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The rest of Trent's story can be found indexed here - this particular episode takes place after two other dance class ficlets : Phone call - Outreach Ballet Class and Teasing. Erin and the city of Eden, where Trent goes to ballet school, belong to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cicirossi.
***** ***** ****
A month in and the Saturday morning ‘outreach’ class was starting to settle into a regular pattern. Each of the student assistants had their own pupils, and Mr Sampson kept looping through his class music for the sections – once for the whole class, then twice more while he and Vo and Kaitleen did what they could and Mm Devon watched like an evil tempered hawk. Every piece, three times over. It was soothing – the repetition, the familiar classroom smell of sweat and rosin, the light marking time across the floor.
They were working on plies, the whole class lined up along the barre, attempting long sweeping dips while the piano marked a leisurely tempo, and Mm Devon sing-songed the slow progression of positions.
OK, so the normally neat rows of identical movements were kinda lacking, and the whole Saturday morning thing just plain sucked but – well ok, so there was something worth watching. Someone, rather. And Trent had managed to end up watching him – supervising him. In a purely student / teacher kind of way. Yeah right. Although at least part of the fascination this week really was trying to figure out what the faded words on his t-shirt said. Jeep Naked just didn’t make any sense, and it was bothering him.
He dragged his attention back to Mrs Carleson. At least she was doing better at remembering which was third position and which was second this week. Trent moved alongside her, lightly touching her shoulder as they moved.
“Back and down, don’t forget.”
She rolled her shoulders back, and gave him a hesitant smile. Her mousy hair was starting to escape the high pony tail she scraped it into for class, and you had to admit, she was giving the lessons her best shot.
“That’s good. Keep it slow and even. – that’s it.”
He moved down the line, watching.
He could practically see Erin getting frustrated with his own mistakes: his balance very slightly off, enough to tip him forward on the up movement of each plie, just enough to set him on the balls of his feet.
Trent stepped in behind him at the bar, catching his eye in the mirror.
“Hey. You’re doing pretty good. Good solid position, you just need to watch your back as you start the plie, ok? Like this.”
Trent demonstrated, feet wide, thighs flexing, everything held light and true and lifted, smooth and easy.
He watched as the other boy tried to echo his soft, easy motion. Trent tried his hardest to watch the thin-cut-offs-clinging-to-sweaty-skin movement on a purely professional level. Damn, though.
“Concentrate on keeping your butt tucked in on the way down.” Trent suggested, watching their mirror bodies moving slowly in parallel.
His hand came to rest just brushing the curve of Erin’s lower back, reminding, guiding.
Hot skin and muscles working under the slide of green jersey and oh shit shit shit - not in class. Not in class. Fat women in lycra. Ronald Reagan. Mm Devon and Ronald Reagan even.
Erin’s movement’s had altered as well, his back stiffening, and Trent snatched his hand away, praying that the other boy hadn’t noticed anything, that no one had. Way to prove all the stereotypes right. Way to get beaten up by some skater gang….
“Better” he managed. “Just try and keep that position, and relax into it, let your weight just drop – that’s it.”
The pair of them made another series of plies, rising and falling, two pairs of eyes intent on the mirror without making contact.
“You feel that? – You’ve got it. That’s great.”
He didn’t even try and keep the smile out of his voice – they were meant to be encouraging the students after all. The quick flash of eye contact and the smile he got in return though? That he was so not going to be forgetting in a hurry.
cicirossi. ***** ***** ****
A month in and the Saturday morning ‘outreach’ class was starting to settle into a regular pattern. Each of the student assistants had their own pupils, and Mr Sampson kept looping through his class music for the sections – once for the whole class, then twice more while he and Vo and Kaitleen did what they could and Mm Devon watched like an evil tempered hawk. Every piece, three times over. It was soothing – the repetition, the familiar classroom smell of sweat and rosin, the light marking time across the floor.
They were working on plies, the whole class lined up along the barre, attempting long sweeping dips while the piano marked a leisurely tempo, and Mm Devon sing-songed the slow progression of positions.
OK, so the normally neat rows of identical movements were kinda lacking, and the whole Saturday morning thing just plain sucked but – well ok, so there was something worth watching. Someone, rather. And Trent had managed to end up watching him – supervising him. In a purely student / teacher kind of way. Yeah right. Although at least part of the fascination this week really was trying to figure out what the faded words on his t-shirt said. Jeep Naked just didn’t make any sense, and it was bothering him.
He dragged his attention back to Mrs Carleson. At least she was doing better at remembering which was third position and which was second this week. Trent moved alongside her, lightly touching her shoulder as they moved.
“Back and down, don’t forget.”
She rolled her shoulders back, and gave him a hesitant smile. Her mousy hair was starting to escape the high pony tail she scraped it into for class, and you had to admit, she was giving the lessons her best shot.
“That’s good. Keep it slow and even. – that’s it.”
He moved down the line, watching.
He could practically see Erin getting frustrated with his own mistakes: his balance very slightly off, enough to tip him forward on the up movement of each plie, just enough to set him on the balls of his feet.
Trent stepped in behind him at the bar, catching his eye in the mirror.
“Hey. You’re doing pretty good. Good solid position, you just need to watch your back as you start the plie, ok? Like this.”
Trent demonstrated, feet wide, thighs flexing, everything held light and true and lifted, smooth and easy.
He watched as the other boy tried to echo his soft, easy motion. Trent tried his hardest to watch the thin-cut-offs-clinging-to-sweaty-skin movement on a purely professional level. Damn, though.
“Concentrate on keeping your butt tucked in on the way down.” Trent suggested, watching their mirror bodies moving slowly in parallel.
His hand came to rest just brushing the curve of Erin’s lower back, reminding, guiding.
Hot skin and muscles working under the slide of green jersey and oh shit shit shit - not in class. Not in class. Fat women in lycra. Ronald Reagan. Mm Devon and Ronald Reagan even.
Erin’s movement’s had altered as well, his back stiffening, and Trent snatched his hand away, praying that the other boy hadn’t noticed anything, that no one had. Way to prove all the stereotypes right. Way to get beaten up by some skater gang….
“Better” he managed. “Just try and keep that position, and relax into it, let your weight just drop – that’s it.”
The pair of them made another series of plies, rising and falling, two pairs of eyes intent on the mirror without making contact.
“You feel that? – You’ve got it. That’s great.”
He didn’t even try and keep the smile out of his voice – they were meant to be encouraging the students after all. The quick flash of eye contact and the smile he got in return though? That he was so not going to be forgetting in a hurry.