Swan!AU - Chapter 2: The Trigger
Story: Swan Lake: Chapter 2 - The Trigger
Author:
robinless
Pairing: Jason/Tim
Genre: AU/Romance/Angst
Words: 2670~
Rating: PG-15 (Not sure about it)
Summary: Based on MGNemesis’ images of Bourne’s Swan Lake. Jason Todd was raised by a poor travelling theater company and finally gets the chance to work in a big production. There he meets famous young dancer Timothy Drake.
Notes: Struggled a bit with that one. Any kind of criticism is appreciated.
He didn't stop running until he reached the back door of the theater. The little alley was dirty, but the smells didn't even register in his mind as he gulped some air and gave himself a minute to calm down. He felt ridiculous. He had run the moment Drake's eyes had fallen on him, heavy-lidded after the dance. It had felt like being caught doing something he was not supposed to. Staring like that had felt intrusive. Wrong. Like peering through a window. Like watching something intimate. It was an absurd thought, he was pretty sure he hadn't been the only one to drop by to see how the first practice was going.
Regardless of that, it still made his stomach churn in painful ways.
Denial wasn't his best skill and as much as he didn't want to admit it, he had run out of embarrassment. He wasn't planning on being caught staring wide-eyed, creeping from the glass panel in the door, any time again soon. Probably never. Slowly, he undid his way back to the practice room. He didn't want to go back just yet, but it was almost time for rehearsal. He hoped he had run fast enough for Drake not to remember his face. He could live with that moment in his mind, but he didn't feel like being reminded.
People were already gathering in the entrance of the room. The knot on his stomach tightened. He really didn't want to find Drake inside. He needed focus and to do good in his first practice, which would be a whole new level of hard if he had to feel that tense the whole hour. He wasn't deluding himself, the others had better training and it was going to take a serious effort not to stand out as the clumsy one in the bunch.
He took a couple of deep breaths and crossed the door.
Come what may.
.·.·.·.·.·.·.
The first rehearsal was being Hell, and he wished that was an exaggeration. Well, maybe it was. Kind of.
"Come on, I told you not to do that! Please, will you all start again? It seems like we've got a couple of deaf people in the room." Mr. Harris was having a bad day. "And I don't want to see that face again. I'm talking to you, yeah, the one in the blue shirt. Cut it. If you are tired, you know where the door is." A really bad day.
He went back to his initial position. Williams, the lead for the corps of swans, was there. He was doing fairly good in his role, but his face was showing just how much he liked dear Mr. Harris. Jason had seen men with matching black eyes for giving way less intense looks to the wrong person.
Drake was nowhere to be seen. Probably taking a break after his rehearsal. Good to him. He could do without his presence. Not that it really mattered, it wasn't as if they had anything in common. It wasn't as if he had been stalking him. He wasn't that special. He sure was a good dancer, but he sure as hell was a whimsical prima donna too, just as every half-decent dancer was. Drake, being truly gifted, would probably take the condescending attitude to a new level.
He didn't want to add to his little club of sycophants.
"You, snap out of it! Daydream when this is over, you hear me?" Mr. Harris was glaring at him. Sweet. So much for not standing out.
"Yeah. Sorry." Focus. He really needed to focus.
It wad hard to keep up. He wasn't used to the fast pace and never had been part of a big crew. He wished he could leap and land as smoothly as the others did and not like he was a sack full of sand being dragged around. His body felt heavy. His movements erratic. It was as if he couldn't put a foot after the other without missing the rhythm. The feeling of freedom tied to dancing kept slipping through his fingers with every new move. He was feeling uncoordinated.
If he could, just for once, feign some level of belonging. Stop sticking out like a sore thumb everywhere just for a while.
"Watch out. Turn, turn..." Mr. Harris' orders washed out over him. It felt awkwardly mechanical to move. "Good. Good. Now, leap! Higher! I want those leaps higher, you all need to synch better next time. This looks like a crew of drunk sailors instead of a dance crew. Come on, again!"
He was trying but was fooling no one. If there was an ugly duckling in the room it was him.
