Chapter Text
Seeing the ballet on stage with the actual set pieces and lights is leagues different from seeing it in the rehearsal room. They’ve had a few rehearsals onstage already without the technical elements, but now that they’re putting it all together in preparation for dress rehearsals, Michael feels like he’s seeing all of the steps for the first time. There’s no costumes yet, because they’re focusing solely on sets and lighting today, but from his position in the back of the house sandwiched between Crystal and Feldy on one of the theater’s red velvet seats, Michael can see details that he missed from the front of the rehearsal room.
The Christmas tree on stage makes stage right crowded during the introductions in the party scene, so Michael takes advantage of a lighting hold to adjust formations, instructing dancers to loop around the tree and back in a few steps. Sierra’s timing is off at one point because she has to weave around people to get to the front, something that they fixed in the first party rehearsal that for some reason didn’t stick, so Michael fixes that traffic pattern at the first opportunity and makes them run it again three times. Michael has to ask Crystal to tell the children to get their fucking act together because he’s worried he’ll come across as too mean and trusts her to phrase the corrections better.
That being said, most of the choreography translates really well to the stage, popping against the intricate backdrops and flowing under the multi-colored lights. The character introductions are entertaining, and when the crowd doesn’t have to be adjusted the smaller groups who have choreography while others are featured blend really well, not drawing attention away from the main focus of the scene but adding just enough visual interest to keep everything alive and energetic.
When they get to Ashton’s introduction, however, Michael sees it. He’s dancing flawlessly, charming Clara and earning the approval of Drosselmeyer, but then they reach the assemblés.
When headed right, for a split second, Ashton hesitates. It’s not a large hesitation, likely invisible to anyone who hasn’t spent hours studying the way that Ashton moves and watching him drill his sections in the rehearsal room, but Michael has. Michael sees it.
His heart sinks down to the floor.
-/-
“One week until previews,” Feldy says, fruitlessly straightening the papers on his desk. None of the wood below is actually visible, and Michael isn’t sure what exactly he’s trying to accomplish besides shoving new papers behind old ones to get lost. He wonders if Feldy has any sort of system to his desk organization and how he survives if not, but he wonders a lot of things about Feldy. It could go either way.
“How are you feeling?”
Michael tears his gaze away from the desk to meet Feldy’s eyes, which could be a mistake depending on what answer he comes up with.
Feldy starts all of their meetings like this, gently coaxing Michael through his emotions like he genuinely cares rather than simply wants to ensure that the production isn’t going to go up in flames when the choreographer has a nervous breakdown. Michael feels like he’s been holding his hand the whole way through this process, just like his favorite math teacher did back in middle school to ensure he actually passed while he was too busy with ballet after school to do his homework. Feldy should’ve become a ballet teacher if he wasn’t such an amazing artistic director.
“I’m feeling alright,” Michael says, tugging his sleeves over his hands, then undoing the motion. He can feel the nutcrackers in the corner watching him, but he refuses to turn and glance at them. He has all of them named in his head by now, and Federico–the only one whose uniform is predominantly blue–is his favorite, but he doesn’t want to see his uncompromising, unsympathetic expression.
Now he’s projecting way too much onto hunks of wood. He needs to get a fucking grip.
“What are you concerned about?”
Michael would worry that Feldy can tell that he’s completely and utterly lying, except it’s probably normal for choreographers to be losing it at this point in the process, right? Putting on a live show always involves a period of immense stress where it doesn’t seem like things could possibly come together in time, and then they magically do, anyway.
“The end of the party and beginning of the battle is still really rough,” Michael admits. Feldy nods, because he knows this. He has eyes and has been at all of the tech rehearsals. “It just needs to be run more. We have all of it figured out now, but it’s unfamiliar enough that it’s tripping people up, especially the kids.”
“We’ll be spending time on it today,” Feldy says. “What else?”
Michael runs through the rest of the show in his mind.
“I want another rehearsal for Snow and Ginger Snap.”
Feldy nods, making a note on a paper.
“I think it would be a good idea to run the pas as well,” he says, glancing at Michael to confirm. At his answering nod, he makes another note. “How’s Ashton doing, by the way?”
Michael notices his jiggling leg and makes a conscious effort to stop.
“Um, fine. Why?”
Is he fine? Is he going to hesitate on opening night? Is he going to fall again?
“He made an appointment to see Matt,” Feldy says casually.
“Lots of people do that.”
Matt, the in-house physical therapist, works in preventative care. If a dancer is concerned about something that feels a little off or is at high risk for an injury, it’s expected that they make an appointment with him to keep themselves in good working condition. Michael has been considering seeing him for his back, which continuously feels tight, but it keeps slipping his mind amidst the chaos of rehearsals.
Feldy sets down his pen, leveling Michael with a look.
“Be honest with me. Do you think he can do this?”
Michael bites the inside of his lip.
He’s been asking himself the same thing. Besides the slightest hesitation on the assemblés, he’s been near-flawless. He’s still equally powerful and graceful, still addictive to watch, but they haven’t had a chance to talk after rehearsal. Ashton always leaves immediately, no doubt tired from the demands of the show, so they haven’t been able to check in one-on-one. Honestly, Michael feels like they’ve barely seen each other since Sunday.
