt, preparing to sit up and perform.

But before he could, Francis pressed him gently but firmly back onto the mattress, halting him mid-motion.

“Don’t, James,” Francis’ voice was low and steady, his breath hot against James’s jaw. “I said I would take care of you—and I mean it. Let me.”

James felt a surge of thick, searing warmth spreading through his body, as if carried by a hundred tiny electric currents radiating from the spot where Francis’s lips brushed his cheekbone. He instinctively arched his hips, pressing against Francis’s frame hovering above him. His now fully hard prick was pushing into Francis’ thigh.

Francis’s words alone were enough to cloud James’s mind, as though he had downed vodka on an empty stomach. Fingers deftly hooked under the hem of James’s shirt, tugging it upward. The sensation made James eager to shed the restrictive fabric, and he quickly pulled it off, letting it fall away without hesitation.

His hands roamed Francis’s shoulders, fumbling to reach the buttons of his shirt, but were gently intercepted by firm, confident resistance.

“James,” Francis said as if his name held more than just a tragic yet ordinary backstory. His hand caught James’s restless fingers, pressing them firmly against the mattress. James almost moaned in frustration, despite his body betraying him with a tremor.

"I want to see, Francis, please," James heard his voice as though from a distance, greedy, unfamiliar and somehow vulnerable. Oh, how he was grateful to that voice, breaking through the layers of walls he had built around himself—even now. "Please."

"So eager," Francis mumbled, his voice growing quieter as he leaned down. "We'll have enough time for that. Not now, darling."

This voice, James realized, left no room for resistance. His hands stilled, resting on the bedsheet as Francis planted soft kisses onto his collarbone, chest, kissing his nipple briefly, which made James exhale loudly.

“Jesus, James, the way you look,” he heard, the words barely registering in his mind, lost in the haze of sensation surrounding him. He wanted to hold onto them, keep them under his skin, but his thoughts scattered as Francis’s lips moved lower, tracing his ribcage. His fingers hesitated for a moment, tracing the ugly scars on James’ left side beneath the arm, before gently gliding lower. “You are perfect.”

He was not! he wanted to confront, but had no willpower to move or to speak under the touches of Francis’ clever fingers. His cock was painfully stiff now, but it seemed Francis deliberately ignored it, making his own map of James body as a natural explorer. Even if James could, he wouldn’t speak up. Yet, as he learned by now, Francis would not leave him unattended.

“Francis, Francis,” he only managed to whisper, digging his fingers into soft blond hair. Francis hummed quietly and planted some more kisses onto James’s stomach and bellybutton. James wanted that mouth around his aching prick, fingers inside him without any delay, as he felt like he could lose consciousnesses any moment, melted under the kisses and touches that left no part of his skin untouched. He was trembling, moaning—not in the controlled way he usually did, but desperate. Was his face funny-looking at the moment? He wouldn’t know. But his legs were weak and cock was dripping shamefully, needing attention as much as James himself needed to steady his breath.

“Francis, please,” he surrendered, “Inside me, now”

“Is that a command? We’ve just started.” Francis raised his head, chuckling in a way James found maddeningly offensive. This was no joke to him with the control over himself gone now. James growled low in his throat and Francis pressed his lips to the jut of James’s hip bone in gentle reconciliation. “Alright, alright. Relax, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“It’s…” James started but choked on his own words as a hand brushed over his cock. He gestured weakly toward the bedside table, where the lube and condoms were. Past-James had been prepared and rational; present-James, undone and yearning, wouldn’t have minded if Francis fucked him into the mattress with only a spit instead of lube. The weight of Francis’s body pressing into his lap disappeared for a brief moment, and James felt the absence of it so deep, it almost made him weep.

Warm hands returned after long seconds, rubbing James carefully on thighs and stomach. “Let’s make you comfortable, hm?” James heard. The next moment, he felt his thighs being lifted. Francis slipped one of those stupid decorative pillows under his lower back. James couldn’t help but spread his legs wider, making a room for the diligent touches. It was too much now. He felt his body temperature rising, a thin sheen of sweat forming at the nape of his neck.

“Such a greedy thing you are, James. But I knew that already.” Francis said, squeezing James’ prick firmly. At that point, time and space ceased to exist for James. There was only touch and voice, all belonging to one man. It was as if he had slipped into a coma so sweet and consuming that he might never want to wake from it.

Francis’ finger, covered in lube, slipped into James, finally filling him up the way he dreamed of. James heard his moan as it was someone else’s, hot and desperate. He moved his hips towards Francis fingers, trying to get more of it, but that still wasn’t enough.

“You are so tight, darling” Francis said. His voice went unsteady, finally breaking. “You’ve behaved, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t want anyone but you, Francis. I only want…” James heard himself confess, his voice barely above a whisper, a precious secret meant only for the man above him.

The second finger went in, making James arch his back. The muscles of his body responded to the steady movements of Francis’ fingers.

“That’s a good lad,” Francis muttered. A hot wet mouth covered James’ dick, forcing him to let out a loud moan. He was still filled up nicely with fingers, opening him up for Francis.

“Is that how you like it?” Francis’s voice was raspy, almost breathless, as he lifted his head for a moment. In that instant, James knew—without a doubt—that Francis was enjoying this as much as he was. You’re so good for me, James wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. James wanted to see him, to see how Francis’s face looked between his thighs — probably flustered, his lips puffy and cheeks ruddy. But his body refused him; there was no will left to do anything but let out pitiful sounds and clutch the sheets tightly in his hands.

No way he could tell how much time has passed in this sweet torture, but James knew he wouldn’t last long. His past encounters, as he liked to call them, had always been well-coordinated —he could go on for hours, much to the delight of his partners and the satisfaction of his own vanity. Now, he could hardly keep himself together for another minute, he thought. Whether it was the movements of James’ body, all jittery now, or some intrusive mind-reading, Francis knew that as well. He raised up, taking fingers out of James. James protested incoherently.

“Breathe, James. Last a bit more for me,” Francis said, and James heard the rustle of clothes, pants coming off and a series of hurried movements, though he could barely make sense of them at that point. His mind was a haze, his vision blurred and struggling against the dim light. A fleeting kiss grazed James’ cheek, followed by the soft, deliberate sweep of a hand down his torso. His legs were lifted up to Francis’ shoulders, which brought him back to reality for a brief moment, even though he still could barely understand what Francis was whispering.

Slowly Francis pushed himself into James. Even though he was prepared, stretched out and eager, James gasped, squinting and clenching onto bedsheets.

“Does it hurt?” Francis stopped midmotion, his voice low and concerned. It did hurt, but in the nicest way. James shook his head, gasping for air. It was too long anyone had him so nicely, yet firmly. Francis placed his hands onto James hips, squeezing the tight muscles as he increased the rhythm.

“You’re so good,” James heard Francis saying, but all he could focus on was the rough, hot, tight sensation in him. His whole body was vibrating with it, making him pressing his legs to Francis’ shoulders to keep going harder. “Such a sweet thing.”

James was a greedy man, no questions about it. He wanted Francis inside of him fully, no space left between them, even though the man above him was breathing heavily, barely catching up to James’ thrusts. He was a greedy man indeed, but he could be welcoming, too. He let Francis inside, open, no guard left and it felt so good. Too good to last long.

Suddenly, the knot in his lower belly and crotch was losing up, head going light and empty as he caught himself murmuring quite Francis, Francis. His muscles relaxed, as he spent all over his own stomach, probably soiling the fancy pillow beneath him. He didn’t care. He wanted Francis to come inside of him right that instant. Gaining back some of his consciousness, he wrapped his hands around Francis’ fingers, that still were holding James’ hips tight.

“Please, Francis,” he pleaded. The grip on his hips tightened, the trusts became unsteady and almost painful again. He heard Francis’ groan, beating James deeper into the bed. “Harder, Francis, please.”

Francis pushed into him two more times, gasping for air, before collapsing onto James. James felt the pulsation of Francis’ cock inside of him, but no pleasant filling sensation of wetness came. It was him, who placed the condoms, James thought briefly, angry at himself suddenly. One of his legs still rested on Francis’ shoulder, even as Francis’ hot, heavy body now rested on top of him. Francis buried his nose in the crook of James’ neck, mumbling something about James’ marvelous stretching and how he was too old for any it. James couldn’t help but smile. He stared at the ceiling, as he always did, but this time, instead of drifting into the darkness of his thoughts, a question slipped out before he could stop it—before he even realized he was asking:

“Is that how you treat all your partners?”

A stupid, self-centered question, James realized the instant it left his lips. Francis, still draped across him, shifted to roll onto his side. His shirt remained annoyingly in place – although now awfully wrinkled – while his pants lay discarded somewhere on the floor. James, in contrast, was completely bare. Francis looked at him, his expression edged with concern.

“Only the ones I care for. Why?”

“You’ve had a lot of men as partners?” James asked flatly, his tone devoid of warmth. What kind of conversation was this? It felt like he was deliberately sabotaging something kind and beautiful, though he couldn’t fathom why. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, determined to avoid the worried gaze Francis gave him.

“Not really,” Francis replied after a measured pause. “Those men were more like... brief encounters. One-time things, mostly.”

“Ladies, then?” James pressed.

Francis sighed deeply. “One.” His voice wasn’t irritated, but there was a quiet mourning to it. “The one I cared about.”

Shame flared hot and fast in James’ chest, spreading upward until it was choking him. Sophia, of course. Why had he dragged this into their moment? He closed his eyes, grasping for a way to steer the conversation away from the dead end he’d led them to. But Francis, it seemed, read James’ silence as something else. He placed his palm gently on James’ bare chest, synchronising in steady rise and fall of it.

“I didn’t mean it like I’m treating you like a lady—I know you’re not,” Francis said quietly, his lips brushing against James’ shoulder. “It’s just... how I show affection.”

James’ breath hitched, his chest falling still for a few seconds beneath Francis’ hand.  Francis must have felt the way James’ heart skipped a few beats.

“I...,” James said, his voice faltering. He finally turned his face to Francis to meet his calm and warm gaze. Damn these blue eyes. “I was never treated like that before. It was good.”

The words sounded far more vulnerable than he intended, and he braced himself for a look of pity from Francis. Instead, he just scoffed lightly. Francis’ fingers tapped on James’ chest lightly.

“I wouldn’t mind to move down between your thighs for a permanent residence. It’s quite lovely there,” Francis said, kissing this neck and shoulder again and again. James gasped in mock disbelief, shoving Francis in the chest, almost risking the older man tumbling off and starting down the road to a hip replacement.

“Francis!” he exclaimed. Crozier met his eyes, a wide, self-indulgent smile playing on his lips before he leaned in to press a warm kiss to James’ mouth.

Francis’ stomach rumbled loudly, causing them to break the kiss as James burst into laughter.

“Oh,” Francis said flatly, still smiling. James felt a tight squeeze in his chest. Crozier, caught up in endless preparations, likely hadn’t had the time for so much as a proper lunch or dinner, dedicating every moment to James that evening. “Do you have anything to eat?”

“Oh, yeah, but it’s not much. A chicken breast, some rice, all kinds of boring stuff, to be honest. I can order you something though, there’s a place...” James muttered, catching himself as he sat up.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Francis replied with a smile, stretching slightly with a loud groan. He wrapped himself in the blanket, only his head, with tousled hair, peeking out from underneath.

James smiled back and walked out of the room, grabbing his pants from the floor. When the simple meal was ready, he peeked into the bedroom, only to find Francis deep in sleep. Quietly, he crawled in beside him, hoping that Francis would stay the night, that they could share a coffee together in the morning before rushing back to theatre.

They did.

***

“Mr. Gregory, can we kill the top lighting?” Crozier’s voice thundered from the seats, sharp and commanding.

No response followed. Instead, a piercing front light flared on, striking James square in the eyes and leaving him momentarily blind. He turned his head, trying to meet Dundy’s and Charles’ gazes, but it seemed they were equally disoriented.

“General wash only, goddammit!” Crozier’s voice erupted again, a growl of frustration. Moments later, the lights shifted, dimming enough for James to blink his vision back into focus.

He rubbed his eyes, glancing down into the orchestra pit, which was packed with musicians, clustered like bacteria in a Petri dish. One particularly wide-eyed “bacterium” caught his attention—a trumpet player, staring at them with great interest, his trumpet squeezed in both hands. Not at them, James realized—at Dundy. Le Vesconte stood there like a bad omen, almost fully dressed in his Von Rothbart costume—a creation that seemed caught somewhere between a raven and a dementor.

The trumpet guy (Edward?) smiled and waved at Dundy, who responded with a sour smile.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Crozier. One moment!” came a faint shout from somewhere distant.

“What’s up with that?” James asked under his breath.

Dundy opened his mouth, clearly preparing to say something traumatising, but before he could, all the lights abruptly went out—stage, orchestra pit, and all.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Crozier’s voice, now a more like a growl, echoed in the darkness.

James exhaled sharply, trying to adjust his eyes. Crozier’s instructions came quickly: “No one falls into the orchestra pit! Slowly offstage! Mr. Gregory, what’s that?!”

The dancers shuffled offstage, moving cautiously and chattering quietly. With no phones to light the way, someone from the staff finally switched on a flashlight, the faint beam cutting through the chaos.

James reached out, locating Dundy by touch and, unmistakably, by the faint smell of cigarettes. They stood together near the glowing green "EXIT" sign, its light casting a hazy glow over them.

“You already fucked the trumpet guy? Didn’t you just meet him yesterday?” James whispered.

“Eh…” Dundy waved his hand dismissively. “We didn’t do it, if you must know. We kissed, and then he started crying before we even…” He trailed off, shaking his head with mock exasperation. “So, I figured he needed a pause, so he doesn’t, you know, get too overwhelmed or, worse, fall in love. God forbid.”

