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Michael peers up at the tastefully ornate building in front of him, the one that will be his home for the next season.  The Delwo Performance Center sits snugly adjacent to downtown Minneapolis, just far enough from the heart of the city to live across from apartment complexes and a small park but close enough that a short walk reveals busy streets and crowded sidewalks.  As such, the huge structure looks out of place here, with its grand columns at the entrance and impressive stone gargoyles peering down from high corners, ready to spit autumn leaves and rain down on those passing too close underneath.

It’s an old building that’s been restored recently with new gray stone, with ample flat space outside where huge publicity banners will go once they’re complete.  Michael knows that inside he’ll find a miniature city of rehearsal rooms, stages, technical shops, dressing rooms, offices, and other assorted necessities for a full-scale, year round professional ballet company arranged in a maze of hallways and stairwells.  Michael has lived in a building like this in New York for years, but this one is unfamiliar to him.  Sure, he got a tour before the first production meeting, but he’s probably going to keep getting lost inside for at least the next two weeks.

That’s why he got here early, with the pale morning sunlight illuminating the stonework and glinting off the windows.  Michael needs the extra time to ensure he makes it to Mr. Feldmann’s office before their meeting more than he needs a few extra minutes of sleep.

He barely slept last night, anyway, nerves doing flips and pirouettes in his stomach and mind whirring with ideas and catastrophes.

He’s twenty-four years old.  He has no business choreographing an entire production of The Nutcracker for a nationally-recognized ballet company, especially when he couldn't even get American Ballet Theatre to let him create a 10-minute piece.  To be personally asked to relocate halfway around the country and reimagine the most well-known ballet of all time is an honor that he’s dreamt of, but always in a distant, pipe-dream way.  He didn’t actually think he’d get here, especially this young.  How the fuck is anyone supposed to take him seriously when he still doesn’t know how to properly sort his laundry?

Michael shakes his head, then lets a shiver run through him with a gust of wind, swirling some brown leaves in the gutter.  He has a meeting to get to.  There’s no time for self-doubt and imposter syndrome, not when he needs to go over the final details on the vision of the show in half an hour and continue choreographing later today.

He’s a great choreographer.  Even if he’s not, he’s good enough at faking it that no one will be able to tell.  He can do this.

He takes a deep breath and makes his feet move towards the stage door.

Fifteen minutes, one forgotten door code, and two wrong turns later, Michael finds himself in the executive office wing, sitting on a slightly uncomfortable brown chair with his dance bag on his lap.  The hallway is bare, with empty nameplates by a few offices and light squares on the wall where old photographs or posters used to hang.  Michael wonders how many of them contain the old artistic director or his network of co-conspirators.  It makes sense that they’d be trying to scrub him from the performance space after numerous financial scandals and allegations of unsafe work conditions completely shut down the ballet a year ago.  No one thought that the company would come back after their year of a dark stage, but then John Feldmann was announced as the new artistic director with almost an entirely new staff and board.

The Minneapolis Ballet isn’t what it once was.  This season will be small compared to past years and starts later than most other companies, but it’s still the largest ballet company in Minnesota, even if it’s no longer one of the ten largest ballets in the United States.  If this season goes well, it could get there again someday.

In order for this season to go well, The Nutcracker has to go well.  In order for that to happen, Michael needs to whip up some fantastic choreography.

He grimaces once he notices that he’s jiggling his leg up and down and stretches it out in front of him instead, rolling his ankle in large circles and pointing and flexing his foot.  He’s already scheduled to miss part of class due to the meeting, and he figured he’d skip out on the rest of it to ensure he has everything in order for rehearsals in two weeks.  He needs to ensure that this doesn’t become a habit.  He’s dancing in the rest of the season as a principal for the first time, so he can’t fall behind any of his peers.  He’s wanted to be a principal dancer since he learned what ballet was; he’s not going to mess this up just because he’s on the other side of the stage for the first show of the season.  He needs to get a conditioning and class routine ingrained in his bones again.

Being a ballet dancer is a constant battle to remain in prime condition.  Michael regularly has to remind himself that he signed up for this shit, especially when some days he would rather stay in bed than do any technique work or go to the gym.

He’s in the middle of a set of plie exercises that he’s done since he was in elementary school at extracurricular ballet classes when Mr. Feldmann turns the corner, smiling widely when he catches Michael mid-squat.

“Just the man I wanted to see!” Mr. Feldmann says, as if he isn’t the one who scheduled this meeting weeks ago, putting it on the shared production calendar that all of the design staff has access to and is expected to check frequently.  Michael straightens and hopes his smile comes across as half as genuine.

“Thought I’d get a head start on the day,” he says, even though that’s a blatant lie.  Michael is much more of a night person than a morning person.  He hopes he didn’t just give Mr. Feldmann motivation to continue scheduling these meetings early in the morning rather than after rehearsals or during the lunch break.  Michael is fully committed to the ballet grind, but not this apparent choreographer schedule.

Life was so much simpler when he was choreographing short pieces in his childhood living room at ten years old with an audience of only his parents, typically while they exasperatedly told him to come back to the table and eat his vegetables

“Come on in,” Mr. Feldmann says, unlocking the door to his office.  Michael cautiously steps through after him and is immediately assaulted by the sheer amount of stuff covering the space.  They’ve been remote or in the conference room for all of the other production meetings, so this is his first time being exposed to the old DVDs and ballet books lining the bookshelf and spilling over to the windowsill, the miniature stage model in the corner with small wooden set pieces tossed haphazardly on it, the large desk covered in papers and post-it notes, and the posters of previous ballet productions covering the walls and stacked on a couch in the corner amongst various other nicknacks.  Michael catches sight of a few older posters, from shows he knows that Mr. Feldmann danced in Pacific Northwest Ballet before he retired from dance and moved to the administrative side of things.  The space bears all of the marks of his time in the industry, from award plaques on the wall to a stack of programs sliding across the floor.  The office feels lived in, like Mr. Feldmann has been at the helm of the Minneapolis Ballet for longer than one year.

There are fifteen nutcrackers staring at him from the corner of the room.  Michael can feel them judging him and finding him lacking.

“Take a seat!” Mr. Feldmann says, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk while he flings off his coat and collapses into the swivel chair.  Michael gingerly takes a seat and carefully sheds his coat, the gaze of those nutcrackers making his neck prickle.

“So,” Mr. Feldmann says once he’s situated with a notepad and a working pen, looking at Michael expectantly.  “Rehearsals start in two weeks.  Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Michael says immediately, lying through his teeth.  He hopes the nutcrackers can’t read his mind.  “As long as we’re still on the same page about the vision of the show, you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Feldmann.”

“I’m not worried,” Mr. Feldmann says warmly.  “And please, call me Feldy.  Everyone here does.”

Michael nods, pulling the cuffs of his sweatshirt over his hands.

“I did want to discuss something specific about the casting with you, though,” Feldy says, adjusting his notepad in front of him again.  “I haven’t been a dancer with the company for a long time, so I want to be sure you think this is feasible.  I don’t want to double cast anyone except the children.  I want everyone to be performing the same roles for every performance.  I know that’s not common at a company of this size, but we have some big names on the roster this season and I think that keeping them for every performance will draw people.”

Michael blinks, then tilts his head.  He has no clue who Feldy might consider a big enough name to draw a crowd, especially given that half the reason he was brought in was due to a lack of interest from the local community and the need for a reworking of the show.  Dancers aren’t typically household names, and anyone far enough in the know to recognize dancers would likely be in love with the art enough to buy a ticket already, anyway, even if they’re competing with other productions from local companies.

“What if someone gets sick or injured?” he asks.

“We’ll still have swings and understudies,” Feldy assures him.  “We’ll do two understudy performances throughout the 20-show run, and they’ll step in when necessary otherwise.  I know that this could influence how you choreograph, though.  If dancers don’t have a day to recover in between their shows, it might impact how intense you make some of the pieces.”

Michael frowns.

“I hope you have a really good Nutcracker and Clara in mind.  This production is going to be a marathon for both of them.”

“You’re still planning on including them in the pas de deux, correct?” Feldy asks.  Michael nods.

Michael never really understood the role of the Cavalier in the original Nutcracker production, especially when a lot of productions that he saw and was a part of seemed to underutilize the Nutcracker himself.  The production is named after him, but most people can’t remember any of his solo moments.  One of the early ideas that he discussed with Feldy was having the Nutcracker dance the famous Sugarplum Pas de Deux with the Sugarplum Fairy, with Clara jumping in at some points to make it a pas de trois.  The Sugarplum Fairy will still get her solo, but this gives the Nutcracker and Clara participation in the most iconic sequence of the ballet, and Michael likes how it works narratively, too.  Having all three of them dance together also ensures that Clara doesn’t just take over the Land of Sweets, but seamlessly belongs in the world with her dream creations.  The Sugarplum Fairy is fully a magical dream creation, and Clara belongs to the ordinary human world, but having the Nutcracker dance with them both bridges the two worlds together, allowing Clara to take more of the magic back with her at the end.

At least, that’s what Michael is going for.  He hopes it comes through in the dance.  His goal is to immerse Clara–and therefore the audience–in all of the magic, incorporating her into more dances and teasing visions of the other characters once she goes back home at the end.  He’s toying with the idea of planting some dancers in the audience for transitions as well, but he’d have to figure out a way to do that where the patrons in the balcony get the same sort of experience.

“I think you’ll be very happy with our leads,” Feldy says with a sly smile.  “Let’s talk about casting, shall we?”

The file that Feldy pulls out from one of his desk drawers is full of headshots and character names for the 78 performers involved in the production, half of which make up the two casts of children who auditioned from extracurricular dance programs of the St. Paul Conservatory and other schools in order to make up the party guests and the Ginger Snap number that Michael wanted.  They start with them, then the teenagers who will be swings in large group scenes such as Snow or Flowers as some of their first professional ballet experiences.

Next is the corps de ballet, who will fill in the necessary ensemble scenes, carrying the majority of the show on their back.  Michael recognizes two of them from ABT, other transplants who came with him, but the majority of them are people he’s never heard of.  He very well could’ve danced with some of them at conventions or events years ago, but Michael is shit at names and already overwhelmed by the amount of new ones he’ll have to learn as the choreographer.

He recognizes more of the soloists, if only because he does his best to stay somewhat up to date on who’s who in the ballet community.  Brian Logan Dales is dancing Candy Canes and will be one of the featured soldiers in the battle scene against the Mouse King.  There’s Carlotta Cosials, who’s dancing Marzipan with Ana Garcia Perrote and two other dancers that he doesn’t know.  Roy English, who Michael did a summer intensive with years ago and kept in vague contact with since, is partnering with a dancer named Rachael Kathryn Bell for Coffee.

There are dancers from all over the country represented in the cast.  Feldy drew from the Twin Cities when casting the season, but there are other dancers coming in from California, New York, Florida, Texas, and even Canada.  It’s clear that he’s committed to making this comeback year a success, and he’s searched hard for the people that he thinks will make that happen.

By the time they get to the other principals for the season, Michael is practically vibrating out of his skin with excitement.  The nerves from earlier have been quietly suppressed by the anticipation of seeing the people he will be creating a show with, and now he wants to know the people he will be spending a significant amount of time with in the studio.  It doesn’t help that Feldy seems absolutely gleeful across from him, like he’s about to present Michael with the best Christmas gift ever.

Crystal Leigh is one of the principals, which Michael already knew.  Rather than dance in The Nutcracker , she’s his assistant choreographer.  He’s already met with her a few times to start working through things and discuss how they’re running rehearsals.  She’s a few years older than him and has been a principal for two years with a different Minnesota company, and it’s nice to feel like he automatically has an ally here.

Luke Hemmings will be playing the Mouse King in this production, and he’ll be the other person dancing Candy Canes in the second act.  He’s one of the few dancers who originated at the Minneapolis Ballet and returned for this season, although–like Michael–this will be his first year as principal.  Michael has heard of him, and it takes a moment for him to place why.

Luke was one of the dancers who came forward about the misconduct during rehearsals.  His testimony during the year off helped put the former artistic director behind bars for abuse and sexual misconduct.

“Ready for our trio?” Feldy asks once Michael has carefully put Luke’s headshot in a pile with the others.  He nods, catching the enthusiasm in Feldy’s voice.

“Our Sugarplum Fairy is Ashley Nicolette Frangipane.  She’s spent time with New Jersey Ballet before switching to the San Francisco Ballet as a soloist, but she’s ready to be a principal.  They’re immensely talented, and I think she’ll bring an ethereal quality to the role while having the necessary power to tackle a 20-show run.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Michael says, pulling the headshot towards him so he can fully take in Ashley’s mysterious smile and bright eyes.  He can picture them in a glittering tutu, adding a playful and confident quality to the otherwise-gentle Sugarplum Fairy.

“Clara,” Feldy says, getting out another headshot, “is Sierra Deaton.  She’s been with Los Angeles ballet for her entire career, but they never promoted her to principal, which is a crime.  I was able to see her as a soloist when I traveled out there last year.  I’ve rarely seen a dancer who so perfectly commits to her character.  It was Oscar worthy.”

Michael takes her headshot as well.  Although he’s not familiar with Sierra, he trusts Feldy’s judgment more than his own when it comes to choosing his dancers.  If he thinks she’ll make the perfect Clara, he believes him.

“Who’s our Nutcracker?” he asks, looking up at Feldy to find him already grinning.

“Are you ready?”

All of Michael’s nerves are standing on end, anticipation zipping across his skin.  He’s going to die if Feldy doesn’t tell him who it is right this instant.

“I am,” he says emphatically.  Feldy reveals the final headshot with a flourish, placing it in front of Michael.

“It’s Ashton Irwin.”

Michael looks down at the headshot, where Ashton fucking Irwin looks back at him with his strong jaw and hazel eyes.  Michael hasn’t seen pictures of him for a few years, but it’s undoubtedly still him, even if his hair is dyed black instead of his natural light brown and his face has lost any and all baby fat he may have had when he was younger.  Michael looks back up at Feldy, who’s smiling gleefully.

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Feldy says.

“Ashton Irwin hasn’t danced professionally for years.  No one has heard from him.”

“I’ve heard from him.  He’s been here,” Feldy says, tapping the headshot.  “He moved to Minnesota right after his injury so he could work with Mayo Clinic Orthopedics and Sports Medicine.  We’ve been in conversation for years, and he’s ready to come back.  It’s time.”

Michael looks back down at the headshot, trying to process what Feldy is telling him.

Ashton Irwin took the ballet world by storm by becoming a principal with New York City Ballet at only 21 years old.  It was unheard of, as was the amount of press that it gained him, almost all of it positive.  Everyone’s eyes were on the “finest ballet dancer of this generation,” with people who otherwise would never get into ballet clamoring for the chance to see him dance.  Michael managed to snag nosebleed seats to Theme and Variations, his first show as principal that had gotten rave reviews during previews, but he never got to see it.  The night before Michael was supposed to witness the most famous ballet prodigy of their age on stage, Ashton landed wrong coming out of what should have been a simple leap and collapsed, grinding the performance to a halt.  He had to be helped offstage and transported to the hospital, and he hasn’t danced another step on a professional stage since.

Michael doesn’t know the details of the injury.  Ashton deleted all of his social media posts and abruptly terminated his relationship with New York City Ballet.  Michael knows that he had some obsessive fans who constantly acted as his personal paparazzi, updating each other on his whereabouts with rabid vigor and adoration uncommon for ballet dancers, but it wasn’t enough to cross Michael’s twitter timeline.

Ashton Irwin was a household name.  Not many ballet dancers become that.  Then, suddenly, it was as if he had never existed, erased from the ballet world without a trace.

“Are you sure he can do it?” Michael asks, eyebrows creasing together.  Five years is a long time to be off the stage, especially at the skill level that Michael wants for the Nutcracker.

“Physically, he’s more than ready,” Feldy says.  “I’ve been working with him unofficially for over a year.  He’s strong, and he’s regained all of the technique that the injury and recovery made him lose.  His physical therapist says he’s fully recovered.  He’ll be able to do everything you ask of him.”

Michael frowns.

“But?”

“But, mentally he’s still getting used to the idea of being in front of the public again,” Feldy sighs.  “The injury was traumatizing in more than one way.  He’ll be able to get there, and he intrinsically needs to dance more than he wants to stay anonymous, but as part of his contract we’ve agreed to not reveal the company members until press previews to give him a few more months to prepare himself.  It’s considered confidential information within the company.  Instead, we’ll be revealing the dancers one at a time on social media, drumming up excitement that way while giving all of them a moment in the spotlight.  We’ll start with you and Crystal, since you’re already listed on the website as choreographers, then we’ll move on to members of the corps.  We’ll save Ashton for last.”

Michael looks back down at the headshot.

“That seems like a lot of trouble for one company member.”

Feldy leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him.

“Do you know why we hired you, Michael?”

Michael blinks.  He feels like he missed five steps in the conversation, and now he doesn’t know what the right answer is.

“Uh, I thought I did.  Why?”

“Minneapolis Ballet hired you because I personally picked you to help move this company forward.  It’s been a rough few years, and this season is the last chance for the ballet to survive.  I’ve worked my ass off networking and compiling sponsors to give us just one more season with the promise that I could make this ballet company into something wonderful again, and I knew that part of that required finding the person who could make The Nutcracker a fresh and moving story while maintaining the traditional elegance and spirit of previous interpretations.  That person is you.  Based on our collective vision for the show, I found us a Sugarplum Fairy who has the skill to do any Balanchine or Tudor choreography, but who wouldn’t be afraid to instill their own personality and playfulness into the role.  I found us a Clara who will bring every single audience member on this journey with her.  And, to round everything off, I found us a Nutcracker who will balance both of them beautifully, and who I believe is still one of the best dancers currently alive.  Sure, I also cast the company based on the other shows and the season and dancers who I see infinite potential in, but the fate of this company depends on The Nutcracker .  This company isn’t going to survive if no one comes to see it, but people will come to see Ashton, and once they realize how amazing the show is, they’ll bring their friends to one of the latter weeks.  If we drum up anticipation with the gradual cast reveal, then properly utilize the momentum that his name gives us with a rush sale, we’ll get people in those seats, and if we get them in the seats, they’ll be hooked for the rest of the season.  Do you understand?”

Michael swallows and nods.

“This is an incredibly young company overall.  Two thirds of our principals are in their first year, and most of our corps is fresh out of school.  I chose it that way.  It’s time for fresh eyes and fresh talent, even when other companies may not take the risks that we are.  The company needs a new start, with infinite capacity for growth.  The sky's the limit!  I chose dancers and staff who I believe in.  I need you to believe in yourself and in them, too.”

Feldy holds his gaze earnestly, leaning forward just slightly across the desk.  Michael’s throat tightens with an unidentifiable emotion.

He thinks Feldy could convince people to go to war for him easily.  He’ll have no trouble inspiring the rest of the company.  In fact, Michael wouldn’t be surprised if he single-handedly kept the company afloat during the past year with his charisma alone, beginning before he was even hired.  Now, he has other people he’s depending on.

“Yeah,” Michael says, clearing his throat.  “Yeah, I got it.  I do.”

“Good, I knew you would,” Feldy smiles.  “Ashton can do this.  So can you.”

Michael nods, palms sweaty.

“Let’s go over a few more of the logistical things, just to be sure we’re on the same page,” Feldy says, clicking his pen and writing something on his notepad in chicken-scratch handwriting.  Michael nods again and tries to pay attention, but it’s difficult.

The future of the ballet pretty much depends on his first experience choreographing a two-act ballet, which also happens to be the most famous ballet in the world, which stars arguably the most famous ballet dancer.

No pressure.

-/-

The day of the first rehearsal, Michael once again arrives at The Delwo Performance Center early in the morning, bundled in a jacket.  The weather has been relatively mild so far this autumn, but a few days ago it took a sharp dip towards freezing, and he tucks his chin into his coat with the knowledge that he’ll get warm within the first few minutes of class, then probably stress sweat through his athletic wear the moment the company-wide production meeting begins, outlining the vision of the show before transitioning into the first official rehearsal.

He’s ready for this.  He knows that he’s ready.  He went through the choreography for “The Waltz of the Flowers” with Crystal earlier this week, and she seemed to like what he did.  It’s going to be absolutely fine.

Michael has made it very far in life by pretending he has infinite confidence and tackling everything dance-related by throwing himself fully into it with reckless abandon.  It’s served him well so far, and it’s going to continue serving him well if he has anything to say about it.

John Feldmann, dancer extraordinaire and brilliant artistic director, believes he can do this.  Michael has to believe in himself, too, or this industry is going to eat him alive.

Michael repeats affirmations to himself in a mantra while he stretches before class, watching the rest of his company members trickle into the rehearsal room.  Some of them chat amicably with each other, but most of them are quiet.  Company rapport will grow more as they begin proper rehearsals, and right now Michael is glad for the quiet.  If anyone tries to talk to him, it’ll probably set off a slew of too-loud word vomit.

Michael takes a deep breath.

He can do this.  Everything is fine.

Class is a welcome distraction once they start, carefully listening to the ballet master lead them through their warm ups.  Michael easily falls into the rhythm of plies and tendus, the barre a familiar shape under his hand.  His mind goes blank as he works, instead focusing on the comfortable stretch of his muscles as he points his toes and straightens his legs.

Michael loves class.  For some people it gets repetitive or tiring, but it’s important to continuously drill the basics in order to maintain the standard of skill necessary to make it in a professional ballet company.  Michael loves how easily he can sink into the motions, knowing that for a few hours nothing else matters.

He loves choreographing and learning routines, and he loves pushing himself to the limit to create pieces of art for others to enjoy, but he enjoys the grunt work, too.  He likes putting himself through his paces, fine-tuning his technique so he can create those pieces of art later.

Of course, class doesn’t last forever, and Michael spends half of his lunch break in a meeting with Feldy and the other half of it panicking, swallowing food only because he knows that he won’t survive the afternoon without it.

He should’ve scheduled another meeting with Crystal.  He’s lucky that Feldy gave him an assistant choreographer and that she’s willing to help him instead of dance for this production, but it means that he needs to give her stuff to do and ensure that he utilizes her time well.  Things will get easier when the choreography is actually down, then Crystal can lead rehearsals running those numbers while he choreographs the other ones in a separate studio.

He hopes she wasn't lying to him last time they met, when she enthusiastically agreed that his choreography for the “Waltz of the Flowers” was amazing.  Feldy, other members of upper management, and some members of the board of trustees are sitting in on rehearsal this afternoon, so it has to go well.

He arrives back at the performance center early, clutching his choreography binder to his chest even though he has everything doubly memorized and won’t be looking at it except to adjust formations.  Still, he has all of the steps written out for the dances he’s figured out so far in case he catastrophically forgets everything.  It took a few hours and a hand cramp last week to complete it.

Michael starts going through the choreography in his mind on the way up the stairs, praying that it stays fresh in there instead of running at the first sign of everyone’s eyes on him.  He wants to seem prepared and confident in front of everyone.  No one here has a reason to respect him yet; Michael knows that he’s going to have to earn it.  Nothing in the ballet world is free.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t even consider that someone might be on the other side of the stairwell door when he pushes it open.  A startled yelp snaps him out of it, the other person stepping out of the way so he can open the door more and they can pass through.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize…”

The words die in his throat.  Ashton Irwin blinks at him, black hair carefully pushed back from his face and one hand rubbing the elbow Michael probably managed to hit.  This close, Michael can see where some of the black has started fading into brown, just like he can see his delicate eyelashes and the dip of his collarbone peeking out from his tank top.

“Ashton,” he says dumbly.  Ashton’s face tightens and he takes half a step back.

“Sorry, have we met?” he asks, rubbing his elbow still.

“Uh, no, not yet,” Michael says, wincing internally.  “I’m the choreographer.  I suppose we’ll be working together for the next few weeks.”

“Oh,” Ashton sighs, deflating.  “Nice to meet you.  It’s Michael, right?”

“Michael Clifford,” he says, holding out a hand for Ashton to shake.  Ashton takes it, grip firm and hand warm.

Michael’s not sure what to say after that.  Ashton doesn’t let the moment get awkward, instead gesturing through the doorway, where they’re still stalled.

“Well, I need to–”

“Yeah, of course, of course,” he says, stepping aside and holding the door open.  “Sorry for hitting you.”

“It’s fine,” Ashton says, mouth softening like he’s trying to smile, but can’t quite manage it.  “See you in a few.”

“Yeah, you too,” Michael says, but Ashton is already halfway down the stairs.  Michael lets the door fall shut behind him with a loud and ominous bang.

God, he can’t afford to embarrass himself any more.  The last thing he needs is one of the principals disliking him.

Michael stalks towards the stage where they’ll have the first company meeting, running over “Waltz of the Flowers” from the beginning again.