Michael doesn’t want to answer Feldy until he’s had a chance to talk to Ashton himself. It could be nothing. Maybe Michael is seeing things.
“I think you chose him for a reason,” he says. “Even if I didn’t think he was ready, it’s a bit late to throw Luke in full-time. Ashton can do it.”
Feldy’s mouth forms a grim line. Michael wishes he could give him a better answer, but he’s already using all of his false-bravado to convince himself that his choreography won’t be a disaster. He doesn’t want to lie even more.
“Talk to him, will you?” Feldy asks. “As his friend, not his choreographer. He needs that right now, and he’ll receive it better from you than me.”
Michael is about to protest, because he’s too fucking busy in the middle of tech week for that, but one pointed look makes him deflate.
Ashton doesn’t have many options. Calum is even busier than Michael is trying to coordinate things with the orchestra and ensure that all of the music fits correctly with whatever the sets and lights and choreography is doing. Everyone else that Ashton is close to is also dancing in the ballet and therefore dead tired after rehearsals. Michael may be more stressed than all of them, but at least he’s not executing his choreography for hours each afternoon and evening.
Is Ashton even going to want to open up to him? They’ve known each other for less than two months, even if it feels like a lifetime. Just because Michael would open his heart for him doesn’t mean that Ashton is comfortable doing the same.
“I’ll try,” he says.
“Thank you,” Feldy says. “I want him to succeed. He deserves that at least, after the past few years.”
Michael nods. Ashton deserves the fucking world.
“I’ll do my best.”
He hopes his best is good enough.
-/-
Calum: do you know where ash is
Calum: been looking over scores for the past 10 min and he’s not answering
Calum: he was supposed to drive me home
Calum: roy’s got a thing left right away
Calum: i don’t want to bus :(
Calum: but i don’t want to leave the lobby in case he shows up
Michael stares at the texts, slowing his pace on the stairs up from the costume shop. It takes him a while to process what Calum is saying, mind in five different places, trying to push aside his thoughts on formations he needs to tweak and cues that were late and when the press preview is and Luke’s fucking Mouse King costume, which is theoretically being adjusted right now with the assurance that Luke will finally be able to do all of the choreography Michael gave him by the time rehearsal rolls around tomorrow. If it’s not, the costume department is going to get very sick of seeing his face in their shop. By the time he actually understands what Calum is saying, he’s had to read the messages three times.
He pushes open a door, starting to type out a response before he realizes that this isn’t the right hallway. For someone who spends most of his time in the performance center, he’s still shockingly prone to getting lost if he’s not paying attention.
The deja vu hits him hard, especially when his ears pick up on the faint strains of Theme and Variations coming from the last room.
Michael really fucking hates Theme and Variations.
i’ve got him, sending him your way, he types out, pocketing his phone and beelining to the practice room.
Ashton isn't dancing when Michael makes his way to the door. He's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, head in his hands while the music plays out around him. The second male variation comes to an end, then restarts while he stays frozen.
Michael knocks on the open door. Ashton lets out a visible breath, his back collapsing in on itself under his black muscle shirt, then looks up.
"Hey," Michael says, crossing the threshold from the carpeted hallway to the vinyl of the dance floor. He tugs the door closed behind him, then goes to the sound system and turns the music off, plunging the room into silence.
"So..." he says eventually, once it becomes clear that Ashton is going to stare at a spot to Michael's left rather than say anything. "Rehearsal ended twenty minutes ago."
Ashton lips twist.
"You counting the minutes?" he asks.
"Did you try to dance, or do you just like torturing yourself by listening to the same two minute song over and over?"
"Fuck you," Ashton says, but it's without heat. He sounds exhausted, which is more worrying than the expected frustration. When Ashton is upset, he tends to get annoyed, like every little thing grates on his nerves. He snaps and huffs and rolls his eyes like it’s an Olympic sport. Ashton’s exhaustion is something that Michael doesn’t have as much experience with.
He sits down on the floor in front of him, wrapping his arms around his knees.
"Is it the assemblés?" he asks quietly. Ashton's expression tightens.
"I can't fucking get them," he whispers, chin quivering. A tear rolls down his cheek, and Michael immediately scoots forward, hands hovering uselessly until Ashton gives him the slightest nod and he makes contact, gripping Ashton’s hands in his own, thumb rubbing against the back of them while his heart clenches.
"It's The Nutcracker, babe. It's not Theme and Variations."
"I know that!" Ashton says, tearing one of his hands out of Michael's grip to swipe at his eyes. "But now I can't do them in The Nutcracker, either."
"You can," Michael insists. "You've been doing them. You're overthinking."
"What if it happens again?" Ashton asks, meeting Michael's gaze with wide eyes. Michael can see all of the fear and insecurity hidden in them, like he cut Ashton's chest open and is peering between his ribcage. Michael's own chest aches.
"It won't."
Ashton shakes his head.
"I didn't think it would last time and it fucking ruined me. I thought I'd never dance again."