Reminding himself why he was there was the only thing that kept him going. He had passed the trials. He had been chosen not because he was conveniently there but because he had proved he could do it. They hadn't randomly picked him up from the street. That had to count for something. They couldn't be wrong about him, not that much. If they were, then he was just another mistake. A thing to be mourned, not a memory to cherish. If he just focused a bit more. If he just ignored how his legs where screaming at him to stop. Pain wasn't real, pain was nothing. He could do better, he had to do better. He was going to be worth his role this time.
As the crew moved, turning, running, leaping, it was like entering a trance. It was there, what he had barely grasped, he could feel the rhythm. The steps. The music rippled with every crouch, every stretch, echoing on the walls.
The final compasses of the scene were mingling with the faint rush of clothes of the dancers. The orders barely reaching his ears as he leaped for the last time, high enough, fast enough, good enough for once.
Right until he fell.
.·.·.·.·.·.·.
"Todd, you know why I asked you to stay, right?"
"You wanted to talk to me." He was sore. And sweaty. And just completely drained.
"I guess you already know what I'm going to tell you." Mr. Harris was looking at him with what he supposed was his most comprehensive face. To him it looked more like disappointment, but he may have been projecting. The week had gone from bad to worse with each passing day. "Look, Todd. First of all, I'm not going to kick you out. I know where you used to work, so I understand this isn't the level you are used to, but we saw you at the auditions and you did way better than what you've been doing lately."
He didn't really know what to answer to that. He had gone to the auditions just so he'd have an excuse to give to his old company as for why he was leaving. He had never thought he would get in. He had just... Danced. Relied on the music and tried not to think. He wasn't good at thinking anyway, it was better to just feel and let go for a while. His instincts were good, but when he stopped to actually consider things they always got messed up. Trusting his gut didn't work in the rehearsals, though. Synching with the others was hard and required too much attention, it didn't feel natural. It felt like he was striving to fly when his feet could barely took off the ground.
"Well, I was expecting some kind of excuse but it looks like I won't get any, right?" Mr. Harris looked uncomfortable as he played with a towel, his eyes straying to roam trough the room. "I know you can do better than that. Just... Try, ok? Try."
There was an awkward pat on his shoulder and in a matter of seconds he was alone in the deserted room. His reflection on the mirror covering the main wall, a figure standing in the middle of a half-lit room, suddenly felt like a bad omen. Oppressing. He had been trying. His body had been screaming at him for days to just take a break and relax. And regardless of the wording, he knew what he had just heard had been a warning.
Do better or leave. Do good or be a failure.
He wasn't a failure and he was gonna prove it. Even if he had to break in the process. Maybe he wasn't as good as the others, but he could be. He knew he could, if he just tried harder. He had to be enough.
Just once.
.·.·.·.·.·.·.
He was pushing it too far. He knew it, but that wasn't gonna make him stop. Every morning, the sun glowing dimly, he made his way to the old theater passing by little shops opening their doors and paperboys running up and down the street. The city had an eery presence in those early hours. After so many years far away, coming back to Gotham felt like being welcomed by a mother. The kind of abusive mother you couldn't help but love, if only because she brought you to this world. He had been born in Gotham and the city had left its marks on him, the same ones every citizen had. It wasn't a pretty city. The streets of Gotham were cruel, they could lure you into dark paths, but not a hundred Arkham breakouts could make people leave for long.
That early the theater was almost empty, just a couple of maintenance people around. It was easier to feel calm and capable without hordes of people closing into him. He had the whole room to himself, the music almost echoed in the empty space.
He was getting better. The pay-off his lonely mornings was still not enough, but it would be eventually. His back was hurting, as it had been for the past three days. As he stretched, he could feel his muscles tense in agony. He gulped a shaky breath. He was so close, he wasn't gonna stop now.
Moving through the room, his articulations grinding, his legs felt wobbly. He was good at ignoring his body's needs. Hunger did that to you. He leaped, arms stretched as if to reach the ceiling, wondering how birds felt dancing around rooftops. He was caged by gravity, but still felt so good in the few moments where there was nothing surrounding him but air. It was just him, suspended in a moment, before reality dragged him home, to the ground, his abused feet touching the surface and making him shiver in pain.
