Chapter Text
It’s hot in Akielos, far more than he’s used to and it makes practicing an absolute hell. His father wants to expand, though, and all it took Auguste to convince him to go with them was a pair of puppy eyes because I’ll be alone, Laurent, I’ll be so bored. At least there is one positive thing about this whole ordeal, Delfeur’s branch here in Ios has opened doors for auditions, the one in Arles was at full capacity. They call it Delpha here, these barbarians, as if it wasn’t Madame Bellerose who founded it, a Veretian. As if it’s not the most renowned and awarded dance academy in the whole Artesean empire. Laurent, well, he’s been dreaming of Defleur his whole life, since he was four and his mother took him to his first ballet lesson. Needless to say he needs to get in, he needs to be absolutely perfect and remarkable, and in order to do so he needs to practice every time he has the chance, when he’s not whisked away by his father and his associates.
The first thing about Aleron is that he’s stubborn and pushy and doesn’t seem to recognise a lost battle when he sees one, he doesn’t understand that Laurent will never go into the business if he can help it. Auguste is the perfect candidate and the perfect son, Laurent is under no illusion that he’d be even allowed to compete for CEO if he were to accept his father’s offer and he wouldn’t even want to. Auguste has been working towards the position his whole life, it’s where he dreams to be and no one could be better suited than him. Laurent knows enough about dreams to recognise the sheer determination in his brother’s eyes. The second thing about Aleron is that he hates Laurent. How many times did Auguste tell him that it was all in his head, that father loved Laurent no less than he did him. Whatever, Laurent has been living under his roof for twenty years, he knows he won’t ever be enough in his father’s eyes. His mother, on the contrary... she was his compass, his strength, his fuel. He still has Auguste, but his mother’s death left a gaping hole in his heart and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to fill it. Dancing helps, dancing always helps. If it were for him, Laurent would never stop. It reminds him of her, she used to be a ballerina, insanely talented and insanely beautiful. What she saw in his father, Laurent has no idea.
Complaining won’t help, though. He’s here in Ios and he’ll have to stay for the whole summer, he can only hope his father will leave him be for the most part so that he can concentrate on practicing. The audition is in a week, his stomach clenches at the simple thought of it, but Laurent isn’t someone who lets his emotions affect his actions. So, he takes a deep breath, clears his mind of all thoughts and picks his routine up from the beginning.
***
He doesn’t know why he agreed to come to this beach party with Auguste, it must have something to do with the fact that his brother has been working all week while Laurent has been doing what he loves the most in the world. It must have something to do with guilt. Well, he’s here now, he’ll stay for a hour maximum and then go back to the dance studio. This isn’t really his scene, but he’s willing to bear it as long as Auguste’s happy. The party is at one of Étoile Industries Hotels, of course, Laurent hates it already.
“Hey, Laurent, do you want to drink something?”
He levels his brother with a glare, but it only serves to make Auguste laugh.
“Oh, come on, it’s a party!” Insists his brother.
“Just be grateful I’m here at all, don’t push it.” Snaps Laurent, although there’s no heat behind his words. Auguste smiles, he just smiles.
“I know, thank you for coming. If you don’t want anything to drink for yourself, though, maybe you could get me something while I try to woo that beautiful woman over there.”
He points to an objectively attractive, dark skinned woman laughing with her friends a few feet over. Laurent sighs, he knows Auguste can be stubborn, after all they are brothers.
“Fine, but I honestly hope she doesn’t want anything to do with you!”
With that, he turns around and starts walking towards the bar, Auguste’s laugh echoes behind him. He knows why his brother sent him there, the bar is so crowded it’s almost impossible to reach the counter and even when Laurent manages to get there, no barman gives him any attention. Jesus Christ, he could have them all fired and they keep serving everyone except him. After a few more minutes of useless shouting he decides he’s done waiting, this place belongs to his family, this is basically his alcohol. With those thoughts in mind, he climbs over the counter and decides to serve himself. Incredibly, no one notices.