“So, Hodgson wasn’t enough for you? Can’t you stick to one at a time?” James asked, his voice low despite the shouting match now escalating between Crozier and the lighting team.

Dundy shrugged, unbothered. “Hodgson was fine, actually. Pretty good with his fingers. And he played some ABBA on his grand piano—did you know he’s rich? Like, really rich, his own apartment and the huge-ass piano. Also, he played some weird shit by Liszt. Made this face while playing—the same face he made when we were…” He paused, a flicker of something close to fondness crossing his expression. “Anyway, he also quoted the Odyssey in Greek and refused to let me fuck him on that grand piano, so he’s on the waiting list now.”

“What happened to not kissing and telling?” James asked, unimpressed. “You’re my best friend,” Dundy said with a grin. “You won’t tell anyone.”

“I can’t imagine who’d even want to know,” James muttered. James peeked out of the backstage to see the faintly illuminated orchestra pit with a bunch of flashlights of the phones. Hodgson wasn’t there, but Edward was. Poor guy. Le Vesconte looked over the orchestra with a deliberate gaze, too.

Dundy shrugged again, his expression implying that somebody might. “Besides, I wanted to try something different this time,” James followed Dundy’s gaze to the orchestra pit, where a tall man with a solid frame, messy wavy black hair, and a perpetually confused expression was holding a trombone.

“That thickness is painfully exciting—might be good for my soul,” Dundy muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.

“Have you always been like this?” James asked, half in disbelief, half out of genuine curiosity.Something beeped, buzzed, and suddenly the lights flickered back on. A man with a trombone exchanged a few words with Edward, half-laughing under his breath.

“I can dance to any music, if the mood’s right,” Dundy said, grinning.

“James!—” Crozier’s voice sliced through the air like a blade, but halted for a second. Dundy smirked. “James Fitzjames! Gore! Le Vesconte! On stage!” Crozier bellowed.

“Do you?” James deadpanned, already making his way back toward the stage.

“Oh, absolutely. There’s a specific kind of beauty in everyone if you bother to look,” Dundy quipped, bounding up the stairs.

“ON STAGE!” Crozier’s voice rumbled again.

Dundy flashed a playful grin over his shoulder as he disappeared toward the lights. “You, of all people, must know that.”

Dundy vanished into the folds of the curtains, leaving James standing a few steps shy of the stage. He paused, feeling energy bubbling within him, spreading through his body as he squared his shoulders and straightened his posture.

The music began to swell, rich and majestic, the kind of sound only a live orchestra could create. At Francis’s sharp command, the dancers moved onto the stage in a precise, flowing order.

James inhaled deeply, then exhaled, stealing a quick glance at Francis. His focus was absolute, his attention locked on the stage, orchestrating every movement with an intensity that made him seem untouchable.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, James centered himself, then stepped forward into the light.

He might not have been able to dance to just any music, but he had certainly learned how to move to this one.

Chapter Text

“Those who dislike ballet most likely have only seen bad ballet,” Francis couldn’t suppress a chuckle as he read the words aloud.

James groaned loudly from his spot by the kitchen counter as he poured tea into Francis’s cup. “Do you have to read it out loud? I’ve almost forgotten I said that,” he nagged, handing the cup to Francis.

Oh yes, Francis had his own mug now—decorated with a grumpy cat and the text, “I need my coffee meow.” James thought it was hilarious.

Crozier waved him off, taking the cup as he continued scrolling through the interview on his laptop. “Hush. Where was I—ah, yes: ‘…most likely have only seen bad ballet. A journalist: What exactly is bad ballet? Can Swan Lake be bad?’”

James dropped onto the couch next to him, his expression as sour as a lemon.

“‘James Fitzjames laughs, and believe me, his laugh is contagious.’” Francis snorted. “Jesus, is this reporter in love with you?”

James groaned again, slouching into the cushions as Francis pressed on.

“‘Of course,’ he replies, ‘classics have to be relevant. Otherwise, they’re either not classics or it’s a lazy job adapting them. The audience needs to understand it, or we’ve failed.’”

“Correct,” James muttered, his voice dry as he closed his eyes and stretched his neck.

Francis glanced at him, hesitating briefly if he should drop the reading altogether, but curiosity won out. “The rambling about the history of Swan Lake… blah, blah, blah… Ah, here we go: ‘And do you think this production will be relevant?’”

Francis grinned as he read aloud, “‘James Fitzjames: Well, even though the reason behind it was awful (John Franklin had to leave the director’s position due to health issues), this production got one of the most creative and talented directors I have ever…’ Jesus, James, you’re describing me like I’m some kind of genius.”

“Why not? You’re not bad,” James replied with a smirk, one eye cracking open to glance at him.

"Do you think so?" Francis grinned again, something warm stirred pleasantly in his chest. "Let’s continue."

James exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch.

"More compliments, alright… Journalist: an outside observer might get an impression that you and Francis Crozier didn’t get along. Have you changed your mind?"

Francis sighed heavily.

"It was you who wrote nasty things under my posts," James reminded him, though Francis had never forgotten his disgraceful drunken behavior. Now, he drank less—mainly because he had neither the time nor the energy for it. Almost every evening, he left the theater no earlier than eleven and headed straight to James's place, where more and more often, neither of them had the strength for anything other than collapsing into bed together. Francis thought with some relief that if Fitzjames didn’t have those grueling, hours-long rehearsal sessions, he might not have been able to keep up with the pace he himself had set. The last time, something had twinged unpleasantly in his hip, and though it eased quickly this time, Francis took it as a warning shot.

"Are you done?"

"Absolutely not."

Francis turned back to the screen, to the line where James was answering the question.

"I’ve always thought of Francis as a great professional and talent, and in that regard, nothing has changed. What has changed is that now I also appreciate him as a thoughtful and kind person, someone who has become very... dear to me."

Francis slowly read the last words, his gaze shifting to James. He was still sitting there with his eyes closed, head tilted back as if he’d fallen asleep. Without moving, he opened his eyes and locked gazes with Francis. Francis should have said something. Perhaps scolded James for his unnecessary frankness with unfamiliar person. Perhaps told him that no one in the world mattered more to Francis than he did. Perhaps cupped that weary, angular face in his hands and kissed him deeply, leaving no room for doubt or words.

“We should’ve sent Seline for the interview. She would’ve talked less nonsense,” James remarked, shifting his gaze to the ceiling. He stretched his legs out, digging his bruised toes into the plush carpet.

“GQ is a men’s magazine,” Francis countered, ignoring the jab about nonsense. For him, it was anything but nonsense.

“So? Then they should’ve asked you.”

Francis cast a measured look at James.

“But they asked you,” he replied firmly, his tone resembling the one that echoed through the theater during rehearsals. The PR campaign train for the upcoming premiere was hurtling forward with such speed that collateral damage was inevitable. Francis had already handled a dozen interviews and comments, pushing the glossy photoshoots onto James.  “Besides, I definitely wouldn’t have looked as good in just tights and a blazer.”

Francis grinned mischievously, turning the laptop screen toward James. On the photo, James sat perched on a wooden stool, wearing white footless tights with bare feet and a similarly bare torso, partially draped in an oversized blazer made of coarse gray fabric. He stared into the camera with dark, serious eyes.

James lifted his head and studied the image intently.

“They photoshopped my feet but left the wrinkles. Brilliant.” He snorted, leaning his head back again. “And I’d gladly see you in just a blazer, with or without the tights.”

“Not everyone is as debauched as you, James.”

James suddenly sat upright on the couch, as though an invisible force had shoved him forward. The sharpness in his gaze made it clear that the article would have to wait.

“Every time I give you a compliment, I hear this rubbish,” he said, his tone firm and unyielding. “I won’t let you belittle yourself.”

Francis stiffened but fought the urge to shift uncomfortably in his chair. Instead, he reached for the forgotten cup of tea on the table, letting his hands busy themselves with something other than fidgeting.

“James,” he began carefully, his voice steady, almost paternal, as he set the cup back down. The measured tone had often been enough to disarm James, to soften the edges of his frustration. But not this time. James’s dark eyes stayed locked on him, waiting.

“I know exactly what my strengths are,” Francis continued, deliberate and calm, “and my weaknesses too. Yes, there’s an imbalance to what we have. Pretending it doesn’t exist will only lead to the moment when those flaws of mine become impossible to overlook, and when that happens—” he gestured broadly, encompassing the room, James, and himself in one sweep of his hand—“all of this will shatter.”

James listened, silent but tense, his jaw tight. He bit the inside of his cheek, his head tilting slightly as though calculating whether Francis’s words deserved weight or dismissal.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” James finally said, his voice laced with unmistakable hurt. “You still see me as some Instagram fuckboy with a Starbucks cup in hand!” He slapped his thigh with enough force to make Francis flinch. “It is not fair, Francis!”

“There’s nothing wrong with posting on Instagram – I do it – or drinking Starbucks,” Francis replied, his attempt at levity thin.

“I don’t drink Starbucks!” James snapped, leaning forward slightly, his voice breaking. Then he stopped, held himself still for a breath, and leaned back, his posture straightening. James looked worn, the sharpness in his eyes dulled by exhaustion. This argument was as futile as it was unnecessary. They needed sleep—both of them. Francis needed to keep his mouth shut.

“Do you really think I don’t know who you are?” James asked, softer now but no less intent. “I see you, Francis. And I want you—just as you are.”

Francis laughed, a low, bitter sound that escaped before he could stop it.

“An old drunk?” he asked, his tone sharp. A crooked smile clung to his face, while his throat tightened. James exhaled, shaking his head as if warding off his words, but Francis could not stop.The words slipped out, like pus from a festering wound.

“I’m not young, James,” he said. “But my eyesight’s good enough to see exactly how I look—especially next to you. So, sure, maybe you tolerate my flaws for the sake of my so-called strengths. But don’t stand there and pretend that excites you. Spare me that humiliation.”

Francis felt the weight of unspoken words lingering on his tongue, but it was clear enough had already been said. James regarded him with that same perplexed expression he’d worn when Francis was drunk—a slight furrow in his brows, a deep wrinkle forming between them.

“That’s why you never…”

Fully undress? Francis knew the unspoken thought lingered between them, heavy and unresolved. A flicker of shame at his own foolish habits stirred uneasily within him, leaving him uncomfortable. If he cared so much about the lines on James’s face, he should confuse him less, shouldn’t he? He ought to be better even if he didn’t entirely agree with James on this particular matter.

“Do not pity me, James.” Francis said with a smile, offering peace. “You know well enough, that being with you is more than I have ever dreamed of. I am a happy man.”

The furrow between James’s brows smoothed, though his eyes still searched Francis’s face, probing for something unspoken. Without a word, James rose, his bare feet gliding soundlessly over the carpet, and stopped directly in front of Francis. His long fingers reached out and snapped the lid of the forgotten laptop shut with quiet finality.

“By trying to belittle yourself, you’ve accused me of dishonesty,” James said seriously. “In the 19th century, that kind of insult could have landed you in a duel.”

James’s sharp knee jabbed against Francis’s thigh, more pointed than playful.

“In the 19th century, we’d both have been hanged already,” Francis countered dryly. “Especially after the kind of interviews you’ve been giving.”

James’s lips twitched into a smile, his laugh a soft exhale. With a quick, deft motion, he plucked the laptop from Francis’s lap and tossed it carelessly onto the couch behind him. Before Francis could react, his own hands moved instinctively, settling with deliberate ease on James’s narrow hips.

James stood over him. The confident arrogance in his stance was a rare but dazzling transformation, one that left Francis momentarily disarmed. His hands rested lightly on James’s hips, unsure whether to hold him in place or let him drift closer.

“But you didn’t finish reading it, did you?” James began, his tone light, teasing, as though they were sharing a secret. “What do you think? Did I mention that my esteemed director isn’t just talented but also possesses certain physical attributes that drive me absolutely insane?”

James spoke without a trace of hesitation, his voice rich with heat. As he rambled, his fingers wandered—first brushing over Francis’s cheek, then into his fine hair, and finally settling at the base of his neck. The touch was deliberate but unhurried, his fingertips tracing the faint pulse beneath Francis’s skin.

Francis remained silent, his eyes locked on James’s face, waiting to see how far this little performance would go. James’s hand slid lower, his fingers slipping beneath the open collar of Francis’s shirt, exploring the skin beneath. Francis froze, his breath catching. Every nerve in his body seemed to focus on the warmth of James’s palm, the way it lingered, claiming the space as his own.

“Can you imagine?” James continued, his voice a low murmur now, as though narrating some absurd advertisement. “That my esteemed director refuses to share these particular attributes with me?”

“James, seriously?” Francis managed to choke out, his voice tight, caught somewhere between amusement and something far more vulnerable.

The touch of James’s hand was steady, certain, filled with a hunger that was impossible to ignore. It was intoxicating, yes, but terrifying too—because deep down, Francis feared the hand might falter, might withdraw at the first sign of protest. Francis protested so many times before, that this one might be the last. And he wasn’t ready for that.

“Picture it, dear journalist!” James replied mockingly, his grin sharp and wicked. “This man has absolutely no idea how badly I want to lick him down to the very last inch absolutely gorgeous body, staring from his tits and down to that nice belly….”

Francis choked on the air, his breath hitching as a flood of heat rushed to his cheeks. He had seen and heard enough in his lifetime to stop blushing a good decade ago, yet James spoke with such conviction it was as if he believed his words more than his own existence.

“James, you’ve lost your mind,” Francis muttered, the words barely audible, a last-ditch attempt at preserving some shred of decorum. “Did you hit your head when you injured your leg?”

It was a flimsy defense, more for show than substance, and James saw through it effortlessly. As if to underline his point, James hooked a finger around the top button of Francis’s shirt, deftly slipping it free. One button, then another—his movements unhurried, almost lazy, yet filled with an undeniable purpose.

