runs_the_show (runs_the_show) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-11-15 00:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | pepper potts |
WHO Justine & Etienne
WHAT Dancing
WHEN Recently
WHERE Olive's Dance Studio
WARNINGS None!
Justine was much less worried about Pepper now that she was mostly all healed up. Her bruises didn’t even hurt anymore! She was upset about Charming and Rose and Draco, but she knew Etienne would make everything better. Dancing always helped and a partner would only make it better as far as she was concerned. Olive had been distracted over the phone, but she’d agreed to letting them use the space and Justine was going to run with it until she was told otherwise. All she wanted to do was forget for a few hours about everything and Eti seemed more than willing to help her with that, particularly without asking too many questions. She owed him quite a bit, likely more than he knew, but she would find a way to make it up to him. Hopefully she could at least prove an adequate partner for him. Dressed in a bright blue leotard, black shrug, pink tights and sparkle blue legwarmers, Justine certainly looked like a ballet dancer. She had on thick fuzzy blue socks to protect her feet for the little bit of walking she had to do from the front of the dance studio into the room she’d put her stuff in to claim for them. The music was all set up too, a best of in the ballet world, so that they could dance to a variety of different things. Justine was all too willing to do whatever he’d like so long as they got to dance. She saw him coming from down the street and jumped up and waved, shouting, “Eti! Hi!” Once he was closer, she ran over to give him a tight hug, wrapping her arms around his middle. "Ah, cherie!!" That lithe, fawnlimb form entangling around the aerialist's middle was met with a similar embrace, a strength and fortitude to compliment her willowed fraility. The bag he had been carrying was abandoned in the midst of affection, foregone to the floor with a dulled tap much like a ballerina's landing -- much like his descent years before, his crash back to earth itself. "You are much, much happier!!" His hands -- large, unbecoming of his immediately-apparent graces -- came to cup her face, eyes intent upon her eager expression. His cologne lingered for just a moment, as fleeting as the dovefeathers along his wrist, and when his hands withdrew they fell, absently finding the bag below them. "It's good to see. I'm glad." Etienne nodded an eager affirmation, a mirror of her enthusiasm and life. She was much better now, her spirits risen even further at the sight of his familiar form. Justine looked up at him with wide, warm blue eyes as his hands cupped her cheeks, smile brightening considerably. Even as his hands fell away, she stayed close to him, arms wrapping around one of his as she tugged him toward the studio’s entrance. “I am, Eti! I don’t hurt so much anymore and that must mean Pepper is okay! She’s my voice, I don’t think I told you that. Pepper Potts, from the Iron Man movies. Have you seen them?” It didn’t really matter if he had or not. She led him inside, past the door to the office where Olive probably was, and into the room she’d picked. “I’m so excited to finally have a partner to dance with. I wasn’t sure what you might want to dance to, so I put together a best of kind of thing, with the stuff that I know, if that’s okay?” Justine hadn’t relinquished or even loosened her hold on his arm, not wanting to let him to get too far away from her. Her words were an onslaught -- a welcome barrage of lilts and lulls that had his head swimming by the time they breached the entrance of the vacant studio. At the mention of the pieces she'd selected his interest piqued, fingers grazing her elbow in a reciprocal gesture of affection. "That's perfect." He grinned, letting the shoulder-strap of his bag slide from his shoulder with ease. "I am happy just to dance." His vacant hand made its way to tangle in his hair, that self-effacing manner taking hold of the frenchman once more. Etienne grinned sheepishly, his accent deeper in the throes of self-consciousness. "My circus-mates -- they do not know ballet. My background is not the same." “Oh, me too!” She let his arm go so that she could spin more for fun. There was technique hidden behind the graceful, carefree movement and she was so different from the young woman she’d been when they met at the library. She was so much more, so much better. Her brother was mad at her, she was sure of that, but Justine was tired of censoring herself just to keep him happy. If he wanted to leave again, he would leave. Nothing she could do would stop him. She just wanted to live and be happy. Dancing made her happy. Etienne made her happy. Focusing on the here and now was what she’d do. “I’ve only been dancing for a handful of years so I hope you don’t mind doing the more popular routines,” Justine replied, pulling her socks off as she hopped over to the sound system. It was a surround sound system that piped into the room so it would sound amazing. Her socks were folded in on each other and tossed off to the side as she started to skip through the tracks until she settled on a Tchaikovsky number that she loved quite a bit. “Do you know this one? The