-/-

Somehow, in the midst of his anxiety and catastrophizing, Michael forgot to imagine what it would feel like if the rehearsal went right.   He forgot to consider the way his heart would swell and lift watching a room of dancers execute turns and leaps when he tells them and swirl around each other, carefully maneuvering the different formations that make up the slow cascade of flower petals that Clara witnesses.  For now, the dancers are in multicolored leotards and pale pink tights, but it’s easy to imagine the rainbow of pink, purple, and red tutus that they will adorn for the show.  When Michael blinks, he can clearly see them all under the stage lights against his eyelids, creating a beautiful, waltzing spectacle.

It’s not finished, of course.  This was only the first rehearsal, and he needs to incorporate Clara’s part near the end, when the flowers invite her to dance with them, but it’s already better than he dreamed.  He feels like he should be floating as he makes his way up from the costume department after a quick post-rehearsal meeting about visibility within the Mouse King’s costume.

They’re reusing some of the old costumes from when Minneapolis Ballet did The Nutcracker years ago, but they’re updating and sewing new ones as well, especially since Feldy is adamant about body diversity amongst the cast and their stock doesn’t include all the sizes they need.  Michael caught glimpses of the costume designer’s renderings tacked up on the wall amidst samples of ribbon and tulle, and they took his breath away.

The production is going to look amazing.  Michael can’t wait for opening night, when the whole world gets to witness it.

He hums “Waltz of the Flowers” quietly to himself as he makes his way through the performance center, trying to remember where the stage door is.  He knows that he has to go down a flight of stairs, because the costume department is on the second floor, but he thinks he took the wrong one, and now he’s meandering aimlessly past large, dark rehearsal rooms like the one they used earlier.  How many rooms does this building have?

Michael pauses near the middle of the hall, faint music tickling his eardrums in contrast to The Nutcracker .  He stops his own humming to listen, picking up faint violins and woodwinds.  The tune is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.  It’s probably a ballet that he has seen or listened to, but never personally been in.

Who is listening to another ballet in a rehearsal room right now?  Michael figured it was only production staff left in the building, and he thought it’d be early enough in the process that everyone would still be familiarizing themselves with Tchaikovsky’s most famous ballet rather than abandon it for another one.

He wanders towards the last rehearsal room in the hall.  As he gets closer, he can see the light spilling out from it, accompanied by the increasingly audible music.  He pauses near the door, far back enough that he won’t be caught in the mirrors but close enough to partially see what’s happening.

Ashton Irwin moves in the center of the floor, gently switching from foot to foot in pas de bourrées and springing into the air in entrechats with precision and grace.  Every dance move is perfectly contained within itself, and Ashton is absolutely stunning.  His muscled arms gently circle through their motions while his long legs carry his body from step to step, effortlessly creating the beautiful and impressive shapes that make up the dance.  Michael can’t tear his eyes away.

Seeing the choreography with it, he finally recognizes the ballet.  Ashton is dancing Balanchine’s Theme and Variations , the same ballet that Michael initially was supposed to see him in.  Watching him dance it now, Michael knows that it would’ve been an exquisite performance.  Ashton is the kind of dancer that Michael would go home and think about, watching him run through the choreography in his dreams that night.  He has astounding power, but also the grace and control to still portray the beauty and delicacy of ballet.  Michael can’t list another dancer off the top of his head who can balance those elements as well, and this is only in a rehearsal.  He knows that seeing Ashton on stage in performance would only enhance everything.

Right before the turn sequence at the end of the second male variation, Ashton executes a sissonne and assemblé on the left side, then repeats it easily.  They’re two simple jumps, one where he jumps off of two legs and lands on one, one where he jumps off of one leg and lands on both.  Michael learned how to do them back in elementary school, although back then he didn’t catch as much air or get his leg nearly as high as Ashton does now.  On Ashton’s way to repeat the sequence on the other leg, however, he hesitates half a beat too long, losing the momentum and ending up with more of a small glissade than an assemblé.  He stumbles for two steps and harshly combs a hand through his hair.

“Fuck!”

He stalks over to the sound system and jabs a finger at his phone to stop the music, sending the space into a sudden, echoing silence.  He whips around to face Michael, startling him with the fire in his glare.

“What do you want?” he spits.

Michael cautiously takes a step into the doorway.

“Hey, man.  I wasn’t trying to spy on you or anything, I just got lost on my way to the stage door.  I heard music and got curious.  Everyone else has gone home.”

Ashton sighs, shoulders deflating.  He rubs his forehead, disrupting the light sheen of sweat, then grimaces and wipes his hand on his (also sweaty) shirt.  He’s been hard at work for a while.

“Sorry.  I’m frustrated and didn’t want you to see that.  I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“It’s alright,” Michael says, leaning against the doorframe.  “How long have you been down here?  Everyone else has already left.”

Ashton shrugs.

“I found a room after I finished my costume fitting.  I don’t like giving up rehearsal time.”

“Well, it’s dinner time now.  You don’t want to overwork yourself.”

Ashton runs a hand through his hair again.

“I can’t get the fucking assemblé.  I can’t do the piece if I can’t get the assemblé.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re doing Nutcracker instead of Theme and Variations , right?”

Ashton sighs again.

“Come on,” Michael says, pushing off from the doorframe.  “Let’s go get some food.  It’s already been a long day, and I kind of feel like we got off on the wrong foot both times we’ve talked.  The choreographer and principal should be on good terms.”

Ashton shifts his weight and glances back to the sound system.

“Also, I need someone to show me how to get out of here.  This building is a maze.”

Ashton snorts, the hint of a smile on his face.  Michael feels like he just won the lottery.

“Okay, I can show you.  Feldy’s been letting me use the building to practice since he took over, so I know the place pretty well.  There’s a cafe two blocks from here with relatively healthy selections that we can go to so you don’t have to park again, just let me do a quick cool down.”

“Yeah, of course,” Michael says, hefting his dance bag more securely on his shoulder.  “Do what you need to.”

Michael waits in the hall while Ashton stretches and wipes his face with a sweat towel, then dutifully follows behind him through the corridors and stairwells until they reach the stage door, which spits them out into the chilly October evening.  Ashton stops by the parking deck to drop off his dance bag, so Michael does as well, and then they make their way towards Ashton’s destination with intermittent silence and half-hearted small talk until they finally reach a small corner cafe with a yellow door and drying plants in window baskets.  Ashton holds the door open for him, and Michael is assaulted by the rich smell of coffee and rustic decor.  The blackboard sign behind the counter proudly proclaims The Yellow Goat with a quick drawing of the animal eating some grass.  It’s small, but cozy, and Michael immediately decides he likes it.

“This is one of my favorite places to get food in the city,” Ashton says quietly while they wait in line to order, Michael scanning all of the options listed above and on display in cases.  “They’ve got great options, and most of their ingredients are locally sourced.”

“You sound like an ad,” Michael replies, equally as quiet.  He tears his eyes away from the menu in time to catch Ashton’s pout, then nudges him with his shoulder.  “I’m messing with you.  What should I get?”

They both get quiche and a sandwich, and Michael gets a smoothie because soon it’ll be too cold for him to do so.  He grew up in California and never quite adjusted to New York winters, and he has the sinking feeling that Minnesota winters will be just as bad.  Possibly worse, since it’s technically further north.

As soon as they sit back down at the table they claimed in the corner after placing their orders and getting their food, Michael starts the conversation they’re both really here for.

“So, how long have you been back to dancing?” he asks, stuffing a forkful of the quiche in his mouth right after.  Ashton gives him a hard look.

“Do you really want to know that, or do you want to know if I’m good enough to be a principal in The Nutcracker?   Because I assure you, I’m ready.  I’m a good fucking dancer and I’ve been focusing on my stamina and endurance for the past few months.  I can do whatever choreography you give me for twenty shows.”

Michael nods and swallows.  “I know.  I just saw you dance, Ashton.  You’re really good.”

Ashton falters, like he was expecting Michael to fight him on this in the middle of a restaurant.  Michael isn’t going to lie to his face, especially when Ashton is genuinely one of the most talented ballet dancers he’s been able to witness in person.

“It’s not your skill I have reservations about.”

Ashton narrows his eyes.

“Why don’t you want anyone to know that you’ll be dancing again?” Michael asks, casually preparing another forkful of quiche.  “They’ll see you dance in two months, anyway.  Why the secrecy?”

Ashton takes a breath, then pauses.  Michael continues eating, giving him all the time to buffer that he needs.

“I never liked the fame aspect of being a professional,” he says eventually.  “It’s… harder to do your job when everyone’s always watching.”

“So you want everyone to close their eyes when you’re on stage?” Michael asks.  Ashton huffs that same frustrated huff that he used in the rehearsal room.

“You know that’s not what I meant.  Performing is about connecting with people.  I don’t like being treated like a spectacle with no right to privacy when I’m just a human being.”

Michael chews and nods slowly.  It makes sense.  Michael has never been famous, not like Ashton has.  Sure, there are lots of people who know his name in very particular circles, but Ashton was relatively well-known even outside of the ballet community.  He did interviews on talk shows and made the news when he made principal, then again when he got injured.

“Do you think two months is going to change that?” he asks, not unkindly.  He’s genuinely curious.

Ashton sighs.

“I think I’ll have to be ready by then,” he says.  “Having the show for everyone to focus on will help.”

Michael nods again and hums.

He fucking hopes Ashton will be ready.  Luke is understudying the role of the Nutcracker, but Michael would really rather not have to put him in and shuffle around everyone who’s understudying his roles.  It’s always stressful when understudies have to step in with little warning.

“What about you?” Ashton asks.  “This is your first professional show as a choreographer, right?  Do you think you’re ready to tackle the most well-known ballet in history and put it in front of the public?”

“I can do this,” Michael says.  It comes out more defensive than confident.  Michael loads another bite onto his fork.  “Today was a really good rehearsal.  I’m feeling good about the process so far.”

“It’s still early.”

“It’ll still be good later.  Feldy wouldn’t have hired me if he didn’t think so as well.”

“John Feldmann leads with his heart rather than his head.”

“I know.  He hired you.”

Michael wonders if Ashton ever smiles.  His face is fixed in a stony frown, although Michael can see the gears turning inside it.  Michael isn’t going to survive this if he has to play chess with him every time they talk.  He’s lucky he survived this long.  If Ashton keeps this up for another few minutes, Michael is going to release an embarrassing stammer and mix up all of his words, then Ashton will never take him seriously again.

“Look man, I want us both to succeed here,” he sighs.  “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, can’t you do the same for me?  I’m a good choreographer.  See for yourself during the party scene tomorrow.  Until then, stop being a fucking jerk.  Trust me to do my job, just like I’m trusting you to do yours.”

Ashton blinks.

“I wasn’t trying to be a jerk.”

“Well, you’re succeeding anyway.”

Ashton sighs and runs a hand through his hair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.  When he looks back up at Michael, his face has softened into something apologetic.

“Sorry.  I just–there’s a lot riding on this for me.”

“Yeah.  Me too.”

 Ashton clasps his hands in front of him, pinching the space between his thumb and forefinger.

“Can we start over again?” he asks ruefully.  “You’re right.  The choreographer and male principal should be on good terms and I keep fucking it up.  I promise I can be better company than this.”

“You sure?” Michael asks lightly, adding a teasing smile so Ashton knows he’s joking.  God, he doesn’t know how to communicate with this man yet.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Ashtons says, dramatically serious.  “I’ve got jokes.  I’ve got conversation starters.  I’ve got enough compliments to make me your personal hype man.  Trust me, stressed-out Ashton is not the real Ashton.”

“Oh?” Michael asks.  “Why don’t you show me the real Ashton, then?”

Ashton raises an eyebrow.  Michael gets the hint of a tight feeling in his stomach, just like he does before he steps out on stage.

Whoever the real Ashton may be, Michael wants to figure it out.  Call it professional curiosity, although he’d be lying to himself if he said that was all there is to it.

Ashton leans forward with a sharp grin, a glimmer in his eye.

“Challenge accepted,” he says.

-/-

The next day finds Michael back in Feldy’s office entirely too early for a choreography meeting, just like he will be weekly until the show opens.  He's already started to think of the green chair across from the desk as his, even though Feldy undoubtedly holds many other meetings with various other production and company members here.  Still, Michael likes to think that by the end of this process, he'll be particularly familiar with the assorted papers and miscellaneous objects around the room.  He's already planning to name all of the nutcrackers in an attempt to make them seem friendly in his head.

"I'd say yesterday's first rehearsal went well, wouldn't you?" Feldy says, twirling a pen between his fingers.  "Everyone seemed receptive to the production concept, and I'm expecting lots of hard work and dedication.  The waltz is lovely so far.  How do you think it went?"

"It went really well," Michael grins.  "I'm a little worried about the high school swings, but we just need to schedule extra rehearsals for them, and Crystal has agreed to keep an eye on things there as well."

Feldy nods.

"She has a lot of experience with teaching at her home studio, which is why I gave her to you for this.  She'll be able to help wrangle the children and assist them during rehearsals.  It's the party scene tonight, right?"

Michael nods.  He and Feldy both agreed that it was important to tackle the party scene early, especially since they plan on giving some children small solos and need to give them time to prepare for auditions for those in two weeks.  They’ll do a few sections featuring the adults at the beginning of rehearsal, then incorporate the kids once they get out of school.

"Be sure you utilize her there.  We're teaching both of the children's casts at once, so it's going to be a lot of people.  The youngest is 9 years old."

Michael nods again.  His biggest anxiety about choreographing is managing a room full of children.  They have child supervisors who will help and be present through performances as well, but it's not something that Michael has experience with.  He's done a workshop or two with classes at amateur dance studios and has choreographed small numbers for some, but never anything to this scale.

"Then the day after that is the pas de deux, correct?" Feldy asks, riffling through his papers in an attempt to find a calendar, or so Michael assumes.

"Correct."

"How do you feel about that?"

“Um,” Michael considers, tugging on the cuffs of his sweatshirt.  "Excited, mostly.  I actually got dinner with Ashton yesterday and we talked through some things, so I feel good about that, and I'm excited to see Sierra and Ashley dance."

Feldy's eyes gleam.  It's very unsettling paired with his smile.

"You ate dinner with Ashton?" he asks.  "He agreed to that?"

"Yeah," Michael shrugs.  "It was... good."

They had some awkward conversational moments born from unfamiliarity, but overall it was relatively pleasant.  The food was good, at least, and Ashton was right.  He does have jokes, ones that startled laughs out of Michael and made his cheeks ache from smiling.  There were a few rare moments when Michael got him to crack a genuine smile in return, which gave him an adrenaline rush unmatched by anything else.

If Ashton doesn't believe in Michael's choreography abilities yet, that's fine.  He'll prove it to him.  At least now he knows that Ashton has what it takes to be the lead again and isn't an emotionless robot.  He never quite relaxed during the dinner, but Michael thinks they got close.

"I see," Feldy says, although Michael has no clue what he thinks he's seeing.  He can be unfortunately cryptic, and Michael is too attached to his job to ask any questions.  "Well, that's good.  I always like when my company members get along.  I think that's very important for company morale."

"Yeah, it's good," Michael agrees, nodding until he feels like a bobblehead.  "I think he needed it, too.  Just, like, hanging out and feeling like he can trust me to do my job because I'm trusting him.  I think it was good to get that out of the way before we start with the pas."

"So he seemed good?" Feldy asks.  "No freak-outs?"

Michael isn't sure if you're supposed to tell the artistic director of the company about the tension a fellow dancer is holding, especially not this early in the process.  Michael doesn't want to get Ashton in any sort of trouble if these beginning nerves dissipate by rehearsal this afternoon.

"Um..." he stalls.  Thankfully, he's interrupted by the door exploding open before he has to come up with a proper response.

Ashton flies into the office like a nor'easter, tripping over one of the stacks of orchestrations by the door with flushed cheeks and wild eyes.  His hair is sticking up all over the place, and his coat is undone, twisted around him in a way that can't be comfortable.

"Hello, Ashton," Feldy says levelly.  "I'm in the middle of--"

"They know!" Ashton cries, brandishing his phone.  "They know!  You promised that they wouldn't!"

Michael glances at Feldy, taking in his calm confusion in the face of the anxiety pouring off of Ashton in thick, suffocating waves.  He stands and crosses around the desk to Ashton, placing a gentle arm on his back.  Ashton immediately flinches away like it burns.

"Ashton, what's going on?  Who knows?"

"Everyone!" Ashton says, running a hand through his hair and tugging on it harshly.  "The internet!  The whole fucking universe!"

"What do they know?" Feldy asks.

"That I'm dancing in the fucking Nutcracker!"

Michael stops breathing while Ashton's breathing doubles in speed, his harsh gasps filling the small office.  Michael glances between him and Feldy, the furrow in Feldy's brow growing deeper the more Ashton rakes his hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

"How?" Michael asks, standing.  Ashton's eyes land on him for the first time, finally registering that he's there.

"What?"

"How do you know that they know?"

Ashton looks down at the phone still clutched in his hand, knuckles white.  He holds it out.

"They saw us yesterday," he says miserably.  "There's pictures.  They figured it out."

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Feldy says soothingly.

"It is!"

Michael pulls out his own phone and tunes them out, searching Ashton's name on Twitter.  Tweets immediately pop up from fan accounts, some with a picture attached of the two of them at the restaurant yesterday, caught during one of Ashton's rare smiles.  Michael hadn't noticed anyone in the restaurant watching them, and he can't remember enough about his surroundings yesterday to even guess who the culprit might be.

Half of the tweets are commenting on how good Ashton looks.  With the hoodie that he threw on and his face relatively clean, it’s not immediately apparent that he was just working out for a few hours, and Michael has to admit that the picture does flatter him.  He photographs well.

The other half of the tweets are talking about what Ashton could possibly be doing with the choreographer of Minneapolis Ballet's production of The Nutcracker, especially at a restaurant so close to the performance center.  The vast majority of them have come to the logical conclusion that Ashton is dancing in the production, finally returning to the stage after five years away.  The internet is a flurry of squealing exclamations and caps lock key smashes, but Michael's eye catches on a few other, more speculative Tweets hidden within the excitement.

"They think we're dating!" he says, abruptly cutting off whatever Feldy and Ashton were arguing about.  He glances up to see both of them staring at him.

"What?" Ashton asks.

"Some of them think we're dating.  We're both out, and the picture makes us look closer than we are.  We can tell them that we're dating.  Throw them off the scent and buy you your two more months."

Ashton looks at Feldy, who is too dumbfounded to answer, then turns back to Michael.

"Yes.  Yes, let's do that!" he says, lunging forward and grabbing Michael's shoulders.  "Can we do that?"

"Yeah," Michael says, wide eyed and pretty sure he'd tell Ashton anything right now if it had a chance of calming the manic gleam in his eyes.  "We can do that."

"Let's think about this for a second," Feldy says, gently tugging Ashton away.  "It'd have to be a consistent ruse for at least the length of the production, if not a little longer.  Neither of you could publicly get with anyone else in that time, and you'd have to occasionally make social media posts and be seen with each other.  It's more than just a one-day commitment."

"That's fine, I don't care," Ashton rushes.  "I can do that.  Michael?"

"Yeah, same," he stammers.  Ashton nods once decisively.

"Okay.  Okay."

He runs a hand through his hair again and exhales.

"Let's talk about this again after rehearsal, alright?" Feldy says.  "Ashton, why don't you take class off this morning.  Go back home and rest, take a hot shower.  We'll see you in the afternoon."

Ashton opens his mouth, but Feldy levels him with a look that turns Ashton into a chastened child.  He ducks his head, shoulders slumping.

"Okay," he says.  Feldy pats his back, and Ashton doesn't shake him off this time.

"Do you need to call someone to pick you up?"

Ashton shakes his head.  "I can drive."

"Okay, if you're sure.  See you later, kid."

Ashton nods and steps out the door.  He looks back at Michael, pausing like he wants to say something, but settles for a minuscule smile instead.

"So," Feldy says after he closes the door, granting them the privacy of the office once more.  "That went... better than it could've."

Michael blinks.  Usually, that's not what people say when they witness their principal dancer have a panic attack in their office.

"I guess."

Feldy plops down onto his chair, sighing heavily.  He rubs his hands over his face, then fixes his gaze on Michael.

"A PR relationship?  Really?"

Michael shrugs.

"It was the only thing I could come up with, and it's the only other thing that would be distracting enough to lessen the return rumors," he says.  “Plus, like… it’s not mutually exclusive to him coming back?  So no one would lie and say he isn’t dancing and then make the fans mad when it turns out he is.”

Feldy nods.  Michael can see the gears turning in his head.

"It would work," he says eventually.  "You don't have to do it, though.  We can find another solution.  Ashton needs to face the people at some point."

"I know," Michael says.  "But if it's going to help, I want to do it."

Ashton isn't ready to face the people, not if this morning was any indication.  If Michael making a few mushy social media posts and taking a break from dating will help that, he's willing to do it.  He’ll be too busy to meet anyone else until after The Nutcracker , anyway.

"Okay," Feldy says.  "As long as you're sure."

Michael nods.

"I'm sure.  If Ashton wants to, I'm going to fake date him."

Feldy nods and straightens his papers again, ready to move on to the rest of their meeting.  Michael shifts and catches sight of the nutcrackers out of the corner of his eye, standing as silent witnesses to Michael's decisions.  He can feel their judgment increase tenfold.

Michael shakes off the feeling and tries to focus on Feldy's words and the choreography again, dispelling images of Ashton's desperate face and his immense relief when Michael came to his rescue.

Everything is going to be fine.  How hard can fake dating your coworker be, anyway?

Chapter Text

Michael thinks he should consistently plan to arrive at the performance center early enough for pre-class meetings in the future, especially if they’re going to be scheduled the night before while he’s supposed to be resting and planting the seeds of a months-long fake dating plot.

After the rehearsal for the party scene, Ashton and Michael went back to the Yellow Goat, holding hands in case another fan with a camera was staking out of the place.  It was mostly awkward, but Ashton did his best to break the tension, and at least their hands weren’t sweaty, even if Ashton’s dwarfed his.  They ate dinner relatively normally, then Michael took a picture of Ashton across the table and posted it on instagram with a heart and the caption love when this guy picks me up after a long day of work.   Michael hasn’t officially announced that he’s dating previous partners in the past, so it would have been suspicious if he had gone with something like This is my boyfriend!!! Everyone look at my boyfriend who is definitely not returning to professional ballet yet!!!!! , but they both agreed that the caption led fans towards a romantic conclusion while gently steering them away from the idea of Ashton working with Michael, although still leaving that avenue open for the future.

When Michael finally got home and checked his notifications, he found an email from Feldy requesting another early-morning meeting.  The topic was left ominously vague, but the rehearsal had gone well.  Michael doesn’t think he’s about to lose his job.  He keeps telling himself that, anyway.

The subject of the meeting becomes clearer when Michael catches sight of a familiar head of black hair typing in the door code to get in the performance center.

“Ashton?” he calls.  Ashton turns, eyebrows raised.

“Are you here for a meeting, too?” he asks.  Michael nods, giving a quiet thanks as he ducks through the door that Ashton holds open.

“Huh,” Ashton says evenly.

The fact that they’re meeting in one of the conference rooms makes more sense now, at least.  Feldy only has one chair in his office that isn’t covered in his clutter.

They make their way to the conference room in awkward silence, which only grows more awkward when Michael sees who is sitting in the conference room next to Feldy.

“Gentlemen, come in,” Benjamin Evans, managing director of Minneapolis Ballet, greets.  He stands and gestures to two of the chairs across the table.  “Please, take a seat.”

Michael cautiously slides into the offered swivel chair, resting his elbows on the table.  He met Ben when he signed all the necessary paperwork to join the company, but his main point of contact has always been Feldy.  From what he understands, Ben is the one who ensures that Feldy’s dreams for the company are achievable from a logistical standpoint, shouldering most of the fundraising, budgeting for the company, and running the business side of things with precision and tenacity.  He’s the kind of person who will look impeccable wearing a suit to an early-morning meeting.

Michael is suddenly a lot less sure of his job security.  Ben seemed nice and cool when they met, but he was also less intimidating then, while Michael was still riding the high of being presented with such an exciting opportunity.

At least Feldy’s fifteen nutcrackers won’t witness his humiliation if he gets fired.

“How are you both today?” Ben asks conversationally.  Ashton says something, and Michael deafly nods in agreement, twisting his fingers in the cuffs of his hoodie while everyone gets settled.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re here,” Ben says, straightening a stack of papers in front of him.  “It was brought to my attention yesterday that you three implemented an unexpected PR move, one which may have unforeseen ramifications on the company as a whole.”

Michael glances at Ashton, who is lounging in his seat calmly, a complete contrast to when he stormed into Feldy’s office yesterday.  Feldy, surprisingly, looks somewhat contrite.

Michael threads his fingers together, hoping he doesn’t come off as anxious as he is.