“I’m just proving my case. You’re wrong, and I’m right,” James said with a sly smile. “But you said it yourself—you’re an old man. You get confused, don’t you?”

He grinned as he slipped his hand under the fabric of Francis’s shirt, easing it open and placing his palm against Francis’s chest.

James glanced up at Francis, his dark eyes flicking over his face. Whatever he found there—uncertainty, surrender, thirst or some blend of those—seemed to spur him on, his fingers quickening their pace, yet never losing their deliberate grace.

Francis sat frozen, his breath shallow as he watched the slow unraveling of his shirt, each button falling away with a soft, traitorous click. His mind raced, but his body betrayed no such conflict, remaining perfectly still under James’s touch.

There was something in the way James looked at him—a sharp, intimate intensity that made Francis’s heart lurch in his chest. And though he couldn’t know exactly what James saw in him, the younger man’s resolve only seemed to deepen. No, of course, he wasn’t some kind of monster. He knew his body type had been considered attractive to many, especially in his younger years. Age, however, was taking its toll. When he looked at himself in the mirror now, he no longer saw the sturdy athletic figure he once had, but rather a stout, thicker form, particularly in certain places.

But now, watching James looking at him as he was his first meal in a week, made him hot all over. The way James leaned down to circle his nipples with tongue, the way he moaned when he did it, it couldn’t be real. But his body begged to differ – it was very much real, and Francis couldn’t remember why on Earth would he deny these graceful fingers on his shoulders, chest and stomach. He must be confused old man, indeed. James paved a path of kisses from Francis’ neck to his hips, and back, biting the soft flesh gently from time to time, making Francis groan quietly. James’ body trembled, as he murmured something Francis couldn’t really make sense of.

“James, darling—would you mind taking care of that?” Francis murmured, his breath uneven. James smiled almost predatory and started unzipping Francis pants without any further instructions.

“Sure, dear. I thought you would never ask.”

“Tease,” Francis said, and James responded with a bright smile once more.

James sat down on the floor, a feeling of déjà vu ringing in Francis’s mind, as James put his mouth over his prick, with the same commitment he just explored Francis’ body. It was different this time, though. James moaned quietly, when Francis put his hand on James’ hair, stroking it with a light touch. Francis regarded it as a gift—one he hadn’t asked for, but one he was undeniably happy to receive, without any shame or doubt.

After they finished, James settled onto Francis’s lap, absentmindedly tracing patterns on Francis’s bare chest and shoulders. The world didn’t shatter, but instead, it seemed much more resilient, somehow. James’s gaze didn’t waver, only growing softer, more affectionate as he looked at Francis. Francis still diverted his eyes from the sight of his bare torso, but now he thought that maybe, with a teacher like James, he might learn to be less harsh on it.

“You do have freckles,” James remarked with a smile. “I can barely see them, but they’re there.”

He traced a spot on the back of Francis’s shoulder, and somehow, even this simple act brought a quiet joy to James. Francis couldn’t help but smile in response.

“They appear in the summer, if I spend time in the sun,” he explained.

“I can’t wait to see that,” James mumbled quietly, his voice becoming unclear.

Francis hummed in agreement, his mind wandering to an image of James by the lake near his childhood house in Banbridge. He’d probably be wearing some fashionable sunglasses and a ridiculous hat. It would be nice.

“It would, right?” James said, answering to Francis’ thoughts and Francis couldn’t tell if they were already asleep or not.

***

“Do you realize, guys,” Blanky began, his voice disarmingly pleasant as he leaned toward the musicians in the pit, “that we need to play this in THREE FUCKING DAYS?”

Francis nearly jumped in place.

“IN ONE PIECE! WITHOUT ERRORS!” Blanky bellowed, slamming his conductor’s stick against the music stand in front of him.

They managed to reach the beginning of the second act without incident. The troupe and the orchestra moved in perfect harmony, their synchronicity so flawless that it felt as though Francis were seeing the production anew, as if it were the first time. They had fought and argued endlessly, talked themselves into exhaustion, nearly losing sight of the purpose that had brought them all together. But now, as music, dance, and light merged seamlessly, it felt like finally savoring a meal he’d only ever been allowed to smell.

The girls performed flawlessly, every movement precise and elegant. He’d heard Sophia had been making her visits more frequent, planning to attend the final rehearsals. The mere thought made his palms sweat for reasons he didn’t have time to explain to himself.

The boys… well, he tried to focus on each of them in turn, but his gaze inevitably returned to James.

James had been fitted with a beautifully tailored costume—a mix of classical and slightly modernized design—with white tights and dark blue dance shoes styled to look like boots. He had complained earlier that the soft but tight bandage on his ankle, paired with the boots, made him prance like a goat.Francis didn’t see it.

“What the hell, Edward?” Thomas continued. “Where are you always looking? Is someone else conducting the music from the stage?”

Francis looked at the stage, where some of the dancers were trying to catch their breath, watching the trial beneath them unfold. Others chatted quietly, their voices a soft murmur against the tension in the air. James stood apart, near Seline and Le Vesconte—whose flowing cape and costume gave him a striking resemblance to a medieval Batman, though his face remained unsettlingly calm, purposefully avoiding looking at the orchestra.

James’s eyes were fixed on some distant point beyond the stage, his expression thoughtful, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he chewed absentmindedly. It wasn’t the first time Francis had noticed this habit of his, though he’d never mentioned it. Fitzjames would zone out whenever he wasn’t being spoken to during rehearsals, standing there on his healthy leg—another habit Francis had observed.

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again,” Edward mumbled.

“Thanks! Because if you want to watch the dancing, you’ll need to buy a ticket and watch it from the audience!” Blanky snapped. He jabbed his conducting baton toward the seats, where Francis sat. “Alright, everyone, focus, you can do better. Not you, Silna, you were perfect.”

Blanky turned to Francis, his expression suddenly shifting, as friendly and calm as if he hadn’t just erupted in frustration.

“We’re ready,” he smiled.

“Places, please!” Francis announced, rising from his seat. The dancers took their positions. James snapped out of his stupor and moved a few steps closer to Seline, his gaze focusing somewhere above Francis. He didn’t look at Francis, and Crozier didn’t let the treacherous sting of disappointment linger.

“Begin!”

***

“Did you change the choreography?” she asked in a whisper, her eyes never leaving the stage where Seline, dressed in a sleek black costume as Odile, danced a pas de deux with James.

Francis reluctantly tore his gaze from the stage, casting a quick glance at Sophia. The events with Franklin had clearly left their mark on her face, though she held herself with the unshakable grace of a ballerina: resilient yet delicate.

Francis had expected her presence to tighten his throat, to press on him like a knot.Yet instead, he felt a strange, light weakness fill him, like the distant echo of a beloved melody, tender and bittersweet.

“What?” he asked, his eyes returning to the stage.

James lifted Seline with effortless precision, almost tossing her into the air. She leaned into him as though their faces might touch, and for a moment, Francis’s chest tightened with the irrational fear that she might kiss him. But just as quickly, she broke away, flashing a daring smile as she spun out of his grasp.

“Did you change the choreography?” Sophia repeated, her tone perfectly measured. Francis couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or simply curious.

“Not really,” he replied, “Well… just a little. Actually, James did change something.”

When they returned to the third act a couple of days ago, Francis felt a wave of nausea wash over him. It was the point where they had abandoned rehearsals nearly a month ago. The memories of that last rehearsal hit him with the force of a hangover—he could almost smell the whiskey clinging to his skin again, feel the burning shame of everything that had followed.

"Do what feels right," Francis had told James the night before, though James hadn’t asked for his advice. James hadn’t sought his guidance, hadn’t looked to him for reassurance.

He had simply stepped onto the stage and done what he felt was right. And Francis couldn’t look away.

“A bit aggressive, isn’t it?” Sophia said thoughtfully. Perhaps she was right—James’s movements were rough, powerful, and almost twitchy as he entered the scene of betrayal. The choreography hadn’t changed much, but the delivery was raw, aggressive to a point that left Francis uncomfortable. Still, he knew how tender and painfully vulnerable the following duet with Siegfried and Odette would now appear.

“Why not?” Francis replied. “He’s in pain because he failed the one he loved.”

Sophia turned to him, her gaze lingering as if waiting for him to meet her eyes. He didn’t. These words might had been reserved for her once, but not now.  She returned her attention to the stage.

“Some might call it a bit too unconventional for classical ballet,” she remarked with a hint of cheekiness in her voice—a tone Francis hadn’t heard from her in ages. It felt like a curse breaking, as though something was shifting between them while they watched the dance.

“Some can eat shit,” Francis replied with a wry smile. He glanced at Sophia, gauging her reaction to ensure he hadn’t crossed a line. Starting a healing process by offending her would be unfortunate. “You don’t like it?”

“I do,” she said softly, smiling as she fell quiet for a moment. Then, after a pause, she added, “Seline said James was supposed to wear a bandage until the premiere. Has he fully healed?”

“He’s supposed to… wait, he isn’t?” Francis narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing James’s feet, clad in those fake boots, trying to spot any sign of discomfort.

“He isn’t,” Sophia replied with a gentle smile.

“That son of a bitch,” Francis muttered under his breath.

***

"Great, everyone! Whatever tomorrow brings, I'm proud of your work today. Get some rest," Francis announced, earning a chorus of smiles from both the dancers and the musicians. James gave him a distant smile, tilting his head slightly toward Le Vesconte, who, as always, didn’t seem to shut the fuck up.

Francis was on his way behind the stage, feeling a strong urge to touch James, even if only his hand, just to confirm he was real, that he was still his—just like he had said yesterday, that he was extraordinary. And, of course, to whoop his ass about the bandage.

Before he could close the distance between the seats and the stage, he collided with Blanky, who met his gaze in silence while clutching a music sheet. The dancers were exiting the stage.

"What, Thomas?" Francis exhaled, trying not to show his impatience. A phone buzzed in his blazer pocket, and he silently hoped it was James.

"Keep your man away from mine," Blanky said after a brief pause. There was no threat in his tone, but Francis had known Thomas long enough to recognise when he was deadly serious.

"What do you mean?" Francis asked, still searching the back of the stage for James’s figure.

“Some of your dancers treat my orchestra like a public library. But it’s not the books they’re after, if you know what I mean. That plague’s spreading like wildfire, taking my guys down.”

“It’s not like they can get knocked up, right?” Francis replied with a sneer. His phone buzzed again, followed by another vibration. Blanky responded with an unimpressed look.

“Anyway, how is that my problem if your guys don’t know how to keep it in their pants?” Francis asked, pulling out the phone from his pocket. Blanky widened his eyes.

“That’s rich, coming from you, Frank. Anyway, it’s not about dicks, it’s about hearts.” He said this with a certain philosophical expression, as though he were delivering some great truth. “And it will be your problem if I learn your fox is visiting my coop!” He tapped lightly on Francis’s chest with his conducting baton before stepping away. Francis tilted his head, wanting to make the point about such comparisons, but the phone’s screen in his hand lit up with yet another message. It was from Ross.

“Sir,” he heard from the back. Francis exhaled sharply and turned to Jopson.

"What is it, Thomas?" he asked, a faint sense of déjà vu creeping in as he set his phone down, his mind still racing with the determination to catch James before costume designers, PR managers or some unknown force could whisk him away into the labyrinthine depths of the theatre. "Have you seen James?"

“They’re having a photoshoot in costumes, sir,” Jopson replied with his usual calm. But Francis could tell, by the way he was looking at him, that something was wrong. He’d deal with it later.

“During lunch? Comms have no mercy.”

He glanced at the messages from his boss, before Thomas could answer.

James Ross:

“Don’t do anything stupid about those photos”

“Actually, don’t do anything clever either”

“I’ll be in the office in an hour to discuss”

Francis stared at the screen for a long beat. His stomach tightened. Jopson met his gaze, and Francis could tell Thomas knew exactly what the messages were about.

“What photos, Thomas?” Francis asked, his mouth going dry. Without any definitive reason, Francis felt the anger crawling up to his throat. Jopson gave him an apologetic look, as though he’d done something wrong. Francis knew he hadn’t.

“Thomas?” he pressed.

“It’s really nothing, Mr. Crozier.” Jopson hesitated, his voice faltering under the weight of Francis’s stare. “It’s an article in a tabloid, with rumors about you and Mr. Fitzjames. It was published late last night, and no one really noticed until social media…”

“Send me the link.”

Thomas obediently complied, though his body language screamed that he didn’t want to. A notification flashed on Francis’s phone screen. The Daily Star: “EXCLUSIVE: Behind the Velvet Curtains of the Royal Theatre – money, problematic behaviour, and age-gap romance.”

Francis’s fingers instinctively tightened around the phone, as if he might crush it. He had to tap several times to close the pop-up ads and other nonsense, missing the buttons a few times, before he finally got to the article. Beneath the headline was a photo of him from a decade ago, taken at some premiere, cropped and edited in Photoshop, placed next to an image of James, also a few years younger, smiling at the camera. The subheading read: "As the highly anticipated premiere looms, we delve deep into one of the UK's most mysterious theatres. What we uncovered will leave you speechless. Photos and insider info straight from an anonymous source."

Francis closed his eyes, feeling the blood thudding in his ears. He clenched his jaw until the muscles in his face tightened painfully, then forced himself to look at the phone again. Thomas stood beside him, his silence heavy, waiting for the inevitable reaction. The urge to march straight to the apartment of the tabloid’s author, to punch him in the face, burned through him, making it hard to focus. There was something about the theatre’s funding, the Ministry of Culture. Barrow, Ross, Franklin, himself. Fitzjames—the new theatre prime. Finally, his gaze landed on the photo.

