grand adage - thecheeseburgercat - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: autumn - chapter one

Chapter Text

The sunny September sunshine was enough to put any normal person in a cheerful mood, but Astarion is not a normal person. The bright sun tends to give him a headache, especially when it's closing in on nine-thirty in morning and he's a wee bit hungover. Well, perhaps more than a wee bit. But last night was his very last evening of freedom, of the ability to get absolutely sh*t-faced and not care about its effects the next day, so of course he indulged.

His body might complain during morning class, but really, who gives it their all on their first day back at work after a nice long vacation?

Speaking of morning class, at this rate he'll be late. And if there's one thing Astarion is not, it's tardy. He curses and picks up the pace, almost bowling some poor suited grunt over in his haste to get to the stage doors. Astarion doesn't bother to apologise, gives only a passing thought of thanks that he's not one of the millions of people in this bustling city heading to a day of endless corporate drudgery.

No, he's a ballet dancer. An athlete too, spending his days honing his body to physical perfection for all to admire. But first and foremost, Astarion is an artist. He has been a first soloist at the Royal Baldur Ballet for a decade now, the second highest rank in the company. Only the principal dancers rank higher than him, and one day, one day, he will be among them.

Never mind the fact that he's thirty-five and not getting any younger. Never mind the fact that he has many other talented colleagues all vying for the same scarce spots. Astarion will be a principal one day. He has sacrificed too much not to be.

Astarion reaches the stage door and jogs through the corridors towards the biggest studio, where morning class is held six days a week, at nine-thirty sharp. f*ck, he's a bit too late to warm-up the way he likes to, but that's alright, he'll just do his feet and calves once he gets to his spot at the barre—

Somebody is standing in his spot at the barre. Somebody tall and nicely muscled, with neat rows of braids and a loose-warm up t-shirt that says "The Elturel Ballet Academy" across the back. On any other occasion, Astarion would probably like to sidle up to this dashing person and flirt the night away. But not if said person is stealingAstarion's barre spot, so nicely placed at the edge of the barre where the mirror is slightly warped in a way favourable to his figure.

"I'm so sorry, but it appears you've gotten lost," he calls out, fake sweetness laid on thickly as he approaches the barre-stealer from the back. It's probably some clueless new apprentice, gods. "This is my barre spot. You're going to have to find your own."

The young man whirls around, and Astarion stares. He's really quite pretty, warm dark brown eyes and a strong jawline. "Oh, my apologies! I had no idea it had a name on it," the man chuckles.

"Have you neverbeen to a consistent class? Everyone has their spot," Astarion scoffs. "Now move, would you? Some of us need to warm-up properly."

"I've been to a consistent class or two, yes," he laughs awkwardly. "I'm Wyll Ravengard. I've just joined the company as a first soloist. And you're Astarion Ancunín, I believe? A fellow first soloist!"

What.

Wyll Ravengard is most definitely not an apprentice. Astarion knows that name, Wyll Ravengard. He won the Prix de Lausanne five or so years ago, the most prestigious competition for ballet students. Astarion remembers Wyll's classical solo going pretty darn viral on social media, a beautifully expressive take on Prince Désiré's solo from The Sleeping Beauty. Even as a student, it was clear that Wyll Ravengard was going to be the ballet world's next big star.

And now he's here, in Astarion's barre spot. In his rank.

"You've guessed correctly," Astarion says through clenched teeth, trying not to let the shock overwhelm him.

"I'm excited to get to work with you! I remember watching videos of your performances while I was still in school, you have beautiful lines," Wyll says with an infuriatingly pleasant smile on his face. Christ, who has this much cheer at this hour?

"I'm just thrilled," Astarion sneers. "Now if you would please find your own spot?"

"Oh! Of course," Wyll blushes, grabbing his water bottle and foam rollers. He moves to the much worse (in Astarion's correct opinion) side barre, next to Lakrissa. Astarion watches him greet her and ask if the spot is taken. At least he's a quick learner.

Of course the second Astarion begins to roll out his feet, Jaheira bursts into the studio.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! I hope you've all had a restful summer. Let's get to work! Starting with a warm-up in sixth position, four rélevés with a plié, then follow along for the rest. Milil, if you please."

Milil begins to play the warm-up music, piano notes soothing and masterful as always, and away they go.

As Astarion relaxes into the routine of class, wishing he was more warmed-up, he scans the room for any other new faces. There are a handful of very young nervous dancers off to the sides who must actually be the new apprentices. But other than that, it appears Wyll Ravengard is the only new dancer this season, and no one else has left. Still, a new male first soloist is a big deal. Last year, Astarion had been fairly confident he'd have a good shot at the rank if any of the male principals were to retire. But with Wyll as more direct competition? Now he's not so sure.

Astarion's wandering gaze finds Halsin, standing head and shoulders above the dancers flanking him in the centre of the barre. Of all the male principals, the smart money is on Halsin to retire next. He's been collaborating with the répétiteurs to choreograph new contemporary pieces for the company, and as a consequence didn't do as much dancing last season. Still, Halsin is a strong and formidable dancer and no one knows exactly when retirement will come.

Next to Halsin, Lae'zel is in fine form as the barre combinations progress into rapid-fire frappés and beats. She's the best jumper in the company, and can easily hold her own against any of the men. Lae'zel joined as a principal a handful of years ago from one of the best companies in Russia, and her strict school pedigree is equally as impressive. When asked why she left for the UK, Lae'zel will always change the subject as quickly as she can. Astarion is sure there is some sort of story to be heard there, but it's not one he's willing to suss out.

Conveniently placed across the room from Lae'zel, Astarion notes with a snicker, is Shadowheart. Three seasons ago Shadowheart was promoted to principal after an unexpected performance of Swan Lake. Two weeks before the curtain opened, a dancer got injured and Shadowheart had to learn the role quickly and fill in. The performance she gave that night is still talked about to this day, a masterful portrayal of both the white and the black swan. Her promotion was sealed that night, and it was well-deserved. Honestly, Shadowheart is Astarion's favourite to partner, and the dancer he best gets along with. She puts up with his teasing her over Lae'zel, after all.

And speaking of his favourite partner, his least favourite is unfortunately still halfway down the centre barre. Minthara has a wide berth of space around her as her legs fly up into the highest grand battements. Astarion is pretty sure Minthara is no one's favourite to partner, what with her stuck-up attitude and the way she looks down on absolutely everyone, especially the ones lifting her high into the air. Still, Astarion has to admit that she has the chops to be a principal. Nothing is better than watching Minthara step into a villainously dramatic role, scaring any children who happen to be in the audience.

"Alright, that's our barre. Everyone's nice and warmed-up? Ladies, feel free to put your pointe shoes on. And gentlemen, help push aside the barres and meet me in the centre!" Jaheira calls. Jaheira herself was a gorgeous principal for a couple decades with the Royal Baldur, and she's still an integral part of the company today as a ballet mistress. Class with her is a treat, but Astarion's finding it hard to appreciate today. His head pounds with the remnants of last night's drinking, no matter how much water he downs between combinations. And curse Wyll Ravengard, he still doesn't feel stretched for centre!

"She runs a tight barre," Wyll whistles as he takes a place next to Astarion. Astarion doesn't deign him with a response, instead choosing to subtly move out of his way by helping move the last barre to the side. He doesn't wish to spend the rest of class beside Wyll, comparing himself to the younger man and fretting. When Wyll looks crestfallen, Astarion pretends not to notice.

The rest of class whirls by in a dizzying rush of tinkling piano and squeaking pointe shoes. Jaheira's a tough teacher and Astarion finds himself absolutely gasping for air by the end of the big soaring jumps, grand allegro. Gods, he's out of shape! He stuck to his diet over the summer, he oughtn't to be feeling so poorly...but every year, it seems September is harder and harder to get through. Astarion doesn't want to think about it, but he is getting older.

"—and that's our class for the morning, thank you Milil. Good job everyone, you've worked hard. But there is still harder to come!"

Harder to come, indeed. This season was poised to be full of all the usual ups and downs, but as Astarion picks up his things and follows the crowd out of the studio, he can't seem to stop looking at Wyll's nicely defined shoulders, t-shirt now clinging to them with sweat. There's that swooping feeling deep down inside him, that feeling that whispers everything is about to change.

~*~

Astarion slips out of the theatre once he's rolled out his aching muscles. He doesn't wish to stick around for lunch and be forced into awkward small talk with the other dancers, all the rote "How was your summer?" and "Did you travel anywhere exciting?" Because Astarion didn't go anywhere this summer, didn't meet anyone new for longer than a night, didn't go on any grand adventures. He tends to slip into bad habits without the crammed routine of company life, and this summer was no exception.

The London breeze is nice and cool, tousling up Astarion's styled hair. He should get somethingto eat, he supposes, even if he really doesn't feel like it. He's too nervous to eat, but there are first day rehearsals for soloists in the afternoon and he can't make it through on just the fruit he had this morning.

He rounds the corner and spies one of those cookie-cutter London cafés that seem to be infecting the local coffee scene like the plague. It'll do in a pinch. He pays a frankly ridiculous amount for a tiny chocolate croissant and a strong black coffee, then tucks himself into the corner table and tries not to think about where he'll be in an hour.

Cazador had asked to see him in his office at half past noon. Astarion was expecting such an appointment, had been thinking about nothing else these last couple weeks. The break had felt simultaneously like forever, a spiralling rut with nothing to aim towards, and also like the days could do nothing but slip by faster and faster until he was herewith only an hour left to go.

Astarion gets halfway through the croissant before he can't stomach anymore. He sweeps the crumbs off the table and trots off back to the theatre, steps slowing as the magnificent marble columns come back into view. Going back inside feels like too much just now, so instead he ducks around to the side and searches his dance bag for his pack of cigarettes. Look, all the dancers on the continent smoke, and they seem to have no problems with their lung capacities. Plus it helps you stay delightfully skinny.

He takes slow exhales, trying to calm his racing heart and breath, yet it's fruitless. He's no less keyed up, but time is ticking and it would not do to be late. Feeling rather like he was heading to his own funeral, Astarion passes through the stage door and turns to go up the stairs to the offices of the ballet masters.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart are clustered at the base of the steps, gathered around the casting board and bickering. Well, surely one small spot of fun won't cost him that much time...

"Girls, girls! Fighting already? It's only been what, half a day since you've been forced back into each other's company?" Astarion teases. Both of them turn to glare at him in complete synchronicity. "Unless, of course, there was a secret rendezvous happening without my knowledge this summer..."

"There was no such thing," Lae'zel snarls. "I had a perfectly quiet break away from all of you istiks."

"Five years here and she still calls us names," Shadowheart sighs. "Is it no wonder you haven't made any proper friends? You could stand to be a little nicer to us, it might work in your favour. Or at least make rehearsals less...frigid."

"Frigid? It is you who is the frigid one, not I!"

"Come now," Astarion interrupts. "Minthara's got you both beat in that department, darlings. It's not even a close race."

"On that, Astarion, we agree," Lae'zel says. "She is to be Myrtha for most of this run of Giselle, of course. I shall delight in watching her take command of such a cold-blooded role."

Giselleis indeed the first ballet of the season, set for the stage in October. It is one of Astarion's favourites, the epitome of early romantic ballet. The story is one he's always been drawn to: a beautiful but lonely peasant girl finds her first true love in the shape of a handsome man new to the village, but her fantasies are shattered when he is revealed to be a prince engaged to a rich lady far above Giselle's station. The shock of it causes the fragile Giselle to go mad, and she dies in Prince Albrecht's arms of a broken heart. She rises in the next act as a Willis, a ghostly virgin, and must protect Albrecht from being danced to death by the Queen Myrtha and her flock of white tulled Willis. Melodramatic, but the romanticism of it all will always tug on Astarion's heartstrings.

"I'm excited to be Giselle," Shadowheart preens. "Casting's not official but there's whispers."

"Both of you lovelies will make gorgeous Giselles," Astarion reassures. "And it would be a treat to partner either one of you..."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll get Albrecht," Shadowheart says. "It's about time, honestly. How many times have you had to do Hilarion?"

"Too many," Astarion scowls. Hilarion, the supporting male role, is no one but a meddling peasant boy jealous of Albrecht's pull over Giselle. And whilst Albrecht may be a piece of sh*t for double-timing Giselle, at least the role has some gorgeous solos. Hilarion just gets yanked all over the stage to his own premature death.

"You have worked hard," Lae'zel agrees. "This season shall be your chance."

"Though there is Wyll Ravengard to consider, isn't there," Shadowheart says. "I was watching him in class today. Now he's a true danseur noble, isn't he?"

"I spied some stunning arabesques," Lae'zel joins in.

"Alright, if you two are just going to extol the lines of Wyll Ravengard, I'm afraid I have an appointment to keep. I'll see you later, darlings," Astarion says.

"Why, Astarion! Is that jealousyI hear?" Shadowheart calls after him, but he's gone, flinging himself up the stairs. Suddenly he's regretting the years of teasing he's given both women, as much fun as it was at the time.

The stairs up to the offices seem to close in on Astarion as he reaches the top. Five more paces, four more paces, and he'll be outside that door. But he can't go back down now, not with Shadowheart and Lae'zel there.

There's nothing to do but press on.

Cazador's office is tucked in the very back of the corridor. Astarion could describe its contents as if he had a photographic memory. The imposing mahogany desk, covered in notation papers and casting sheets. The hard-backed armchair with blood-red cushions. Framed black and white photographs of Cazador in his prime, all long supple legs and always straight-faced, no matter the role.

Astarion hates that office. But he's outside it now, and sometimes it's the waiting, the anticipation of what is to come, that is worse than what happens within.

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

"Come in." That nasally, whiny tone, gods. There's a reason Cazador was a dancer and never a singer.

Astarion enters the room and closes the door behind him, making sure he hears the soft snickof the lock falling into place.

"Good afternoon, sir," he says calmly, and turns around to face him.

Cazador is poring over casting sheets, circling and underlining names in his signature deep red ink. He takes his reading glasses off and drops them on the desk, eyes flicking up and down Astarion's still form. Astarion makes to step closer, but Cazador holds a finger up, signalling him to stop.

"Turn around. Slowly," he orders. Astarion does so, deeply conscious of how Cazador scans every inch of him, knowing that he's searching for any sign of Astarion's weakness and laziness showing through after weeks on his own.

"Hm. You have been spending time in the gym?"

"Five times a week," Astarion says. That might be a bitof an exaggeration, there were a couple of weeks where he was so drained of all energy that he could barely muster the will to get out of bed. One of those stupid depressive slumps that hit him every few summers or so.

"Keep that up. We have a lot of work to do to get you looking proper once more."

Astarion winces at that. He thought anything he'd gained wouldn't be that obvious, but Cazador's eye is immaculately trained.

"Now, come here. Let's discuss Giselle."

Astarion takes the hard backed seat reserved for Cazador's visitors and tries not to let his eyes fall upon the casting sheets, tempting as it may be.

"This could be your season, Astarion," Cazador begins, and Astarion perks up. "I have reason to believe there will be a promotion to make by the end of the season. But you will have to work hard, harder than you've ever worked before."

"Of course, sir. I'm ready," Astarion says breathlessly.

"Are you truly?" Cazador asks, brow narrowed.

"With you to guide me, I will be," Astarion promises. He knows it's what Cazador loves to hear.

"Good," Cazador smiles. "Now, Giselle. I am not in charge of the final casting, however as always my opinions are highly valued. I will put your name forward for Albrecht—" Astarion muffles an exclamation of excitement. "—ifI see you have made good progress in class and Godey assures me you are in proper shape. You will begin seeing him three times a week, as usual."

"Understood," Astarion says. Godey is Cazador's personal physiotherapist, whom he prefers Astarion see exclusively over the other physiotherapists the company has on call. Astarion's never been the biggest fan of how bony Godey's hands are as they palpitate his muscles, but the man does get the job done.

"We shall then switch our focus to the autumn mixed programme. I have stakes in The Dream, and I believe you are ready for Oberon. Again, that is if I am impressed by your day-to-day performance."

Oberon. Now that is a role Astarion has been dying to sink his teeth into. Playing the king of fairies means several gravity-defying solo variations, alongside a stunning pas de deux with Titania. All in one of the most gorgeous costumes Astarion's ever seen. Plus it'll be a a good exercise of his acting skills, as all Shakespearean ballets are.

To have Oberon dangled in front of him is very good motivation indeed.

"I would be honoured to be chosen for such a role," Astarion says, trying not to make his excitement too apparent.

"Hm. We shall see. I would like to see you in two day's time, to discuss Godey's assessment of your current condition."

"I'll be here," Astarion promises. Cazador hums in response, his eyes drifting back down to the casting sheets spread over the desk. Astarion takes that as his silent cue to leave, and makes it halfway across the office before he's stopped in his tracks.

"Astarion," Cazador calls sharply.

Astarion takes a deep breath. Of course. Why did he think he'd be able to just leave? "Yes, sir?"

"Come here, my boy," Cazador beckons. "Don't you wish to greet your favourite ballet master properly, after such a long time apart?"

"Of course. I've longed for you terribly," he lies, and walks back into Cazador's reach. Slides neatly into Cazador's waiting lap and twines his hands through long strands of inky black hair.

"I have missed you," Cazador purrs, squeezing Astarion around the waist, skirting hands over ribs. It takes every ounce of him not to shudder at the feeling of ice-cold palms winding their way under his t-shirt. Pale tapered fingers reach forth to grab at his chin, tilting Astarion's face upwards so that he looks deep into Cazador's dark eyes. Cazador doesn't need to tell him what to do next. Their routine is one well-established.

Astarion leans forward to kiss him. Cazador immediately deepens the kiss, licking into his mouth whilst probing hands move to stroke down Astarion's spine. A sharp tugging biteto his lower lip causes Astarion to startle and pull back, where he meets Cazador's quietly angered expression.

"You've been cheating," Cazador hisses. "I taste the sweetness of chocolate all over you. Really, Astarion. On the first day?"

"I—I only had half," Astarion rushes to say, but he knows it's useless. Cazador doesn't listen to mewling excuses.

"And tomorrow you shall have none. You know the rules, Astarion. How am I to give you what you want, when you cannot even follow simple directions?"

A rush of shame envelops him. He'd been so goodthese past few days in preparation, only for none of it to matter. "I'll do better," he promises.

"See that you do," Cazador says coolly. "Now leave me."

Astarion slips out of Cazador's lap and turns to leave, walking slowly so as not to look as if he's fleeing the room. Though gods know he wantsto flee, wants to run down the stairs and straight out of the theatre all the way back to his flat where he can collapse into his nest of blankets and forget about absolutely everything that just occurred.

But he still has afternoon rehearsals. So instead Astarion lets himself take two minutes outside of Cazador's office to tremble, then one minute to try to calm himself down. Then he's off to the studios, unable to spend even one more second outside that goddamned room.

~*~

Afternoon rehearsals are a muddled mess in Astarion's mind. He half pays attention to the répétiteurs talking on and on about their production of Giselle. Gale Dekarios, former principal dancer, is the lead répétiteur for Giselleand tends to be very...verbose.

Still, for once Astarion is thankful for Gale's long-winded spiels that take up most of the rehearsal time. His lingering headache never really gave up on him, and by now he's also feeling a tad light-headed. By the time Gale finally dismisses the gathered dancers, Astarion is more than ready to call it a day and head straight home.

He quickly packs up his things and heads for the stage door, passing by smaller studios and physio rooms. And that was his error, for just as he reaches the stage door, a certain someone emerges from Karlach Cliffgate's physio room.

"Oh, Astarion! Could you wait up a second?" Wyll Ravengard calls. Will this day ever end, Astarion thinks to himself. He turns with a plastered smile on his face.

"I just wanted to apologise for this morning," Wyll says. "I fear we started off on the wrong foot, hah! I truly didn't mean to step all over you during class."

He looks so sincere, it's ridiculous. "Oh, no apologies necessary. Just do be sure not to give me a repeat performance of your incompetence," Astarion says, tone sour. Unfortunately for Wyll, Astarion's battery for fake social niceties has completely died out.

Wyll's apologetic smile flickers, but he recovers quickly. "Of course. Well—I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, then. Take care of yourself tonight, Astarion."

Taken a bit aback, Astarion nods and makes a quick exit out into the London streets. Take care of himself tonight?Is Wyll Ravengard just that polite, or does Astarion truly look that worn down?

Well, never mind musing on all that. Astarion's survived the first day back, and that is all that matters. Tomorrow he will get to work properly, and begin to prove that no other first soloist deserves Albrecht as much as Astarion does.

Chapter 2: autumn - chapter two

Chapter Text

Wyll is breathing hard as he exits the studio in the midst of the crowd of dancers. Jaheira's daily class was more energetic than he was used to, but he knows he'll grow to love it in time. He tries to find a break in the crowd to slip off to the side, squeezing his way between two younger dancers. Wyll reaches into his dance bag for his phone, swiping to his sent text messages and hoping, hoping—

Hoping for nothing, apparently. Jesus.

Before Wyll can spiral too far about his own father leaving him on read, Lakrissa pops up from the crowd of dancers and heads towards him, another sweet-faced dancer on her arm.

"Hey Wyll! Care to join us for lunch?"

"I'd love to," Wyll says, forcing a smile and tucking his phone away. Well, no matter. Perhaps his dad just got slammed with work early this morning.

"Come on, Alfira and I know a place," Lakrissa says, tugging him along through the crowd and up the stairs. The pair guide Wyll up and up and up, until eventually they pop out onto a flat expanse of the theatre's roof, just below where the gleaming marble begins to slope upwards.

"This is one of the best views in all of London," Alfira sighs happily as the three of them settle down and begin unpacking their food.

"It's gorgeous," Wyll agrees, stunned. He can see clear across the Thames, spies the London Eye and can just barely make out how it turns round and round. The people on the streets look so small from up high, little bustling ants going about their days.

"So, Wyll! What did you think of class? What did you think of Jaheira?" Lakrissa asks.

"She kicked my arse," Wyll laughs. "No, honestly! I haven't sweat that much since school exams, I swear."

"She's tough, but get to know her and you'll find she's got a soft centre hidden away inside. And she doesn't pick favourites. Well, besides Alfira, but Alfira's everyone's favourite," Lakrissa says, giving Alfira a gentle squeeze round the shoulders as Alfira blushes.

"I'm not! Cazador doesn't like me."

"Cazador doesn't like anyone, Alfie. Even your charm isn't enough to warm that cold dead heart," Lakrissa says, drawing out her syllables in playful exaggeration.

"Cazador Szarr? He's one of the ballet masters here, right?" Wyll asks.

"Yes," Alfira says, pulling a face. "He doesn't like me, but I don't like him back. He just sucks all the life out of a room."

"Nobody likes him. Well, besides Astarion," Lakrissa says. "But that's because Cazador doespick favourites. And Astarion's been the apple of his eye for...god, as long as I've been here, at least."

"I see," Wyll says. He's no stranger to ballet masters and mistresses playing favourites, but of course he did hope that wouldn't be the case with this company. Probably wishful thinking, he's pretty sure no school or company on earth escapes teachers playing favourites.

"Oh, if Astarion was rude to you this morning, don't take it personally," Lakrissa continues. "He's rude to everyone. It's a shame, he's got such a pretty face, then he ruins it when he opens his mouth."

"Lakrissa!" Alfira admonishes, but she can't quite hide her smile.

"I can handle a little rudeness, it's alright," Wyll says. "And I did take his barre spot. I'd be put out too."

"Still, he could have been nicer about it. It's your first day," Alfira says. Wyll just shrugs, and the three of them lapse into comfortable silence as they finish up their lunch.

By the time they call it quits and head back downstairs, Wyll's learned that Alfira is a first soloist, Lakrissa a second soloist. And that they've been a couple since the year they both joined, which Wyll finds extremely romantic. Wyll tells the pair of them about his time at the Elturel Ballet Academy and the handful of years he spent with the associated company, glossing over certain...mentors he had. They laugh themselves silly regaling each other with their worst Nutcracker experiences; it's unanimously decided that Alfira's takes the cake, as she once had a rather exuberant conductor speed up her Marzipan music to triple time.

"It's a miracle none of us fell flat on our faces," she giggles in exasperation.

"Gods, I can only imagine," Wyll laughs as he finishes packing his bag and steals one last look at the picture-perfect London skyline. As much as he'd love to linger, he does have more people to meet and paperwork to sign before the day is out. Lakrissa and Alfira are kind enough to direct him down to the office of the artistic director himself, and Wyll bids them goodbye, swallowing his nerves.

Anyone would be nervous meeting the person in charge of the best ballet company in the country, Wyll tells himself. It's only natural to be feeling like he's about to hurl, right?

~*~

"Mr. Ravengard, do come in," a creaky, dusty voice says in response to Wyll's sharp knock on the heavy office door. Wyll steps through and gently closes the door behind him. Jergal, the artistic director of the company, rises to greet him and give Wyll a handshake.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Jergal," Wyll says.

"The pleasure is all mine," Jergal says, settling back behind his desk and gesturing for Wyll to take a seat with one wave of his bony hand. Really, Wyll is a bit shocked at his appearance; he knew Jergal was old, of course, one of the oldest directors in the world who'd been at the helm of the Royal Baldur for decades now. It was practically a lifetime ago that Jergal was a dancer, so long ago he'd probably danced with the great George Balanchine himself. But somehow meeting the man in person is still a surprise. He looks about ready to keel over.

"Your first morning went well?" Jergal asks, rummaging for a pen and the paperwork.

"Oh yes! The studios are very grand and lovely, and everyone's been so welcoming." Well, everyone save one particular person, but that's alright.

"Excellent, excellent," Jergal mumbles. "The season is shaping up to be quite spectacular. I think you shall find you have your work cut out for you, but the results you reap will be marvellous indeed, if you put mind and mettle to it."

"And I'm ready to take on any challenge you throw at me," Wyll grins. Jergal nods vaguely in his direction. Wyll gets the feeling that he's rather up in the clouds, and that perhaps this is the usual state of mind for Jergal.

"Now tell me honestly," Jergal says, leaning forward onto his pointy elbows, glasses slipping down his small nose. "Why leave the Elturel Ballet? It was my understanding that you had excellent roles there, and were about to be promoted once more. Why take such a chance and leave everything behind, when the cards of fate were already dealt in your favour?"

Wyll swallows hard.

"I suppose I just wanted a change," he begins. He doesn't wish to lie to the man. It's not Wyll's style, nor is it the smart thing to do. But conveniently smooth over the deeper reasons, now that Wyll can manage. "I spent seven years with them, and it was a fantastic company to work with. But I'd also been hired straight out of their school—I feel as though I've spent my entire lifein the same place, never meeting new people, never truly growing. Always following the path that they had set out for me. It just felt right to take control of my own fate for once, even if it means I won't be a principal yet."

Jergal nods approvingly. "I am glad to hear you have started on your own path, and that you have chosen to do so here. I endeavour to support all our dancers, and give each the opportunity to forge their own way. Here is your contract for the season, do read it over."

Wyll takes the paperwork and skims through it; it's standard stuff. The salary is a slight raise from Elturel even though he's at the same rank, a pleasant surprise. As Wyll reads through and signs, Jergal closes his eyes in seemingly silent meditation. Wyll is just wondering whether he should poke him to make sure he's still awake when the director seemingly rouses himself, blinking slowly.

"Finished? Very well. I shall have a copy made for the record. I expect to see you thrive here, Mr. Ravengard, as so many have before you."

"I'll do my very best," Wyll promises. After all, this is the first fresh start he's had in...well, ever. And it wouldn't do to squander it.

~*~

Wyll's got just one more person to meet for onboarding, a certain physiotherapist named Karlach Cliffgate. He only gets a little bit lost on the way down to the physio rooms; the home of the Baldur Ballet is much larger and definitely more winding than he's used to.

Still, he's not terribly late by the time he ends up where he's meant to be. The door swings open, and a boisterous "Come on in, soldier!" greets Wyll, instantly putting him at ease.

"Good afternoon, Ms Cliffgate," he begins, polite as always.

"Oh gods, please call me Karlach! No one here calls me Ms Cliffgate, not unless they're trying to sell me on something stupid!"

"Karlach, then," Wyll grins. Karlach is someone who is just bursting with positive energy, he notes. She's impressively strong with muscle and stands a good half head taller than Wyll, which would be rather intimidating if not for her sunny expression. Asymmetrical spiky black hair with red streaks give her that edge of cool, a style that no dancer could ever be allowed to wear whilst employed in a company.

"Just hop right up on that table there, and we'll get to chatting," she says breezily, and Wyll gladly obliges. Karlach opens up a laptop, probably creating a new file for notes on Wyll.

"So, I'll be your primary physio for now. If you decide you don't like me, we do have others on call, but all the cool kids know I'm the best round here," she says with a wink.

"I don't doubt it," Wyll laughs. "I'm pretty easy to take care of. Just the usual aches and strains to keep watch of if there's been an intense stretch of dancing happening."

"Ever had any major injuries?" Karlach asks.

"Nothing huge. I sprained my left ankle pretty badly when I was fifteen, but I've never torn or broken anything."

"Count yourself lucky then," Karlach says. "We'll keep an eye on it, and you tell me if it's ever acting up, okay?"

They discuss physio techniques that have worked well for Wyll in the past, talk a bit about any worries he has related to getting through the particularly heavy season that lies ahead. By the time they finish talking business, Wyll feels thoroughly comfortable in Karlach's presence.

"Well then, we've still got some time," Karlach says, closing her laptop. "What do you say to a complimentary massage? I've been told I've got magical hands, and I bet you took a bit of a beating after your first class with Jaheira!"

"I'd say that I'd be a fool to tell you no," Wyll grins, lying back on the table. Karlach snaps on some latex gloves and gets to work, warm hands beginning to rub away the usual worn aches in his calves.

"Did you ever dance?" Wyll asks in idle curiosity.

Karlach snorts. "My mum took me to ballet classes when I was just a wee one, sure. She loved seeing me dressed up in all the sparkles and pink. And there's nothing wrong with sparkles and pink, course! But by the time I was a teen I was wayover it. Got really into weightlifting during secondary school, and that's when I fell in love with kinesiology. But I bet ballet's been your whole life since you were small, huh?"