“It’s too late to talk you out of faking a relationship, but it’s important to discuss specific expectations and ensure that everyone here is on the same page.  From now on, I need to be kept in the loop with any decisions pertaining to this fake relationship, including how you frame this on social media,” Ben says seriously.  “Need.   This is non-negotiable.  Let me know what you’re planning, what your story is, and what moves you are making to ensure that this doesn’t end up reflecting badly on the company if it’s revealed to be a fabrication.  Twitter especially has been a hellscape recently when it comes to performers quote-unquote “queerbaiting.”  While that’s not what either of you are doing here, some people aren’t going to care about technical definitions if this relationship is eventually revealed to be a lie.  These are things that we have to keep in mind and that my colleague neglected to caution you about yesterday.”

Feldy scratches his nose.  Michael gets the distinct impression that he’s biting his tongue.

“In light of that, by the end of this meeting we will have a comprehensive story of how you two got together, as well as a plan for your breakup after the show’s run.  It doesn’t have to be set in stone, but if it changes, keep me in the fucking loop.   I can’t stress this enough, guys.”

Michael nods.  Make Ben the third person in this fake relationship, got it.  He can do that.  Adding that man to his speed dial right now.

What follows is the weirdest brainstorming session Michael has ever been a part of.  Ashton takes the reins right away, but first he forgets that Michael didn’t move to Minneapolis until July, and then he suggests that Michael might’ve recognized Ashton and approached him on the street when Michael would never bother a recluse like Ashton in person.  He suggests that he slid into Ashton’s DMs, but Ashton hasn’t logged on to his instagram account in months and only has contact to Twitter via his friends.

“How do people meet each other these days?” Feldy asks.  “What are you young people doing?”

“I met all my previous partners through work,” Michael confesses.  “I have some friends who I sometimes play DnD with online, but I doubt that’s your crowd, Ashton.”

Ashton grimaces and shakes his head.

“I’ve been told I’d like DnD, but I’ve never tried it.  Besides, I’ve had a non-existent online presence for years.  Us meeting there would be too unrealistic.”

Ben rests his head in the cradle of his hands, fingers steeped and pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut.  Michael is afraid he’s going to give himself an aneurysm from thinking too hard.

“What if we meet through other company members?” Ashton asks.  “Michael, you’re new in town, but you want to build connections here, right?  So, let’s say that Crystal invites you to meet her friends, because you two hit it off.  We could fabricate a gathering at Calum and Roy’s right after you moved here.  Crystal and Roy are relatively close, and Calum has been one of my best friends since I moved here years ago.  We do group dinners sometimes.  If we both were at something like that, that could be our meet-cute.”

Ben nods slowly.  Feldy brightens.

“That could work!  Who else would be there?” he asks.

“We should keep this relatively small, but we’d have to rope the necessary players in so everyone is on the same page,” Ben says.

“Cal, Roy, Crystal, and probably Luke,” Ashton says.  “That’s the smallest crowd we would have for something like this.”

Michael rifles through his mental catalog of names, trying to pin faces to the people Ashton is listing.

Crystal as in Crystal Leigh, his assistant choreographer.  Roy must be Roy English, because Crystal has mentioned being friends with him before.  Calum as in Calum… Hood?  Maybe?  The one who’s in charge of orchestrations and is one of the rehearsal pianists?  Michael isn’t sure if he’s the one that Ashton is referring to, or if there’s another Calum in Minneapolis closely intertwined with the Minneapolis Ballet social scene.  And is the Luke in question Luke Hemmings, principal dancer?

“Can Luke keep a secret?” Feldy asks doubtfully.

“He can,” Ashton defends.  “He may be a textbook little brother, but he’s not ditzy.  He’ll keep this quiet.”

Feldy nods.  Michael can feel him and Ben warm to the idea, leaving Michael further and further out of his depth.

“I want to meet them,” he says, drawing everyone’s eyes again.  “I know that I will as the show progresses, but if we fake-met at some sort of little party, I should be friends with the other people who were there.”

“We’ll set something up,” Ben says, pulling out a pen and a sticky note.  “Who am I contacting?”

“Calum Hood, Luke Hemmings, Roy English, and Crystal Leigh,” Ashton lists.  “Calum and Luke already know that Michael and I are faking a relationship.  They asked me about Michael’s post yesterday.”

Ashton’s eyes flick to Michael, then skitter away.  Ben finishes writing with a decisive click of his pen.

“Okay.  Now let’s talk about the other details of the relationship and the breakup.”

By the time the meeting adjourns, the four of them have decided that Michael and Ashton will cease social media posts about each other immediately after The Nutcracker , allowing the relationship to naturally fizzle out due to simple personality differences.  Michael will do the bulk of the social media posting, but Ashton will attempt to post something on Instagram during November.  They met through mutual friends, enjoy eating dinner together, and spend most of their time together in one of their apartments rather than out and about.  PDA will be left to their discretion, but simple occasional hand-holding should be good enough when out in public.  They’ll continue eating at the Yellow Goat on occasion, and will also go on another date to a different location of their choice, which will be documented on social media in some way.

It’s two months.  This feels attainable to Michael.  It’s nice to see Ashton taking control of the situation as well, focused and calm rather than freaking out.  When he has a task to tackle, he’s remarkably effective.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Feldy says, checking the time.  “You two need to get ready for class, and I have a meeting with costumes again.  Ben?”

Ben glances at his jotted notes, then nods.

“Yeah, this is good.  This is a great start, guys.  Just remember–”

“Keep you informed, got it,” Michael says, rubbing his hands on his thighs.

“We will,” Ashton assures him.

“In that case, we’re done here,” Ben says.  “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

Michael gives a halfhearted goodbye, standing and leaving the conference room as quickly as is polite, Ashton on his heels.

“So…” Michael says once they’re a safe distance down the hall, checking over his shoulder to ensure Ben and Feldy are out of earshot.  “That was simultaneously better and worse than I thought it’d be.”

“They need to put meeting topics in their emails,” Ashton agrees, pinching the skin between his thumb and forefinger, eyebrows furrowed.  “I lost sleep over this.  It was awkward crafting a relationship with Ben and Feldy, but they’re right.  We should’ve planned this more before we jumped in, and it’s good that we have our story straight now at least.”

Michael hums.  Ashton pauses in the hallway, pulling Michael to a stop in front of an empty office with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Thank you for doing this,” he says earnestly.  “I should’ve just sucked it up and ignored them, but I appreciate you stepping in.  You’re kind of saving me, dude, and this is obviously going to be more involved than we anticipated.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Michael says, skin prickling under Ashton’s gentle gaze.  “It seemed like the thing to do.”

“Still,” Ashton says.  “I want you to know that I appreciate it.”

Michael scratches the back of his neck and shifts his weight.

“Thanks.  Or–you’re welcome.  Now are we going to go to class?  I want to stretch first.”

“Yeah, we can go,” Ashton snorts.  “I need a deeper stretch, too.  Need to be ready for the pas today.”

God, every time Michael remembers he’s doing that today it feels like he’s jolted by electricity.  It’s their first small-group rehearsal of the process, and he’s worried.  It’s one thing to be able to work with a large crowd, but there’s a different set of skills required for solo, duo, or trio work.  Confidence in the choreography is much harder to fake when the rehearsal is more intimate, and this rehearsal could set the tone for the other principal rehearsals in the process.

“Yeah, that,” Michael says as neutral as he can manage, continuing towards the largest rehearsal room for class.

“What does that mean?” Ashton asks, falling into step beside him.

“What?”

“The way that you said that.  Aren’t you excited about the pas?  The score is wonderful, and it’s one of the most recognizable parts of the show.”

“I know,” Michael sighs.  “I am excited.  I have big plans, but choreographing for large groups comes easier to me than duos or trios.  I like having lots of moving parts.  It keeps things interesting, regardless of what steps you use or the skill of the dancers.  With small dances, there’s more pressure.  You can’t rely on distractions, you have to rely on your dancers and their skill and performance alone.”

“I thought we agreed to trust each other.”

“I do trust you.  That’s not what I meant,” Michael says, glancing at him as they turn the corner, arriving outside of the rehearsal space.  “That doesn’t mean I can’t be nervous, though.  It’s going to take a lot of work from both of us.”

“So we’ll put in the work,” Ashton says simply.  “We’ll make this a pas de deux to remember.”

“Pas de trois.”

“Right, pas de trois,” Ashton says, smiling sardonically with a tilt of his head.  “Have some confidence, Michael.  God knows none of us make it in this industry without it, and you have the skill to back it up.  You were wonderful yesterday, at least.”

“Thanks,” Michael says, cheeks warming as he smiles.  “I like Supportive Ashton.  This is nice.  Give me more compliments.”

“Get inside, Michael,” he says, rolling his eyes with the hint of a smile.  Michael bites his lip, ducking through the door to the rehearsal space and immediately coming up short when every pair of eyes in the room lands on him.

“Oh,” Ashton says quietly at his back.  Everyone goes back to their small group conversations and personal stretches with only a few glances back at them, but the damage has been done.  Michael can feel their eyes on him like a scratchy, woolen scarf.

“Guess we have to pretend in front of them, too,” he whispers to Ashton.  Ashton hums.

“I didn’t think of that,” he admits, gently steering Michael towards an open space near the barre.  “Sorry.”

“Hey, you’re the one sleeping with the choreographer.  I feel like I come out of this looking better.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to interact with every single company member.  You do.”

Michael grimaces.  He has a point.

“Stretching time,” Ashton says, setting down his dance bag and shucking off his sweatpants, revealing his strong, toned legs covered by black tights and his tiny, loose shorts.  Michael looks away, focusing on getting his ballet shoes out instead.

It’s going to be a long day.

-/-

Michael is drilling his turns in the center of the rehearsal room when Crystal tiptoes in, depositing her dance bag by his under the table in the corner where he has his choreography binder open.  He glimpses her light pink leotard out of the corner of his eye as he spots, counting out four more rotations before he lands in grande fourth, arms out.  He drops them immediately, turning towards her with a smile.

"Hey, thanks for coming early," he says.  Crystal smiles, pulling up her legwarmers and rolling out her ankles.

"Of course.  It's my job to help you, remember?"

"Yeah, I know," he says, scratching the back of his neck.  "I'll try not to interrupt the lunch break in the future, though.  I just want to dance through a bit of the pas before we get the actual dancers in here to be sure it works."

"Speaking of the other dancers..." Crystal says, raising a perfectly-plucked eyebrow.

Michael chuckles awkwardly.  The DANGER sign in the back of his head is flicking on and off at an alarming speed.

"You and Ashton, huh?" she asks, stretching an arm across her chest, then switching to the other, gaze unwavering.

"Me and Ashton," he says with halfhearted jazz hands.  Crystal giggles.

"How did you two meet?"

"Well--uh..." Michael flounders.  "It's... kind of complicated?"

"Michael," Crystal says, clearly amused.  "Does this have anything to do with the meeting with Ben I have tonight that Roy, Calum, and Luke were also CC'ed on?  Because I can't figure out why the four of us specifically would need to meet with the managing director, but I keep thinking about how they're friends with Ashton and I was the first person in the ballet to meet you in Minnesota."

Michael stares at her, dumbfounded.  She raises a shrewd eyebrow again.

"I really hope no one else figures it out as easily as you did," he says eventually.

"You're faking it?" she stage-whispers, covering her mouth with a hand and glancing at the open door.  Michael checks that they're alone as well, although he hasn't seen anyone else pass by while he's been here.

"Is it a PR stunt?" she asks, stepping forward so they can maintain their low voices.  "A way to capitalize off of Ashton's fame while we introduce the company members one by one?"

"God no, Ashton's fame is the problem," he sighs.  "There was a misunderstanding and this seemed the best way to fix it at the time."

"By creating the misunderstanding that you two are dating?" she asks, eyebrows pinched in confusion.  Michael really needs to stop fixating on her eyebrows.

"I said it was complicated," he shrugs.  "I'm sure Ben will fill you in on everything, but we really need to get dancing if we want to work out the kinks before the dancers get here."

"Okay, I'll let you deflect," Crystal teases, completely ignoring his protests and she begins stretching again.  "But only because we'll be spending a lot of time together over the next few months and I'm sure I'll get the full story out of you eventually."

Michael groans, making her laugh again.

"Just--get stretching, alright?  This is a dance area now.  Only dance-related topics allowed."

"Isn't Ashton a dance-related topic?" she asks, casually sinking into a split.  Michael buries his face in his hands.

Yeah.  It's going to be a very long day.

-/-

By the time rehearsal for the pas is half over, Michael wants to go home, crawl into bed, and never see any of these people again.

"No, it's--you need to get closer to her.  It doesn't work if you're too far away for her to reach."

"If I get closer, I'm crowding her and she can't turn without kicking me," Ashton says, voice thin.  Off to the side, Michael sees Crystal and Sierra exchange a look.  Ashley remains stately in her ready position, unfortunately caught in the middle with no escape.

"Crystal and I did it fine during the example."

"We can do it," Ashton snaps.  "But how close I am is not the problem."

"Can we take a break?" Ashely asks.  "If you two need to have a lovers spat, I'm going to get water."

"Yeah, fine.  Everyone take two minutes."

Ashley beelines over to their dance bag, Crystal and Sierra immediately enveloping her into their circle.  Michael turns away, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to breathe through his annoyance.

If Michael was an established choreographer or a distinguished ballet master, Ashton would never get away with talking to him like this.  If Feldy was in the room, Ashton probably wouldn’t be acting like this, either, although Michael’s glad he has a meeting and isn’t here to see this trainwreck.  Maybe his corrections are inelegant or his choreography is stupid, but it would help if Ashton wasn't so fucking tense and seeming to rebel against every correction Michael gives.

The choreography won't look right if Michael isn't allowed to tell them how to do it, and it's the fucking Nutcracker Pas de Deux.  He's already messing things up by making it a pas de trois instead.  It needs to look right.

Ashton exhales through his nose behind him, an annoyed sound that equally grates on Michael's nerves.  He hoped he would go get water, too, and leave Michael with a moment of peace, but no such luck apparently.

"What?" he asks, turning to face him again.

"Why are you being so hard on me?" he asks.  Michael blinks at him.

"I'm not.  I'm giving normal corrections.  It's better to correct things now so you don't get used to doing it wrong."

Michael watches Ashton physically bite back whatever his first instinctual response is.  One point for impulse control.

"Well, can you tone it the fuck down?  There's a difference between corrections and telling me I'm doing every fucking thing wrong.  I want to get better, but I'm not going to stand here and listen to you belittle me at every opportunity.  It's insulting."

Michael's mouth actually drops open in shock.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not giving corrections like this to Ashely or Sierra.  You haven't given any positive criticisms, and most of your corrections are 'that's wrong, do better.'  What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

Ashton runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends harshly, the other hand firmly on his hip.  Michael stares at him, rewinding through the rehearsal with this new lens.

He hasn't given many compliments because they've barely done the dance.  There's nothing to compliment yet besides the fundamental technique that Ashton has had down since he was a kid, and pointing that out again would just be stroking his ego and coddling him, something which Michael has no interest in doing.

Maybe his tone should be a bit gentler and he should make an effort to keep all traces of frustration out of it.  It's easy to remember that he has to do that when he's faced with children and full groups of people with varying years of a ballet career under their belts, but Waltz of the Flowers and the Party scene both also went a lot smoother than this one.

"You're one of the best dancers I've ever seen, Ashton," he says.  "Seriously.  But the pas isn't working out like I thought.  I don't know, maybe I need to change the choreo--"

"No, don't do that," Ashton frowns.  "I can fucking do it."

"Okay," Michael says slowly.  "Then I need you to try to relax and not fight every one of my corrections.  It's not personal, you know that, right?  I'll try to focus on Ashely and Sierra more, too, but you react to every correction like I don't know what I'm talking about and am trying to attack you.  I can’t help you get better like you so desperately want if you don’t let me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Ashton says, jaw set.

“And I’m not being intentionally hard on you.”

Ashton exhales sharply through his nose again.

“Fine,” he says.  “You stop being an asshole, I’ll stop treating you like one.”

Michael’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

“I’m going to get some water,” Ashton says, cutting off the conversation before Michael can try to reply.  He’s out the door before Michael can blink, Ashley, Crystal, and Sierra watching after him.

“Water break,” Michael calls out in explanation when Crystal turns questioning eyes on him.  “He’ll be back.  Let’s go over it again.”

Longest. Day. Ever.

-/-

Michael feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin when his GPS finally announces that he’s arrived at Calum and Roy’s apartment building.  It's a large structure made of tan stone, and he parks in what he believes is a small visitor's parking lot, but the signage is really vague.  If he gets a ticket tonight and has to pay, he's going to fight someone.

He triple-checks the address, then heads towards the front door, stepping into the foyer and searching for the intercom.  It's large and electronic, with a touch screen that scrolls through the names in the building with their calling codes listed next to them.  He finally finds Hood/English and carefully types in the listed numbers.

"Hello?" the intercom crackles to life.  Michael isn't sure if he recognizes the voice or not.

"Uh, hi?  It's Michael Clifford."

"Oh, Michael!  Yeah, yeah, come on in.  Take the elevator up, alright?  Apartment 408."

The door clicks open and the intercom clicks off.  Michael doesn't linger in the lobby, which has a small seating area, access to the mailboxes, and a door leading to the apartment gym, and instead spends his time picking at his nails in the elevator while it grumbles ominously underneath him.

At least he thinks things between him and Ashton are alright.  After the disastrous first half of their pas rehearsal, Ashton came back into the room refreshed and making a visible effort not to get his tights in a twist over everything Michael said.  Michael, in turn, ensured that he gave gentle corrections rather than criticisms, even if Ashton's face still tightened every time Michael addressed him.

It was possibly the most awkward rehearsal Michael has ever been part of, but despite Ashton's tension and Michael's increased floundering, they made it through.  They haven't had an individual rehearsal again since, finishing out the week with rehearsals for more sections of the Party since that scene involves nearly everyone in the company including the children and beginning the Hot Chocolate dance, but Ashton greeted him genially the other times they crossed paths, even if it was just for appearances.  Whatever was happening at that rehearsal, it didn't carry beyond it.

Michael just has to figure out what went wrong so that it doesn't happen again.

The elevator lurches to a halt, startling him out of his thoughts and depositing him at the end of a long hallway with squishy carpet that looks like it came straight from a fancy hotel rather than an apartment building.  Michael carefully makes his way down the hall, eyeing every thick, dark brown door until he finally reaches 408.

He knocks before he allows himself to hesitate or start overthinking.  The door flies open in the next second, Crystal grinning at him from the other side, hair down and in a dark long sleeve shirt with leggings.  He’s not used to seeing her in anything except a leotard and tights with her hair always in a bun, so it startles him more than he’d like to admit.

"Glad you made it," she says warmly, stepping aside to let him in.  The front door opens directly into the living room area, where a plush red couch sits empty next to a papasan chair, also in red, but just off enough to clearly not be a matching set.  There's a TV on a stand with shelves underneath filled with DVDs and those small cloth cubes meant to become bottomless pits of knickknacks, and another shelf next to it seems to be full of video games, books, what looks like stacks of sheet music.  There's an electric keyboard in the corner acting as a shelf for more music, and a guitar case leans against it, along with two other instrument cases that Michael wasn't enough of a band kid to recognize.

Beyond the living room is a small kitchen, where the other two people in the apartment are moving around each other to gather glasses, forks, plates, and napkins.  Ashton pokes his head around an open cupboard and gives him a tight smile.

"Hi, Michael!  Roy went to get the pizza.  He should be back soon.  Luke is always a little late."

"Hi Michael!" Calum calls from behind the plates.  Michael has seen him during production meetings on Zoom and when he accompanied a few of the larger rehearsals, but they haven’t spoken directly.  In production meetings, he spends a lot of time listening to everyone else talk rather than participating himself, just like Michael.  They're using Tchaikovsky's original orchestrations, not trying to update the score or ruin the show, so Michael usually sees him take some notes when the set designer discusses how much time scenic transitions will take or chime in to give timing estimates for costume quick changes, although his facial expressions when someone says something he doesn’t agree with or doesn’t understand are absolutely hilarious.

He's wearing a baggy, olive-green shirt that matches his tan skin but clashes with his short, blue hair.  It looks extremely comfortable, and Michael tugs at the cuffs of the black hoodie he threw on, happy at least that he doesn’t seem to be underdressed.

Ashton is wearing a tight red long sleeve that hugs his shoulders.  Michael has decided not to look at him for too long.

"Hi," he calls as Crystal ushers him into the living room, tugging him down onto the couch while Ashton and Calum descend with the dishes.

"Do you want anything to drink?" Calum asks.  "We have various pops, lemonade, and water."

"Uh, water's fine," he says, rubbing his hands on his jeans.

"Ice?" Calum asks.  Michael shakes his head, and he disappears into the kitchen again.  Ashton disappears down the hall to do who-knows-what.

"Did you make it here okay?" Calum asks a moment later, handing Michael a glass and nudging a coaster towards him on the coffee table.

"Yeah, it was fine," Michael says.  "I'm still getting used to driving everywhere."

"Ashton was like that, too," Calum laughs.  "You New Yorkers had it good with the subway system.  Our public transit is shit, but at least we can drive and the traffic isn't bad."

The door opens again, saving Michael from making more awkward small talk.

"I have food!" Roy calls, kicking off his shoes.  "I picked up a stray, too."

"Hi," Luke waves, shutting the door behind him while Michael scrambles to help adjust the clutter on the coffee table so Roy has somewhere to put the pizzas.  Ashton chooses that moment to round the corner with a stack of board games in his arms.

Michael melts into the couch while greetings are exchanged and everyone moves around each other in a practiced dance until they take their seats.  Ashton sinks down onto the couch on Michael's other side, with Luke impressively curling his large frame onto the papasan chair and Calum and Roy taking the floor.  Pizza is distributed and Michael is hit with a wave of gratefulness that Crystal thought to ask him yesterday what type he likes to ensure they got his favorite.

"I need to say something," Calum says once everyone is more or less settled with their food, looking around the room seriously to be sure he has everyone’s attention.  "This fake-dating conspiracy is the funniest thing I've ever had to sign a professional contract for."

"Cal," Ashton groans.

"It's true!  Your life's a fucking soap opera, dude.  This is hilarious!"

"He has a point," Luke muses.  "Ben was really serious during the meeting, but I think I've watched rom coms that started like this.  It's pretty funny."

"Yeah!" Calum agrees, reaching up to hit his knee.

"Boys, let's not tease until Michael knows we’re not bullies," Crystal says, patting his shoulder.  "We're here to get to know him, remember?  Not to scare him away."

"It's fine," Michael shrugs.

“We can get to know him and tease at the same time,” Calum says.  Roy nods in agreement.

“Multitasking!” Luke says, then immediately folds a piece of pizza and stuffs almost the entire thing in his mouth.  Michael is in awe that he can fit that much food in there at one time.

“You know what else we can do?” Ashton asks.  “Board games.  Let’s switch to the board games.”  He turns to Michael, half-apologetic.  “I figured it’d feel less like an interrogation if we’re all playing something.

“Thanks,” Michael breathes.  He didn’t realize how much the thought of facing an established friend group alone was stressing him out until Ashton took some of the pressure off.

Not all of it, of course.  He’s still fucking terrified, but that helps.

“Are you sure that won’t scare him away?” Roy asks.

“Michael can hold his own,” Ashton says.  “He’ll be fine.”

Michael eyes the pile of board games on the floor curiously.  He doesn’t see Monopoly, which he takes as a good sign, but he does see Uno and Secret Hitler, which he has also seen ruin friendships.

“Let’s start basic,” Calum says.  “Chutes and Ladders?”

“Are we five years old?” Ashton asks.

“I don’t want pizza sauce on the playing cards,” Roy says.  “We can switch to Nerts when we’re done eating.”

“Stinko,” Calum corrects.  Roy smiles at him.

Ashton considers, then sighs in concession.

“Fine.  But only because Stinko is hard when there’s anything else on the table.”

“Chutes and Ladders!  Fuck yeah!” Luke cheers, making everyone else laugh.  Calum reaches for the game box and Michael takes another bite of his pizza, settling in for whatever board games and interrogations with this group entail.

-/-

“You fucking cheater!” Luke yells, brandishing half of his deck of cards at Ashton.  Ashton laughs, sweeping the cards in play in the middle towards himself so he can sort them and give them back to everyone else.

Michael stares at him.  His smile is large and uninhibited, revealing dimples in his cheeks that Michael has never seen before.  His entire face is flushed, eyes shining, and his laugh dances over the room like the corps during Waltz of the Flowers, light and airy and making all of the colors in the room brighter.

“I did not cheat,” he grins, beginning his sorting.  His voice gets higher when he’s happy, like over the course of the night he’s shed some of the weight that Michael didn’t realize he constantly carries, allowing it to bubble and glow.  Michael didn’t know it could sound like that.

It seems there’s a lot of things he doesn’t know about Ashton, things that this friend group gets to see all the time.  Their familiarity is apparent in everything that they do, from the way that they talk to each other to the easy way they exist in this space, leaving room for the others to exist with them.

Something in Michael’s stomach aches.

