Chapter Text
Dear Katsuki Bakugou,
The toe box crackles like old rotting wood when he presses his heel down on top of it, beginning the arduous process of breaking down the ultra-stiff form inside. Hardened by a special paste, the densely packed layers of cardboard and fabric need to be softened before the shoes can be worn. It's not the first time he's done it, and it's not going to be the last.
Thank you for submitting your audition to the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.
Putting all his weight on the back of his heel, he bounces a couple of times until he feels the box give beneath him. Repeating the motion on his other new shoe, the last pair he has with no money left to buy another until rent is paid, he sighs. Looking out the window of his shitty Brooklyn apartment – which gives him a view of nothing but the neighboring building's brick wall – he continues until he feels the other box crack under his weight.
Unfortunately, as a rule, we do not offer pointe positions to male dancers within our company, as your audition interview specifically requested.
Lowering himself to the floor, he pulls a shoe onto his lap and begins to bend the shank, curling it until it's bent in half, then turns it the other way to repeat the same motion. The curve in the shoe is important since it has to match the natural curve he’s worked so hard to attain in his own foot.
We will keep your information on file in the event that our company ever decides to utilize male pointe roles in the future.
Using his thumbs, he massages the toe box, working them in a little bit more until they soften under his fingers. He smacks the hard boxes against the hardwood floor a few times, deeming this step of the breaking-in process done and setting them aside.
The Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater extends good luck to you in all of your creative endeavors.
Pulling on his toe guards first, he tries to push yet another rejection letter out of his mind, since it's become commonplace for him. It was a shot in the dark to begin with, a stark reminder of the gender constraints placed upon dancers, both male and female. Progressive or not, the industry is still tightly bound by the established expectations of the centuries-old formalized art form.
He won't stop trying, not with how surreal it feels when he's on his toes.
Being a dancer in Japan had come easily to him. He began private lessons at the age of five, and due to an abundance of unshakable drive and focus, he moved from a local studio to a more reputable school when he turned ten. He excelled quickly from there, attending summer intensives and accepting an invitation to a pre-professional program by the time he was fourteen thanks to a generous scholarship won at a high-stakes competition.
It sure as hell didn't hurt that men in ballet are considered a hot commodity. Hell, they're often headhunted and fought over, offered ample opportunities and funding much like the scholarship he'd earned. Supply and demand isn't just for products bought in a store, after all.
Like most other ballet dancers, he was strictly trained classically from the beginning. It's where his strengths had always laid and where his skills flourished and developed from early on. He is not a large-statured man, shorter than many and while he has a broad chest, his waist and hips are trim, making his poses more aesthetically pleasing.
He knew coming to America was a risk. He's had unending support from his parents and his long-time mentor, Yagi Toshinori, and by all rights, he's wildly successful. There's no arguing that, and he is truly living his lifelong dream of being a professional dancer.
He was twenty-two when he'd auditioned for and accepted a spot with a small-but-reputable ballet company in Manhattan and made the trek almost seven-thousand miles to pursue his ultimate dream in the land of unending opportunity.
To say it was a culture shock would be an understatement. It's truly the city that never sleeps, and for a long time, neither did Katsuki. Adjusting to the noise was awful. Neighbors who either don't work or just choose to practice their DJ skills at three in the morning? Pure torture.
Whatever, when he'd looked online and found the apartment listing, he'd talked the landlord down from $600 a month to $500, and rented the place sight unseen. For a place in Flatbush, that didn't seem too unreasonable. He'd been to the city enough times growing up to have an idea of what areas to avoid, yet, even now, he's still surprised the risk paid off. It's decently accessible to midtown by way of the Q, with just a twenty-minute walk and a thirty-five minute ride. It's sure as hell better than the sticker shock he had in Brooklyn Heights — he would need three jobs to pay the asked rent there.
His apartment came with a ghost of a roommate, who to this day he's only actually seen a handful of times in the four years he's lived here. Not that he's complaining, the guy travels the world for work and only makes it home once in a blue moon. They occasionally communicate by email or text, but for the most part, it's as if he lives alone — with a secret, locked bedroom next to his own. He gets the benefits of living by himself without the expense of paying full rent.
He is still incredibly thankful to his parents for helping him financially until he had a steady paycheck, and also for forcing him to not only learn English in school but periodically speak it at home as well. It sure as hell made becoming acclimated to a new culture a little easier. Being a small fish in an unimaginably large pond was hard as hell, but adding in language barriers? It would have been miserable.
That was four years, two dance companies, and countless roles ago. His hard work and dedication to his craft had recently earned him a spot as a solid contender for promotion to principal in his current company and the chance to earn one hell of a solo performance if he lands the role. At least that's what he's heard through the rumor mill.