“Excuse me.” Calls someone, it takes Laurent a few seconds to realise they’re talking to him. He’s huge, the guy is literally huge. All bulging muscles and towering height, a stupid vest that leaves nothing to the imagination and shorts that hug his a-
“Can I have a beer please?”
Oh. Oh, he thinks Laurent is a fucking barman. His father owns the entire resort and this giant animal thinks Laurent is a barman. This could be fun, though, Laurent doesn’t need much to have fun these days. Plus, he loves deception.
“Sure.” He replies with a saccharine smile, but the guy doesn’t seem to notice the edge in his words and gives a big smile of his own. Straight white teeth and a- is that a dimple? Laurent is starting to think this man will cause problems to his own integrity.
“Thanks,” he says when Laurent hands him his drink, “can I buy one for you too?”
“No.”
The reply is automatic, quick, a courtesy of many years of people trying to get into Laurent’s pants with little more than human decency. This man, though, he smiles again as if that’s just something he does, smiling. Auguste is the only person who’s able to make Laurent smile, cat videos can do that too, but they don’t count.
“Something else, then.”
Laurent doesn’t answer right away, this time. He pretends to actually think about it before turning his glacial eyes on the man and simply saying: “no.”
“Oh, okay.” Says the man and he sounds -disappointed, almost. “Well, how about a dance?”
Now, Laurent can’t help but roll his eyes. A dance. There is no way he is going to dance with a stranger to this kind of music, all beat and dumb, overly sexual lyrics. God, no. If she were alive, his mother would kill him for even thinking about it. He’s not, by the way. Thinking about it. Especially not when the man shrugs and gives him a resigned grimace, as if it’s Laurent’s loss. He abandons his orange juice and downs a shot of whatever it is that the guy to his left ordered. He’s bewildered, but Laurent refills him quickly before finally leaving the bar and going back to Auguste as if nothing really happened.
The next hour goes by smoothly and Laurent finds himself quite tipsy, well, maybe more than tipsy. A bit drunk. Auguste is shocked, he keeps giving Laurent these looks and he just won’t stop trying to take his glass away from him. The thing is, Laurent spent his life listening to people call him a cast iron bitch. It started in high school when he kept turning down boys and girls so, of course, said boys and girls started saying he was a prude, as if it was a fault. The thing degenerated from there, Laurent wouldn’t put out so it must have meant he had something to hide, maybe he was gross down there, maybe he had a disease. Maybe he really was a girl, what with the long hair and almost androgynous features. He heard it all, even the things he wasn’t meant to, like Jackson what’s-his-name proudly declaring to the football team how he’d managed to fuck Laurent under the bleachers after their last game. Of course, once Laurent was done with him, he never dared even look at him again. Laurent thinks that served as some kind of example, because people stopped trying to sleep with him and the rumours got even wilder. That’s when Mike Young called him a cast iron bitch for the first time, the rest is history.
So, Laurent is well aware that he’s pretty much drunker than he’s ever been and he’s well aware that it’s because his stupid (stupid!) subconscious got mad at Laurent himself when he turned down that Akielon Adonis. Yes, the fact that he called him an adonis is telling enough. Laurent is also aware that thinking about his high school struggles will only make him want to prove those dumbasses wrong, never mind he hasn’t seen any of them in two years. What he decides to do, despite this newfound -never lost, actually- awareness, is give into his insecurities. Stupid, right? Stupid enough that he thrusts his drink into Auguste’s hands and takes off to the ‘dance floor’. It’s not an actual floor, obviously, they’re on the beach. People are being disgusting and dancing off beat, so horribly that it makes Laurent cringe, but he only has eyes for someone and that someone is probably the only person with any sense of rhythm in the crowd. He’s right in the centre and easily spotted, he’s like the sun and all these people float around him, trying to keep up with him because damn, he can dance. This has suddenly become slightly more interesting, more problematic if Laurent wants to be honest.