Luke continues his protests, standing at the end of the coffee table and gesticulating wildly.  Ashton ribs him back, calling him a sore loser and bragging that there are some things that Ashton is simply superior at, which makes Luke sputter indignantly and bring up past scores.  Michael loses track of the conversation the minute they start differentiating between hands and sets.

He still isn’t sure he understands how to play the game.  It’s like solitaire, but with everyone playing on each other’s cards, and it moves too fast for him to get his score out of the single digits.  He’s also confused by the fact that he’s never heard of this game, but apparently it has more than one name depending on where people are from.

“They do this every time we play,” Crystal says, leaning closer to Michael so he can hear her underneath Ashton and Luke’s arguing.  “It doesn’t matter which one is winning more hands that night.  The other will always accuse them of cheating.  They’re too competitive.”

“They’re ballet dancers,” Michael says back.  “We’re all competitive.”

Except for Roy, apparently.  He’s spouting some love and harmony shit right now, and Ashton is nodding solemnly while Luke looks like he’s about to strangle him.

“I’m going to grab more water,” he says, making a hasty escape to the kitchen before this can devolve further.  It doesn’t offer much refuge given the relatively open floor plan, but at least now there’s a counter between him and any potential tackling or fist-to-cuffs that may occur.

Calum seems to have a similar idea, gently extracting himself from the middle of what now appears to be a three-way argument and joining Michael by the fancy, water-dispensing fridge.

“Sorry about them,” he says, although he doesn’t sound very sorry at all.  Michael shrugs.

“They’re keeping things exciting,” he says.  Calum snorts.

In the living room, Ashton stands and says something about settling things like men.  Crystal has her phone out from the corner of the couch, camera pointed at them while Roy scrambles up to join her.

“Does Ashton like dancing?” Michael asks before he can stop himself.  Calum blinks at him in surprise.

“Yeah, of course.”

Settling it like men seems to be a long hug, with Ashton and Luke’s arms wrapped around each other firmly.  It doesn’t even seem like they’re trying to suffocate each other with their grip, just hugging, at least until Ashton does something that makes Luke jolt and turns the hug into the fake-wrestling Michael has been expecting.  He can hear Ashton’s laugh loud and clear above Crystal and Roy cheering them on from their perch on the couch.

“He just… never seems really happy at the performance center.  He’s an amazing dancer, but I didn’t know he had dimples before tonight.”

Calum hums.  The wrestling has now morphed into a sloppy waltz around the room, neither of them missing a beat even when they accidentally run into the couch and dissolve into laughter.

“I think he’s more nervous than he’s willing to admit,” Calum says quietly, leaning against the counter.  “He had a really shitty time at NYC Ballet.  There was all the pressure of being so young and pushing all the boundaries, but the company itself wasn’t very welcoming and the balletmasters were super hard on him.  I don’t know if it was, like, punishment for making principal before his time or if they were genuinely trying to make him better in some twisted way, but I’m not surprised he ended up hurting himself.  Anyone would crack.”

Michael frowns.

“I haven’t heard anything like that about NYCB.”

“They’ve gotten better since then.  My sister has been a dancer there for years–that’s actually how Ashton and I met, she hooked us up when Ashton told her he was coming to Minnesota for recovery–and she says that after Ashton left, there was a big shift in the workplace culture.  I think maybe someone high up or on the outside put pressure on the company to change how they were doing things, given that they had the most promising young dancer and took him off the stage.  Everything else can be written off as normal things present in all the big ballet companies.  The unrealistic body standards, the competitiveness, the long hours?  Roy has told me all about it.  Besides, the stereotype of the strict ballet master is a stereotype for a reason.  It’s just that there’s a line between being strict or a hardass and being abusive, and some people step over that line.”

Michael watches Ashton and Luke continue to waltz, less sloppily now, their frame stronger and movements more precise.  Roy is singing the melody to Waltz of the Flowers to accompany them while Crystal films.

He thinks he understands what Calum is saying.  The ballet world can be vicious, and the people within it can be petty and catty, especially if they feel threatened by a 21 year old who just made principal.  It’s a competitive environment, at the end of the day.  In order to get your place in the professional world, you have to take someone else’s.  That’s just how it is.  Put enough young people like that into a room together, and those in power can get away with a lot that they shouldn’t.

“He loves to dance,” Calum says after the silence between them has given Michael enough time to mull his thoughts over.  “I mean, look at  him now.  They’re not even dancing well and he’s  having the time of his life.”

And he is.  His smile is huge, shoulders relaxed, happiness radiating off of him from every angle as he and Luke spin around the room.

“NYCB made him miserable.  Now that he’s finally ready to perform for people again, I think he’s worried that Minneapolis Ballet is going to do the same thing, especially after the last few years.  Did you know that he’s the one who convinced Luke to testify?”

Michael shakes his head.  Ashton twirls Luke under his arm, going on his tiptoes so Luke fits.

“He didn’t want to see anyone else be miserable following their dream,” Calum says.  “We’re all here for a reason, right?  People in the arts, I mean.  It’s not because we can see ourselves getting famous and becoming stars, it’s because we can’t see ourselves doing anything else.  Ashton doesn’t want to see that dream turn into a nightmare again.”

“But that’s not going to happen,” Michael frowns.  “Feldy is rebuilding Minneapolis Ballet at odds with all of that.  His whole philosophy is to make this place a healthy artistic environment, and he really likes Ashton.”

“Ashton really likes him,” Calum says.  “Feldy never pressured him to come back to dancing, but he’s been encouraging him in his recovery for years, even before he took over Minneapolis Ballet.  I don’t think Ashton would feel safe coming back if he wasn’t in charge.  He wants to be around people he likes now.  I think that’s why he recommended me for the orchestrations, so that he could have more people he trusts in the building.”

“He recommended you?” Michael asks.  Calum smiles.

“Yeah.  I think he made suggestions for half the staff and dancers at the ballet.  I don’t know how many of them Feldy actually took into consideration, but I’m 25 years old.  I have half of an original ballet composed and a few small pieces here and there, and I sometimes conduct high school pit bands for musicals.  There’s no reason a professional company the scale of Minneapolis Ballet should’ve hired me, except that Ashton said I could do it.”

The waltz ends with Ashton dipping Luke, both of them striking a dramatic pose.  Amidst the cheering from the other two on the couch, Ashton catches his eye in the kitchen, tilting his head in a question.  Michael waves, and Ashton’s face blossoms into that wide grin, dimples on display.  All of Michael’s breath leaves him in one gust of wind.

“How do I show him that I can be trusted?” Michael asks when Ashton looks away, bringing Luke up from the dip and starting to re-sort the cards that got messed up again in the last few minutes.  Calum shrugs.

“It’s more about him than it is about you.  He’s stubborn.  He’s also a perfectionist.  He’ll work himself into the ground if he can’t get something.  Just don’t be a complete asshole or treat him differently than the other dancers and he’ll come around.  He already knows that you’re a good guy because of how the fake dating thing came about, but dance is different for him.  Give him time.”

“We only have a little over a month.”

Calum squeezes his shoulder.  “Give him time.  Now come on.  If you beat him at a round of Stinko, you’ll earn his respect.”

There’s no way in hell that’s going to happen, but Michael sets down his water and goes to rejoin the game with a rueful smile, anyway.

-/-

For the first Nutcracker solo rehearsal, Michael gets to the rehearsal room early like usual only to find that someone else is already in there.  The music leaking out of the room lets him know who it is from halfway down the hall, even though he’d never expect anyone else to be taking his rehearsal room when he needs it.  Room 303 is becoming his refuge for any rehearsals with less than 5 people, and he’s found himself coming here sometimes when he wants a moment to himself or to dance through sequences that he’s unsure about.

Michael waits in the doorway while Ashton dances to Theme and Variations again, giving him deja vu of the day a week and a half ago when he was in this exact same position, just two rooms over.  Ashton is still as impressive now as he was then, still precise and powerful and impossibly graceful, back muscles expanding and contracting as he moves his arms, legs tightening as he holds his relevé.

Michael watches, completely transfixed, right up until he misses the assemblé again, not even leaving the ground.  He doesn’t swear this time, just sighs heavily and turns off the music while Michael slips fully into the room.

“Hi,” Ashton sighs.  “Did you want to start?”

“We don’t have to,” Michael says.  “We have fifteen minutes still.  I just wanted to get here early, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh,” Ashton says, running a hand through his hair.  “I was just…”

“Dancing Theme and Variations again?” Michael finishes for him.  Ashton nods.

“Trying to, at least.”

“Succeeding, for the most part,” Michael says.  Ashton snorts.

“I still can’t get the fucking assemblé.”

Michael tilts his head.

“Have you done it outside of the dance?” he asks.  Ashton stares at him blankly.  “Have you done a right assemblé outside of when you practice Theme and Variations since the accident?”

“It’s a fucking assemblé, of course I’ve done it since then.”

“Okay,” Michael says.  “Why don’t you try it now?”

Ashton scoffs, placing his hands on his hips like a mother who’s parenting style has just been criticized by the rival PTA mom down the cul-de-sac.

“I can do an assemblé.  I don’t need to prove it to you.”

"Okay," Michael singsongs, pulling his dance shoes out of his bag to swap them with his street shoes.

"I can do an assemblé," Ashton repeats, an annoyed edge to his voice.  Michael bites the inside of his cheek and shrugs.

"If you say so, man."

He begins stretching, ignoring Ashton's peeved exhale.  He refuses to look at him, but he can picture his petulant scowl, accompanied by his huffy exhale.

"Watch," he commands.  Michael lazily brings his gaze up.  As soon as Ashton is sure that his eyes are on him, he chasses to the left, leaving the ground with a perfect assemblé, legs straight, toes pointed, shoulders relaxed, yet managing to soar through the air and land near-silently.  It's a flawless assemblé, enough so that Michael loses his breath.  Despite witnessing him dance nearly every day, it's still a shock just how talented Ashton is.

"Wow," Michael says mildly.  "An assemblé.  Very impressive."

"I can do it!" Ashton insists.

"I never said you couldn't."

Ashton flounders, opening his mouth only to close it without saying anything.  He pinches his hand between his thumb and forefinger, weight shifting back and forth on his feet.

"Ashton, sit down," Michael says with a smile, finally taking pity on him.  "That was the best assemblé I've seen in my life.  I promise I'm impressed."

"Shut up.  Now you're exaggerating," Ashton says, although he sits across from Michael with his legs splayed out in a straddle, face softening.

"Whatever.  If you can't take a compliment, that's on you," he says lightly, stretching forward.  Ashton hums, and they pass the next minute in silence, Michael trying to warm up his legs and then stretching out his back while Ashton rolls his ankles and twiddles his thumbs.

"You know that the reason you can't do the assemblé in Theme and Variations is all mental, right?" Michael asks while staring at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, hips twisted to the side in an attempt to crack his back.

Ashton sighs, a long exhale that fills the entire practice space.

"Yeah, obviously," he says, although it sounds more like a confession than a barb.  "I haven't been able to do it since..."

Michael doesn't need him to finish the sentence.  He never watched the bootleg video that circulated of Ashton's fall, but it's not difficult to figure out where, exactly, in the choreography he collapsed.  When Michael stupidly twisted his ankle doing turns as a teen, he would second-guess himself for weeks every time he tried to complete a sequence.  With an injury of this caliber, Michael can understand why Ashton's mental recovery time would be longer.

Still, five years is a long time.

Michael twists his hips the other direction, finally feeling his spine crack, loud in the silence.

"I know I don't have to do Theme and Variations here," Ashton says.  "I didn't even like it before I did it with NYCB.  But I don't like not being able to do it, you know?  I don't like that a fucking assemblé has defeated me."

"But it hasn't," Michael says, pushing himself onto his stomach and into the cobra stretch.  "You just did one."

"That's because I wasn't thinking about it."

Michael exhales, pushing himself to his feet.

"So don't think," he says, offering Ashton a hand.  Ashton looks at him for a moment, then takes it, letting Michael pull him up.  His hand is warm, evidence of however long he was dancing here before Michael arrived, but Michael has noticed that Ashton tends to run warm, anyway.  He'll probably roast underneath the stage lights with the full Nutcracker costume.  Michael should be sure that there's water and Gatorade waiting offstage for him in the few instances when he's off long enough to take a sip.

Michael brings him to the center of the room, then steps back, severing the contact.

“Ready to begin?” he asks.  Ashton nods.

There’s no rehearsal pianist today.  Michael thought it would help if Ashton had less eyes on him, so Calum is accompanying Crystal’s rehearsal with some of the other solos in the Party, and Feldy is sitting in on that one.  It’ll be just Michael and Ashton for the next few hours.

"We're going to create your parts in the party scene today,” he says.  “Drosselmeyer's nephew is a bit lighter than the Nutcracker.  Where the Nutcracker is poised and stately, the nephew is still young.  He's on the cusp of becoming the society man he's been crafted into by his parents, but he's still enraptured by the magic that his uncle provides.  We have to create some choreography that introduces that amidst the chaos of the party."

"We?" Ashton asks.  "Isn't that your job?"

Michael shrugs.

"I want to create something that's going to show you off and fully utilize your skills.  That's the benefit of doing original choreography rather than rehashing Ratmansky's or Balanchine's for the fiftieth time.  All of the solos or small group numbers are going to have marks of the dancers in them."

Ashton nods.

"That's fair.  So, how am I starting?"

This time, Michael is prepared for Ashton to get tense and prickly.  They've had another pas rehearsal since the last one, and Michael watched the stress reappear and sour his mood then, too.  He's okay in group rehearsals, but something about having the attention of the whole room during rehearsals is distinctly unpleasant for Ashton.  By the time half an hour has passed, they've made an abysmal amount of progress.

"Okay, wait," Michael says, stopping before they try to move on to the next eight-count.  "Stop thinking so much."

Ashton frowns.

"I'm learning the steps.  I need to think."

"Yeah, I know, but stop thinking about everything else," Michael sighs, exasperated.  "Like, pretend I'm not here.  And not in a 'oh no, I have to pretend Michael's not here so now I'm hyper aware of him' way, in a 'it doesn't matter that Michael is here because I'm dancing' way, you know?"

Ashton's frown deepens.

"Easier said than done."

Michael considers for a moment, because that's fair.

"What's a dance you know?  Not fucking Theme and Variations , one that you know and enjoy dancing.  It doesn't have to be anything official, it could be a warmup you learned as a kid.  Or if you enjoy improv-ing, just give me a song."

"I don't want to improv," Ashton says immediately.  Michael figured as much.  If he's this much of a perfectionist when Michael is giving him stuff to do, he can't imagine that asking him to make something up on the fly would go over well right now, not when he's so far in his head he wouldn't be able to let his body take over for him.

"Then give me a song you can do.  Something mindless that you could do in your sleep."

Ashton wavers.  Michael waits patiently, trying not to fidget.

"'Comme des enfants' by Coeur de Pirate," Ashton says eventually.

"Huh?" Michael asks, trying to process Ashton speaking French that isn't just Americanized pronunciations of ballet moves.  Ashton pinches his hand.

"I danced to that song in high school.  It was supposed to be a simple thing for a student showcase, but my teachers decided the dance wasn't impressive enough for my skill level and had me do something classical instead.  I really liked it, though.  I do it sometimes if I have extra time in a studio."

“Okay,” Michael says, heading to the sound system and pulling up Spotify on his phone.  He holds it out to Ashton, waving it around when Ashton doesn’t immediately cross to join him.  “Dude, I can’t spell French.  I need you to pull up the song.”

Ashton takes a few cautious steps forward, eyeing Michael warily.  He finds the song, then hands the phone back to Michael.

"Get in your first position.  I want you to dance this.  I can leave if it'll make you feel better, but... reset, alright?  Stop thinking.  Dance.  Let your body take over."

Michael is worried that Ashton is going to develop a permanent crease between his eyebrows from all of these rehearsals, face fixed forever in a frown.  All of the stress makes his shoulders rise as well, something that Michael has had to give him reminders about.  It's a simple yet devastating error that should've been corrected years ago, but Michael doesn't know what Ashton's training was like after his recovery, except that it must've been rigorous to get him back into professional dancing shape.  He gets the sense that a lot of it was independent, without someone there to see the issues that Ashton missed.  It'd be easy to develop bad habits like that.

"I thought we were rehearsing for The Nutcracker, not messing around with high school dances," he says, wandering back to the center of the room.

"Can you fucking trust me?" Michael asks.  "Didn't we agree to do that?"

Ashton nods and gets into fifth position, head tilted down and off to the side.

"You can start the music."

Michael doesn't ask if he should leave, mostly because he doesn't want to.  He presses play and presses himself against the wall, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible while Ashton dances.

Ashton takes a careful breath during the piano introduction, settling into himself in the beats before the singer enters and the dance truly begins.  It's a relatively simple piece, utilizing elementary moves and some barre exercises that Ashton hits precisely on beat with his shifting weight, but it's fast.  It's playful and almost childish, especially when mixed with the light innocence of the song.  Michael has no fucking clue what she's saying since it's in French, but it reminds him of being young and free, as does Ashton's dance.

Despite the simplicity, Michael can't tear his eyes away from Ashton.  He's incredibly light on his feet, every move perfectly contained underneath himself so he can quickly transition to the next one.  Michael watches him go from changements to an arabesque into a tour jeté in one moment, then whip out a set of eight fouetté turns in the next.

Halfway through the dance, Michael finally sees Ashton smile.  It’s not the performative smile he pastes on during rehearsals sometimes like a mask, but a smaller, genuine one that softens his entire face.  His cheeks curve upward, frown lines in his forehead melting away as he continues through the steps, the picture of contentment.  Michael couldn’t look away if he wanted to, too entranced by Ashton’s stage presence now that he’s relaxed and happy.  It’s a privilege that no one else gets to witness up close, and Michael has to remind himself to breathe.

When the final note hits, Ashton poses with one foot pointed behind him on the floor.  Michael doesn’t hesitate playing the track from The Nutcracker they’re working on, stepping back out onto the floor off to the side and slightly in front of Ashton, getting into the nephew’s first position from where they started today.  Ashton follows along without having to be told, and they dance the sequence Michael choreographed together.

“Do you feel the difference?” Michael asks when they finish, after he’s paused the music.  Ashton nods.  “Dance from there.  If you need to do that one as a warm up every day, then do it, because it fixed all of my corrections.  Stop fucking thinking, dude.”

“Alright, alright,” Ashton says.  “I see what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he sighs.  “You were right.”

Michael tries his best to keep a smug look off his face, but Ashton makes it hard,

“If you say so,” he says.  He half expects Ashton to stick his tongue out at him, but instead he rolls his eyes with the hint of a smile, getting back into the last position.

“So, Mr. Choreographer, what happens next?  I assume I get out of the way of some other party guests, but what after that?”

Michael gets back into position with him, briefly reminding himself of the next steps.  Then, he smiles wickedly.

“Next, we’re doing assemblés.”

Ashton breaks his posture, shooting Michael a look.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Nope!” Michael says, grinning.  “Come on.  Let’s go!”

Ashton gets back into position with a long-suffering sigh that Michael is certain he doesn’t fully mean, and they begin to dance.

Chapter Text

"Hi, honey," Michael says, sliding into the seat across from Ashton in their regular corner of the Yellow Goat.  Maybe "regular" isn't quite the right word, since they only have one date here a week as part of their agreement with Ben, but it's the table that Michael likes the best because it's visual enough that they aren't hiding, but private enough that Michael isn't worried about them being overheard.  Underneath the faint jazzy music playing over the cafe speakers and the ambient noise of various machines making food and drinks, they don't have to try to talk around their arrangement or choose their words as carefully.  Here, they’re free to talk as themselves instead of as a couple.

Michael likes greeting Ashton with a pet name, though.  He started it a week and a half ago just to see what Ashton's reaction would be, but he smoothly rolled with it that first time and hasn't batted an eye since.  Now, it serves more as a reminder to Michael himself of their ruse, because it can be easy to forget.  They're comfortable with each other now, but they're also not as comfortable as two people who are actually dating would be.  Sometimes, Michael needs a reminder that he shouldn’t give Ashton a five-foot personal bubble or ignore his hand if he holds it out to him.  Michael himself is pretty big on PDA, but they still haven't talked about where the physical boundaries are for the fake dating and he doesn’t want to step over one.  At this point, Michael is pretty sure they're figuring it out as they go, which means on rare occasions holding hands, but mostly just standing next to each other.  The internet seems to accept it, although there are a few people who say that they still haven’t confirmed officially that they’re dating.  Michael has ramped up taking pictures of Ashton sitting across from him here and sticking them on his instagram story with a heart amidst all of his dance and rehearsal updates in retaliation.

"Hey, sweetie," Ashton says, typing out a final message on his phone and putting the device away.  He didn't have rehearsal this afternoon since they hit Coffee, Tea, and the Waltz of the Flowers hard instead, but Michael knows that he practiced during the lunch break before heading back to his apartment.  He must have showered since then, because he looks clean and refreshed, wearing an off-white sweater, black hair covered with a green beanie.  November has brought a long-anticipated wave of cold temperatures, and Michael doesn't bother to take off his coat before he takes a sip of his hot chocolate, burning his tongue on the melted whipped cream.  The short walk from the performance center to the cafe was enough to freeze him, even after the intense work this afternoon, and the warmth is a welcome shock.

"How was rehearsal?" Ashton asks.  Michael nods, swallowing another mouthful of his drink.

"Fine.  It was fine."

Ashton raises an eyebrow.

"That good, huh?"

Michael sighs and sets down his cup, flexing his fingers and trying to warm them up again.  He's not sure how much he's supposed to say about rehearsals that Ashton isn't part of.  He doesn't want to bad-talk any dancers to one of their peers, but Michael's only non-dancer friend here is Calum, who would probably repeat what he said to Ashton, anyway.

"I'm a little worried about the swings for Waltz of the Flowers.  I know that a lot of them have never done a professional show and there’s a lot happening in the number, but they're not picking up on things as fast as I hoped.  We also didn't make as much progress with Tea today as I thought we would."

There's four weeks until opening night.  Michael crosses off each little box on his calendar with dread and a black pen, watching the distance between today and opening shorten alarmingly fast.  There's still so much of the ballet left to choreograph.

"Can Crystal help more?" Ashton asks.  Michael shifts and accidentally hits their shoes together under the table, immediately retreating and hooking his feet around the legs of his own chair to keep them in place.

"Kind of?  We finished the choreo for Flowers today, so she'll be running the majority of those rehearsals now with Feldy, plus she's taking a lot of little sections in the party scene and we're creating the Gingersnap piece together."

Michael rubs his forehead.  This is a long fucking ballet.  He's pretty sure he's gotten less sleep in the past few weeks than he ever did as a dancer, up late each night with more choreography swirling through his brain, not allowing it to shut down until he dances through it.

"Hey," Ashton says, leaning forward with his elbows on their small circle table.  "You'll get it done.  Even if we're rushing at the end, that's how it goes sometimes.  The choreo is fun enough to make up for it.  This could become some people's favorite ballet."

"The Nutcracker is already a lot of people's favorite ballet," Michael says.  "That's why everyone keeps doing it."

"Not The Nutcracker, your Nutcracker.   Audiences are going to like it, yeah, but it's also very fun to dance.  Not all ballets are like that.  It can be hard to balance those two things."

Michael fights his blush.  Maybe Ashton will just think he's still flushed from the cold outside.

"I'm not a huge fan of The Nutcracker myself, but so far this is my favorite version I've done," Ashton says.  Michael immediately loses the battle against the blood vessels in his face, turning what is likely an impressive shade of red.

"What's your favorite ballet, if it's not The Nutcracker?" he asks, latching on to the topic change.  Besides, this is something he should probably know about his fake-boyfriend, right?  This is something they would have talked about before.

"What's yours?" Ashton asks.

"No, I asked first," Michael volleys back, taking another sip of his hot chocolate.  Ashton hums and looks away, eyes squinting into the distance.  Michael waits, letting him think, distracted by the hair curling around the nape of his neck under his hat.

"Dances at a Gathering by Jerome Robbins," he says eventually.  Michael tilts his head, considering the set of disconnected dances set to Chopin piano pieces.  He wouldn’t have guessed that one.  He assumed that Ashton would go for something with a plot and clearer characters given how expressive he is as The Nutcracker.

"Why that one?" he asks, leaning his chin in his hand.  With Ashton's elbows still on the table it brings them much closer together, like they're sharing secrets over their warm beverages.  Ashton meets his eyes steadily, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile.

"I like the simplicity.  There's no characters except the dancers themselves, no flashy costumes, no huge orchestra.  It's just a piano, an empty stage, and everyone in the theater.  There's nowhere to hide, but that's because you don't need to.  The choreography speaks for itself.  The dancers and the audience are all connected to each other in this really beautiful moment that stretches on until the final bow."

Michael lets Ashton's words wash over him, taking in his gentle tone and the sweet cadence of his voice mixed with the ambient sounds of the cafe.  He can almost hear Chopin’s piano underneath, just from a few moments of Ashton’s steady conviction.  Listening to him speak, Michael thinks he may have found a new favorite ballet, too.