He let himself fall and stay there, his cheek against the paneled floor, while trying to control his breathing. Maybe he was going too far this time. Maybe he just needed to resign himself. Sitting up, he resumed his stretching. Resigning had the same bitter taste as defeat.
He needed to keep himself pliable and his sore limbs were everything but. It was painful, each inch his back bended. He wanted to scream. Grinding his teeth he couldn't help a grunt escaping his lips. If he didn't stretch properly it was gonna hurt way worse than it already was, he had to do it. Still, has he griped his feet with his extended arms, his face contorted in a pained grimace, he felt light-headed.
"You are going to hurt yourself."
He nearly jumped out of his skin.
Quickly relaxing his posture he looked up just to see Drake looming over him with a confused expression. He was searching his face as if looking for something and he felt the tips of his ears start burning under the scrutiny.
"It's none of your b--" Before he could reply and really prove he had been raised in Crime Alley, the double doors of the room slammed open and a torrent of people got inside. He hadn't realized it was that late.
Drake's mouth had snapped shut and his head had turned in the doors' direction the moment they had opened. He was still standing there, tense as an arc, but after a couple of aborted movements he turned back to face him again, his blue eyes flickering as if to avoid eye contact.
"You shouldn't really push it that much." After a little smile that almost wasn't there he rushed to join one of the groups preparing for rehearsal in a corner.
Suddenly he realized he was still sitting in the middle of the room with his mouth ajar and hastily stood up grabbing his things, perhaps a bit too tightly. His face felt hot and his mind was racing too much for him to discern if it was because of anger, embarrassment or a mix of both.
No one had asked Drake's opinion but then again, he probably felt it was gracious of him to share his thoughts anyway. He didn't need him telling when he should stop. How could he tell others to take it easy when he was so much better than any of them was a wonder. It was as if he was stating they would never be equals, so why bother trying. He was way worse than he had expected.
Maybe he shouldn't have slammed the door that hard when he left, some eyebrows had raised, but he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. The blush creeping down his chest was making his skin burn.
It wasn't his group's rehearsal anyway. He didn't have to stay. He didn't have to swallow and deal with it if he didn't want to.
He kicked a pile of boxes out of his way, immediately regretting it when he felt the pain coming from his toes.
Fucking Drake.
.·.·.·.·.·.·.
It had been a busy day. If he had felt drained in the morning, he didn't know which words could describe how he was feeling at the moment, packing his things before leaving. He was hurting all over, but thankfully the edge of his anger had mostly died out. Cooled down enough to be a rock in the pit of his stomach. At least working with that was easier than with the blinding need to break things.
It wasn't as if Drake's opinions mattered. He had no reason whatsoever to let them affect him. He could just ignore it all. It was irrelevant.
He didn't need them.
Drake would never understand what it was to struggle to fit. He was too good. Probably had been pampered all his life, never knowing what it was to work up to things you could never have. Always trying, never reaching. Always doing his best, never gaining anything in return.
Jason was so tired of trying. So tired he wished he could just stop and forget his urge to prove himself worthy. It was wearing him out.
His eyes were half closing from exhaustion, he wobbled through the long corridors of the theater, pale light creeping from the tall windows. It was pitch dark outside, and he just wanted to sleep and forget everything for a while. He didn't even realize he had walked into earshot until he saw two figures standing near the big exit doors. It was Drake and Mr. Harris. The choreographer left, opening a heavy door and letting the cold air slip into the building. Drake was the only thing standing between him and the possibility of finally going home, looking miserable sitting in a ratty chair by the door.
He was too tired to care.
He didn't even bother to say goodbye as he passed him. Why should he waste his words in someone who had more than enough company?
Drake had everything, probably someone was waiting for him at home, he didn't have any right to look distressed. Jason was the one with reasons to curl in a corner to sulk. He had no one. He had nothing. He wasn't going home because he had nothing to call a home.