Michael swallows. He suddenly wishes he had kept the music on, just to have something else filling the air besides the faint whirring of the heating system.
"What happened last time?" he asks gently, thumb still rubbing against the back of Ashton's hand. His skin there is smooth, a result of the peppermint-scented lotion he uses during the winter months. He offers Michael some every time he pulls it out when they’re together.
Ashton wipes away another tear and shrugs.
"I broke it. My ankle. I sprained it earlier in the season and didn't have time to let it heal properly, and that on top of not eating enough and not sleeping and being so fucking stressed all the time... it was probably inevitable, but I didn't want to believe that. I thought if I just kept pushing myself, eventually it would be enough. I was always told I didn't have the body of a normal ballet dancer, but I thought if I spent more time at the gym and ate a little less I could get there. I was told I didn't deserve to be a principal that young, but I thought if I rehearsed a few extra hours a week and pushed myself to jump higher and be more flexible and be more expressive I might actually live up to expectations. But none of that was true. I ruined my career and ruined my life, too."
Michael makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to imagine an Ashton who tortures himself instead of constantly ensuring that he and his friends take breaks and eat their dinner, but it’s all too easy to do. A broken ankle isn’t a death sentance for a dancer, but everything else piled on top of it is. It’s a miracle that he chose to come back at all.
"But you're here now," he offers, moving closer, their knees knocking. "It didn't ruin your career. And you've built a wonderful life here. You have friends who love you. You have cafes where you're a regular and museums that you memorized. You have a job that you earned, because you're a beautiful dancer, in every sense of the word."
Ashton shakes his head, pressing his lips together.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Ash. I promise, no one who watches you is going to be thinking about anything but the dance. You’re going to land your assemblés, and you’re going to land every other move. You’ve been doing it in the rehearsal room for weeks. Doing it on stage is the same thing.”
“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?” Ashton asks, searching Michael’s face like he actually has the answers.
“It’s the same thing,” Michael repeats. “You can do this. I know you can.”
Ashton swipes at his eyes again.
“Hey, come on,” Michael says, tugging on his hand and trying to catch Ashton’s eyes again. “Can you trust me?”
Ashton rolls his eyes, snorting.
“Because I can believe in you enough for the both of us if you need me to. I think at this point I’ve earned your trust, and I want you to trust me when I say that you’re going to be amazing out there. You’ll do your assemblés and you’ll dance the best show of your fucking life.”
“Now you’re exaggerating,” Ashton mumbles. He’s so predictable: cocky and self-assured about his dancing in one moment, but deflecting as soon as Michael suggests he’s anywhere close to the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.
“I’m not,” Michael says, adamant. “I never got to see you dance before, but you’re absolutely mesmerizing now. This performance is going to be special. Maybe not the best performance of all time, because I’m trying to be realistic, but the best performance I’ve ever seen? The best show you’ve danced to date? Fuck yeah. I’m not exaggerating.”
Ashton doesn’t seem to have a reply, looking down at their hands instead. Michael holds on tight.
“You can do this, Ashton,” he says firmly. “I’ve been watching you dance for weeks. I know that you can do this. You’re a great dancer, but you’re also a stubborn motherfucker. You’re not going to let a silly little dance move beat you.”
Ashton swallows.
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me,” Michael requests. “That’s all you have to do. The rest will fall into place.”
Ashton hesitates, but nods.
“Okay,” he says quietly, wiping his eyes again. The tension in the room dissipates.
“Thank you,” Michael says, relief palpable. Ashton nods. “What can I do to help? Do you want to go look at Hotei until you feel better?”
Ashton laughs wetly.
“MIA is closed by now,” he says. “I should probably… I should probably just go home. I have to eat and sleep. Shit, I was supposed to give Calum a ride.”
“It’s okay,” Michael says. “He texted me. He’s looking over the scores again in the lobby.”
“Oh.”
Ashton wipes his cheeks again, then sighs.
“I should go, anyway.”
Michael nods and scoots back to give him space. Ashton going home to eat and rest is a much better idea than him staying in this fucking practice room and dancing himself to exhaustion, even if Michael wishes leaving didn’t mean both of them going separate ways.
It’s for the best. They still see each other in rehearsal, anyway. It’s fine.
Ashton sighs again and forces himself to his feet. Michael cautiously follows, lingering while Ashton wanders over to the sound system to unplug his phone, then slips on sweatpants over his tights and a jacket over his shirt.
“Ready?”
Ashton nods, doing one last scan of the room before heading towards the door. Michael follows him, flicking off the lights when they leave.
They don’t say anything on the walk to the lobby. Michael probably should’ve cut off and gone to the stage door, since that’s closest to where his car is parked and it’s snowy and cold out, but it feels wrong to leave Ashton right now. He stayed with Michael when he had his breakdown, so he should return the favor.
“Sorry you had to see that,” Ashton says eventually. Michael shakes his head.
“It’s fine. I cried on your shoulder and got your shirt all gross and snotty last time, so if anything I owed you one.”
“Still.”
They descend into silence again. When they reach the doors to the lobby, Michael puts his hand on Ashton’s arm, pulling him to a stop.