“Have you been in it?” he asks.  Ashton shakes his head.

“Not yet.  I’m trying to get Feldy to add it to next year’s season.”

Michael leans back, breaking their bubble again with a grin.

“How much power do you hold with this company?” he asks.  Ashton laughs.  “No, seriously!  You got Calum his job, you’re making demands about next year’s season…”

“Okay, first of all, Calum got the job because he’s a fucking musical genius,” Ashton says.  “And I said I was trying to get it put on next year’s season.  I never said Feldy was actually considering the idea.”

“Sure,” Michael says, voice light and teasing.  “I know who’s really running the Minneapolis Ballet.”

Ashton tilts his head conspiratorially.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says with a wink.  Michael crosses his heart solemnly.

“Hey, what’s your favorite ballet?” Ashton asks.  “Maybe I’ll get that one as part of the season, too.”

“Ah, I’m pretty basic.  I fucking love Swan Lake,” Michael admits.  Ashton grins.

“It’s a classic for a reason,” he says.  “I love the music for that one.”

“Me too!” Michael enthuses.  “It’s so good!  Just like–I don’t know, it’s good!”

“Yeah?” Ashton laughs.  “Good?”

“Oh, shut up,” Michael says.  “You know what I mean!  It’s grand!  It’s big!  It fucks!”

“If it fucks, it’s definitely getting added to the season.  I’ll make it happen,” Ashton says.

“Good,” Michael says decisively.  “You’d be a pretty shitty boyfriend if you didn’t.”

Ashton shakes his head with a smile wide enough to show off his dimples.  Michael’s breath catches in his throat on the way in, making him sputter and choke.  To make everything worse, he accidentally makes eye contact with one of the few other customers in the shop as he’s failing to breathe.

“Are you okay?” Ashton laughs.  Michael waves him off, face hot and inevitably bright red again.

“Yeah, good, good.  Don’t worry about it.  Worry about next year’s season instead.  What other pieces are we doing, besides Dances at a Gathering and Swan Lake?”

Ashton crosses his arms, showing off his biceps through his knit sweater.  Michael keeps his eyes fixed on his face and the contemplative look there.

“Michael Clifford’s Nutcracker , of course.”  Michael scoffs, then immediately takes a sip of his coffee when Ashton turns his scrutiny to him.  He ignores the challenging eyebrow and gestures for him to go on.

"Swan Lake will appeal to the traditional crowd, and so will Dances at a Gathering, although they appeal to two different ends of the traditional spectrum.  One is grand, one is simple.  I'd like to throw Slaughter on Tenth Avenue in there, just to shake things up a bit, and we can pair that with another Balanchine to some sort of violin concerto.  Then we need some contemporary ballets.  We can do Rainbow Round My Shoulder and add a few others in that set.  Calum wants his to be two acts, so he won't be done writing it by the time Feldy picks the next season, but I'm hoping we'll do his in two years.  Honestly, we'll probably do a fucking Prince tribute."

Ashton rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, heaving a resigned sigh.  Michael narrows his eyes.

"You sound pretty sure about that.  Where’d Prince come from?"

Ashton snorts and tilts his head lazily so he can meet Michael’s gaze.

"Feldy hasn't told me anything, if that's what you're playing at.  I'm just surprised no one has done one yet.  Twin Cities Ballet did really well with their Pink Floyd tribute, and Minnesota is obsessed with Prince.  I don't know, maybe his trust won't give a ballet company the rights, but I give us a maximum of three years before Feldy wears them down.  You know there's a huge mural and a section of street renamed after him, right?  The news was constantly covering that when they implemented it earlier this year.  I think I saw the same news story four times in one day."

"Damn, you actually watch the news?  In this day and age?"

"What can I say?" Ashton grins, spreading his hands.  "I like waking up with Shayla.  She has a nice smile and always wears bright colors."

"Should I be jealous?" Michael teases.  "Sounds like you're pretty taken with this Shayla."

"You know she's not quite my type," Ashton says.

"Oh?" Michael asks, leaning forward.  Ashton mirrors him, meeting him back in their bubble.  "And what would your type be?"

Ashton ticks off each trait on his fingers as he lists them.

"Tall, blonde hair, occasionally wears glasses, can do ballet, is an amazing choreographer... do I need to go on?  I can keep going if I'm not being clear."

"No, that's okay," Michael says, stomach flipping.  He knows that Ashton is only saying this because they're still in public, playing into their dating ruse with the tenacity he attacks choreography with.  The only time he acts like the ruse could possibly be fake is during weekly dinners with Calum, Roy, Luke, and Crystal, joking about it with Michael across the living room couch and giving him a wider berth than he does in public.  Michael knows that that's how Ashton really feels towards him--friendly, but not with an itching under his skin to be closer or genuine romantic interest.

Times like this make it a bit harder to remember.  Michael wishes his body wouldn't betray him so easily, conjuring blushes and giving him butterflies at the smallest flirtation as if it was actually real.

Michael knows that he's not the worst prospect in the world.  Ashton could do a lot worse than him.  That doesn't change the fact that anyone with a brain can see that Ashton Irwin, immaculate dancer with a witty sense of humor and a smile like sunshine, wouldn't genuinely be interested in dating someone like him.

That’s fine.  They’re not here to actually date, just to get through the few weeks left before performances start.

He clears his throat, shaking himself out of those thoughts.  They won't do him any good, not while he's still pretending at this table in the Yellow Goat.

"I'm sure you're happy to know that you're my type too, honey," he says, batting his eyelashes.  Ashton grins.

"Glad we're on the same page, dear."

Michael swallows and reaches for his hot chocolate, feeling more out of step than before.

-/-

A few days later, Michael finds himself in one of the rooms on the fourth floor, standing behind large lights, cameras, and a burgundy backdrop in a pair of black biker shorts, trying desperately not to stare at Ashton's bare chest fully on display somewhere in the room.  It’s incredibly distracting when he’s supposed to be listening to the two photographers give instructions, hitting poses while they get as many shots as they need.  Thankfully Crystal is the one being instructed right now instead of him, wearing a matching black leotard and short flowing skirt with her pointe shoes.

“Can we get a nice développé please?” Andy, one of the photographers, asks.  Crystal raises her leg, carefully straightening it, arms up and head tilted just so as Andy and Sarah capture a stream of photographs at once.  “And an attitude derrière now?”

“Hey,” Ashton says quietly, sliding up next to him.  Michael stops watching Crystal immaculately transition between dance moves and glances at him, remembering too late about all of that skin on display.

He’s so tan compared to Michael’s pasty pale.  How is he so tan in November in Minnesota?  They’re not exactly getting infinite sun right now.

“Hey,” he replies once he remembers to, looking back to the backdrop where Crystal is now leaping into the air.

“How long do you think this is going to take?” Ashton asks, voice low so it doesn’t carry to the photographers, Ashley getting water by their bags, or Luke and Sierra chatting in the other corner.  They seem to be really hitting it off, which is good if they’re going to end up partnered at any point in the future.  Michael has been assuming that if he himself ever does a pas de deux at this company, it’ll be with Crystal, and Ashton and Ashley are better suited to each other physically than Ashton and Sierra are.  Despite the abnormally large height difference, Michael thinks Luke and Sierra would dance well.  Sierra has long feet, so when she’s en pointe the gap will be significantly smaller, and there are other ways of working around a height difference like that.

Fuck, when do they have the understudy rehearsal for the pas?  Is it at the end of the week?  Michael hopes it’s the end of the week, because the pas isn’t quite complete yet and he’d really like to have it done by the time Luke and the two other women have to learn it.

“Michael?” Ashton asks, nudging him gently.  He’s unfairly warm.  Michael’s skin breaks into goosebumps.

“Huh?”

“I asked how long you think this is going to take,” he repeats.  Michael blinks at him and shrugs.

“They said they wanted to do duos and small groups after this, right?  And then all six of us?  It could be a while.”

Ashton nods, mouth set in a grim line.  Michael understands.  He can think of at least five things that his time would be better spent on than a photoshoot with the other principals, but the company needs to do it now if they want the banners and promotional photos ready by the time they finish announcing the company.  These will be the promotional photos for the entire season, so Michael understands that it’s important from a marketing standpoint, but rehearsals are also pretty fucking important, and right now all six of them are missing one.  Feldy is running a rehearsal for Snow, then working with the kids on their parts in the party scene, but Michael hates not being there.  They should’ve gotten this over with before rehearsals officially started, but Michael supposes with the upheaval of the entire company Ben didn’t quite get his shit together until late.

“Can we have Ashely and Sierra join?” Sarah asks, gesturing for the other two.  Luke watches Sierra go with a dopey smile on his face.

Michael nudges Ashton and nods towards him.  Ashton follows his gaze, then chuckles.

“We might have a company romance in the future,” he whispers.  “Besides Cal and Roy, I mean.”

Michael snickers.

“Cal and Roy are subtle, at least.  I didn’t fucking know they’re dating until the second dinner at their place.”

Ashton gives him an incredulous look.

“There’s a picture of them kissing on the wall of their apartment.”

Michael shrugs helplessly.

“I was freaking out that whole first dinner.  I wasn’t exactly paying attention to the home decor!  They’re really low-key in person!”

“Michael, they have matching tattoos.  They got matching tattoos after their first time really hanging out together.”

“I didn’t know that!” Michael says, throwing his hands up.

“Quiet in the background, please,” Sarah asks politely.  Michael shrinks in on himself with an apologetic smile.  From the shooting area, Ashely catches his eye and smirks.

Ashton snickers.  Michael elbows him in the side without looking, not needing to see the smug look on his face.

“Hey guys, what are you talking about?” Luke asks quietly, joining them.

“Calum and Roy,” Ashton says.  “Michael didn’t know they’re dating.”

“You didn’t?” Luke asks, loud enough that they’re going to get chastised by Sarah and Andy again.

“Wha–no!  I knew!” Michael sputters.  “I just didn’t know right away!”

Luke shakes his head, faux-disappointed.

“And they call me oblivious.”

“You are,” Ashton quips.  Luke pouts.

“Okay,” Andy interrupts before Luke can think of another reply.  “Let’s get you three out here.”

Michael sheepishly ducks his head, dutifully taking a place on the backdrop, trying not to burst out laughing when he catches Ashton’s eye and sees an equally apologetic look there.  He feels like a little kid getting called out for messing around with his friends during class, too busy laughing at an inside joke to truly care that the teacher gave him a warning.

Andy and Sarah direct them into various positions, some of them including jumps and different levels, some of them simple poses around each other.  They have to get close for a few, Michael bracing himself with a hand on Ashton’s waist or Luke pushing off his shoulders for extra leverage for a jump.  Michael doesn’t mind any of it, too focused on how good it feels to be dancing with people he likes to get distracted by the feeling of Ashton’s skin underneath his palm or the body heat radiating off of him when Andy directs them into a lift.

“I think we have everything for you three,” Sarah says after a while, looking through some of the pictures.  “Mr. Feldmann wanted some of the Nutcracker trio for the press release.  Can we have Ashton, Sierra, and Ashley?”

Michael leaves the backdrop, glancing back at Ashton to find his mouth tight.  He gives Sierra and Ashely a smile when they join but doesn’t relax, remaining subtly tensed while Sarah and Andy give them poses, asking for a few suggestions of ones in the pas de deux that they can copy as well as giving them new ones.

“Ashton can you drop your shoulder a little more?” Sarah asks, looking through the view of her camera.  Ashton obliges, mouth still set in a line.  “And Sierra, arm a little higher?”

Michael tunes out Sarah and Andy’s corrections, moving behind the lights and cameras until he’s directly in Ashton’s line of sight.  He stands in fifth position, feet touching toe to heel, and waits until Ashton glances at him to tendu and shift his weight, dancing through the very beginning steps of Ashton’s “Comme des enfants” dance.

The corners of Ashton’s mouth soften in the precursor to a smile.  He lets out a steady exhale that relaxes his shoulders, and Sarah and Andy’s cameras click.

Michael bites the inside of his lip and watches the rest of the trio shoot quietly.  When they move on to duo shots, he watches those quietly too until he and Crystal get called up to run through their own sequences of lifts and poses.

“Last duo, can we have Michael and Ashton?” Andy asks after Luke and Sierra finish their set.  Michael looks at Ashton in surprise, then back to Andy and Sarah.

“Sure,” he says, following Ashton forward.

“Mr. Feldmann just wants a few quick shots of the two of you,” Andy explains.  “Ashton, can we have you do a leap of your choice, Michael in front posed lower with your leg out?”

They do a few shots like that, with both of them in the same space rather than strictly dancing together, before Sarah transitions them into a pose where they’re slotted together, Michael’s front to Ashton’s back and an arm around his waist, both of their left legs extended forward.  From there, the poses seem to get more complicated and more intimate in turn.  They pose with Ashton lifting Michael upside down on his shoulder, legs open in a middle split, Ashton bracing him with an arm looped over his thigh, one near his waist, one of Michael’s hands braced on his leg and the other out.  Michael hopes they don’t fucking use that one, because he doesn’t need everyone seeing his receding hairline with gravity pulling his fringe down, but at least the blood rush gives him an excuse for his face being bright red other than how easily Ashton is able to support his weight, keeping him steady as the camera clicks.

They do a few more lifts, both of them sent in the air, and they throw each other around a bit, too.  Lifting Ashton is different than lifting Crystal in their choreography sessions.  For one, Crystal is a lot smaller.  Ashton is taller and a wall of pure muscle, with thick thighs and broad, firm shoulders, and Michael’s muscles strain with effort.  He’s out of practice despite the morning conditioning and dancing during rehearsals and class, as much as he hates to admit it.  He feels like a weakling compared to how seamlessly Ashton hoists him up, making Michael’s stomach swoop every time.

Crystal also always wears a leotard, so Michael never has to contend with feeling the bare skin of her stomach or back under his hand, nor with numerous distracting tattoos adorning her skin.  Michael wants to trace every single one of Ashton’s, but he also wants to make it out of this photo shoot alive.

It gets harder and harder to ignore everyone else the longer they go on.  Michael can see Luke’s amused smile, can feel Crystal’s calculated gaze crawling over him like the light from a spotlight.

“Now who’s tense?” Ashton whispers as they transition to another pose.  He pokes Michael in the side, making him squirm.

“You fucker,” he grits.  Ashton does it again, and Michael swats his hand away.

“Not until you fucking relax, man,” he says, poking him again.  His fingers dance lightly over the bend of Michael’s waist, making him squirm and giggle involuntarily, elbows pulled in to protect himself.  Ashton tickles him again, weaseling around all of his defenses easily.

“Alright, alright,” he says, grabbing Ashton’s hands.  “I’ll fucking relax, man. ”

“Only one more pose for you two,” Andy says, bringing the attention back to him.  “Michael, can you dip him please?”

Michael does as he’s told, supporting Ashton’s weight with an arm around his waist while Ashton straightens his legs and positions his arms.  The bright photography light kisses the round apples of his cheeks sweetly and highlights the different colors in his eyes.  Michael never really realized just how many different hues make up Ashton’s particular brand of hazel.  He’s looked at him before, of course, but never this close for this long.

Ashton gazes back steadily.  When Andy says that it’s time for the full group shots, he’s the one who looks away first.

-/-

Michael presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids, carefully breathing in and out through his nose despite the rushing in his ears and ache in his jaw from clenching it so hard.  Maybe if he stays here on the floor of the rehearsal room with his back to the front mirror long enough, he’ll be able to push down the hurricane in his chest howling to be released.

He was an idiot to think he could ever do this.  An absolute fucking idiot.  Who tries to choreograph The Nutcracker for their first choreography credit at a major ballet company?  How fucking conceited did he have to be to say yes to this job in the first place?

Michael presses his hands harder against his eye sockets, fingers gripping his hair.  He takes another deep breath, but it does nothing to help him.

He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling.  Anger?  Sadness?  Frustration?  Anxiety?  All of it is blending together into the worst emotion smoothie he’s ever experienced.  He can’t identify what emotion most needs to be released, so he doesn’t know how to make it better.  He can’t just make it better in a dramatic crying session or by throwing the contents of his dance bag against the wall.

He doesn’t want to fucking see anyone, he knows that much.  He has to wait for the rest of the company to exit the building, but not long enough that any of the other staff members are going to pass by and ask what he’s doing sitting in a rehearsal room alone having a breakdown.

He tugs on his hair again, the sharp sting at least giving him something to focus on, even if it doesn’t make him feel better.

He needs to get up.  He shouldn’t be wasting his time here when he has to completely re-choreograph half of the first act.  It’s not working like he thought it would, and now with the timing of the moving set pieces it’s not going to work at all.  He doesn’t know what got lost in translation, but most of Michael’s choreography relies on movement around the stage.  He needed to fucking know where the set pieces would be and what their pattern of movement was, and he thought that he did.  Apparently not enough to do this right the first time.  He’s going to confuse all of the kids by changing everything.

“Hey,” someone says.  Every muscle in Michael’s body tenses and goes on high alert, but he refuses to move.  Maybe if he ignores them, this person will get the hint that his breakdown isn’t for public consumption and move on.

“Michael,” the voice says, closer now.  It’s Ashton, which is fucking perfect.  Not only did he see Michael slowly lose his grip on his emotions and the dancers during rehearsal, but now he’s seeing him pathetically lose his mind afterwards, too.

Michael can feel Ashton sit down next to him, not close enough to be touching, but close enough that he can distinctly hear the rustle of his clothing and his quiet exhale in the otherwise silence of the room.

"Hey," he repeats, quieter than before.  "You alright?"

Michael laughs humorlessly.  He can't help it; he's sitting on the floor of the rehearsal room, trying to gouge out his eyes and pull out his hair, considering whether it's too late to resign and go live as a hermit out in the woods.

"Do I look alright?" he asks, glancing at him.  The bright fluorescents hurt his eyes before he can fully take Ashton in, and he covers them again too quickly.

Ashton hums.

"That seemed like the polite question," he says.  "I wasn't sure if you'd answer if I asked what's wrong right away.  Thought I'd give you a one question buffer."

"Isn't it obvious?" Michael asks, gesturing to the room at large but keeping his gaze fixed on his knees, dots dancing across his eyes adjust to not being covered.  "That was a complete shit show.  That was the worst rehearsal I've ever been part of, and I'm the one who was fucking leading it in front of the whole fucking company.  Now I have to redo choreography because I didn't take all of the set pieces into account."

"That's not on you," Ashton says firmly.  "Stage management didn't tape out the set correctly on the rehearsal floor, and they had to change the timing on the set movements during the beginning of the fight.  Calum was talking about it, because sets thought they had more time in the music than they actually do.  Having to adjust is not your fault."

"I should've known," Michael insists.  "They talked about this at the last production meeting, but I didn't think anything of it."

"This could've happened to anyone," Ashton says.  "So you have to redo some choreography.  So what?  Every original work I've been part of has adjusted choreography."

"We don't have time," Michael says, fists grabbing his hair again.  "There's no fucking time!  Everything was supposed to be done by Monday so we could do stumble-throughs before tech and the press preview."

At least they've done the Sugarplum sequence full through.  Ashley was gasping for air with their hands braced on her knees by the end, but it's important that they got that first consecutive run of their solo, the pas de trois, and the Sugarplum Finale all together so she can build the necessary endurance it takes to dance those numbers back-to-back in performance.

The rest of the ballet, however, is still terribly disjointed.  Michael can't fathom how they're going to get everything done on time, and that thought is getting harder and harder to ignore.  He can hear the clock ticking in the back of his mind, and it feels like the seconds are getting faster and faster.

"We do have time," Ashton says steadily.  "We can catch on to the choreography quickly, even the kids.  You don't have to completely change everything, just adjust a few things.  Stumble-throughs are meant to let you see what you need to complete or adjust, so that's fine.  It doesn't have to be perfect by Monday, it just has to give you an idea of what you still need to add."

"This is a disaster," Michael moans, tugging on his hair.

"Stop," Ashton says firmly, grabbing one of his hands and pulling it away, keeping a tight grip.  "You had one bad rehearsal, Michael.  Don't give up because of it."

"I'm not," he snaps, and for some reason that makes his eyes water.  Things only get worse when he blinks and a few tears leak out.

"I'm not," he repeats, swiping at them angrily with his free hand.

"Shit," Ashton breathes, shifting to face Michael more fully, his knees touching Michael's thigh.  Michael wants to squirm away, but he also just decided that he really fucking wants a hug, so he stays put.  It only takes a few seconds before he's moved from sniffling to full on blubbering.  His vision blurs from the tears, lungs tight from not enough air coming in before he sobs it back out.

"What's wrong?" Ashton asks, thumb moving soothingly against the back of his hand, grip warm and solid.  "Like, specifically?  You have time to get everything done.  You're going to create a fantastic show.  You can do it.  You're not going to let this beat you.  Why the tears?"

Michael shrugs helplessly, trying to calm his breathing and utterly failing.

"Okay," Ashton says soothingly.  "Come here."

Strong arms circle him, easily pulling Michael against his chest.  Michael tips sideways, allowing himself to collapse into the warmth, tucking his face into Ashton’s neck.  Ashton adjusts his grip, and Michael lets go of the thin dam he's been pushing all of his emotions behind.

Sure, he's sobbing uncontrollably against the sweaty, stinky, incredibly comfortable chest of the greatest ballet dancer of their age, but it's not like the day can get any worse.  He might as well embarrass himself beyond belief.

“It’s okay,” Ashton says quietly, one hand running up and down Michael’s back.  “It’s alright.  Just let it out.”

The crying session doesn't last very long before Michael is pulling away and wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand, eyeing the tear stains he left on the cutoff shirt Ashton is sporting.

"Sorry," he says, voice croaky the way it always is after tears.  There's an empty, echoey feeling in his chest.  He doesn't exactly feel better, but he feels less, which is more bearable right now.

"It's fine," Ashton says, still rubbing his back in soothing circles.  "I know a little bit about feeling the pressure with this show, especially when time seems to be flying.  I've had so many panic attacks at home after rehearsals.  I get it."

Michael finally meets his eyes, seeing understanding reflected back at him.  It's like looking in a mirror.

"I guess we both have a lot riding on this."

Ashton gives him a grim smile.

"You know what else we both have?" he asks.  Michael shakes his head.  "The capability to do this.  You're a kickass choreographer, Michael.  We're going to make this the best production of The Nutcracker that Minneapolis Ballet has ever seen.  We just have to keep going.  Grit our teeth and make it through."

Michael takes a deep breath.  Quitting was never an option, of course, but that leaves only one course of action.  The only way out is through, even if it kills him.

"Yeah," he says.  "We can do it.  I know that."

"It's nice to have someone remind you, though," Ashton says, squeezing the tight muscles at the base of his neck.  Michael feels his grimace soften.

"Yeah, it is," he says.  "Thanks."

Ashton gives him a tiny nod, and Michael casts his eyes around the rehearsal space rather than hold his gaze.  Less than half an hour ago, this was the site of a rehearsal disaster, the likes of which could only be topped by multiple people injuring themselves.  He has to find a way to undo it all and turn it into a salvageable show in a few short days.

"I guess I'll probably be here on Sunday trying to work through everything," he sighs, watching the remainder of his free time dwindle down into nothing.  Ballet is already a full-time job six days a week, but he's been spending most of his time at home making notes for future rehearsals and constantly adjusting the schedule based on what they need more time on or which sections went smoother than expected.  At least if he's at the arts center he can fully dance through the choreography, rather than sliding across the panel floor of his apartment with all of his furniture pushed out of the way.

"I wanted to talk to you about Sunday, actually," Ashton says.  When Michael looks at him, Ashton his eyes steadily, just like he always does.  Michael feels like when Ashton looks at him, he manages to see more than everyone else.  The thought terrifies him, but not as much as it should.

"What about it?" Michael asks.

"I was thinking we could go on another date, one that isn't to the Yellow Goat."  Michael's stomach swoops.  "It's in the contract that Ben had us sign, and this weekend is the last one before things will get truly crazy."

"Oh."

Michael frowns.  He forgot that the Yellow Goat dinners aren't sufficient fake dating fodder.  No one has tried to approach them yet, and there hasn't been a lot of chatter on the internet about them lately.  In just three short weeks, Ashton will be revealed to have been working on the Nutcracker this whole time.  It almost seems pointless to continue when no one besides them seems to care.

Still, they have to finish what they started.  The only way out is through once again, even if he can't spare the time when he needs to be fixing the show instead.

"You need a break," Ashton says.  "You'll be able to work better next week if you don't overwork yourself on the weekend.  I'll take care of all the planning, so you can focus on chilling."

"No, that's not fair.  You've been working hard, too.  I can help plan it."

Ashton shakes his head, smiling.

"If you let me plan it, then we get to do everything that I want."

Michael snorts.

"I see.  This is just an excuse for you to drag me around Minneapolis."

"It's not like you've seen much of it.  You just moved here and have been dancing nonstop.  Am I wrong?"  Ashton raises his eyebrow.

