scaredywombat | Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

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Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

Chase had shown up late to rehearsal, again. "Late" by dancer standards, at least, which meant right under the wire, still pulling his hair back and only just starting his warmups when the director walked in, clapping her hands and calling everyone to attention and to take their places. They were about a month out from their production of Swan Lake, which was the ballet that was considered by dance critics to be their company's strongest production. The company director was trying to make this performance better than the years before, while still trying to finish securing the details of their next run. It was chaotic, and Chase thrived on it. Even as busy as he was with college, he wouldn't give this up for the world. In the studio, he was far more alive than he was in the classroom, even if he was taking it seriously. Medicine. Becoming a doctor. Not what he wanted to do with his life, but he couldn't afford Julliard teaching five year olds how to plie, even if he wishes that he could. His classes and rehearsals run rather tight together, and he knows that a number of the other dancers judge him for it, but Robert pretends not to notice.

Or it's the fact that he's slept with more than a couple of his coworkers. People get so jumpy about sex, about who's having it and who isn't. Chase likes sex, and he's never seen it as a bad thing, never really had the desire to hide his interest. Other people just lie about it.

Rehearsal isn't particularly remarkable, at least not in matters of routine. They start off in pairs, running through movements and lifts, contact and extensions, to the often repeated instructions of grace and evoking simplicity in movement. They work their way in broad strokes through the third act with their instructor tweaking arms and pulling legs and saying hold. The same as the past two weeks. They take a break, she pulls out a notepad and they start back on Act I, Scene I, reviewing sections she had marked in green pen. What was remarkable, at least to Chase, was seeing Greg in those black tights. He stared, not quite shamelessly. He looked away when the older dancer would look his way, watched him through his blond eyelashes. He had a boyfriend, more or less. There were very good reasons not to be looking. But he couldn't help himself, he never could, because there was just something about him, about the way that he looked, the way that he moved, and it caught his breath half the time, and it always made his pulse race. Chase was a little more awkward, a little distracted when he wasn't dancing. He walked into someone during a break when he went for his water bottle.

He tried not to be obvious, but that was one thing that the young blond was not very good at. Much like how at the end of rehearsal, when Greg went off to one of the smaller studios, Chase couldn't help following. Everyone else either wasn't interested or knew better. Either was likely. Chase was terrible at knowing better. He was young, impulsive, and pretty scant on self-control. So there he was, leaning in the doorway, watching, his things still left behind in the other room. House usually wore loose pants, and the man was gorgeous. Older than most, but he made Chase have to struggle to try and not get a hard-on in the middle of rehearsal.

It didn't always work. He wanted to say something, but he didn't want to interrupt, so he just waited, watched. Quietly lingering while he stared.

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House knows that he’s easily the oldest dancer in the company outside of the instructor and one other man who he can’t quite accurately gauge age on, but he doesn’t care. This isn’t his whole life, it’s just something to keep him busy, something outside of medicine and the puzzles. In college, he’d had lacrosse, and for a while that had been enough - school and lacrosse occupying his mind and body. But it stopped being enough, his competitive side (or addictive side) wanted to dial it up to eleven and he’d started dancing to get better on the field. It had worked, but more than that, he’d really gotten into dancing in its own right. He’d never have guessed, if you’d asked him before, that he’d get into ballet let alone miss it after he graduated. For the first few years after med school, being a doctor was enough. Or maybe it wasn’t, because almost from the start he’d been pushing too much, jumping from job to job when hospitals couldn’t handle him. He hadn’t been at Princeton less than six months before Wilson, in a desperate bid to keep House from losing this job, suggested that House pick up a hobby. Something that’ll tire him out enough that he won’t have enough energy for the bullshit chaos he usually causes in the hospital. Wilson had meant upping his usual runs to something like joining a local doctors’ sports team or something, but House had decided to pick ballet up again.

That had been almost five years ago now. Wilson’s suggestion had worked, more or less. He hadn’t lost this job, but he also hadn’t stopped pulling truly asinine shit at the hospital. If anything, it seemed like being twice as busy gave House twice as much energy.

