Élise and Amalia are 18, okay?
The theater is vast, the air thick with expectation, with the collective breath of an audience held in anticipation. Élise does not see them. She never does.
She sees her.
Amalia moves like water, her limbs unfolding with an elegance that is too sharp, too precise to be soft, and yet--it is. She is. The clean line of her neck as she turns, the impossible lift of her chin, the tension in her spine, the perfect, devastating curve of her arch as she extends one leg behind her.
She is a painting, a sculpture, a dream made flesh.
And God, Élise aches.
She moves across the stage in counterpoint, her body a reflection, a contradiction. Where Amalia is fire, Élise is ice. Where Amalia's fingers flutter like the last breath of autumn, Élise's strike with the finality of winter.
Their bodies never touch. Not here.
But they almost do.
Élise sees it in the space between them, the fragile, unbearable inches of nothingness that might as well be a canyon, that might as well be a wound.
She sees Amalia in pieces--as she sees her, not as she is.
Her collarbones, etched in moonlight. The impossible symmetry of her ribs, rising and falling in the cadence of the music. Her wrists, delicate but strong, capable of breaking apart a heart more thoroughly than any cruel word.
The audience does not know.
They watch the ballet and they see beauty, see the story unfolding in deliberate, practiced perfection. But they do not see the war behind Élise's eyes, the betrayal in Amalia's silence.
They do not see the way Amalia's gaze flickers toward her--only for a second--before she turns away, before she denies them both the thing neither of them can name.
They do not see the hunger.
But Élise does.
And for a single, devastating moment, she thinks she sees it in Amalia, too.
Then the music ends. The spell breaks.
Applause roars.
And just like that, the moment is gone.
Their reflections in the long dressing room mirror move like echoes of one another--two small, precise bodies caught in the relentless rhythm of the company's tour. One at a time, then together, then apart again. Always circling. Always too aware.
Élise yanks at the ribbons of her pointe shoe with more force than necessary, the sharp movement making her wrist flick with irritation. She doesn't look up, but she knows Amalia is watching her from across the room.
"Must you always make everything a battle?" Amalia's voice is quiet but sharp. Her accent carves each word like a sculptor's knife.
Élise laughs, a short, cruel sound. "Says the girl who treats every pas de deux like a war."
Amalia rises from the bench, smooth and feline. "Maybe if you weren't so desperate to be seen, you wouldn't need to claw for attention in every rehearsal."
The sting lands. Of course it does. Amalia has always known exactly where to place the knife.
Élise stands, hands on her hips, heart hammering against the fragile sternum beneath her leotard. "And maybe if you weren't such a coward, you'd admit why you're so angry with me."
Silence. Amalia's mouth presses into a thin line, but her nostrils flare just slightly.
The company chatters around them--costumes rustling, makeup brushes whispering over skin--but their world has narrowed to this charged space between them. The scent of rosin, sweat, and powder clings to the air, to their skin.
Élise exhales, slow. Controlled. If she doesn't keep it controlled, she might do something dangerous.
"You think you're the only one suffering?" Amalia finally murmurs. "You think you're the only one who wants?"
It isn't an admission. But it's close.
Their eyes lock, breath catching in tandem. Something in the air shifts, heavy and hot, and Élise is the first to break, turning too sharply, grabbing her bag with unnecessary force. If she doesn't leave now, she won't leave at all.
"Have a good performance, Amalia."
She stalks to the door, even as Amalia remains still, perfectly poised. The girl doesn't chase her. She never does.
And maybe that's the most unbearable thing of all. The applause still rings in Élise's ears as she steps into the shower room, skin humming from the performance, from the lights, from the impossible perfection of it all. The scent of sweat and effort mingles with steam, the sharp tang of body wash and shampoo curling in the air. The room is a blur of lean, powerful bodies--beautiful, familiar, untouchable.
She doesn't stare. She can't.
She keeps her eyes low as she pulls the pins from her bun, hair unraveling in damp waves against her nape. Around her, the other dancers move through the motions of routine--tired, satisfied, euphoric in the way only a flawless performance can bring.
Amalia is two showers down. Élise can feel her presence like a held breath, like the moment before a jump where gravity hasn't yet reclaimed her.
She doesn't look. Not at the elegant curve of Amalia's back under the spray, water streaming down over tight, sculpted muscle. Not at the sharp edges of her shoulder blades, the dip of her spine, the way her collarbones jut like poetry.
Not at how she stands still under the stream, eyes closed, head tilted back--like she's letting herself feel something.
No one speaks. The quiet is thick with exhaustion, with post-performance glow, with the strange intimacy of shared vulnerability. They have been seen--truly seen--on stage, and now they return to themselves, to their bodies, rinsing off sweat and triumph.