"My dad signed me up for classes when I was six. I was one of those kids who just couldn't sit still, I was always racing around the classroom," Wyll recounts. "He thought it would teach me good discipline. It did, of course, but—I think he didn't expect me to fall in love with it as hard as I did."

"I see," Karlach says sympathetically, rubbing away the aches.

"We—we don't talk very much anymore. Not since I told him I was going to pursue dance professionally," Wyll admits.

"That's stupid," Karlach huffs, and Wyll chuckles. "No, really! Look at you, first soloist at the finest company in the country! Any dad should be f*cking proud of their kid for going that far with their dream."

"You'd think," Wyll says. "He's just—he's stuck in his ways. Traditional sort of man, you know. He wanted me to follow him into law enforcement, but I just couldn't do it."

"And that says nothing bad about you. You couldn't pay me enough to go into law enforcement, honestly," Karlach shudders, and Wyll nods in agreement.

"You met with Withers yet?" Karlach asks, deliberately sliding the subject away from unpleasant thoughts.

Wyll almost chokes on his tongue. "Pardon me—met with who?"

"Oh man, you didn't know? We all call Jergal Withers, hah! Doesn't he look old enough to wither away into dust at any moment?"

"I—I suppose," Wyll says, trying not to outright laugh right then and there on the physio table. It doesn't seem quite the wisestidea to pile on the big boss on his first day.

"I'm pretty sure he knows it, too. I know I've definitely f*cked up and called him Withers to his face."

"That's bloody hilarious, and yes, we met earlier today. He really is getting on in years, isn't he?"

"Company's due for a change in management soon, I think," Karlach says. "He's brilliant, don't get me wrong. But there's nothing wrong with a little fresh blood at the top! Turn over for me, would you? I'll get your back."

Wyll turns and settles on his stomach, propping his head up on his hands. "Karlach," he starts. "You know everyone pretty well, right? Since you spend so much time with everyone here?"

"Aye, that I do," she says. "You want to hear about anyone in particular? Mind your tongue, it's only the first day," she teases.

"Uh," Wyll flushes. "Well..."

"Oh, now you haveto tell me who. Who's got you blushing like that on day one, huh?" she prods, while her skilled hands dig right into the meat of his shoulders, releasing tension he didn't even know was there.

"Astarion Ancunín," Wyll mumbles. "We're both first soloists, so we're going to be spending a lot of time together, you see, and—"

"And he's gorgeous?" Karlach finishes, voice still teasing. "Well, tough luck there. You've picked the one person I know practically nothing about."

"Really?" Wyll frowns. "But he's been with the company for ages! Since I was still in school even, I remember watching his performance clips..."

"He's got his own personal team to wait hand and foot on him," Karlach scowls. "Apparently these hands of mine are good enough for every dancer in this company, besides him. I've never once had him in this room."

"That's...odd," Wyll says, confused. "Well, we didn't start off the day quite right this morning. I've been feeling a bit off about it, it wasn't the first impression I'd have liked to make."

"Insulted his hair, right?" Karlach nods wisely. "I've made that mistake before. I didn't even mean what I said as an insult, he's just sensitive about things."

"No, nothing like that," Wyll laughs. "Just got into his personal space, that's all."

"Well, you can apologise, I guess. Just don't expect it to be received well, he really can be a diva sometimes."

"I'm sure he has his reasons," Wyll muses.

"You're a bit starstruck, aren't you?" Karlach nudges lightly. "I don't blame you, he's a stunning dancer."

"No! Well—okay, maybe a bit," he admits. "I swear I won't let it get the best of me. I know how to be a professional, I promise!"

"No doubt," Karlach smiles cheekily, then she leans back and he hears the snap of her gloves being removed. "Now get out of my room stat, soldier!"

"What?! What did I say?" Wyll asks, startled.

"Oh, nothing," she says, gesturing at the glass window of the door. "It's just that he's right outside the door. Go get your apology on, Ravengard! Wishing you luck!"

Wyll jumps off the table embarrassingly fast, grabbing his things. "Thank you, Karlach, for everything! I'll see you soon!"

~*~

Astarion is walking towards the stage door at a brisk pace as Wyll bursts out of the physio room. He's got to play this cool, Wyll thinks, heart hammering. It's important he gets this right.

"Oh, Astarion! Could you wait up a second?" Wyll calls. Astarion does stop and turn towards him and he looks—he looks rather drained, actually.

"I just wanted to apologise for this morning," he begins. "I fear we started off on the wrong foot, hah! I truly didn't mean to step all over you during class."

Astarion blinks at him, clearly taken by surprise. "Oh, no apologies necessary. Just do be sure not to give me a repeat performance of your incompetence," he sneers.

Okay, ouch.

"Of course. Well—I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, then," Wyll says, hoping he can carry out the rest of this interaction with his dignity intact. And then because he can't help himself, and Astarion does look as if he could use a good meal and a long nap: "Take care of yourself tonight, Astarion."

Astarion just nods at him, expression wide in surprise and confusion. Then he leaves and Wyll is left standing there, feeling like he could have handled that far better had he more than five seconds to think on what he was going to say.

He sighs and runs a hand over his braids. Ah, well. There will be time tomorrow, and the day after, and all the endless days of rehearsal that stretch far ahead of them, to get to know him properly. At least to get on friendly terms.

He starts heading to the change rooms to get into his street clothes, and that's when Wyll's phone finally, finally, buzzes. He dives for it in his bag, heart leaping—and then it completely plummets.

It's not a text from his dad at all. Wyll stares at the messages, reading them over and over again.

Chapter 3: autumn - chapter three

Chapter Text

By the time mid September rolls around, Astarion feels finally back in the regular flow of company life. He's been giving it his all every day in class, hyper-aware that the ballet masters are always watching and talking amongst themselves about the casting for Giselle. He arrives home each day absolutely exhausted but proud of how hard he's trying. By the approving nods Jaheira has been giving Astarion lately, it's working.

Casting is meant to go up by the end of the week, and if he's happy with what he lands, he'll let himself rest for the weekend. Just as a little treat.

This afternoon he's slated to participate in rehearsals for Act II, the final parts of the adagio between Giselle and Albrecht, as well as the finale to the whole show. Even if he's just learning the part in the back, it is veryexciting to be invited to such a rehearsal.

It means they have their eye on Astarion for Albrecht.

He steps into the studio, ready to give it his all, and oh look—Wyll's here too. Figures.

Wyll has been very polite to him lately, giving him proper space in class and always wishing him a good morning. He's been making fast friends in the company, and thus far there's been absolutely no gossip about him spread around. A rarity, but is it possible that Wyll Ravengard truly is as squeaky clean as he appears?

"Hello Astarion!" Wyll waves cheerfully. "Ready to learn and not get in the way of the real professionals?"

"More than ready, darling," Astarion drawls, dropping his dance bag near the back of the studio. "And do take care not to get in my way, would you? Lae'zel is rehearsing for Giselle, which means we'll both be squished back here as she flies all over the place."

"Will do," Wyll grins. "I'm so excited to learn the part, even if all we do today is mark it."

"Yes, well—it would do to tone down the smiling a bit. This isn't exactly meant to be a happyscene, you know."

Lae'zel and Halsin enter the studio at that moment, already discussing amongst themselves what they wish to work on. Minthara trails in after them, due to rehearse for the evil queen Myrtha. Finally Gale enters the room along with the accompanist, face already buried in his notes for the afternoon.

"Alright! Everyone's here?" Gale asks, settling down at the front of the room. "Wyll and Astarion, please keep to the back but keep your eyes and ears open, this is for you to learn as well. Now we'll be rehearsing the last ten minutes of the ballet. Plenty of mime and character work, I really want to see all three of you emote with your faces, not just your bodies! That goes double for you, Lae'zel."

Lae'zel rolls her eyes at that. "Chk. My body tells the audience everything they need to know. They need not look upon my face to understand the story."

"Well, still. I don't think our Giselle should have such an impressive poker face as she bids her lover goodbye for all eternity!" Gale chuckles. "If I may, I'd like to start with a bit of history: we all know, of course, that Giselleis an original story ballet dating to the mid nineteenth century. But did you know that the story was the result of the two older poems merged together to create this tale of spectacle and woe? The character of Myrtha was based on parts of a Victor Hugo poem—"

Gale regales them with niche knowledge for the next several minutes whilst Astarion stretches in place, trying in vain to keep himself warm.

"Dekarios, are we to stand here for the next hour, our muscles growing increasingly frozen with cold, or shall we actually get to work?" Minthara interrupts.

"Oh, my apologies," Gale blushes. "Ah—music please. Starting from the beginning of the coda, if you would. Positions, everyone!"

Wyll and Astarion keep as far back as they can while Halsin and Lae'zel run through the coda, the final part of their pas de deux together which always involves an awful lot of impressive jumping. Especially for Halsin, who opens the coda with thirty straight seconds of entrechat sixes in a row, one of the hardest jumps for a male dancer. It's truly impressive how much stamina the tall dancer has, Astarion thinks. He's not sure hecould do thirty seconds of entrechat six without dying at the end.

There is however plenty of fake dying as Albrecht "collapses" intermittently to the floor. Giselle does her best to rouse her exhausted lover, urging him to keep dancing until the first rays of sunlight hit and he will be safe from the charm of the Willis. Gale stops the music as the coda ends, asking Lae'zel to please show some more emotion at the thought of her lover nearly passing away.

"Perhaps she'd be more distraught if Albrecht hadn't been cheating on her the whole time," Wyll whispers to Astarion, who snorts in laughter in spite of himself.

"Alright, we'll keep working on it. Minthara, let's do the scene where sunlight begins to dawn, and you lead the Willis back into the forest," Gale orders.

The rest of the session passes smoothly, though neither Astarion nor Wyll are asked to step in as Albrecht at any point. Gale wraps up rehearsal after a bit more nattering on (Minthara making a sly early exit without Gale even noticing, to Astarion's great amusem*nt.)

Astarion grabs his dance bag and heads to the changerooms, ready to head on home and wash off the day. He's searching his bag for his phone when he brushes up against something unfamiliar. Something wrapped in plastic? What on earth?

Extremely confused, Astarion pulls out the package. It's...some homemade cookies? He did not pack any cookies, they are definitely not in his diet plan. How in the hells did these get into his bag?

There's a note secured with some ribbon around the cookies. Frowning, Astarion reads:

To Astarion: I made too many cookies last night and thought you might enjoy a few. You've worked so hard in class, you deserve something sweet! From, Wyll :)

Ridiculous. Absolutely asinine, who even is this man? Making cookiesand signing off notes with smiley faces? Is he for real?

Astarion glances around furtively. No one's out in the corridor with him. Should he...should he haveone? Just to try?

He does. It melts in his mouth, a deliciously buttery combination of cranberry and orange. But why, he wonders as he finishes the cookie, a strange warm feeling lodging itself in his chest. Why surprise him with such a thing? Astarion's been nothing but cold to him, as he is with practically everyone here.

He has no earthly idea. He glances at the rest of the cookies, feeling the weight of the one he had settle in his stomach. He can't accept all of this, even having the one was too much. Still it hurts a bit when he tosses the rest into a nearby rubbish bin. It had been quite a long time since Astarion had tried a homemade cookie.

~*~

A couple days later Astarion walks into morning class, then immediately wishes he could turn round and walk back out again.

Cazador is pacing up and down the length of the mirror, telling Milil what tempo he wants the combinations to be played at. The studio is quiet as everyone warms up in silence, the distinct morning chatter that's usually present missing.

"Enough stretching!" Cazador suddenly calls out, causing several apprentices to flinch. "Let us begin."

Astarion takes his usual place. He hates it when Cazador unexpectedly teaches class. While Cazador will prowl around and give everyone corrections, Astarion knows that he always has half an eye on him, making sure he isn't being lazy.

Wyll's taken the barre spot behind him, looking rather confused at how very different the atmosphere is. The barre combinations begin, pliés and tendus progressing as usual. But everyone is clearly on their very best behaviour: knees are stretched pin straight, hips as turned out as they can go. Still Cazador calls out correction after correction, stopping the music and making everyone repeat combinations if he isn't satisfied. Like they're back in school again.

"Enough, enough. To the centre, this is clearly useless," Cazador barks. Astarion spies Minthara scowling, likely hating being treated as a child instead of the seasoned professional that she is.

"Astarion. Come to the front row," he orders and Astarion knows he's visibly flushing with embarrassment. Nowhere to hide in the front, and everyone's likely thinking that he's spoiledwith Cazador's favour for it. But he'd do anything to hide away in the back just now.

Astarion pushes through the beginning of centre but he's so nervous about being right in the front, under Cazador's watchful eye, that he's completely off his leg. His pirouettes are sloppy, his double tours shaky. Cazador's gaze grows stormier and stormier and Astarion finds himself glancing constantly at the clock, willing the minutes to tick by faster.

By the time they reach the révérence, the final combination and bow to the teacher, a couple of young apprentice ballerinas are practically in tears as Cazador snaps at them to curtsy properly. The final piano notes ring out and immediately there's a mass exodus out of the studio, which Astarion gladly joins in. But he doesn't get far before Cazador calls out his name, as always. He takes a brief second to centre himself before he walks back to the front of the room.

"That was not your best, Astarion."

"No sir," he whispers.

"The season began two weeks ago. There is no excuse for this appalling performance, is there?"

"No. No there isn't—I was just..."

Astarion's clever tongue fails him, there. He has no excuse, he was merely caught off guard. It shouldn'thave affected him so badly, he spends enough time with Cazador as it is. But it's different, somehow, when others are in the room with them.

"Hmph. I confess I find myself disappointed. Go to Godey, perhaps he will be able to stroke some life into those useless muscles of yours," Cazador orders.

Astarion's meant to shadow another rehearsal for Albrecht in about fifteen minutes...but he can't disobey a direct command like that. He bows his head in a quick révérence to Cazador and finally walks out of the studio, where he feels he can breathe freely again.

What a mess.

~*~

Casting is always pinned up on the board outside the studios at eleven o'clock on the dot. Without fail there will be a mad rush to be the first to set eyes on the lists. The casting for Giselleis no exception; as soon as Jaheira dismisses the morning class, people jostle out of the room in order to gather around the bulletin board.

Astarion hangs back. He has no desire to get caught up in the throng of excited dancers. People are squealing and hugging their friends, or receiving pats of consolation and told they'll have better luck next time. Shadowheart and Lae'zel emerge out of the crowd, both looking very pleased with themselves.

"As expected, I shall be Giselle. On opening night," Lae'zel smiles, clearly thrilled. It's quite rare for Lae'zel to be caught grinninglike that.

"Well, I'm to be Giselle for the closing show! And the Saturday matinée!" Shadowheart says, trying to get one over.

"Chk. All the important critics shall be at the opening night."

"Not true in the slightest! Baldur's Mouthalways covers the closing show!"

"Darlings, please! You've both gotten what you wanted, must you continue to argue? Or will one of you tell me which of you I'm to be partnering?" Astarion asks. "I'd be happy opening or closing, of course, so long as..."

Lae'zel and Shadowheart are looking at each other in awkward silence.

"...you're not with either of us, Astarion. I'm sorry," Shadowheart says.

No. No! He's worked so bloody hard! How has no one noticed, did all those private rehearsals mean nothing at all?

He leaves the pair of them standing there and elbows his way through the crowd. It just can't be. But no, Astarion Ancunínis not written at the top. He scans the sheet in disbelief.

He's Hilarion for half the shows and...the peasant pas de deux for the others? Goddamn it, his days of pretending to be a happy frolicking peasant in a field ought to be over by now!

"Oh, we're both Hilarion! That's so wonderful, I can't wait to die dramatically over and over again!" Wyll is beside him and Astarion could just about scream. He looks at the chosen for Albrecht again, and Wyll is not listed there.

Thank god. If Wyll Ravengard had gotten Albrecht just two weeks into his time here whilst Astarion was passed over after well over a decadeof sacrifices, he'd have gone straight to Withers to cuss him out.

But he cannot spend one more second here beside Wyll, who is babbling on and on about how great this experience is about to be. His positivity is only fuelling Astarion's vicious anger and stinging hurt.

Without a word to Wyll he storms out of the crowd and dashes up the stairs to the suite of offices. He's not thinking clearly, he's upset and f*cking hellhe's hungry, there's an ache deep inside and he can't even tell if it's from the ever present jealousy or the fact that he's been almost perfect with his eating this week.

It's a stupid idea to barge into Cazador's office unannounced. If he was in his right mind Astarion would never dare to do so, but he's not. All he can focus on is that Cazador promised, he promisedthat if Astarion worked hard he would be put forth for Albrecht.

Cazador keeps his promises, he always does. It's why Astarion has tied himself to him for so long; Cazador has the power to move pieces in this company.

Was it because of his class? Just oneoff-kilter class was enough for him to toss Astarion out like yesterday's rubbish? It can't be!

By the time he reaches Cazador's door, he's straight up simmering with rage. He knocks sharply once, yet doesn't bother to wait for a response before he pushes his way in. Cazador will see him now whether he wants to or not.

"Whatever happened to keeping your word," he snaps. "You promised! You promisedthat if I gave it my all I'd be chosen! Well I gave it my all, and for what? To be a peasant again? It's unacceptable!"

Cazador's expression is a stony mask, the only hint of his annoyance being a slightly raised eyebrow. He says nothing, just makes Astarion stand there until the hot edge of anger wears off and the horrified regret begins to seep in. He has never before snapped at Cazador like that.

"That is an unbecoming way to greet your superior, Astarion," Cazador says coldly. "You presume to enter my office without an invitation, whining like a child?"

"I'm sorry, I just don't understand why—"

"Then clearly you are more of a fool than I thought," Cazador interrupts. "For only a fool would be confused as to why they weren't handed what they wanted on a silver platter, when said fool made me suffer through the sloppiest ballet class I have seen in years?"

"Then talk to Jaheira," Astarion says, trying desperately to calm down and modulate his frustrated tones. "She'll tell you that I've been at my very best. Yesterday was an outlier, I swear, I've learned the whole part in rehearsal—"

"Silence!" Cazador snaps. He glares at Astarion, who shuts up immediately. "Astarion. I never promised I would give you the part. I said, that only if you proved yourself adequate in class and ifGodey believes you can handle it, then I would put forth your name. I should not have to repeat myself. You were found wanting in class, and Godey tells me you are still not in good enough shape. It is a demanding part, and you are simply not ready. I should not have to explain this to you."

It stings, to have all his efforts dismissed like that. But Astarion is not one to give up so easily. He will fight until it's clear the battle is lost.

"I can show you," he says, blinking away the tears of frustration that have begun to prickle in his eyes. "I'll show you just how hard I'm willing to work for this. If you'll let me," he whispers.

Cazador's eyes glimmer. Astarion holds still, the breathless silence between them stretching into eternity before Cazador nods once and says "Then lock the door, my boy."

Astarion does so. When he reaches Cazador once more, he goes straight to his knees. Cazador leans back into the red cushions of his chair, letting Astarion reach for his belt.

This is not an unfamiliar scene for them, of course. But it has been a while. And Astarion must make it good, must make it better than it's ever been so that Cazador remembers just how much he values this. How much he wants Astarion as his shining star, how much he wants to reward him in due turn.

He caresses Cazador's inner thighs as he unzips Cazador's trousers, looking up demurely just how he likes it. Cazador's expression is impassive still. Astarion palms Cazador's clothed hardness, licks his lips slowly. He likes a bit of teasing, a bit of anticipation.

"Hurry it up, child. Put those loose lips of yours to use, for once."

...or not. Astarion quickly takes Cazador's co*ck out of his pants, then dives forward, suckling at the tip until Cazador is fully erect, pushing deep into Astarion's mouth.

If there's one thing Astarion knows he's good at, it's this. At anything in the bedroom, really. He has had much practice and many partners, who always leave satisfied after a night with Astarion's flawless body and hard-earned talents. But somehow, even with the most generous of lovers, Astarion always leaves feeling empty. And he's not really sure why.

Cazador grips his hair sharply, pushing him all the way down onto his co*ck. Astarion nearly chokes but catches himself, breathing shallowly through his nose and hollowing his cheeks as Cazador begins to thrust upwards. He makes sure Cazador sees the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, he always likes those. He uses the flat of his tongue to languidly lick along Cazador's length, right where he's most sensitive.

"Good, Astarion," Cazador pants, and Astarion moans around his co*ck as a sharp jolt of his own pleasure catches him by complete surprise. "Show me how much you want this. Show me just how much you've missed me."

He gasps and sputters as Cazador forces his way even deeper, but Astarion is nothing if not a professional. He recovers quickly and strokes Cazador's thighs again, before remembering what Cazador likes even better. He places both his hands behind his back, wrists together as if he was tied up with invisible restraints. He glances up to see Cazador clearly enjoying the sight.

"So sweet, my Astarion," he murmurs. Astarion shudders at the praise. He wants to reach for his own co*ck, the pressure aching, but he shouldn't.

He lets Cazador f*ck his mouth until tears are fully running down his cheeks. A rough tug of his curls is all the warning he gets before Cazador finishes down his throat. Astarion swirls his tongue around Cazador's softening co*ck one last time, making sure to swallow everything neatly.

He leans back on his haunches when Cazador finally releases his hair. He's shaking a bit with need, but he knows Cazador isn't about to help him. And that's not what he should be after, anyways. He just wants to know if he did a good enough job.

Cazador tucks himself back into his pants, zips up his trousers. Astarion waits breathlessly for him to speak.

"Casting for Giselleis final, of course," His heart sinks. "But if you give an equal amount of effort into rehearsals as you just did here, then Oberon shall be yours."

"Thank you, sir," Astarion exhales. He is so tired, gods. "I will. I swear to you."

Chapter 4: autumn - chapter four

Chapter Text

Honestly, Wyll has been having an absolute blast these past few weeks. It's been such a pleasure to land Hilarion, a role he's never danced before. There's so much acting to it, so much drama! The mime sections have been a joy to rehearse, playing off both Lae'zel and Shadowheart's maddening energy as Wyll delivers the news that yes, Albrecht has actually been two-timing her all along. Feuding with Halsin or Rolan as Albrecht, competing with them for Giselle's heart...ah, it just never gets old. And that's only the fun of the first act!

By the time he heads down to his final costume fitting for Hilarion, the first show only days away, Wyll feels fully confident in the role. And he's been making friends, something he didn't really...he didn't really havein his last company, though not for lack of effort. Elturel was just so intense, with a tighter budget and smaller cast. Everyone was always at each other's throats for roles and Wyll wanted no part in that. But here he's been having lunch with Lakrissa and Alfira every few days, has been getting to know Shadowheart and Lae'zel a bit through rehearsals. Both Halsin and Rolan seem nice too, both very pleasant to work with. His physio sessions with Karlach are always an absolute hoot; he and Karlach are becoming fast friends, even occasionally hanging out outside the theatre when the day is done.

It's only Astarion who's still freezing him out. Well, you can't win them all, though Wyll is determined to keep trying. There's just something about the pale dancer that has Wyll wanting to earn his favour. Karlach would tease him and say it's a little crush of course, though Wyll's not so sure.

But then he rounds the corner to the costume department and spies Astarion a few paces in front of him, and Wyll's eyes dip a bit too far down to be proper. So sue him, Wyll is not immune to the sight of a very pretty man in tights.

He jogs a bit to catch up, and Astarion startles a bit at his sudden appearance. "Oh, my apologies," Wyll says. "I didn't mean to scare you!"

"Then perhaps stop sneaking up on unsuspecting people," Astarion grumbles.

"So...the final fitting! We're getting close to the finish line, aren't we?"

"I think you'll find we're still at the beginning, darling. The finish line is afterthe shows, not before."

"Right," Wyll grins sheepishly. "Do you have any company traditions after you've finished a run? My last company always bought us all a lovely lunch the next day."

"Hm. Nothing springs to mind. Oh, besides Minthara's annual late night party."

Wyll does a complete double take. "I'm sorry—her what?"

Astarion grins a bit. "She has a fabulously large flat in Chelsea, which she always uses to host after we've completed our first run of performances. Soloists and principals only, naturally. So—I suppose that means you're invited, Ravengard. Don't drink the co*cktails if you can't handle your liqueur. She spikes them quite strongly."

"That sounds absolutely terrifying," Wyll says. "I'm in. Do you always attend?"

"When I feel up to it. It's her little attempt to curry some favour with us, knowing we'll all have to keep dealing with her throughout the season."

"Really? I haven't found her too much to deal with yet. She keeps to herself, sure, but she's very professional."

"That would be because you haven't partnered her properly yet, dear. Trust me when I say you'll be changing your tune."

They arrive at the costume department together. Astarion flounces off to the side where the racks of fluttery romantic tutus are held, running his hands through the soft tulle. Carmen and Figaro Pennygood, the co-heads of the costume department, emerge from the back. They're bickering fiercely together, and Wyll gets the distinct impression that these two are a pair of siblings, not partners.

"Astarion! Hands off the tutus," Carmen scowls. "We've just starched those!"

"Apologies, darling," Astarion says, with a completely fake little smile. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Figaro and Carmen produce the tunic and hunters boots for Hilarion, as well as the peasant costume for the peasant pas de deux. "Alright, everything is stitched up and repaired from the last shows," Figaro says. "Hm—hopefully you two will be able to share. Wyll, you try on Hilarion first, please."

Wyll heads to the curtained off dressing area and pulls on the costume, a cream blousy undershirt and faux leather tunic. The mock hunters boots are surprisingly flexible, perfect for dancing.

"It definitely fits," he calls out.

"Come out, let us all see!" Carmen says. Wyll emerges from behind the curtain and stands in front of the mirror, admiring the work. It's a simpler costume, none of the jewels and filigree embroidery that a prince would wear, but it's nice all the same.

Figaro and Carmen swarm around him like a small flock of birds, plucking and prodding at seams and encouraging him to move around. They deem the fit perfect, then tell him to change back out of it and hand it to Astarion.

Wyll chats with Carmen and Figaro a bit as Astarion gets ready. He finds out that they are indeed siblings who entered the costume business together under the guidance of their father. He had also been a costumer by trade, and Wyll learns that as much as they might bicker, neither would want to be heading the costume shop today without the other.

"Ah—Carmen, my dear, are you quite sure you pinned things correctly last session?" Astarion's voice rings out, higher-pitched with anxiety.

"I know how to do a fitting, Astarion," Carmen frowns. "What's wrong? Come out and show us!"

"Well...it's a little large..." Astarion reluctantly draws back the curtain and steps out.

"Oh dear," Figaro says at the sight. "Yes, that's much too big on you...I don't know if you two will be able to share after all, not without some serious alterations to account for the difference..."

Astarion stands there awkwardly as Carmen and Figaro circle him, talking in hushed tones. The tunic doesn't fit right at all, not snug to the body as it was on Wyll.

"Is there another one around, perhaps from previous dancers?" Wyll asks. They're only a few days out from the show and while Wyll might not know much about sewing, he's pretty sure whipping up a whole new costume is too much to ask.

"Just one from Halsin's days as a soloist, and that certainly won't work," Figaro says as he and Carmen begin pinching and pinning up the excess. They begin discussing possible solutions, but just then Wyll has to make a quick exit when he feels his phone vibrating with an incoming call.

It's his father calling, and his heart leaps as he walks out into the corridor. "Dad! Hi," he says breathlessly. "I just finished up my final costume fitting for the show, what's up?"

"Yes hello," Ulder says, tone all no-nonsense as usual. "About that. I'm sorry Wyll, but I don't think I'll be able to make it."

f*ck. "Oh...did something come up?" Wyll asks, but really, he knows whatever answer he gets may not even be the truth. It's been years since Ulder came to see him dance, since long before he turned professional. There's always something related to work, an excuse, and frankly Wyll stopped believing them years ago.

"Yes, unfortunately. There's been trouble out here over a string of break-ins in Soho, and they've put me up as the lead investigator. Lots of late nights coming my way."

"I get it. There's other shows, I'm performing in about half of them if you can't make opening night..."

"We'll see. I can't predict my schedule well enough in advance," Ulder says. Yeah, alright. There's no way he's seeing his father at any of these shows.

"It's no problem, Dad. There will be other shows this season! This company has a much longer Nutcracker season than my last one, I bet you'll be able to make one of those."

"The ticket was free, correct? Just give it to a friend."

"...I will." Maybe he can give it to Karlach, he thinks.

"Alright, well. I have to run. Bye now."

"Bye, Dad," he whispers as the line goes dead.

~*~

Opening night. It's finally here, after a solid month and a half of rehearsals. Every dress rehearsal on stage went off without a hitch, and Wyll could not be more excited. He gets to be one of the main characters on opening night, and he knows full well just how much of an honour that is. Just how much trust the company is placing in him, to give him such a role for his very first ballet here.

He's halfway through his pre-show routine, having eaten a large healthy lunch, taken a nap, and gone for a walk around the nearby London streets which are positively bursting with vibrant autumn colour. The final step is to head to his dressing room and listen to some music as he gets his hair stage-ready and puts on a bit of makeup, maybe has a snack for extra fuel. It's set up for two dancers, he notes, which is an improvement over the last one where he had to share with three others.

He's just put on one of his current favourite albums (Hozier's latest release, Wyll always finds his lyrics soul-touching and irresistibly romantic) when Astarion flings open the dressing room door.

"Hello Astarion," Wyll says, taking out his earbuds. "Looks like we're sharing for the year!"

Astarion looks completely flabbergasted. Wyll struggles a bit not to chuckle at the sight. "Oh no! No! I have alwayshad this room. This is my room, Wyll. You must be mistaken. Go find wherever yours is at, you're clearly in the wrong place."

"Not just your room anymore," calls out Jaheira from the corridor beyond, where she was passing by to do last minute preparations for the stage. "Come now, Astarion. You know you were lucky to have your own dressing room for so long, it's usually a privilege reserved for principal dancers. Now you must share like all the other soloists and corps de ballet members."

"But—but that's ridiculous! I needmy own space, how can you just change everything after so long?!"

"Because we needed a room for a new male soloist," Jaheira shrugs. "It was really quite a simple decision. Now stop fussing and get ready, the show starts in an hour. Merde, both of you!"

Astarion looks as if he really wants to press the matter further, but seems to think better of it at Jaheira's raised eyebrow. Instead he huffs a dramatic sigh and tosses his dance bag onto the abandoned half of the dressing room table, then closes the door to the corridor with rather more force than necessary.