“For the record, it really is shaping into a fantastic show,” he says. “And even if you mess up, it’s still going to be good. I meant everything I said back there.”
Ashton swallows.
“Thanks, Mike. That… that means a lot.”
Michael nods, then opens the door for him.
“There you are!” Calum says from his place sitting cross-legged across the lobby, sheet music spread out on the floor in front of him. “What took you so long?”
As Ashton gets closer, Calum’s face changes, brow furrowing and worry creeping in.
“Hey, are you alright?” he asks gently. Ashton nods. “Want to come over for dinner?”
“Yeah.”
Calum gathers his papers, shuffling them into his binder while Ashton waits. Michael shifts his weight, not sure what he’s supposed to say or do.
Ashton is in good hands now. Calum knows him better than Michael does and knows what he needs. He’s not needed anymore.
“Well, goodnight,” he finally offers lamely. “See you both tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you,” Calum says with a wide smile. “Thanks for finding him for me. Get home safe!”
“Bye, Michael,” Ashton says, offering him the barest hint of a smile, then turning back to Calum. Michael’s stomach twists.
“Bye,” he repeats, then turns away, ducking out of one of the side doors. He turns his collar up against a cold burst of wind, carefully picking his way over the icy sidewalk until he can get to his car and begin the journey back to his empty apartment.
-/-
The promotional banners with the principals go up during class on Friday, at the same time as Ashton’s introduction on the instagram account. He can tell that Ashton is on-edge about the press preview tonight, but he’s glad that they weren’t given direct warning about the announcements so he could focus during class.
They’re hard to miss once they step outside, though.
Hanging against the six columns at the front entrance are six long banners, each one so large that they’re difficult to see up close. The six principals all have individual shots that were used, and Michael finds his furthest to the left. They went with one where he’s doing a kick, and he has to admit that it turned out well. All of the photographs are stunning, but Michael’s eye is drawn immediately to Ashton’s in the middle.
It’s relatively simple, all things considered. They captured him in the middle of a passé, standing in relevé with his toe to his knee, but Michael’s eyes keep tracing the strong lines of muscle, catching on the shape of his jaw and the smooth planes of his chest.
“Holy shit,” someone breathes next to him, startling him out of his thoughts.
He turns to Ashley, gazing wide-eyed up at the banners.
“Those are fucking huge,” they say. It’s enough to startle a laugh out of him, which makes her grin.
“Definitely the biggest poster I’ve ever been on,” he says.
“Yeah?” she asks. “How does it feel?”
Michael looks back up at the banners, turning over his feelings in his mind so he can better inspect them. It’s mostly a litany of jumbled exclamation marks, but underneath it there’s… pride. Immense pride that someone decided he deserved to be up there, and pride that he himself feels like he has earned his place there, up amongst the people he tentatively calls friends.
He’s still worried that everyone is going to hate his choreography, but he doesn’t, and that counts for something. That counts for a lot.
“It feels fucking awesome,” he grins at them. “What about you?”
“Fucking awesome is a good way to put it,” she says. He finds her banner, leg raised impressively high behind them in an arabesque. They look amazing up there, and he knows that she’s going to shine onstage, too.
“Hey, are those the promo banners?” Luke calls, jogging down the street from the stage door.
“Yeah!” Michael calls back as more and more people wander over. Luke drops an arm over Michael’s shoulders the moment he catches up, tilting his head back to see.
“Wow,” Sierra breathes, slipping into the space on Luke’s other side. “They turned out so good!”
The other dancers in the crowd murmur their agreement. Michael cranes his neck, trying to see the one dancer whose thoughts he really wants to know.
Ashton joins the crowd at a slow walk, staying at the outskirts and gazing carefully up at the pictures. Michael holds his breath as he takes them in, heart beating faster and faster the longer Ashton stares at them, squinting in the bright winter light.
When Ashton finally pulls his eyes away, Michael’s gaze is the first one he meets.
His lips turn up, not quite a full smile, but something happy nonetheless.
Michael slips out from Luke’s arm and weaves around a few other dancers until he lands next to him, ignoring murmured commentary and a few congratulatory pats on the back.
"What do you think?" he asks him, waiting with bated breath.
"Andy and Sarah did a fantastic job," Ashton says, tilting his head and looking back at the banners. "They're better than I expected."
"Yeah?" Michael asks.
Ashton must hear his true question underneath. Michael couldn't care less about the quality of the photos. He knows that they're amazing; he can see that for himself. What he doesn't know is if Ashton is going to spend half of his lunch break fighting a fame-induced panic attack.
"I'm... excited," he says, slow and measured. A grin begins creeping up his face, dimples appearing, eyes lighting up. "Fuck, Michael, I'm excited about this. It feels good to be dancing in a company."
Michael's cheeks hurt from the force of his smile.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, good. Same."
Ashton knocks their shoulders together. Michael rocks back with the motion, reorienting himself closer than before.
"Hey!" Luke says, worming his way in between them with an arm around each of their shoulders and his own matching grin. "What are you two lovebirds doing for lunch? I want a sandwich."
His words are like a bucket of ice water dumped on Michael's head.