He elbows his way through the crowd, he’s starting to feel the music, really feel it. It’s this buzzing that makes his heart rate speed up and his blood pump steadily, it’s the thrill. He knows if he starts moving, he won’t stop. It’s in his feet, first. Then, it climbs up his legs and pools in his stomach and rises, rises to his chest and falls, falls down his arms. He’s dancing. He’s right there in the middle of a drunken crowd, dancing to the kind of music he hates (or pretends to) and he doesn’t have a care in the world, except, he does have one care and that care is still showing off dancing with a girl right besides the shower, in a fortunate patch of people-free sand. Everybody’s watching him. Laurent decides that the girl can’t keep up. Laurent also decides that he should show them all what he’s made of. That he should show Akielon Adonis that it’s not Laurent’s loss, it’s his. He didn’t realise it before, his focus was solely on that show off with his hands all over the girl, but now he can see that people have started noticing him. They’re giving him space, as if saying: “go on, we want to see you.” Now, Laurent knows he’s good, he’s not modest, but he’s good at dancing to Tchaikovsky, not fucking Flo Rida. Nevertheless, he must be doing something good because these people are shouting at him and encouraging him and slowly pushing him towards Akielon Adonis.
They’re close now, and the man only has eyes for Laurent. If he were in his right mind, he would probably blush but something tells him that his whole face is already flushed thanks to the alcohol and the dancing. God, he must look awful. Except, maybe he doesn’t, because Akielon Adonis can’t keep his eyes off of him.
“I thought you didn’t dance.” Shouts the man, he’s a bit sweaty and he’s breathing hard, but he’s still kind of dancing as he waits for Laurent to respond.
“I said I wouldn’t dance with you.” Bites back Laurent, of course Akielon Adonis simply laughs, as if Laurent is endearing.
“Why not?” He shouts again as he takes a step forward with the pretence of being heard over the music. They’re very close now. Very, very close. Laurent swallows, the alcohol is clouding his thoughts, it’s making him loose and warm. He really wants to dance.
“Because I wouldn’t dance with someone who has no sense of rhythm.” He snaps, head held up high and lips pursed. He feels like a ten year-old.
“You think I can’t dance?” Asks Akielon Adonis, his eyes are wide and his eyebrows are raised. He looks surprised and bit offended.
“It certainly looks like it.”
Akielon Adonis says nothing and watches him for a long time, then his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Is this a challenge?” He asks. Laurent knows it’s not, he knows he would never challenge a guy like him to a dance off in the middle of a drunken crowd when they’re wearing nothing but swimwear and the music is just -filthy. So, of course, he says: “yes.”
The music is just a background, a helpful thud thud that keeps them in time. He registers it uncaringly, keeps it at the back of his mind because the only thing at the forefront is Damen’s hands on his waist. That’s his name, Damen, he shouted it before accepting the challenge, as if it changed something. It doesn’t, Laurent is just as ruthless as he meant to be and he’s going to win. The only problem is that this -thing they’re doing is degenerating. They’re not dancing to win, not with the way Damen is running his hands down Laurent’s body, not with the way Laurent is plastering himself all over those muscles. No -no, he needs to put a stop to this. He needs to get away but he just can’t. Not when they’re moving so perfectly, not when Damen just knows what move Laurent is going to pull next and is already there, ready to catch him and spin him and hold him. It’s over all too soon, both on their knees, close, their faces inches apart, and the water from the shower pouring down their heated bodies. It’s a shock, it’s what Laurent needs to realise that he’s just danced like that with a stranger. Oh God, he’s such and idiot, he’s also drunk.