Balanchine choreography?” she asked hopefully. Etienne looked up from his shoes with a laugh. He bowed his head as he spoke, fussing with his shoes and feet. "Yes, it is very beautiful. Balanchine is one of my favourite choreographers -- did I tell you before?" The aerialist stood, a tangle of elbow and wrist and contorted joints, muscles tensed and flexed and prepared for movements that had become utterly foreign. She didn’t think, not even for a second, that he was laughing at her. He was far too kind for that. Instead, she took it as a good sign, setting the track on repeat as she went to get her shoes on and laced. “I don’t recall, but he was very popular with one of my instructors at school. I learned quite a few of his pieces and I’d hoped, one day, to dance on a very large stage. Perhaps at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow.” It was a lofty dream, one she would always hold near and dear to her heart. It would never happen, she didn’t have the talent nor the resources, but she would at least go one day to see a performance there. Somehow. Once her shoes were on properly, she began to run through her warm ups, starting with the floor stretches. She watched him as he stretched and asked, “What kind of background do you have, Eti?” He fell to floor stretches as well, folded in on himself with his legs extended, feet in point. He was silent for a moment -- pensive as Tchaikovsky lofted along the studio air, reflected off the mirrors and glass. "I attended the School of the National Paris Opera Ballet." He shifted, pressing his weight back to sitting. His arms tangled above his head, legs askew as he pressed into his own form, straining against limits that had been settled into musculature built for a different sort of soaring. "I was offered a position in the corps out of school, but I refused. I wanted very much to go to the circus, and to diverge from the life my parents had made for them." At this, he became hushed. The mention of his parents was slightly rushed, and spoken to the floorboards more than to his companion. There was a note of displeasure behind his ordinary loftiness, but one that was fleeting as he smiled the mention away, shoulder to head in a long stretch of limbs. She had taken to stretching thoroughly before every class and then more languidly with the children as she taught them the proper ways to warm up for ballet. Though they weren’t the kinds of students who would go on to study ballet for the rest of their lives or perform on stage, they were still enthusiastic about every last detail. It warmed her heart to see how much they enjoyed themselves, but now she was excited to really dance, and she trusted Etienne completely, though she didn’t particularly know why. She didn’t question it though, listening intently as he explained his background. Justine was thoroughly impressed when he mentioned what school he’d gone to and then that he’d been offered a position in the corps. “Do you think you made the right choice? Leaving the corps?’ she asked softly, working through another two stretches before pulling herself up to move to the bar to finish her stretches. "Oh yes, very much." He smiled, albeit with a touch of melancholy. To be in the corps would have been a certainty that wasn't so set in stone when he left for the circus -- would have probably had him married, and perhaps with a child by now with the sujet he'd been so taken with. But still, in the journey to the dream he was currently living, not much time had been spared for reminiscence. "For me, there was no option. I miss the type of flying that comes from ballet, but it was never what captured my soul." Etienne stood, wandering over to the bar with a renewed grace that had swelled and overtaken the moment he entered the familiar expanses of a ballet studio. He began absently warming up, following lazy motions that, in enough repetition, became sharp and precise. "It is admirable to teach. My mother is now an instructor at the Opera Ballet School. I could not be patient." He laughed, embarrassed to admit such a thing. Justine smiled warmly when he said he made the right choice. It was always good to hear that her friends were doing the things they loved. Her parents had always encouraged her to do what she loved and after Benji had left, dancing had helped her find her passion again. For that, she’d always hold ballet close in her heart and any chance she had to dance, she would jump at the chance. “I’m glad you followed your passion then,” she replied, finishing the last of her stretches. “It’s easy to be patient with them, because they love ballet so much. I’m much younger than the other teachers too, which I think is more fun for all of us,” Justine added, moving away from the bar to give him space. Plus, she wanted to show off a little bit and pirouettes were her favorite. She started with one, before moving around the floor just moving until he was ready. “I’m very glad you were interested in dancing with me. I miss it very much, even though it hasn’t been very long since I left the Birmingham Royal Ballet.” "Ah, you were in Brimingham!" Battements en avant stilted his speech with each kick forward, one hand white-knuckled along the bar. His legs had become stiff in the years of disuse, and already a light