The image was grainy, poorly lit. It showed him and James standing among the heavy maroon curtains of the stage backdrop. There was nothing particularly compromising about the shot—Francis, in his dark grey suit, standing a few inches shorter than James, who was dressed in his Siegfried costume. The difference in their appearances were almost comical. They were close, but the moment was simple—Francis’s hand resting on James’s chest, the other gesturing as he spoke to the younger man. James looked at Francis’ face, his head tilted slightly.

Yet there was something poignantly sentimental, almost intimate, about the photo. The warmth in the way James looked at him, the barely-there smile that tugged at his lips. The dim light caught their features in a way that felt almost artistic—like something from the old masters. Whoever took this photo was not lacking in vision. That made it far worse. Francis couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had crawled inside his mind, his body, his heart, and left a stain with their grimy boots, tainted something that should have remained untouched—something that belonged only to him and James.

Francis lifted his gaze to the empty stage, then to the wings where just days ago, he’d been explaining something to James—something he couldn’t even recall now. The photo hadn’t been taken from the audience but from backstage.

“Who did this? We have a strict no-photo policy during rehearsals,” Francis hissed, his voice sharp with irritation.

“We don’t know yet, sir. Mr. Tozer from security is looking into it along with the PR team,” Thomas replied. He said something else about protocols and legal actions, but Francis wasn’t listening.

His eyes locked onto the text beneath the photo.

"Despite the near-impossible odds of landing a premiere role, the current lead dancer ascended to his position just six months after joining the company. Initially, the new director Francis Crozier, replacing Franklin, seemed unimpressed with Fitz james’s talents. ‘The rehearsal room was constantly filled with shouting—Crozier couldn’t stand the way Fit zjames played his part. A couple of times, it almost came to blows, especially when Crozier had been leaning heavily on the bottle,’ our source reveals."

Francis clenched his jaw again, his teeth grinding together, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the words.

"However, being both a seasoned dancer and a skilled social operator, Fitz james soon found a way to address the issue. As our source reports, ‘At some point, everything changed. Crozier stopped calling him by his last name and started using his first. Anyone who’s been in the theatre long enough knows the best way to win over a director is to get under him and satisfy his carnal desires.’ What exactly a 45-year-old Francis Crozier’s desires might be is unclear, but judging by the photo, 30-year-old James Fitz james seems more than equipped to secure his director’s approval. This problematic behaviour is not unusual…"

Francis’s hands trembled as he gripped the phone, blood pounding in his ears. An acidic knot of anger, embarrassment, and disgust churned in his stomach, threatening to boil over into unrestrained fury. The source? Francis fought the urge to smash the phone, instead pressing a palm to his eyes until stars danced beneath his lids. James, he thought, anxiety twisting tightly in his chest. Francis shut off his emotions like a valve cutting off a pipe of boiling water. His expression hardened into a mask as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. He turned to Thomas.

"Where is the photoshoot happening?"

"In the big rehearsal room, sir," Thomas replied, standing a little straighter under the cool, composed gaze of his superior.

"Go to Mr. Tozer and tell him there are two sources," Francis instructed. "One took the photo. The other—someone from the company."

Thomas nodded, ready to proceed.

"And, Thomas," Francis added, halting him just before he turned to leave, "tell Mr. Tozer that if these people aren't found soon, the security team may have a more pressing issue on their hands—one that could involve doctors and the police."

He hadn’t meant it entirely that way, but the overwhelming urge to hit someone in the face had left a few doors slightly ajar.

Francis intercepted James just as he was about to leave the room, where dancers and photographers still lingered, flashes lighting up the air. Scanning the empty corridor briefly, Francis said curtly, "Follow me," and made his way toward the restroom. James, looking confused, complied.

"Are we back to hiding in bathrooms now?" he asked, strolling casually into the restroom. The costume was still on him, along with a light makeup that, unlike the usual stage look, was more subtle. "I thought I deserved more..."

He flashed a wide, almost cocky grin, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of something sad. He raised an eyebrow, tension in his posture, as Francis shut the door and locked it behind them.

“What’s going on?” James asked, his voice laced with confusion.

“I don’t want any more photos until they find the rat who did it,” Francis said sharply, finally turning to face him. The thought of James being dragged into the same breath as yet another scandal about some poor broad from a random reality show made him feel sick.

“Did what?” James’s brow furrowed, still not understanding. He looked absolutely lost now.

Francis froze for a moment, the weight of it all pressing down on him. Of course, James wouldn’t know—the no-phone rule during rehearsals that Francis had insisted on. James had fully supported it, even joking, “These costumes don’t have any pockets!” during an argument with Des Voeux, who couldn’t seem to resist posting every trivial thought on Twitter.

“What photos?” James asked again, his voice more tense now, as his eyes flicked between Francis and the door, as if trying to piece things together.

Francis took a deep breath, holding out his phone to James. How he wished he could shield James from all of this, at least until tomorrow, but that, of course, was impossible. James glanced skeptically at Crozier, and Francis noticed how the powder had settled around the lines on his forehead. He should have shielded him from all this.

James remained silent, his eyes scanning the screen of the phone, reading the text.

"There’s no point in reading it all," Francis broke the silence, which was weighing on them more and more, like the pressure of the ocean's depths.

James resumed biting the inside of his cheek with a completely vacant expression. After a moment, he let out a hum, smirking, shaking his head as if he were agreeing with something.

"James," Francis began, trying to break the tension. Just then, the screen displaying the article was obscured by the sudden appearance of James Ross's face, the green and red call buttons flashing. Francis silently thanked Ross.

Carefully, Francis took the phone from James’s hand, and James allowed it to slip from his grasp.

"You all right, Frank?" Ross asked. "Did you talk to Fitzjames?"

Francis couldn’t quite grasp the intent behind Ross’s question, but he didn’t detect any cruelty or disapproval—only tension.

"He’s with me," Francis replied, meeting James’s gaze, which seemed distant.

"Right, come to my office. Alone. Sarah and Tozer are waiting. Tell Fitzjames not to post anything, alright? We’ll sort it out," Ross said briskly, before addressing someone else in the background. Francis hung up and turned back to James. The younger man didn’t look away, his expression unchanged, as though waiting for Francis to speak.

"Look, it’s nonsense," Francis said, cupping James’s face. "It’s unfortunate, but it means nothing and changes nothing, alright?" The touch felt odd with the stage makeup on his skin. James nodded quietly in agreement. Francis could tell by the distant look in James's eyes that he was still grappling with the weight of what had just happened.

"Go home, get some proper rest, eat something, and don’t go to social media, yeah?"

"Francis, I’m not a child," James replied in a low voice, and Francis felt a flicker of disappointment that James hadn’t reached out instead.

"Clearly," Francis said, releasing his hold on James. The younger man offered him a forced smile and nodded.

"You were magnificent today, James. I could watch you for hours," Francis added. “Focus on that.”

To his surprise, James leaned in and kissed him chastely on the cheek.

"I’ll come to you after the meeting with Ross," Francis continued, filling the silence that followed.

"Alright," James replied, and Francis didn’t get a chance to see the expression on James’ face before he left.

***

Francis bounded up the stairs to the third floor in a few long strides, clutching the bag of macarons from the flashy bakery nearby—he knew James would try to deny everything, but he also knew the young man had a particular fondness for that particular dessert. A silly gesture, almost naive, one that hardly seemed capable of fixing the situation. Still.

At the meeting, Sarah from PR had advised not to react at all, at least not until tomorrow, while Ross assured everyone that they'd handle the tabloid and the mysterious source soon enough. Francis had an urge to explain himself to Ross, but couldn’t stand the idea of James being alone in this mess. He would talk to him later. If Ross was disappointed in Francis, he didn't show it, maintaining his friendlytone.

That couldn't be said of Mr. Tozer, who periodically shot Francis judgmental glances.

"Is there something you want to say, Mr. Tozer?" Francis asked, but the man merely shook his head with a smirk.

Francis hadn't moved this quickly since his youth, his heart pounding, fueled by adrenaline. He needed to see James as soon as possible. To pull him into a tight embrace and not let go until the flood of words—Francis had no doubt about it—finally ran dry, and James had no more strength left to protest. Despite any rationale behind it, Francis knew that once they were together, this situation would be nothing more than an unfortunate inconvenience, like an overflowing pot of porridge.

The door was open, and Francis entered, shrugging off his jacket. James was on the phone, pacing back and forth across the living room. He greeted Francis with a raised hand and then turned his attention back to the voice on the line, occasionally muttering "uh-huh" or "yes" while pinching his lower lip. The lost look that had followed James only an hour and a half ago was replaced by a nervous, darting gaze, almost as erratic as his steps around the apartment. Francis placed the bag of treats on the kitchen counter and silently observed his partner’s neurotic pacing.

"No," James said, stopping suddenly in the middle of the room. "That piece of shit!" He looked at Francis, as though hoping he could read his thoughts. Francis only pressed his lips tight. The voice on the other end of the phone continued to ramble, but Francis couldn’t make out the words.

“No, later. Yes. No, we’re not going to rough up anyone tonight,” James said curtly, not moving from his spot after a minute of silence. Le Vesconte, Francis understood.

“Thanks,” James added before hanging up. He sighed, tossing the phone onto the couch and placing his hands on his hips, tapping his foot in frustration. He shook his head, changing his posture again, now crossing his arms over his chest.

“Mr. Hickey leaked the information to the tabloid,” James said, furrowing his brows at the name, as if unsure he’d pronounced it correctly.

“Who?” Francis muttered. He knew everyone involved in the production by name, nearly sixty people. It took him a few seconds to pull the image of the small, sly-faced man from the stagehands out of his memory. “Why the – But he is not part of the company, someone knew exactly what was happening in the studio…”

“Des Voeux,” James interrupted him, spitting the name of his colleague as though it were a fly that had accidentally flown into his mouth. “That little bastard spilled everything to Hickey, in exchange... I don’t know, for what. He says he didn’t know it would go down like this. Says they were just chatting.”

James’s face twisted, overcome by another surge of anger. He started pacing the perimeter of the carpet again, like a horse in a stall, trampling the fibers with his long feet.

“How did Le Vesconte find out?” Francis suddenly realized. It had only been a few hours. He wondered if Tozer was as productive, or if he spent all his energy shooting condemning looks at Francis. They should tell Ross.

“If I knew how and why Le Vesconte works the way he does, I’d be a different person,” James waved it off. He grabbed the phone, which had been vibrating almost nonstop while Francis had been watching his restless movements. James glanced at the screen, snatched it up, and, without hesitation, tapped the screen and shouted into it, “Get fucked, Charles!”

"This little shit. Can you believe it, Francis?" he whispered, exhaling as he covered his face with his hands. Only now, when James seemed to have run out of breath, did Francis finally step forward, intent on touching him, embracing him, offering some silent reassurance that he was there.

“Ross will do whatever it takes to fix this nonsense. Legal and administrative stuff,” he began, stepping onto the rug, his hand reaching out as though trying to calm a wild stallion. “And anyway, after your performance tomorrow, all anyone will talk about is how you dance.”

James suddenly lifted his head, locking eyes with Francis. His pupils were dilated, making his brown eyes seem almost black. Francis’s words had clearly failed to have the desired outcome, and James’s anxiety flared once more as he bit his lip, starting to move restlessly again.

“What if I can’t do it tomorrow? We’ve had only a few proper rehearsals…And this fucking leg…” James began, the whirlwind of nervous thoughts swirling on his face.

“James, I know what I’m saying. You’re fine,” Francis cut him off firmly. His words seemed to have an immediate effect, and for a brief moment, James’s face relaxed. Francis finally came close to him, putting his hands on James’ shoulders, squeezing them slightly. “Even if something goes wrong, don’t worry. You know what you're capable of. I know what you're capable of.”

James stepped back, pulling himself away from Francis’s grasp. His brow furrowed, lips pressed tight.

A tactical mistake.

"If I fail, Francis," James said, his voice low, "I’ll be nothing more than a ‘bed-promoted protégé with moderate dancing skills’" Francis recognized the quote from the article. James paused, then added, sharply. "You’ll be fine. I’ll be the one who's only good for fucking."

To Francis, it felt like a slap across the face. As if to confirm the thought, his cheeks burned with a sudden flush. He wanted to argue, to protest with an indignant, “How is that my fault?”, maybe even pout or slap his hand on the table for emphasis. But James’s face was etched with fear, and he stopped.

“And you know what? They would be right. If I fail, they would be right,” James muttered, his voice low, the words dripping with defeat. He kept a few steps of distance between himself and Francis, as if clinging to that physical gap as a barrier.

He’s spiraling, Francis realized, watching the storm of emotions ripple through James’s tense frame. The weight of James’s thoughts was dragging him down, threatening to pull Francis into the depths with him.

“You know that’s not true.” His voice was firm, laced with a gentleness meant to steady. He reached out again, his hand hovering, trying to close the space between them as if he could pull James from the depths. But James only smirked at the gesture, a pitying look crossing his face as he refused to meet him halfway.

“But that’s what you thought, isn’t it?” James scoffed. The bitter words, the bitter sound. His gaze locked onto Francis, leaving no room to retreat. “That I’m only worth keeping around because you thought you could fuck me.”

“James, you need to calm down. The rehearsals have been draining—you’re overreacting.” Francis tried to reason, but the space for that was long absent.

He reached out, placing a hand on James’s shoulder in a gesture meant to steady him, but the contact was brief. James shoved it away with a rough motion.

“This is why you wanted me. Not for my shining personality or my professionalism!” James’s voice rose, his anger spilling over as he took a few steps back.

“James—”

“Stop pretending I’m the one who’s delusional,” James hissed, his words venomous and cutting.