"Sight-seeing hasn't been a priority for me," Michael defends.

“I know,” Ashton says, a smug smile gracing his face.  He's absolutely insufferable, but Michael feels a rush of fondness.

"We can make an afternoon of it," Ashton says.  "I'll even pick you up.  How about 1:00?"

Michael is too tired to give a usual, pointless argument just for the sake of challenging him.  He nods, an easy concession.

"I'll wait outside, so don't be late, okay?  It's too cold for that," he says.

"I'm never late," Ashton sniffs.  Michael rolls his eyes.

"Sure," he says, carefully neutral.  Ashton rolls his eyes right back, but he must sense that Michael isn't up for continuing any banter, because he lets the conversation drop into silence rather than try to get the last word in.

Michael takes a deep breath and surveys the rehearsal room again.  He knows that at some point he'll need to do some serious work so they can take the next rehearsal of the fight scene by storm and fix all of the issues he didn't realize they had, but he also really, really wants to go home and eat and watch a mindless superhero movie until he feels like a person again.

"Come on," Ashton says, standing and offering his hand.  When Michael doesn't take it right away, he opens and closes it impatiently.

"What?" Michael asks.

"Come on," he repeats.  "It's dinner time.  Everyone else has left.  Time for us to leave, too."

Michael sighs.

"I need to work on the battle."

"No, you need to rest," Ashton says, a hard edge to his voice.  Michael presses his lips together, swallowing around the lump that suddenly materializes in his throat.

He's so tired, but the ballet isn't going to choreograph itself.

Ashton lets out a breath.

"Michael, I know better than most what happens when you overwork yourself," he says gently.  "It's not good.  Everyone will understand if you miss class tomorrow to adjust things, but tonight you need to relax and recoup.  Let's go."

Michael feels his resolve crumble like a sandcastle under a gentle ocean wave.

"Okay," he says, taking Ashton's hand.  He pulls him up easily, not letting go until he's sure that Michael is on his feet, then grabs Michael's dance bag and throws it over his shoulder while Michael finds his coat.

"Ready?" he asks once Michael seems situated.  Michael nods, and they exit the rehearsal room together.

-/-

Michael shivers at a gust of wind, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat and beanie pulled low over his ears.  After a relatively temperate October and beginning of November, the stark dip in temperature and few inches of snow constantly drifted down over the past few days to dust the streets is an adjustment.  Sure, it looks pretty when he's bundled up inside, but when standing outside his apartment building waiting for Ashton to pick him up, it makes Michael reconsider if he should find a ballet company in the south that will take him.

Ashton better not be late.  Michael is already spending his entire afternoon off with the fucker, so the least he can do is arrive before Michael has become an icicle.  Also, the anticipation is killing him.  As much as Michael may pretend that the date is a chore he's being forced into, he's been looking forward to it since Ashton scheduled it, especially when choreographing has been difficult.  Michael spends all of his downtime alone unless he's at a Yellow Goat date or one of the weekly friend dinners at Calum and Roy's place.  If it wasn't for the fake dating, Michael doesn't think he'd have a social life here, and spending time with Ashton is much preferred to spending all of his time cooped up in his apartment watching reruns of police procedurals and slowly losing his mind while he feels like he should be working instead.

Michael isn't the type of person who can spend every moment with unfamiliar people without going absolutely crazy, but Ashton doesn't count.  Their fake dates or friend dinners put something inside Michael at ease, like he can finally put his guard down after keeping it up for the entirety of work.

With everyone else, he’s always pretending: pretending that he knows what he’s doing, pretending that he and Ashton are dating, pretending that he’s not getting more and more terrified the closer December gets.  With Ashton, he gets to stop doing that for a while and be himself.

Ashton is in on the secret.  Ashton understands.

Ashton is finally pulling up to the curb in a simple red car with a thin white layer of salt and dust sticking to the bumper and near the tirewells.  He pulls up to the small part of the boulevard where a sidewalk leads out to the street between two piles of snow, and Michael quickly opens the door and slides in, kicking off as much snow as he can outside and locking himself into the small, warm oasis the car provides.

“Hi,” Ashton greets while Michael buckles his seatbelt.

"Hi, honey," he automatically replies, taking his glasses off to unfog them.  Once he can properly see, he rubs his hands together to get more feeling in them.  He holds his hands in front of one of the heaters to get a puff of the warm air, glancing at the sound display to see that Ashton has it softly playing the radio, not hooked up to his phone or navigating with a GPS.  Wherever they’re going, it’s somewhere that Ashton is familiar enough with to get to from an unfamiliar starting point.

"Ready?" Ashton asks, putting the car in drive.  Michael glances at him,  taking in his warm knit beanie and red scarf over a long dark coat. He looks incredibly cozy, and Michael is incredibly jealous.

“Where are we going?” he asks, setting back against his seat and looking out the windshield at the buildings passing by.  Michael has never been good at conceptualizing directions or forming maps in his brain, even in Manhattan where everything is arranged on a grid.  As soon as Ashton makes the first right turn, he has no clue where in Minneapolis they are or any possible date destinations they could be heading towards.

“We’re going two places today, actually,” Ashton says.  “You can choose how long we stay at both of them, but I hope you like them.”

“Ben didn’t specify how long we had to be out and about in the contract?” Michael asks, only half joking.  “What if no one sees us?”

Ashton shrugs.

“Then you get a nice afternoon out anyway and Ben can suck it.”

A laugh launches out of Michael, too loud and sudden to contain.  Ashton grins next to him.

“Nah, Ben’s alright,” he amends.  “But we’ve been doing good enough.  We don’t need a pap walk where all the paparazzi are amateur ballet fans.  We’ll put something on social media and it’ll be fine.”

Michael hums, returning his gaze to the window.  Ashton makes basic small talk between current pop hits, gentle throwbacks, and radio ads.  By the time he pulls into a parking ramp, Michael has no clue where they are.  A quick glance behind shows a clearly labeled Stage Door, and another quick glance reveals signage for Children's Theatre Company.

"A children's theater?" Michael asks.  The radio fizzles out under the concrete parking structure.

"That's not where we're going today, although I've seen a few of their productions.  Luke taught a dance bootcamp with them one week last summer, too.  It's a shared building.  We're just on the theater half."

A few signs clue him in to where they actually are as they walk the half-block to get to the main entrance, but the large white letters on the front, colorful banners of various art pieces, and huge statue of a bronze human standing guard by the doors make it unmistakable.

"We're going to an art museum?"

"Yep," Ashton says, holding open the glass door for Michael to walk through.  "Welcome to the Minneapolis Institute of Art, or Mia, as I like to call her.

He leads them to the right, past the lobby shared by the children's theater and towards the front desk of the museum.  Ashton swipes a map off of it and passes it to Michael in one smooth motion, giving the attendant a smile as they pass.  He drops a few bills in the at-will collection box by the door, then leads Michael up a few stairs to the main floor lobby.  Michael looks around, taking in the gift shop, small food vendor, numerous chairs and tables, and a small, specialized gallery off the side.  Across the lobby there’s a staircase to the second floor, and looking up he can see glimpses of hallways and art displays as another staircase climbs higher.

"Where do you want to start?" Ashton asks.  "There's two floors above this one.  It can be a bit of a maze, but I've spent a lot of time here.  Name the era or style and I'll get us there."

"Um," Michael stalls, unfolding the map to take a look.  Ashton gently tugs him over to the side so they're not in the middle of the flow of people while he stares at the pastel boxes signifying different exhibitions.  He has no fucking clue what any of them mean.

He looks at Ashton and shrugs.

"What's your favorite exhibit?" he asks, folding the map and sticking it in his coat pocket.  He unzips his coat before he can overheat, sticking his hat in a pocket and raking a hand through his hair to put it back to rights.  Ashton smiles.

"I like a lot of them," he says simply.  "I'll show you my favorite art piece later, but the top floor is usually a good place to start.  It's Europe and the Americas, so it's familiar styles, and there's a photography exhibit that I really like.  Do you want to see the old stuff or the new stuff?"

"New stuff," Michael says.  That's one decision he can make.  He doesn't think he'll enjoy seeing Renaissance-style paintings when he never understood the appeal of them in school.  He thinks they’re boring, no matter how impressive the colors or how realistic the subjects are.

"Come on," Ashton says, looking behind himself to ensure Michael is following.  They take the stairs near the entrance all the way up to the third floor, passing sculptures and large displays on the other floor that they might circle back to later.

They pause at the top of the stairs while Michael takes in the quilt displayed on the wall and the furniture scattered around the top landing.

"Want to pause here?" Ashton asks.  Michael blinks, then slowly shakes his head.

"Let's keep going," he says.  "But maybe stop back later?"

"Sure," Ashton says.  "There's a few Cream of Wheat ads over there that I like."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Ashton laughs.  "They commissioned paintings back in the day.  I like them."

Michael doesn't have an adequate response to that.  Ashton grabs his hand after a few moments of stammering, tugging him forward.

"We'll come back to it, I promise," he says.  "For now, we're headed to the modern art and then photography section, by way of the impressionists."

Ashton has the entire layout of the museum memorized, which becomes extremely apparent as they make their way forward.  He easily navigates the nearly-identical rooms of paintings, twisting and turning within exhibits with clear purpose.  He pauses at specific paintings to show Michael, rattling off the title and artist without looking at the name cards on the wall and pointing out his favorite parts.  They briefly dip into early European and American art, but most of the paintings Ashton wants to show him are from the 1800s onwards.  He always waits for Michael to be ready to move on before tugging on his hand again, leading him through the halls to the next art piece.

He doesn't let go of Michael's hand, even while gesturing wildly as he rattles off different art facts.  Michael is going to overheat in his coat, but he doesn't dare drop Ashton's hand to take it off.

"Hey, in here," Ashton says, ducking into a large, dark room.  It looks like the parlor of an old, fancy house, complete with a fireplace, chandelier adorned with plastic candles, and fake windows with lights on the other side mimicking the sun.  Ashton sinks down onto a bench at the foot of the room, tugging Michael down next to him.  The dim lighting in the room makes everything feel quiet and muffled, allowing Michael to more clearly hear the fake crackling of the fire and faint voices speaking in French.

"The paneling and decorations here are from a hotel in France in the 1700s," Ashton says softly, placing their hands in his lap so he can lean closer to Michael.  "If we sit here long enough, the lighting and sounds will cycle through a day here.  It's not that impressive, honestly, but I like sitting here sometimes.  It's nice and quiet."

Michael looks at him, face shadowed in the dark room.

"You've spent a lot of time here," he observes.  Ashton glances at him, then turns his gaze back out to the empty room.

"I came here a lot when I first moved here, back when I was recovering and wasn’t sure if I’d keep dancing.  I didn't really know anyone yet, and I needed somewhere to be besides my apartment or the therapists.  I liked being surrounded by all of the art.  I'd bring a sketchbook sometimes and draw.  If I couldn't make art through dance, I wanted to make it some other way.  Being here... it helped.  It helped a lot."

Michael swipes his thumb across the back of Ashton's hand.  The room lightens into morning around them, revealing gold detailing on the large white panels on the wall.  They sit there quietly for eight minutes, letting the room travel through the course of a day until it transitions from night to morning again, heralded by a morning lark.

"Ready to move on?" Ashton asks, watching for Michael's reaction.  He squeezes Ashton’s hand and nods.

They stop by a few other furnished rooms and regular galleries.  Ashton shows him van Gogh's Olive Trees and The Piazza San Marco, Venice by Renoir.  They spend a while staring at a bronze statue by Degas of a dancer putting on her stocking, because Ashton insists that it's their solemn duty as ballet dancers to appreciate his art, given how often he painted or sculpted them.  He even makes Michael take a picture next to it, mimicking her pose.  Michael, of course, has to return the favor and get one of him, precariously balancing both of their coats in his arms while Ashton gets into position, carefully double-checking that he looks identical to the dark, lumpy statue.

"Is he your favorite, then?" Michael asks as he takes the photo.

"No, definitely not," Ashton sniffs.  Michael makes an offended sound, even though he has absolutely no stake in this.  "He's fine, but I prefer Gustav Klimt or Georgia O'Keefe.  What about you?"

Michael laughs.

"You're really overestimating my art knowledge.  I don't know if I can name five artists, let alone pick a favorite."

Ashton tuts.

“It’s a good thing we’re here, you philistine.  What would you do without me?”

Michael shrugs.

“Probably never be exposed to a Cream of Wheat ad.”

Ashton laughs, one of his high, giggly ones.  All of Michael’s breath leaves him at once in the face of that much sunshine.  He’s lucky to be standing close enough to be hit by it at all.

“Come on, we’re almost at the modern art,” Ashton says.  “I want to show you my favorite photograph, too.”

He knocks their shoulders together as he passes, and Michael hurries to catch up.

The contemporary art area is full of color, lighter than the often dark oil paintings that they hurried past in the pre-1700s area and brighter than the pastels and earth tones favored by many impressionists.  Michael takes all of it in with wide eyes, trying to absorb all of Ashton’s anecdotes, filing them away with the other art knowledge he’s gained today and will absolutely forget by the time he wakes up tomorrow.

It’s nice having a personal tour guide, though.  It’s clear that Ashton has not only spent a lot of time here, but researched by himself, too, throwing in facts that aren’t listed on the description cards and including his own opinions.  Michael listens to him point out his favorite book dedications making up a collage of antique pages adorning an entire wall, then dutifully follows him into the photography room.

“This one is my favorite,” he says, leading Michael to a picture of an apartment building with a few of the windows lit up, people inside captured while going about their normal business as dusk falls over the rest of the skyline.  In one window, a mother stands by her child’s crib, locked in an infinite, loving staring contest.  Two floors above, an armchair sits empty, ready for its owner to cozy up with a book.

“Why?” Michael asks, leaning closer to catch some of the details that the camera managed to pick up, even from the distance the photo must’ve been shot at.

Ashton considers his answer.  He’s very thoughtful when it comes to sharing his art opinions, whether talking about visual mediums here or discussing different ballets at the Yellow Goat.  He takes his time, but he also is very sure of all of his answers, like he’s thought about these things before.

“I really like the feeling you get seeing other people live their lives.  That realization that everyone else is also complex and mundane and that I’ll never fully know what they do in their day to day lives, just like they’ll never fully know mine.  It… makes everyone feel more tangibly human.  It makes everyone real.”

Michael hums, looking at the woman and her toddler.  He wonders how old that kid is now.  He wonders if they’re still living in that apartment building, or if they’ve moved somewhere else.

“I used to spend a lot of time sitting at the window of my apartment, people-watching,” Ashton continues.  “This feels like that, except preserved in one second.”  He shrugs.  “I like the way it makes me feel.”

Michael slips his hand into Ashton’s, pressing closer so he can lean against him.  They stay standing at the photograph for a few long moments before Michael softly breaks the silence.

“I think that means you’re nosey.”

Ashton huffs a laugh.

“I get it, though,” he continues.  “It feels a little less lonely.”

There have been multiple nights where Michael has glanced out his apartment window to see another one lit up in the building next door, or someone on the street bracing themselves against the cold while they make their way home or to work.  It always makes something in his stomach ache.  The loneliness gets more pronounced, but it’s sweeter through a window.  He may be alone in his apartment, but there are other people just outside.  He’s not alone in the world, even if none of those people know his name and he doesn’t know theirs.

“Yeah,” Ashton breathes, tipping his head to rest against Michael’s shoulder.

They stay there for what feels like hours, drinking in the quiet of the exhibit and the few windows of light in the photograph.

-/-

Michael thinks the Asian art exhibit is his favorite.

After finally showing Michael the Cream of Wheat paintings (which Michael has to admit are kind of fun), they take the stairs down a floor, depositing them amongst African art.  They spent more time upstairs than Michael thought they would and he’s starting to get a little burnt out from all the art, but there’s some cool shit in this museum, and every corner reveals more of it.

Still, Ashton catches him hiding a yawn in his hand and shuffles them towards Asia, leading Michael through rooms of Chinese statues, Indian textiles, and Korean prints until they arrive at the section for Japan, filled with historical containers, ink bamboo prints, and period rooms staged as tea houses or rock gardens.  The lighting is dim near the rooms, and these exhibits exude a hush that Michael feels down to his bones.

“This way,” Ashton says quietly, grabbing his hand again.  “I want to show you my favorite piece here.”

He leads Michael around a few of the rooms, finally coming to a stop in front of a display case with lights on the bottom illuminating the scroll within.  Printed on it is simple lineart of a jovial man with a round face and large nose, sitting inside what seems to be some sort of round thing.  It’s the same shape as an avocado, with his torso and face making up the pit, and Michael fucking loves it.

“Oh my God, who is this?” he asks, leaning closer.

“This is Hotei, and he is within his sack,” Ashton says, pleased.

“His sack?  He’s sitting in a bag?” Michael asks, glancing at the information card.

“Yep,” Ashton says.  “It’s his traveling bag.  He was a Tang-dynasty monk, but in Japan he became part of the seven gods of fortune.  He’s my favorite little guy.”

“He’s my favorite little guy!” Michael enthuses.  “Look at him!  Look at that smile!”

“I’m glad you like him,” Ashton laughs.

“I love him,” Michael emphasizes.  “He makes me happy.  I’m going to think about him whenever I get sad from now on.”

“That’s honestly something I do,” Ashton says.  Michael tears his eyes away from Hotei to look at him.  “There were some really bad days back when I’d come here after PT and just stare at him for like… half an hour trying not to cry.  It was harder to feel like the world was ending when this simple drawing of a happy little dude ended up in a museum for me to come look at whenever I wanted.”

Michael looks at the ink painting, then back at Ashton.

“Is that why he’s your favorite?”

Ashton nods.  Then, after a moment, he grins, wide and toothy.

“And he’s fucking delightful.”

Michael laughs, letting the sound fill the quiet space between them.  Ashton’s cheeks are rosy in the lighting, dimples out in full force.  Michael wants him to smile like that all the time.

-/-

“Where are we going now?” Michael asks, comfortably back in the passenger seat of Ashton’s car.  The sun progressed on its journey across the sky while they were in the museum, hovering on the precipice of sunset.  Ashton carefully maneuvers the car around streets, pausing for pedestrians and slinking around buses breaking at stops.

“This won’t take as long as the museum, don’t worry,” Ashton says, glancing in the rearview mirror.  A few strands of hair keep falling in his face rather than remaining brushed back like the rest of it, tickling his brow.  If they weren’t in a moving vehicle, Michael might consider brushing it back for him.

“That didn’t answer my question,” he says.  “Are you taking me away to kill me?  Should I be worried?”

“Yes,” Ashton says, completely deadpan.  “That was the plan all along.”

Michael makes an offended noise, but he doesn’t come up with a reply because Ashton is pulling into a parking spot behind a long brick building.  They’re in the back so there’s not much to see, but as soon as they round the storefront Michael is met with a Prince shrine in the first window display he sees.

“Okay, I’m starting to see a bit more of the Minnesota Prince obsession,” Michael says, walking past the cardboard cutout and record sleeves displayed there.

“He used to shop here,” Ashton says.

“Don’t you have any other famous people from Minnesota?”

“Bob Dylan,” Ashton immediately replies, leading him past other windows with different records and music paraphernalia arranged between potted plants and lit from behind by glowing yellow lights.  “Judy Garland.  Charles Schultz, the guy who made the Peanuts comic strip.  That’s why there’s Snoopy statues all over the metro.  Uh, Amy Adams worked in Chanhassen for a bit.  Lizzo lived here before she moved to LA.”

Michael blinks at him.

“How the fuck did you just rattle all of that off?”

“Calum,” Ashton sighs.  “He’s very proud.  I’ve had to listen to him list notable positive things about Minnesota for years.  Don’t get him started on the state fair.  It once made the list of top 10 summer festivals in the world and now he won’t shut up about it even though he hasn’t gone in a few years.”

Michael hums, glancing up at the store name written in a red to yellow gradient as they reach the entrance.

“Welcome to the Electric Fetus, my favorite record store,” Ashton says, pulling the door open for him with a flourish.  “Please, make yourself at home.”

Michael gratefully steps over the threshold and into the heat, bell jingling above him to announce his entrance.  Rows and rows of records and CDs stretch out in front of him, climbing the wall underneath pictures and posters and stacked neatly in long displays.

“Woah,” he breathes, feeling Ashton arrive at his back.  “I fucking love record stores, even if I don’t have a record player.”

“Really?” Ashton asks.  “I love vinyls.  I think everything sounds better on them.”

“Of course you do,” Michael says, shaking his head fondly.

“Yeah, I do, and I’m right,” Ashton doubles down.  “Why, what do you think music sounds best on?”

“Live, of course,” Michael replies.  “Music should be experienced with a bunch of other people, preferably in a tiny venue when everyone is dancing and sweaty and you lose your voice by the end of the night.”

“We need to go to a show sometime,” Ashton says.  “Preferably at First Ave, so you can see even more Prince stuff.”

Michael’s heart stutters in his chest, then flips over.

“Yeah?” he asks, trying to keep his voice casual.  “Are we fitting that date in before The Nutcracker? ”

“Yeah, just let me figure out how to stop time first,” Ashton jokes.  “God, can you imagine?  That’d be a nightmare this close to opening.”

Michael swallows.  The clock in the back of his mind that’s been otherwise dormant today begins ticking down again.

All of this is temporary.  In a few weeks, Ben’s contract will expire, and Ashton and Michael will go from spending most of their time together to only seeing each other during class.  They’ll begin rehearsals for the next ballet soon, a set of ten minute ones, and Michael and Ashton aren’t cast in the same ones.

“Come on,” Ashton says, nudging him.  “Where do you start browsing in a place like this?  Classical?  Bluegrass?”

Michael rolls his eyes and swallows again.

“Rock, obviously.  I used to dream of being a rockstar as a kid.  I wanted to be the next Billie Joe Artmstrong.”

“His wife is from Minnesota,” Ashton says, then immediately winces at Michael’s unimpressed look.  “Sorry.  Calum possessed me for a moment.  Tell me more about rockstar Michael.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Michael says, hands ghosting over some CDs.  He flicks a few of them forward, looking at all of the titles hiding behind.  “It was always going to be ballet for me, ever since I was really little.  I didn’t have the time to learn an instrument, so it was a lot of air guitar while listening to other bands.”

He dreamt about becoming a rockstar the way other kids dreamt of running away to the circus.  It was a nice fantasy to entertain, something to daydream about in class or before falling asleep, but he knew it would never happen.  He was always meant to be onstage, but in this life it’s as a dancer, not a musician.

“I bet you were great at air guitar,” Ashton says, leafing through his own stack of CDs.

“I was, thanks,” Michael says.  “What about you, did you ever want to be in a band?  I think you’d be a great drummer.”

“Really?” Ashton beams, as if Michael’s arbitrary assignment actually means anything.

“Yeah, of course.  You’ve got the arms for it.”  God, why did he say that?  At least Ashton laughs, red steadily staining his cheeks the longer he stands inside still bundled up, overheating just like Michael is.  “Also, you’re always exactly on beat.  It’s kind of freaky, actually.”

All of the company members are precise in their dancing, but Ashton is insanely rhythmic and in tune with the rehearsal pianist, even when it isn’t Calum.  He picks up any variations in tempo like it’s ingrained in his bones.

He’s fucking unbelievable.  Michael wants to see him onstage with all of the lights and the full orchestra and the costumes, but he also wants to extend this rehearsal period ever longer, pausing the clock so they can live in this record store instead.

“I’m going to find something new for you to air guitar,” Ashton says decisively, turning back to the display in front of him.  “It’s going to be a banger of a CD.  Or a really weird one.  I haven’t decided yet.”

“Why can’t it be both?” Michael asks.  “Find something with a kazoo.”

“What about a didgeridoo?”

“Oh hell yeah, go with the didgeridoo!”

Ashton grins.  Michael’s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before he turns back to the CDs, wondering if he could find an album that would appeal to Ashton, maybe one that can say a few of the things that Michael doesn't have the words for.

Not all of them, though.  There are a few things that Michael can’t bring himself to admit, not with the clock ticking in the back of his mind.

-/-

Michael completely forgets that the date was meant to be seen until he gets an instagram notification from Ashton later that night.  He didn’t post anything in his story the entire day even though he’s always the one who does so at the Yellow Goat, and he has a moment of delayed panic when he realizes that, if it weren’t for whatever Ashton has inevitably posted, Ben would rip him a new one.

Ashton hasn’t posted since March, when he did a vague spring photo dump.  Now, his most recent post has the simple caption works of art around town .  The first photo is Hotei Within His Sack, and most of them are of different works at MIA, including one that Michael took of Ashton posing by the Degas statue.  The last one, however, is from inside Electric Fetus.  Michael smiles down at the CD in his hand, flipped over to read the tracklisting on the back.  It looks like a My Chemical Romance one, something that he already owns but is always happy to see out in the wild, but the way that Ashton framed the shot makes his chest feel funny.  Something about the contrast between Michael’s dark coat and the yellow lighting of the shop, mixed with the incredible tenderness of the shot and the fact that Ashton managed to capture a pure, simple moment of his happiness makes the photo beautiful, like it could be displayed in MIA next to the shot of the woman and toddler in their apartment.  Michael hadn’t noticed him take it.  He hadn’t realized that Ashton would think to do so.

