Dance, ballerina, dance · Y/n story by @valben

Paris was damp and grey, the kind of late-autumn morning that clung to the stones of the Palais Garnier and seeped into the bones. Ariadna Valdés had been back for barely forty-eight hours. Just enough time to unpack the suitcase from Barcelona, to stare at the ceiling of her tiny apartment, and to feel the old, familiar dread begin to coil in her stomach like a cold serpent.

Amélie Moreau

Her voice, a loud, carrying whisper, came from behind a rack of costumes Mon dieu, look what the cat dragged in! And she’s wearing that tracksuit. I thought we agreed to burn it.

Amélie emerged, a vision of chaotic elegance in a faded Comédie-Française sweater and tights, her blonde hair escaping a silk scarf. She didn’t hug Ariadna. She just looked at her, her sharp blue eyes missing nothing.

Amélie Moreau

You look like you slept in a gutter. A very chic gutter, but still. Come on. The circus is in full swing and you’re late to the freak show.

The corridors of the Opera were never quiet, but today they hummed with a different frequency. A tense, electric buzz. Dancers clustered in doorways, speaking in low, rapid French. Technicians rushed past with cables. Through the open doors of studios, Ariadna caught glimpses of unfamiliar bodies moving with a different athleticism—sharper, bigger, less contained.

Amélie Moreau

The Americans landed last week. She linked her arm through Ariadna’s, steering her towards the dressing rooms It’s like someone dropped a bomb in the middle of the Foyer de la Danse. And the bomb has a name. Tobias Bell.

As they passed Studio 3, Ariadna slowed. The door’s small window was fogged at the edges. Inside, a lone figure moved under the harsh work lights. A young man. He wore black, his posture rigid, massive white headphones engulfing his ears. He wasn’t dancing. He was… attacking the floor. Stomping a heel down, then the ball of his foot, listening, his jaw clenched. He shoved his hands against the barre as if testing its give, then turned and paced the diagonal, his movements jagged, frustrated. He looked like he was having an argument with the room itself. And losing.

Amélie Moreau

Following her gaze Ah. The prodigy himself. He’s been like that for an hour. Complains the floor is too dead. The lights are wrong. The air smells like disappointment. She shrugged Geneviève is ready to have an aneurysm. Gabin thinks he’s a genius. Mishi is taking bets on how long before he walks out. Welcome back, ma chérie. The water is boiling.