Pas de Deux

Andrei Demidov

Russian-Italian;
Twenty-seven years of age;
Six feet tall, not a centimeter above nor below.

You’re on the floor with your fellow students, watching his every movement in unwavering awe – every tour jeté, every brisé, every pirouette, all perfectly executed.

The aspiring performer;
The star student in your class;
The constant person of interest – you would always catch one of the students desperately attempting to grasp his attention or catch another student blushing furiously when she was caught staring too long.

You see Miss Markovich, the instructor, watching him with sharp eyes.
She doesn’t smile. Not a word is uttered from her mouth.

She only watches, occasionally giving a sharp nod of approval.

You return your gaze to him.

Chocolate brown hair, tied back in a sloppy bun.

Toned legs hidden under a pair of burgundy joggers, moving swiftly.
Toned arms; strong, but they always carry some sort of…grace and softness to them.

His torso is always left to the imagination.

And the song ends.
He finishes, not a step out of place, not a drop of sweat on his brow, not a shaky breath being exhaled.

You just realized that your lungs were screaming for oxygen.

Inhale. Exhale.

What is that human being doing to you?

He bows with a warm smile as the students applaud.

“Excellent work as usual, Mister Demidov. You may be seated.”

He does, next to Ingrid Jones, a pale, beautiful woman with bright, ginger hair platted in a messy braid.

You overhear her congratulating him with a sickly sweet voice, causing your blood temperature to rise ever so slightly.

But you huff and decide to ignore Ingrid and focus on Miss Markovich, who was ready to announce the next assignment.

“Listen up, everyone! As I have stated last week, your performance today will reflect if you will be allowed to continue onto the next performance.” – she sends a sharp glare towards Geneviève and Luciana – “As much as you two stare at Mister Demidov, his movements and techniques should have rubbed off on your own. That is not the case, however, since you two need the most practice out of this whole class!”

Luciana gasped. Ingrid let out a small laugh – it was instantly silenced with another sharp glare.

“What about Valentin?! He’s obviously not the best performer either! He stumbled five times in his last performance!” Geneviève sends a glare towards you.

And your blood temperature sharply increases.

How dare she bring you into this? How dare she call you out in such a manner?
How dare she make you feel like the smallest object in the room as the students turn their attention towards you?

But who are you to protest when she is absolutely right?

Miss Markovich – now furious – was about to retaliate, but—

“Yes, Valentin does have various things that he needs to work on, but unlike you, he practices as much as possible and he makes progress.”

You forget how to breathe for a moment when you hear Andrei’s voice.

“If you weren’t so ‘distracted’, you would have noticed that he improved his posture on his pirouettes and he was able to stick the landings on all of his tour jetés, things he had trouble with in the past. Instead of focusing on someone else’s faults, Geneviève, you should learn how to identify and fix your own.”

The room was silent.

Luciana looked down in shame. Geneviève tried to stammer an argument, but failed to get out the words, so she stormed out of the studio, slamming the door shut behind her.

You couldn’t help but smile.

You thought your performance was lax and only lax.
You didn’t think that you improved in any way.

You didn’t think that Andrei was watching you so closely.

Your heart picks up a little bit of speed and your cheeks grow a little warm.

What is that human being doing to you?

“Sorry for the outburst, Miss Markovich…”

“No need to apologize. It was well said. Luciana, you will get a chance to improve so that you may engage in this performance. Geneviève will not. Simple as that.”

A small “Thank you” from Luciana.

“Now, this performance is going to test your creativity and your ability to work with another: a Pas de Deux.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“You choose your partner. You both choreograph your performance. You will have two weeks until you perform in front of the class and a special guest that will be a secret for now.”

Hushed voices started to pick up, but Miss Markovich held her hand up to silence them.

“Mister Demidov, may you please come forward?”

He does; Ingrid pouts – it must have been fun while it lasted.

“Now, while I solely majored in Performing Arts in college, I am not an idiot. In fact, I’m very observant.” – she glances at Ingrid, who raised an eyebrow in response.

“Mister Demidov will choose his partner, and you all will have no choice but to accept and respect his decision.”

Most of the girls sighed in disappointment – you snicker at their responses.

Nevertheless, they still try to look impressionable and desirable.

You sit quietly to yourself and play the Guessing Game to see which one he chooses.

Malika? – slender body; two inches shorter; may be the third best performer in the class.
Anya? – also Russian; strong frame and high endurance; attractive with blonde hair and hazel eyes.
Ingrid? – probably because she’s the most attractive one in the class—

“Valentin.”

Your train of thought halts, de-rails, and crashes.
And once again, you forget how to breathe.

All of the girls, wide-eyed, mouths agape, turn their gazes towards you.
And once again, you feel small.

And you don’t know if you’d want to celebrate that Andrei, that perfect performer with the chocolate hair and the intriguing accent, chose you out of all people to be his partner, because you feel that small.

Because you feel that unworthy.

“Miss Markovich! You can’t possibly let him—”
Ingrid tries to speak up, but is cut off.

Miss Markovich seems unfazed by the whole ordeal.

“What did I just say, Miss Jones? You all have no choice to accept and respect his decision.”
“But they’re both men! They can’t dance together—”

Miss Markovich sent an icy, warning glare towards Ingrid, shutting her up for good, then she softens her gaze as she looks towards you.

“Are you okay with Mister Demidov’s decision, Mister Romero?”