sweat was forming on his brow. He brought his vacant arm from second to first position, his last kick achieving a height that would have been so easy for him, years and years ago. He turned, back to her to stretch his other side, battements starting slow -- cautious and careful. "You were very close-by. Perhaps we can make a trip to go back and visit home together -- you can show me England." He smiled, head turned to catch her in periphery. She nodded, recalling warmly her time at The Royal Ballet School and then at the Birmingham Royal Ballet. Ballet had saved her life. While many would consider it a gross dramatization, Justine knew better. She knew how broken she’d been after Benji left, a shell of the bright, warm girl she was now. Ballet had helped her focus on something other than the pain and although she tried to make it seems as though she didn’t mind not dancing professionally, she did. She missed it and Etienne was giving her a second second chance. “Oh, I would love to show you my home,” Justine replied warmly, coming to stand before him. “It’s very lovely. And you would show me yours?” The question was almost hesitant, for fear of rejection even though he’d been nothing but supportive of her. Once he’d done a repetition of battements, she tugged at his hand. “Come on, I’ll go easy on you,” she promised, anxious to start dancing. At Justine's hesitance -- her tentative suggestion -- Etienne smiled, nodding enthusiastically. His response was cut short by enthusiastic hands -- anxious and eager and pulling him forth to center. In truth, he felt as though he were at a cliff's precipice -- standing just a hair's breadth away from the fall. He'd foregone dancing seriously when France became his former home, and though he knew that the schooling had been singed into his blood and flesh, the gears were rusty, screaming with each motion. "So long as you promise." He drew near, heavy with the scent of parfum. As the song looped through to start, they braced in opening position, postures regal and hearts aflame. Each movement renewed in him the exact tenure and twine of each posture, embracing him in the swell and ebb of the music and its motions. They crescendoed -- came to a peak where synchronicity was all that mattered, and when they approached that final step -- that final leap into his arms and her ascent towards the sky -- he embraced her, breathless in suspended flight once again. He lowered her carefully and unceremoniously, gently replacing the little bird on the floor. His breath was elusive, coming in labored gasps, a sparrow of a laugh alight on each pronounced exhale. "I am not so used to moving along the ground anymore." His fingers game to his forehead, brushing aside damp bangs. "You are very good!" She would never be able to explain to him how comfortable he made her feel, like the rest of the world just melted away. As soon as the music started, she was ready. Eight minutes could feel like an hour and she relished every second of it. The first moment of trust, when she leaped into his arms and knew he would catch her, showed no hesitance on her part, and the successfulness of it only proved to her that he was someone she wanted in her life. She had danced this choreography a few times at school and the steps now were like riding a bicycle. Her body remembered the moves and she trusted herself almost as much as she trusted him. When the end of it came, Justine felt as if those eight minutes had gone by in a flash, too quickly for her tastes. The performance hadn’t been perfect, not by any means, but it had been good and she’d enjoyed herself immensely. “You were wonderful, Eti, thank you,” came her eager reply, arms winding around his waist in a tight hug. She’d felt like a normal person, more herself, and she would never quite be able to thank him for that. His compliment only served to redden her cheeks, though whether or not he could see, she wasn’t sure given that her face was pressed against his chest. "It was thanks to you the dance was so nice." Fingers entwined in her hair, a reassuring gesture in light of her joy. He could feel her heart racing, feel his own hammering in time, and he remembered -- momentarily, fleetingly -- why he had remained a dancer for so long. When he pulled away, it was to look at her face -- to see the emotions clearly, free of shame. "Really, you surprise me. I'm glad to be here, you are reminding me what I miss about ballet." Having Etienne’s arms wrapped around her, his hands in her hair, reminded her of Mike. She felt safe, warm, and loved with the aerialist. It was hard to not get lost in that, to magnify them to such a degree that she felt the warmth intensify, change into a different kind of warmth that she had felt less than a handful of times. He pulled away and looked down at her, saw the overwhelming emotion in her crystal blue eyes, and Justine swore she saw an affection in his eyes. She pushed herself up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek for a few long moments, more than could be dismissed as simply friendly, but not quite as romantically forward as a kiss on his lips would have been. When she lowered herself, there was a blush coloring her cheeks. “I would be happy to dance with you as often as you’d like,” Justine offered shyly. “It’s