Today’s rehearsal isn’t very different than any other day’s rehearsal. This aspect of it, the routine, makes one wonder what House gets out of it. House, who thrives on things being always different, always needing to be worked out and relearned. There’s another aspect to his personality, though, a perfectionism that needs an outlet, needs something to focus through, to work at again and again until it’s perfect. Music had been that for a long time, but it’s a mix of practiced perfection and something to unwind with. Ballet is that for him now, something to work through again and again until he’s got a move down, a routine down, perfect, better than the last time, better than the next dancer. It’s a way to push himself, push his body to be better, more responsive, to give him exactly what he wants when he wants it.

It’d be a lie to say he wasn’t also in it for the butts. Young dancer butts were better than any porn he could get his hands on. House isn’t a stranger to sleeping with fellow dancers - he’s done it before - but nowhere near as much as some. He keeps an ear to the ground on gossip, knows who’s fucking who and who’s cheating on who. Rumors are entertaining, and more than once he’s pushed false information through the rumor mill just to watch chaos ensue. Despite the bullshit that he obviously pulls in the company as well as at the hospital, he’s more well liked than he strictly should be. Well, maybe that’s not quite accurate. He’s tolerated because he’s good. Really good. Tolerated and sought after for help in smaller, private practice sessions, but he very rarely if ever lets anyone in. Just enough that the directors feel that he’s working well enough within the company, but not so much that it intrudes on his need for solitude.

He leaves the practice, his bag thrown over a shoulder and a towel draped around the back of his neck, and he’s downing a bottle of water as he heads off for the room that he knows will be empty for him. He’s setting his things down, plugging his iPod into the stereo there, and begins to stretch again when he catches Chase’s reflection in the mirrored wall. He’s got one leg up on the barre and he’s stretching towards it, eyes locked on Chase’s in the mirror. Chase is a ridiculously pretty new dancer, built arguably more like the young women than the young men, slender and lean rather than overly muscular. And that ass… he had, in House’s opinion, the best ass in the company, beating out several of the female dancers. Speaking of asses, House is quite aware that from their positions, Chase is almost invariably staring at his ass, which he’s objectively ranked in the top ten. Why pretend no one’s looking? Everyone’s looking at everyone. Especially on days that the men who usually wear loose pants choose to wear tights.

“Can I help you?” he asks, not bothering to turn.

Chase was a young dancer, something of a prodigy, though he had never liked the word. It seemed like when people called him a prodigy that they discounted how hard he had worked at this. He'd started dancing at the age of four, taught by his mother, who had been a principal dancer with the Australian Ballet when she had married his father. He'd fallen in love with it, and there had been classes, private instructors, competitions, working with children's ballet companies. His mother died when he was seventeen, and last year he'd competed in the Youth American Grand Prix (which was an international competition, despite the title). He won a two year contract with the New York City ballet.

His performance had been a risky gamble; a jazzy, contemporary variation on The Red Shoes performed en pointe. Men didn't typically use pointe shoes, but his instructor had thought that Robert's technique was too good not to show off. It had paid off, and he'd moved to America a few months back. But, the money he made wasn't enough to live on, and his father didn't believe in dance, and that was where his college classes came in. He was getting his pre-med degree, with his classes crammed in around rehearsals and performances.

Sometimes he'd skip college, but he never missed rehearsals.

Robert had a good eye, could feel the musicality in how certain people moved, and House was one of those people. He was stunningly good. Some people wrote him off because he was older by comparison, but they were idiots. He was gorgeous, in every sense of the word, even if he wasn't as traditionally handsome as the younger dancers. He watches House, watches his reflection in the mirror, until the man catches him, and Robert shifts, his face flushing red as he shrugs and smiles awkwardly, suddenly self-conscious.

"I, uh.. I like watching you," he admits softly, his blue eyes not leaving House's body as he reaches up and tucks a stray strand of blond hair back behind his ear. He doesn't intend it as a sexual comment, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't think of him that way. House had a great ass, which he can't help staring at as his gaze trails over the length of his strong, outstretched leg.