He shots to his feet and shakes Damen’s hands off him. He manages to find Auguste’s face in the crowd, there’s an odd expression on his features but as soon as he sees Laurent’s panic he shifts into his big brother mode and starts elbowing his way through the crowd. Laurent is stunned, a bit frozen on the spot but Auguste, ever the rescuer, is by his side in a matter of seconds. He shoves past Damen and slides an arm over Laurent’s shoulders, dragging him away. Distantly, Laurent hears someone shout.
“Wait! Who even are you?”
***
His audition goes horribly. Ballet is his thing, he’s more than great at it. Contemporary, on the other hand, is his weakness. They tell him his moves are perfect, they tell him he’s on time and graceful. They tell him his technique is flawless, but, still, there’s something missing. He’s not dancing with his heart, he’s not letting go. He should be having fun, he’s too stiff, he’s too stuck up.
“You have so much potential, Mr. Étoile. That’s why I’m willing to give you another chance.”
“But it’s just contemporary.” Protests Laurent, his breathing is still ragged from exertion. The woman looks at him for a few seconds before her lips spread in a grimace, her eyes turn disappointed. Laurent swallows.
“Maybe another chance is not a good idea.”
At that, Laurent’s heart jumps. He can’t lose this, he can’t disappoint Auguste and his mother, let his father win. Disappoint himself.
“No, I promise I can be better.”
The woman shakes her head, and goes back to the papers scattered on the table, as if she’s not crushing all of Laurent’s hopes and dreams with a few words.
“Goodbye, Mr. Étoile.”
For a moment, Laurent thinks it’s a joke. He stays standing there, dumbfounded, waiting for the woman to lift her head up and tell him she was messing with him. She doesn’t. Laurent thinks about his mother, about the old cassette he used to watch for hours on end, the one where she’s dancing Swan Lake. Then, he thinks about Auguste, about all the times he raised his voice and fought his father just to give Laurent a chance to follow his dream. Lastly, he thinks about himself. He thinks about the way he feels when he’s alone and dancing, thoughtless, light... happy.
“Look,” he starts, “I know what I said was stupid and I know I can’t -easily let go, but dancing is my life. Dancing is the only thing I care about, I’ve sacrificed so much to be here today so, please, let me have another chance.”
It feels so out of character, begging. Laurent is not someone who begs, Laurent is someone who keeps is head high and looks down on people and always has a back up plan. This time, he doesn’t. The woman’s eyes snap to him, though, and she gives him an assessing look. Laurent’s heart is beating wildly, he’s distantly aware of the last people in the room chatting and laughing. He thinks he might have stopped breathing. Then, the woman speaks.
“Fine, one last chance. The last round of auditions will be at the end of the summer, we’ll add your name to the list. You can go now.”
Laurent exhales.
“Thank you so much, thank you.” He says as he starts walking to the exit. There’s this feeling in his chest, this relief mixed with euphoria and something scarily close to anxiety, but at least not everything is lost.
“And Laurent,” calls the woman as he’s about to open the door, “you’ll have to dance with your heart, not your head.”
***
They’re having a family dinner, which means Aleron is talking to Auguste about business and Laurent is bored half to death. At least his father hasn’t tried to bring up Laurent’s failed audition, although something tells him it won’t be long before he approaches the topic. The terrace is beautiful, at least, if there’s one thing he can’t deny about his father is that Aleron has good taste. The hotel is a pristine, modern looking building at the edge of Ios’ famous cliffs. The view from the terrace is amazing, the blues and silvers of the sea are a sight to behold, especially on a night like this, when the moon is full and resplendent. It’s magical, Laurent only wishes he could enjoy it, instead he’s been forced into a perfectly tailored suit and a conversation about a topic he loathes. Laurent is so lost in boredom that he almost startles when the waiter asks for their order. It’s Auguste who recognises him first, Laurent sees his eyes go wide and his lips part in surprise and that’s when he turns his gaze over to the man standing by their table. It’s Akielon Adonis. It’s Damen, the man whose chest he’s withered against, the man whose crotch he’s shaken his ass against like a fifteen year-old at his first party. Jesus. Damen hasn’t noticed him yet, which means he hasn’t noticed Laurent’s shock and he has time to school his features into blankness.