nice. Having a partner again.” To his detriment -- to, likely, her dismay -- the man was stupid. If any intent had been sparked underneath that lingering kiss he was too blind to see, caught in the loop of Tchaikovsky as it came around again, starting anew. His smile was stupid -- shy, silly, and off-center. His hand lingered at the nape of her neck as he shook his head, positively drunk off of the experience of duality that nothing but dance could achieve. "It is nice -- so, so nice," he affirmed, brushing a thumb over her temple once more. The tendons caused the dove in the well of his wrist to flutter in time with each gesture, each eager heartbeat that thrummed betwixt the two dancers. That he said nothing, only smiled shyly, encouraged her further. She didn’t kiss him, not again, but she stayed close, arms wrapped around his waist, her body pressed against his. Justine smiled brightly, so full of life, energy, and happiness, as he continued to hold her close. “Would you like to dance another? More Balanchine? Maybe?” She had a few more pieces on the CD that they could dance to and she found herself wanting to stay in his arms or dance with him. "Ah, yes! Do you have Diamonds?" He was certain she would -- amongst Balanchine's noted works was Jewels, and though the male part of Diamonds was mostly lifts, it was a piece he'd always enjoyed dancing. "It was the piece I did for a showcase when I was young, though I was very bad." He laughed, severing their birdhollow bodies to amble nearer to the mirror. He moved absently -- but no less hollow -- following remembered motions of Agon to scrutinize his form. He smiled all the while. Justine was elated when he agreed to another and listed off one of her favorite pieces. She knew the part with a good bit of familiarity, but she had never danced it. Still, she moved towards the CD player to select the proper track with a bright smile, her emotions plain as could be on her face and in her body language. The familiar music started and she turned her attention back to Eti, watching as he moved through the steps. It was good to see him smile so and she was pleased she’d been the one to cause it. She didn’t ask if he was ready, only nodded and began the dance, starting where the music was and letting the music guide her. The steps weren’t perfect but there was such enthusiasm and dedication in each movement that it was fine for a dance at their leisure. She yearned to be on stage though, could even picture it then, as Etienne lifted her each time. They could be on stage together, performing, bringing joy and wonder to the audience. She wished for that with all her heart. He fell into measure with her quickly. A travelling step brought the aerialist from practise to precision in a matter of footfalls, and with each crescendo they soared -- abandoned the ground to achieve impossible heights in the arms of one another. There was a lull in the dance -- an absent lift, a dutiful follow -- that always left him hollow. In the expanse of that fleeting moment he was slammed to the sand and dirt once more, Myrtha laughing in the back of his mind. He shook his head, though -- continued -- and the dance ended breathlessly, alight with that same frenetic energy that had brought them to center in the first place. She didn’t notice the lapse in his good humor, though perhaps she should have. She was too focused on her own happiness, a soft bubble of laughter spilling forth once she was still in his arms again. There was nothing like dancing with a partner and Etienne was one of the best ones she’d had. Suddenly, an idea struck her. “You know,” she began, purposefully widening her eyes as she looked up at him, “I love lifts very much, and you’re so strong.” Her hands slid up along his arms. “Do you think, if you’ve time, we could show my class a few of them? I know they would love you nearly as much as I do.” Her hands came up to his shoulders and wound around his neck, forcing her up on her tiptoes. “Please, Eti?” He hummed in consideration. Hands came to brace her waist, congenial but habitually retaining a dancer's distance in their intimacy. "If it is the morning or early afternoon I am happy to. I have to leave shortly after to go to performance, though." He looked around the studio and its bright wood, its cheery lights. It cast a different air than the studios in Paris had -- one where less importance was placed upon perfection, and instead rest in the hearts of each dancer that entered. It saturated the walls -- painted them positively glowing with the joy carried into each lesson by little pink shoes with soft soles. "I would be honored to help." He nodded, bowing his head in a gesture of gratitude. “It’s the early afternoon, 1pm. I’ll be sure to tell Olivia, but it won’t be a problem.” Justine was glowing, her excitement bubbling up to the surface the way champagne might overflow a glass. His hands on her waist, despite the traditional dancer’s distance, only encouraged her, though not quite enough to do anything more than kiss his cheek again. “You’re wonderful, Eti. Truly.” She slinked out of his arms for a bottle of water, offering him one of his own as they took a break. Justine would get at least two more dances out of him if she had her way. She almost always got her way. |