He is thrilled, obviously; his obsession with becoming the best hasn’t once faltered in his almost twenty years of dancing. If all else fails and he doesn't receive the promotion, he would still be content to continue on his current path until, inevitably, when his body grows too old to dance, he would retire and do something else. What that something else is, he has no fucking idea, but that is far from being a now problem. Typical retirement age for professional dancers maxes out around forty — he has time to figure the rest out.
Katsuki loves ballet. Every lift, every turn, every leap feeds his insatiable hunger for perfection. It burns in his veins and fills his soul, so the idea of abandoning traditional ballet for something different is a hard no. He doesn’t want to leave what he’s accomplished and earned; he just dreams of adding some flair on the side. He craves more. He's not so much interested in swapping gender roles as much as he wants to extend or even push beyond societally driven gender norms. He wants to break out of the confines of the box he's locked in and…evolve.
His issue at present is the 'more' that he's yearned for since its introduction into his life as a teen. His true passion is ballet and always will be, but issue that's he's constantly presented with is that the niche he feels himself drawn to and enamored with is not accepted in classical performance arenas. While male pointe dancers are growing in popularity and numbers, it's slow going and he's sure that only certain contemporary studios would ever allow any sort of unconventional roles.
It only took stumbling upon a YouTube video when he was thirteen to spark his curiosity. Two men, both in pointe shoes, doing what could only be described as a dance both beautiful and seductive at the same time. Katsuki had not only re-watched the performance an embarrassing amount of times, but he also dove down a rabbit hole, seeking more of the same. He felt an immediate connection with the men on stage or rehearsing in a studio. The masculinity of their movements mixed with the sensuality of their touches and the way their eyes met…he was toast.
He'd spent months doing research into the unique art that was male pointe ballet while, at the same time, perfecting his core love of traditional ballet. The combination evoked a multitude of feelings within him, the kind that spread beyond who he wanted to be as a dancer and led into the exploration of his sexuality.
It was because of this deep-rooted awakening that he eventually bit the bullet and ordered a pair of men’s pointe shoes in his late teens. Keeping it between himself, his parents, and his mentor, he would stay late in the studio or come in hours before group rehearsal. Dancing was Katsuki's drug. Being en pointe took that high and intensified it, offering him even more of a crippling addiction to something to which he'd already dedicated his life.
Huffing out a breath, he cracks his neck to one side, then the other.
His mind is wandering today. It's easy to get lost in his thoughts when breaking in a new pair of shoes. It's a process with which he is very familiar. It's tedious, but he's nothing if not meticulous in how he prefers to ready them for wear. Though rigid and uncomfortable when he first puts them on, he loves the way that, over time, they would fit the shape of his foot perfectly.
He can only do so much in his tiny shoe box of an apartment. He often works at his portable barre that blocks the locked bedroom door next to his own or works on spins and small moves that won't cause injury by being in the small space. It's enough, though, for now at least. He doesn't want his skill to regress just because he hasn't found the right space in which to practice it.
His four years in America have been amazing. Incredibly difficult in so many ways, but overwhelmingly rewarding and he has no regrets. However, now that he feels at home here, and his adjustment period, both culturally and professionally, seems to have passed, he feels as if it's time to broaden his horizons. With his attention set on expanding into other mediums of dance on a more official level, he's been putting out feelers as of late.
All of which have resulted in rejection.
Maybe he needs to go at this from another angle.
Being a private person makes it difficult to network and seek out others with like interests, specifically men who may or may not dance en pointe or people who know of someone who does. Katsuki isn't social, he keeps to himself and stays in his lane. After two years with this company, one would think he would have forged some friendships, but alas, he has not. Colleagues and acquaintances, sure. Friends?
Not his strong suit.
It's been a few years, but he's done a few obligatory internet searches. He knows there are some inclusive places in which he can drop in and take classes of all types regardless of gender, though none specifically mention or picture men in pointe shoes. He's not opposed to checking them out, but one thing he doesn't have is an excess of free time, and he sure as fuck doesn't want to waste it on another dead end.
Kind of like his dating life…which is lackluster to say the least.
It's impossible to walk down the street without seeing Pride this and Gay that and any combination of colorful flags to go along with the innumerable identities, genders, and preferences. Hell, that's one of the many reasons he loves it here. No matter who he is or what he does, he feels accepted by the city as a whole, and, should he decide to really put himself out there, it seems like there might be opportunities abound. It's the whole 'putting himself out there' that he never seems to make a priority.
The few relationships he's had, from some that didn't go beyond a couple of dates to one that actually lasted a few months, ended up fizzling out for multiple reasons.
So, he dances.