Francis stood frozen, unable to grasp why James was suddenly so angry at him. This wasn’t like him—not even when Francis had been at his worst. Even when he almost hurt him, his mind offered. Even then James was shocked, scared, unhappy, but not angry with him. Before he could speak, James seemed to catch something in his expression as if he read his mind.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you acted in that bathroom,” James snapped again. He smiled for some reason, a grim unnatural smile. “How you wanted to slap me and fuck me against the tiles. Why are you pretending like you didn’t want this?!”

Now James was almost screaming, his voice cracking at its peak. Francis nearly flinched, the words hitting like physical blows. Was it an accusation, or was it a plea for recognition?

“It’s not how I feel now, and you know it,” Francis said simply. He was a fool to think he could just show up with sad eyes, as a wet dog, and that it would somehow fix everything. A fool to believe that this time, he could turn things around. The silent acknowledgment must have shown in his posture, his face, because James’s fury disappeared in moments.

James was no longer angry, but something darker, something destructive, still churned inside him.

“You were right to think so of me,” James said, looking away for several brief seconds. “I’m good at selling myself to people, in all kinds of ways. I thought you understood that—and didn’t mind.” He scoffed, his voice faltering despite his dry eyes. Hate and disappointment bled into every word. “That’s why I wanted you in the first place, as well.”

“What do you mean?” Francis asked, his face probably looking confused.

The room suddenly felt stifling. He felt dizzy. His fingers twitched with the urge to unbutton the top of his shirt. Damn fool, he thought. Pull yourself together.

“And I still do,” James said, taking a small step closer to Francis. His eyes were dark, unsettling—like two endless voids pulling him in. “I need you to—”

He stopped mid-sentence, studying Francis’s reaction. Francis felt the heat rising in his neck, red spots blooming as his breath grew uneven. Why would James—

“If you want me to be violent with you, I will not do such a thing, James,” Francis snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of his anger.

James took another step, his words spilling out as if his tongue had lost control. His voice was pleading, frantic. “But you must, Francis. You’re the only one who knows the way I really am.”

His tone softened on those last words, and they hit Francis like a punch to the chest. Another verbal blow like that, and he feared he might lose his breath entirely.

“You’re the only one who knows why I deserve it. The only one, who knows how to put me in place…”

James closed the distance between them, his unnaturally strong fingers curling tightly around Francis’s wrists. “Please.”

“You can’t ask me that!” Francis’s voice rose, trembling with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.

He shook his head in denial, a visceral rejection of what was unfolding. The man he had been with James back then—the grim, nasty, miserable person—was gone. He’d buried that figure, the one who had cost James so much: his peace, his confidence, his tears. In his place, Francis had tried to become someone better. Someone James could look at with affection, without shame. Someone he could call “dear to him”.

So why would James want to resurrect that wretched version of him, even for a moment?

“I don’t know who you thought you were getting involved with, Francis.” James said, his voice rough, almost mocking, yet quiet.

Francis pulled his wrists free from James’s grip, instinctively stepping back. He needed to leave, to escape the oppressive weight in the room. The air was too thick.

As he did, James’s balance faltered. He stumbled on his injured leg, his face twisting in pain for a second, though he didn’t make a sound. Francis instinctively reached out to steady him, but James stopped him with a sharp gesture.

“Don’t! I’m fine,” James mumbled, his voice barely audible.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, his pale face lifeless. Then, blinking rapidly, he looked up at the ceiling, his expression tight with restraint. He was fighting not to cry—Francis could see it, and guilt twisted in his stomach, swallowing his earlier anger and confusion.

James spoke again, his voice clipped and distant. “You’re right. I can’t ask you this. I just… I can’t find a way to deal with it myself.”

Before Francis could respond, James turned and walked out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Francis,” he said softly, almost as an afterthought, as he disappeared into the bathroom.

***

James’s figure disappeared behind the door, leaving Francis standing alone in the suffocating silence. His mouth was dry and foul. His breathing refused to steady. Desperate for relief, he turned to the sink, filled a glass with water, and downed it in one gulp.

The cold rush of liquid hit his stomach with a sharp discomfort, heavy and unwelcome, but the thirst lingered, stubborn and insatiable. It took Francis a mere few moments to recognise that familiar maddening itch—the one that no amount of scratching could ever reach.

James was spiralling, Francis reminded himself. James needed grounding, sedation, something to anchor him in place. Francis tried to be compassionate—he truly did. But that wasn’t what James had asked for.

His eyes shifted to the shelf near the kitchen counter, and there, behind the door of the top shelf, a few opened bottles of spirits sat in quiet disregard, wedged between forgotten pack of yeast and a can of dried fruit. Francis was aware of it since the day one, when he’d searched for tea in the James’ kitchen. He hadn’t touched the alcohol, but he knew exactly where it was. He’d known from the start, and he’d never forgotten. That’s what alcoholics do, he thought. And that’s what he had done.

They could just calm down, sit down together, have some tea, share these damn macaroons, and pretend nothing had happened. It would be nice, Francis thought. But then, was he fooling himself? Trying to smooth things over, just like he had with Sophia, convincing himself that she wanted a family with him? That had ended in ruins.

He tossed the bag of macaroons into the trash and moved toward the shelf. There it was: a bottle of fancy vodka, a flavoured gin (seriously?), and some bitter spirit meant to make an impressive cocktail—something people might enjoy once and then forget. Vodka it was. He hated vodka and its harsh taste, but it was better than pretending there was anything remotely pleasant in this situation by drinking that lavender-flavoured nonsense. Francis poured the vodka into a stout glass, filling it halfway. He stared at the clear liquid for a moment, briefly considering an ice cube to dull the sting, but drank it down in one gulp instead. He shut his eyes for a few seconds, feeling the itch recede.

He wondered how much longer it would take before James would bring up all the things Francis was insecure about—the age, the body, the character. He had sworn to be there for James, no matter what. If James wanted him to be someone ugly, if he didn’t want him to be tender, Francis would still oblige. It didn't matter. He had promised James to attend to his every need.

The sound of water ceased, and a minute later, Francis took another sip, the liquid burning his lips. James emerged from the bathroom, standing awkwardly between the kitchen and living room, as though searching for words that might avoid the inevitable. His hair was damp, brushed back in an unfamiliar style. His eyes were red but not swollen—a sign of tears quickly wiped away. Francis had expected guilt, but the warmth of compassion was swallowed up by a gnawing resentment that knotted in his stomach.

“Look, Francis, I shouldn’t have said any of it,” James began, his posture straight, almost calculated. Francis couldn’t help but wonder if he had rehearsed it in the mirror, ensuring that the lines of his collarbones and the subtle muscles of his arms caught just the right light. “Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the way you… Are you drinking?”

 James’s face twisted into an unpleasant grimace, one that Francis couldn’t help but interpret as disdain. Francis raised the half-empty glass and gave it a slight shake.

“This?” He smirked. “Yeah, hope you don’t mind, after everything we’ve shared.”

“Francis…” James leaned forward as if he were ready to stop him, but with a swiftness and agility unexpected of him, Francis took a large gulp, nearly emptying the glass.

“You haven’t drunk in a week.”

Oh, of course, he’s been keeping track.

“Don’t start now, not before the premiere.” James’s face twitched again, his brow furrowing as he shifted from disdain to pity. That look… Francis could take anything, but not that. Something inside him snapped, as though the hot burn of alcohol had drilled a hole through him, stripping away the facade he’d been holding up.

“So, you like how I behave under the influence, but you don’t like it when I drink?” Francis raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with mockery. “Pretty hypocritical of you, James, don’t you think?”

James took the verbal slap in silence. Fuelled by the alcohol and still craving fresh air, Francis unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing his neck and a portion of his chest, hidden beneath an undershirt. James’s gaze flickered to him, carefully veiling the desire that was all too familiar to Francis. It was there, beneath whatever mask Fitzjames wore, and Francis could recognize it in an instant.

His own face involuntarily tightened. There was something fundamentally wrong in that moment, something about it that Francis couldn’t quite understand, something beyond his control. He tried, for a fleeting moment, to step into Fitzjames’s shoes. Maybe James had been surrounded by beauty for so long that he craved ugliness for a change—like the way the wealthy indulge in farming as a novelty. Maybe that was why James had asked for this. Maybe that was why Francis was here at all.

“That’s what you really want,” Francis said, his tongue loosened now, the alcohol softening his restraint. “You just didn’t have the guts to admit it.”

James shook his head, his mouth opening to protest, but no words came. His eyes remained locked on Francis, unblinking, searching.

“You don’t want me to treat you like a damn princess,” Francis snorted, stepping away from the kitchen counter, his nearly empty glass in hand, and moving toward the living room, where James still stood. James didn’t shift, and Francis stopped short, leaving a deliberate two-meter gap between them—an unspoken invitation for retreat. “What you want,” he continued, his voice low and cutting, “is to be used like a fuck-toy. And it just so happened I was the one who was willing to agree to that.”

“It’s not—” James began, but Francis caught the way James’ pupils expanded, the way a bulge was now visible, pressing to the fabric of his pants, betraying him.

“Francis, it’s not that I didn’t—” James tried again.

“Shut up, James,” Francis cut him off, downing the rest of the vodka in one swift gulp. The burn clawed at his throat, but he didn’t flinch. “You don’t get to talk after everything you’ve said.”

He must be drunk. James had to pull him back to reality, had to tell him to stop, because if he didn’t—how else would Francis know when to stop? But there James stood, silent, watching him with an expression that was equal parts expectation and need.

“Come here,” Francis commanded, setting the glass down on the bedside table. His voice had lost its edge—no anger, no pressure. “You really want this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” James rasped, his voice barely audible. He stared down at the rug, avoiding Francis’s gaze as if afraid to startle him. “Yes,” he repeated, clearer this time.

Oh, that hurt. Why did it hurt so much? But he had promised, hadn’t he? Anything he asked for.

“Alright,” Francis said plainly. “On your knees.”

James looked up, his eyes glistening, the sheen of unshed tears betraying a mix of shame and desire. But he looked at Francis with an admiration, gratitude even, and Francis feels the James’ movements were sharp and jerky. He dropped to his knees in front of Francis with a thud, the impact likely jarring but ignored. His fingers fumbled, trembling as they worked to undo Francis’ pants. James’ breath was shaking as he wrapped his fingers around the root of Francis’ half-hard prick.

James surrounded him, treating him like something precious, planting kisses across the length of his stand. He pressed his fingers around his prick, a soft sound escaping him as Francis let out a sharp exhale. James’s lips brushed against the skin of his stomach, hands trailing along the same path.

The unexpected tenderness made Francis flinch, a shiver running through him. He pushed James's hand away, instinctively rejecting the touch. Even now, James was trying to play at something, and that alone sparked a flare of uncontrollable irritation within Francis.

“Take your hands off me,” he said, his voice harsh, and James pulled back for a moment, his face wide-eyed with surprise. “Do as you’re told.”

James muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t touch him again. Instead, James obediently covered Francis’ cock with his mouth, moving with an increasing speed. Finally, when Francis felt his legs beginning to give way, and James’ movements became too inpatient and antsy, he pushed James away, creating the space between them.

James's lips were swollen, his eyes watery, yet there was nothing remotely sad about his expression. His gaze was vacant, but it burned with a kind of hunger, following every movement Francis made with an intensity that seemed to swallow everything else.

"To bed," Francis said, struggling to pull his clothes back on for reasons he couldn’t quite understand. “Undress. Prepare yourself.”

James opened his mouth, as if to ask something or plead, but then he closed it, still breathing heavily, swallowing hard every now and then as if the air itself was too thick to get through.

James rose from his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor. His hard on was obviously visible now for Francis to asses. James moved quickly toward the bedroom. The thought of James hastily preparing himself for him, sent a wave of heat rushing through Francis’s body. His feelings went numb, replaced by the rhythmic pounding of blood in his veins.

Francis heard the rustling from the bedroom, followed by a muffled moan moments later. He took a step towards the room, where James was. He fought the urge to enter the room, to place his fingers next to the James’ and stretch his hole gently and slowly, curving his fingers just the way James liked. Francis exhaled and poured a little drink at the bottom of the glass, just enough to supress the need to go after James. It bought him a minute or two.

When he stepped into the room, he found James sprawled across the bed, half-covered by the sheets. He was fully naked and his legs were spread. His hand was moving slowly between his legs, making him throwing his head back onto the pillow and moan quietly. Too quiet, Francis thought. James turned his head, casting a hazy glance at Francis.

“Come here,” Francis heard himself say. He couldn’t bear to watch James like this; he knew he’d crumble in a minute if he didn’t act, so he had to make it stop. James pulled his fingers out slowly, shifting towards the edge of the bed with a series of awkward movements.

“Face down.”

James's face flushed as he swallowed hard, attempting to rearrange his limbs. He knelt on all fours, his feet hanging off the edge of the bed, the posture raw and vulnerable. Francis ran his hand along the pronounced muscles of James’s back, tracing the curve from his lower spine to the nape of his neck. He gripped James's neck firmly, the curve fitting perfectly into his palm. With a sharp force, he pressed it down, pushing James’s face into the soft mattress with a muffled exhale.

“I said face down.”

James whimpered something into the mattress. It suited him, Francis realised. He was unguarded, again, just not in a way Francis would think of.

“That’s how you like it, huh?” Francis muttered, unzipping his pants again. He was hard, embarrassingly so. James mumbled something into the mattress, still pressed by Francis’ hand. Once he released his grip, a faint, pitiful whisper reached his ears: "Yes, please, Francis."