Élise forces herself to move, scrubbing at her skin harder than necessary, pretending she doesn't feel Amalia's gaze flicker toward her. Just for a second.
She knows what it would take. A single step closer. A single word, spoken low enough to be hidden under the sound of the water.
But they both know what it would cost.
So they stand there, side by side, apart and yet too close, steam curling between them like an unanswered question.
The bus hums beneath them, the road stretching long into the dark, Austria pulling them forward. The exhaustion of the performance settles deep in Élise's bones, but sleep refuses to take her. The adrenaline still lingers in the marrow, a ghost of movement, a phantom echo of the stage.
Beside her, Amalia is silent, her head tipped against the window, eyes closed. Not asleep--Élise knows the difference. Amalia never sleeps on these long rides. Neither does she.
The space between them is barely there. Their thighs brush when the bus hits a bump, but neither moves away.
It's a kind of truce. A fragile one.
Outside, the world is black and full of motion. Inside, the quiet is heavy, punctuated only by the occasional murmur of another dancer, the rustling of a jacket being adjusted, the sigh of the tires against the road.
Élise watches the ghostly reflection of them both in the window--two bodies drawn too tightly, two faces too full of something unspoken.
She wants to say something, but words feel too sharp, too fragile. Everything they say to each other cuts, and she doesn't have the energy for wounds tonight.
Amalia shifts slightly, her breath audible in the hush.
Élise risks it, just barely, her voice low.
"You danced beautifully."
A beat of silence. Amalia's lashes flicker, but she doesn't open her eyes.
"So did you."
Something in Élise's throat tightens. She looks down at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting the hem of her sweater.
The bus jolts, and Amalia sways. Instinctively, Élise moves to steady her, just barely--her fingers brushing against Amalia's wrist before pulling back. The touch lasts less than a second, but it lingers in the charged space between them.
Amalia finally turns her head from the window, meeting her gaze in the dim light. There's something there--tired, raw, wanting.
For once, it isn't cruel.
And for once, Élise doesn't look away.
Élise can feel it before she sees it--the shift in Amalia's breathing, the faint tension in her fingers as they grip the hem of her coat. And then, when she dares to glance sideways, she finds Amalia watching her, not with sharpness, not with challenge, but with something quieter. Something that trembles, despite her best efforts to keep still.
Touch me.
The words aren't spoken, but they live in the air between them, in the flicker of Amalia's lashes, the way her pulse flutters just beneath the fragile skin of her throat.
The bus rumbles beneath them, and Élise's hands--so precise in their craft, so used to knowing exactly where to place themselves--hesitate now. She could do it. She could reach, close the distance, let her fingers find warmth in the cool press of Amalia's wrist, let her palm settle in the hollow between Amalia's ribs. She could feel her, real and right there, instead of just imagining it in the spaces where they never let themselves exist.
She flexes her fingers once against her thigh, a breath held tight in her ribs.
Amalia is still watching, barely breathing.
And then, Élise moves--just enough. Just barely.
Her pinky brushes against Amalia's, tentative and weightless. A whisper of touch.
It's nothing. But it's everything.
Amalia doesn't flinch away.
Instead, she shifts, the tiniest movement, letting her hand turn, her fingers parting ever so slightly. A silent invitation.
Élise's pulse stutters. Slowly, deliberately, she lets her fingers slip between Amalia's, a featherlight press of skin on skin.
It's dangerous. It's too much.
But Amalia tightens her grip, just for a moment. And Élise lets her.
They don't look at each other after that. They don't speak.
The road hums beneath them, and Austria rises ahead, indifferent to the small, stolen thing they have carved out in the dark.
The plane hums around them, a dull white noise that presses against Élise's ears, making the world feel soft at the edges. She should sleep--everyone else is. Heads tilted against seats, necks bent at uncomfortable angles, the entire company resting in the glow of exhaustion.
But Élise can't sleep. Not with Amalia beside her. Not with the ghost of last night still clinging to her skin.
Their hands had stayed entwined for nearly an hour on the bus. Nothing more. Just the fragile press of fingers, the silent promise neither of them had dared to voice.
Now, sitting here, Élise doesn't know where they stand.
Amalia is curled up against the window, as small as someone with so much presence can be. Her knees are drawn up slightly, her arms tucked in close, but her body leans toward Élise in the subtle way of someone unconsciously seeking warmth.
Or maybe she's doing it on purpose.
The memory of their touch lingers between them, more present than the narrow armrest that divides their seats.
Élise exhales slowly and lets her head tilt back against the seat, closing her eyes. She should ignore it. She should let it go.