He slammed the door behind him.
He didn't need anyone, anyway.
Author:
robinless
Pairing: Jason/Tim
Genre: AU/Romance/Angst
Words: 2670~
Rating: PG-15 (Not sure about it)
Summary: Based on MGNemesis’ images of Bourne’s Swan Lake. Jason Todd was raised by a poor travelling theater company and finally gets the chance to work in a big production. There he meets famous young dancer Timothy Drake.
Notes: Struggled a bit with that one. Any kind of criticism is appreciated.
He didn't stop running until he reached the back door of the theater. The little alley was dirty, but the smells didn't even register in his mind as he gulped some air and gave himself a minute to calm down. He felt ridiculous. He had run the moment Drake's eyes had fallen on him, heavy-lidded after the dance. It had felt like being caught doing something he was not supposed to. Staring like that had felt intrusive. Wrong. Like peering through a window. Like watching something intimate. It was an absurd thought, he was pretty sure he hadn't been the only one to drop by to see how the first practice was going.
Regardless of that, it still made his stomach churn in painful ways.
Denial wasn't his best skill and as much as he didn't want to admit it, he had run out of embarrassment. He wasn't planning on being caught staring wide-eyed, creeping from the glass panel in the door, any time again soon. Probably never. Slowly, he undid his way back to the practice room. He didn't want to go back just yet, but it was almost time for rehearsal. He hoped he had run fast enough for Drake not to remember his face. He could live with that moment in his mind, but he didn't feel like being reminded.
People were already gathering in the entrance of the room. The knot on his stomach tightened. He really didn't want to find Drake inside. He needed focus and to do good in his first practice, which would be a whole new level of hard if he had to feel that tense the whole hour. He wasn't deluding himself, the others had better training and it was going to take a serious effort not to stand out as the clumsy one in the bunch.
He took a couple of deep breaths and crossed the door.
Come what may.
.·.·.·.·.·.·.
The first rehearsal was being Hell, and he wished that was an exaggeration. Well, maybe it was. Kind of.
"Come on, I told you not to do that! Please, will you all start again? It seems like we've got a couple of deaf people in the room." Mr. Harris was having a bad day. "And I don't want to see that face again. I'm talking to you, yeah, the one in the blue shirt. Cut it. If you are tired, you know where the door is." A really bad day.
He went back to his initial position. Williams, the lead for the corps of swans, was there. He was doing fairly good in his role, but his face was showing just how much he liked dear Mr. Harris. Jason had seen men with matching black eyes for giving way less intense looks to the wrong person.
Drake was nowhere to be seen. Probably taking a break after his rehearsal. Good to him. He could do without his presence. Not that it really mattered, it wasn't as if they had anything in common. It wasn't as if he had been stalking him. He wasn't that special. He sure was a good dancer, but he sure as hell was a whimsical prima donna too, just as every half-decent dancer was. Drake, being truly gifted, would probably take the condescending attitude to a new level.
He didn't want to add to his little club of sycophants.
"You, snap out of it! Daydream when this is over, you hear me?" Mr. Harris was glaring at him. Sweet. So much for not standing out.
"Yeah. Sorry." Focus. He really needed to focus.
It wad hard to keep up. He wasn't used to the fast pace and never had been part of a big crew. He wished he could leap and land as smoothly as the others did and not like he was a sack full of sand being dragged around. His body felt heavy. His movements erratic. It was as if he couldn't put a foot after the other without missing the rhythm. The feeling of freedom tied to dancing kept slipping through his fingers with every new move. He was feeling uncoordinated.
If he could, just for once, feign some level of belonging. Stop sticking out like a sore thumb everywhere just for a while.
"Watch out. Turn, turn..." Mr. Harris' orders washed out over him. It felt awkwardly mechanical to move. "Good. Good. Now, leap! Higher! I want those leaps higher, you all need to synch better next time. This looks like a crew of drunk sailors instead of a dance crew. Come on, again!"
He was trying but was fooling no one. If there was an ugly duckling in the room it was him.