Michael squeezes his eyes shut, but when he opens them again, that photo is still there on Ashton’s profile, paired with that particular caption.

He’s completely and utterly fucked.

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.

Chapter Text

Michael stops texting Ashton after the third message remains unanswered.

He sends the first one Sunday morning, after he’s had breakfast and a panic attack.  It’s a simple hey, are you okay? because people don’t typically disappear without a trace for no reason, but his phone remains free of notifications as he paces a hole in the floor.  He sends the second one, can we talk? , in the afternoon between reruns of NCIS that he put on to drown out the silence.  Before he goes to sleep, he types out i’m sorry. what did i do?   He stays awake half the night hoping for his phone to light up with an answer, but by the time his alarm goes off in the morning, Ashton still hasn’t replied, and Michael isn’t going to push him.

He knows when he’s not wanted.  He’s not going to add more stress to Ashton’s life when he has to make his Minneapolis Ballet debut in three days.  The last thing he needs is Michael constantly reaching for him when he obviously doesn’t want anything to do with him now.

He doesn’t understand what he did wrong.  He’s gone over that night a million times, tracing back every moment just like Ashton’s hands traced every inch of his skin.  He’s examined every minuscule move they made the way that he goes over choreography in his head when he can’t sleep, remembering every upward curve of his lips and gentle gasp that passed them.  They created a symphony, the perfect backdrop for their dance, Ashton glowing under spotlights and Michael happy just to be sharing the stage.

He remembers Ashton tangling their fingers together and holding on for dear life.  He remembers the sparkle in his eyes when he looked at Michael like he wouldn’t want his gaze to fall anywhere else.  He remembers the salty taste of his skin when Michael finally got to run a tongue over all of those tattoos and the sound of Ashton’s giggle when it tickled.

If Michael has learned anything over the past weeks, it’s how to read Ashton’s body.  He recognizes each curve of his wrist and tilt of his head, the way that his legs bend as his back arches and the shape of every finger..  He knows how they move together, dancing flawlessly with no need for choreography.

Everything about that night deserved a standing ovation, if he had the energy to stand at all afterwards.  They took their final bow together tangled under the sheets, arms around each other as they drifted off to sleep.

At least, Michael drifted off.  Maybe Ashton never slept, sneaking away as soon as he was sure Michael wouldn’t notice.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, Michael considers skipping class and going to the gym instead.  Strength training and cardio is never the same as the technical dance practice that class provides, but he doesn't want to suffer through being in the same room as Ashton while he ignores him.  During rehearsals their interactions will be unavoidable, but Michael doesn’t think he can handle trying to go through their exercises with Ashton across the room instead of next to him at the barre.

Still, maybe Ashton will give him some cues for how they’re going to proceed.  If he doesn’t want to talk right now Michael will bite his tongue, but they have a whole fucking fake dating plot to unravel.  If they’re breaking up abruptly instead of fading out as planned, Michael wants to know.

He sneaks into the practice space later than usual, keeping his head down and trying to seamlessly blend in with everyone else as he finds a spot on the floor and begins to stretch.  The quiet doesn’t last long, though.

“Hey,” Crystal says, sinking down next to him and folding herself in half to touch her toes.  She looks perfectly put together in her signature pink leotard and ballet bun.  Michael wonders how unkempt he must seem in comparison.

“Hi,” he replies, continuing through his own stretching routine.  Crystal sits up again with a deep breath, opening her mouth to continue to speak before something in his face stops her.  She frowns, eyes darting over him.

“Are you okay?” she asks.  “You’re not stressed about the show, are you?  Things have been going well.”

Michael laughs.  He can’t help it; the show has been the last thing on his mind for the past two days.  He didn’t even remember to be anxious about it until Crystal mentioned it, and now he has two things to lose his shit about.

Crystal shifts and puts a hand on his arm, frown taking a decisively concerned lilt as he gasps for air once he calms enough to take a full breath, wiping his eyes with his thumb.

“Michael?” she asks carefully.  He shakes his head and brushes her off.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, cheeks hurting.  His smile feels stiff like plastic.  “Just had a rough weekend.”

The balletmaster calls everyone to begin before she can question him further.  As Michael takes his place at the barre, though, he finally looks around the room.

His gut twists.  A few other dancers notice the conspicuous absence, glancing around the room with him.

Ashley catches his eye a few spots away.

Where’s Ashton? she mouths as the opening measures of their plié music begin.  Michael sinks down to the floor, then back up.  He’d like to know the answer to that, too.

Resting, he mouths back.  Ashley nods, then shifts their focus back to her exercises.  Michael tries to as well, but his stomach continues to tie itself in knots, his gaze constantly sweeping around the room to look for someone who isn’t there.

-/-

Wednesday, Michael barely drags himself out of bed to get to his meeting with Feldy on time.  The morning hangs dense and dreary over his apartment and the outside world, everything muffled.  His eyelids are heavy and crusty, his throat dry like cotton, and every muscle protests against leaving the measly warmth of his bed for the chilly winter air beyond it.

He drives to the performance center with the streets shrouded in gray despite the piles of pure white snow gently falling from the sky in thick flakes, clouds muffling the sun.  He has a travel thermos of coffee in the cup holder, but he still feels sluggish and cold, like caramel sauce left in the fridge when it’s supposed to be kept at room temperature.

Feldy greets him with a smile when Michael stumbles inside his office.  He flops down on his chair, greeting the nutcrackers in the corner in his head, and takes a long drink of his coffee that does nothing to warm him or wake him.

“Rough morning?” Feldy asks.  Michael really wishes people would stop asking him that.

“Didn’t sleep well.”

That would be an understatement.  Michael feels like he barely slept at all, awake the whole night staring at his ceiling or watching visions of Ashton play out behind his eyelids.  He sees him back in Michael’s apartment, landing his assemblés in the second male solo in Theme and Variations , and he sees him naked on top of him, hair in disarray and dimples out in full force as they both come down, Michael’s eyelids already drooping.  He sees him at the last two dress rehearsals, dancing beautifully in his red jacket and white tights, graceful and powerful and absolutely captivating onstage, even while he continues to ignore Michael off of it.

Ashton’s friends have definitely caught on that something is wrong.  Crystal has ignored it valiantly, offering Michael some semblance of normalcy and strength throughout these last few days of rehearsals leading up to opening, but he can see that Luke, Calum, and Roy aren’t as good at compartmentalizing, wavering between Ashton and Michael like they don’t know who they’re allowed to talk to.

Michael knows that their loyalties lie with Ashton, first and foremost.  Given that Ashton refuses to meet Michael’s eyes except when he’s giving notes, he’s not feeling hopeful about retaining the fun, easygoing friendships he thought they started to cultivate.  His stomach twists and clenches, and he wills his coffee to stay down.

He doesn’t know what Ashton has said to them.  He’s not sure how much they know, if they’re aware that Michael is in love with Ashton and Ashton is breaking his heart.

“Everything alright?” Feldy asks, giving Michael his attention.  Michael squirms under it.

“Yeah,” he sighs, because it will be.  He’s sad and dramatic now, but damn if Michael is going to let some fucking guy ruin his debut as a choreographer, even if that guy is simultaneously the best dancer he’s ever seen and one of the best men he’s ever met.

“Just nervous,” he tacks on as an afterthought in case Feldy decides to pry.  There is nothing that Michael wants to talk to his boss about less than his love life and the fact that he had sex with Feldy’s golden child principal.

“The hard part is over for you,” Feldy points out.  “With the show, and with the fake relationship.  All you have to do now is sit back and reap the benefits of your hard work.  Did you see the article in the Star Tribune?”

Michael swallows and shakes his head.  He didn’t go out to buy a copy on Sunday, too distracted by Ashton’s ghosting, and now the thought of looking at the press review makes him nauseous.

Feldy pulls the Arts and Entertainment section of the paper out from under a pile on his desk, one of the group shots of all six principals splashed across the front page.

Fuck, is he going to lose Ashley and Sierra in the divorce, too?

“You should read it,” Feldy says, pushing the paper into his hands so Michael has no choice but to take it.  Ashton stares at him from the page–the other him, the one bare chested in biker shorts with his hands clasping Ashton’s forearms over the blood moons to steady him.  The headline loudly proclaims Ballet’s Biggest Comeback , but Michael doesn’t dare read beyond that with Feldy’s eyes on him.

“It’s a good read,” he says.  “They had very flattering things to say about the preview performance.   I think you’ll enjoy it.”

The paper crinkles under Michael’s grip.  He carefully sets it on his lap and smooths it out.

“I’ll read it after class,” he says, tearing his gaze away from that picture, the six of them tangled together in a beautiful, intricate machine.  Feldy hums.

“Speaking of class,” he begins slowly.  Michael bites the inside of his lip.  “I know that Ashton has missed the past two days.  Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says automatically.  Feldy’s expression doesn’t change.  “He’s being extra cautious, but there’s no new injuries or anything.  He’s been wonderful in rehearsals.”

That part isn’t a lie.  He’s landing all of his moves perfectly on time, partnering flawlessly with Sierra and Ashley and being a shining beacon for all of the other dancers to follow.  Michael almost wishes that he would slip up here or there, just so Michael would have an excuse to talk to him about it.

Sometimes he feels Ashton's eyes on him when he’s not looking, but he can’t prove it, and he refuses to give in to wishful thinking.  If Ashton sometimes looks like a kicked puppy when Michael glances at him, it’s not something that Michael is allowed to worry about anymore.  Ashton has been clear about that.

“And what about you?”

Michael blinks.

“Huh?”

“How are you really doing?” Feldy asks.  He keeps his gaze on Michael, eyebrows just barely creased, leaving him nowhere to hide.  Michael opens his mouth, then closes it again.

For a moment, he wants to tell Feldy everything: how stressful this entire experience is, how it’s all of his dreams come true, how angry he is that Feldy cleared a fake relationship and put him in this position in the first place, how thankful he is that he was given an excuse to get to know Ashton better than most people ever will, how much he hates that it was all taken away from him because he was an idiot and kissed him in his living room.

But that’s not the type of thing that you unload on your boss, especially not with fifteen wooden nutcrackers watching from the corner of the room.

“Fine,” he lies.  “I’m fine, really.  Just trying to make it to tomorrow night.”

Feldy nods slowly.  He doesn’t buy it, Michael can tell, but he lets him deflect.

“You’ll make it,” Feldy says, confident in the way Ashton always was when he said something like that.  “I knew it the second Ashton sent one of your videos my way.  Everything I’ve seen since has only solidified that.”

Michael’s breath stutters in his chest.

“What?”

Feldy frowns.

“What, what?”

“What did you mean, Ashton sent one of my videos your way?”

Feldy’s expression clears, and he leans back in his chair.

“Ashton is the one who first scouted you.  He likes sending me ideas, and he sent me a video of one of your small projects you did a few years ago.  It was a trio piece you choreographed.”  He waves a hand lazily.  “I fell down a rabbit hole after that, liked what I saw, and reached out.  You know Ashton, he’d be running his own ballet company if he didn’t love dancing too much to be stuck behind a desk.”

He says it affectionately, but Michael’s ears are buzzing, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of control over himself.

He knew that his recruitment was unconventional, of course.  When he first got an email from Feldy asking him to audition and send a choreography portfolio, he thought it was a scam.  There was no reason for the artistic director of an established company to reach out to a soloist with no professional choreography credits, except, apparently, because Ashton saw something he threw together with his friends and showed Feldy, who saw enough promise in him to ask him for more.

“That’s beside the point,” Feldy says.  “The point is that I’ve never regretted my decision to hire you.  The one downside to having you choreograph is that we don’t get to see you onstage for this production.”

Michael flushes, tugging on his sweatshirt sleeves.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.  “That’s… thanks.”

Feldy smiles at him kindly.  Michael bites the inside of his lip again and looks away until Feldy mercifully switches topics to the official part of the last choreography meeting.

He takes the Arts and Entertainment portion of the Star Tribune with him when he leaves.  He doesn’t intend to read it right then and there, but a few phrases catch his eye, and the next thing he knows he’s standing in the hallway, reading about new beginnings and turbulent history and young talent and fresh, captivating choreography amidst a few select pictures from the photo shoot and some action shots from dress rehearsals.

The article talks about Ashton, of course, and there are quotes from Feldy about restarting the ballet.  They must have interviewed him early in the week, then saved the review of The Nutcracker to be whipped up quickly after the preview.

There’s a few lines about him, too.

“The choreography is enchanting and executed beautifully, easily transporting the audience alongside Clara from the opening party to the magical Land of Sweets.  Michael Clifford, a new choreographer from New York’s American Ballet Theatre, conceived every dance move with the help of Crystal Leigh, formerly of Ballet Minnesota.  If they dance half as well as they choreograph, audiences are in for a treat when they join the company onstage as principals for the rest of the season.”

Michael rereads those three sentences over and over.

They like him.  They like his work.  Someone out there wrote those words of their own free will and published them in the largest newspaper in Minnesota.

He’s almost late for class by the time he finally shakes himself out of it and finds his way to the rehearsal space.  Crystal immediately gestures him over to a spot on the barre next to her.

“Hey, you look happy,” she smiles.

“Did you see the Star Tribune article?” he asks.  Her smile widens, and she leans forward, voice dropping softer.

“If they dance half as well as they choreograph, audiences are in for a treat,” she quotes.  Michael tips into her, happy laugh bubbling up as her arms come up to circle him.

“I like you like this,” she says when they break the hug.  Michael draws his eyebrows together in a question.

“Happy.  Confident,” she specifies.  Michael ducks his head, cheeks heating.

“Thanks,” he says, although that doesn’t encapsulate everything he wants to tell her.  Thank you for sticking by me through every rough rehearsal and extra practice.  Thank you for cheering me up this week.  Thank you for being my friend.

Crystal’s smile tells him that she already knows.

Right before the balletmaster begins class, someone else sneaks in and grabs a spot by Luke.  Michael’s eyes immediately find him, but his heart doesn’t sink the way it has the past two days in his absence.

He has a positive review in the Star Tribune and at least one person he can count on to stay by his side .   Ashton himself thought that he was good enough to send a video to Feldy, and Feldy has never regretted hiring him.

He lets Ashton’s presence become part of the background, sinking into the warm ups and dance exercises instead with a smile on his face.

-/-

Michael stares at the episode of CSI: Miami on his TV, engrossed by the heavy blue and orange filter shrouding all of the lab equipment the blonde investigator is currently using.  He has no clue what's going on, but he needs something mindless in the background so he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts, and after flipping through all of his TV channels this seemed like the best option without making him open up a streaming service and actually make a decision.

Michael doesn't want to make decisions.  He wants to curl up on his couch (furniture moved to normal set up because he no longer needs to dance here and doesn't want to remember anyone else dancing here), hide under a blanket in a futile attempt to keep out the ever-persistent chill, and blatantly ignore the fact that he's going to have to eat a frozen microwave meal rather than whatever takeout Ashton and his friends are getting tonight for dinner together.

The company’s instagram posted a few behind the scenes pictures from the principal promotional shoot while everyone was at rehearsal.  Staring at the pictures of Luke pulling a funny face in one of their trio shots or Ashley cracking up while Ashton grins, obviously the source of her joy, makes his stomach twist worse than usual.  There’s a picture from Michael and Ashton’s duo shoot as well, taken while Ashton was tickling him to get him to loosen up.  Michael’s face is scrunched up in a giggle, and Ashton’s dimples are out in full force as he reaches for him.

There’s one of all six of them, too.  Michael had to hide his phone across the room so he wouldn’t keep looking at it and make himself sad over the fact that half of those people are currently having dinner together and he’s curled up in his drafty apartment, cold and alone.

Michael is still in the text chain with everyone, but he's made himself scarce the past few days.  Looking at the messages feels like trespassing in someone else's house, rifling through their cupboards and stepping on all of their squeaky floorboards.  He's not about to show up and wreck Ashton's night before opening, when he needs his wits and focus most of all.  He's also not about to put himself in a situation where everyone is going to peter off into awkward silence and force smiles.  Maybe younger Michael would've tried to elbow his way into the group until they made room, but Michael as he is now is a lot worse at willfully ignoring things.  He’d rather slip through their fingers now than watch them slowly slip through his.

His stomach growls.  It's late, and he should get up to make something, but he doesn't want to decide which unappealing frozen dinner will go down easiest right now.

The blonde investigator is now talking to one of the guys, although it's not Horatio, the only character from this show who’s name he actually knows.  They're saying a lot of long words that Michael doubts are scientifically accurate, but both of them spring into action, and the scene changes to a bright, outdoor street free of snow.  Michael should spring into action, too, but he just can't will himself to.

The intercom at his door buzzes.  He turns towards it like it's going to tell him who could possibly be downstairs trying to talk to him at this time.  He only ever hears the loud, grating sound when he orders delivery, and he sure as fuck hasn't done that tonight.

After a moment of silence, he turns back to the TV.  It must've been a wrong number, and whoever it is downstairs has probably gotten in contact with the person they're actually trying to see.

The buzzer goes off again.

"What the fuck?" he mutters, frowning.  It buzzes again, and again, and whoever is down there is really fucking annoying.  Michael springs up and speedwalks over, a headache forming at his temples.

"What?" he snaps, jabbing his finger against the button.

"Hi, Michael," Crystal’s voice crackles.  "Can you let us up?"

Michael gapes.

“Michael?”

"Huh?" he coughs.

"Please?" Luke adds.  "We have noodles, but they're getting cold."

Michael blinks.  He blinks again.  He presses the button to let them in, then sits down on the floor for lack of anything else to do.  In a few minutes, someone knocks on the door, and he uses the doorhandle to hoist himself up and let them in.

"Hi," Crystal says, immediately shouldering her way in and shedding her coat to reveal her favorite purple hoodie and leggings.  Luke is right behind her, passing a plastic bag full of takeout containers into his hands to hold while he kicks off his boots, and Calum and Roy bring up the rear, closing the door behind them.

"Where are your forks?" Crystal calls, already opening drawers in the kitchen.  Luke wraps him in a quick hug before he can reply, and Roy takes the food out of his hands with a pat on the arm while he's distracted and Calum hangs up the coats, taking up all of the room on Michael’s coat rack.

"Found them!" Crystal calls.

"Come on," Calum says as soon as Luke lets Michael go, clapping him on the back.  "Are we eating on the couch?  What are we watching?"

"Uh," Michael says dumbly.  Calum pushes him forward, steadily leading him to the living room.  Crystal pats the middle cushion of the couch in welcome, already staking out a place on the right side while Roy peeks into each takeout container to discover what's inside and who it belongs to, Michael’s blanket thrown over the back to get out of the way.

"We got you the pesto cavatappi," Calum says, pushing him down and sinking onto the couch next to him.  Crystal hands him a fork while Luke passes out beverages that Michael didn't notice him bring in, until he takes a spot on the floor and Roy perches on the arm of Michael's couch, leaning into Calum to keep his balance.

"What's going on?" he asks once he finds his voice.  Everyone looks at him at once in a creepy, synchronized move.

"We're having dinner together," Roy says, as if that’s any explanation.  Michael looks around at all of them: Crystal with her eyebrows carefully raised, Luke with a fork in his mouth, Calum carefully balancing both his and Roy's food so Roy can open his Gatorade.  None of them look like this situation is strange, even though he doesn't even know how they got his address.

"You didn't think you were getting rid of us, did you?" Luke asks, frowning, a trace of hurt in his voice.  Michael opens his mouth, then closes it again.  On the TV a car squeals during a high-speed chase, but none of them move.

"Do you want us to leave?" Crystal asks gently.

"No," Michael replies immediately, before he has a chance to think about it.  Crystal smiles and adjusts her position, wiggling until she's more comfortable.

"Good," she says primly.  "Don't try to ghost us during weekly dinner again."

"You've done it now," Calum says, elbowing him.  "You're stuck with us.  Better get used to it."

He stretches out, knee knocking into Michael's, and when he settles he leaves it there.  Luke's arm is brushing his calf from his spot on the floor, Michael's stomach starts to unclench.

They watch the rest of the episode with commentary and scattered conversation.  By the time the next one starts, Luke has finished his food and is doing his best to imitate Horatio, taking critiques from the rest of them to adjust his posture and stance until he perfects the sideways look and dramatic removal of fake sunglasses.  In between the laughter and Roy standing up to help him, Calum turns to Michael.

"You know you're our friend, right?" he says quietly, eyes open and serious.  If Crystal overhears on Michael's other side, she doesn't show it.

Michael swallows.

"Yeah," he says, hoping it sounds convincing.

"I don't know what happened with you and Ashton.  He won't tell me.  But just because things are weird between you two doesn't mean you have to avoid all of us.  We're not a hive mind.  We're still going to be your friend, even if things between you two never get sorted out."

Michael bites the inside of his lip and nods.  He twists his fingers around the cuff of his hoodie sleeve, stretching the fabric.

"Thanks," he says.

"Yeah, of course," Calum smiles.  Michael wavers, but they're friends.  He's allowed to ask awkward questions.

"How is he?" he asks tentatively.  Calum hums.

"He's okay.  He's good at compartmentalizing, but he misses you.  You both really need to talk."

If he misses him, he could pick up the phone and reply to Michael's messages.

"He'll come around," Calum says.  He throws an arm around Michael's shoulders and tugs him towards him until Michael exhales and lets himself fully lean against him.

They watch the rest of the episode like that, and when Calum gets up to clear the empty containers and put Michael's forks in the sink, Luke takes his place.

"Doing okay?" he asks.  Michael feels a rush of affection.

"Yeah," he says.  Luke grins.

"Good," he says.

Over in the kitchen, Roy finds the dish soap, suds already filling the sink while Calum searches for a towel and Crystal dons the rubber gloves Michael forgot he had.  She shrieks when Roy flicks soap at her, dissolving into giggles that compliment Roy and Calum's, and with Luke laughing at Horatio’s ridiculous one-liners next to him, Michael's pleased to find that he wasn't lying.

There's one laugh missing from this apartment right now, but it's okay.  The painful feeling in his stomach has lessened, the hole caused by Ashton's absence diminished by the space that his friends fill in around it.

For the first time since he moved here, he thinks his apartment could become a home.  He thinks he has almost everyone he needs here to make it happen.

-/-

Opening night is a flurry of activity, with dancers rushing back and forth in multi-colored costumes shrouded by the darkness of backstage, searching for rosin and extra bobby pins and the plastic water bottles Feldy had delivered.  In one corner behind the curtain, a few company members are stretching again, and in another someone is reminding a ballerina to take off her legwarmers before they go onstage, prompting her to rush back to the dressing room to deposit them.  The head child wrangler pokes her head out of the adjoining room where tonight's cast of kids is contained, calling a quiet question to the assistant stage manager that gets interrupted by two other people, and Michael sends up a silent prayer that everything goes well.  Right now, the only thing that he wants is a successful show.

The stage manager kicks him out from backstage with ten minutes to curtain, insisting good-naturedly that his anxiety is putting everyone else on-edge.  He's already said good luck to everyone he could find, so he goes willingly, navigating the back hallways until he finds himself in the lobby, facing a veritable swarm of patrons.

Crystal materializes like a guardian angel while he stares at the crowd of bodies lining up for ushers to scan their tickets or stopping by the concessions stand and merchandise table.  She stands out in her long red evening dress, hair gently curled to surround silver earrings falling like stars from her ears.  Her dress shimmers as she approaches, complimenting the glittering silver necklace around her neck.

"Wow, you look amazing," he says as soon as she's close enough to hear him.

"Thanks," she beams.  "So do you."

She tuckers her hand into the crook of his elbow, fingers resting delicately against his suit jacket.  He put on his fanciest outfit for the occasion--black three-piece suit with a simple red tie and pocket square--but he still feels underdressed next to her, despite the fact that they're by far the best dressed duo at this event.  Some families dressed up for the occasion, but many people are simply wearing jeans and a shirt, ready to be a spectator to the biggest event of Michael's life to date.  He tugs on the cuffs of his suit, and Crystal gently bats his hands away.

"Stop that, you look great," she says.  "It's going to be great."

Michael nods.  It's out of his hands.  There's nothing he can do now but hope that everything he's trying to say comes across in the dance.

"Let's go sit down," Crystal suggests.  "It's almost curtain, although we're going to start late at this rate.  There's a lot of people."

"We're sold out," Michael says, even though Crystal knows this.  She was at rehearsal earlier when Feldy announced it.

"Let's go," she says, tugging gently on his arm until his feet get the message to move.  An usher waves them through while Crystal swipes a program, and they make their way to two reserved seats in the front with ease.  He can see the very top of Calum's head on the way down, but the orchestra pit is hidden the moment he sits, leaving only the stage.  Michael stares up at the burgundy curtain hiding most of it from view, audience chatter and pre-show playlist turning to static in his ears.