Francis hummed, sliding his fingers between the firm asscheeks, that were sticking out inviting. James was wet with the lube, his hole stretched merely enough to fit only two of Francis’ fingers. James arched his back with a whimpering sound as Francis fitted both of them into the slick hole. He did it without any preparation almost as if he was conducting a medical examination. He made sure James understood—he did it only to ensure that his prick would fit, nothing more. Still, James moaned, despite the obvious tension and discomfort that coursed through his body. Francis pulled out his fingers, leaving James panting. He looked around. There was no lube, but it was fine. James prepared himself enough to get through it as it was. There were no condoms either. It was fine, too. Francis was sure the perverted mind of James wouldn’t mind.

He entered James with a slow but persistent push. It was so tight, Francis almost gasped, but still moved forward, squeezing the tight hips of Fitzjames. James let out a short cry and then fell silent. Francis watched as James’s back muscles tensed, his hands gripping the bedsheets tightly. He pushed harder, making James whimper one more time.

"Do you feel it?" he growled, moving his hips and digging his nails deep into James’ skin. He wanted to hear James’ voice, whimpering, crying, moaning, anything.

"Yes!" James cried out. “Francis, more –”

He choked on air, as Francis thrusted himself into James. This fucking man. Not only did he speak, but he also craved every filthy word Francis could conjure while fucking him.

“Finally serving your purpose, hm?” Francis said. His head was spinning now, tongue sticking to the palate. “That’s what you good at without even trying.”

A muffled moan followed, bringing Francis too close to a climax.

“That’s when you’re the most comfortable, right?”

The words spilled from him, bypassing his mind entirely. Each one earned a quiet, breathless moan from James.He drank in those words as though he were a man stranded in the desert, parched and desperate for the smallest drop of water.

“Sticking your ass and spreading your legs, so no one sees how useless you are," he hissed, the words like a bitter belch. James buried his face in the bed, muffling his silent wail, his body wracked with a convulsive cry. Needing something to anchor himself to, Francis seized James by the neck, thrusting into him just a few more times, before coming.

He pulled out and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, settling beside James' feet. Francis felt sweaty and on the brink of nausea. His shirt clung to his back, damp fabric sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Yet, despite the hollow ache deep within him, waves of ecstatic pleasure still washed over him, drowning the emptiness. James lay stretched out on the bed, his face still pressed into the mattress. His body trembled, and the mattress absorbed the faint, barely audible sound. He was crying.

“James,” Francis said with concern, crawling onto the bed and turning James’s face toward him. As if unable to look at Francis, James buried his face into his shoulder, his tears soaking through Crozier’s shirt.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Francis,” he murmured, choking on his sobs, sniffling in between. Francis held him tightly, pressing him almost painfully against his chest.

“I know, James. I know. You’re fine, you’re good,” Francis muttered, his gaze distant as he absentmindedly stroked James’s damp hair. He shifted James closer, wrapping his arms around him more fully. His eyes caught the damp patch on the sheets beneath James. “Don’t worry, you’re fine.”

“I love you,” James whispered, his body trembling less in the secure hold of Francis’s arms. “I love you, you know that?”

Francis inhaled deeply but realized he couldn’t exhale. A lump of emotion lodged itself in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the breath out.

"I do," he murmured, kissing the top of James’s head. James's fingers gripped Francis’s shirt, desperate, trembling. "Why would you ever be with me otherwise?" He cupped James’s face gently, his thumb brushing over the skin. The marks were raw—red, swollen, and one eye bruised from a broken blood vessel. Yet in that moment, he had never seen anyone more beautiful. Francis spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "I love you, too. You know that, right?"

***

"I slept for nine hours!" James announced with genuine enthusiasm. Gore responded with a polite smile. Surely, that’s not what he was worried about, but decided to remain silent.
"Almost overslept, can you believe it? That would’ve been incredibly awkward."

James had overslept. It was Francis who’d set the alarm and shaken Fitzjames awake that morning. They hadn’t spoken about the events of the previous night, and yet, as Francis had hurried home to grab a change of clothes—with James tagging along—James had been bright and cheerful in a way Francis hadn’t seen in weeks. Francis let that be. Now, they entered the dancing room together, just half an hour behind schedule. Not that Francis was strictly needed in this room; it was simply that stepping aside wasn’t something he was capable of when it came to James these days.

Gore clapped James on the shoulder, grinning broadly, and only then did Francis notice the heavy silence that had overtaken the room. Every gaze was fixed on them, curiosity simmering just beneath the surface. If the dancers had questions, none dared to voice them.

Crozier’s gaze flicked across the room, lingering briefly on Selene, Fairholme, and Le Vesconte at the barre. Des Voeux loitered in a distant corner, while others dotted the room, caught mid-stretch or mid-thought.

"I don’t believe there’s anything more I need to say before we begin. Today is the day," Crozier began, his voice calm yet commanding, resonating effortlessly across the room as he met the eyes of everyone present—from the lead dancer to the corps de ballet. "You’re ready—all of you. Do your thing and let the audience do the talking afterward."

The room burst into applause, a few cheers cutting through the noise. James turned to Francis with a soft smile, the kind that had been captured far too well in that photo.

James and Gore drifted toward Selene and Le Vesconte, deep in animated conversation as they prepared for warm-ups. For once, Le Vesconte had spared his colleagues another of his infamous playlists, perhaps in honor of the premiere.

"Mr. Crozier?" a tentative voice called from behind him.
Francis turned to see Charles Des Voeux standing there, his lips bitten raw and his expression a portrait of regret. He looked as though he had stepped straight out of a Mark Twain novel. "Yes, Mr. Des Voeux?" Francis replied.

"I... I hope you can... I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, the things they wrote. It was stupid, idle talk. My place in this company means the world to me, and I hope—"

"Mr. Des Voeux," Francis interrupted, his voice sharp but measured. "I don’t intend to fire you for..." He paused, biting back the words for being young and hopelessly foolish. "...For not knowing when to keep your mouth shut. You’re here because of your dancing, not your opinions. Prove to me that you dance better than you talk."

Des Voeux blinked, his mouth slightly open, before he shut it again and nodded. Francis thought he saw a flicker of gratitude cross the boy’s face before he turned away, but maybe today he was too hopeful.

In the hallway, Francis noticed Jopson waiting a few steps from the studio door, keeping a respectful distance. Des Voeux shuffled away, his brow furrowed as if wrestling with a particularly stubborn equation.

"The stage manager reports all sets have been checked, and no one’s touched the stage since last night," Jopson informed him as they began walking toward the office. From behind the studio doors, James’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding:

"Don’t fucking start, Charles! Speak only when spoken to. Now get back to your stretching."

James, it seemed, had opted for a more direct approach than Francis. Jopson continued his report, the words revealing the careful thoroughness of someone who’d likely spent the night prowling beneath the stage.

"Keep this up, Thomas," Francis said with a faint smirk, "and by the next production, you might find yourself promoted to assistant stage manager."

Jopson ducked his head, his smile unexpectedly shy. "I’d be happy to keep working with you, sir."

"Well then," Francis said, pushing open the office door. "Let’s get to work."

***

After several frantic hours rushing around the theater, solving the last-minute issues that arise before a premiere, Francis found himself, by five in the evening, idle and alone in the middle of an empty corridor. Truthfully, at this point, his presence at the theater had little practical purpose—he had done all he could. Even if he were to head home for some much-needed rest, the premiere would go on without him probably the same way.

He considered checking in on the dancers as they slipped into costumes and applied their stage makeup, but Francis was experienced enough to know that his looming presence might only heighten their pre-show nerves. He didn’t want to distract James from immersing himself in his role, though the temptation to see Fitzjames—to reassure himself that James was doing well—grew more unbearable with every idle second. Finally, after holding out for about fifteen minutes, Francis gave in and turned toward the dressing rooms.

As if sensing the karmic misstep in his resolve, the universe promptly sent Tom Blanky striding around the corner, hobbling cheerfully toward him.

"Frank! A rare sight to find you without your graceful entourage!" boomed Tom with a wide grin.

"They’re preparing for the performance," Francis replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I don’t want to get in their way."

"I’ve always said you’re a wise man!" Tom declared. "Late lunch?"

"My treat," Francis smirked. Somehow, Blanky’s presence always had a calming effect on him.

"Not just wise, but generous too!" Tom crowed. If his leg allowed him, he would take a bow.

***

“Whiskey?” Blanky called over to Francis as they stepped into the orchestra’s lounge after lunch. “For the nerves,” he added in mock seriousness, always ready to justify a drink with his signature brand of dubious, unlicensed medical advice.

Francis could still taste the vodka from the night before, sharp, unsoftened by kisses, only deepened by bitter words exchanged in the dark. It didn’t matter. He shook his head in refusal. Blanky shot him a surprised glance but didn’t press the issue, pouring himself just a splash in his glass. Francis settled onto a sagging couch across from the conductor.

“You sorted out that little publication issue?” Tom asked after a long pause. His tone carried no idle curiosity, only genuine concern.

“Yes,” Francis replied, nodding slowly.

“And who was it?”

“A dipshit from the maintenance team, Hickey.”

“And you and Fitzjames—"

“Yes,” Francis cut him off.

“I see,” was all Tom said, taking a sip from his glass. Francis hadn’t expected approval of his actions – he wouldn’t have approved of them himself a year ago – but he had grown accustomed to the quiet way Blanky accepted him, flaws and all. Francis wasn’t about to justify himself, yet something inside him still twinged under the unspoken weight of judgment. “It’s a big age gap,” Tom noticed.

“I know,” Francis said, his mind slowly crawling back to a bad place in his head. Tom must have caught the flicker of unease, his gaze lifting knowingly.

“To Fitzjames, then,” Tom announced, raising his glass with a wicked grin. “The poor bastard’s going to need all our prayers.”

Francis grabbed a pillow from the couch and hurled it at Tom, nearly knocking the glass from his hand.

“You’re a bloody bastard!” Francis barked, grinning despite himself.

“Easy there, sir. Save your strength for your young lad!”

“You’re asking for it.”

“Does your mother know?”

Francis rolled his eyes.

“If she did, I’d already have a call asking when the wedding is.”

“So, when’s the wedding?”

“Not your damn business, and you’re not invited.”

“Oh no, you can’t have Ross as your best man. You need someone equally ugly as you, or Fitzjames might have second thoughts!”

They laughed, the sound filling the room and momentarily pushing aside the weight of time and the evening’s impending responsibilities.

***

Breathing came hard to him, and his eyes darted nervously across the backstage area, betraying his usual composure. Francis had always prided himself on his sharp vision, but the contrast between the dim shadows behind the curtain and the blazing stage lights left his gaze disoriented. Twenty minutes still remained before the performance, yet amidst the swirl of ballerinas in voluminous tutus and technicians with headsets, he couldn’t spot the one figure he would recognize anywhere, no matter the costume.

He was moments away from enlisting the troupe’s help when, at last, he found James tucked away in a quiet corner behind the stage, near a fire extinguisher. The dancer stood with his head bowed, his vibrant stage makeup initially hidden from Francis’s view. James’s hand clenched and unclenched repeatedly, his eyes fixed on the wooden floorboards as though they held some secret answer. He seemed to be murmuring something under his breath.

Francis hesitated, unwilling to break James’s trance-like focus, but then their eyes met. James lifted his heavily lined gaze and offered a weak smile. In two swift steps, Francis closed the distance between them. James’s face, painted in pale white with darkly lined brows and eyes, looked almost unearthly under the faint glow of the backstage lighting. His hair had been slicked back, accentuating the sharp angles of his features.

“Are you okay?” Francis asked, immediately cursing himself for the inanity of the question. He himself was teetering on the edge of panic, his nerves crackling with every hum of voices behind the curtain and every drawn-out, unsettling note from the oboe warming up in the orchestra pit.

James only nodded, his smile faltering but still in place. Francis realized that words had likely fled James’s grasp as the performance neared. He, too, felt utterly incapable of conjuring anything meaningful to say.

So instead, he wrapped an arm around James’s waist and pulled him close, capturing the dancer’s lips in a fierce kiss. James gasped, their teeth briefly clashing in the awkward, urgent movement. But in the next moment, James exhaled and surrendered, letting Francis’s tongue slide into his mouth, meeting him with a short, fervent kiss of his own.

“What if someone sees us?” James whispered as he pulled back slightly, his voice shaky but audible for the first time.

“I don’t care,” Francis admitted without hesitation. He leaned in for one last brief kiss, brushing James’s lips with his own before stepping away. James nodded and smiled softly. “Now go.”

Francis slipped into the reserved seats in the mezzanine just before the second bell, settling into the chair next to Ross.

“How’s the team?” Ross asked lightly, his gaze sweeping over the overdressed crowd milling about below. There were a lot of people.

“They’re fine,” Francis replied, keeping his tone curt.

“And James?” Ross’s eyes flickered with something unmistakably cheeky now, a grin threatening at the corners of his mouth.

“As I said, they’re all fine,” Francis repeated, the words clipped as he realized—with growing irritation—that he might now be catching flak not only from Blanky but from Ross too.

“Oh, I see,” Ross replied with an exaggerated drawl and a knowing smile that could only mean trouble. He raised a hand, brushing his cheek near his mouth. “You’ve got something right here…”

Francis frowned and scrubbed at the spot, his fingers coming away dusted with white makeup.

Ross stifled a laugh but didn’t bother hiding his amusement entirely. Francis gave him a curt nod—a wordless thanks—and turned back to face the stage, resolutely ignoring Ross’s muffled chuckle.

The third bell rang. The murmur of the crowd subsided .

The lights went down.

***

When you know something deeply, you can discern the extraordinary and the wondrous in even the smallest of changes. Like a sailor who senses the mood of the sea from the color of the water, or an astronomer who sees a map of the cosmos where an ordinary person only notices the glitter of distant stars. Francis had witnessed this countless times. No ballet was ever the same as the last. That was why he seemed almost fused with his gaze to the stage, unwilling to miss a single detail of the unfolding performance, as if he had no part in it at all. Not long ago, he had forgotten this, and now, spellbound, he could not recall why that had happened.