"Alright. If we're to share, there's to be some rules," he scowls. Wyll nods in agreement, secretly finding all this very amusing. "No music played out loud. I'll not be subject to whatever...drivel you're listening to right now."

"Hozier. I'm listening to Hozier," Wyll interrupts, unable to stop himself from having a bit of fun.

"Oh. Well, he's not drivel, but still. In the earbuds please. Next, under no circ*mstances go through my drawers or touch my things. I don't care if you've run out of hair product, you're not borrowing any of mine or rummaging through my stuff."

"I'd never," Wyll promises.

"Really? Because I remember quite distinctly finding some baked goods in my bag that I did not put there myself."

Wyll flushes. "Right, yeah. I might have done that. I'm sorry if you thought I went through your things. I really didn't, just slipped them in without looking. But did you like them?"

"...they were very good, I'll admit. Um—finally, don't eat or drink in here. If you spill anythingon my costumes, neither I nor Carmen will ever forgive you. Understood?"

"I solemnly swear not to break any of these sacred rules," Wyll says, a mock hand on his heart.

"You're laughing! I'm being serious here but you're laughing! Don't get in my way before a show. I could make this entire experience very unpleasant for you, my dear."

"I believe you, don't you worry," Wyll grins. "I'll be sticking to my side, and you'll be sticking to yours. Sounds like a plan to me."

Astarion harrumphs a bit but sits down, flicking on the mirror's tiny light bulbs which bathe the room in that special dressing room lighting. They sit in companionable silence for a while as Astarion does his makeup and Wyll finishes up with his hair. Then it's time for Wyll to pull on his costume, which he does with great joy. It's always a special moment, the first time you get into character. He fiddles with the lacing at the top of the blouse, struggling a bit to get it in the correct holes. Really, why are there so many fiddly bits?

"Ugh. Just let me do it for you," Astarion interrupts, after watching Wyll lace it up completely wrong.

"Thank you," Wyll smiles as he steps forward and lets Astarion undo his mistakes. This close, Wyll can smell his cologne and whatever sweet-smelling product he's put in his hair. It's heavenly, and Wyll tries not to blush too obviously at the proximity.

"Hm. This bit of fur trim on the tunic is coming loose. Hold still darling, I'll just stitch it down for you," Astarion says as he produces some needle and thread from his bag.

"You know how to sew?" Wyll asks, watching as Astarion's nimble fingers tack the fur down securely.

"Why do you think Shadowheart is always making me sew the ribbons onto her new pointe shoes? I'm the very best there is."

"That's very neat. I can barely sew on a button," Wyll chuckles.

"Yes, well. In another life I'd have been a fashion designer and everyone would be wearing my creations," Astarion says, a bit dreamily. "Alas, now I only have enough time to do it as a hobby. Alright, all done."

"Thank you so much, Astarion. I really appreciate it."

"Well we can't have you running out on stage with your fur falling off and your top laced up wrong. Don't mention it, darling."

There's now about twenty minutes left until the curtain rises, and Astarion hurriedly gets into his own peasant pas costume. "Are you nervous at all? Wyll asks as they head to the wings of the stage.

"To be a peasant? Don't be ridiculous, I could do this in my sleep."

"I'm a bit nervous," Wyll admits. "I always get a bit anxious on the first run of any show."

"You shouldn't be. You've got nothing to be nervous about, I've seen you dance."

“Why, Astarion,” Wyll grins. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me!”

"Don't get used to it, dear," Astarion says primly. And then they arrive at the wings, and it is time to dance.

~*~

Behind the heavy burgundy curtain Wyll can hear the audience chattering and the orchestra warming up, all soft brass scales and silvery flutes trilling. The ballet masters are in the wings, along with the many members of the stage crew. Dancers are clustered around boxes of rosin, rubbing the tips of their pointe shoes into the chalky dust to help the satin grip the stage.

Lae'zel is rocking back and forth on her heels, her eyes closed in some sort of meditation. She's in the beautiful sky blue peasant dress that Giselle wears in the first act, looking rather sweet in the white puff sleeves and matching apron. It's not her usual style at all, of course, but somehow it works. Jaheira is beside her, giving her last words of encouragement.

"Wyll!" Jaheira calls softly. "You look wonderful. Are you ready?"

"I have to be," Wyll says sheepishly.

"You will do well," Lae'zel says, opening her eyes. The fresh-faced peasant girl makeup gives her a much softer look, but underneath it Wyll can see the fierce fiery determination that Lae'zel possesses in spades.

"All of you will, the final rehearsals were perfect. Just have faith in yourself, feel the music, and remember to enjoy yourselves!" Jaheira says, clapping them both on the shoulders.

"I'll be sure to fight for Lae'zel's heart with all my might, and have fun doing so," Wyll jokes. He spies Halsin at the other side of the stage, looking quite calm and ready despite having to be the first one out on stage. Wyll wonders how many times he's performed Albrecht over the course of his career, and if it ever gets less nerve-wracking. Astarion and Alfira are behind him, talking softly. They make a fantastic looking pair together in their peasant pas costumes. Even dressed as a simple peasant, Wyll thinks that Astarion carries himself like a haughty balletic prince.

"Places, everyone, places," a stagehand calls. "House lights are down...quiet backstage, quiet!"

A hush falls over the crowd beyond the curtain. Then sudden applause; the conductor of the orchestra must have stepped into the orchestra pit. It dies down and there is a suspended moment of silence, wherein every dancer holds their breath.

Showtime.

The whirling string scales of the entracte music ring out, fast and dramatic. Wyll has always loved this score: it is so full of beautiful melodies and leitmotifs, just a stunning piece of classical music. The curtain rises on the scene: two little thatched roof cottages frame the stage against a watercolour backdrop depicting an old Germanic village. It is a cheerful little village, ready to welcome in the fall harvest and dance the day away. Without further ado Halsin leaps onto the stage along with one of the second soloists, playing Albrecht's servant who is in on the ruse to disguise Albrecht as one of the villagers.

The two carry out the first pantomime, pretending to admire Albrecht's new peasant attire and hiding his princely longsword in one of the little thatched cottages. The music skips along happily as they exit and Giselle's mother, Bathilde, makes her entrance. With that, Wyll's heart begins to race: he is on in mere seconds now.

He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders back, lifts himself into proper ballet posture. He is Hilarion now; Giselle's childhood friend. He's had a crush on her for years and would do anything to be with her. He has a streak of vengefulness to him, he's just mean enough to ruin another's life if it means that hecan be with Giselle.

Humming violins are his cue. Wyll walks out onto the stage a proud villager, swinging a fake hunted fowl of some sort. He presents the fowl to Bathilde, who mimes excitement at the size of the bird and how good a hunter he is. The stage lights are always so bright: even if he tried, Wyll could never make out any faces in the audience. He hefts the fowl over his shoulder and walks proudly to Giselle and Bathilde's cottage, hooking the bird up near the window. Wyll gazes longingly up at the window and blows a kiss; Giselle is inside, and he would do anything to see her today. With one last smile and bow to Bathilde, he leaps off the stage to wait for his next entrance.

Lae'zel is in the little cottage, raring to go. Bathilde exits the stage and Halsin appears once more: cheekily, he knocks on the cottage door, then hides as Lae'zel makes her grand entrance, soaking in the applause as she leaps around the stage with light little ballonnés. Somehow the fierce Russian woman Wyll has come to know has completely transformed into a delicate young village girl, fragile and full of innocence.

Wyll watches with a soppy little smile as she and Halsin begin to dance together and fall for each other, playing a childish game of "he loves me, he loves me not," with some village flowers. And it's Wyll who gets to interrupt this lovely little scene. He runs back out onto the stage and uses all of his acting skills to throw himself melodramatically between the pair, squaring up to Halsin and daring him to come between him and Lae'zel. Thank god they're only acting, he thinks. Halsin really is a large, muscular man.

He is chased off by Halsin, intimidated by the older dancer's princely grace. Wyll can't help but grin as he gets some water and watches the dancing, it's just so much funto play such a bastard! Now he gets to relax and keep warm as the rest of the dancers carry out the harvest festival scene.

Astarion and Alfira take to the stage next in a joyful rendition of the peasant pas de deux. Alfira is such a charming young dancer, imbuing the choreography with lightness and delight. And true to his word, Astarion makes it look so easy. He's an effortless partner to Alfira and Wyll simply cannot take his eyes off him.

The villagers crown Lae'zel Queen of the Harvest and urge her to dance for them. She does so, and Wyll watches in complete awe as Lae'zel performs a marvellous rendition of Giselle's famous solo. Tiny hops on pointe all across the stage turn into rapid-fire turns as she whips around the set to thunderous applause. He's never before seen anything like it, it's amazing.

Wyll is so entranced by her dancing that he nearly forgets it's almost his cue. He has to jog around backstage to get to the correct side for his next entrance, passing by busy stagehands and propmasters. It's almost time for the famous Mad Scene, which caps off the first act.

He arrives at the wings just in time. The music swells to a crescendo as Wyll bursts out onto the stage, parting through the sea of cheerful villagers. He wrenches Halsin and Lae'zel apart, and with a little mock bow to Halsin, whips out the princely longsword. With sharp claps of the music he accuses Halsin of lying, of completely faking his identity in order to steal Lae'zel's heart. When Halsin lunges for the sword Wyll dances out of the way and grabs the hunting horn, miming blowing it to summon the rich nobles.

One of whom is Albrecht's truebetrothed. The drama of it all!

As Halsin's betrayal is revealed, Lae'zel does a masterful job at portraying Giselle's slow and aching descent into madness. The fragile girl cannot handle such an awful infidelity, and as she loses her mind, she mimes spying ghostly apparitions. The haunted Willis, who are to be her future. With booming crashes of cymbals she runs through the tangle of villagers into her mother's arms, only to lay eyes on Halsin once more. In her last moments she flies to him, but he is not quick enough: with one final crescendo, Lae'zel collapses onto the ground. Dead of a broken heart.

The stage is awash with mourning villagers. Wyll throws himself onto his knees in his grief, begging Halsin to kill him too for it is hisfault Lae'zel lies dead. The devastated mother forces Halsin off her child's corpse, the entire village turns their backs to him. Halsin hurries off the stage, and the final rolling notes of the score, deep and powerful, bring down the curtain onto the grieving scene.

As soon as the curtain is down, it's as if everyone lets out a huge breath they were holding. There's grins and soft high-fives; it was a perfect first act. Dancers hurry to get changed for the second act but Wyll is able to grab some water and relax a bit.

"Wyll! You were so good," Alfira calls to him.

"That was so much bloody fun," he laughs. "I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much on stage! And you were amazing too."

"Thank you," she blushes. "Astarion is a really great partner. I've got to go get changed into my Willis tutu now, but I'll see you out there when I dance you to your death!"

"Looking forward to it!"

He stretches a bit in the wings to keep himself warm while the intermission goes on. He wonders what his dad would have said had he been able to come. Wyll is certain that so far this is one of his best performances. Ah well, there will be more to come. Surely his father will be able to make one of the thirty or so Nutcrackers...

Eventually the wings fill up with clouds of white tulle as the corps filters in. Lae'zel appears in her ghostly white makeup and heads for the pit underneath the stage, so that she can be awoken and rise from the grave a new Willis.

"Good luck to you, Wyll," Jaheira's accented voice calls out behind him. "Though it looks as though you won't need it, what a wonderful first act!"

"Thank you, Jaheira," he says softly. Wyll opens the act, and is beginning to feel the flutterings of nerves once more.

He closes his eyes as the orchestra starts up. With the first notes of the score, the atmosphere has completely flipped: foreboding horns and dark strings announce that this is now a haunted place. Wyll walks out and drapes himself over Giselle's grave, the very picture of a mourning lover. The curtain rises, revealing Wyll in the thick of a dark and tangled forest. He weeps at the grave, but soon an apparition appears out of the corner of his eye: a ghostly maiden floats across the stage. Frightened, he grabs a lantern, makes the sign of the cross, and runs away.

...and that'll be all for Wyll until he appears much later to go die. He happily leans back to watch as Minthara makes her entrance as Myrtha, Queen of the Willis. It is a demanding role, more akin to male choreography than female with how demanding the jumps are, but Minthara nails it all. She is the best Myrtha he has ever seen, no contest. It's as if the role was made for her icy and commanding presence.

She summons the rest of the Willis, and the corps de ballet begin their series of ghostly dances. As the story goes, these are all women who have died before their wedding day, and thus, have died virgins. Ah, the joys of nineteenth century storytelling.

They dance together in perfect harmony, culminating in Wyll's favourite part of the entire ballet: row by row, the Willis raise their legs into arabesque and hop across the stage in a mesmerising pattern. He knows it is a marathon of a moment for the corps, but they carry it off splendidly without a limb out of line.

Lae'zel is awoken from her grave, and Halsin makes his entrance, devastated at having lost her yet overjoyed at finding her again, even in this form. The lovers depart, and now it is time for Wyll to go die.

Oh, he is soready.

He leaps onto the stage and pleads with Minthara to let him live. Coldly she crosses her wrists and brings them down from overhead to her waist, the balletic mime for "death." Wyll frantically begins to dance, letting his jumps become sloppier and sloppier as he pretends to grow so exhausted he could just die. The Willis circle him and Alfira and Lakrissa grab onto his arms, dramatically flinging him off the stage and to his death.

Wyll's smiling so hard as he lands in the wings. What a blast!

Halsin and Lae'zel finish out the act with the same power and presence they had in rehearsal. Lae'zel's clearly done some work on her emoting because the adage is heartbreaking. Lae'zel saves Halsin from his death, keeping him on his feet until the ringing of the church bells signal the departure of the Willis at dawn. Halsin bids a tearful farewell to Lae'zel as she descends into her grave forever, and the curtain closes on him standing tall and proud, a lily from her grave in his hand.

The entire cast come out for the bows, but Wyll is in such a state of relief and exhilaration that they are all a blur. He knows there is applause for him as he takes his bow. But as he takes his first good look at the audience, all he can wonder is whether his dad too would be on his feet.

Backstage is full of tired dancers congratulating each other on such a good performance. Wyll receives and gives many hugs and pats but quickly excuses himself to get changed, he's quite tired now that the adrenaline of performing has left him. Astarion's side of the table is empty when he gets to the dressing room; the pale dancer is long gone.

He exits the theatre through the foyer and spies Karlach waiting alongside other audience members.

"Soldier!" Karlach exclaims as she pulls him into a big bear hug. "You were amazing! I loved every second, you were so dramatic!" Wyll laughs as he untangles himself from the hug.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the ticket," he grins.

"Aw, I wouldn't have missed your first show for the world! I've never seen Lae'zel so sweet, it was really something—"

But Wyll isn't listening anymore. Across the room he swears he sees a slim redheaded woman in a bright blue co*cktail dress, sipping on some wine and chatting with other audience members.

Mizora.

"Karlach, I'm so glad you enjoyed the show, but I really need to be going," Wyll interrupts, trying not to panic.

"Oh, of course! Bet you're tired as all hell. Go get some good sleep, and I'll see you tomorrow to rub all the aches out, yeah?"

"Sounds like a plan!" Wyll calls as he tries not to trip over his own feet in his rush to get backstage. He'll leave through the stage door, where she won't see him...

Of course she'd come to watch his first performance. He should have known.

Chapter 5: autumn - chapter five

Chapter Text

Only one performance of Giselleremains, and the entire company is dead on their feet, Astarion included. Morning class feels like a total slog to get through, even with the nice surprise that Gale is teaching today. He's trying his best to make the combinations short and snappy, but it's clear that everyone wants nothing more than to take a nice long nap before they put on the last show.

Everyone besides Shadowheart, who's whipping through the combinations with a sort of manic sense of energy. Astarion wonders if she snuck some uppers into her morning coffee, because good lord. The critic from Baldur's Mouthis meant to be at the show tonight, and she must be feeling far more nervous about it than she's let on. Which is stupid, in Astarion's opinion, because she's a lovely dancer and both she and Rolan have been exquisite this entire run.

Astarion has one more performance of Hilarion tonight, and the only way he's pushing through is by thinking of the glorious two day long weekend the company has afterwards. A rare treat, for sure.

Well, and Minthara's annual soirée. That's always a grand bit of fun. Part of him can't wait to see just how well Wyll can handle his liqueur...

"To the centre, everyone. Come on now, perk up! You've all made it this far," Gale says, clapping his hands together and looking far too cheerful. There's low mutterings as the company slowly edges their way into the centre and Gale begins demonstrating the first combinations. Astarion finds himself drifting through the exercises, mind focused entirely elsewhere, mainly on what he's planning to wear tonight and how defined Wyll's back and shoulders look in that new unitard—

Oh no. No, what is he thinking?! Why on earth is he getting distracted like a teenager, he is well past the age to be fantasising like this!

Astarion shakes himself out of it as they begin lining up for grand allegro, the big jumps. Honestly, he needs some time away from everyone here. And apparently, especially away from Wyll Ravengard.

They begin the grand allegro group by group, four or five dancers at a time. Astarion goes through the motions, enjoying the well-thought out combination. He does love a good grand allegro, soaring through the air, that brief feeling of absolute weightlessness.

And then suddenly from behind him, there's a dull thudand a sharp yelp of pain. A wave of gasps go through the waiting dancers. Astarion whips around to see what happened, and his jaw drops in shock.

Rolan is on the studio floor, clutching at his knee and grimacing in pain. Astarion didn't see how he fell, but it must have been bad because he's not getting up. The piano music abruptly cuts out as Gale rushes to his side. From somewhere in the back, Cal and Lia, corps de ballet members whom Astarion vaguely recalls are Rolan's siblings, fight through the ring of dancers to get to Rolan.

"Everybody back away!" Gale snaps as the hovering crowd of dancers press in towards them. "What happened, what hurts?"

"I just—I just landed wrong," Rolan says through clenched teeth. "Oh god, oh god I think I felt something pop—"

"Okay, let's not panic," Gale says, clearly panicking. "Cal, Lia, help him to the bench please, everybody else stay out of the way...and could somebody get Dr. Nettie? And Jaheira!?"

"I've got it," Lae'zel says, ready as always. She jogs out of the studio as Cal and Lia help their brother to the benches. Astarion searches for Shadowheart in the crowd. She's as pale as he usually is, looking absolutely frightened beyond measure. He makes his way over to her through the group, which has now exploded into hushed conversations.

"He's my partner for tonight," Shadowheart whispers. "Oh dear god, I hope he's alright..."

Astarion can't really reassure her. From what he can tell, everything is notalright. Nettie arrives along with Jaheira and Cazador, and all three of them look quite grave. They slowly help Rolan out of the room, his siblings trailing along after him. Then the ballet masters return and form a tight group in the corner of the studio, whispering amongst themselves and glancing out at the crowd of dancers.

f*ck. Astarion knows exactly what's happening, he's seen this before. Rolan is out for tonight and perhaps even into the far future. And somebody needs to be Shadowheart's Albrecht.

His pulse is pounding. This is precisely what happened to Shadowheart, what catapulted her to principal after Swan Lake. And as far as Astarion knows, only three people in this room have rehearsed Albrecht...and Halsin has just come off of back-to-back performances.

Shadowheart is one of his best partners. He knows the role front to back. He's worked his arse off and everyone here knows it, and surely, surely, Cazador's say will matter now—

"Wyll, could you come here please?" Jaheira calls.

...Astarion can't believe it. He cannotbelieve it. But no, Wyll is walking over, a slightly dumbstruck look on his stupid handsome face, and Astarion wants to smack it right off of him.

Astarion is standing right here, right in front of their faces, more ready than he's ever been, and it's as if he doesn't even exist.

Shadowheart abandons his side, jogging over to the knot of ballet masters. She's talking with them and Wyll is nodding along, and Astarion knows then that it is a lost cause.

He's a lost cause, f*ck.

There's a lump in his throat and heat pricking at the corners of his eyes, and he knows he needs to get out of here before he inadvertently makes a scene. So Astarion weaves his way through the ranks of dancers to grab his things, and he leaves.

The problem though is that he doesn't really know where to go.

Whenever he needed a place to get away and go hide for a bit, there was always an obvious choice: his dressing room. But his dressing room isn't his anymore, he has to share it with Wyll bloody Ravengard, who is the absolute last person Astarion wants to see right now. So instead he leaves the theatre entirely and storms down the streets of Convent Garden, fumbling for his pack of cigarettes and trying to find somewhere where no one can bother him. But the streets are full of people shopping and chatting and enjoying the crisp autumn air. He ends up in an alleyway between two rows of fast fashion shops, where he can at least lean against the brick wall and filter out the cheery noises.

He's so upset. It feels like this was his chance, and he blew it by doing...by doing what? He did nothing wrong! They just took one look at him, then took one look at Wyll, so much younger and so much...so much stronger, and they just knew who to pick.

It really hurts. He's danced with Shadowheart since her very first season at the Royal Baldur and yet he's still not good enough to be her Albrecht.

But standing here, sucking down smoke after smoke, isn't going to help him, Astarion thinks. So he stamps out the smoke and turns back, looking up at the glorious marble of the opera house. Astarion loves ballet, he really does. It's been his whole life since before he can even remember. It's helped him grow into the disciplined, driven, gorgeous person that he is.

But sometimes, it just feels like ballet doesn't love him back.

~*~

When he enters the dressing room later that afternoon, it is completely fraught with stress. Shadowheart is in his seat, still bare-faced and in her rehearsal tutu. Next to her Wyll looks like he might throw up, talking a mile a minute as Shadowheart tries to calm him.

"We've literally only run through the adage once," he says, running anxious hands over his braids. "How can we go out having only rehearsed it once?!" I don't know your tells, I don't know your cues!"

And that's why I should be Albrecht, Astarion thinks sourly to himself. I know every single one of Shadowheart's tells.

"Could you give me some space, darling," is all he says out loud, nudging her out of his seat. She obliges, getting up to hover on Wyll's other side.

"We'll be fine. We have to be," she says. "The critic from Baldur's Mouth is going to be here and so we simply have to be at our best. Do not, I repeat, do notdrop me. You hear?!"

Now Wyll looks ten times as stressed, wonderful. Shadowheart should never take up counselling. Wyll nods frantically and starts fiddling with the makeup containers scattered all over the table, which Shadowheart promptly smacks out of his hands.

"Focus, Wyll! You have to calm down, you're going to be all shaky and ready to f*ck up if you're not relaxed!"

"Shadowheart, my dear. You are really not helping," Astarion interrupts. It's quite painful to watch this. "He's not going to drop you."

"I don't know, maybe I will," Wyll says, wringing his hands. "I've never done this before! Anything could happen!"

"You're not going to f*cking drop her. Just—both of you need to stop making each other worse. It's giving me anxiety, and I don't want to hear it." He knows he sounds frustrated, but this whole situation is frustrating. If he were in Wyll's place, he would not be freaking out like this.

"I never say this, but Astarion's right," Shadowheart says. "We're getting in our heads. They chose you for a reason, Wyll. You're going to be fine."

"...and, pray tell, what was the reason?" Astarion asks, unable to completely hide the venom underlying. Wyll startles at that and properly looks at Astarion for the first time since he entered the dressing room.

"Oh god, it wasn't because they thought I'd do a better job! It was because—well, you were already meant to be Hilarion tonight..."

"—And? You've learned Hilarion too. Clearly it isbecause they wanted you."

"I'd have loved to dance with you, Astarion," Shadowheart says softly. "It really is just because you were already slated for Hilarion. I promise."

"I'd give it to you if I could," Wyll says earnestly. "Maybe the ballet masters will agree, we could go and ask them now..."

"Oh, don't feed me that. Have some respect for yourself, Wyll."

"I'm not lying to you! Do I look like I'm having a fun time right now?!"

"You're going to be just fine, honestly. Stop overthinking it, get changed, and just get out there!"

"Boys! Would you stop yelling at each other!" Shadowheart interrupts. "Alright. Wyll, Astarion has a point. We both need to get ready. And then I want you to meet me on the stage twenty minutes before curtain to try the adage one more time. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone, okay?"

"We won't," Astarion grumbles. He starts in on his makeup routine as Shadowheart exits in a flurry, racing down to her own room to get ready. Wyll gets up and begins to fuss around with Rolan's Albrecht costume, pulling it on and examining himself with a frown.

"It's close enough, I suppose," he sighs. Astarion glances over and snorts. Close enough, it's a perfect fit. Wyll looks fantastic. The jewel green of the foresleeves look lovely against his skintone.

Wyll proves himself to be quite annoying as Astarion moves onto perfecting his hair. He keeps bouncing around the room and chattering nervously at Astarion, worrying about pulling off the mime, worrying about running out of steam in the second act, worrying about what the ballet masters will think of his performance. Eventually Astarion's patience runs out and he snaps at Wyll, perhaps a bit too harshly.

"Would you please be quiet! Just—sit down, you're going to be fine."

Wyll's eyes widen, but he does indeed quiet and sit down.

"Thank you. You were driving me around the bloody bend!"

There's blissful silence for a couple of minutes, until Wyll breaks it again.

"It's just...how do you know? That's it's going to be alright? Even I don't have that much faith in myself."

Because you dance with so much emotion it could move me to tears. Because you are the epitome of a danseur noble. Because you are young and strong and handsome and just perfect for this.

"Because I've seen this before, darling. It's how Shadowheart got promoted. You're not going to f*ck up when it really counts."

Wyll is quiet for a bit, and Astarion continues on.

"You know the part. Shadowheart is an easy partner, she'll tell you where to go, when to catch her. You...you won't just be alright. You're probably going to be wonderful." he says, the aching truth leaking in and tainting his last words with bitterness.

"Thank you," Wyll says softly. "That means a lot coming from you, truly."

They continue getting ready in silence, and Wyll excuses himself early to go meet with Shadowheart on the stage. Astarion has a few precious minutes to himself as he pulls on the last pieces of his costume. Hilarion gazes back at him in the mirror. A spiteful man. A vengeful man. A bitter man.

All words he could use to describe himself, in this very moment. It's funny, Astarion has played this character for years and yet it's never felt so easy to slip into his mind.

~*~

The amplified announcer's voice echoes out into the seated crowd, the usual reminders to tuck all mobiles away and that photography is not permitted besides during the final curtain call.

"Please note, for tonight's performance the role of Prince Albrecht will be danced by Wyll Ravengard. Enjoy the show."

Wyll is standing in the opposite wing from Astarion, Jaheira hovering behind him as she whispers some last words of encouragement. He still looks rather green around the gills, but Astarion cannot deny that he is a perfectly handsome Albrecht. Shadowheart is also prepped and ready, standing in her tiny cottage and muttering her pre-show prayers. A little ritual of hers that Astarion used to tease her about, but that she has always taken quite seriously.

Applause bursts out from behind the curtain as the conductor steps into the pit. Then the whirling entracte begins, and Astarion slips away from himself for the evening. When he is on stage, he is no longer Astarion Ancunín. He has always found it easy to depersonalize himself and become the character he means to play. Sure enough, he watches Wyll leap onto the stage to polite applause and he can feelthe burning fires of envy begin to kindle in his belly. That ought to be him, exchanging a regal cape for a simple peasant disguise. That ought to be him, looking up at Giselle's window in anticipatory bliss.

When it's time for his entrance Astarion swings the stupid fake fowl over his shoulder and bursts out onto the stage, each step filled with arrogant confidence. He greets Bathilde coldly and gazes up at the little cottage, wishing with all his heart that he was worthy of Giselle. Worthy to dance with her, worthy to love her, worthy to be with her.

But he's not. Astarion exits the stage and watches as Wyll knocks on the door and Shadowheart emerges. He watches as they play their little game of "he loves me, he loves me not," he watches as Wyll utterly charms Shadowheart, charismatic prince that he is. His dancing is light and joyful, matching her energy. They are a darling pairing and it makes him feel sick to see.

When he runs out to pull them apart, Astarion is not sure if he's even really acting anymore. He shoves Wyll away from Shadowheart and watches Wyll's eyes widen in genuine surprise at the force of it. Wyll catches himself, but barely, and in the back of Astarion's mind he hears an audience member gasp out loud. Astarion turns to Shadowheart, pleads with her to love him, to choose him, but she turns away. She reaches out to Wyll, and a surge of jealousy takes him so swiftly that Astarion pounces on the two of them again, meaning to pull them apart. But Wyll steps in front of Shadowheart, protecting her, one hand reaching for the side of his waist where a longsword would hang. A longsword a peasant ought never to be in possession of.

Astarion slowly backs away as Wyll advances on him with sure steps, regal posture. It's not right. It's not right that he's not even given a chance. His steps carry him back into the wings, where Astarion finds himself breathing hard and fast with actual burning emotion. Someone pats him on the shoulder, whispers that he's done a good job thus far. Astarion doesn't even deign to respond, his eyes are glued to the action on stage.

Peasants dance, villagers crown the Queen of the Harvest, nobles parade the spoils of their hunt. Astarion watches it all, drinking in the joy of Shadowheart's dizzying solo variation, her eagerness to dance and her joy for life. Always by her side, Wyll is all sweet smiles yet powerful in his dancing.

That ought to be him.

The two of them gallop down the middle of the stage, arm in arm, as the strings crescendo. Without further ado Astarion dashes onto the stage and pulls the two apart. He unmasks Wyll for the fraud that he is, an imposter, a stranger. The feigned shock on the villager's faces only fuels his rage. How dare Wyll take what is rightfully his.

Shadowheart gradually loses her mind at the betrayal, descending into a calm fragile sort of madness. She whirls around the stage in her confusion and terror, collapsing in a heap as her strength wanes. She gets up, miming seeing the hallucinatory Willis, and runs into Bathilde's arms.

Only to spy Wyll, and then she only has eyes for him. Shadowheart runs towards him and slips through Wyll's arms, dead before she hits the ground.

It is easy for Astarion to sink to his knees at the horror of it all. To let Wyll threaten him with execution before Wyll is yanked away. His heart is pounding still as the curtain falls on the first act.

The dancers around him visibly relax and begin filtering out to prep for the second act, but Astarion remains on the stage, on his knees, catching his breath. In the wings Wyll is surrounded by people congratulating him and telling him how good he was, how marvellous for such a thrown together performance. But instead of soaking up the praise Wyll excuses himself and heads back out on the stage towards Astarion, of all people. And then there's a hand offering to help him up from the floor, which Astarion stares at for just a moment too long before he accepts Wyll's help and rises.