“And I’ll have the scampi.”
Damen had been pouring water into his glass when he heard Laurent’s words and lifted his eyes, which is why the next thing he knows Laurent’s pants are drenched in water.
“Fuck.” He hisses, his chair screeches as he pushes it back. His father gasps, Auguste hides a smile behind his glass. Damen still hasn’t moved, he’s looking at him as if he’s seeing a ghost.
“Wait, aren’t you-“ He starts, but Laurent is quick to shut him up.
“Do you mind?” He squeaks, gesturing to his damp pants. Damen doesn’t finish his sentence and silence stretches, uncomfortable. It all happens quickly, then. First Damen is staring at him with confusion, a moment later he’s on his knees with a cloth in his hand and a playful smile on his lips.
“Of course.” He says and starts patting the cloth all over Laurent’s crotch.
Fuck.
Auguste can’t keep his snort muffled, Aleron can’t keep his eyes from bulging out of their sockets and Laurent -well, Laurent can’t keep his breath from hitching. It takes him a few seconds to grab ahold of himself, seeing Damen on his knees before him brought back memories of their last encounter. Of theirs bodies pressed together, sweat and water and sand clinging to them like a second skin. Their breaths mingling as they kneeled together under the spray of the shower, Damen’s muscles firm and slick under his hands, their chests heaving-
“Stop -stop, it’s fine.” Stutters Laurent as his tries to shoo Damen’s hands with his own. He sees his smile widen, mirth dancing in his deep brown eyes.
“Of course.” He says, again. Before he straightens back up and finally, finally leaves Laurent alone, one of his hands finds its way into Laurent’s pocket and a rigid, rectangular piece of paper is pressed to his thigh. He looks up at Laurent, then -so fucking handsome Laurent can hardly believe it- and whispers: “come see us.”
Then, he’s gone.
That night, when he’s back in his room and the stress of the evening dissipates along with his brother’s teasing and his father’s somehow disapproving eyes, Laurent dares take out of his pocket that business card. It’s plain and black, bold white letters recite ‘Lions Crew’. Laurent turns it over between his fingers and finds a date and address written on the back, he recognises it as one of the most famous art galleries in Ios, he’s been there just a few days ago to attend a friend of Auguste’s exposition. Why the hell would Damen give him this, is he some kind of artist? Who are those ‘us’ he mentioned? The only thing that comes to Laurent’s mind is to look up their name on the internet.
Too many links come up after he hits the send button, after all ‘Lions’ isn’t exactly a creative name. It’s when he starts looking through the videos section that he finds something interesting. There’s a YouTube channel titled exactly ‘The Lions Crew’ and their bio explains that they’re an Ios based dance crew, competing in some sort of contest for the most seen video. It’s plausible, Damen is a good dancer as much as Laurent hates to admit it. Of course, Ios is a capital and there could be dozens of Lions Crews around, but as Laurent squints to see the still of one of their videos, he finds that there’s a very tall, very beefy, olive skinned guy caught mid-move. Someone who might easily be Damen. He clicks on the video.
It’s him, there’s no doubt. The man is Damen and him and his crew are dancing on top of fucking cars. They’re in the middle of traffic and they’re jumping on top of taxis. As much as Laurent would like to scoff at their style and antics, he can’t help but admit that their choreography is kind of good. Okay, maybe it’s more than good, maybe it’s even great. Their bodies are perfectly synchronised, their moves are timed and the contrast between each of their styles is pretty amazing. They all manage to look unique and a team at the same time, they keep their individuality even though they work perfectly as a whole. Each of them the gear of a perfectly functioning machine. What strikes him the most, though, is how easily their emotions transpire. They’re dancing with their hearts, not their heads. Laurent decides to keep the card.