He couldn’t help but notice the small missteps—whether in the timing or in the not-quite-right placement on stage—familiar little errors he had pointed out to the dancers during rehearsals, yet which still managed to surface under the pressure of hundreds of watchful eyes. Now, none of that mattered anymore. He shifted his gaze to James, once again. It was hard to grasp that the small figure in the distance, soaring across the stage in powerful leaps and captivating the entire audience, was his James. Pride, then shame, then doubt tangled into a tight knot in Francis's chest, and suddenly he realized he was wishing for it all to be over.

With the intermission in place, Francis tried to get Ross out of his hair and let him be. “They’re doing great without you!” Ross insisted, tilting his head toward the stage.

“That’s not very inspiring,” Francis muttered as he begrudgingly stood up.

“You know what’s really not inspiring? Me, talking to the critics about shit I don’t know. Now, come on.”

Once the second part of the ballet began, Francis felt a rising agitation mingled with a faint sense of relief. In roughly forty minutes, when it was all over, he and James could finally reclaim a life together. Not that they’d ever had the chance to experience that life before, but the very idea of it was thrilling.

Of course, James would still need to perform at least three times a month until the season ended—assuming everything went smoothly. Yet Francis was certain that when they walked out of the theater tonight, James would carry a little more peace in his heart. They’d finally start doing all the things they’d never had time for.

Francis would become the most ordinary, straightforward suitor, let go of his ambitions and his past for something as pure as James. Hell, he could even ask James out on a proper date (because McDonald’s and awkward dinners with relatives definitely didn’t count). Maybe he’d buy him flowers—magnolias, perhaps? Or were they something else? What were those flowers that looked like daisies but weren’t?

Should he have brought flowers today? No, that would’ve been foolish. But afterward—yes. There was a flower shop on the way to James’s flat. He could see it in his mind already: the little bell jingling as they walked in, picking out the perfect bouquet.

Francis almost hated himself for letting his thoughts wander so far while the performance soared toward its peak and raced, breakneck, toward the finale. The music swelled, each note gaining momentum as Blanky wielded his baton like a sorcerer commanding the orchestra.

By the final scene, Francis was nearly on his feet, unable to resist the pull of the moment. It always shook his heart.

Onstage, Seline, in her pristine white tutu, Le Vesconte, in his dark, ominous gown, and James were the only dancers left. Le Vesconte seized James by the arm, tossing him across the stage with dramatic force, and James retaliated in kind, their movements sharp, electric, and mesmerizing.

At the peak of the melody, Le Vesconte grabbed James by the waist, as though preparing to lift him in a grand display usually reserved for ballerinas. Francis’s heart clenched. Instead of the expected lift, Le Vesconte flung James back to the floor with raw, visceral force. The movement was one they had devised together—James and Francis. Le Vesconte, to Francis’s begrudging admiration, had quickly grasped the essence of the choreography, embodying it with unsettling intensity.

And perhaps that was why Francis felt the sharp sting of jealousy again. Not jealousy born of mistrust but of a deep, unspoken longing to be the only one. He reminded himself that it was just a dance, a performance meant to evoke emotion. What emotion, exactly, depended on the viewer. Francis knew this better than anyone. It was the power of classical music, classical dance—and his own fatal weakness.

In the background, Seline emerged onto a raised platform, her presence an omen of inevitable death and the end of the story. Her ghostly figure in the dim light signaled the finale, and for the first time, Francis found himself almost eager for the narrative’s conclusion.

“Still here?” whispered Ross, finally tearing his gaze away from the stage. “You’re needed for the curtain call.”

Francis wanted to protest. He’d only sat in the director’s chair for a few months; this was their triumph, not his. He didn’t want to steal the spotlight or shift even a fraction of the audience’s focus from the dancers. But then his eyes returned to the stage, where James was preparing to die alongside his beloved. And for that, Francis knew, he wanted to be as close as possible.

“Go, go! You don’t want to go on stage with a red face and breathless,” Ross urged, this time more insistently.

Onstage, Von Rothbart had been defeated, signaling that Francis had less than two minutes before the final curtain dropped. He hated missing the last dance but knew he had no choice. Striding quickly through the dimly lit backstage corridor, Francis felt the rising tension in the music echo in his own pulse. The weight of the moment pressed on him as he descended to the first floor and slipped through the door leading behind the stage.

James would like magnolias, Francis thought to himself, perhaps with a flicker of indulgent pride. Maybe James would even be surprised by such an unconventional choice. Then again, magnolias probably didn’t bloom in autumn. No matter—he’d choose something fitting when the time came.

He reached the side of the stage just as the final chords thundered through the air. Stopping a few meters from the edge, he positioned himself carefully, ensuring he wouldn’t disturb the dancers but could still catch the last act. Nearby, Le Vesconte stood motionless, his expression inscrutable beneath the layers of makeup—painted cheekbones and lines that aged him dramatically. Le Vesconte returned Francis’s brief nod with one of his own. In the distance, the stagehands whispered into their radios, their murmurs drowned out by the swelling music.

A dense, artificial fog began to envelop the stage, spilling across the floor and curling around Francis’s feet. Seline, her figure almost entirely obscured by the mist, extended an arm toward James in a haunting, deliberate gesture.

James stood on a small platform meant to resemble the edge of a lakeshore. With one hand pressed to his chest, he tilted his head back in a motion so graceful it bordered on sacred. Francis’s breath caught—he could die and still want to resurrect himself just to witness that curve of James’s neck one more time.

And then, with a sudden, powerful leap, James hurled himself from the “cliff” into the lake’s misty embrace. He disappeared into the swirling fog, and for one irrational moment, Francis’s heart seized in panic. He searched desperately for James in the haze, as though genuinely fearing he might drown.

The music slowed, descending into a mournful quiet. On the final, almost inaudible notes, two intertwined hands emerged from the fog. The audience held its breath.

And then, silence.

They were dead. There was nothing.

The applause erupted like a thunderclap, shattering the stillness. The audience roared their approval, their ovation pouring onto the stage in waves.

Before the noise reached its crescendo, Francis and Le Vesconte exhaled simultaneously, a synchronized release of tension they hadn’t realized they were holding.

The air filled with the roar of applause, shouts from the audience, the hum of equipment backstage, and the soft patter of dancers gathering behind the curtain. The heavy drapes began to close, and the stage smoke started to dissipate. Ballerinas in swan costumes embraced one another, congratulating themselves and Le Vesconte, paying no mind to Francis, whose eyes remained fixed on the stage. Something was wrong.

The smoke cleared almost entirely, but no one rose from it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Francis saw James and Seline still entwined on the floor. Seline, wide-eyed, turned to glance backstage, locking eyes with Francis. She said something, but her words were drowned in the thunderous applause. Francis bolted onto the stage, still shrouded by the heavy red curtain.

He dropped to his knees beside them, clumsy and out of place among the two elegant dancers. His gaze met James’s, who stared back at him in shock, as if he’d just narrowly avoided a collision with a speeding car.

“What’s wrong?” Francis muttered, gripping James’s hand tightly. James mumbled something indistinct, lost in the cacophony. Francis caught only fragments. I can’t get up.

“Bravo!” someone shouted, their voice piercing through the noise.

Francis sensed the presence of other dancers gathering behind him, their whispers anxious. The curtain creaked, signaling its betrayal as it began to rise again, revealing them all to the audience. James clutched Francis’s arm, his eyes blackened with fear.

“Gore, Le Vesconte. Help me lift him,” Francis ordered without looking back, knowing who stood there.

The curtain parted fully, exposing them to the vibrant, glittering crowd. They clung to each other like condemned prisoners chained together, sinking as one. James sagged between Francis and Le Vesconte, barely brushing the floor with one foot. The glare of the spotlights made Francis squint, the roar of the audience pounding in his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the fixed, strained smile on James’s face, his eyes blank as if he looked into the void.

“One, two, three,” Francis murmured under his breath. “Bow.”
In perfect unison, they bent low before the roaring crowd. Applause swelled like a storm, a figure stepping forward with flowers. But before they could reach the stage, the heavy red curtain swept down with a thunderous finality, sealing the dancers from the adoration beyond.

As soon as it fell, James crumpled into Francis, his body dead weight against him.
“I can’t feel my leg,” James whispered, the words trembling. “I can’t feel…”

“It’s alright,” Francis murmured, his voice taut with urgency, guiding him toward the wings. “We’ll get the doctor. Everything’s going to be fine.” He snapped his head around, shouting, “Don’t raise the curtain again! Get a doctor, now!”

The stage manager froze before bolting into action, the crew scattering like startled birds.
“Seline, Le Vesconte, Gore—back for the second bow, now!” Francis barked at the dancers trailing behind him, halting their hesitant steps. “Quickly!”

The dancers hesitated only for a second before obeying, slipping back toward the stage as Francis dragged James to the shadows just beyond the curtain’s edge.
“James?” Francis’s voice cracked as he shook the man gently. “James, can you hear me?”

“Francis…” James’s voice was thinner now, weaker. His breath hitched. “I… I don’t feel well.”

“It’s okay,” Francis soothed, though his voice wavered, his arm tightening around James’s trembling frame. James’s gaze, which moments ago had clung to Francis’s face in desperate panic, lost its focus, drifting into the void of unconsciousness. “It’s just shock, you hear me? You’re going to be fine. James?”

No answer came. James’s hand slipped from Francis’s neck, dangling lifelessly at his side.

“James!” Francis’s voice broke entirely now, raw and desperate, his hand trembling as it cradled the other man’s head. James’s body sagged against him, his head lolling back, those once-bright eyes dull and unfocused.

Francis called his name again and again, stroking James’s hair, helpless against the weight of his silence, the suffocating stillness that followed.

***

James’s eyes fluttered open, disoriented and heavy. His gaze wandered, unfocused, across the dim room, landing briefly on the pale, sterile walls before shifting to the cold, sharp line of light spilling beneath the door. The faint hum of fluorescent bulbs buzzed just beyond, a distant, mechanical sound that only deepened the stillness. Slowly, realization began to creep in. He was in a hospital bed. A private room.

Fragmented, feverish memories surged, slamming into him one after the other—the sickening pop of his knee giving way, sharp and visceral; the deafening roar of the audience, a tidal wave of noise; Selene’s astonished face as she held him as if he were a child, and Francis’s pleading reassurances.

Oh, hell.

As if testing the limits of a dream, James tried to move his leg. It was elevated, secured in some kind of specialized contraption he hadn’t noticed until now. The attempt sent a jagged bolt of pain slicing from his knee to his throat, forcing a hiss through gritted teeth. His hands clenched the stiff, starched hospital sheets on instinct.

“James? You’re awake?”

The voice came from the corner of the room—familiar, weary. James’s chest tightened as tears pricked his eyes, unbidden. He forced them back, the reminder sharp and bitter: he forced enough worry upon Francis for one day.

Summoning strength he didn’t feel, James turned his head. Francis was there, stiffly rising from a chair, his posture heavy with exhaustion. Only then did James notice the darkness pressed against the window, the faint halo of fluorescent light spilling into its reflection.

"And where’s the beeping machine? Like in the shows?" James rasped, forcing a joke to fill the silence. His voice felt hollow in the stillness of the room. Francis gave him a faint smile, one that made the dark circles under his eyes stand out even more. Guilt churned in James’s stomach—he wanted to apologize, but somehow, words felt useless now.

“You didn’t have a heart attack,” Francis replied softly, scooting his chair closer to the bed. “No need to keep track of your pulse.” He stretched out his hand and took James’s palm in his, the warmth grounding James in the present. Unable to bear the tenderness in Francis’s gaze without breaking down, James turned his attention to the small table against the wall, now crowded with bouquets of flowers.

“They’re from the audience at the performance,” Francis said, pressing a light kiss to James’s knuckles. James let out a breathy chuckle. The performance already felt like a hazy dream, blurred by smoke and pain.

“Apparently, they loved it,” Francis added with a soft smile.

“I don’t care,” James wanted to say, but instead he mumbled, “Who thought it was a good idea to bring a bouquet of cabbages to the theater?”

Amidst the roses and carnations, his attention snagged on an odd, scruffy bouquet with purple-green flowers on thick stems—looking like the illegitimate child of a delicate rose and a cabbage head.

“That’s brassica, for your information,” Francis scoffed, “and it’s from me.”

James turned to look at the older man’s face, now intently studying the assortment of flowers as if avoiding his gaze. This ridiculous act of tenderness became the final straw, and James found himself crying quietly, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Francis. Please forgive me.”

Francis looked at him with visible confusion, as if he couldn’t comprehend what James meant.

“For what? You did everything… You were magnificent, James.”

“Right up until the moment I ruined everything and destroyed my damn leg,” James muttered, feeling his nose clog and his eyes swell from crying. He wanted to confess everything—the weeks of dull, insistent pain in his knee, shadowing the pain in the ankle, the lies he told himself and Francis, pretending everything was fine. But all that came out was an ungainly sniffle.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Francis said firmly, handing James a handkerchief. “I would never blame you for this.”

I know, James thought bitterly. He tried to sit up straighter so Francis could look him in the eyes and see the feeling he couldn’t put into words. The slightest movement sent sharp pain through his leg, paralyzing him with nausea. James instinctively clenched his teeth, hoping Francis wouldn’t notice.

“Are you in pain?” Francis asked, his voice anxious as he leaned forward in his chair. James cursed himself for not being able to stop causing Francis worry.

“I’m fine.”

He shook his head briefly. Even that simple motion transformed the dull, irritating pain into something sharp.

Francis tightened his grip on James’s hand, bending closer. “I’ll call the doctor to get you something for the pain.”