"You know, I've watched each of your Hilarions, but tonight is really something else," Wyll marvels. "I was actually frightened for a bit there!"

"Were you now," Astarion says stiffly. Wyll's hand is so warm in his. Astarion wants him to f*ck off forever, to go back to his old company and return the Royal Baldur back to normal, but for some horrible reason another buried part of him also wants Wyll Ravengard to never stop holding his hand.

f*cking hell. It's enough to drive anyone properly mad.

He shakes Wyll off of him and steps away, rolling his shoulders back as he tries to force his head on straight. That's when Shadowheart appears to tug at Wyll and chatter at him about what they need to do for the second act. Wyll gives Astarion an apologetic look as he's pulled away.

The envy and jealousy that so consumed him on stage are definitely still present as the wings fill up with Willis for the second act. The mourning horns start up once more, and Astarion walks out and carefully folds himself over the grave. His brief introduction to the act goes by in a flash, and before he knows it Astarion is back waiting in the wings as Minthara summons the Willis and the ghostly dances begin.

Stunning dancing, but Astarion finds he cannot focus on it at all. Instead he's focused solely on Wyll and the newly risen Shadowheart, who are just perfecttogether. Wyll is apologetic and truly remorseful, beyond devastated at how his actions have doomed Shadowheart. They reconcile and Astarion's heart aches as they leave the stage.

He forces himself back into the bright lights for Hilarion's death scene. The bone-deep terror, the absolute exhaustion, it is all so close to the surface that Astarion barely has to pretend during what he knows is his best rendition of the death scene yet. And then just like that, it's over: the Willis fling him off into the darkness, abandoned by all and left to die all alone, his cries for help heard by no one.

Astarion lands in the wings, gasping for breath after the minutes of frantic leaping. Someone pats his shoulder and offers him water; Jaheira, bless her. He turns to watch as Wyll runs out and is met with Minthara's icy coldness, her command to dance until Wyll drops. Shadowheart steps in front of him, shielding him with her body under the safety of her grave, and then the viola begins to sing. Deep and low and mournful, as the adage begins.

You would never know that they had barely rehearsed. The trust between the two is innate, and it is enchanting to watch. Astarion swears he stops breathing as Wyll lifts Shadowheart up high, her graceful arms flowing through a delicate port de bras. Wyll never stumbles, never falters, just supports her perfectly as she moves through a series of gorgeous arabesques.

The music softly trails away as Wyll kneels for the final pose, a hand on his heart with Shadowheart balancing in arabesque behind him. The applause roars throughout the hall and Astarion jerks back to reality, the spell broken.

It was beyond beautiful. He knew it, he knewWyll was going to be wonderful.

Suddenly Astarion can't stand to watch the rest of the act. He escapes backstage, wishing he could just leave but there is still the curtain call. The score is muted and tinny from the back as he finds a bench and sinks down, trying to calm down.

Before he knows it, the final minutes of the score begin to play and he has to stand up to face the crowd once more. The curtain call seems to go on forever, the applause for Wyll and Shadowheart never-ending. Someone gives Shadowheart a huge bouquet of lilies. At last, the final curtain falls and a loud, congratulatory whoop of excitement passes throughout the company.

They've done it, the first ballet of the season is over.

It ought to feel great, it ought to feel exhilarating, but all Astarion feels is deep-seated envy.

~*~

It's probably not the brightest idea to go to Minthara's party.

The bright idea would be to go home to his empty flat and curl up in his bed, sleeping the trying day away. But...he really doesn't want to be alone right now. Everyone is heading to Minthara's, and he thinks he'll scream if he's passed over, if he's left out, once again.

So that's why Astarion finds himself in a black cab wedged in between Lae'zel and Shadowheart, who are talking a mile a minute as they speed towards the posh flats of Chelsea. Shadowheart is clearly riding a post-performance high as she gushes about how wonderful Wyll was, how good the adage felt, and how Wyll nailed Albrecht's difficult soaring solo. Astarion is suddenly quite glad he didn't stick around to watch that.

The soirée is already in full swing as they walk in. It's late, very late, and there's simply no time to waste.

Minthara comes from old money, that much has always been evident. But never more so than when the soirée is held. The cavernous flat, filled with priceless art and an actual butler, never fails to impress. Quality finger foods are laid out on heaping tables for the starving dancers to help themselves to, and somehow Minthara has gotten a pair of live musicians to play classy background music. Astarion wonders if they're members of the theatre's orchestra that she's bribed. The drink table is overflowing, her signature co*cktails a deep purple this year.

"Astarion, Lae'zel, Shadowheart," Minthara calls from where she lounges on a plush sofa. "Welcome. I am very glad you could all make it."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Minthy," Shadowheart says, smirking as Minthara's lip curls in disgust at the nickname.

"Do help yourselves to the food and drink. There's also the wine cellar, of course, if my concoctions are not to your liking."

"Oh, your concoctions are very much necessary right about now," Astarion declares as he snags a glass. God, what did she put in this? It burns like liquid fire as it goes down.

Shadowheart and Lae'zel abandon him to go to chat excitedly with Halsin and Alfira, who are digging into the hors d'œuvres. Astarion's heard more than enough about today's events, thank you, so instead he leans against an ornate bookshelf and just watches as people filter in.

"Astarion," Minthara eventually beckons. "Come sit. I'll not have any sour-faced wallflowers at my event."

He rolls his eyes but gingerly sits beside her, relaxing a bit into the sofa. "It's been a rather long day, you know. Pardon me for not being the chipper and cheerful person I usually am."

Minthara snorts as she takes a sip of her own vivid purple drink. "You've never been chipper and cheerful a day in your life. Unlike some people, such as...oh, the man of the hour himself? Here he comes," she says, nodding towards the foyer where Wyll has just appeared. He's looking around in awe at his surroundings, clearly not having expected something quite this posh.

"He did well tonight," Minthara declares. "I admit, I did not believe he had it in him. But there is fire in the man underneath that sweet demeanour."

"Yes, there is," Astarion says bitterly as he polishes off the drink.

Minthara is sizing him up, glancing at him with narrowed eyes. "You're not merely envious of him, are you? There's something more to this."

Astarion laughs sharply. "Oh, like what? It's not plausible to you that I'd be uneasy about a younger dancer in my rank, my roles, around me all the time?"

"It's plausible," Minthara says. "But I can tell it's not the whole story. What are you hiding, Astarion?"

"God, I dislike you," Astarion mutters under his breath. "I'm not hidinganything. Today's just been all about Wyll, all day long, and I'm—I'm sick of it!"

He's feeling past buzzed already due to the strong co*cktail, and probably the fact that he hasn't eaten all that much today. His eyes track Wyll as the younger man hugs Shadowheart in greeting and begins chatting with Lae'zel.

"Have you realised that you are always observing him during class?" Minthara asks, and Astarion scoffs. "You are very obvious about it."

"I am not! I mean, I don't! I don't know what you're on about," Astarion fumbles in a very undignified manner. Minthara's eyes glitter as she smirks at him.

"I believe you do know. Just embrace it, Astarion. For all of our sakes."

"I am done with this," Astarion hisses as he stands up abruptly, but he's a bit woozier than he expected and has to steady himself with the back of the sofa.

"Suit yourself," Minthara says airily. "But if it's this obvious to me, it will soon be obvious to others. I just happen to be more perceptive than most."

"Of course you are, dear. Lovely soirée, despite the not so lovely conversation." Then he strides off towards the hors d'œuvres just to have somewhere to stand away from her.

Astarion glares down at the canapés and fresh sushi platters. Behind him, he can hear Wyll talking about how exhilarating it felt to be on stage to an enraptured Alfira.

"I just never believed they'd have enough trust in me to do this, I suppose," Wyll says.

"Oh Wyll! You were made for Albrecht, and you know it. Of course they were going to pick you!" Alfira gushes.

Of course they were going to pick you. Really, why did Astarion think he'd even stood a chance?

"No, come on, they haven't seen enough of me for that," Wyll protests halfheartedly.

"You were the obvious choice, silly! I'm so glad you're feeling welcome here, I know how hard it can be to find your place in a new company—"

The colourful food on the table is blurring together as Astarion's drunken mind focuses in on those words. The obvious choice was never going to be Astarion, and Wyll has the gall to be so—so self-effacing, so diminishing of what he's handed freely, without even asking for it. Without...without performing any favours. Without running himself ragged every single day, without ceaselessly starving himself! It makes Astarion seetheto think about!

"—oh no really, it was just a stroke of luck, and I'd have much preferred for Rolan to be well of course—"

"Shut up, Wyll," Astarion interrupts, turning sharply to face them. Alfira startles, nearly dropping her plate of sushi.

"I beg your pardon?" Wyll stutters, shocked.

"Just—just f*cking stopit! Stop being so sickeningly humble, I can't bloody stand it anymore!"

"I'm not trying to be humble—"

"Yes, you are! You're not fooling anyone, Wyll. You pretend to be so above it all, you won't just accept what's given to you. I would have done—no, I have done—everythingin my power to be chosen. And you just stroll in, and they take one look at you, and I just can't STAND it!"

He's shaking with anger as he looks wildly around the room. Everyone has fallen into utter silence at his outburst. All eyes are on them as he runs a trembling hand through his hair in frustration.

"Why can't you just go back," he says around the lump in his throat. "Why—why can't you just leave and stop f*cking invadingeverything that's mine, everything I've worked so hard for—"

"Astarion, I'm not trying to step on your toes—"

"Well, you are! And I am done putting up with it, I am done!"

He pushes past Wyll and Alfira, who are in such a state of shock that they don't even try to stop him. He has to get out of here, he thinks frantically. It feels like he can't breathe. He stumbles out into the foyer, and no one tries to stop him, no one says anything as he throws open the doors and steps out into the night.

God, oh god, he's too drunk, he's too angry, it's just all too much—

He only makes it a few white brick flats down before a deep voice calls out his name.

"Please slow down, Astarion." It's Halsin.

"I am going home," Astarion snaps. "I—I think I've had too much to drink—"

"Which is why I cannot let you get home by yourself," Halsin says as he jogs to catch up beside him. "Please. I would see you home safely, it is too late at night."

Astarion eyes him. Never before has he seen Halsin get properly angry at another person, not in all the years they've known each other.

"Alright...I was going to walk to the nearest Tube, I guess."

"Allow me to call you a cab? It's quite late."

"...why do I get the feeling you won't permit any other way?"

Halsin just smiles at him, then at Astarion's defeated nod he pulls out his mobile and calls for a cab. Astarion crosses his arms and leans against the black post fence of the nearest flat to wait. Everything is spinning slightly, perhaps due to the drink, perhaps due to the adrenaline of his anger leaving him.

"You realise that was unacceptable," Halsin says, and Astarion sighs.

"I know. I think it was building in me for too long, and...it just...."

"I don't need to hear your reasoning," Halsin says. Astarion glances at him, but still the man does not seem angered. Just...disappointed. "But no matter what, Wyll did not deserve that. I realise it has been a stressful day for all, but Astarion, you cannot explode on people like that."

"...I know. I'm—I'm sorry—"

"No. Save your apologies. I am not the one who needs to hear them."

"You know I'm not very good at apologising."

"Well, you are going to have to try," Halsin says wryly. "I know it's not easy, but you must. He did nothing wrong, Astarion. I understand it was hard for you to be passed over like that, but that is something you take up in private with the ballet masters."

"What would even have been the point," he whispers. The goddamn lump in his throat is back, and he ducks his head so that Halsin can't see his eyes.

"You are a beautiful dancer. You are so hard working, you are talented beyond measure. Your time will come, Astarion. But you need not take others down on your journey to get there."

"Will it, though? I'm not getting any younger. He is young. He's...you've seen him dance."

"I have, yes."

"...he's beautiful," Astarion murmurs. Perhaps wisely, Halsin does not respond. Just waits with Astarion in silence until the black cab pulls up in front of them.

"Halsin...thank you," he says as he gets in. "I know I'm a mess. I know I'm—a lot to handle."

Halsin just shakes his head. "Don't mention it, my friend. Everyone deserves to be helped home safely. You can thank me by apologising when you next see him."

"Will do," he says softly as Halsin closes the door for him. The cab starts off towards his flat, and Astarion sinks into the seat. He still feels slightly sick to his stomach. There's two full days until they are back at work. Two days to figure out what he'll say when he inevitably sees Wyll.

Astarion can work with two days.

Chapter 6: autumn - chapter six

Chapter Text

"He said whatto you?!"

Wyll cringes at the volume of Karlach's outraged voice. He'd agreed to meet her at an off-beat brunch spot she'd said was "bloody fantastic, really!" but it is quite a cramped place and he's pretty sure everyone is now staring at them.

"Oh no! No, Wyll, you can't take that lying down! God, what possessed him to saysuch a thing? In front of everyone like that!"

"Can we use our indoor voices, please? And I'm pretty sure it was the fact that people kept congratulating me over and over again, he must have been sick of hearing it all day..."

"Wyll, don't you even start. You deserve to be told how amazing you are for what you pulled off! That was no small feat," Karlach scowls as she stabs at her stack of chocolatey pancakes.

"Thank you," Wyll says, feeling that warm glow of pride light up in his chest once more. The review had been published in the Sunday issue of Baldur's Mouththis morning, and it had been so overwhelmingly positive that Wyll had blushed as he'd read it.

"So Astarion had better bloody apologise! There was absolutely no call for that. Tell you what, if he doesn't, you shoot me a text and I'll knock some sense into his head myself."

"I appreciate the offer, truly, but I don't think it'll be necessary. We were all just tired and overwhelmed from the very long day. He was quite supportive when we were alone, actually..."

"All I'm hearing are excuses," Karlach says shrewdly. "Stop cutting him so much slack, would you? I know he's pretty and all but—wait." Then she's grinning ear to ear and Wyll is struck with a sense of mild alarm.

"Oh my god, I was so right! You have a majorcrush on him!"

"What?!" Wyll sputters. "Karlach, come on, that's not even remotely—"

"Oh you can try to deny it, but I know a crush when I see one," she crows. "But! That does not mean you can let this slide!"

"Alright, alright," Wyll caves. "If he doesn't apologise I'll text you. But you'll see, it won't be necessary."

"You've got to stand up for yourself, Wyll. You can't be letting people step all over you."

"It's something I'm working on, yeah." There's a pause as they both take bites of their very delicious dishes. Karlach does know how to pick a good spot, Wyll admits.

"So..." Karlach starts, propping her chin up in her hands.

"So what?"

"So what do you like about him? I want to hear!"

"I told you, I don't—" Karlach's sh*t-eating grin only grows wider and wider. "Alright, fine! He's...I mean, have you seenhim dance? He's poetry in motion."

"Sure have. He's good, I'll give him that. But what else, hm?"

"...okay, okay. He makes me laugh. Like, a lot. Some of the stuff he says—man, I don't know how he comes up with it, but I'll go home and then hours later I'll remember some jab he made, some wry remark...and I'm laughing all over again," Wyll confesses.

"That's better, now we're getting real!"

"You're maddening," Wyll chuckles. "Alright. Um—okay, this is embarrassing to admit. But...I can tell that he puts on a bit of a persona. He pretends that nothing bothers him, that he never needs any help with anything. But that's not true. Everyone needs a shoulder to lean on, and I suspect he may need one more than most. And...I think I want to be that for him."

"...damn. You're down bad, soldier," Karlach says, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I know," Wyll groans. "God, I've never said it out loud before, but it's true."

"Listen, if anyone can tame the pointy bastard it's you. I've no doubt in that. Just try not to get scratched in the process."

"He doesn't need taming, Karlach. He needs—I don't know, a friend?"

She snorts ungracefully at that statement. "Wyll, if you want to be just friendswith him I'll eat my hat. Be for real, man!"

"...maybe I want something more. I don't know, it's just been a very long time since I've done anything like this, you know?"

He means ever, really. But Karlach doesn't know that, and he hopes she isn't about to pry. Because what happened with Mizora...no, that doesn't count. Whatever that was, it's not ever counting as a proper relationship. Not if Wyll can help it.

Karlach's eyes soften. "I get it. Just—be careful, please? I don't want to see you hurt, especially not by someone you're going to have to be around day after day. I mean it: make sure he apologises, okay?"

"He will. I'm sure of it," he says, and Karlach finally, mercifully, drops the subject.

~*~

The full weekend off does absolute wonders for Wyll's body, which had been crying out for rest for what felt like weeks. A complete run of shows is no small feat, and he'd pushed himself pretty much to his limit with that last performance. But apparently two days of lazing around, having done nothing but watch sh*tty telly and go for brunch, was the recipe to wake up on Monday feeling totally refreshed.

The next performance to tackle is The Dream, a classical ballet Wyll has never had the opportunity to perform before, along with whatever contemporary ballet Halsin is about to choreograph on them. Wyll is very excited for that, even though he's much more of a classical ballet dancer than a contemporary dancer. Oh, he can enjoy a nice piece of contemporary; he finds it quite freeing to put on some simpler instrumentals and improv to them, just following his body's instincts to dance. But at heart he'll always love the storytelling and structure that come with classical ballet.

Still, Halsin's contemporary pieces are quite special. He's caught a couple of them live on stage and always left feeling completely connected to the music, to the dancers, to the performance as a whole. There's just something in the way Halsin cleverly uses the whole body as a means of expression that makes total magic on stage.

And now Wyll will be able to help in the choreographic process itself. Oh, it's about to be so much fun!

He's smiling just thinking about it as he walks into the first morning class of the week. There he spies Astarion for the first time since the soirée, in his usual barre spot. For a split-second Wyll thinks about setting up away from him, instead of behind him like Wyll's fallen into the habit of doing. But then he thinks about how pissed Karlach would be if she found out. Stand up for yourself, she'd said. So he walks over to his preferred spot and sets up his rollers and water bottle, nerves be damned.

"Good morning," he says, and Astarion startles so hard he drops his own water, the metal clangechoing throughout the entire studio.

"Yes, good morning," Astarion says as he rights the bottle, his face flushed. "Ah—Wyll, I'm very—"

"Not now," he interrupts gently. "If we're going to talk, let's do it after, alright?"

Astarion nods at him, biting his lower lip. And before he can say anything else Jaheira waltzes into the studio with Milil at her heels, greeting the company and launching into the first combination of the day.

Class flies by at a brisk pace. Wyll relishes the feeling of getting his muscles up and moving again, it feels so damn good. By the time the révérence rolls around he feels nice and awakened, ready for the first rehearsals that lie ahead. All the dancers scatter to collect their things after Jaheira dimisses them. When Wyll goes back to the wall to pick up his rollers Astarion is there, trying to look casual but not playing it off very well at all.

"So, you have a bit of time now, right," Astarion says, setting his shoulders back. "Because honestly this has been hanging over me all weekend long, and I want to do it right—"

Dancers dotted all around the studio are staring at them and Wyll can tell it is making Astarion quite uncomfortable. It's making Wyll a bit uncomfortable too, truth be told.

"Come," Wyll says, taking pity on him. "I know a place where we won't be overheard. It's not far, I promise." Warily Astarion nods in agreement and follows as Wyll recalls the path up to the rooftop that Alfira and Lakrissa had shown him on his very first day. The crisp fall air feels like a balm on his sweaty skin, and he watches in amusem*nt as Astarion's eyes widen in surprise at the stunning view.

"Over ten years I've been here, and I didn't even know this existed," Astarion murmurs. "Well I suppose this will serve perfectly, thank you."

"Alfira and Lakrissa took me here right after my first class," Wyll says as he finds a place to sit and motions for Astarion to join him.

"They're very sweet girls," Astarion says softly as he leans back against the white marble. "I...I didn't mean for her compliments for you to be spoiled like that. She's right. You were the obvious choice."

Wyll studies him as Astarion falls quiet. Karlach's words keep echoing in his mind; he has to apologise, he has to apologise.

Finally Astarion gathers the courage to look him properly in the eye. "Wyll, I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said. I shouldn't have made a scene, I shouldn't have—ugh! I'm no good at this," he scowls.

"I think you're doing fine so far," Wyll says, smiling a bit. It is a littlefun to watch Astarion squirm so badly.

"It was wrong of me, is what I’m trying to say. I know that now, I knewthat then, I was just…I was drunk, and pissed off, and you got the brunt of it. And I’m sorry for that."

"That was hard for you to say, wasn’t it," Wyll teases.

"Oh, don’t laugh," Astarion grimaces. "Yes. It is hard, actually. I'm making a real effort here!"

"I know," Wyll says, sobering up. "Astarion, what you said...that really hurt. I'm not trying to get in your way. I show up, doing my best everyday, as we all do. I don't have—I don't know, a vendetta against you or something like that. I'm just trying to do my job, and do it well."

Astarion is twisting his pale hands together in his lap, looking pained. "Aren't we all, darling. That's all I ever do. My best, every damn day, and it's just not enough."

"I'm not going to apologise for doing what I need to do," Wyll says. "We're going to be considered for the same roles for the rest of the season. And I really don't want to be at each other's throats like this. It's exhausting. I want to see you succeed, I do, but I'm not about to limit myself on what I know I can do."

"I'd never ask that of you," Astarion says quietly. "You shouldn't hold back on my account. Because—well, for one I'd never hold back for anyone, but also...you're going to go far, Wyll. You have the talent, and god knows you're nice enough to deserve it. You're so nice to everyone, it's sickening, you know that?"

"Taking that one as a compliment," Wyll laughs. "So...can we call this a truce? Can we agree to share both stage and dressing room in harmony from now on?"

"Well, I don't know about harmony," Astarion scoffs. "Sounds far too twee for me. How about...in peace?"

"Peace would be wonderful," Wyll agrees. "Peace sounds lovely. I appreciate the apology, you know. I'm very glad for it, especially because Karlach did threaten to knock one out of you by force if necessary."

"She said that?" Astarion exclaims, alarmed. "Oh god, I'd have been crushed. That woman frightens me."

"Oh, but she's great, really! You should pay her a visit someday. Trust, you won't find a better masseuse around."

"We'll see," Astarion sniffs. "Extremely cheerful people make me a bit suspicious, and she's always walking around with far too much pep in her step."

They lapse into a silence for a bit then, just gazing out at London spread like a patchwork blanket before them. Eventually Wyll feels the press of time, there are first rehearsals to attend soon.

"I'm going to head in now," Wyll says as he gets up, dusting off his warm up pants. "Would you like to join me for lunch?"

"I think I'm going to stay out here for a little longer," Astarion says, his gaze softening as he looks back out to the skyline. "Wyll...thank you. For showing me this."

"It's my pleasure," he says. For just a moment longer, Wyll lingers to look, but not at the skyline. Astarion's eyes are closed and his face is turned to the high noon sun, practically basking in it. It warms Wyll's heart to see him so—at peace.

f*ck, he really doeshave it bad.

~*~

Wyll's face warms as he slips his phone back into his bag. He's heading to the preliminary rehearsal for Halsin's piece and he does not need to be distracted with the thoughts Karlach is bound to start putting into his head, thank you very much. It's time to listen and to focus.

About half the company is milling about the large rehearsal studio, waiting for Halsin to show up and begin. Just as Wyll finds a spot near Alfira and Lae'zel he appears, no musical accompanist in sight.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Halsin says, that deep powerful voice bringing all the dancers to instant attention. "I'm so glad you are all able to join me for the creation of this new ballet. I think it's one we shall all be proud of by the end. But the most important thing: I want everyone here to feel connected to the creative process. This is not just my piece, this is all of yours. Your opinions, your thoughts and feelings, they are all very important to me and I would like to hear them as we go along."

There are nods of agreement, it's stuff Wyll has heard from choreographers before. But he gets the feeling that Halsin is one of the rare ones who truly mean it.

"Now the ballet will be roughly an hour long, and I've picked out the medley of music we are going to use. It touches me deeply and I'd like you all to get a good feel for it by the end of the day. There will be an opening pas de trois, then a section with the corps, followed by a pas de quatre. Then a pas de deux, of course, and we'll end with the whole cast together in a final scene."

He clears his throat and walks over to the speakers, setting up his music. A deep thrumming violin piece begins.

"Feel for the music," Halsin calls out. "In a circle, please. I want you all to close your eyes and just walk to the music, feel it in your body."

Wyll does so. He loosens all his muscles and walks languidly to the beat, hoping he doesn't bump into anyone else. But they are all trained professionals, after all. There are no collisions. Within a few seconds he settles into a comfortable rhythm.

"That's it! Discover the tempo, how fast or slow it wants you to flow."

Within the time allotted for rehearsal, Halsin puts them through a variety of exercises and begins to teach them the language of the new ballet. There is going to be steel at the core of this piece, Wyll thinks. Everything is wrapped in layers of soft fluidity, but at the heart of every movement there has to be firm power and presence.

In the final fifteen minutes or so Halsin tells the corps to step out, thanking them for their time and hard work. The remaining soloists and principals gather in the centre of the room, waiting as he looks up and down the line. He pulls Lae'zel, Shadowheart, and Minthara to one side. Lakrissa and Alfira to another, along with two other male second soloists. Then Halsin pauses as he considers the remaining dancers.

"Yes," Halsin murmurs to himself. "Yes, I think so. Wyll, Astarion, please step to this side." They do so, Minthara smirking at them all the while. Shadowheart leans in to whisper something to Lae'zel, who actually smiles.

"They could try to be a little less obvious in their staring," Astarion huffs.

"Alright, thank you everyone. The trio of strong women over here, you will dance the pas de trois. It's going to be quite violent, so prepare yourselves," Halsin chuckles.

"In the middle, my pas de quatre. I am excited to see how this group will work as one." Alfira and Lakrissa are beaming at Halsin, clearly thrilled that they get to choreograph something together.

"Finally...yes, I think this will work well. Wyll and Astarion, you shall dance the final pas de deux together."

Oh god. Wyll supposes he knew, as soon as Halsin pulled them to the side, what the older dancer was thinking.

But oh god, a pas de deux. With Astarion. Has Halsin gone mad?! Does he not remember what happened at the soirée? He was there!

Beside him Astarion looks utterly stunned at the turn of events.

"Ah—I don't mean to protest, of course, just—are you sure?" Astarion asks in disbelief.

"Quite sure," Halsin smiles. "I think you two have just what this ballet requires. All of you do, and I am incredibly excited to work with each and every one of you. Thank you for your time everyone, I'll see you all tomorrow. Keep an eye on the schedules for rehearsals of your specific pieces!"

The excited dancers thank him and begin exiting, but both Wyll and Astarion just...stand there, for a few seconds more.

"Well then," Astarion begins, breaking the silence. "Good thing we've already decided on peace."

"Yeah, good thing," Wyll echoes.

A pas de deux together. Karlach is going to freakwhen she finds out...

Chapter 7: autumn - chapter seven

Chapter Text

When Astarion walks into the studio for the first rehearsal of Halsin's new pas de deux, he's not quite sure what to expect. A pas de deux, or "step of two" is usually a set formula in classical ballet. The ballerina and her partner dance together in a romantic adagio, then they each perform a solo variation. The pas de deux finishes with a thrilling coda where they dance together once again, showing off huge leaps and dizzying turns to dazzle the audience. But in contemporary ballet, there are simply no rules.

Especially when the pas de deux is going to be danced by two men together.

Wyll and Halsin are already stretching and chatting together as Astarion arrives. It's strange, he can't remember the last time he felt so nervous for a first rehearsal. God only knows what Halsin's got in store for them, but judging by his previous works, there will be plenty of close partnered flips and lifts, plenty of...contact.

"Ah, Astarion! Welcome," Halsin calls. "Please, join us and stretch a bit. I was just telling Wyll all about my inspiration for this piece."

"Doubtless it's something florid and terribly introspective," Astarion sniffs as he sits down beside them and begins to stretch out his hamstrings. "I am familiar with your work, you know."

"I suppose it could come off that way," Halsin laughs warmly, letting the sarcasm roll right off his back. "But in this piece I want to dig deeper into how—violentan all-encompassing passionate love affair can be. A flame, sparking quickly and burning brightly, and dying just as fast as it begins."

"As I said, florid and terribly introspective," Astarion says, and Wyll chuckles.

"Love has been fodder for art since the very dawn of mankind," Halsin smiles. "And its font of inspiration has yet to run dry. I shall play the music for you both. Close your eyes and listen, if you would."

They both obey as Halsin gets up to turn on the music. A single, sustained violin note rings out, so high it almost sounds like the buzzing of a mosquito or static feedback.

"There will be others on the stage with you to begin," Halsin says lowly as the note goes on. "You shall stand facing each other in profile to the audience, and look into each other's eyes as the other dancers leave the stage."

Oh, so it's going to be thatkind of piece. Wonderful. Another lower violin breaks the buzzing, beginning a cascade of runs up and down a scale that continues on and on as more string instruments join in. Soon the music melds into a whirling, layered thing as it crescendos to a thrilling climax, the strings going faster and faster. It feels almost like one is caught in the midst of a musical hurricane, Astarion thinks. As much as he rolls his eyes at Halsin's words, he begins to understand just how perfectly this music encapsulates the vicious, confining press of torrential love affair.

The strings suddenly gutter to a stop, without a real resolution to the melody. It just...stops. Astarion's eyes fly open as lets out a breath he didn't even realise he was holding.

"Powerful, isn't it," Halsin says. Wyll is shaking his head, as if to clear his mind of what he just heard and focus.

"That was intense," Wyll laughs. "I'm a bit frightened to see what you have in mind for choreography! What could possibly match that speed, that intensity?"

"We shall discover that together, my friend," Halsin grins as he gestures for them to rise and join him in the centre of the studio. "And there's no time like the present. Face each other please, standing over here, back left quadrant of the stage. Look into each other's eyes—yes, just like that."

Wyll is just a bit taller than him, Astarion notes as he gazes up into Wyll's warm brown eyes. He also looks as though he's fighting not to smile.

"Now, I want you both to dive toward each other, bending at the waist like so—it should look as if you barely missed hitting each other's heads. Astarion, grab onto Wyll's waist here, like this, as you both plié like this, rolling down in a sort of wave with your whole body."