Edited 2015-01-01 23:51 (UTC)

House knew about Chase. He didn't often put much effort into finding out about the new dancers that the company signs on. They're all good, of course. They're all great, that's the point. If he'd wanted to dance somewhere where the dancers weren't good, he wouldn't be here, but Chase was something different. He was younger than the other dancers, the only dancer still in his teens. And he wasn't just great, he was amazing, and that's why House had gone after the recording of his competition in the Youth American Grand Prix, why he'd made himself familiar with Chase. Because it had stuck out that he was younger, and then it had been interesting once he started digging. It had lead him to that discovery that young Chase isn't just the current youngest member of the company, and not just an incredibly gifted dancer, but also that he's really good en pointe. Good enough that House frankly wants to see him dance the female lead, thinks that it's just as likely that he'd be better in the role as it is that it would be deeply frowned on. And as much shit as House is inevitably going to give Chase for it (it is, after all, only a matter of time), he's not as narrow minded as the ballet company and the ballet world at large about gender roles in ballet. Even if he seems, by all accounts, to fully support that narrow view.

Chase is still watching him, and House is staring right back at his reflection in the mirror, their gazes locked in the glass. He feels smug and self-satisfied to see how the young man flushes awkwardly at being caught, both in being in the doorway, and caught ogling. House doesn't help matters any when he raises up and turns in one elegant, fluid motion, coming away from the barre to face Chase directly. He stops and comes back down, heels together. Precise.

"Pervert," he calls him out. And he pulls the towel off from around his neck and wipes the sweat that's still on his forehead from practice, and throws it at Chase, hitting him in the chest with it, and he watches as it falls to the floor at his feet.

Blue orbs widen, lashes no longer partially shielding his irises as House calls him a pervert, shock writing itself all over his face. It's the jarring sensation of it, how he goes from watching in helpless awe as House moves, fluid as he turns and then stopping with perfect precision it's like not so much as a muscle twitches after his feet snap into place. His lips are slightly parted, and he's almost stammering, except that it's more inarticulate sounds, than actual word fragments that slip past his lips, out of his mouth. Chase is still young, and it shows in more than just his floppy blond hair as he tries to come up with a retort to that accusation. And then House throws his sweaty towel at Chase, and the teen tries to catch it, but he's still so stunned that his reactions slow, and instead he spends a few seconds rather comically groping at the air and just barely missing the towel before it flops to the floor.

The silence hangs for a few moments, before he finds the words to at least try and fill it. "I'm not-- I didn't mean it like that," he insists softly. His hands fidget, fingers hooking together and coming apart, teeth pressing into his bottom lip as he stands there awkwardly. It's dishonest, at least in part. He might not have intended for the statement itself to be taken as perverse, that didn't mean that he didn't have perverse thoughts about House. Because he most certainly did. It was that easy grace that he moved with, the power that moved through his arms and extended into the expressiveness in his fingers.

He deliberates between picking up the towel and leaving it there, over and over again, until finally he surrenders; kneeling down to pick it up and sort of uncertainly handing it back. "I just meant that you're gorgeous when you're dancing." Chase can't keep the affect from his voice, is a bit too young still to really even think to try as he looks up at the older dancer.

That really couldn't have gone better if he'd planned it. Chase couldn't hide what he's feeling if he tried. He's shocked and flustered between the accusation and the thrown towel, and he's distracted between responding and reacting so that he's giving everything away. He's not really surprised that Chase finds him attractive when he's dancing. He knows that he's good, that he's got the kind of strength and control over his body that come with years of hard work and practice. But he also knows that Chase did mean it like that, because the funny thing about mirrors is that they don't just show you your own mistakes, but the mistakes of others, too. He's seen Chase ogling him right back during practice these last several weeks, and it's not just appreciation for skill.

"Yeah, you did," he says as he comes away from the strict precision of his stance and adopts a casual, fluid gait as he walks towards Chase and snatches the towel back from him. He's eyeing him like he's in the way, like he's an obstacle to knock down, an opponent to challenge, and he comes another step closer, close enough that he's edging into his space. Close enough that the towel is touching Chase again, brushing against his belly beneath the hem of that flowing cropped top.

"It's a shame you won't just own up to it... I dig honest perversion in a woman."

His eyes are twinkling with the insult, the first of many, many subtle ways he'll end up insinuating that Chase is a girl.