James reflexively grabbed Francis’s hand as if to stop him, but the thought of relief made him exhale shakily and nod. Francis smiled faintly before standing and heading toward the door.

“You know,” Francis said, pausing in the doorway, “you can tell me. When you’re in pain.”

He held James’s bewildered gaze for a moment, then stepped out, allowing a flash of dazzling white light from the hallway to spill into the dim room before the door clicked shut behind him.

***

Francis couldn’t tear his eyes away from the catheter in James’s arm, the cannula sinking deep into one of the prominent veins coiling tightly beneath his skin. The sight of the protruding tube gave an unsettling impression of grave illness. Though he knew that wasn’t the case, the mere suggestion sent a tremor through him, one he struggled to suppress. A few hours earlier, while James was still unconscious, blood had already been drawn through that same catheter for tests.

Francis silently vowed he wouldn’t leave as if he wasn’t certain James wouldn’t be torn apart piece by piece.

When the nurse injected a cocktail of sedatives and anti-inflammatory drugs, James’s face relaxed almost instantly. His jaw softened, and his gaze turned unfocused.

“You should go home, Francis,” James mumbled incoherently, his eyelids heavy. “I won’t escape, I promise. You need to sleep.”

Francis thought of his own flat, abandoned for so long. He’d been crashing at James’s place, steadily working his way through his stock of tea and food. His flat had become a relic of a past he didn’t want to return to, despite the unexpected turns the future kept throwing at him.

“I can sleep here, it’s fine,” Francis replied, meaning he was better off by James’s side.

“That’s bullshit,” James mumbled, closing his eyes and succumbing to the sedatives.

Francis could have sworn he only closed his eyes for a few minutes when the sound of the door opening stirred him. Two figures stepped into the room.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Dr. Stanley, the head of medical services at the Royal Theatre, greeted with a restrained smile. Beside him, Dr. McDonald, the hospital doctor attending to James, offered a slightly warmer expression.

It was impossible to tell if Dr. Stanley hadn’t slept at all or was simply accustomed to waking at 5 a.m. He flipped on the overhead lights, causing Francis to squint and James to open his eyes in startled alertness.

“Oh, you’re awake, Mr. Fitzjames. Most fortunate,” Dr. Stanley said briskly. “We’d like to guide you through the next steps of your treatment.”

He launched into an explanation about the anterior cruciate ligament tear and how such injuries could be avoided in the future, casting a pointed look at James. Meanwhile, James appeared to be struggling to keep up with the cascade of medical terminology, his expression increasingly strained.

“To determine if it’s a partial or complete tear, we’ll perform an MRI later today. As for the—”

“Oh, MRI!” James interrupted, grinning far too brightly for the situation. “It’s those things they use to scan mummies!”

Dr. Stanley blinked several times in succession, momentarily thrown off. The room fell into an awkward silence.

“I learned it from a podcast,” James explained, entirely unbothered.

Dr. Stanley cast a questioning glance at Dr. McDonald, who simply nodded.

“Right,” Dr. Stanley said, refocusing and shifting his gaze to Francis, who looked far too exhausted to explain James’s behavior. “While Mr. Fitzjames enjoys the side effects of his sedatives, I assume you can better grasp the gravity of the situation, Mr. Crozier. If it’s a complete tear, reconstruction surgery—”

“Is it even okay for you to tell me that?” Francis interrupted, genuine curiosity in his tone, memories of Dr. Goodsir’s frosty professionalism surfacing.

Dr. Stanley hesitated, casting another glance at Dr. McDonald, his expression betraying a trace of exasperation, as though silently concluding, This one’s a bit slow too.

“We assumed you have Mr. Fitzjames’s best interests at heart,” Dr. McDonald interjected with a warm smile. “That means we trust you with this information.”

“Oh, you can trust Francis anytime!” James chimed in, winking at Francis with a cheeky grin, as if to say, I’ve got you.

“Right,” Dr. Stanley sighed, visibly resigned. He continued outlining the situation: the surgery, the months of rehabilitation that could stretch to five or more, and the harsh reality that James might not be able to dance at the same level again—or at all, in the worst-case scenario.

A heavy weight settled in Francis’s stomach, cold and unrelenting. He cast a glance at James, who had zoned out entirely now.

“And the lab results show an inflammatory process, though that’s under control now,” Dr. Stanley added. “Oh, and it seems Mr. Fitzjames has anemia. That, combined with dehydration, likely explains the loss of consciousness.”

"Anemia?" Francis repeated blankly, his exhaustion dulling his ability to process. He knew what it was but couldn’t summon the definition.

"Iron deficiency," Dr. McDonald explained patiently. "It could be related to other issues, but in this case, it’s likely due to an unbalanced diet."

Francis raised his brows, unease flickering in his chest. Before he could form a response, James chimed in, entirely missing the gravity of the situation.

"You know there’s a chocolate bar with bull’s blood they eat in Russia to prevent that. How sick is that?"

Dr. Stanley’s expression didn’t shift—he clearly didn’t find it sick. James, undeterred, turned to Francis and mouthed, Did you know? Francis shook his head curtly, the tension growing in him.

"Restrictive eating, Mr. Crozier," Dr. Stanley interjected, his tone tinged with irritation, clearly not amused by James’s commentary or Francis’s delayed reactions. "It’s an unfortunate but prevalent aspect of the ballet industry."

"What we mean," McDonald cut in, softening the tone, "is that Mr. Fitzjames could benefit from a good steak and some pomegranate juice. Speaking of which," he added with a slight smile, "I hear there’s an excellent English breakfast being served in a few hours."

Francis allowed himself a faint smile. Perhaps they could both use a proper meal.

As the doctors exited, James let out an exaggerated sigh, his gaze unfocused but tinged with mischief.

"Do you think when the nice one said ‘we,’ he meant a medical council ‘we,’ or, like, a fruity ‘we’ as a couple of gays?"

Francis, still seated, almost rose to chase after the doctors, tempted to ask how long it would be before James came back to his senses. Instead, he groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Get some sleep, James, alright? Whatever they’ve pumped into you is making you talk nonsense."

James smirked faintly. "It’s just so good when you listen. And, hey, you can’t judge me—I have a pretty bad injury, remember?" James drawled, his words becoming slow and slurred.

Francis rolled his eyes. "I wouldn’t judge you even if you were perfectly fine—which you never are."

"Ah…" James closed his eyes, smiling softly at some private thought. For a few moments, Francis thought he had drifted off. His face, still streaked faintly with the sticky residue of stage powder, relaxed as the weak sunlight crept over the horizon.

Francis’s own eyelids grew heavy, his aching back reminding him of the torturous chair he’d spent the night in. He knew he’d have to leave James at some point today, but perhaps if he managed to get a little sleep now…

"Cipollino," James’s voice cut through Francis’s drowsy thoughts, bringing him back to the moment.

“Sorry, what?” Francis opened his eyes and peered at James, who was still lying with his own eyes closed. Maybe he’d just had the strangest dream, Francis thought, until James opened his eyes and repeated, firmly, “Cipollino,” as if it explained everything.

“It was… um… the leading part I had at the Mariinsky Theatre,” James clarified.

“As in the fairy tale?” Francis asked, frowning as he tried to recall if he’d ever heard of a ballet with that name. “Or was it something contemporary?”

“No, no, the story about that woke onion, you know. I had this thing on my head,” James explained animatedly, gesturing in circles around his head. “Like… spring onions, right?”

For a moment, his gaze drifted unfocused, his words faltering into silence. Francis tried to reconcile the weight of such an odd statement with the mental image of James wearing a bunch of spring onions like a ridiculous ponytail. Maybe it was embarrassing for him. Maybe he hated it. That’s why he didn’t want to tell him.

“And how was it?” Francis asked, not really expecting a coherent answer.

James remained silent for a long half-minute before responding. “Oh, I enjoyed it a big time,” he said finally, smiling faintly at the wall. “The music wasn’t great, but kids loved it. They cheered and laughed…”

Francis found himself smiling too, watching James’s expression soften.

“They were cheering, can you imagine? ‘Onion boy! Get him!’ That’s all I understood. And it was fun. That part, I miss.”

Francis hummed softly, running his fingers through James’s hair, still sticky with pomade from the performance.

“I wonder if I miss dancing altogether,” James said abruptly, his voice quiet, and Francis noticed his eyelashes tremble slightly.

“You won’t need to miss anything,” Francis said with calm certainty. “You’ll be back on stage in a few months.” He meant it with all his heart.

James exhaled, tilting his head slightly toward the soothing strokes of Francis’s hand. Francis silently wished James would fall asleep before the drugs began to wear off, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell him.

“Would you still love me?” James asked, his voice stiff and hesitant. “You know, if I was nobody. Or… someone in the background…”

“James, that’s an absurd question—”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.” James’s voice softened, no longer tense. It grew faint as he added, “I’ve always wanted to have a small ballet school for kids when I retire.”

Francis could see it clearly.

“I’d take every kid who wanted to dance: tall ones, short ones, chubby ones. The most ridiculous bunch of ballet kids ever. They’d probably not learn shit, because I’d only praise them… Parents would be furious…”

James’s voice trailed off into silence as Francis twirled a strand of his hair around his finger, listening to the steady rhythm of his peaceful breathing.

Chapter Text

December, Later That Year

“…so Ross is asking if you’ll be ready to return by spring,” Francis said. His knitted hat, deliberately ridiculous, kept sliding down his forehead. He adjusted it again, waiting for James’s response.

“Gore could easily handle the role,” James replied evasively, his gaze fixed on the rooftops of Banbridge sprawled out below the hill like a miniature diorama. Down in the valley, most of the snow had melted, but here, among the trees, a stubborn layer still clung on, fighting for its right to winter.

“Maybe,” Francis conceded, rubbing his nose with a mittened hand, “but people have been holding onto their tickets for months, hoping it’ll be you. By spring, it’ll have been half a year, and we’ll need to decide.”

James snorted.

“You should be flattered,” Francis added.

“I’m not,” James replied with a shake of his head. “I’m sure all the fuss is because of the scandals surrounding the premiere. Did you know the Daily Mail reported that I died of a mystical heart failure right after the performance?” James exclaimed indignantly.

He was deflecting again, a familiar pattern by now. Unable—or perhaps unwilling—to give a definitive answer. Rehabilitation after the surgery was progressing well, and though James still wore a brace to stabilize his leg during long walks, he was making strides, figuratively and literally. Now, as he sat on the wooden sleds with his injured leg stretched out before him, the brace visible beneath his trousers. If all went as planned, James could be ready to return to the stage by spring. But he continually pushed those thoughts to “tomorrow,” day after day, until a month had slipped by. Most of that time had been spent in Ireland, much to Francis’s mother’s delight.

“And how’s life after death treating you?” Francis smirked, his bright eyes sharper against the pure white snow. His lips parted just enough for James to catch a glimpse of the familiar gap between his teeth—a sight that, without fail, lifted his spirits. A pleasant ache spread through his chest.

“Almost heaven,” James murmured, knowing the words would earn him a kiss. Francis leaned down, his cold lips brushing James's mouth, which quickly warmed as their kiss deepened.

“Hey! Uncle Frank! Uncle James! Is that you?” The sudden clamour of children's voices in the distance shattered the moment.

“Oh shit, it’s the nephews,” Francis muttered, pulling away abruptly as their names rang out. James gave him a questioning look. “I might be taking their only sledge—the one they specifically asked not to touch,” Francis explained, fixing his mittens and adjusting his hat, already preparing to haul James’s sled.

James raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You're not serious,” he said, his voice laced with a smirk. “They’re just kids, what are they gonna do?”

“They’ll tell their parents, and then their parents will tell Mom,” Francis replied, his face flushed from the exertion of pulling the sled, trying to hide behind a cluster of trees before the kids caught up. “And Mom asked us to fix the creaky door in the guest room. Remember? That means...”

“No TV remote privileges,” James finished, his voice low as the reality of the situation hit him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t watch something on his laptop, but choosing the program each evening was an unspoken power struggle in the house—a privilege you didn’t want to lose. Besides, he had grown attached to watching Columbo every night.

“You’re right. And Jane loves Love Island, so you know...” Francis said, dead serious.

“Oh shit,” James exclaimed. “Go faster, Francis!”

Francis burst through the thicket, breathless, and skidded to a halt at the gentle slope of the hill. He exchanged a look with James, who nodded resolutely, awkwardly shifting back on the sled to relinquish control to Francis.

“If Ross, Stanley, and Goodsir find out…” Francis muttered, but he didn’t hesitate. The sound of children’s laughter echoed closer, spurring him on. He pressed James’s outstretched leg with a brace securely against himself, and kicked off for their daring descent.

The sled glided down the snow-covered hill for a few meters, barely surpassing walking speed, before one of the runners sank into a patch of loose snow. James toppled off like a sack of potatoes, his balance thrown completely. He landed in the snow, his braced leg sticking straight up in the air, while Francis, whom James had been holding onto, tumbled down beside him in a flurry of white.

Spitting out snow, they lay side by side, blinking at each other.

“Well, so much for Colombo,” James sighed, blowing strands of hair out of his face. “Looks like I’ll have to spend the evening with another cranky old man instead.”

Francis nearly choked in outrage. James looked at him, his cheek wet with melting snow, flushed crimson from the cold. His entire face radiated warmth, his breath curling faintly in the crisp air. He was alive—bright, whole, and stunningly alive.

“I can’t believe I’ll have to endure such disrespect for the rest of my life,” Francis huffed, feigning offense as he tried to knit his brows together in a stern expression.

“No one’s forcing you,” James quipped sharply, inching closer, so close their lips were almost touching.

“I think I will, nevertheless,” Francis murmured, his words slipping into the space between them, before sealing them with a kiss.