And with that, they begin the slow, stop and start process of choreographing a ballet together. Halsin is very receptive to their feedback, constantly checking in to see what feels natural to them, what feels as if it won't work. But still, the piece is very technically challenging. And to make matters...well, not worse, but certainly more difficult, there are precious few seconds where they separate completely. They are constantly connected—touching hands, holding one another around the waist, grasping onto legs and arms.

Astarion has never felt so stripped down, so very nakedduring a piece. Wyll's hands are everywhere because they have to be everywhere, but it is overwhelming in its intensity. As the time ticks forward Astarion feels more and more off-kilter, which does not do him any favours when it comes to trying the first proper lifts.

"Alright, try it out. Remember Astarion, give Wyll a nice deep plié so that he knows exactly where your weight will be. And Wyll—his centre of gravity will be different than if you were partnering one of the women. Make sure to support him evenly around here," Halsin guides. "You might have to put a bit more strength into it. Let's give it a go."

Wyll nods and they step into the lift. Wyll is meant to hold him close, in a total embrace, so that Astarion is pressed up with his back against Wyll's chest. Then Astarion is meant to use Wyll's thigh as leverage as Wyll lifts him up, so that Astarion can kick out his legs in a sort of fan-like motion. It's a lift that needs flexibility and stability, but god it is so hardto focus on technique when Wyll is holding him close to his chest like this!

He can feel Wyll's muscles flexing as he tries to lift Astarion up high...but Astarion can't quite find Wyll's thigh to step up onto. He slips and Wyll just barely catches him, stopping Astarion from ending up in a heap on the studio floor.

"Woah there," Wyll laughs. "Alright, I think we're going to have to break it down a bit further. Any tips, Halsin?"

Halsin is grinning at them, but Astarion's face is burning. It's not funny to him, quite frankly.

"I'm not used to being tossed around like a sack of potatoes," Astarion grumbles. "I'm usually the one doing the lifting!"

"I know," Halsin reassures. "I think how it went wrong is that you doubted yourself, and you doubted Wyll's ability to lift you. I could see the hesitation in your face as you stepped into it, and so you missed the mark. Try it again, but be confident!"

"I promise I won't let you fall," Wyll says quietly as they prepare to try it again. And f*ck, what does one even say to that?

The second try goes no better than the first.

"You have to trust him, Astarion," Halsin says as they untangle themselves off of the floor. "Partnering is all about having faith in your partner. If there's no faith, there's no connection, and it will go wrong."

"I am trying," Astarion hisses. "I am trying my damnedest, thank you!"

After a couple more unsuccessful attempts, Halsin decides to move on to another section. But now it's as if something has shifted; everything feels tense and awkward between them. They do their best, but none of the results are very good. After a few different flubbed lifts, Halsin calls an end to it.

"First rehearsals are bound to be rough,” he reassures. “But if I may…I’d like to give you some homework to work on.”

“If you must,” Astarion sighs as he bends to collect his things and drinks some water.

“I’d like you two to get to know each other,” Halsin says, and both Wyll and Astarion look at him in disbelief. “Away from the theatre, I insist.”

“What,” Astarion says flatly. “You’re being serious?”

“Deadly so, I’m afraid,” Halsin says cheerfully. “This piece hinges entirely on trust. And in such an environment, trust can be very hard to cultivate when you two are constantly being pitted against each other. Spend some time together away from here, and you may be surprised with the results.”

“I suppose it’s no hardship to get a coffee or something,” Wyll suggests. Halsin nods in approval at that, then wanders over to the music player, leaving them alone in the centre of the room.

“It appears as though we don’t have a choice,” Astarion sighs. “Alright. For the sake of the piece.” And if a small part of his heart leaps at the thought of spending more time with Wyll, Astarion is quick to squash it down.

“…then could I have your number?” Wyll asks, rather shyly. Astarion gives it to him, and smiles despite himself when he sees Wyll’s sent him a string of smiley faces to confirm.

“Well, a good first effort,” Halsin calls as they leave the studio. “Only up from here!”

~*~

The preliminary rehearsals for The Dream take place the very next day. It’s a bit chaotic really; all the soloists and principals are there along with all of the ballet masters and some of the répétiteurs. They split the dancers into groups, testing out bits of choreography with different variations of the cast. For the first run with Gale, Astarion is told to try Oberon with Wyll as Puck.

The thing about The Dreamis that it is at heart a comedy ballet, just like the original Shakespeare is a comedy play. There is much silly pantomime and exaggerated interactions, especially between the four Athenian lovers as well as Bottom and Titania. But Oberon too, despite having many beautiful leaping solos, is also able to ham it up on stage with Puck. Astarion won't lie, he has a lot of fun leaping around the room with Wyll. Gale seems impressed, then asks them to switch: Astarion feels less at home in the role of Puck, but he gives it a valiant try.

On the other side of the room, Minthara is dancing the scene where Titania falls in love with Bottom, newly transformed into a donkey. Halsin seems quite adept at portraying the braying donkey, and Astarion spies that Jaheira is barely containing peals of laughter as Minthara strokes Halsin's face and pretends to drape circlets of flowers around his neck.

"This is the most fun I've had in rehearsal in ages," Wyll laughs as they finish up their scene with Gale.

"It's a classic," Gale grins. "Look over there—have you ever seen Minthara smile like that?"

"It's frightening," Astarion says. "That expression does not belong on her face whatsoever. I don't know who that is, but that is not the Minthara I know."

"She should smile more often," Gale muses. "It suits her. Now: you two, well done. How about we try out Lysander and Demetrius? Are you familiar with the choreography?"

Gale teaches them the quarrel scene wherein the two Athenians, having been doused with a love at first sight potion, fight over who should win the heart of the fair Helena. Forgetting, of course, that only mere hours ago Lysander was utterly in love with the fair Hermia.

They give it their best shot, brawling safely all over their side of the studio. Gale eggs them on, telling them to go bigger, put more drama into it. By the end, both of them are gasping, half out of breath, half out of laughter.

"Take it seriously, would you," Shadowheart huffs as they spill into her space. "Or at least keep the antics out of my way!"

"Oh, lighten up," Astarion says. "Let's have some fun with this for once. We put on so many dark and tragic stories, but add in one donkey and you're pouting all over the place?"

"The only role I can see myself in is Titania," Shadowheart says with her nose in the air. "Everything else is more mime than true dance!"

"I don't know, looks like there's plenty of mime there too," Wyll chuckles, gesturing towards Minthara who is now stroking Halsin's pretend donkey ears.

"Alright, alright. Let's get back to it," Gale calls. "Come, Shadowheart. You can be Helena as these two buffoons each try to confess their love to you!"

~*~

A few short days after the hilarious first rehearsal, the casting goes up after morning class. As dancers quickly gather their things and race to the bulletin board, Astarion stays back. He's just...he knowshe gave it everything he had. He feels like he's got a good grasp of the choreography. But after last time, he can't believe that that's enough to land him Oberon.

"Astarion," Jaheira calls as the last dancers leave the studio, while he's still packing up. "Don't you wish to see the casting?"

"Oh, what's the difference between now and fifteen minutes from now? It's not going to change what's written on the sheet," he says, taking his time.

"That may be true. But I think you should go and join the others for this one," Jaheira says with a smile, and Astarion stares at her as his heart skips a beat.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying," he asks, hardly daring to breathe.

"Run along, Astarion," she grins. "I don't think you'll be disappointed this time."

And so he runs. He tosses his stuff into his bag and books it, elbowing into the crowd of dancers so that he can lay eyes on the sheet.

OBERON - ASTARION ANCUNÍN, NOVEMBER 3, 4, 6, 8 (MATINÉE), 9 (EVENING)

He did it. They actually chose him. Halsin is the other Oberon, he reads. It's only him and Halsin. Astarion closes his eyes and smiles as he just lets himself savour this moment of triumph.

Dancers are pushing at him, jostling to be able to read for themselves. His eyes flutter open, and yes, he's still listed next to the King of Fairies. Suddenly there's a gentle hand at his elbow, breaking him out of his thoughts. Wyll is beside him, urging him to move out of the way.

"I'm...Bottom?" Wyll says faintly as he looks at the sheet for himself. "Oh my god, I'm Bottom. Wait, doesn't that mean I have to wear pointe shoes?!"

"I wish you luck," Lae'zel cackles from behind them. "Men's feet are so delicate, having never built up the strength as we do en pointe. I recommend you begin exercises to strengthen your ankles immediately, lest you fail to get over the box of the shoe."

"I'll suppose I'll have to start," Wyll says. "Oh, I'm Lysander too for some of the shows. I imagine that'll be easier than the donkey!"

The continuing conversation floats right over Astarion as he barely registers it. All that's echoing through his mind is he did it, they picked him. Chose him for Oberon. Astarion hadn't let himself believe it was even possible, not after what happened during Giselle. But that is indeed his name right at the top of the sheet. And he's going to dance Oberon for the final performance! Is this what it feels like to finally be recognized? For all your hard work to actually pay off?

He feels so light and happy. He...he wants to throw his arms around Wyll and have him whisper in Astarion's ear that he's proud of him. God, what a saccharine fantasy of a thought, but if this is possible, why shouldn't he fantasise just a bit further?

"—Astarion? Are you listening?" Wyll says, pulling him out of his impossible dreams.

"Sorry darling, not really. You were saying?"

"I said congratulations," Wyll smiles. "I know how badly you wanted this."

"Wouldn't anyone? I didn't...I honestly didn't expect this," Astarion admits.

"Well, I'm not surprised. I thought you had a good shot just based on that first rehearsal!"

"Ah—thank you. It just feels a little surreal," Astarion says, shaking his head. That's when Wyll's congratulatory expression drops, and a pale, long-fingered hand lands firmly on Astarion's shoulder.

"Astarion," Cazador utters. "Well done. May I borrow you for a quick meeting? We certainly have much to discuss now."

"Of course," he says, and turns back to Wyll. "I'll see you tomorrow for our rehearsal." Wyll nods and Cazador's fingers dig just a touch deeper into the muscles of his shoulder. Astarion turns away from the chattering crowd and follows the pull of Cazador, his stomach twisting into gnarled knots.

He's done well, there's proof of it right up on that board. Cazador vouched for him, is pleased with him, is perhaps even happywith his protégé for once.

So why does he want to flee?

Cazador ushers him into his office, and locks the door behind them. He settles back into the plush chair behind his desk, and Astarion waits.

"Are you pleased with it?" Cazador asks bluntly, after a painfully long pause.

"With the role, sir? I'm—I'm beyond pleased, I'm thrilled."

"Good," Cazador says. "It was not easy to convince the others that you could handle Oberon. Especially after that little...debacle that occurred after Giselle."

Astarion swallows hard. So, Cazador knows about Minthara's soirée. He oughtn't be surprised, as it's likely the entire company knows all the juicy details by now.

"I'm very grateful that you took a chance on me," he says, bowing his head just a touch. "That...night was not a good reflection of my character. It's not how I wish to be thought of."

"I found it to be quite in character," Cazador says, amused. "You've always had a short fuse. No patience, no willingness to let others have the spotlight. After all, how many times have you had a little meltdown in this very room?"

Astarion's face burns in shame. "Too many," he says softly.

"But there will be no tears today," Cazador says, standing up and walking around to the front of his desk. On instinct, Astarion takes a step back. "Today, my boy, you have done well. But you must continue to do well. I stuck my neck out for you this week, and in return I expect to be blown away by your performance."

"You will be," Astarion says, stepping back once again. Cazador is just...a very tall man, and it makes Astarion uncomfortable when he looms over him like this. "I'm very grateful for all your support, truly. I will not let you down. I knowhow much is riding on this."

"Your career rides on this," Cazador smiles silkily. Then he reaches one thin hand out and wraps it around Astarion's waist, and Astarion freezes. "And if you know what's good for you, you'd thank me for the opportunity I've kindly given you."

"Thank you, sir," he stammers.

"No. Thank me properly." A second hand lands on his other side, and Cazador pulls him in close.

"Thank you," Astarion murmurs as he closes his eyes and reaches up for a kiss. Cazador's lips hungrily meet his, kissing like some starving thing. Astarion jolts at the intensity of it, but Cazador's hands at his waist squeeze him tight, so tight that Astarion gasps into the kiss out of shock.

"My sweet Astarion," Cazador pants. "You will be so good for me now, now that I've given you just what you want." And Astarion muffles a shriek as Cazador forces him down onto the desk, bending him over and rucking up his t-shirt so that his back is exposed to frigid air. Cazador's hands stroke possessively down the knobs of his spine before one lands in his hair, keeping his face mashed into the hard cherrywood of the desk. Astarion whimpers as Cazador's fingers tangle in the waistband of his tights, pulling them down along with his dance belt.

"Have you touched yourself here since the last time we met," Cazador asks, circling one probing finger around Astarion's entrance.

"N-no, sir," he gets out through gasps. Cazador had been rough last time, rough to the point where it hurtinstead of being any bit pleasurable. Astarion hadn't wanted to touch himself at all after that.

"Good," Cazador says as he gropes the defined muscles of Astarion's arse. "Good boy, keeping yourself all for me. Just for me." Cazador spits on his finger and rubs it around his hole, and Astarion startles at the sudden press of it.

"Please—please," he begs as it presses inside of him and begins to rub. "Please, some lube—ah!" Cazador withdraws and spits some more on his hand, then forces two fingers inside of him. God it burns, it's been too long in between and he's forgotten how much it hurts when Cazador doesn't wish to use any, he knows there's some stashed away in the drawers but it seems it won't be brought out today, f*ck.

"Please...slowly, could you—"

"The only words I want coming out of that insufferable mouth," Cazador grunts, "Are 'thank you, sir.' Am I understood?"

"Y-yes sir, thank you sir, thank you—" Astarion gasps as the long fingers spread him open, getting him ready for Cazador's co*ck. As ready as he'll ever be. But god, he is never truly ready for the pain as Cazador enters him. Astarion tries to clutch onto something, anything at all, but there's nothing to hold on to, just the smooth slippery wood of the desk. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the pain, and eventually it dulls from fiery to a slow, pulsing ache as Cazador begins to f*ck him properly.

Unprompted, an image of Wyll's face flashes in his mind. God, what would Wyll think of him if he found out about this?

...He'd think that Astarion is a dirty slu*t. He'd think that Astarion is a filthy whor*, letting Cazador lay him out on the desk like this without a word, willing to take whatever Cazador will give him as a token of his thanks.

And he'd be right.

It's imagining Wyll's expression, the look of utter disgust he'd give at this sight, that finally makes the tears flow.

Cazador was wrong. There are tears today, and try as he might Astarion cannot stop them once they get going.

"My sweet child," Cazador pants as he notices and drags one finger against the delicate skin of Astarion's undereye, collecting the moisture. "Those had better be tears of pleasure, tears of thanks."

"Thank you, sir," Astarion sobs. "Th-thank you, thank you—"

Cazador's hand pulls at his curls, forcing Astarion's head off the desk as he comes inside of him at Astarion's stuttered cries of thanks. He exhales swiftly as he lets go and withdraws, tucking himself back into his pants. Astarion stays slumped over the desk, suddenly empty.

"You will not disappoint me," Cazador murmurs as he strokes down Astarion's spine once more. "Now clean yourself up and go. There is much work to be done."

He cleans and dresses in silence, trembling hands pulling up his tights. Cazador has sat down behind the desk again, watching him as Astarion grabs his things.

"Thank you, sir," Astarion says one last time, the words coming unbidden to his tongue. Cazador nods in response, and gestures for him to leave.

He stands outside the office for just a moment. He has to gather himself, he should—he should—

His phone buzzes in his bag, and he reaches for it.

It takes Astarion longer than he’d like to admit to type out a response. His hands are shaking too badly.

Chapter 8: autumn - chapter eight

Chapter Text

Wyll stands outside the café, waiting for Astarion. He taps his feet, fidgeting. He always feels the urge to move while waiting, can never stand still. It's the dancer in him, he supposes.

They had agreed to meet on Sunday afternoon at the spot Wyll suggested, just outside of Victoria Park. He's stupidly nervous for what should be a simple coffee and chat. There should be no pressure, just a pleasant afternoon spent together, but Wyll knows he's not kidding anyone. It's coffee with someone he reallylikes, and so he's nervous as all hell.

Finally, just as he was beginning to get really worried, Wyll spies a perfectly coiffed head of curls coming his way.

"There you are! I was about to text you to see if you'd gotten lost," Wyll calls, waving Astarion over.

"Oh, never. But what are Sundays if not for nice lie-ins?" Astarion says. Wyll resists the urge to point out that its nearing four o'clock. Instead he lets himself admire Astarion in street clothes, a rare sight. He's paired a beautiful maroon wool coat with a sharp set of patterned trousers and a dark turtleneck. The combination really wouldn't work on anyone else, but of course Astarion seems to pull it off effortlessly.

"I like your coat," Wyll compliments. "I've never seen a collar that shape before! It's very nice."

"Why thank you, darling. I finished working on it yesterday, actually."

"You finished—wait, you madeit?" Wyll asks, flabbergasted.

"Didn't I tell you I sew," Astarion says, looking quite proud of himself.

"Well...yes, but sewing ribbons onto pointes isn't the same as making a whole bloody coat, I'd think!" Wyll takes a closer look at the coat. He'd have never guessed it was handmade, and it fits Astarion perfectly.

"You don't get to be my age without picking up a thing or two, dear. Now, shall we? I believe you promised me some excellent coffee," Astarion says and Wyll turns to get the door for him, ushering him into the warmth of the café.

It is a bit of a swankier place than Wyll usually frequents, true. But he had a feeling it would be right up Astarion's alley, and from the pleased expression on his face it appears Wyll was quite correct. Warm cosy lighting bounces off of exposed brick walls and illuminates the many busy patrons typing away on their laptops or mingling with small groups of friends. The place is chock full of plants; flowers hanging off of window sills and large green planters affixed to the ceiling form a lush faux canopy above them. They step up to the blue-stooled bar counter to order, and Wyll scans the array of scrumptious pastries laid out behind the glass.

"Welcome! What'll it be this aft," the cheerful barista greets.

"Could I have a light roast with oat milk, please," Wyll asks, then he points towards a particularly delicious looking pile of flakey pain au chocolats. "And two of these? If you like chocolate," he says, turning to Astarion.

"Ah—perhaps we could share one? They're quite large," Astarion protests.

"Oh yeah, of course. One pain au chocolat, please," Wyll smiles, and the barista nods.

"And for you," she asks Astarion.

"Hm. Could I have a freshly brewed dark roast, from arabica beans, please. Absolutely no milk, and a single pump of vanilla syrup."

To the barista's credit she takes the order like a champ, not a hint of laughter to be seen. Wyll, however, is apparently not so good an actor.

"What," Astarion scowls as he realises Wyll is trying not to crack a smile.

"Oh, nothing! Just that I made the right choice by picking this place. I knew you were a fancy coffee person," he teases.

"Well, of course. I refuse to drink middling when fancy is right there."

The barista makes them their drinks and hands over the pastry, and they pick a small table tucked away in the corner, near a beautiful planter of begonias. Astarion carefully arranges his new coat over the back of the chair, then sits down and hums in pleasure as he takes a sip of his coffee.

"Oh, this is quite nice," he admits. "I'm impressed."

"Excellent," Wyll grins as he splits the pastry in half and tries a bite. It's buttery and the chocolate is rich and smooth, delicious.

"So," Astarion begins. "You said you live near here?"

"Oh yes," Wyll swallows. "I've got a small flat to myself. I have to say, it's a very nice change from flatmates," he grins.

"Flatmates. I've actually never had any before," Astarion muses. "Always lived on my own."

"Even as an apprentice?" Wyll asks.

"Oh, yes. For one it was a bit cheaper then, and...well. I had a bit of help," Astarion admits.

"Your family? That's nice of them, to have supported you. My father wasn't so inclined," Wyll says, squashing down a hint of jealousy.

"Absolutely not," Astarion scowls. "I haven't talked to my parents since I was sixteen and decided to accept the Royal Baldur School's scholarship offer. No, it was—another source."

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that," Wyll says.

"Don't be. We never really got along. I spent all the time I could dancing, neglecting school, and they were thoroughly sick of my 'laxness towards responsibility' when I grew older. It was no hardship to bid them goodbye," Astarion declares, but Wyll's not entirely sure that's the full truth of it.

"Well. We're a bit of the same make, I suppose. My father also wasn't pleased when I decided ballet was a career option for me. He wanted me to follow him into policing instead."

Astarion snorts into his coffee at that. "You, a cop? Please. You wouldn't have lasted five seconds."

"I know," Wyll laughs. "Imagine me arresting people?"

"You'd let them all off if they gave you a sweet enough sob story," Astarion snigg*rs.

"What would you have been, do you think, if it wasn't for ballet?" Wyll asks.

"Hm. Well, probably a tailor or designer. Clearly, I have a gift," Astarion says, none too modestly. Wyll grins at that. "Actually...if I had to take anything creative off the table, I always thought I could have made a good lawyer."

"Really?" Wyll says, surprised. "Interesting. You know, I can sort of see it. But somehow I don't think you'd be the public defender type."

"Ha! No, never. They don't make nearly enough cash, and if I had to spend years and years in school, I'd want my goddamn money's worth!"

"I hear that," Wyll says. He does so like to hear Astarion's laugh. His true laugh is explosive and a bit boisterous, and very rare to catch.

The conversation flows easily between them. It's funny, Wyll thinks, just how correct Halsin was. Simply by being in a new environment, surrounded by busy Londoners who have no idea who they are and who couldn't care less, the dynamic has shifted to something calmer, friendlier, happier. Astarion laughs many times at Wyll's gentle teasing and light-hearted jokes, and Wyll simply can't get enough of it. Bit by bit they polish off their coffees and the pastry.

"Well, this has truly been a treat," Astarion admits. "I must say, I was hesitant about this. I didn't think Silverbough had any merit with this idea, but it seems I've been proven wrong."

"Where would you like to go next," Wyll grins. "I can show you around some of the best shopping here. There's a couple of charity shops—don't give me that look! You can find plenty of good stuff in the charity shops! Isn't that where the most unique treasure lies, you just have to dig for it?"

"...Alright. But only because you've already buttered me up," Astarion agrees readily. "And at some point I'll have to take you to the high street stores to show you real fashion. But let me excuse myself for just a second, dear. I'll be right back."

Wyll keeps a watch over his coat and collects their empty coffee mugs to one side, to make it easier for the baristas once they leave. He's idly swiping through his phone as he waits for Astarion to come back, about to text Karlach on how it's going (she was delightedwhen Wyll told her all about Halsin's homework) when someone approaches their table. Wyll looks up, and his thoughts gutter to a halt.

"Hello, pup. Long time, no see."

"Wh-what—how did you..." Wyll stutters, unable to understand. His entire nervous system seems to be firing at once, leaving him unable to string together coherent thoughts like "I need to get out of here" and "f*ck me, what if Astarion comes back?"

"How did I find you? You know I have my ways," Mizora says as she slides into Astarion's abandoned seat. She takes off her designer wrap-around sunglasses, revealing her piercing blue eyes. "Wyll. You've been so naughty, not replying to my messages!"

"I blocked you," Wyll hisses. "You should have taken the hint, and stopped trying."

"But where's the fun in that," she smiles, her blindingly white teeth perfect as ever. "You seem to have forgotten what you're missing out on. And it's my duty to remind you."

"I know what I'm missing out on, and I don't bloody want it," Wyll says, his eyes darting to see if anyone else around them has noticed, is caring, but of course not. Mizora just looks like another stylish, glamourous young Londoner who'd be just the type to frequent this sort of place.

"You know, I wouldn't even take you back as a first soloist. No, I'd have you reinstated as a principal, right away," she coaxes, and Wyll shudders.

"I don't want it! I don't want you. How many times do I have to tell you before you understand? We are done, I have moved on!"

Mizora scowls. "Moved on. Pup, how could you wound me so? I gave you everything, made you everything that you are, and this is how you repay me? With betrayal?"

"It's not a betrayal to change jobs," Wyll says, his heart thundering. "Regular people do it all the time. What's not normal is to—to try and get them back, like you do!"

"But we're not regular people, are we," Mizora says sweetly. It makes Wyll want to hurl. "You're special. Wewere special together. You made magic on stage for me, Wyll. Pray tell, what was so wrong with our arrangement?"

"Everything," Wyll whispers in disbelief. "Everything was wrong with it! You're luckyI was blind for so long—"

"No," Mizora interrupts. "You were lucky. You were lucky I plucked you out of the line up and saw you for what you are, a star. You would be nowhere if not for me, Wyll Ravengard."

"I don't want to hear this," Wyll says through gritted teeth. "I've told you to leave me alone. I don't want to know how you tracked me down here, but it's disgusting that you even gave it thought—"

"That's right," Mizora says, and her long manicured red nails slide along the side of Astarion's finished coffee mug. "Are you here on a date, Wyll?"

"No! Not that it's any of your bloody business!"

"So defensive," Mizora huffs. "Good. Because you know you'll never have better than me. Now, before your 'not a date' comes back, I suppose I should be on my way. Just remember: my offer is always available, pup. I'd never turn your sweet face away."

"Just leave me alone," Wyll says despondently. Mizora stands up, her hands brushing against Astarion's coat as she pushes the chair back in. God, he hates to see her foul such a beautiful thing with her touch.

"Well then. You know where to find me," she says as she slips the sunglasses back on and waves goodbye. Wyll watches her like a hawk as she exits the café and trots down the street, his hands sweaty where they grip onto the table.

"Sorry darling, I know it takes me a bit to primp but I'm ready for wherever you wish to take me—Wyll? Are you quite alright?!" Astarion asks, alarmed, as he arrives back at their table. Wyll whips around to see him standing there, looking very concerned.

"Um—yes, I'm alright," he says shakily. Astarion frowns and sits down.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you. What on earth happened while I was gone?"

"Nothing," Wyll lies, but he betrays himself as he looks out the window again, tracking Mizora's back as she carefully walks down the cobbled stone sidewalk in her stilettos, getting smaller and smaller. Astarion follows his gaze, clearly trying to work out what Wyll is looking at.

"Do you know that woman, Wyll?"

"Ah—I..."

"Don't lie to me, please. Did she scare you or something?"

f*ck. He's not getting out of this without giving Astarion at least a bit of the truth, that much is clear.

"She's...an ex of mine. Bit of a blast from the past," Wyll chuckles faintly. Astarion does not look convinced.

"Did she see you here? Darling, you like you're about to be sick."

"She....may have come inside while you were gone." Astarion's eyes widen at the revelation, and he abruptly stands up, gathering up his coat.

"Come, let's get out of here. Clearly this is no longer the place to be."

"Yeah, it's not," Wyll says weakly. "I'm sorry to put such a damper on things..."

"God, don't be. Let's just go." And Astarion ushers Wyll out of the café, Wyll following him blindly as Astarion keeps a firm grip on his arm. He blinks as the crisp rush of autumn air hits him, then his feet seem glued to the entrance.

"Come, Wyll," Astarion tugs as Wyll refuses to move. "We'll make sure to go the other way. You won't run into her, I promise."

Reluctantly he follows, and Astarion guides him down the street, Wyll stumbling along after him. He's got no good sense of direction at the moment, just relies on Astarion to get him far away.

Soon they end up at the entrance to Victoria Park. Astarion takes a good long look around, then leads Wyll in once it's clear that she's nowhere to be seen.

Wyll finds he breathes a little bit easier, surrounded by old colourful trees and the cheerful noises of families enjoying the last bits of temperate weather. In silence the two of them walk through the park, until Astarion spots an empty wrought iron bench.

"Let's sit," he suggests, and Wyll obliges. For long minutes they sit as Wyll gradually pulls himself together, finally exhaling and preparing to talk some more.

"You have questions, I'll bet," Wyll begins.

"I mean—yes, of course. But you don't have to give me answers," Astarion says, twisting his hands together.

"No, it's okay. Go ahead."

"Well...did she talk to you? Or did she just see you?"

"We talked. I told her to f*ck off, which she did, eventually."

"I see...it was a bad break-up, then? Recently?"

"Yeah, it's only been a few months," Wyll says, not really answering the first part.

"I'm sorry," Astarion says, and Wyll looks up to see him looking so sincere, it's almost frighteningly out of character. "I...well, I've never run into an ex unexpectedly in public, but I can imagine it isn't very pleasant."

"It's not," Wyll chuckles wetly. "And I was having such a lovely time with you, truly. I just—god, I hate her! She's ruined such a good thing!" In frustration he digs a hand into his braids, but Astarion stops him with a careful touch to his forearm.

"Then let's not let her ruin it," he proposes. "I've had a grand time with you, Wyll. I always seem to have a grand time with you. Please don't worry about bringing the mood down."

"Alright," Wyll swallows. "Thank you, by the way. For getting me out of there. I sometimes freeze up in stressful situations."

"Oh, I'm very much the same," Astarion admits. "If I'm frightened I'll either freeze or fawn. Never can seem to flee."

"I don't think fight would have been an option," Wyll tries to joke. "She's a pretty small woman. Wouldn't have looked good from the outside."

"No, I suppose not," Astarion says with a hint of a laugh. "Though sometimes...I wish I knew how to fight..." Wyll looks at him then, and sees that Astarion seems to be a bit lost in his own thoughts, his own memories.

"We could take classes together," Wyll suggests. "Some sort of martial art. It's bound to be good cross-training for dance."

"You think you're funny, don't you? You want to do morephysical activity in your precious free time?"

"Of course not," Wyll grins, beginning to feel the loosening of anxiety as Astarion ribs him a bit. "But if it means I get to watch you learn how to punch someone out, I could be persuaded."

"Why Wyll Ravengard, I didn't know you had such a violent streak to you! Perhaps you could have made it as a cop after all."

"Oi, you take that back! That's an insult, that is!"

And just like that, the lingering tension disappears and Wyll is laughing, laughing just like normal, and Astarion is grinning that wide crinkled grin of his that Wyll so loves to see. They lose time there, just chatting and laughing as the sun begins to sink and the families start to pack up their things and depart.

"So," Wyll says as the street lamps switch on. "What do you reckon we'll get on our homework? Will the teacher be pleased?"

"Oh, nothing below first class," Astarion says gravely. "I think we've done a great job. How could he not be happy?"