House isn't just good, maybe not even great, he's special, something else. And Chase is captivated, fascinated, can't stop watching him, his eyes drawn in by the lines of his movement. He had a boyfriend. Or, well, something like it. They'd been dating for only a couple months and already things had started to go flat. It was something that Chase didn't know how to articulate, fix, or really react to. He knew that not dealing with it wasn't an answer, but he didn't know what the answer was. So he stayed. They went out, touched, kissed, and Chase tried to ignore his misgivings. Tried to not stare at House, not to track his movements with his eyes so that his heart pounded in his chest. It didn't help. If it did, he wouldn't be standing here, vaguely confused as to how he'd allowed himself to make that mistake.

He flushes when House tells him that he meant it. And he's not wrong, and Chase can't quite find the words to deny it. He just shifts uncertainly, not a lot of movement, but the way his weight transferred from foot to foot. Then his body tenses, tightens up, so he's standing up on the balls of his feet a little, as House walks over to him, snatching the towel back and Chase's hand jerks back, but he stands his ground, doesn't pull away even when House is pressing into his space, even though it feels like the very air crackles over his skin. The towel brushes against the bare skin of his stomach and it makes him shiver, the chill running down his spine as his breath catches in his throat. He doesn't pull away, doesn't turn, walk away, walk out the door, and he can't really explain the reason why. He blinks at House's statement, though, tilts his head like something doesn't quite make sense.

"Oh, I- I'm.. not a girl."

He says it slowly, but not defensively. It's a statement of fact, but said with that quiet edge of correction, like he honestly thought that House had somehow mistaken him for one of the ballerinas.

Edited 2015-01-02 11:01 (UTC)

Chase doesn't back down, doesn't move away, take a step backwards at all. He stays right there, tense and uncertain but still there even when House is so close that the towel touches him. So close that he could reach out and push him away or pull him closer, upsetting the balance either way. But he doesn't. It's just proximity and the brush of the towel and the crackle of intensity of the moment.

And then it's the most blinkingly innocent confusion he thinks he's ever seen in his life. He'd thought Chase might be offended, but confused? Actually confused... that's hilarious and just a little bit adorable.

The hand with the towel falls away and his other hand moves to quickly lift the hem of his shirt up to get a peek at his chest. Not that he needs to, it's a part of the joke that Chase isn't in on, part of the ongoing insult. Since he's there, he takes his time, enjoys the moment and the view he's afforded himself. Then he drops the shirt and holds his hand up as if declaring his innocence.

"My bad, coulda fooled me."

Chase makes a soft noise of surprised protest that doesn't quite materialize into the blond pushing House's hand away. Instead, he's staring up at him with disbelief, as if he can't believe that the older man really just did that, even as his shirt falls back into place as it drops from House's fingers. It does, however, prompt Chase to pointedly roll his eyes, because that confusion only extends so far. He's not that naive, even if he does sometimes seem it.

He still doesn't back away, though. He's still standing in the doorway, and he leans in, just a little, just a bare fraction, a tilt into that magnetic pull of the moment, of their bodies in close as he looks up at House. Leaving would be the smart thing. But, Robert is still too young and dumb to do the smart thing. So he stays, trying to find a fitting retort.

He settles on following that eyeroll with an exasperated sigh, trying to cover up the attraction that feels far too obvious when they're close like this. "I bet you say that to all the boys." He quips lightly with a glint in his blues and a mischievous curl to his smile. He can push back, even if it's not usually his first response.

House is quite obviously pleased with himself for having gotten that reaction from Chase, all eye rolling exasperation and too little too late protest. It's interesting that he's not backing away now, not leaving now that House has gone so out of his way to insult him and push into his space. Instead, he's leaning in just subtly closer, which is either stupid or brave or both.

"Just the pre-pubescent ones," he dishes right back. Chase's retort is a little too delayed to effectively do what he's hoping, to hide that attraction that House can see relatively plainly.

"Was there a reason you interrupted me?" he asks again, a follow up to that first question of can I help you?

"I already told you," Chase points out with a slight tilt of his head, his eyes still looking up at the taller man, that sparkle in his eyes. Because maybe he hadn't quite, but he's implied it, said he liked watching him, and really, House had to know why he'd been standing here even before Chase had said anything at all. It was in how Chase watched him, whether he was wearing tights or the loose yoga type pants he generally seemed to prefer.

"I wanted to watch you dance," he clarifies, even though he's sure it's probably not necessary. And that's true, even if it's not the only thing he wants. He wants to dance with him, but Chase can't say that, or wont let himself.