You nod slowly, still trying to solve the chaotic pileup that is your brain.

“Then it’s settled. Everyone else, you are free to choose who you work with. Remember, you all have two weeks. Class is dismissed.”

| . | . | . |

Class was dismissed five hours ago, but you never really left the studio.

You had to practice. You’ve always had to practice.

You master one skill, but endlessly screw up another.
You work on the skill you had screwed up on, but then there’s another that you have to work on.

And you’re caught in an endless cycle of constant practice.

“But, it’s always worth it,” you repeat to yourself every time, a mantra to keep your morale high.

And you need to master that damn fouetté turn that never fails to throw you off.

You start with placing your feet in fourth position.
You position your arms.

You concentrate to center your body and to put enough force into the starting turn.
Then you perform a double pirouette to start, and all is well.

Until you try to extend out the working leg.

You’re thrown off balance, you fall, and you land on your ass.

And usually you would just dust yourself and start the next attempt right away.

But this time, you happen to notice Andrei standing in the doorway of the studio, watching you.

And you feel ashamed, because he saw you fail.
And you feel awkward because you’re not used to anyone watching you while you practice.

And the blood rushes to your cheeks a little too quickly.
And your heart starts to pick up speed again.

And your train of thought is ready to de-rail again.

What is that damned human being doing to you?

You quickly stand up and dust yourself off.

“Did I interrupt anything?”

He smiles that warm, inviting smile, and you have to try your hardest not to go weak in the knees.

“N-No…I was just practicing. Why are you here?”

And you mentally slap yourself, because why else would he be here?

“Because I knew that you’d be here. I wanted to get a head start on our performance.”
“Oh, right.”

He places his bag on the floor and pulls out an iPod before he walks over to the stereo system and turns it on.

“I want to try something out first to see how it works. Is that okay with you?”
“Did you stretch first?”

He nods.

“Then it’s okay, I guess…”

He presses a button before he walks over to you, then a soft, piano intro plays through the speakers.

And you couldn’t help but smile as you recognize the song and the artist.

“Years & Years?”
“What can I say? I like their music.”

He comes closer and he gently takes your hands in his own.

You look up into his eyes – a soft shade of teal – and for the fourth time today, you forget how to breathe.

‘See the color of your eyes. Make your body move like flames.
Then I showed you what to do.
I made it easier for you…’

He moves a little closer; you step back a little.

And without thinking, you both are moving across the floor.

And for someone who felt so unworthy to be next to him, you felt comfortable dancing like this. You felt comfortable dancing so close to him.

‘You and me, we'll make it serious now. And I'll be good if you can tell me how.
Cause I been wondering lately.
Are you the one that's gonna hold me down?’

He spins you; you turn with ease.
He moves one way; you move another way that still complements his movements.

And as the song passes, you feel more confident.
And you attempt to pirouette, but you stumble and you start to fall.

But rushes towards you and slides his hand to the small of your back and catches you, slowly leaning forward while gently tilting you back, making as if this was supposed to happen.

“Are you okay?” – Why are those soft, teal eyes looking at you so genuinely?

You could only nod as a response, attempting to clear your throat by swallowing – it doesn’t work well.

He slowly brings you back up to stand, but he doesn’t move his hand from your back.

‘Can you tell me, oh, would you lead me on? Would you start me over?
I'm ready to be torn apart…’

Now you’re chest-to-chest with him, the closest you’ve ever been to him.

‘…And oh, would you break my heart? And I'll break it for you,
I'm ready to be torn apart.’

And you almost lose it when you feel his breath ghost against your ear.

Your breath. Your strength.
Your mind.

All of them gone within a matter of seconds.

‘Oh, I'm ready for you, I'm ready for you I'm ready for you,
Oh now, I'm ready for you...'

But you still continue to move with him, as if something grave would happen if you stopped prematurely.

'...I'm ready for you, I'm ready for you, I'm ready for you,
Oh now, I'm ready for you.’

The song stops.
The movement stops.

All of time seemed to stop for a moment.

And for that moment, you could hear Andrei’s labored breathing.

Your train of thought crashed again; that chaotic pileup from earlier is back again.
You’re sure that you’ve stopped breathing for a minute now.

Is your heart beating properly?
Is it even beating at all?

What is that damned human being doing to you?!

He moves away, smiling that warm smile of his.

“What did you think? Would that make for a fantastic performance?”
“I…I-I uh…eh…”

All of the blood rushes to your cheeks.

The thought of someone else even knowing about this…!

“We could always work on it from there. After all, we have two weeks, right?”

Inhale. Exhale.

You smile back.

“Yeah…Although, I wouldn’t really change anything.”

Your eyes widen at the sudden realization that you just let those words out.
And you slap your hands over your mouth, even though it’s too late.

He laughs a little and turns towards the stereo system, walking back to it.

That gesture was enough to send a stabbing pain through your heart.

And you go straight to thinking the negative.

Of course he doesn’t feel what you feel!
This is just a performance to him!

How could you be so—?

But he stops for a moment to look back at you.

“Neither would I, Val.” – said with a shy smile and pink cheeks.

And he continues to walk.

“Shall we take it from the top?”

You take in a couple of deep breaths.
You rebuild and reinforce the train of thought.

You flash a confident smile as he turns back to see your approval.

“Let’s do it!”

And you officially start the Pas de Deux.