***
He doesn’t ask Auguste to go with him, something tells him he’ll want to be alone this time. He’s dressed to the nines, as always, perfectly fitted dress pants and a candid shirt left unbuttoned at the top. (They’re in Akielos, not even cast iron bitch Laurent Étoile can stand the heat). His long hair is brushed and braided, his poor excuse for a beard shaved. He fits in here, among pretentious people with their pretentious clothes and pretentious views on art, he also hates it. There’s no trace of Damen, nor any of the people featured in the numerous videos Laurent has spent the last few days watching obsessively, not that he’d ever admit that. Everything is calm, classical music floats in the air and everybody tries their best not to look bored.
There’s a painting Laurent quite likes, all bright, warm colours and abstract lines. It occupies almost the entire wall of one of the rooms and there aren’t many people admiring it, he decides to get closer. That’s when he sees it, an almost imperceptible movement coming from -from the middle of the painting. He must have imagined it. Just as he’s about to dismiss it as the result of a too light dinner, the music stops abruptly. There’s a few seconds of silence, then something more upbeat and modern starts to play and the painting comes to life. So do the statues and the projections on the walls and the other paintings and, suddenly, all of these people who have been camouflaging for the whole time start dancing.
Laurent is in awe. It’s the Lions Crew and they are unbelievably good, the way they move, their costumes, the suggestiveness of the location... everything looks magical and inspiring. As Laurent walks from room to room, trying to follow all of their choreographies, he realises that this is what he needs, these people are doing exactly what he can’t: they’re letting go. He comes face to face with the man himself and Damen wastes no time before taking Laurent’s hand and dragging him to yet another room, this one is completely dark. Then, small, old style televisions start glowing and projecting lines of light on the walls, illuminating objects and people alike.
The entire crew is there, Damen leaves Laurent standing in the entrance and joins their ranks right in the middle, where a leader should be. Of course, Damen can dance. Laurent knew this already, he knew it when he saw him with the girl and he knew it when it was him dancing with Akielon Adonis, when they’d synchronised and just -hit it off. When, for the first time since he was a child, Laurent danced without a care, following his limbs and his heart. Seeing Damen now, fully clothed and so comfortable between his people, is another experience entirely. Laurent couldn’t deny his abilities at the party, but right now, performing a real choreography that has been clearly well though out and rehearsed, Damen looks professional. Still, he manages to keep that carefree attitude that Laurent secretly (very, very secretly) envies him. That is probably the reason why he stays until the end, watching the Lions in amazement until the music stops and sirens start resounding on the outside.
“Did you like it?” Asks Damen, out of breath and sweaty and so incredibly alive. His crew has started spreading out and fleeing the gallery, cops just entered the building. Through it all, through the chaos and the angry shouts of people who clearly do not know how to appreciate art, Damen is here in front of Laurent asking for his opinion of all things.
“You should go,” he replies, “or they’ll arrest you.”
Damen smiles, big and endeared and Laurent kind of hates that this big, beefy, hip-hop-or-whatever dancer can see right through him.
“So? Did you like it?”
Laurent sighs, who in their right mind would risk so much just to ask a stupid question like that? Damen, that’s who. It also shouldn’t spark this feeling inside Laurent’s belly and it definitely shouldn’t make him nod earnestly like he does. Damen smiles again, even bigger if that’s possible.
“I gotta go, but you can call me.” He says and presses another piece of paper in Laurent’s hands. It’s got to be his number, Laurent accepts it reflexively as his usual retorts and excuses seem to all die in his throat. Damen is about to leave when Laurent finds himself holding onto his sleeve. What the hell is he even doing? The man turns around, surprised, and Laurent decides he should just go for it.
“I want to be part of your crew.” He blurts out. Damen’s eyes widen, his expression shifts into something Laurent can’t easily decipher. It’s annoying. Then, he nods, once.
“The warehouse on Main, tomorrow, 2 pm. Let’s see what you’re made of.”