So many male dancers fight against the stereotype the rest of the world has, of being men in toe shoes and tutus, prancing around stage. Chase is smart enough to know that the last thing most male dancers wants to hear about is someone who wants that stereotype. Of course, that doesn't stop him from chasing it, even if he's still trying to figure out the specifics. He'll never make it out of the corps de ballet playing the male roles. There's the fact that he's not comfortable with the more demanding lifts, and then there's the fact that his heart isn't in it.

House considers him a moment too long, as if he's maybe waiting for him to back down. But he doesn't. He doesn't really need to answer, but he does. He half answers, anyway. House knows there's more, knows that he doesn't just want to watch but wants to dance with him. Otherwise he wouldn't be here, wouldn't have gotten caught, wouldn't have refused to leave at the first challenge. House knows that sometimes when Chase rehearses alone, he doesn't rehearse the role he's assigned, but ties into pointe shoes and dances the female lead.

Chase isn't the only one who likes to watch.

"Go get your stuff," he says, almost dismissively, but there's a hint of a warmth around his eyes that gives him away. "I don't offer free shows..."

If Chase wants to watch, he's got to earn it. He's got to offer something in exchange.

There's that dismissive tone that initially makes Chase a little worried, like he's afraid that House wont be here when he comes back. But, then he sees it. The warmth around his eyes that are a paler, sharper blue than Chase's own. There's also concern in the request, since he's already in his dance clothes. It's not like he needs to change or anything, but he obeys anyway, trusting that look around the edges of his eyes, that feeling that House might be harassing him, but there was more to it than just that. Or maybe it was wishful thinking, but either way, he ran and got his bag, returning fast enough that he must have run there and back, and there was a smile on his face when he again was framed in the doorway.

He sets his bag down just inside the doorway, a slight shrug as he lets it slide off his shoulder. He's looking at House, a slight question in the tilt of his head, the way that he looks at the man with interest and curiosity. "So, what's your price?" He questions languidly, a faint murmur on his mouth as he catches his breath.

"I am a college student, if you're hoping for cash, you're going to be sorely disappointed." It's a cheeky quip, followed by an unselfconscious kind of grin.

While Chase is gone - for all of the thirty seconds that he is - House turns back to the room and flips through his music, finding the right playlist, and hits play and turns the volume down lower than he would if he were just practicing alone. When Chase is back, breathless and shrugging his bag off his shoulder just inside the door, House is standing stretching out his shoulders, shifting and arching backwards as he loosens up.

"You wanna watch, I get to watch, too," he says, rolling one and then the other shoulder, arms swinging easily as he walks over and pulls the door shut behind Chase.

Truth be told, House has wanted an opportunity to watch Chase dance alone since he'd joined the company. More than just what he'd caught through the slightly opened studio door here and there when he caught him on his own. In rehearsal he's good, but on his own he's almost amazing, almost as good as he'd been in the competition, and that's what House wants to see.

At the first hint of hesitation, House stops. "What, don't tell me this wanting to watch thing wasn't just an excuse to practice with me..." because it so, so was.

Chase huffs a soft laugh at the statement that if he's going to watch House gets to watch too. It's not like Chase is about to argue, when it's not something that he really minds. He could point out that House had seen him during rehearsal, but then, so had Chase. They both knew it was different like this. One-on-one, a smaller room, closer, more intimate. He watches House, how he rolls his shoulders, the brief proximity when the man moves over to shut the door behind him.

It's more nerves than actual unwillingness, but then, Robert is aware that House probably knows that. Something in his eyes, the tone of his voice as he lets that statement trail off into stillness. The blond just rolls his eyes, kneeling down and grabbing his water bottle and a small towel from his bag. He doesn't know that House knows about his pointe work. So far, while it might have earned him a spot in the corps de ballet, the preference seemed to be towards not talking about it afterwards. So Chase practiced when he thought no one was looking.

He likes the music. There's a smile on his face as he looks up at House - because yes, he clearly is looking forward to this. "Did you have anything particular in mind?" Maybe it's a loaded question, maybe not.

"I was thinking we'd warm up and you could show me what you can do..." but Chase isn't going for the pointe shoes, just pulling out water and a towel, and House stops short and leans, peering into the open bag but he can't see anything aside from spare clothes.