In a few short minutes, the lights will dim and that curtain will open, revealing all of the dancers ready to take the audience on a journey for the next few hours.  He'll have a front row seat to the magic, a wizard watching his friends cast the spell he taught them.

Michael tugs on his cuffs again, then clasps and unclasps his hands until Crystal slips her program into one, folding his hands around the booklet.

"Did you see Feldy's program note?" she asks.  He feels an intense rush of affection at her willingness to distract him.

“Is it any good?” he asks.  Crystal smiles.

“He’ll repeat it all and then more in the pre-show speech,” she says.  “Do you know the names of everyone on the board?  You might need that at the reception afterwards.”

Michael sighs, pouting.

“Do I have to?”  

“Unfortunately yes,” she says, patting his shoulder.  “You can’t skip a party where you’re a guest of honor, but we’ll suffer through it together.”

He sighs again and flips through the program, determined to read every word of it while he waits.

The lights dim on his second read-through, pre-show soundtrack fading out as the house lights go to half.  A single spotlight illuminates the center of the stage, and Michael startles when Feldy emerges from behind the curtain with a flourish, wearing his own three-piece suit.  It’s by far the most professional Michael has ever seen him.  He grins out at the audience, microphone in hand.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and distinguished guests, welcome to Minneapolis Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker!”

The audience applauds around them, a thunderous noise that makes Michael’s breath stop in his throat.  Crystal reaches over and takes one of his hands, squeezing until he breathes again.

“My name is John Feldmann, and I’m the artistic director here at Minneapolis Ballet.  It is my absolute honor to welcome you all to this performance, which has been a labor of love for everyone involved.  As many of you may know, the past few years have been difficult for the company, but this performance marks the beginning of a new chapter, one which would not have been possible without the dedication, love, and support of so many people.  A total of 78 performers are dancing in this production, with just over a hundred crew members helping to build and program the sets, props, costumes, and lights as well as ensure that everything runs smoothly backstage.  We have an orchestra of 34, led by the wonderful Calum Hood.”  He gestures down to the orchestra pit, where Calum’s hand briefly appears in a wave before immediately ducking back down.  “We have dozens of employees rounding out our team, including my associate Benjamin Evans, our Managing Director, who has been a guiding light throughout this whole process and has been absolutely vital to turning dreams into realities.  Lastly, our board of directors and numerous volunteers and supporters, all of whom are listed in the program, have single-handedly provided the funding and support necessary to produce a show to this scale.”

He claps, prompting the rest of the audience to follow suit.  Michael grips Crystal’s hand harder.

“This performance will feel familiar to those of you who know the show, but it is also entirely new,” he continues after a pause.  “While some costumes may be familiar, Leanne Trigg has created entirely new, beautiful garments suited for this production.  Similarly, Brian McTier has updated our sets, reinventing the magical world of The Nutcracker.   While many of our dancers are new to the Delwo stage, the steps they are about to perform for you are new, too.  This performance was masterfully choreographed by Michael Clifford with assistance from Crystal Leigh, two new choreographers who I am sure we will see works from for decades to come.”

He winks at Michael while the audience applauds.  Michael sinks down into his seat, face warm.

“I’m sure you all would like me to stop talking so you can actually see the amazing things I’m telling you about, so I have just a few housekeeping things before I get off the stage.  Photography or recording devices of any kind are strictly prohibited, and we ask that you please turn off all cell phones and other electronic devices.  Take note of the fire exits in case of an emergency.  There will be a twenty minute intermission in which concessions and merchandise will be sold in our lobby.  Proceeds from the concessions go towards our educational student workshops and community outreach programs, so if you’re feeling a little hungry or thirsty please consider buying from us.  We have some wonderful sweets out there, courtesy of Fran’s Bakery, so even if you’re not hungry I highly recommend getting some!”

He makes a face that causes the audience to titter, then breaks into a genuine grin.

“I am immensely proud of the production you are about to see, and want to extend my sincerest thanks to everyone involved in its creation.  We’ve all worked incredibly hard, and I hope that you get at least half as much joy from this production as it has brought me for the past few months.  Without further ado, I present Minneapolis Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker!”

The crowd breaks into applause again, covering the tuning note that the orchestra plays while the lights fade to black and Feldy exits the stage.  Michael takes a deep, steadying breath, Crystal’s thumb moving back and forth in a comforting rhythm against the back of his hand.  The orchestra begins the overture, the iconic music of Tchaikovsky sounding different tonight, and the curtains open to reveal Drosselmeyer gathering the presents for the family, gesturing for his nephew to follow.  The nephew enters, throws on a cape, and follows his uncle off the other side, then circles back to grab Clara’s nutcracker.  He exits once again, and then the ballet begins in earnest.

Michael doesn’t know how he survives any of it.  By the time the first act comes to a close, he’s gone through the entire spectrum of human emotion, on the edge of his seat for all of it.  The first scene with Clara’s family makes him laugh out loud at Franz’s antics, even though he choreographed every larger-than-life raspberry and moment of comedy with the house staff.  Sierra glides across the stage in her party dress, graceful and youthful in one breath, and by the time the rest of the guests arrive he’s sucked in to each individual interaction, from the family of four who’s daughter immediately begins making mischief with Franz to the old couple who anxiously wait for their adult son by the door, rejoicing when he finally arrives.  The party dresses and suits look stunning under the stage lights, swirling together as guests twirl and chassé around each other.  When everything pauses for Drosselmeyer’s dramatic entrance, Michael is as much disappointed for the first part to be over as he is excited for the next piece of the dance.

Ashton enters after his uncle to a roar of cheers from the audience.  Michael might as well be at a rock show for the applause that Ashton gets just for stepping onstage and getting in position for his dance, frozen in character with the hint of a smile on his face.  Calum holds the music until the cheers have died down, and then Ashton gets to dance the introduction that he and Michael worked out so many weeks ago.  Michael’s chest constricts as he watches, taking in every gentle turn, leap, and assemblé.  Ashton hits every single step flawlessly.

He takes a shuddering breath once the focus of the scene shifts again.  Crystal squeezes his forearm where it lays on the armrest, having dropped his hand earlier so they could both applaud generously after scenes.

The rest of the party goes off without a hitch, from Sierra’s delight over her nutcracker to the showcase of Drosselmeyer’s other gifts, all of them tinged with magic, Ashton always in the background to assist.  Michael sighs happily as Clara’s parents dance together and claps for all he’s worth after the children’s solos.  Ashton and Sierra get to dance together, although Clara is obviously more interested in the nutcracker than in him, and Michael breathes a sigh of relief as the party comes to a close, guests making their exits, children sleeping on their parent’s shoulders and members of the household beginning the task of cleaning up and preparing for bed.  Drosselmeyer and his nephew linger for last, helping to tidy the living room until finally, they take their leave as well.

Or so everyone is supposed to think.

Michael bites the inside of his lip and leans forward as the lights onstage dim to indicate nightfall, plastic candles against the wall glowing now while Sierra creeps across the stage to check on her nutcracker once more as the rest of the house sleeps.  The first mouse scurries across the stage, followed by two more.  Michael watches carefully as more join, hoping that the transition goes smoothly as more and more dancers are added, then as the set pieces begin to move.

By the time the tree grows and the Mouse King enters, nothing has gone wrong.  No one has missed a beat, all of the children completely focused and all of the adults dancing the best that Michael has ever seen them.  He lets himself get absorbed in the story, watching Sierra flit around the stage in her wonder and fear while tiny toy soldiers and mice prance around her.  His heart rate spikes when she and Luke begin their mini duet, each lift and throw of their battle fraying on his nerves even though he knows that they could both safely do these moves together with their eyes closed, having drilled them numerous times with him.

Sierra is a damn good actress.  Clara genuinely looks like she’s terrified of being kidnapped by a mouse, carted off to his castle to be his bride, him attempting to destroy her precious nutcracker all the while.

She manages to get her nutcracker to safety in a distracted moment, and suddenly Ashton is there in his red uniform, standing in front of her in protection and stripping off the makeshift bandage on his arm.

The fight between him and Luke is really fucking cool, if Michael says so himself.  He played to both of their strengths, and they dance wonderfully together with the stage combat intermixed.  He tracks every flick of their swords and every twirl around each other, watching them fly and fight while Calum conducts the orchestra in front.

He spends the rest of the first act on the edge of his seat, watching the battle and the Nutcracker’s transformation into a boy and the journey to the Land of Sweets with rapt attention.  By the time the last notes of Waltz of the Snowflakes ring out across the audience and the curtain falls, Michael needs a moment to catch his breath.

It hasn’t been perfect, of course.  It’s a live performance, and as a choreographer he’s always going to be a little critical.  Despite that, though, this is the best ballet he’s ever seen.  An indescribable swirl of emotion rises up in him with the house lights and the audience’s applause.

“Wow,” Crystal says as patrons around them stand to stretch their legs or get concessions during intermission.  Michael nods, not able to find the proper words to agree.  He falls back against his chair, and Crystal slips her arm in his and rests her head against his shoulder, both of them passing the 20 minute break in silence, staring up at the curtain that Michael knows is hiding a set change but that feels like it’s hiding a world full of magic.

The second act passes much like the first.  Michael rejoices at Ashley’s first appearance and laughs at the comedic bits and applauds until his hands hurt.  Dancers kick and leap for Clara, the Sugarplum Fairy, the Nutcracker, and for the audience, offering different candies and beverages and inviting them to join in some of the dances.  Michael’s heart swells with pride after each dance.

His dancers are amazing.  He’s watched each and every soloist and corps member go from tentatively familiarizing themselves with the choreography to completely owning it, and Michael unexpectedly feels tears well in his eyes when the flowers hit their final pose after their waltz.

Every single dancer is shining.  They’re bringing his choreography to life and making it look good.  Michael wants to preserve this feeling and return to it every day for the rest of his life.

When Ashley steps forward to begin the pas, Michael’s breath catches in his throat again.  She gestures for Ashton to join, and Ashton does so at Sierra’s encouragement, taking Ashley’s hand in their starting position.  Calum begins the iconic number, and the two take their first step together.

Michael swears that he could hear a pin drop in that auditorium, every single person enchanted by the way the two of them move together.  Ashton is perfectly suited to support her, and Ashley compliments his moves like they’re cut from the same cloth.

Not every dancer can keep pace with Ashton Irwin.  Ashley is one of the few who can, and when Sierra joins it only emphasizes her skill and compatibility as well.  The three of them are enchanting, dancing as extensions of each other, with equal grace and skill.

The applause when they finish is thunderous, and that’s before Ashton and Ashley do their respective solos.  Calum has to hold the orchestra for a full minute before the crowd calms down enough for them to continue.

The rest of the ballet is a blur, right up until the moment where the magic fades and Clara wakes.  Ashton reappears as the nephew, presenting her with her newly-repaired Nutcracker toy, and the specters of the magical beings she encountered dance across the stage once more where Ashton can see as well, both of them sharing a moment as the ballet comes to a close.

The cheers and applause are deafening.  Michael springs to his feet as the first batch of children enter to bow, and a glance behind reveals that half of the audience has already followed suit.  Michael’s heart is fit to burst out of his chest.

Each of the principals get individual bows, graciously accepting the support from their adoring audience.  The cheers for Ashton are loud enough to make Michael’s ears ring, and Ashton puts a hand over his heart and bows again, eyes glistening.  He waves to everyone, taking one last bow, then prompts Sierra forward next when the audience keeps cheering, even though Michael knows that they’re cheering for him.

After the other principals have bowed again and Calum has had to restart the bow music, Ashton’s gaze finds Michael’s.  Michael freezes, chest tight.

Ashton smiles and gestures for Michael to join him onstage.  Michael shakes his head, suspecting that he couldn’t get his legs to move right now if he tried, but Luke joins him in his waving, and then Sierra and Ashley do, as well.  Crystal nudges him until he’s forced to either move or fall over, and he grabs her hand as they head for the small staircase on the side that leads up to the stage, joining the cast on the side.  He squints against the stage lights, unable to see anyone in the house but able to hear them just fine.  When Michael bows, the crowd continues to cheer just as loud, an invisible mass laid out in shadows before him that cheers for him, that loves this thing that he created.

He makes Crystal bow, and then accepts the large bouquet of flowers that one of the children presses into his hands.  He flexes his fingers against the plastic keeping the individual blooms safe, feeling like he’s floating outside of his body rather than inhabiting it, and turns towards Ashton without consciously deciding to.

Ashton meets his gaze and smiles, radiating joy with the power of a thousand stars.  The tears that Michael has been holding back the entire night finally leak out, unable to be contained when he’s so completely overwhelmed.

He bows with the rest of the company when Ashton leads the group to do so, squeezing his flowers against his chest.  Michael looks out over the audience, sold out and nearly every single one of them on their feet, and thinks that this is the happiest he has ever been.

-/-

Michael takes a break from the reception within twenty minutes of it beginning.  The largest practice spaces and other lobbies have been transformed into winter wonderlands over the course of the afternoon, decorated with tulle and lights and glittering crystals meant to mimic ice and diamonds.  Each of them house tables of food and assorted activities, with a photo backdrop in one room and a silent auction set up in another.  Michael navigates around the suffocating crowds of staff members and board members and treasured, welcomed guests until he slips into the backstage hallway, closed for the party except for dancers lingering in their dressing rooms, rinsing off and changing into their formal attire to join the reception after depositing their laundry for the costumers to clean in the morning.

Almost everyone is at the reception by now, but there’s one particular person that Michael needs to see.  He’s gotten used to the conspicuous absences over the past few days, hairs on the back of his neck always standing on end when he enters the room like all of the electricity surges with his entrance, but he’s tired of the way it makes his gut twist.

Tonight was a huge success.  Ashton was absolutely amazing.  Michael asking to talk isn’t going to throw him enough to ruin his performance.  He’ll be able to push it aside and still survive.

Ashton and Luke share a personal dressing room, one of the perks of being a principal.  Michael saw Luke upstairs already, arm in arm with Sierra, and as he makes his way down the quiet hallway everything else fades to silence, many of the lights off.  He wonders if Ashton is the last one down here, haunting these halls with whatever theater ghost has taken up residence in the performance center.

He finds the proper dressing room easily enough, all of them marked by a piece of printer paper with the assigned inhabitants’ names, courtesy of a stage hand.  He hesitates for a second with his fist raised, but it’s time to put this to rest.

“One moment!” Ashton calls from inside in response to Michael’s simple rap.  Michael shoves his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting, rocking back and forth on his heels in his uncomfortable dress shoes.  One deep breath later, Ashton flings open the door, half of the buttons on his red polka-dotted button up undone, hair damp and curling around his ears.  Michael wants to reach out and touch him, to run his hands through his hair or trace his cheekbone with his thumb.  He clenches his hands into fists in his pockets instead.

“Oh,” Ashton says, dropping his hand from the doorframe.  “Hi.”

“Hi,” Michael says, sounding much steadier than he feels.  “Was starting to wonder if you were going to show at the reception.  Feldy has a gift, you know.”

He got the six principals their own nutcrackers.  Michael has named his Pyotr, after the composer himself.

“Yeah, yeah, I just–there were other dancers to congratulate, then the hair gel…”

He waves a hand and retreats further into the room, turning his back on Michael and doing up his buttons as he does.  Michael cautiously steps inside, leaving the door open behind him.  Costume pieces in laundry bags, makeup, and dance shoes still litter the space, although Michael doesn’t know what’s Ashton’s and what’s Luke’s under the bright yellow light of the overhead bulbs.  Ashton tidies what he can, muttering all the while.

“Can we talk?” Michael asks before he can lose his nerve.  Ashton freezes, glancing at him before continuing his attempts at putting the room back in order.

“Sure.  What about?” he asks casually.

“Ashton,” he says quietly.  Ashton’s mouth twists, hands dropping to his sides with a sigh.  He props himself up against the counter by the mirror, head tilted as he considers Michael.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks.  “It was a mistake.  I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about, or if that’s what you want.”

“What? No,” Michael frowns, a lump forming in his throat.  Everything he thought he was going to say has deserted him, and he scrambles for a response.  “I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?” Ashton asks.  “We slept together.  I’m sorry.  That’s all there is to it.”

Michael’s stomach twists tighter.

“Why are you being an asshole about this?” he asks.  “I thought–”

“You thought what?” Ashton snaps.  “That you’d ask me to fuck you only after you were sure I could dance in your show instead of ruining it?  That you’d get the satisfaction of fucking Ashton Irwin, ballet prodigy and get bragging rights for it?  I’m a human being, Michael.”

His words hit like a slap in the face.  Michael’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck?” he asks.  “Where did you get that from?”

“Am I wrong?”  Ashton arches an eyebrow, so fucking self-righteous even with a tired list to his shoulders.

“Yes!” Michael shouts.

Ashton blinks, like he had honestly expected Michael to agree with his ludicrous slandering.

“Do you really think I would do that to you?” Michael asks, chest tight and voice suddenly small again.  “I thought you liked me.”

He really was a fucking idiot.  Ashton’s mouth twists.

“I thought so, too,” he says.

They stare at each other, Michael trying to figure out what they’re so off-foot about, Ashton with his own brow furrowed.  A sour taste fills his mouth, and he tries unsuccessfully to swallow it down.

How long has Ashton been thinking that that was all there was to Michael’s feelings towards him?  How could Michael have been so blind to think that Ashton actually likes him when he’s speaking to him with such derision now?

“You’ve been avoiding me because…” he begins slowly, “because you think I only kissed you out of some, like, celebrity worship thing?  You think I’m that shallow?”

Ashton’s adam's apple bobs.  He looks at the floor rather than meet Michael’s eyes.

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“Imagine how I feel hearing you say it,” Michael says.  Ashton’s mouth twists again, arms crossing in front of his chest as he shrinks into himself.

“You only did it after I finally got the assemblés,” he says.  “You’re always going on about how good of a dancer I am.”

“You’re mad that I compliment you?” Michael asks.  He feels like he stepped into an alternate universe, one that operates on completely different rules.  Everything is upside down and horrible and makes no sense.  He’s losing his fucking mind.

“No,” Ashton frowns, shaking his head.  “I like compliments.  But you only ever compliment my dancing, and you didn’t kiss me until the assemblés.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Michael defends, which makes Ashton’s face twist uncomfortably.

“Okay,” he says quietly, nodding.  “Yeah, I get it.”

“No, not like–I should’ve asked,” he huffs.  “I shouldn’t have just done it.  I’ve been wanting to kiss you for weeks, and I didn’t regret it until I woke up alone and you never replied to my texts.”

“Look–”

“No, you look!” Michael says, fed up and more than a little embarrassed.  If he doesn’t start shouting, he’s going to start crying.  “I really liked you, you asshole!  Yeah, at first my crush was just because you’re hot and a good dancer, but then I got to know you and things got worse!  You’re smart!  Your smile is beautiful!  You’re really fucking funny!  And after the art museum I–”

He throws his hands up helplessly.  Ashton stares, which makes Michael’s blood boil more.

“Do you know how hard it is to fake date someone way out of your league while you’re falling for them, knowing the whole time that once you fake break up, it’s all done?” he demands.  “And then you kissed me back and I thought I actually had a chance, only apparently not because you ghosted me and now you’re accusing me of only being in it because you’re a dance prodigy which–you’re so full of yourself, you know that?”

Ashton starts to reply, offended noise already halfway out of his throat by the time Michael slashes a hand through the air.

“No, I’m not done!  You can never accept that you’re an amazing dancer when we’re talking normally, but the one moment where I’m not even thinking about it, that’s when you decide to start fixating on it and assume that that’s all I’m thinking of, too?  You don’t make any sense!  None of this makes sense!”

Michael’s chest is heaving by the time he finishes, anger coursing through his bloodstream, making everything uncomfortably hot even while the rest of him is so cold.  Ashton keeps staring, brow furrowed, and Michael gestures impatiently.

“Well?  You always have something to say.  What is it this time?”

Ashton clenches his jaw, gaze darting around the room.  He pulls out one of the chairs by the counter and sinks onto it, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he does.

“Okay, let me get this straight,” he says, looking at Michael again.  “You weren’t thinking of my dancing at all when you kissed me after the assemblés?  Despite it being because I finally nailed the one move I couldn’t get?”

Michael is going to bang his head against the wall.  Repeatedly.  Enough to give him brain damage.

“I didn’t kiss you because you were suddenly the ideal dancer , or whatever insane thing is in your head.  I kissed you because you were so happy, and I was so proud of you.  You’ve been struggling with this for five years, and you finally got it, and you were smiling and laughing and you did it.   You finally accomplished something really important to you.  You were glowing.  I just–”

He gestures helplessly, all of his anger leaking out like a thin balloon, leaving him feeling tired and stretched out instead.

“I don’t know, Ashton.  I didn’t know what to do with everything I was feeling for you.  I didn’t know how to contain it.”

Ashton presses his lips together and looks down at the counter.  He doesn’t reply for a few moments, but Michael waits him out.  He’s used to silence from him after the past few days.

“It’s possible,” Ashton eventually says, slow and measured, “that I really, really misread the situation.”

Michael snorts.  It tastes vaguely like a sigh of relief.

“You think?”

Ashton glances at him, sad and heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  Michael swallows and bites the inside of his lip.  “It wasn’t fair of me to judge you like that.  I haven’t had a good track record in the past of people seeing me for more than just my dancing, but I shouldn’t have left or ignored you.  I shouldn’t have thought that you’d be like everyone else.”

Michael nods, ducking his head.

“I panicked,” Ashton continues.  “I really like you, too, but with the show and going public again I kept second guessing myself.  I should’ve trusted you.”

Michael sighs, pulling out the other chair so he can sit down across from him.

“I’m not going to argue with you about that,” he says ruefully.  “But we should’ve talked first.  If we had done that, we would’ve been on the same page before you had a chance to overthink.”

Ashton covers half of his ghost of a smile with his fist, propping his chin on his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says.  “That would’ve been nice.”

Michael offers him his own half-smile, a concession.

“Can we start again?” Ashton asks, setting his arm down on the counter.  Michael wants to reach out and take his hand, but he still has a flare of hurt in him, tightening his chest.  “I understand if I fucked it all up, but if I didn’t–if you could forgive me, I’d really like to be your friend at least.”

Michael’s heart sinks.

“Just friends?”

Ashton’s fingers twitch, but his gaze remains steady.

“You said you liked me earlier.  Past tense.  I understand if we can’t get back to that.”

Ashton is a filthy liar if the pained twist of his mouth is any indication.  Michael bites the inside of his lip.  He’s developing a sore there from how often his teeth dig in, the area tasting vaguely of iron.

“I like you,” he admits.  “Present tense.”

Ashton exhales like a weight slips from his shoulders, lightening the air around them.  Suddenly, the fact that they’re not touching is physically painful.

“Come here,” Michael says, rising to his feet and holding out his arms.  Ashton has his own wrapped around Michael’s waist before he finishes speaking, pressed fully against him.  Michael squeezes his arms around his shoulders, both of them cheek to cheek.

He’s warm.  He’s always warm, but Michael rarely gets to feel it this close.  His hands curl into fists to avoid digging into Ashton’s shirt and wrinkling it, even while he can feel Ashton’s hands pressing into the muscles of his back through his suit jacket.

“I’m sorry,” Ashton repeats against his cheek.

“It’s okay,” Michael murmurs, turning to see him.  Their noses brush, too close to properly look without going cross-eyed, and Michael’s mouth ticks up in a smile.

“Can we try again?” Ashton asks.  “Please?  Let me take you on another date.”

“What if I want to plan the date this time?” he asks, bringing one of his hands to cup Ashton’s cheek, thumb swiping over his skin.  Ashton leans into it, eyelids fluttering closed before he opens them again.

“Do you know any date locations in Minneapolis yet?” he teases.  Michael’s heart soars, heartbeat skipping.

He missed this.  Fuck, he missed teasing him and being teased, the way that Ashton’s eyes glimmer when he does it and how he grins wherever Michael volleys back.  Having it now hits him square in the chest, stealing all of his breath.

“I can find one,” he says, shaky in a good way rather than a bad one.  “In fact, I will find one.  Get ready for the best date ever.”

Ashton beams.  Michael gives in to temptation and fits his thumb against a dimple.

“So that’s a yes?” he asks.  Michael smiles, moving his hand to the back of Ashton’s head, fingers tangled in the still-damp strands of his hair.

“Can you trust me?” he asks, four simple words that they’ve been asking each other since that first conversation at the Yellow Goat.  Ashton nods.

“Yes, I can.  I will.  I promise.”

“Then yes,” Michael grins, brushing their noses together.  “Let’s go on another date.  Let’s try again.”

When Michael kisses him this time, it doesn’t feel like the final chapter of their story that he thought opening night would be.  It feels like the beginning, like the first rise of the curtain after rehearsals.  Michael and Ashton are center stage, but he knows his partner now.  They’ll be able to figure out all of the steps.

He can’t wait to begin the dance.