His head jerks, sharp, surprise written on his features from the parted lips to how his eyebrows go up. Then his expression softens and he just looks at House for a moment, before nodding slowly. He doesn't say anything, just reaches into his bag and unzips one of the interior pockets and pulls out his pointe shoes. He doesn't have a quip or a sly remark, and there's a certain vulnerability about him, even if he's not saying anything. He's not embarrassed about it, per se, he'd made his performance for the YAGP en pointe. It's just that since joining the company, he cares about what the people here think about him.
He's never even admitted it to his boyfriend. Instead, Brett tries to work with him on his lifts, how to brace his body without looking like it, how to take the weight and use it for his own momentum. It was that look of disappointment, though... it's as if somehow, House of all people sees who it is that Chase really wants to be.
He sits on the floor, slipping off his usual dance shoes, and puts the foam cushion over his toes, and then slips his foot into the slipper. He pulls the ribbons taut as he ties them around his foot and then the ankle, making sure they're snug enough to give the proper support. He ties them, then tucks the knot under the ribbon, repeating it for the second toe shoe. The ones he has with him now are the classic pink, instead of the stark red he'd worn at the Grand Prix.
"Like this?" He asks, a little shy, a hint timid. There's a difference between giving yourself to a faceless audience, even when they held his future in their hands, and doing the same thing to someone he knows, that matters.
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He's never even admitted it to his boyfriend. Instead, Brett tries to work with him on his lifts, how to brace his body without looking like it, how to take the weight and use it for his own momentum. It was that look of disappointment, though... it's as if somehow, House of all people sees who it is that Chase really wants to be.
He sits on the floor, slipping off his usual dance shoes, and puts the foam cushion over his toes, and then slips his foot into the slipper. He pulls the ribbons taut as he ties them around his foot and then the ankle, making sure they're snug enough to give the proper support. He ties them, then tucks the knot under the ribbon, repeating it for the second toe shoe. The ones he has with him now are the classic pink, instead of the stark red he'd worn at the Grand Prix.
"Like this?" He asks, a little shy, a hint timid. There's a difference between giving yourself to a faceless audience, even when they held his future in their hands, and doing the same thing to someone he knows, that matters.