Lovebirds. Except they don't have to be anymore, do they? Ashton's picture is out there. His profile is up on the company instagram, and by now some gossip website will have undoubtedly released a short article on it. Michael and Ashton can officially start phasing out their relationship. The contract ends today.
The clock in the back of his head ticked down without him realizing. He's been hearing it for weeks, but somehow the final tick is still a surprise. Now that it's halted, everything feels entirely too quiet up there.
"I don't really want to go out," Ashton admits, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Your place?"
"Thank God," Luke says, pulling them closer. "I have so much stuff in my fridge that's going to go bad if someone doesn't eat it soon. Michael, you in?"
"Oh," Michael says. Maybe Luke doesn't know that he and Ashton are supposed to break up soon, so he doesn't have to keep hanging out with him.
"Come on," Luke whines. "We need to celebrate today! I'll even make you a smoothie."
"The one thing you can't mess up," Michael ribs. Ashton barks a laugh. Luke pouts.
"Fine. Make your own. See if I ever do anything nice for you again."
"Aw, come on," Michael says, tugging at him. Luke folds against him like a paper doll, by far the touchiest out of all of Ashton's friends. "I'm kidding. But I'm going to fucking freeze if I have a smoothie right now. It's too cold."
Luke grins, the tip of his nose turning red the longer he spends outside.
"Hot chocolate, then! Let's go!"
He takes off without waiting for a reply, tugging Ashton and Michael along after him. Ashton glances over at Michael like he's in on the joke, and for once Michael feels like he actually is.
Maybe it doesn't need to end right this second. Maybe this little, baby thing between him and Ashton can stretch out for another afternoon.
-/-
Their final date is on Saturday, after the afternoon press preview. They had a preview night on Friday as well for anyone writing for a Sunday publication, but a few independent blogs and smaller publications reached out before they announced the cast, so Saturday afternoon finds another press preview for their final full dress rehearsal, with a few touch up rehearsals on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday before opening on Thursday. Michael can barely keep it straight, but the production calendar is impeccably color coded and the schedule is posted by the stage door. He has a meeting with Feldy on Wednesday for who-knows-what, but after Thursday his schedule opens up considerably. He's not sure what he's going to do with all of his new time when he's only rehearsing a ten-minute ballet rather than a two hour one, without the little dates with Ashton or meals with the crew peppered throughout his week.
"Hey," Ashton himself says, nudging their feet together under the now-familiar table. Michael looks up from the last dredges of whipped cream and hot chocolate collected at the bottom of his mug. "Where’s your mind at? You just let me rant about Prince for three minutes.”
Michael’s stomach twists. He should be savoring these last moments with Ashton. He’s not going to get any more after this. He might never find himself in this chair at the Yellow Goat again, with Ashton across from him in a soft hoodie, cheeks rosy and hair tousled because he tried to rinse some of his hair gel out after rehearsal.
“Just thinking about the show,” he lies. Ashton reaches across the table like he’s about to take his hand, but he stops just short of doing so, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
“Hey, the press reviews are going to be great,” he reassures gently. “I saw the reporters’ faces during the curtain call. They enjoyed it. Their articles will reflect that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Michael sighs.
The run went really well. Sierra was captivating, Ashley shined, and every single member of the corps moved perfectly in sync, part of a beautiful painting on stage, slotting together like gears of a clock.
Ashton, of course, was phenomenal. He still may have hesitated the barest amount on the assemblés, but it wasn’t enough for anyone to notice. If he wasn’t otherwise precisely in tune with the orchestra and absolutely flawless in every other way, Michael himself wouldn’t have noticed it. Any memory of the assemblés at the beginning was erased by the time the fight scene began, wiped away by the effortless way he carries himself onstage in every other context. Michael did his best to watch everyone so he could give notes, but whenever Ashton was in front of the curtain his eyes were inexplicably drawn to him. His stage presence is magnetic, like every single spotlight has been programmed to land on him, even during blackouts.
"Feels weird that it's almost over, doesn't it?" Michael asks.
"There's still a month," Ashton laughs. Michael swallows.
"For you, maybe. I'm done after Wednesday. No more Nutcracker for me."
No more Ashton, either. Sure, they'll still see each other around the company, but this is the end in every way that matters.
"Oh," Ashton says. "I suppose. It's going to be weird not having rehearsals together anymore."
Michael nods, looking back to his hot chocolate. The whip has long since melted, creating a light brown swirl rather than the fluffy, delicious white foam. Michael's stomach turns.
"You'll get to perform, at least," Ashton says. "I'm sure you miss it."
"Yeah," Michael says, accepting the olive branch. "I like choreographing more, but it'll be nice to perform again. And I gotta say, I'm happy I won't have any more early-morning choreography meetings with Feldy. I swear I wouldn't be this tired if he didn't make me wake up early each morning."
"Do you need an early night?" Ashton asks, uncertain. "If you want to get home we can stop--"
"No!" Michael says, entirely too loud for the small space. He glances around, hunching his shoulders. No one is staring at them, but a girl in the corner keeps sneaking glances, phone in her hand. It makes his skin crawl, but isn't that the point of this whole date? To possibly be seen?