"I agree," Wyll smiles. "Come. Let's get home, we should rest well for tomorrow where we show him all those perfect lifts."

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Astarion says, but he's looking quite pleased with himself. They walk to the nearest Tube, which Astarion will use to travel home. There they stand at the entrance, preparing to split ways.

"So," Astarion starts. "This was lovely, Wyll. I'm—not really sure what to say, other than it was practically perfect."

"It was, wasn't it," Wyll says. They look at each other for a long second, neither seeming to want to leave. Eventually Astarion clears his throat and turns, but Wyll catches the cuff of his coat.

"It's just," Wyll blushes. "May I hug you goodbye?"

"Oh," Astarion says, surprised. "Yes, I suppose you may." And so Wyll folds Astarion into his arms to hug him close, and—oh, it feels so right. It feels just perfect, to hold him like his.

"Thank you," Wyll whispers in his ear. "Truly, thank you."

"It was nothing, darling," Astarion says, squeezing him just so, and Wyll's happy heart flutters.

~*~

Pas de deux rehearsal is scheduled for Monday afternoon, a nice long block of time together. Wyll and Astarion enter the studio together, where Halsin is already waiting for them.

"Ah, my favourite pair return," Halsin grins. And by this point, Wyll has a solid suspicion that the man does not refer solely to a dancing pair. "How were your weekends?"

"Just marvellous, thank you," Astarion says as they drop their things in the corner and begin to stretch. "Someone took me out for a perfectly lovely coffee."

"Did they now," Halsin chuckles. "I am glad to hear it. Perhaps we shall see the fruits of the coffee this afternoon?"

"Perhaps we shall," Astarion agrees, lips quirking just a bit. The three of them finish warming up, then jump right into rehearsing the piece.

And this time—oh, everything goes so smoothly. It isn't perfect, of course. They are in the early stages yet. But even in the first run through with music of the session, Wyll feels so much more confident. Halsin watches them with intensity, calling out moments to emphasise more, certain musical beats to hit. There's so much life to this piece, Wyll marvels as they push and pull with each other, playing off one another's inner strength. The music wraps around them, cradling them in the whirling scales as they become lost in one another. And this time, with every big lift, Astarion throws himself into them with wild abandon and Wyll always, always catches him.

Then, before Wyll even knows it, they are at the end of the dance. They flow into the final pose, Wyll lunging with one leg splayed out behind him while Astarion drapes himself backwards over his bent knee, in a deep dramatic backbend. Wyll raises his arms up as the music stops, and they both breath hard.

"Good," Halsin encourages. "Now, the lights will still be up. Help him up the way I showed you and stand facing each other, just like the beginning."

Wordlessly Wyll bends forward so that Astarion can wrap one hand around his neck, the other around his back, and Wyll slips his own arms around the small of Astarion's waist. He lifts Astarion out of the back bend, spinning them around so that they change places gracefully, back into their original spots. It would be so easy, Wyll thinks. It would be so easy to kiss him like this.

"Bravo," Halsin interrupts softly. "Bravo, you two. I knew you could do it."

"You caught me so easily," Astarion whispers, for Wyll's ears alone.

"Didn't I promise to," Wyll smiles, then he shakes his head to clear his mind of fantasy and turns to Halsin, who's looking at them proudly.

"That must have been one hell of a coffee," Halsin chuckles, once he sees he has their attention once more. "It was beautiful, and I thank you for letting me witness it. Now, a couple notes...Wyll, make sure you travel enough on that second count of eight to reach the mark here, we don't want poor Astarion to have to sprint to catch you. Astarion, try to extend your arabesque more at the end of this phrase here, there we go, yes, like that that's lovely—"

Chapter 9: autumn - chapter nine

Chapter Text

Sweat is dripping freely down Astarion's back as he pushes through the last seconds of one of Oberon's solo sections. He leaps in great gallops around the rehearsal studio as he finishes off the manège, a whirlwind of fast steps danced in a circle. Cazador's sharp claps ring out on every count and Astarion tries his utmost to meet them, but it is so very hard.

"Faster, Astarion! Do not be late!" Cazador scolds and Astarion forces his tired legs to pick up the pace. Jump even higher, land even quieter, move even faster.

"Knees straight! I do not wish to see any sloppy lines today!"

Astarion pulls up and locks his knees as he soars to the side of the studio in the last jump, a great grand jeté. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he hits the full split in the air, and he can't help but smile. It was a beautiful jump.

Cazador signals for Milil to stop the music. Astarion turns to him, breathing heavily.

"I have seen better," Cazador says, and Astarion schools his expression. "I have seen better from you, even. You were entirely off the music for the beginning pirouettes. Do not go for a triple pirouette if you cannot even land a clean double!"

"Yes, sir," Astarion answers, defeated. He knowsnot to go for more pirouettes than he can handle, everyone knows a clean turn is better than more turns. But he can do a clean triple!

"For what it's worth, Minsc thought Astarion was very good!" Minsc pipes up from the corner, and Astarion can see Cazador's brow twitch in annoyance.

"I do not recall asking for your opinion, Minsc," Cazador says, with the fakest smile Astarion has ever seen him wear. It would be hilarious if it wasn't so nerve-wracking.

"Oh, yes. But I thought Astarion could use the encouragement anyways," Minsc says, blissfully oblivious as always.

Look, it's not that Astarion isn't grateful for Minsc's presence at the moment. Minsc is to be the Puck to his Oberon, and he really is the perfect choice for the role. After all, the second soloist has never had many brains, and neither does Puck. But right now Minsc is making all the wrong choices in how to act around Cazador and Astarion just wishes he would shut up before he really ticks Cazador off.

"And when I ask for your encouragement, you are welcome to give it," Cazador says, his tone positively dripping in fake nicety that Minsc does not pick up on. "Until then, kindly refrain from doing my job. Astarion, we shall run the scherzo once more, then move on."

"Of course," Astarion says. Minsc gives him a double thumbs up, which he pointedly ignores.

He runs through the solo again, this time taking care to only go for double pirouettes, even though he knows his triples earlier were pretty darn clean.

"Better," Cazador admits curtly when he finishes with the last soaring leap. "But you can do even better than that, and I want to see better on stage. Still, let us not waste anymore time. Set up for the second pantomime scene."

Minsc hops up from the floor and joins them in the centre of the studio, a great big grin on his face. Honestly the man is built more like a bodybuilder than a dancer, and it makes Astarion a bit nervous. After all, there's one section of the choreography where Oberon is meant to help toss Puck into the air as the cheeky fairy leaps back, and...well. The problem is clear.

"Do it full out this time," Cazador says, and Minsc hesitates.

"It is just that Astarion is very small compared to Minsc, who is very big. I am a little worried I will squash him like a bug!"

"Yes, full out. And I dare say you have been spending too much time in the gym, and Astarion not enough. Do take care not to squash my soloist, I require him alive," Cazador says dryly.

"Minsc will try, Mr. Szarr, but Minsc can make no such promises!"

Fantastic. Astarion grits his teeth as they get into position. The music starts, and he forces himself into the mindset of comedy as they go through the mime of producing the magic flower that brings sleep to unsuspecting lovers. Luckily Minsc is very easy to play off of: he truly embodies the flighty spirit that is Puck, and it's simple to have fun with it, even with Cazador's beady eyes tracking their every move. They break into proper dance, and Astarion can tell that Minsc is trying his best to be gentle when he leaps towards Astarion. Still Astarion can feel his muscles straining hard as he hefts Minsc backwards, and only by Minsc's sheer power carrying him back do they make it look half-decent.

"Sloppy work," Cazador snarls. Minsc looks heartbroken at the criticism. "Again, both of you."

Again and again they rehearse, until Cazador gets sick of them and demands they try a different section. But shortly he gets sick of that too, his expression growing increasingly stormy. He signals sharply for Milil to stop the music, and Astarion waits in horrid suspense for his words.

"Useless. The two of you, make no mistake. What am I to do with you?"

"With a short break, Minsc could go again and show you better!" Minsc says, somehow still grinning. Good god, Astarion despairs, what will it take to knock it into that thick skull?! It is dangerous to rile Cazador up like this!

"That was a rhetorical question," Cazador smiles, poison layered in his words. "No Minsc, we are done for the day. I wish to have a private word with Astarion."

"Oh. Yes, Mr. Szarr," Minsc says, before he turns to Astarion and offers him a high five. Cringing inside, Astarion slaps the man's giant hand. "Good work today, Astarion!" Minsc exclaims as he cheerily waves goodbye and shuts the studio door, after Milil exits too.

"Well, Astarion. I must ask. Do you truly feel ready to take on this role?" Cazador starts. It's a trick question, Astarion thinks, his brain reeling. There may not be a right answer.

"I—Yes. I'm ready," Astarion says, trying to sound sure.

"I need someone hungry for the part. And I don't see that in you. I look at your dancing and I see nothing but resignation and exhaustion. Like you're a puppet, just letting someone tug on your strings," Cazador says, and Astarion seethes.

Perhaps if he wasn't constantly full of actual, distracting hunger, he'd be able to seem hungryfor the part. But of course he can't talk back like that. So instead all he says is "I promise you, I am beyond eager to get on that stage and show everyone what I can do."

"Then show me," Cazador says, leaning back against the mirrored wall. "Persuade me. Dazzleme. We shall not leave until you do."

Cazador wants a show? Fine, Astarion will give him a goddamn show. He sets up for the manège once more, and throws himself into it at double time. There's no music, just the panting of his breath and the rhythmic slapping of his feet on the floor as he lands. He finishes with the grandest grand jeté he's ever leapt, then turns to Cazador.

Cazador is stone-faced, arms crossed as he looks Astarion up and down.

"Again."

So he goes again. Dizzying pirouettes, rapid-fire chainé turns until he can't see straight.

"Again!"

By the third repetition, his calves are burning hot and he's so dizzy he feels almost sick with it. Yet Cazador still looks at him coolly, displeased.

"Show me your hunger. Show me how you'd killfor this, Astarion!"

His muscles are screaming at him as he forces himself through one more sequence, pushing them further than he knows is smart. Thus perhaps it is not surprising when he feels them twitch and give up on him entirely, and Astarion lands hard on the studio floor.

For a single terrifying moment he thinks he's hurt himself badly, but no, the shock wears off quickly enough and he's pretty sure he's only bruised himself. He glances up at Cazador, who is watching impassively.

"As I said. Sloppy work."

~*~

Cazador storms out of the studio ahead of him, Astarion slowly trailing behind. He glares daggers at Cazador's retreating back, but really, much of his loathing is reserved for himself. The Oberon performances are so close and he feels like he's running out of time to perfect it.

That's when he spies Wyll, who's got a pair of pointe shoes slung over his shoulder and is refilling his water at the nearby fountain. And Astarion feels the very odd urge to go over to him and spew out all his poisonous feelings about Cazador, about the rehearsal, about himself, because he knows Wyll would listen without judgement.

God, ever since their coffee "homework" Astarion has been unable to stop thinking about the man. If Wyll had haunted his thoughts before, it's increased tenfold... and he's even haunting Astarion's dreams now! Frankly Astarion can't remember the last stretch of time he's had so many pleasant dreams; his sleep is usually fitful and plagued with nightmares. But not as of late.

It was something about that afternoon, he muses. Perhaps it was how easily they flitted about in conversation, it felt so right. Perhaps...perhaps it was seeing Wyll completely befuddled after the encounter with that woman, where Astarion was able to helpfor once. Astarion has never really felt that before; that urge to wipe the frown and worry off someone's face. Yet he absolutely hated seeing the anxiety in Wyll. It felt unnatural, not right.

"Astarion!" Wyll waves, spotting him as he turns away from the fountain. "Woah—are you okay?"

f*ck, this man. So bloody perceptive.

"Just fine, dear. Just—a tough rehearsal. You know how it is."

"Don't I ever," Wyll laughs. "These things here? I'm telling you, these should be considered torture devices by rule of law!" He gestures with the pointe shoes which bounce around on their ribbons, promptly whacking Wyll in the back. Astarion can't help it, he laughs.

"See! That's what I mean," Wyll grins, but then he sobers a bit. "I'm serious though, you look kind of upset."

There's a lump in his throat, and Astarion feels like if he tries to dislodge it, then everythingwill come spilling out. And he can't let that happen. So instead he flops onto one of the hard wooden benches that line the backstage corridors, and tries to think of what to say.

Wyll joins him, and Wyll gives him time. Astarion suspects Wyll would give him infinite time, if he asked for it.

"The performances are soon," Astarion begins, a bit unsteady.

"That they are," Wyll hums. "Not feeling ready?"

"I...well, I feel ready for our piece together," he says, twisting his hands together in his lap.

"So do I. We've got it down pat," Wyll smiles. "But...The Dreamfeels less ready?"

"That's an understatement," Astarion laughs bitterly. "It's...god, it's such a hard role. And I knew that! I knew exactly what I was bloody signing up for," he says, running a frustrated hand through his hair. Wyll makes a soft sound of protest, but Astarion keeps going. "I ran the scherzo over and over again today, and not once did I get it right. Not until I ended up on the floordid Cazador let us finish—"

"Wait," Wyll interrupts, frowning. "You fell? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Just bruised myself and my ego," he grouches. "I...probably should have asked for a moment's rest. But he said, he saidhe wants to see me hungry for the part. So—I couldn't." Astarion finishes his rambling thought, unsure if that even made any sense. Wyll's face is twisted in concern still.

"I don't think there's any doubt that you want this, Astarion. We all know you've been working so hard."

Astarion laughs sharply at that. "Well, one person doesn't seem to see it! The very person I need to impress, of course!"

Wyll is quiet for a moment, seemingly searching for words. "I think you're being too hard on yourself," he settles for. "So, you had a bad rehearsal. Happens to all of us. Perhaps...perhaps you don't need to worry so hard about impressing Mr. Szarr? They've given you the part for a reason. Clearly he believes you're right for it."

"Oh Wyll," Astarion sighs. "You're sweet. But you don't understand."

"Perhaps I don't," Wyll says, and Astarion feels rather like Wyll's trying to deduce something. Trying to read between the lines, and it makes Astarion feel kind of scrutinised. "But I do know that you must have given it your all today, because you always do."

"I did," Astarion whispers, dropping his head into his hands. "I really did." Suddenly he feels a warm palm on his back, and he unwittingly leans into the lovely comfort.

"Tell you what," Wyll starts quietly. "I think you should head home, call for your favourite takeaway, and prepare a really fancy bath. Are you a fancy bath person, just like you're a fancy coffee person?"

"I am," Astarion admits with a bit of a sad chuckle. "How did you know?"

"I know you well enough by now to make some good guesses," Wyll says lightly. "Come. Let's get home." And just before he lifts his palm away, he rubs Astarion's back in a soothing gesture. God, he never wants Wyll to stop. And that...that is a frightening concept, there.

He lets Wyll lead the way to the changerooms, where they get into street clothes in companionable silence. Wyll packs his pointe shoes away, giving the bag a soft pat.

"Not kidding about the torture," he whistles. "The blisters are murder!"

"Everyday I'm thankful that I'm not a ballerina," Astarion says, deadpan, and Wyll laughs loudly.

Together they exit the theatre, bidding each other goodbye as they transfer onto separate Tube lines. Astarion is lost in thought as he traces the familiar path home. The thoughts, of course, seem to revolve entirely around Wyll. When he lets himself into his flat, he looks around at the usual mess that is his sewing table, then at the spotless kitchen, and finally the very alluring call of his bed.

But perhaps Wyll is right, he thinks, chewing a bit on his lower lip. Perhaps...one takeaway won't do much harm. He must have jumped enough today to earn it, after all.

So he does the naughty thing and calls up the local curry shop, placing an order for his favourite. When it arrives the entire flat smells absolutely divine and the everpresent hunger rears its ugly head, the ache in his stomach reaching a fever pitch. Astarion tears into his meal, in what is probably a very ungraceful manner. But there's no one here to see, and he's earned this, he scolds himself. Wyll said he should, and Wyll is right about most things.

The curry is all gone before he knows it. Astarion sits back, half disgusted with himself, half very satisfied. Finally, the pain is gone.

If he's come this far, he may as well follow the rest of Wyll's suggestions. He pokes around in the linen cupboard for his stash of fancy soaps and candles, then makes a split second decision to fetch some wine he'd been saving for no particular occasion. He pours himself a glass and runs the bath as hot as it can go. Candles lit, bath bubbly, and wine acquired, Astarion sinks into the hot water and sighs in absolute bliss.

He drifts there for a bit, just sipping on the wine and letting the tension ooze out of him. Wyll really does have good ideas, he thinks, a bit dazed. His tired muscles thank him for the heat and his eyes flutter closed.

And once they're closed, of course, he daydreams. He—he imagines Wyll in the bath with him, holding him so gently. The warmth of Wyll's hand on his back today...it pales in comparison to the amount of physicality they've had while rehearsing Halsin's piece, but he can't stop thinking about it. Or about how Wyll pulled him into that sweet hug, before they went their separate ways at the end of the lovely afternoon together. God, if Wyll were here—

If Wyll were here, he dares to think, he'd hold Astarion close. He'd trail a soft hand over Astarion's chest, like so, just barely brushing his nipple. Astarion traces down his own body, letting himself float away in the fantasy. Wyll would...he'd whisper in Astarion's ear that Astarion was so very good today, and that he deserves to be treated like this. To be given infinite pleasures, but only at his request.

Astarion's co*ck begins to stir at the thought. Part of him is confused, surprised, even a touch worried, at his own body's reaction. It's been...a very long time since he's brought himself off. But most of him, oh, most of him wants to drown in the image of Wyll's careful hands making their way down his pale form. The Wyll in his mind's eye would huff at the sight, would say in that warm voice, 'Is this all for me, my love?' and Astarion would gasp a yes, because yes of course it's all for Wyll, it's only for Wyll, no one else can make him feel this way anymore—

'You've worked so hard today,' Wyll would say. And then, 'Let me take care of you, please.' And he'd pepper Astarion's neck with kisses as he grasps Astarion's co*ck and strokes him just so, oh, and maybe he'd suckle on the ridges of Astarion's ears, where he's so very sensitive. Astarion shudders as he gets carried away in his own mind. It would feel so good, so right, Wyll would know just what to do, and he'd know if it was ever too much, but at this moment Astarion does not think he could ever get enough of Wyll. So he strokes himself faster to the blissful whims of his imagination, wanting, wanting, wanting.

f*ck, Wyll would say...'You're perfect. You're just perfect for me, aren't you?' And Astarion would moan that yes, yes he's perfect for Wyll, he wants to be perfect for him so badly please please say he's been good enough to have this, this beautiful moment here pleaselet him have it in real life, not just in the whims of his tired mind, god he's never wanted for something so badly before but it's like Wyll has rewired him entirely to ache only for this...

Astarion comes with a strangled moan all over himself, a faint echo of Wyll still whispering to him 'Beautiful. So stunning, my love, I will never get enough of you...'

His head thunks against the porcelain tiles as he sinks deeper into the water and the last threads of his imagination abandon him.

Astarion has never wanted someone like this before. It might just drive him utterly mad.

~*~

As much as Astarion wishes it would slow, time creeps on and on until they teeter right on the edge of the first performance. He is not to be Oberon on opening night, that honour goes to Halsin. Still he and Wyll must perform their contemporary pas de deux together at each performance, so on the day of the first show he goes to class, he attends final dress rehearsals, and he goes through his usual pre-performance routine even though he's not to be on until later in the evening.

Wyll is in their dressing room by the time Astarion slips in, already half in costume for Lysander. Tonight Wyll, Alfira, Lakrissa, and Dammon will be performing the quartet of lovers. Astarion's seen them in rehearsal and is excited to watch from the wings, as the four of them have done a spectacular job thus far.

"Hey there," Wyll smiles as Astarion takes his seat. "You know, you could probably go take a nap or something. You don't have to get ready for what, another couple hours?"

"What if I wanted to keep you company," Astarion counters, and Wyll's expression goes wider and just a tad flushed.

"Well, I'd never say no to that. Are you excited for Halsin's piece?"

"Yes," Astarion says, for once entirely honestly. It's all he's been thinking about today, really. "Don't you feel that it's always different, the first time on stage? More—I don't know, more intense?"

"A new piece of choreography? Oh, for sure. Contemporary especially," Wyll agrees. "I reckon it's something to do with the live music. Or maybe the hundreds of eyes on you. Either way, I promise I'll still catch you."

"I know," Astarion says softly, feeling a slight tremble course through him. The tremble of anticipation. "Well, darling. I don't mean to interrupt whatever's happening here. You need to get ready, and I need to wile away the next couple of hours."

They chat and laugh while Wyll finishes getting into costume. In this adaptation the lovers dress straight out of the eighteen-thirties, so Wyll's costume is a secretly stretchy burgundy frock coat, cravat, and a dark dramatic cape that will be flung aside on stage. Lakrissa, playing Helena, pops in at one point with her hair all done up in the ridiculous eighteen-thirties fashion to see if Wyll's ready and Astarion spends a good ten seconds laughing at her while Wyll tries his best not to join in.

"Not funny, lads," she scowls. "Hurry up, Wyll. We need to be backstage in ten!"

Astarion follows him back into the wings, preparing to watch whilst stretching to keep warm. He spies Halsin and Minthara, who are looking the most beautifully radiant he's ever seen them. Minthara's look for Titania is stunning; her hair is done in a cloud of ringlets and the diaphanous pastel shades of her long tutu offset her skin in such a lovely way. She looks every ounce the Fairy Queen, and Halsin every ounce the Fairy King beside her, all in forest green with the glittering leafy cape and the crown nestled in his hair.

The orchestra hums to life, and even though Astarion's not even in this performance, his heart rate kicks up a notch anyways in anticipation.

The corps de ballet flutters onto the stage to the singing of the violins, a flock of fairies all dressed in pale tulle, each with a darling little set of wings. They flit and fly as Halsin stands above them at the root of an old oak tree. The stage itself has transformed into a magical woodland glade, the perfect environment for fairies to play. Soon Minthara steps onto the stage, dragging behind her a little boy from the Royal Baldur School, playing a changeling child whom she immediately gets into an argument with Halsin over keeping. The unhappy couple fight and play tug of war over the child until the poor kid ends up sobbing on the ground. Privately Astarion wonders if the kid even needs to act, what with Mintharabeing his adoptive mother.

Minthara calls her fairies away and drags the child off into the wings, while Halsin fumes and calls for his mischievous ally, Puck, this evening also played by Minsc. The two set up their devious plan with the potent sleeping flowers then whisk away into the night to carry it out, just in time for Wyll and Alfira to make their entrance as the star-crossed lovers, Lysander and Hermia. The pair frolic and dance together, such a happy joyful couple, so in love. Halsin, spying on the happenings in his glade, is touched by their emotion. And then they run off, and a much more unhappy pair take their place: Demetrius and Helena, played by Dammon and Lakrissa. Lakrissa's love is unrequited, you see, and that's where Halsin has his bright idea. He calls Minsc to his side, and instructs him to not only douse his wife with the flower, but the young dandy as well, so that the poor lady's love is answered. The conniving pair run off into the midsummer night together.

Astarion watches, spellbound, as the next scene plays out. The fairies surround Minthara and lull her to sleep with a lullaby, while she twirls and leaps between them. Titania's solo is danced to perfection, the lilting choir accompanying Minthara's graceful movements to create sheer artistic perfection.

Philomel, with melody

Sing in our sweet lullaby

Never harm nor spell nor charm

Come our lovely lady nigh

So, so good night (so good night, so good night)

So good night with lullaby

The applause roars throughout the hall as Minthara takes her rest, in the nestled roots of the old oak tree. Halsin appears to charm his wife, placing the juice on her eyes. Wyll and Alfira too are lying fast asleep in the glade: but Minsc, as dim-witted a character as he is in real life, mistakes Wyll for Dammon, and charms the wrong dandy! When Dammon and Lakrissa appear back on stage, fighting as always, it is sheer chaos when Wyll wakes and spies Lakrissa first—because he instantly falls in love with her. And the chaos only thickens when Minthara later awakens from her slumber, and the first being she sets eyes on...is Bottom, the unfortunate play actor turned donkey by Minsc. The audience, and Astarion, since he knows Minthara can't hear him, laugh uproariously as the regal fairy falls head over heels for the ass.

Halsin appears again, noting the mistake as this was definitely not the expected outcome for the lovers. He tries to right it, juicing Dammon's eyes, but now bothWyll and Dammon are in love with Lakrissa and fight for her, much to Alfira's confusion and sadness. The girls begin fighting each other, the lads are fighting, it's all a mess and the audience eats it right up.

Furious, Halsin calls Minsc over and forces him to make it right. They guide the correct pairs together and once they are charmed to sleep, juice the correct eyes. When they wake, they will believe it was just a dream—a midsummer night's dream.

The soaring scherzo begins, and Astarion watches with no small amount of jealousy as Halsin flies through the tricky solo portions, making it look entirely effortless. It is the sort of dancing that can only come with years of experience, but...hasn't Astarion years of experience too?

The night begins to close, it is time for Halsin to wake Minthara and show her just how "unloyal" she's been. He wakes his wife right as Minsc turns the ass back into a man, and Minthara acts completely shocked to find herself in bed with such a man, rolling him out of the stump where he flops onto the floor. The fairy couple make peace together, Halsin feigning complete innocence of any wrongdoings of the night...and the wedding march plays, as dawn breaks and the lovers awaken. With everyone happy, every couple blissfully in love as they should be, Minthara and Halsin dance in a spectacular pas de deux together to bring the act to a close. The curtain begins to fall as the couple retire to the oak, and Minsc appears with one final cheeky leap, raising his arms as if to say "Anything can happen. Perhaps this too was all just a midsummer night's dream!"

Astarion watches with no small amount of joy as the cast take their bows and receive their flowers. Truly everyone pulled out all the stops, it was a beautiful performance. But there is still more to come. As the audience filters out for the intermission, there is a mad rush to get backstage and change into the contemporary costumes for Halsin's piece. Astarion too heads back to the dressing room to pull on his costume, and finds Wyll already stripping down.

"That went well, I think!" Wyll says as he flings parts of Lysander all over the room, trying to change as fast as possible.

"It was spectacular," Astarion admits. He cringes as Wyll tears off the cravat and it nearly lands in an open pot of foundation. "Darling, please. We have time, we're not on until the end of the piece."

"Oh, right," Wyll chuckles, slowing down a bit. "Full of adrenaline still, I guess!"

There isn't much to the contemporary costumes, truth be told. Like many modern styles they're to be shirtless and wearing nude leggings, so that the focus is entirely on their bodies with no distractions whatsoever. Wyll wipes off the sweat from the classical dancing and quickly restyles his hair, and that's really all there is to it. Good thing too, because intermission does not last forever. Soon enough the tinkling bell chimes, signalling that it is time to get backstage.

"There you are," Halsin's deep voice calls out as Astarion and Wyll walk into the wings. "My pas de deux! I have full faith that both of you are about to pull off something quite magical."

"More magical than what you just did? I don't know about that," Wyll grins. "You were a fantastic Oberon, Halsin!"

"Why thank you," Halsin says. "It is a favourite role of mine. And I have no doubt that you too, Astarion, will be spectacular in your debut."

"We shall see," Astarion replies, not fully convinced. He's starting to feel the buzzing of nerves that always hits before a performance, those butterflies that increase tenfold when it's the very first time.

"Last bits of advice, and then I'll leave you two alone," Halsin smiles. "Remember to feel the music, it will be even easier with a live orchestra. And...I'd say remember to trust each other, but I get the feeling that advice isn't quite necessary anymore."

Wyll and Astarion glance at each other at that, and Astarion feels a stirring in his chest. Because...it's true. There's nerves, yes, but he knows beyond a shadow of doubt that whatever happens on that stage, Wyll will catch him.

"Merde, you two," Halsin says, patting them on the shoulders before he takes his leave to go talk to the main stagehand.

"What a guy," Wyll chuckles, though he too seems somewhat disarmed. "Come, we should keep warm."

Astarion follows Wyll's lead, heading far into the wings where they'll have space to stretch and get some life back into their muscles. The orchestra hums and the curtain rises on the stage, revealing a minimalistic set. There is nothing at all to distract from the dance; the only element to be played with is the lighting. The instruments burst to life as Lae'zel, Minthara, and Shadowheart take the stage. And if Astarion thought he'd seen physicality in the choreography before, it is intensehere. The trio of principals seem to fight, make up, and fight again, clashing and lifting each other with so much energy they easily eat up the entire empty stage.

Astarion is so captivated by their power and presence that he unintentionally slides closer to get a better view, prompting Wyll to pull him back with a quick hand around his waist so that he won't be seen.

"Careful," Wyll whispers, smiling, and Astarion swears he forgets to breathe.

"Thanks," he whispers back, and f*ck his heart is racing. How is it even possible that one person's touch can do so much?

The piece seems to fly by. The corps de ballet sections have the most brilliant formations, where it's clear how much of a choreographic genius Halsin really is. It is hard to put something entirely new on stage, something that's truly never been seen before, but the man's done it. Astarion drinks it all in, feeling the thrumming strings and the supple movements of the dancers working in total harmony.

The quartet of soloists too is lovely, but once they're done that means it's time for the pas de deux and Astarion is growing increasingly more nervous. He's rocking back and forth on his heels, watching Alfira and Lakrissa as they twist themselves into new positions, his breath increasingly rapid.

"Hey," Wyll says softly, touching his hand to get his attention. "Astarion, we're going to be okay."

"You can tell I'm nervous, can't you," Astarion whispers back. "I—don't know why I'm so nervous. Something just feels different about this piece..."

"I feel it too," Wyll whispers, and then the sweet fool takes Astarion's handand gives it a comforting squeeze. "But I trust you. And you trust me."

"I do," Astarion breathes, forcing himself to close his eyes and just calm himself. "God, I really do."

There's applause as the quartet finish their section. The lights dim to total blackness, and Wyll squeezes his hand once more before he lets go so that they can run out onto the stage. Some of the corps de ballet join them, also in pairs, and then the lights go up.