Reminding himself why he was there was the only thing that kept him going. He had passed the trials. He had been chosen not because he was conveniently there but because he had proved he could do it. They hadn't randomly picked him up from the street. That had to count for something. They couldn't be wrong about him, not that much. If they were, then he was just another mistake. A thing to be mourned, not a memory to cherish. If he just focused a bit more. If he just ignored how his legs where screaming at him to stop. Pain wasn't real, pain was nothing. He could do better, he had to do better. He was going to be worth his role this time.
As the crew moved, turning, running, leaping, it was like entering a trance. It was there, what he had barely grasped, he could feel the rhythm. The steps. The music rippled with every crouch, every stretch, echoing on the walls.
The final compasses of the scene were mingling with the faint rush of clothes of the dancers. The orders barely reaching his ears as he leaped for the last time, high enough, fast enough, good enough for once.
Right until he fell.
.·.·.·.·.·.·.
"Todd, you know why I asked you to stay, right?"
"You wanted to talk to me." He was sore. And sweaty. And just completely drained.
"I guess you already know what I'm going to tell you." Mr. Harris was looking at him with what he supposed was his most comprehensive face. To him it looked more like disappointment, but he may have been projecting. The week had gone from bad to worse with each passing day. "Look, Todd. First of all, I'm not going to kick you out. I know where you used to work, so I understand this isn't the level you are used to, but we saw you at the auditions and you did way better than what you've been doing lately."
He didn't really know what to answer to that. He had gone to the auditions just so he'd have an excuse to give to his old company as for why he was leaving. He had never thought he would get in. He had just... Danced. Relied on the music and tried not to think. He wasn't good at thinking anyway, it was better to just feel and let go for a while. His instincts were good, but when he stopped to actually consider things they always got messed up. Trusting his gut didn't work in the rehearsals, though. Synching with the others was hard and required too much attention, it didn't feel natural. It felt like he was striving to fly when his feet could barely took off the ground.
"Well, I was expecting some kind of excuse but it looks like I won't get any, right?" Mr. Harris looked uncomfortable as he played with a towel, his eyes straying to roam trough the room. "I know you can do better than that. Just... Try, ok? Try."
There was an awkward pat on his shoulder and in a matter of seconds he was alone in the deserted room. His reflection on the mirror covering the main wall, a figure standing in the middle of a half-lit room, suddenly felt like a bad omen. Oppressing. He had been trying. His body had been screaming at him for days to just take a break and relax. And regardless of the wording, he knew what he had just heard had been a warning.
Do better or leave. Do good or be a failure.
He wasn't a failure and he was gonna prove it. Even if he had to break in the process. Maybe he wasn't as good as the others, but he could be. He knew he could, if he just tried harder. He had to be enough.
Just once.
.·.·.·.·.·.·.
He was pushing it too far. He knew it, but that wasn't gonna make him stop. Every morning, the sun glowing dimly, he made his way to the old theater passing by little shops opening their doors and paperboys running up and down the street. The city had an eery presence in those early hours. After so many years far away, coming back to Gotham felt like being welcomed by a mother. The kind of abusive mother you couldn't help but love, if only because she brought you to this world. He had been born in Gotham and the city had left its marks on him, the same ones every citizen had. It wasn't a pretty city. The streets of Gotham were cruel, they could lure you into dark paths, but not a hundred Arkham breakouts could make people leave for long.
That early the theater was almost empty, just a couple of maintenance people around. It was easier to feel calm and capable without hordes of people closing into him. He had the whole room to himself, the music almost echoed in the empty space.
He was getting better. The pay-off his lonely mornings was still not enough, but it would be eventually. His back was hurting, as it had been for the past three days. As he stretched, he could feel his muscles tense in agony. He gulped a shaky breath. He was so close, he wasn't gonna stop now.
Moving through the room, his articulations grinding, his legs felt wobbly. He was good at ignoring his body's needs. Hunger did that to you. He leaped, arms stretched as if to reach the ceiling, wondering how birds felt dancing around rooftops. He was caged by gravity, but still felt so good in the few moments where there was nothing surrounding him but air. It was just him, suspended in a moment, before reality dragged him home, to the ground, his abused feet touching the surface and making him shiver in pain.