Michael looks back at Ashton. His brows are furrowed again, like Michael's mere existence is perplexing. The back of Michael's neck prickles uncomfortably.
"Are you okay?" he asks. "You're acting weird."
Michael tugs his sleeves over his hands and nods.
"Yeah, just--do you want to get out of here?" he asks. He inclines his head towards the girl, Ashton's eyes subtly tracking the movement. His face softens in understanding. "I don't... I don't really want to be here anymore. You could come to mine if you want, or if there's somewhere else you want to go..."
"Let's go to yours," Ashton nods decisively. "We've both been under the public eye a bit too much recently."
Michael sighs in relief. He's so lucky that Ashton is handling the fame well, all things considered. After his crying session, he seems to have let most of his anxieties go, or at least pushed them aside in a manageable way rather than an unhealthy way. It gives Michael a bit of room to freak out over the end of their relationship, the fact that Ashton will definitely get all of his friends in the breakup, the pressure of putting his first full-length ballet up for scrutiny, and the stomachache that has been getting progressively more annoying since the promotional banners first went up.
"Come on," Ashton says, nudging Michael's foot with his boot. "I'll follow your car, alright?"
Michael nods, gathering his coat. Ashton clears his dishes for him without him asking, shooting a smile to the employee wiping down the counter while Michael fumbles with the zipper on his jacket and tries putting his gloves on the wrong hands. Ashton giggles when he notices, and the sound makes some of the tension in Michael's shoulders dissipate.
"Shut up," he grumbles, swatting at Ashton with one of them. Ashton laughs harder and shakes his head,
"Never."
Michael adjusts the beanie on his head, tucking a lock of hair out of his eyes, certain that his cheeks are getting pinker by the minute.
"Let's go," Ashton says, setting a gentle, barely-there hand on the small of his back. Michael lets himself be ushered out of the cafe, bell ringing behind them to announce their exit.
The streets are dark, the sun already having dipped below the sky while they were inside. Michael fucking hates how early night falls in the winter, but he likes the way that the street lights reflect off the snow. Even though it gets dark early now, he appreciates how the world still finds ways to glow.
"I'll follow you," Ashton repeats when they reach the parking ramp where the performers keep their cars. "See you soon."
Michael takes deep breaths while he drives, turning off the radio to give him a moment of silence when the first note of Christmas music grates on his nerves. A few strains of the beginning of act two of The Nutcracker float through his mind, and he lets the melody take over, releasing a deep exhale with each new stanza.
God, he’s going to miss this show when it’s over. He’s going to miss goofing off with Crystal when they’re supposed to be planning choreography, and he’s going to miss trying to keep Roy from being distracted by Calum whenever he’s their rehearsal pianist. He’s going to miss coming up with Candy Canes with Brian and Luke, and he’s going to miss their delight when one of them had a lightbulb moment for a sick move to put in there. He’s going to miss the freaky way that Ashley and Ashton always know what the other one is thinking, and he’s going to miss Feldy’s pleased smile at the end of the rehearsals that he got to see. He’s going to miss high fiving all of the kids in the cast and he’s going to miss gushing at the corps after their numbers.
He’s going to miss watching the show and thinking, wow, this is actually really fucking good, and I made that.
Now is not the time to have a breakdown over that, though. He should save it for after his Ashton-induced breakdown, because he can feel that one getting closer and closer by the hour.
Maybe time will move slower in his apartment. Maybe he can convince Ashton to stay for a few hours rather than just until the Yellow Goat closes.
Seeing Ashton outside of his apartment building is jarring. Michael himself is barely there, spending most of his time at the performance center or surrounding area, so to see someone that he fully associates with the dance world lingering outside the building that he doesn’t call home yet feels wrong. It feels equally wrong to see him in the apartment itself, especially when Michael sees the state of his furniture.
“This is an interesting set up,” Ashton remarks, unwinding his scarf from around his neck as he looks around. Michael’s cheeks heat as he takes in everything that Ashton is seeing for the first time: his sparse furniture all pushed to the very edges of the front room to leave a large open space in the middle, the lack of any sort of decoration or personality adorning the walls, the various hoodies and blankets thrown around to fight the chill in the air because he doesn’t spend enough time in the apartment to properly heat it. The space barely looks like it’s inhabited, not like Calum and Roy’s cozy home or Feldy’s cluttered office.
Michael supposes he’ll have to decorate it soon. He’ll certainly have the time for it in a few days.
“I, uh, mostly dance here, really,” Michael says, kicking off his shoes and hooking his jacket on the coat tree. “I needed room to figure out choreo when I wasn’t at the performance center and haven’t had time to put it back.”
Ashton hums, carefully wandering through the space. He crosses into Michael’s kitchen, completely open due to the floor plan without so much as an island to differentiate between the two rooms, and Michael cringes at the dirty dishes piled there and the overflowing garbage can in the corner.
This was a terrible idea. He should’ve asked to see Ashton’s apartment instead, because this is possibly the least inviting living space he’s ever seen.