The high, warbling sustained note of the violin begins, and Astarion looks right into Wyll's warm brown eyes. Around them the other dancers begin to move in echoes of their choreography, but Astarion can't pay them any attention. All he knows is that he needs to keep gazing into Wyll's eyes, even as the violins pick up in tempo and the corps begins to leave the stage. He cannot look away, he cannot, not until—

On cue both of them move as one, flowing down in perfect synchronicity. How many times have they gone through these minutes, how many hours have been spent to perfect this precious time together? Countless, surely. But now it is as easy as breathing. The music swells around them, cradling them in its whirling embrace, and it's like nothing Astarion's ever experienced before. The audience melts away, the orchestra, the conductor, the dancers watching from the wings, none of them really matter. What matters is Wyll, whose strength and surety is there to catch Astarion at every turn.

They twist and float together, pulling and pushing and are always, always connected. And Astarion thinks he understands now what Halsin meant about feeling the music. It's as if the music is a secret third partner in their dance of two, urging them forward, urging them even closer.

Without hesitation Astarion leaps into Wyll's waiting arms, completely sure he won't hit the ground. Wyll would never let him. His mind is curiously blank; there is only himself, and Wyll, and the music.

The strings increase in ferocity as their dance of two reaches its climax. He's never felt so...so very free, whilst dancing. It is pure bliss, and he knows that Wyll feels it too, because in this moment, they are one.

As abruptly as it began, the precious moment ends. He's draped over Wyll's knee, both of them pausing, breathless, as the distant roaring of applause filters in. But that doesn't matter. What matters is the two of them, nothing more. Gently Wyll bends to scoop Astarion up onto his feet once more, and they look at each other, panting for breath. The lights go down, leaving them in the pitch black of night.

And Astarion reaches for him. He reaches up and finds Wyll's face in the dark, and kisses him, kisses him deeply with more raw emotion than he thinks he's ever felt in his life. There's a surprised hitching of breath, and then Wyll's kissing him back, and he's fumbling in the dark for Astarion's waist as he kisses him back, to hold him close for as long as they're able. Nothing, nothingmatters but this, this sweetness, Wyll is all he knows and Astarion cannot get enough of him.

They spring apart, wild-eyed, as the lights come back on. Astarion's not sure how much the audience saw, and frankly in this moment he does not care. For a split-second they just stand there until Wyll regains some sense and takes Astarion's hand, turning him to face the audience and lifting their joined hands together to sweep into the bow. There's applause, thunderous applause, but Astarion barely hears it.

The other dancers come out on stage for their bows as the pas de deux was the last section of the piece. Then Halsin appears for his flowers and makes a short speech, though Astarion has no earthly idea what he said. The only thought running circles through his mind is oh god, oh god I just kissed Wyll Ravengard, I just kissed Wyll Ravengard and he kissed me back. The entire cast take their bows and the final curtain of the evening falls, and Wyll's somehow still holding his hand.

The company explodes into cheers and chatter, the opening performance concluded. But Wyll and Astarion only have eyes for each other.

"Come on," Astarion says at last, breaking the spell. "Dressing room. Now."

"Okay," Wyll agrees breathlessly, and he lets Astarion pull him there, the two of them practically tripping over each other in their haste to be alone. Astarion slams the dressing room door shut behind them and pushes Wyll up against it, crashing their lips together again. This time Wyll's hand flies to his hair, stroking Astarion's soft styled curls as they sink into the kiss together.

"Oh f*ck, Astarion," Wyll swears as they separate for air. "I've—god, I've wanted you for so long, you have no idea..."

"Then take me home tonight," Astarion says between increasingly desperate kisses, his hands clutching at Wyll's shoulders. "Wyll, please...please take me home, I want you too, I want you so badly—"

"I—I wish I could," Wyll gasps, and Astarion freezes.

"But you want me," he says, feeling an inkling of panic. "Don't you?"

"I do," Wyll says, punctuating the statement with another kiss that Astarion relaxes back into. "I'm just—well. You can call me old-fashioned, but I would like to take you out properly first."

"Properly," Astarion blinks, dazed. "And—what does properly mean, exactly?"

"I'd get you flowers," Wyll smiles. "And I'd take you out for a nice dinner, somewhere that has a long wine list. Something of that sort."

"Wyll," Astarion says, shaking his head. "Don't you know I'm easy? You don't need to do all that for me."

Wyll's smile dims at that, just slightly. Then he presses a tender kiss to Astarion's forehead, and goodness—thatgets Astarion truly melting into Wyll's arms. "But what if I want to," Wyll whispers. "I think you deserve it."

"...Alright," Astarion agrees softly. "Alright, Mr. Ravengard. Wine me and dine me if you must."

"I'm afraid I must," Wyll grins. "But...that doesn't mean that I'm above enjoying this." And he captures Astarion's lips once more, and Astarion's eyes flutter closed as he lets himself enjoy it. It just—oh.

It feels so right.

Chapter 10: autumn - chapter ten

Chapter Text

Wyll sends the text and waits, knowing it won't be long. He's on his way back home from the theatre after opening night, having called a cab since it was so late. It had been ridiculously hard to tear himself away from Astarion, but both of them had needed sleep desperately and eventually had to bid each other goodnight. With a kiss, of course.

Incoming Call From: Karlach 💪

Wyll accepts the call and holds his phone at a decent distance, half expecting Karlach to blow out his speakers. Oh, and she sure does.

"He kissedyou?! He kissed you! Are you totally freaking?!"

"I think you're freaking more than I am," Wyll laughs. "But god, yes. I was not expecting—Karlach, he kissed me on stageafter the pas de deux. While the lights were down. I couldn't see anything, and all of a sudden he was there..."

"I f*cking knew it! I knew you were standing too close together to be kosher! Aw solider, I'm so happy for you!"

"I'm so happy I can't even think straight," Wyll marvels. "It was perfect. He's perfect, Karlach, I kind of can't believe he wants me too."

"You're a goddamn catch, Wyll. Of course he wants you! Oh, and you were amazing tonight. The fairy stuff was great, sure, but Halsin's piece? Woof, you two knocked my socks off! I could feel the heat all the way from the fourth ring," Karlach cackles. "And now I know why, don't I? All that sexual tension, just begging to be set free..."

"Okay, yup," Wyll says, cutting her off. "Yeah. It was—honestly, electric is the only way I can describe it..."

"So...what's going to happen next?"

"Well, I said I want to take him out on a real date," Wyll says. "We'll find the time somehow between performances. sh*t, how am I nervous about it already? I want it to be perfect..."

"Shouldn't put so much pressure on yourself, soldier. It's just a first date, and it's not like you two don't already know each other."

"But it's Astarion," Wyll says, hoping she understands. "He's—he's so beautiful, Karlach. He's so incredible."

"So you keep telling me," Karlach says, and Wyll can hear the grin in her voice.

"You have to meet him properly soon, okay? Get to know the real him, not the one he pretends to be."

"Look, I've never turned him away! My door is always open to anyone in the company, you know that. Astarion's the one who never comes to visit!"

"Right," Wyll admits. "I know. I'll see if I can convince him leave his usual physio for once. I just know you two would get along if you gave each other a chance." The cabbie is nearing Wyll's flat now, thank goodness. His heart is full and fluttering still, but most of him is simply very tired.

"We'll see," Karlach snorts. "But if he's got you this whipped, there must be something real to that charm."

"I am whipped," Wyll says dreamily. "Utterly whipped. And I don't even care, he's so amazing. Okay, I'm almost home now, I should go."

"Goodnight, don't let the white boys bite," Karlach cackles, and Wyll laughs despite himself.

He hangs up, pays for the cab, and hops out, heading straight up to his flat. He drops his things near the entrance and beelines for his bed, flopping backwards and sighing as all the remaining tension leaves him. Then he laughs, because god, that really did all just happen. Astarion really did kiss him in the darkness, then he shoved Wyll up against the dressing room door and kissed him and kissed himuntil Wyll couldn't bloody think, until Astarion practically begged to go home with him. Wyll is half afraid that when he wakes up it will be to the terrible realisation that this evening was all a dream, just a fantastical midsummer night's dream.

But his body is crying out for rest, and he is not fool enough to ignore it. He races through his nighttime routine, climbs back under the covers, and dreams of the softest silver curls slipping through his fingers.

~*~

In the midst of a full run of performances, it is not easy to find the time to slip away for a real date. There is only one evening during the entire run where neither Wyll nor Astarion are performing, since they have to dance the contemporary pas de deux at each show. But thankfully there is no performance scheduled on the Sunday after the premiere, ostensibly to give the dancers a bit of a break.

Thus on Sunday evening Wyll arrives at Astarion's flat, his pulse pounding in his ears. He's made reservations for the two of them at a nearby fancy French restaurant, beyond thankful to have gotten in on such short notice. It will be a classic sort of evening, Wyll thinks, what with the choice of cuisine, drinks, and flowers. But Wyll's a classic sort of man, and he's fairly certain Astarion will be pleased with his choices.

He knocks on the door to Astarion's flat, makes sure he has a good grip on the blooms.

"Just a moment, darling," Astarion's voice rings out. "This cursed thing won't tighten—there we are, for Christ's sake!" Wyll's smiling at his frustrated exclamations, but his smile drops in awe at what he sees before him, once Astarion finally opens the door.

"Sorry about that," Astarion says. "I really should have made it so I could lace it up easily myself, but here we are! Oh Wyll, those are gorgeous, how did you know I loved peonies?"

"Uh—I asked Shadowheart," Wyll says, but his brain is still stuck on the vision in front of him. "Is that...is that a corset?"

"Do you like it," Astarion preens. "I thought I'd make something special for tonight." He twirls around, and Wyll tries very hard indeed not to stare too unbecomingly. Astarion's wearing a silky ink black shirt with full sleeves, and dark slim trousers that fit just perfectly. But Wyll's eye is drawn only to his waist, which is nipped in by an actual corset of black brocade, embroidered with deep red flowers that carry shimmering hints of gold thread throughout their petals.

"You may be the prettiest thing I've ever laid eyes on," Wyll admits, and Astarion's cheeks pink a bit at the praise. "I'm not even going to wonder about how you had the time. And now I feel a bit underdressed!"

"You shouldn't," Astarion says breezily, then he reaches for the bouquet of flowers and invites Wyll in. "I've been hoping I'd see you dressed up properly one day, and the view does not disappoint." Wyll's just wearing one of his regular suits, a dark blue one he usually wears to family functions. Still, Astarion is giving him the sort of hungry look that makes him feel quite confident in himself.

Astarion finds a vase for the flowers and pours a bit of water in, then sets them onto his hall table and looks at them fondly. Wyll takes a second to look around the flat, noting the understated modern decor and clean kitchen. Besides the far corner where Astarion's sewing machine lies amongst a chaotic mess of fabric and tools, the whole flat seems spotless and almost empty.

"You know," Astarion says as he rejoins Wyll in the doorway and drapes his arms around Wyll's neck. "We don't have to go to dinner, we could just...stay here." He leans in to press a kiss to the line of Wyll's jaw, and Wyll's hands fly to the curve of his waist, seemingly without control.

"Ah—God, you're a true temptation," Wyll chuckles, forcing himself to pull back and gently unwrap Astarion's arms from his neck. "But I meant what I said. I wish to treat you to the very best of nights, and that means good food, good wine, and great conversation."

"If you insist," Astarion sighs. "I'm mostly making fun, you know. I'm—very thankful that you'd go to such lengths for me."

"It's nothing less than what you deserve," Wyll says, and he presses Astarion's hand to his lips for emphasis. Now Astarion is truly blushing.

"God, you do know that the princes in ballets aren't actually real? You needn't pretend to be one," Astarion says, flustered.

"I know," Wyll chuckles. "Come. We have reservations I fought hard for, and it wouldn't do to let them go to waste!"

Astarion gets his dress shoes and the burgundy wool coat on, and then they begin the short walk to the restaurant. It's a crisp November evening, without a single cloud in the sky. The stars are all out tonight and they pass several other nicely dressed couples out on evening walks or en route to their own plans. Yet not one person can hold a candle to Astarion's beauty, Wyll thinks reverently. Truly he is a lucky man tonight.

The restaurant Wyll's picked is smaller, just them and a handful of other tables. The maître d' shows them to their table, tucked away in the corner and lit by candlelight. The wine list is indeed extensive, and Astarion spends several minutes deciding on what to have. He finally chooses a full bodied red, at the sommelier's recommendation, while Wyll goes with a lighter white.

"And for your entrées," the waiter asks, once they've had some time to look at the slim menu.

"I'll have the boeuf bourguignon, please," Wyll decides.

The waiter turns to Astarion, whose brow is furrowed as he reads over the choices. "Astarion, this is my treat," Wyll reminds him. He knows the prices here are a bit exorbitant. "Have whatever you like, okay?"

"Right," Astarion says, but the furrow remains. "I'll have...the salade niçoise, I think."

"Did you want to share an appetiser?" Wyll prompts. "I'd like to try the steak tartare, we could split that."

"...Alright," Astarion agrees, with a moment's hesitation. It seems that Wyll needs to make it clearer that he enjoys treating Astarion, that no price and no amount of effort is too much for tonight. The waiter sweeps up the menus, leaving them alone with their drinks. Wyll takes one of Astarion's hands in his and gives it a slight squeeze, marvelling that he can do such a thing now. He takes a moment just to admire the loveliness sitting before him, the soft candlelight flickering.

"So," Wyll begins softly. "I have to ask. What prompted that kiss, hm?"

"You know, I didn't even think about it," Astarion laughs, the creases around his eyes deepening. "It just sort of...happened. I mean, you were holding me like I was...I don't know, something precious. And then the lights went down and—it was like my body moved in for it before my mind could think about why it might not have been the best idea."

"But it was the best idea," Wyll grins. "Best idea you've ever had, I'd wager. Because now I can tell you how beautiful you are tonight, and I would have never dared to do so before. I'd considered telling you I liked you, but...well. You're so beautiful that you're rather intimidating."

"Oh, stop it," Astarion says, but Wyll can tell he's enjoying the compliments. "No, it's because I was a real bitch to you early on, wasn't it?"

"That's putting it a bit harshly," Wyll laughs. "But really, I don't hold any of what happened earlier in the season against you. We were really set up to hate each other, weren't we? And none of it was even your fault or my fault, merely the quirks of circ*mstance."

"You could say so," Astarion agrees. "But I never hated you, Wyll. Was I jealous? Oh yes, terribly so. But I never hated you."

"That's relieving to hear," Wyll says. "And on a related note, I have a question. And I think you might have the answer."

"Ask away, darling."

"Shadowheart and Lae'zel. Do they really hate each other, or is it all just for show?"

Astarion laughs loudly at that, startling the neighbouring table. "Oh god, those two. The stories I could tell...I swear, I've never met two principals so determinedto catfight over roles both of them will definitely get to dance!"

"So it's not just for show," Wyll muses.

"I don't think so. But—have you noticed that despite all the outer cattiness, they are always staring at each other?"

"...I have," Wyll smiles. "Which is what prompted this question in the first place. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear there was history there."

"No history," Astarion says. "But...I know for a fact that neither of them have ever had an outside relationship while dancing here, certainly nothing more serious than a one night fling."

"Interesting, very interesting. So you're saying there's a chance!"

"I'm saying that I would not be shocked in the slightest if one day we caught them getting...friskytogether in the pointe shoe closet," Astarion smirks.

The waiter eventually arrives with their food, which looks and smells beyond delicious. The presentation is superb, the ingredients clearly as fresh as can be: Wyll can't wait to dig in.

"Bon appétit, monsieurs," the waiter declares, and Wyll thanks him. The steak tartare is indeed fantastic, and he offers a bite of the raw meat to Astarion.

"Have you ever had it before?" Wyll asks. "It's safe, even though it's raw."

"I know it's safe," Astarion scoffs. "...But yes, I've never tried it before." He takes the bite Wyll offers him, and closes his eyes in pleased surprise at the taste. God, but Wyll loves to look upon that beautiful face, all twisted in pleasure...and then he has to rapidly pull his head out of the gutter when his thoughts begin to spiral somewhere decidedly not dinner friendly.

The conversation continues merrily along as they flirt and talk, the food gradually disappearing. They talk about all sorts of subjects, from their favourite holidays (Christmas for Wyll and Halloween for Astarion, due to the fabulous costume making) to anecdotes about their past travels, and eventually the conversation drifts back to ballet, as it always does. They argue over which classical pas de deux is the most romantic; Astarion insists it is Balanchine's long and regal Diamonds pas de deux, whereas Wyll makes the case for Ashton's soft and passionate Rhapsody duet.

"Well, I daresay that was delicious," Astarion declares as the last bite is finished. "I've said it before, but I always have the grandest time with you, Wyll. And this was no exception."

"I'm very glad to hear it," Wyll smiles. "I don't think I'll ever tire of making you happy."

"God, but you do say the darndest things," Astarion sighs.

"Would you like to get dessert?" Wyll asks. "I was eyeing the mille-feuille on the menu."

Astarion hesitates once more. "...I would share it with you, if you insist."

"I do insist," Wyll grins. "What's a date without dessert?"

"But promise me," Astarion says, and he leans towards Wyll with his eyes half lidded, angling his shoulders just so. "Promise me that later tonight, I'll get what I've waited for? My true dessert?"

Wyll gulps. He's pretty sure that no man on earth would be able to say no, and he is no stronger.

"You've wined me and dined me now," Astarion continues, and now his hand is the one finding Wyll's and trailing upwards, settling on his forearm. "Please, Wyll. You wouldn't be so cruel as to leave me with nothing but a taste?"

"No," Wyll whispers. "I don't think I could."

They order the dessert and it is indeed quite scrumptious, but Wyll can barely focus on it. Underneath the table Astarion's wrapped one of his feet around Wyll's, and he's slowing closing his eyes in pleasure at the sweetness of the mille-feuille. Suddenly there is nothing Wyll wants more than to sprint back to Astarion's flat, where they can be alone together.

The last taste of mille-feuille disappears, and Wyll watches as Astarion licks the last bit of cream off of the spoon. He knows what he's doing too from the smirk he's giving Wyll, but god if it isn't an effective tactic. Wyll flags down the waiter and pays, not even looking at the total. All that matters is Astarion, all Wyll wants to do is make him the happiest he can be. He's never felt this way before, but...truth be told, he doesn't have all that much experience in the relationship department.

They leave the restaurant together, arm in arm. Some part of Wyll still cannot believe that he's the one chosen to be walking this stunning creature home. They laugh and flirt as they make their way up to Astarion's flat, both of them relaxed and satiated from the good food and wine. Astarion unlocks the door and pulls Wyll into the flat, closing it behind him. Quickly they take off their shoes and coats, feeling the heat of the flat replace the November chill.

"There," Astarion says softly, his searching gaze locking onto Wyll. "I've been waiting for this moment, you know. It's all I've thought about, all I've dreamedabout since opening night."

"Then I shan't keep you waiting any longer," Wyll murmurs and he sweeps Astarion up into his arms, feeling the delicate smoothness of Astarion's silk sleeves brushing up against his cheek as Astarion wraps his arms around Wyll's neck. For a suspended second they pause, the anticipation between them crackling before Wyll ducks down to capture Astarion's lips in the first proper kiss of the evening.

Immediately Astarion relaxes into Wyll's hold, sighing as all the residual tension leaves him. God, but Wyll could spend eternity here, just kissing and kissing. He can taste the faint sweet echo of the mille-feuille and the wine, and underneath that something fuller, something uniquely Astarion. He cannot imagine ever tiring of it. His hands stroke along the curves of the corset, feeling the painstaking embroidery beneath his fingers. Astarion shivers in his hold as Wyll tugs him closer, as his grip on Astarion's waist becomes a touch more possessive.

"Wyll," Astarion gasps as they finally part. "Take me to bed, my darling...please, pleasedon't make me ask again..."

In response Wyll presses a soft kiss to Astarion's forehead, sees his desperate gaze soften. And then he scoops Astarion up into his arms because lifting him is second nature now, as easy as anything. Astarion makes a happy sound and wraps his legs around Wyll for support, and then they get distracted kissing once more until Astarion digs his heels into Wyll's back, urging him to get moving. Wyll laughs but finally walks them over to the bedroom, his heart beating fast in anticipation of what is to come. Astarion's bed has soft white sheets and many pillows, and Wyll carefully lays him down before shrugging off his suit jacket and joining him.

"I'm so lucky," he grins softly as he settles and takes Astarion's hands in his own, lifting one up to kiss. Astarion's breath hitches at the gesture. "Tonight, I am London's luckiest man."

"I don't know," Astarion says, a bit flustered. "I'm the one who went home with a veritable prince, aren't I?"

"Perhaps we're both the luckiest," Wyll says, and he finds Astarion's lips once again, feels him sink into the pillows and sigh. Wyll chases the taste, the kiss growing more and more heated as it goes on. Astarion's hands are stroking his shoulders over his dress shirt, then fiddling with the knot of his tie. Wyll helps him remove it and Astarion's fingers immediately go for his buttons.

"God, I love this suit but I want it off," Astarion urges, and Wyll happily complies, leaning back to remove the shirt and step out of his trousers. And then he hesitates, because now he's a bit in over his head. Astarion is still fully dressed in that delectable corset, and...Wyll has no idea how to remove it. He leans back over Astarion, his hands skimming the bend of his waist once more.

"This is so beautiful," Wyll says, and Astarion smiles at the compliment. "But could you show me how to remove it?"

"Oh," Astarion laughs. "Of course—there's lacing in the back..." And he sits up on his heels and turns so his back is to Wyll, showing him how to undo the knot and unlace the corset. Wyll lets the silk ribbon pool through his fingers as he loosens the lacing, finally getting enough slack where Astarion can slip the garment over his head. Wyll kisses at the nape of Astarion's neck and runs his hands down the billowing silky shirt, then slips his hands underneath to stroke over Astarion's soft skin.

"God," Astarion shudders as he pulls off the silk and tosses it somewhere on the floor. "Wyll, please..."

"What would you like," Wyll whispers, pulling Astarion fully into his arms. There's a moment's pause and Wyll looks down at Astarion's face, finding it writ with indecision and perhaps, a touch of confusion? Wyll kisses his temple, then positions them around so that Astarion is laying on his back and Wyll can properly gaze into his eyes. "Astarion, I want to learn you. I want to learn everything that makes you sigh, where to kiss so that you shiver. But I'm no mind reader, I need you to tell me."

"I—I just want you to touch me," Astarion admits. "I don't really...usually, people just touch me for their pleasure, and I'll get something out of it that way."

Wyll frowns. He doesn't quite like the sound of that. "Well I suppose I'm different, then. Here—I'll show you one of my spots." And he takes Astarion's hand and places it on his chest, feeling a sparking of heat go through him as Astarion's fingers circle his nipple.

"I see," Astarion smirks, clearly feeling back in control. He tugs Wyll down so that Wyll's lying on top of him, and they kiss slowly, languidly. Wyll's fully hard now and brushing up against the warmth of Astarion's thigh, and it feels so goddamn good.

"My ears," Astarion gasps as they pause for breath. "If—if you kiss them, I'll like that very much—ah!" Wyll takes the direction immediately and is rewarded with the sweetest of sounds as he gently presses kisses to the shell of one of Astarion's delicate ears. Now it's Astarion's turn to rock up against him, chasing the heat.

"Oh—oh godWyll, feels so good, please I need more," Astarion moans, and Wyll is beyond happy to oblige. He strokes a palm down Astarion's chest, circling and teasing at one of his nipples. Astarion shudders at the sensation, breathing hard.

"Ah—Before we go further, I should tell you something," Wyll says, tearing himself away from Astarion with great difficulty. Astarion looks at him in confusion, a mote of worry forming.

"I'm listening..."

"I've, um—I've never actually been with a man before," Wyll admits. Astarion's eyebrows quirk up in surprise, but the worry thankfully disappears.

"Really? Oh darling, you should have said!"

"It's not a big deal," Wyll says, with a touch of a nervous laugh. "It's just—well, that's why I need direction."

"Of course," Astarion says, and suddenly it's as if he's found a new source of confidence. He grasps Wyll's shoulders and urges him to roll over, and Wyll follows so that Astarion ends up on top while now Wyll is the one on his back. "Don't you worry, you gorgeous thing. I'll make it so good for you," Astarion purrs.

"I know," Wyll says, a bit dazed at the stunning sight perched on his thighs. "But—I want to make it good for you too."

"You will," Astarion whispers as he leans forward to capture Wyll's lips. "You already have..."

Astarion then leans back and wriggles out of his trousers and pants, before sliding Wyll's pants off as well. Wyll is simply spellbound now, unable to tear his eyes away from Astarion, who's reaching over to the bedside table and grabbing some lube. He gives Wyll a sure, sultry smile before he takes Wyll's aching co*ck in hand and begins to stroke slowly, torturously.

"Oh—oh f*ck, Astarion, you're so beautiful," Wyll babbles, his hands clenching at the soft sheets.

"I know," Astarion says, then he guides Wyll's hand to his perfect arse, urging him to touch. "Darling, touch me..." Wyll obeys, awestruck at the sight. Astarion could be a Roman statue, carved from pale marble itself, he marvels. Every inch of him is flawless, a gorgeous sight that Wyll wants to take, wants to devour. Then Astarion stretches upwards and the protrusions of his ribs become slightly more visible, and part of Wyll's very distracted hindbrain frowns at the sight. But then Astarion's clever hand strokes the head of Wyll's co*ck firmly and he shudders, all conscious thoughts immediately fleeing the scene.

"Wyll," Astarion pants. "I want to show you how to touch me."

"Please," Wyll groans, and then there's the pop of the cap as Astarion takes Wyll's fingers and coats them in lube. He presses Wyll's hand to his hole, and Wyll thinks he stops breathing, so intent on the task before him. He wants to make Astarion feel so good he forgets everythingbut his pleasure. One finger slips in, and Wyll's eyes widen at the pressure, at the heat...he can barely imagine how it will feel around his co*ck, good god.

"So good," Astarion says, his eyes fluttering closed as he rocks down. "I can—I can take more..." In response Wyll presses another finger in, marvelling at the expression on Astarion's face. He curls his fingers forward, stroking inside, and he knows he's found it when Astarion gasps and his hands fly to Wyll's shoulders.

"You—oh, but you know what you're doing," Astarion accuses, and Wyll smiles. With his other hand he strokes down Astarion's side, feeling the taut muscles tremble. Astarion's co*ck is fat and heavy with his arousal, all flushed pink. Wyll takes it in hand and Astarion swears at the sensation.

"Wyll, oh god, Wyll, I need you inside me—" Astarion gasps and he tugs on Wyll's wrist, urging him to withdraw. Wyll obeys, his heart racing. And then Astarion is positioning himself close, ready to sink down. Wyll leans forward to capture his lips in an anticipatory kiss.

"Slowly," Wyll says as they break away, and Astarion nods, panting, then he's rolling his hips down and Wyll almost cries out at the tightness, the sheer heat...it's like nothing he's ever felt before. His eyes open to see Astarion's gorgeous face in complete contentment, and Wyll's heart warms.

Then Astarion starts to move, and it takes all of Wyll's self control not to end the fun the minute it begins. Astarion is rocking forward and Wyll can do nothing but hang onto his hips as Astarion rides him expertly. God, what a sight, what a lucky, lucky man he is...

"Kiss me, please," Wyll begs, and Astarion leans down to do just so. He strokes up the knobs of Astarion's spine, then...Wyll knows what he wants, more than anything in the world. He holds Astarion tightly and begins nudging him to roll over, so that Wyll can control the pace, can look into Astarion's stunning eyes and kiss and kiss. Astarion follows his lead easily, beautiful mussed curls spreading over the pillows.

"Should have known this is your favourite," Astarion gasps, laughing, but his laugh is cut short with a moan as Wyll goes deepinside him.

"Astarion, my sweet, you're so lovely—" Wyll murmurs reverently, but underneath him, Astarion freezes. Wyll stops immediately, lifts his weight off his body. "Are you—are you okay?" Wyll asks, concerned. Astarion's hands flutter up to his biceps, clutching at him.

"Yes," he says after a beat. "Keep—keep going, please. I just—I don't like being called sweet."

"Of course," Wyll says, softly kissing his forehead. "I'm glad you told me." And Astarion blushes and squirms underneath him, then wraps his legs around Wyll, and f*ck—forces him deeper inside. Wyll closes his eyes at the pleasure and reaches for Astarion's hand, and they hold onto each other as Wyll picks up the pace once more. Astarion's sounds of pure unbridled pleasure are driving Wyll absolutely mad, are going to push him over the edge any second now. He squeezes Astarion's hand in warning, pants out "Astarion, I'm close, I—where—"

"Inside me," Astarion pleads, and Wyll moans. God, he loves this, Astarion is better and lovelier than anything he could have ever imagined—

Wyll comes hard, so hard that the sensation whites out his vision for a second. He opens his eyes to see Astarion staring up at him in reverence, and Wyll wraps one hand around his flushed co*ck, giving it one stroke; and that's all it takes before Astarion is coming too, his muscles seizing and contracting around Wyll as he gasps Wyll's name. Wyll strokes him through it, and Astarion sobs at the pleasure.

Gently Wyll withdraws and gathers Astarion in his arms, rolling them onto their sides. Astarion is trembling still, his breath hitching fast. Carefully Wyll strokes his hair, pressing a kiss to the curls. Astarion shudders and turns in his hold, tucking his face into the nape of Wyll's neck. Wyll feels moisture there, trailing down Astarion's cheeks.

"You okay," he asks softly, and Astarion nods against him.

"Just—been a while," Astarion whispers and Wyll tightens his hold. "Sometimes...I guess I get overwhelmed," he chuckles wetly.

"That's okay," Wyll says, stroking down his back. He holds him until Astarion's trembling stills, then he urges Astarion to look up. He gently wipes away the tears then kisses the tip of his nose, making Astarion laugh softly.

"Let me clean you up," Wyll suggests, and Astarion nods. He fetches a warm wet towel from the bathroom and takes care to clean up any mess, to wipe down any sweat. Astarion pulls the covers up around himself, leans back against the pillows and sighs.

"Can you stay," he asks quietly. "I don't want this night to end."

"Of course," Wyll says, his heart aflutter. "Neither do I.'' He folds up the towel and joins Astarion, pulling him into his arms again. There he lets himself sink into the pillows and marvel at the silkiness of Astarion's curls under his chin, the softness of his skin beneath Wyll's hands.