"...don't tell me you forgot your pointe shoes today," he says, attention shifting from the bag to Chase, and there's more than just a hint of disappointment. He doesn't think he has, he just thinks he doesn't realize anyone knows about them, because House, unlike Chase, is better at watching on the sly.

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.

House hops up on the piano while Chase changes his shoes, legs kicking subtly as he watches the careful routine of it. In the interim between slipping off the dance shoes and wrapping the cushion around his toes, House sees that his feet look more like the feet of the ballerinas. Maybe not so rough as some of the principal ballerinas, but there are still raw spots where the shoes rubbed and some obvious old injuries to his toes. It tells him he was right, that this isn't something he just dabbles with for fun or because it'd make a flashy performance to get into the company, but it's something he's passionate about. Something he does whenever he gets the chance, even still.

House hops back down when he's got them tied on and gestures to the bag with an elbow, "Yeah, unless you've got a tutu in there..." now he's just being an ass, because he can.

Then he holds out his hand, and now he's not being an ass. He's offering him a hand up, curious if he'll take it, curious if he'll move against the counterbalance of his weight into the dance, into him, or if he'll shy from it. Either would be telling, and that's why he's here, finding a new way to subtly push, to see if he'll push back.

"I've never had my own tutu," Chase comments with a thin sort of smile. It's not a lie, but it is careful wording. When he was a child, he'd play with his mother's old ones. And he has one locked away in storage from her last stage performance, but that's more about the memory than wanting to put it on and feel enchanted. House is still being an ass, but it's not hurtful. There are a million sharper things he could say, and the passing insult seems more like just the man's usual temperament.

He looks up at House when he holds out his hand. There's a feeling that he shouldn't take it, but he does anyway. He lets his hand slip into House's, a soft touch, delicate pressure as he slides gracefully up to his feet, and then up onto the toes of his shoes, although he's still shorter than House as he ends up leaning toward him, into him. His heart races, and yet everything feels smooth and easy.

"Shame," House says, and he waits to see what Chase will do. He hadn't been certain that he'd take his hand, but when he does a number of questions are all answered at once. It's in the barely there pressure as he rises to his feet, graceful and easy, the way he goes up to his toes, not just the ball of the foot but the toes of those pointe shoes, easy as any of the ballerinas in the other room.

There's a little wicked grin that he mostly shoves down, a stupid, giddy rush he gets from being right, from having called it, seen through the persona he puts on to get through rehearsal day in and day out, the way he manages to dance like a man when this is what he craves. To be shown off, to be allowed to fly and given an anchor to bring him back down. They begin to move together and its automatic, like this was something they'd been meant to do. There's chemistry to it, even in these first few steps together. It's the way they keep moving in close, the easy way Chase responds to a hand here or there, resting against his lower back or touching his arm to indicate the next move, to guide him into it.

"If I ever get one, I'll wear it for you," he says softly. It's almost a tease, but only almost. It feels like something changed when he took House's hand, willing to lean into him, to let him help guide him. This is what he's dreamed about for nearly as long as he can remember, being able to dance like this with someone like House. Ever since he fell in love with the tapes of his mother; her silk pointed shoes and the shimmering skirts and the way it looked like she was flying when she'd jump and her partner would lift her. Beautiful.

Everything about Chase changes when they dance like this.

In rehearsal, he tries to change the language his body speaks. He's still a good dancer, but he's hiding, his heart isn't in it like it is now. His movements are delicate and graceful, lyrical, the way he lets himself feel the music, lets the emotion express itself down to his fingertips. He's light on his feet, making it look easy, like he's floating and House is the one keeping him anchored. It feels like a high, moving like this. The chemistry between them is electrifying, intoxicating, and it's wrong, but he has no idea how to stop, so he doesn't.

He pulls back for a breath, and he spins, easy and controlled, and then he leans away before he leans back into House. Like there's magnetism that overcomes his desire to pull away, but in truth he doesn't really want to pull away. His skin heats and his face is flushed, a sort of joy that glimmers in Chase's blue eyes every time they touch.