“Do you want anything?” he asks, dropping his dance bag by the door like usual and pulling out his now-empty water bottle to add to the dish stack. “I can make hot cocoa, or there’s water I guess. I don’t really have snacks, though. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.”
“We were just at a cafe, Michael,” Ashton says, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. Michael wants to vanish the smirk off of his face in a variety of creative ways.
“Maybe you got hungry again,” he defends. “You’re a growing boy. You’ve been working hard.”
"I'm a growing man," Ashton scoffs. "This is six feet of pure, unbridled man, not boy."
"You are not six foot," Michael says, rolling his eyes. Ashton makes an offended noise.
"I'm close enough!"
"You are not!" Michael argues. "I'm 6'1. You're nowhere near as tall as me."
"Yeah?" Ashton challenges, pushing off the counter and taking a step forward. Michael meets him toe-to-toe, bringing them a hair's breath apart. Ashton tilts his head back to meet his eyes, and Michael's breath stops in his chest, lungs frozen.
He blinks, but he can’t move, drawn too far into Ashton’s orbit and unable to make himself leave. He missed a bit of eyeliner when he took his makeup off earlier, black liquid stuck in the corner of his lid. God, Michael wants to see him in full eyeliner again.
"Pretty close," Ashton murmurs. Michael nods dumbly, hypnotized by different shades of color making up his hazel eyes and the delicate eyelashes framing them. Ashton could say he's ten feet tall right now and Michael would agree.
Ashton clears his throat and steps away, breaking the moment like the crack of the shank of a new pointe shoe the first time a ballerina slams it against the floor.
"Doesn't change my point though," he says. Michael has to backtrack through their conversation, trying to find out what he was talking about.
"You're not six feet tall," he insists.
"I'm 5'10, but I'm still pure, unbridled man," he grins. Michael catches it like it's contagious, unable to keep his own smile off his face even as he shakes his head, equally exasperated and enamored. Ashton giggles, which makes his whole grin-situation even worse.
"So," Ashton says, light giggle still echoing in the air. Michael mirrors him against the counter, close enough to give him goosebumps but not close enough to touch.
"So?"
"What does a prolific choreographer like you do in your down time in this apartment?" Ashton asks. "What happens when you're not dazzling dancers and audiences alike?"
"Well, lately I've been dating this dancer," Michael says, bumping their shoulders together. "We go to eat a lot, and I hang out with his friends sometimes. That and the dancing takes up most of my time, and Netflix takes up the rest. I'm too fucking tired when I get home to do anything else."
"You know, it's funny," Ashton hums. "At the beginning of all of this, we said that one of the things we enjoyed doing as a couple is dates at home, but this is the first time I'm seeing your place, and you still haven't been to mine."
Michael looks down at his floor panels.
"Ben's going to be disappointed," he jokes. Ashton snorts.
"Guess we aren't method actors."
Michael hums, because whatever is making his gut feel funny and sending jolts through his nervous system feels pretty fucking method. The way that Ashton easily brings a smile to his face and the way Michael wants to keep him smiling too feels pretty fucking method.
Michael knows that he's been pretending this whole time, but somehow, around the dinner dates and between the rehearsals, feelings crept in, ones that Michael should've kept separate.
"Do you want to watch something?" he asks, looking up and tugging the cuffs of his hoodie over his hands. "I'll even move the furniture for you so we can watch on the tv instead of my laptop."
"You'd do that for me?" Ashton teases with a tilted smile.
"I'd do anything for you, honey," Michael replies, equally syrupy-sweet to cover any sincerity underneath it. Ashton studies him, although Michael doesn't know what he's trying to find.
"I want to dance," he decides eventually. "Then we can watch something."
"You've been dancing all day," Michael groans. Ashton takes a place in the center of Michael's empty living room.
"But you have all this space!" he says. "It'd be a waste not to use it! I want to get one dance in before we move the furniture."
Ashton begins moving through familiar steps, precise enough that Michael's mind immediately fills in the accompanying music despite the fact that he can’t travel as far.
"Not fucking Theme and Variations," he moans, covering his face and hanging his head.
"It's the first thing that came to mind!" Ashton protests, impressively steady for how much energy Michael knows the moves take. "Now hush. I need to focus."
"Don't hush me!" Michael squawks. "This is my apartment! If anything, I should be hushing you! And I am! My apartment, my rules, and I say no more Theme and Variations!"
He starts vocalizing off-beat nonsense, trying to trip Ashton up. He laughs instead.
"You're so fucking annoying!" he says between dance steps and giggles. "Just let me finish!"
"But I hate this ballet," Michael whines.
"It's, like, two minutes long, tops. You can deal," Ashton says, beginning the ending jumps and turns. Michael goes back to saying nonsense at the top of his lungs, but Ashton lands on one knee with his arms out to an invisible adoring audience. Michael's voice cuts off abruptly, mouth clicking shut.
"There," Ashton says, standing and facing him. "What, no applause? No 'well done Ashton, what a fantastic performance?'"
He frowns. Michael stares at him with wide eyes, the dance playing itself back in his mind. It's a dance that’s already seared in his mind, and he knows that he's going to remember it forever.