"Thank you," Astarion whispers. "For everything tonight." Wyll kisses his curls in response. For Astarion, he would do anything.

Chapter 11: autumn - chapter eleven

Chapter Text

The hazy bliss of happiness that Wyll has gifted Astarion does not wear off until well into the next evening. There is of course a performance scheduled and somehow their pas de deux feels even more sensual, even more sublime, than the first time they danced together. It is so easy now to leave his heart on stage, to place it tenderly in Wyll's hands and trust it will be taken care of.

It is in the dressing room afterwards that Astarion begins to feel slightly sick with nerves. Because now there is nothing standing between him and Oberon tomorrow evening. Halsin has pulled off enough marvellous performances that Astarion hates having to follow him, for how could he possibly turn out something of the same calibre?

Wyll is beside him, cleaning up his half of the dressing room table. He catches Astarion's gaze in the mirror and smiles.

"I loved dancing with you tonight," he says and Astarion looks away, suddenly finding the sincerity hard to swallow. "Was it just me or did it seem even smoother?"

"No, I think it was," Astarion says, busying his hands by packing away his hair products. Wyll's giving him a sympathetic glance now; god, the man is veryperceptive.

"Are you feeling okay about tomorrow?"

And there it is. "How could I be," Astarion says, not even bothering to pretend anymore. "I'm—I'm not ready."

Wyll is quiet for a moment, then he slides his chair closer to Astarion's, so that he can wrap a comforting hand around his arm and press a soft kiss to his temple. Astarion's heart flutters at the gesture.

"You are," Wyll says softly, and when Astarion shakes his head he continues on. "Look, I know I could tell you over and over again that I've seen you in rehearsal, that you can more than hold your own. But I also know that's not going to convince you. So—I won't, but I will say this: trust in your body, and it will trust in you. And treat it well tonight, get lots of sleep."

"That's always your advice, isn't it," Astarion grumbles. "Sleep more, eat more, take more hot baths?"

"Because it works," Wyll says, his tone light and mischievous. "I'm serious. You should go home and rest."

It is on the tip of his tongue to ask Wyll to come home with him, to hold him until Astarion once more falls into the deepest sleep he can recall. But Wyll probably wants to sleep in his own bed tonight, and it's likely far too soon for Astarion to ask this of him again. So instead he just nods and gets dressed for the chill late evening air.

They exit the theatre together, and Wyll leaves him with a kiss goodnight before they part ways. Astarion turns his collar up against the November wind and heads home, his aching muscles more than ready to collapse in bed.

He doesn't sleep well. He tosses and turns all night, his mind racing, unable to stop thinking about tomorrow. He's so incredibly anxious, imagining Cazador watching from the wings or from the grand ring, and then his thoughts start turning towards Cazador discovering his closeness with Wyll...he knows it was risky to kiss Wyll like that, even in the pitch black. He knows it was a stupid idea, but he did it anyway.

He knows Cazador won't be pleased to discover Astarion's struck up this sort of relationship. He's only ever had one night flings with others, men with kinder eyes that he meets out on the town whilst drunk and wishing for someone, anyone, to hold him the way he longs for. Cazador's never had the chance to find out about those, of course.

It's stupid, so stupid, to think he could get away with this, but god help him Wyll is a sweet addiction that Astarion does not think he will be able to quit.

~*~

Astarion wakes up feeling dead tired, of course. He gets through morning class thanks to copious amounts of coffee and because he's pretty sure Jaheira is taking it easy on the exhausted troupe. And then the rest of the day seems to slip away from him, like the grains of an hourglass through his fingers, because before he knows it he has to head to the dressing room or he won't have the time to do his makeup.

Oberon's costume of glittering forest green is hung up at the back of the room, and he takes a moment just to look at the beauty of the fluttery tulle cape, the dozens of carefully handcrafted ivy leaves that frame the plunging neckline of the tunic. He doesn't feel worthy of it, he feels like he's destined to f*ck it all up. Nevertheless he forces himself to sit and pull out his brushes, beginning the painstaking process of making himself look pretty.

This makeup is meant to be special; with a careful hand Astarion draws on the dramatic deep emerald eyeliner and dusts on the green shadow, transforming himself into a creature of the forest. He sharpens his cheekbones with drawn on spidery branches and even breaks out the false eyelashes. He finishes the transformation with some rhinestones that will sparkle underneath the lights; with some more eyelash glue he carefully presses them around his hairline and in the centre of his forehead. He arranges and sets his curls just so, then sits back to examine himself in the mirror.

The doorknob to the dressing room turns and Astarion quickly sweeps away the many cosmetics that have invaded Wyll's half of the table, expecting him to enter and grouch about it.

"How beautiful," comes Cazador's voice instead, and Astarion's breath leaves him sharply. He looks in the mirror and meets Cazador's cold smile as Cazador steps up behind his chair, placing his hands on Astarion's shoulders. "You look every bit the part, my sweet Astarion."

"Thank you, sir," he whispers. Cazador's hands weigh heavily on him.

"Do you think yourself ready," Cazador asks, and Astarion pauses, unsure of what's the right thing to say.

"I think so," he gets out.

"Ah, but you're not," Cazador says and Astarion's heart sinks, he can't take another lecture now, he can't take another hit to his confidence right before he steps on stage it will set him up for abject failure—

"Not without your crown," Cazador finishes, and his slim hands pluck Oberon's crown of teardrop emeralds and ivy off of the table. He places it on Astarion's silver curls, and Astarion hardly dares to breathe as Cazador positions it perfectly.

"Of course," he says with a hint of a laugh that is a touch too manic. "Thank you."

Cazador begins to pin the crown to his hair, expertly hiding the bobby pins. "I know you have been waiting for this moment for a long time, Astarion. Thus I do not believe I need to tell you how important it is. Jergal is watching tonight, as are a handful of critics from the media."

"Oh, is that so," Astarion says, flinching when Cazador digs a bobby pin right into his sensitive scalp.

"It is so. Thus, your performance tonight reflects not only on yourself, but directly on my work as well. I need you awake and bursting with energy, Astarion."

"I'm—I will be. You know me, as soon as I step on stage, I come alive..."

Cazador finishes securing the crown and drops one hand to Astarion's trembling shoulder as the other reaches into the pocket of his dress trousers. He trails that hand down the length of Astarion's arm, finds Astarion's hand and presses something into it.

Astarion freezes.

"No," he whispers. "No, I—I quit..." His fingers curl around the small plastic bag anyway.

"You did," Cazador says. "And I was proud of you for that. You were too young, prone to overindulgence and gluttony. But you are older now, Astarion. You are smarter, are you not?"

"You—you were the one who toldme to quit!"

"Because you couldn't handle it," Cazador snaps. He folds his hand over Astarion's, trapping it around the bag. "But you know your limits now."

His heart is beating so fast. He knows exactly what's hidden in the palm of his hand—pure cocaine. And he knows just how it will make him feel.

"Astarion," Cazador coaxes. "You are tired. You cannot hide that from me, and you will not be able to hide it from the audience. This will give you what you need."

He's shaking, his grip on the bag becoming sweat-soaked and slippery. He remembers exactly what it did—it gave him power, gave him confidence, gave him life. He lets the bag fall onto the table, lays eyes on the white powder through the plastic.

Cazador opens it for him, pours a little onto the table and scrapes it into a line with his nail.

"Go on," he says. "You will be so marvellous tonight. You will be the most beautiful dancer any of them have ever laid eyes on..."

Astarion closes his eyes. He wants to be beautiful so badly. It's funny—it has been a good handful of years since he quit, and all it takes is one look, just one glance, and the longing is just as intense as when he was in the thick of it.

Then...then he thinks of what Wyll would say. Wyll would hate it; he's already asked Astarion to stop smoking cigarettes. He would surely despise him using co*ke.

"No," he says, tearing himself away from the line with great difficulty. "Thank you, sir, for the offer—but no."

Cazador's gaze darkens. "Perhaps I have not made myself clear. This is not an offer, it is an order. You look exhausted, you look weak, and you cannot go out on stage like that."

Astarion doesn't know what to do, what to say. He doesn't know how to convince Cazador to leave him be.

"Astarion," Cazador says, his voice softening. "I have only your best interests at heart. I want only for you to be the best dancer you can possibly be, that is all I have everwanted for you. My most treasured protégé..." He traces beside the line with one slim finger, and Astarion's eyes lock back onto the drug. "You will be so perfect tonight..."

Astarion lowers his head to the table. Cazador's fingers stroke through his hair, careful not to disturb the crown.

"You will be the most beautiful Oberon this theatre has ever seen," Cazador whispers, and Astarion snorts up the line.

The rush of euphoria hits in a split second. He gasps as he wrenches his head back up, his pupils dilating and his entire body suddenly thrumming with an endless font of energy, just bursting to get out.

"There we are," Cazador smirks. "Alive again. You will soar tonight, Astarion. I have no doubt." He sweeps up the remaining powder and seals up the bag, but leaves it on the table. "A gift. And there can be more, if you so desire." With that Cazador strides out of the dressing room, leaving Astarion alone with his choices and his rapidly beating heart.

He takes the bag in hand, eyes scanning for somewhere to put it where Wyll won't stumble across it. He ends up stashing it in the drawer with his foundation and concealer, products he knows Wyll will never need to borrow. His hands are shaking slightly with the forced adrenaline as he peels off his warm ups and puts on Oberon's stunning costume. Astarion looks at himself once he is ready. He is undeniably gorgeous.

And he can do this.

~*~

Astarion stands in the wings, his muscles twitching and raring to go. Every sound is amplified; the rustle of the tutus, the faint notes of the musicians in the orchestra, the murmurs of the stage crew. Already it feels as if he has too much energy, so much that it simply needs to be let out on stage or he'll just die.

A warm hand touches his arm and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He remembers now, the vague sense of paranoia and unease that comes with the high.

"It's just me," Wyll whispers. He's dressed in Bottom's human costume, a linen peasant blouse and olive coveralls. "You weren't in the dressing room when I got there...let me see!" Astarion turns so Wyll can see him as Oberon, and Wyll grins widely.

"I've never seen a more beautiful King of Fairies," he says, squeezing Astarion's hand. Suddenly Astarion is overwhelmed with an intense rush of adoration for Wyll, his Wyll, what a perfect gem of a man he is! And so he flings his arms around Wyll's neck, uncaring of who might see.

"Woah!" Wyll exclaims. "Careful Astarion, I don't want to mess up your makeup!"

"Can I have just one kiss," Astarion pleads. "For good luck?"

"Of course," Wyll softens, and he carefully leans forward to give him a sweet kiss.

Oh, and if Astarion thought Wyll's kisses were amazing before...they are nothingcompared to how they feel now. Wyll's lips are so soft and plush against his own, and the smell of Wyll's cologne is all around him...Astarion could drown of happiness in Wyll, truly.

"Okay, I think that's enough," Wyll laughs as he pulls back.

"Thank god. You two need to get a room," Shadowheart grumbles from behind them. She's to be Helena in this performance, much to her chagrin. "I'm happy for you and all that, but the sappiness needs to be held back in the communal areas, thank you."

"Please. You just wish that in all your years here, anyone would decide to give your lonely self a chance,” Astarion says.

Shadowheart scoffs and turns away, leaving them to go talk to Lae'zel instead.

"That wasn't very nice of you," Wyll says.

"Oh, she can handle my teasing. Don't you worry."

That's when Jaheira pushes through the wings, approaching them.

"Astarion, you look wonderful," she grins. "Only a few minutes to go now!"

"I'm ready," he says with confidence, and Wyll beams at his sureness.

"That's what I like to hear," Jaheira says. "I have no doubt you are. Merde, you've earned it!"

The orchestra hums as the lights dim. The crowd behind the curtain falls into a quiet hush.

It's time.

Wyll squeezes his shoulder one last time in support as the fairies flitter onto the stage, but already Astarion is intensely focused on what he must do. The flutes trill merrily and he dashes out, climbing the hidden ramp to appear between the branches of the grand oak tree. The lights are so blindingly bright as he looks over his kingdom of fairies, his magical woodland glade, ready to dance the night away. He watches, feeling the prideful energy that is Oberon's spirit infuse movements. The fairies dance in perfect synchronicity and he steps down onto the stage proper, just in time for Lae'zel, his Titania, his most beautiful yet precocious wife, to appear with the changeling child.

He greets her coolly and she treats him with the same disregard, plucking the child away from his questioning grasp. They begin to argue, a sharp series of arabesques and whirling grand battements, and Astarion can feel just how much power is thrumming through his muscles. It feels....it feels incredible, so stupidly easy to feel on top of the world. This is Astarion's glade, and he will have order.

Lae'zel snatches the child away from him and flounces away, little sassy steps with her perfectly pointed feet, ignoring Astarion's dramatic jumps and pirouettes as he tries to grab the kid back. They each end up with a hold on the child's arms, tugging him between themselves to the clashes of the music until the poor kid crashes to the floor and cries. Lae'zel gathers him up and with one last disgusted look at Astarion, claps her hands together and calls the flock of fairies away.

Alone on stage, Astarion swirls his cape around himself in a dramatic huff, then the brilliant idea occurs to him. He calls for his most trusted trickster servant Puck, and Minsc leaps out on the stage with an enormous goofy grin. Astarion mimes the plan he's come up with: to douse Lae'zel's eyes with the juice of the potent love flower and cause her to make an absolute fool of herself, waking up next to some hideous creature, in lovewith it. The two of them leap and cajole each other, and the difficult choreography, what with this pure power flooding his system, is so incredibly simple to carry out. Minsc exits to carry out the devious plan, and Astarion stays behind as the first two lovers enter the scene.

Halsin as Lysander and Alfira as Hermia stroll across the stage, arm in arm, the happiest a pair could be. Happiness that is quickly contrasted by the appearance of Dammon and Shadowheart, the unhappy pair...and Astarion knows just what to do to solve this little dilemma. Upon their exit he calls for Minsc once more, and the muscled dancer flies back onto stage, listening intently as Astarion explains that the juice should also go on that young dandy's eyes. Minsc jumps around happily and Astarion plays off of him, full of mischievous delight, and with full confidence that yes, they can carry out the difficult partnered lift. In the back of his mind Astarion can feel his muscles strain as Minsc leaps backwards, but pain has always been muted when he's this high and floaty. Minsc somersaults and rolls off the stage, precious flower in hand, and finally Astarion is able to take his leave with a sweeping grand jeté into the wings.

He's breathing heavily as he lands; that was a decently long time to be out on stage. There's a gentle tap to his back and he turns around to see Wyll offering him some water with a smile.

"You're flying tonight," Wyll whispers with pride, and Astarion's heart swells with the praise. Everything is so light, so easy, so wonderful, god how he missed this feeling!

They watch together as Lae'zel dances Titania's solo with perfect technique and the fairies send her off to sleep. Honestly, the entire rehearsal process with Lae'zel as his Titania has been a joy. She took the role seriously as she does all things and demanded nothing less than perfection from Astarion's partnering skills, and he feels he is a better dancer for it.

Before he knows it it's time for his first proper solo. Astarion quickly grabs the red flower from the prop table and walks out onto centre stage as the fairies fly off. Then he begins the series of challenging posed arabesques, balancing his weight on the tip of one foot, trying to look light as air. The last one swoops into a deep penché, an arabesque so high with his weight shifted all the way forward so that it gives the impression of a full split. Quickly he recovers and prepares for the pirouette, and he knows, he just knows deep down that he can do this. His knees bend in preparation and he takes off with ease, rotating once, twice, three, fourtimes, and he lands the quadruple pirouette perfectly, stretching back into the nice line of his arabesque. He's grinning broadly as he continues on, approaching Lae'zel and sprinkling the juice onto her eyes. Then Halsin and Alfira stroll on once more, and he leaps off stage with a fluttering of his tulle cape.

Perfect. He was just perfect.

Astarion watches as the comedic troupe of play actors stumble onto the scene to perform their comedy bit. Wyll is front and centre as Bottom, and then the choreography cleverly sets him behind the line of corps dancers so that Wyll can tug on the donkey head and pointe shoes as Minsc appears to transform poor Bottom into the ass. The audience laughs as Wyll stumbles to the front of the line, hopping en pointe to imitate his new hooves. Lae'zel awakens and falls for his triumphant braying, massaging his ears and draping him in garlands of flowers. God, something like this really should be corny and not this hilarious, but Astarion has to admit that Shakespeare did know how to write a great comedy.

The first pair of lovers then dance, and then the next pair of lovers quarrel, and together they fall asleep as Minsc appears with his flower. Of course Minsc picks the wrong dandy, juicing Halsin's eyes instead of Dammon's, and it is a whole round of chaos as the wrong people fall in love. Astarion flies back on stage, determined to set this right. Minsc charms the four to sleep again and Astarion makes sure he juices the correct eyes, and then...and then, the scherzo. That devilishly tricky solo.

He has f*cked this up countless times in rehearsal. Not once did he dance it to Cazador's satisfaction. But now, oh, now he soars. The violins pick up the tempo as he flies across the stage in the grandest of grand allegros, and the audience gasps at the height of his jumps, at the perfect landings of his pirouettes. Minsc and four of the fairies swirl by him as he catches his breath for just a brief second and then he's off again, neat pirouettes en dedans transforming into quick little chaîné turns, so rapid he can barely spot the stagelight to keep himself oriented. He leaps off to applause as the fairies take over again, and then it's time for the very last section, the hardest one. Astarion runs to centre stage and begins with double pirouettes, then he whips his leg around in a series of fouetté turns, some of the hardest turns in ballet. He finishes with a clean triple pirouette to more applause, then flows right into the jumps.

Part of him simply cannot believe he is nailing this so well but he is. He finishes the solo with the circle of jetés and bounds off the stage in one final glorious grand jeté, and he has never heard an audience applaud so fiercely for him before.

He did it, the very hardest part. He did it.

The adrenaline high of that solo is such a rush that he can barely pay attention to what's happening next. Astarion very nearly misses his next cue, only Jaheira's whispered "Go!" gets him on stage in time to wake up Lae'zel and confront her about the ass in her bed. Shocked, she apologises and they make up, leaving the stage together. Wyll is transformed back into a human, the lovers are all properly awakened and paired up, and now Astarion and Lae'zel step on the stage to close out the ballet with the stunning pas de deux.

Lae'zel is such a communicative partner and this choreography is the perfect mix of playful and deeply moving. They make a regal fairy couple together, and Astarion does not think he has ever felt more beautiful or more in control on stage. There is no exhaustion, no trembling in his muscles, even by the end of the long pas de deux where he has lifted and caught Lae'zel over and over again. There is simply endless energy, and as he dips Lae'zel into the final pose Astarion wishes that this glorious moment could never end.

But it must. He sweeps Lae'zel back onto her feet and soaks in the endless clapping and cheering, taking his bows. The rest of the cast comes out on stage behind them, Minsc closing out the ballet with the final leap, and the applause goes on and on. He's drowning in joy, his heart fluttering, and then Jaheira comes on stage with beautiful bouquet of flowers just for him and Astarion thinks it might just escape him entirely he is so damn happy.

Astarion takes his final bow as the curtain falls on the whole cast, and then he's turning, searching for Wyll as the dancers begin to scatter.

Wyll is standing right behind him, the donkey head tucked underneath one arm.

"You were phenomenal," Wyll says, awestruck. And Astarion simply can't help himself, he feels that rush of adoration once more and he throws his arms around Wyll, who accidentally drops the donkey head as he wraps Astarion up into a sweet hug.

"I am so proud of you," Wyll whispers, and Astarion closes his eyes, overwhelmed with so much, just so much.

"I really did it," he laughs breathily. "I—until just now, I didn't think I could."

"You always could," Wyll says, and he squeezes Astarion gently before he lets him go. "But you found something special tonight, that's for sure. It was beyond beautiful!"

Astarion smiles at him, but he knows where that something special came from. And Wyll...well.

Wyll doesn't have to know.

~*~

The performance has him floating on so much adrenaline that his high does not begin to wear off until after the contemporary act. God, dancing with Wyll tonight felt so wonderful. To feel Wyll's sure hands on his bare skin, to be lifted with such trust, it was simply amazing. It is only once he is back in the dressing room, packing away his things, that he feels the beginning of the crash coming. Suddenly his hands aren't as steady and the sense of euphoria begins to dissipate into awful, anxious fatigue.

"I have to go return the donkey head to the prop master," Wyll says as he pulls on his coat. "Did you want to wait for me so we can head home together?"

"No, I'll go on ahead," Astarion says. Of course he wants to go home with Wyll. But he also doesn't want Wyll to see him fight through the uncomfortable sensation of a come down.

"Okay," Wyll says, and he kisses Astarion on the forehead before he moves to take his leave. "Go home and rest, please? You must be so tired."

Astarion nods a yes, he is indeed about to be very tired. And probably quite sad, from what he remembers of years ago. Wyll squeezes his shoulder once more and then he leaves, taking the donkey head with him. Astarion sighs and leans back in the chair, pulling on his boots. It's definitely here now, that aching sodden exhaustion that he knows would go away if...if he just did a little more.

But that would be a very stupid idea, so instead he swings his dance bag over his shoulder and leaves the dressing room, finding the corridor empty. He walks towards the stage door, preparing for the cold evening air to hit him.

"Astarion," comes Cazador's nasal voice. "I want to congratulate you on such a marvellous performance."

His blood runs cold. God, he just wants to go home. He just wants to be left alone.

Astarion turns. Cazador is watching him, standing in the doorway to the wings of the stage.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "It was all thanks to you."

Cazador's thin lips spread into a narrow smile.

"Come. There is something I must discuss with you."

Astarion hesitates. He just wants to go home.

"I think—it's late, sir. I need to rest."

Cazador slinks out of the doorway. He approaches Astarion and lays a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Once again, you are mistaken. That was not a suggestion."

God. He's not getting out of this without giving into what Cazador wants. He looks, desperately, to see if anyone is around, if anyone sees, but there's no one.

Cazador's firm grip on him forces Astarion to follow. His steps stutter when he sees where Cazador is leading him: upstairs. The offices. No, no, he can't, he can't do this anymore...

"Come along, child," Cazador scowls, and Astarion submits. It would be worse to fight him.

The office door locks behind him and god, he's dizzy with the come down now. He shouldn't have done it, he shouldn't have taken the f*cking drugs.

"Did you think," Cazador begins, a dangerous edge to his voice. "Did you think you were being clever, boy? Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Notice—notice what, sir?"

"Don't play f*cking coy with me," Cazador hisses. "You and Ravengard. Astarion, really. I know there's nothing in that pretty head of yours, but I expected better than this."

Astarion's breath has been punched out of him. He just stands there, shaking, as Cazador advances on him. God, he's so scared. Scared for himself and for Wyll.

"It appears you have forgotten the most cardinal rule of our arrangement," Cazador says. "You are mine. Mine and mine alone. I trained you, I raised you, I loveyou like one of my own children. And I am the only one who gets to have you." His hand finds Astarion's hair, and firm digging pressure forces him to kneel.

"Get on your knees and apologise, you slu*t. Since you clearly like being there so much."

The nauseous rush of the cocaine leaving him and the paralysing, creeping fear work to hold Astarion fast in place, just staring up at Cazador's wrath. Cazador swears in frustration and unzips his trousers.

"Do you need more encouragement," he hisses. "More incentive? I could ruin your precious Ravengard's career, boy. I could ensure he never appears on a stage in this country again. And how would he like that, hm? Everything he's worked for his whole life, gone in an instant. And all because of you."

Astarion sobs. He doesn't want to, he doesn't want to. He knows it now, beyond a shadow of a doubt. He doesn't want this. He's never wanted this. But he has no choice.

He has no choice and Wyll will never forgive him, either way Wyll will never forgive him. Wyll will hate him if he loses his career over this. And Wyll will hate him if he finds out Astarion has been with Cazador like this.

There's no winning. But in one scenario, Wyll keeps everything he has worked so incredibly hard for, from the time he was just a small child. Whilst in the other, if he finds out Astarion has been cheating on him, he'll be hurt. But he would eventually move on, find someone new. Forget all about Astarion and the pain he caused Wyll.

Astarion closes his eyes and opens his mouth. Cazador feeds him his co*ck, and Astarion floats away. He doesn't have to be here. He knows how to carefully let his mind escape his body and go somewhere far away, somewhere safe. And right now that place is his little flat, in his warm bed, tucked neatly into Wyll's comforting hold. He can vaguely feel the nausea in his belly, the ache in his jaw, but most of him is very far away from here.

He chokes and sputters as Cazador finishes and then withdraws. Cazador is still glaring down at him when Astarion jolts back into his body.

"You will not forget it again," Cazador orders. "You are mine. And you know what to do about Ravengard. Get rid of him, or I shall get rid of him for you."

"Yes," Astarion whispers. "Yes, sir."

"Now get out of my sight."

~*~

He doesn't get rid of Wyll. Not as of yet. Because Astarion is many things, but one of those has always, always been selfish.

He doesn't think he can get through the days without Wyll's gentle touches and his kind eyes, his encouragement and his never ending patience. It should scare Astarion, just how dependent he's become so quickly. He goes to work the day after his debut and when Wyll worries about the bags under his eyes, when Wyll digs up some blankets from god knows where and forces Astarion to nap curled up in the dressing room, his head in Wyll's lap as Wyll strokes his hair, Astarion knows he cannot let this go just yet.

He's such a selfish person.

At least this week has proven that he is also a beautiful dancer. The rest of his performances as Oberon go well; not as amazing as his debut but Astarion has demonstrated some admirable restraint. He has not touched the little bag locked away with his foundation, not once, despite the fact that he knows now it was indeed the cocaine that gave him that extra push, that special something.

But when the day of the final performance arrives, Astarion knows he needs it. He's too tired from the strain of the week, he hasn't been sleeping well. There are critics coming to see this show and he needs to look alive, needs to soar again. Once Wyll leaves the room to go fetch his props Astarion carefully sets up a line and snorts it all up.

It works just as expected. His dancing is flawless once again. He leaps and turns to rapturous applause, he feels on top of the world once more, like nothing can touch him, like no one can hurt him. And this time he's careful, he doesn't let himself get so overwhelmed by emotion that he does something stupid like kissing Wyll in the wings.

The final notes of the pas de deux fade away and he comes back down to earth with Lae'zel draped perfectly in his arms. The clapping goes on and on, there are more gorgeous flowers just for him as the curtain falls. And when he heads into the wings with the rest of the company, his entire body still buzzing, Jaheira is waiting for him.

"Astarion," she says, her eyes shining and her arms open for a congratulatory hug. "You have truly outdone yourself with this role!"

"Thank you," he grins, accepting her embrace.

"I knew I made the right choice in picking you," she says in his ear, and Astarion's happy thoughts screech to a halt.

That doesn't make any sense. Cazador is the one who gave him Oberon. Cazador told him that he'd fought for Astarion, that he'd had to work so hard to convince the others that Astarion could handle it after the disastrous soirée.

Jaheira steps back, frowning. "Are you quite alright?"

"I—Yes," he says, recovering his senses. "Sorry, I suppose I'm still caught up in all the excitement. Thank you, truly, for this opportunity!"

Jaheira smiles gently. "It was my pleasure. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

He nods. There's a panicked lump in his throat once more. "I need to go change for the second act," he says, excusing himself.

"Of course. Enjoy it!"

Astarion practically flees from Jaheira, unable to even think about what this means. He gets down to the dressing room and Wyll is there, halfway changed out of Bottom's hooves.

"Oh, there you are! Let me help you with your crown," Wyll says as he pulls off the hooves and moves to begin undoing the bobby pins. Astarion sinks into his seat and lets him, his mind racing.

Did Cazador lie to him? Was Jaheira always on his side, a united front with Cazador, or...was she the only one who put Astarion's name forward?

"There we go," Wyll says as he slides the crown out of Astarion's curls. "Come on, we need to keep moving."

"Right," Astarion says, jolted back into the present. He reaches for his makeup wipes and begins to steadily erase any trace of Oberon.

In time they head backstage, ready for one final pas de deux together. And despite his whirling mind, high as a kite and so very confused about what Jaheira's just let slip, Astarion still enjoys his final moments on stage with Wyll. He will miss this terribly, he knows. And not just the pas de deux. He knows now that letting Wyll go will be the hardest thing he'll ever have to do in his life.

They stand shoulder to shoulder as they take their final bows, and then the rest of the company joins them, another successful run of shows completed. The energy in the theatre is crackling, the dancers and the audience both thrilled with what they've accomplished.

Then, slowly, Withers himself shuffles onto the stage from the wings. There's a hush. Withers only ever appears for very important announcements.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the ancient director croaks. "Myself and all of our dancers thank you profoundly for joining us during our autumn mixed program. I hope that these evenings have introduced you to the joy of comedic ballet, and to the enthralling passion of contemporary dance."

There is a polite smattering of applause.

"There is important news to share with you all," Withers continues, clearing his throat. "Mr. Silverbough, where are you?"

Halsin steps forward, taking the microphone. "Good evening, everyone. I thank you all for supporting the premiere of my new ballet," he smiles. "It is a piece that is very near and dear to my heart, and I am beyond thrilled at the warm reception it has received. However, it was during the very conception of this piece that I came to a decision."

He pauses, and Astarion can't even blink in the suspense. But deep down...he knows what Halsin is about to say.

"This season shall be my last as a principal dancer of the Royal Baldur Ballet," Halsin announces. Beside him there's a sharp intake of breath and Astarion reaches for Wyll's hand, holding it tightly.

"I have been a dancer with this wonderful company for twenty-two long, happy years. But all good things must come to an end, and I have decided that now is the right time to step aside and let others lead. But have no fear," he smiles. "You're not quite rid of me yet! I have been graciously offered the role of choreographer in residence, and you may all expect plenty more Silverbough pieces to come. My final performance as principal dancer shall take place during our last ballet of the season: Swan Lake. A personal favourite of mine!"

Astarion's thoughts are racing. This means...

This means there will be a new principal dancer by the end of the season. They have to promote someone, the ranks are too thin. He looks beside him, sees Wyll's shocked expression.

There are many talented male dancers in this company. But everyone knows that there are only two real contenders for the rank of principal dancer.

It will be Astarion, or it will be Wyll.

There is no other way.