Chase is flirting with him. He'd gone from puppyish stalking in the doorway to flirting, and then that teasing flirt becomes more than just words, becomes a part of how he moves, becomes the motion of his body and how he presses close, lets House guide him. It's how he starts to get lost in the music, and in the way he's allowing himself to dance here and now. There's more emotion, more raw feeling in these past few minutes than House has seen from him in the past several weeks. This is what he'd seen in that competition tape, this kind of feeling, and it feels like a secret, like a privilege to see it now. He doesn't have to know the details to guess them, to understand that this isn't the kind of thing that people would accept openly, and that's why Chase hides it away.

Chase moves away for space to breathe and comes back in with a perfectly controlled spin, and they move together, their bodies weaving together as they pull away and come back close, like they try and fail to really pull apart. Chase is flushed, and not from the activity, not from exertion, but from the thrill of this.

Chase comes in again and he's perfectly lined up for a lift, so he lets him know, just a soft, clipped command, "Up," as he moves into position, hands at his sides supporting him through the anticipated jump and upwards as his back arches and he braces against his body, hands on his shoulders, and his cheek is pressed to Chase's slender torso as he holds him close.

Edited 2015-01-03 10:55 (UTC)

Chase shouldn't be flirting, but he is. It starts with that comment, and then is there like a current as they dance, move together, with Chase's movements light and airy on the tips of his toe shoes. House guides them and Chase follows, easy, the way that he leans in, the graceful and easy way he lifts his leg, like a continuation of the line of his torso as he tips in forward. His hands touch House's hands, and then pull away, move toward him but shy from touching. There's that attraction and trepidation spelled out in his body instead of just on his face.

Dancing like this feels like flying, like freedom, letting someone in and not being shunned. His mother had understood, but it's hard to trust that anyone else will, especially when classical ballet is so rigidly gender divided. But House- one of the best Primary dancers in the Company- he sees who Chase is, and accepts him, dances with him like he was any of the ballerinas he's been partnered with in rehearsals. Maybe more than that.

There's that command, and Chase sees what House sees, the lift, how he needs to move, how to jump, and he does it easily. He might not be good at the lifts himself, but he has powerful jumps, but like this, he doesn't try to dress them up. That power is lighter and less the raw explosive jumps the director tries to push him for. It's easy and perfect the way that he trusts House to be there, and House catches him, lifts him, and Chase feels weightless. He's not quite as light as the girls in the company, but House catches him like he is.

His hands hold onto House's shoulders, a light touch, steadying. And then House sets him back on his feet, sliding him down his body, and that contact sends a rush of heat through Chase's body. There's something far too intimate about this in the first place and now, his heart is racing, pounding in his chest, and he tries to ignore that flash of arousal, but he's a teenager, and that's like asking rain not to fall.

He slides back a pace, those almost stuttering steps, and he spins, and he's leaning back in again. That repeating motif of being unable to pull away, and it's not ingenuous, because as much as is wrong with this, Chase can't help himself. If this happened with anyone, it should have been his boyfriend, but it's not, and it just makes that attraction he's been trying to fight burn that much hotter.

House knows that Chase shouldn’t be flirting (not that that's ever going to stop House). He knows that he’s with Brett, and now he’d dare say that it seems that young Chase just has a thing for primary dancers. Or at least, it’s in his arsenal of things to use as ammunition against him, to get a rise or provoke a reaction from him. The way he’s dancing here is so different from when he’s paired with one of the girls. Not just the moves themselves, it’s not just that he’s dancing a different role, but it’s as though this was what he was meant to dance all along. It’s clear that he’s practiced en pointe just as long as the girls, that he’s got years of it already, at nineteen. The terrible reality of it, though, is that while a small handful of the young women can carry on dancing for years and years, successful into their forties, the majority of them fall from the public eye in their thirties. And Chase, he won’t get a chance to dance the roles he’s more than capable of, and even if he did, he’s only got another few years left before his body finishes changing, before he gains those last couple inches, before he’s starting to push the limits of safety to dance en pointe. He certainly won’t fit quite the same, small and slender and just the right height as he comes in and comes up on his toes.

Chase takes that command and reacts in an instant, moves perfectly into what House saw and wanted him to do, and he glances up at him as he lifts him, not able to see his face with how he arches but he can imagine his expression, similar to the serene, stupid-happy expression he’s had since they begin. He knows there’s a thrill in being lifted, in the first couple of seconds when the jump and the momentum of being thrust upwards leaves you feeling weightless. It doesn’t last. It can’t for more than a few seconds, and that’s when Chase’s hands grip his shoulders for balance.