He let himself fall and stay there, his cheek against the paneled floor, while trying to control his breathing. Maybe he was going too far this time. Maybe he just needed to resign himself. Sitting up, he resumed his stretching. Resigning had the same bitter taste as defeat.
He needed to keep himself pliable and his sore limbs were everything but. It was painful, each inch his back bended. He wanted to scream. Grinding his teeth he couldn't help a grunt escaping his lips. If he didn't stretch properly it was gonna hurt way worse than it already was, he had to do it. Still, has he griped his feet with his extended arms, his face contorted in a pained grimace, he felt light-headed.
"You are going to hurt yourself."
He nearly jumped out of his skin.
Quickly relaxing his posture he looked up just to see Drake looming over him with a confused expression. He was searching his face as if looking for something and he felt the tips of his ears start burning under the scrutiny.
"It's none of your b--" Before he could reply and really prove he had been raised in Crime Alley, the double doors of the room slammed open and a torrent of people got inside. He hadn't realized it was that late.
Drake's mouth had snapped shut and his head had turned in the doors' direction the moment they had opened. He was still standing there, tense as an arc, but after a couple of aborted movements he turned back to face him again, his blue eyes flickering as if to avoid eye contact.
"You shouldn't really push it that much." After a little smile that almost wasn't there he rushed to join one of the groups preparing for rehearsal in a corner.
Suddenly he realized he was still sitting in the middle of the room with his mouth ajar and hastily stood up grabbing his things, perhaps a bit too tightly. His face felt hot and his mind was racing too much for him to discern if it was because of anger, embarrassment or a mix of both.
No one had asked Drake's opinion but then again, he probably felt it was gracious of him to share his thoughts anyway. He didn't need him telling when he should stop. How could he tell others to take it easy when he was so much better than any of them was a wonder. It was as if he was stating they would never be equals, so why bother trying. He was way worse than he had expected.
Maybe he shouldn't have slammed the door that hard when he left, some eyebrows had raised, but he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. The blush creeping down his chest was making his skin burn.
It wasn't his group's rehearsal anyway. He didn't have to stay. He didn't have to swallow and deal with it if he didn't want to.
He kicked a pile of boxes out of his way, immediately regretting it when he felt the pain coming from his toes.
Fucking Drake.
.·.·.·.·.·.·.
It had been a busy day. If he had felt drained in the morning, he didn't know which words could describe how he was feeling at the moment, packing his things before leaving. He was hurting all over, but thankfully the edge of his anger had mostly died out. Cooled down enough to be a rock in the pit of his stomach. At least working with that was easier than with the blinding need to break things.
It wasn't as if Drake's opinions mattered. He had no reason whatsoever to let them affect him. He could just ignore it all. It was irrelevant.
He didn't need them.
Drake would never understand what it was to struggle to fit. He was too good. Probably had been pampered all his life, never knowing what it was to work up to things you could never have. Always trying, never reaching. Always doing his best, never gaining anything in return.
Jason was so tired of trying. So tired he wished he could just stop and forget his urge to prove himself worthy. It was wearing him out.
His eyes were half closing from exhaustion, he wobbled through the long corridors of the theater, pale light creeping from the tall windows. It was pitch dark outside, and he just wanted to sleep and forget everything for a while. He didn't even realize he had walked into earshot until he saw two figures standing near the big exit doors. It was Drake and Mr. Harris. The choreographer left, opening a heavy door and letting the cold air slip into the building. Drake was the only thing standing between him and the possibility of finally going home, looking miserable sitting in a ratty chair by the door.
He was too tired to care.
He didn't even bother to say goodbye as he passed him. Why should he waste his words in someone who had more than enough company?
Drake had everything, probably someone was waiting for him at home, he didn't have any right to look distressed. Jason was the one with reasons to curl in a corner to sulk. He had no one. He had nothing. He wasn't going home because he had nothing to call a home.
He slammed the door behind him.
He didn't need anyone, anyway.