"Ashton," he says slowly. "Do you realize what you just did?"
Ashton's frown morphs from indigent to confused.
"What are you talking about?"
"You just did the entirety of the second male solo from Theme and Variations, without missing a beat or tripping over any steps," Michael explains. "All of it. Even the assemblés."
Ashton stares at him. Michael can see the rise and fall of his chest, still recovering from the dance.
"What?" he asks.
"You did the assemblés," Michael repeats. "You landed them perfectly. You did it."
"Holy shit," Ashton breathes. The corners of his mouth turn up, smile slowly growing while Michael watches. "I did it. I did it! Michael, I fucking did it!"
He jumps up and down in excitement, his joy filling the entire space. He looks like a little kid, happiness shining out of every piece of him, grin wide enough to split his face in half. Michael laughs, loud and delighted.
"You did it!" he repeats, joining him in his jumping for joy. Ashton laughs. Michael feels like the apartment gets ten times lighter, everything glowing.
"I did it!"
Ashton grabs his arms, smile bright enough to put the sun to shame. Michael’s heart soars.
"I'm so fucking proud of you," he says. Ashton beams. "Holy shit, Ashton, that was--"
Michael kisses him.
It doesn't last long, just Michael's palms on either side of Ashton's face and a quick, firm press of his lips, there one second and gone as soon as Michael processes what he's doing. Ashton stares at him with wide eyes.
Michael blinks.
"I am so sorry," he says as soon as he can find his voice. He steps back, letting go. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "That was--I--"
Ashton cuts him off, swooping in to fit their lips together again. Michael swallows a startled noise in the back of his throat, pressing into Ashton's hands at his waist. He tentatively swipes his thumb against Ashton’s strong jaw, taking it as encouragement when Ashton steps closer, draping his other arm over Ashton’s shoulder and melting into the kiss.
Ashton kisses with the passion he dances with, precise and emotional and absolutely beautiful. His lips move against Michael’s in perfect harmony, hands sliding to his lower back to keep them tethered together, and when Michael licks at the seam of his lips Ashton opens easily underneath him. He steps forward again, knocking Michael off-balance and making him stumble with a giggle, the ghost of Ashton’s smile lingering on his lips when they meet again.
Ashton kisses him deeper, pressing close enough that Michael can feel him against his body from shoulders to knees, tangling his fingers in the hair at the back of his neck to give him an anchor. His other hand clutches at Ashton’s shirt as they stumble back, muscles firm and hot under his hand. When Michael’s back hits the counter with a painful thud, Ashton immediately and effortlessly lifts him onto it, and Michael’s stomach swoops. He feels dizzy, head spinning, lungs tight from not enough air, needing Ashton closer. He tilts Ashton’s head up to get a better angle, squeezing his hips with his thighs to keep him in place. Ashton’s hands slide under the hem of his hoodie and the tank top underneath, blazing hot against his skin.
“Oh my God,” he whines, words leaping out of him unbidden. He feels scorching all over, absolutely on fire where Ashton’s lips trail down his jaw and to the juncture of his neck. His fingers spasm in Ashton’s hair, tugging on it, and the deep groan that Ashton releases goes straight to his gut.
When Ashton looks up at him, Michael loses all of his breath again. His lips are red and full, slick with spit, eyes blown, hair a mess from Michael’s fingers. He’s the most beautiful person Michael has ever seen. He only remembers to gasp in a breath when Ashton’s fingers press into his lower back, causing him to arch.
“Fuck, Michael,” Ashton groans, sounding absolutely wrecked.
Michael did that. Michael fucking did that to him.
“Where’s your bedroom?” Ashton asks, kissing him again. Michael hooks his heels together at the base of his back, pulling him as close as he can.
“Michael,” Ashton murmurs against his mouth. “Bedroom?”
“Down–down the hall,” he shudders, helplessly distracted by Ashton’s fingertips barely grazing his waistband. His hands disappear, and Michael is going to fucking cry , but then Ashton is hooking his hands under Michael’s thighs and lifting, and Michael is–
Michael–
Ashton carries him down the hall and Michael hangs on for dear life, wanting nothing more than to get closer, and closer, and closer.
-/-
Michael wakes up slowly, no alarm set and curtains closed to block out the sun. He stretches out against the sheets, comfortably sore, sweeping his hand towards where Ashton was last night, hitting cold air instead of another body.
He cracks his eyes open, running his hand over the empty sheets again. They’re cold, tucked around him like no one else had been there at all, and Michael’s heart sinks.
His clothes are still strewn across the floor, but Ashton’s are conspicuously absent. He strains his ears, praying to hear the flush of the toilet, or the sound of the coffee maker in the kitchen, or any sign of life besides him in the apartment, but there’s nothing. He throws on what he can reach, leaving the bedroom as quickly as possible to do a lap of the space, even though he already knows what he’s going to find.
Ashton is gone. There’s no sign of him left, not his shoes by the door, not a stray mug of coffee, not a note. Michael searches everywhere, and he searches the bedroom twice. He grabs his phone in one last desperate hope, but the home screen is blank. No new notifications.
Michael sits on the edge of the bed and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
Fuck.