As he brings Chase down, lets him slide along the length of his body to be set delicately back on the floor, he’s almost certain he feels… something. He does a double take, not quite sure if he’s imagining it or if Chase really had just gotten hard in a matter of seconds. If there was any question at all, the look on Chase’s face and the way he rushes to move back gives him away, and House just blinks and stares at him. He can’t tell to look (though he looks anyway, who can blame him?) but the boy is hard.

“I knew you were a little perv,” he says playfully, but there’s an edge of knowing. Between the tone and the glance down his body, it’s clear what he means.

Edited (words, man. wordddssss.) 2015-01-04 04:35 (UTC)

Chase flushes, looking off to the side a little sheepishly as he bites his lip and shrugs his shoulders in response to the playful chastisement. He knows what House is referring to, even if he'd been hoping that his dance belt would hide the evidence with the way that House had held him close, let their bodies slide together as he landed on the floor, he's not surprised. He can't help it. Dancing with House is like riding a high, and there's something about how they move together and Chase just can't help himself. He smiles a little shyly, a slow blink of those lashes that frame his bright blues.

"And you're not?" He's trying to deflect, even if it's not much of a deflection at all. House being a pervert doesn't stop Chase from being the one that's hard. There's only a slight flicker of guilt, and he knows he should feel worse about getting so turned on over a man that isn't his boyfriend, but that will maybe come later. He just doesn't want this to stop, for House to think that he's gross or something, anything that stops the other man from holding onto him like this. Lifting him and letting him fly. He leans in again, slow, still up on pointe, and he skims his hands up against House's upper arms as he curls close into his space.

"I like dancing with you," he says softly, like it's some kind of defense, although it isn't. Because Chase doesn't just like dancing with him. He wants him, even if he's been trying to convince himself that he doesn't for a while now. He's with Brett, and while cheating is far from exceptional in the backstage drama of a ballet company, Chase isn't like that. He doesn't see himself like that. He's young, still a virgin, though that's a fact he doesn't advertise. Brett knows, but that's because they've been together for two months and still haven't had sex. He's understanding, nice to Chase, seems to care about him.

House is just... something he can't explain. Magnetic. Draws him in, so he was there in the doorway, even when he knew better.

“I never claimed I wasn’t…” but, clearly, so is Chase. There’s no reason to say it again because they both know that Chase is hard as a rock under the convenient cover of his dance belt and tights, and however much he wants to stand there and try to pretend that he’s not, they both know the truth. But he doesn’t think worse of him for it, quite the opposite, and there’s no way that this is going to keep him from dancing with him. It only makes him want to dance with him more.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” it’s another subtle dig at the fact that he’s aroused and that he obviously really likes dancing with him, but the truth is that he really knows. Chase can’t have many people in his life that know, that understand. Maybe his boyfriend does, but he’s got an inkling that he doesn’t. He knows Brett, knows that however much he likes chasing after the hot new talented young men that join the company, that he’s just as much a stickler for gender roles as anyone else who’s breakneck desperate to get ahead. House just doesn’t care. He’s old enough that he’s aware his time is limited, and he’s happy with his position in the company, the roles he gets to dance… he has no problem, himself. But he can see that for Chase, it’s a very big problem. Which means that this is almost certainly going to become a regular thing, private dance rehearsals together after the big one ends.

“I know you can dance Odette,” he says, because he’d seen him practicing it the day (or days, if we’re being really honest here) that he’d looked in on Chase when he was dancing alone, “…you’ve got to be familiar with Odile, too, right? Let’s see some of that.”

They both know that the black swan is the more sexual role, that it’s all about seduction and guile, and so far House doesn’t really see that in Chase. He’s been flirting, yes, but it’s a different sort of flirting. He brings to it this vulnerability, this wide eyed innocence and honest joy that’s more spot on to Odette than young woman slated to play the Swan Queen. House isn’t sure Chase really has it in him, but if he does, he absolutely wants to see it. He moves to the iPod and flips through the playlists, turns it to the music that starts the scene when Odile comes in disguised as Odette to seduce Siegfried.

House has all but invited Chase to seduce him.

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