While he does get one or two days off a week, a typical non-performance week day starts out with a class to warm up and refine technique, then four to six hours of rehearsals. His contract requires him to take two weekly classes above and beyond his rehearsals, so adding in the potential of taking a drop-in class on the side at whatever studio he can find that allows him to dance pointe — fuck, even he thinks it's crazy. He can almost taste the burnout on his tongue, and it's sour as hell.
Yet, the other side of the whole thing is that learning other dance mediums make him a more well-rounded dancer. He already knows this; how is he supposed to be the best if he doesn't put his all into it?
He can and will become not only the most sought after principal dancer, but also attain his goal of dancing en pointe in at least one show. Somewhere. Anywhere. He doesn't want to give up his position at his current company. He likes it there. He gets along decently well with the other dancers.
He just wants to have his cake and fucking eat it, too.
He sighs again, eyebrows pinching together.
After tying the nude-colored ribbons around his ankles, he snaps the elastic to rid it of wrinkles and stands up. He can't help the grin that splits his face as raises up to his toes and his arms move outward. He feels amazing, empowered. He feels like a motherfucking king, damnit. And gods, he can't get enough.
When Katsuki practices his jumps, he feels like he's flying. Whether it be a grand jeté, a double cabriole, or pas sissone, he soars high in the air, floor far beneath his feet, and he's untouchable. It's an incredible feeling, unlike anything he’s ever experienced in his entire life.
After Company Class, which consists of more than thirty dancers warming up at the barre and doing center work, the men typically split off into more specialized classes. Today, they're practicing jumps, and Katuski couldn't be more thrilled. Propelling himself off of the ground, he feels weightless as he flawlessly executes a revoltade. When his foot hits the floor, he allows his momentum to turn his body, and his foot slides out as his arms go up. It was perfect—
"You overrotated," comes the unimpressed voice of one of the ballet masters, Shouta Aizawa. "Hitoshi, next."
"The hell I did," Katsuki argues, though he knows from two years under Shouta that it will fall on deaf ears. He's not a ballet master for nothing, and regardless if he's full of shit, it's not as if he will rescind his correction.
Jaw set, he walks along the wall to the end of the line, behind Shouto Todoroki.
"I do not believe you overrotated, Katsuki," the man says plainly, eyes following Hitoshi Shinsou as he begins his turn.
"No shit, Sherlock."
"My name is Shouto. We've been friends for two years, I'm unsure why you can never remember it."
Katsuki stares at him, blinking. This guy is something else.
"Maybe I don't give a shit," he offers in reply, but he smirks. Hitoshi lands his double saut de basque, earning a few claps from other dancers, and the line moves along the wall. "And we're not friends."
During his first few months in this company, he didn't know how to take Shouto. He's different. Blunt, but unlike Katsuki, he's not rude about it.
"What do you mean? We're best friends."
This is not the first time they've had this conversation. It's not the tenth, either. It varies in specific verbiage but the premise is always the same. He'll never admit it to the guy, but he thinks Shouto is decent enough. He comes from money, that much is obvious, but whether it's his own or from family, Katsuki doesn't know.
His hair, evenly split between red and white, is a fashion anomaly and hangs halfway down his back when they're not practicing. During performances, he'll often wear wigs or utilize black hair spray to change it to a more appropriate color due to the personal appearance clause in all of their contracts. Some roles allow for certain flexibilities, but Shouto is a principal dancer, so straying away from the ultra-specific requirements is unlikely.
"Best friends, eh?" They move up another spot as Hizashi, the oldest in their company, comes to the end of the line. "Name one time we've even seen each other outside of work."
Shouto is silent for a minute, watching with what appears to be a lack of interest, but Katsuki knows better. He can see Shouto's eyes follow Mashirou's jump with focused intensity. It's observant. Calculating. It reminds Katsuki of the way he also studies the way others perform and practice. One can learn a lot by watching.
"Come to dinner with me, then."
Nearly a minute has passed since Katsuki spoke, and he thought the conversation was over. They move up another spot, making Shouto next in line, but Katsuki is stuck on the random dinner invitation.
"Careful, Icy Hot," Katsuki warns, pulling out his favorite nickname for the guy, who often uses the menthol-scented salve to soothe whatever muscle is pissed off on that day. "I might think you're asking me out."
There's a teasing lilt in his voice but he falters when Shouto's eyes meet his own and, with no time to reply, he jogs to the end of the room and goes through his own series of jumps across the floor. He nails them, of course. He expects nothing less from the man, whose talent matches Katsuki's more than anyone else in the company. It might be arrogant to hold himself higher than the others, but it's true.
"Do you plan on taking your turn today, Katsuki? Or maybe sometime next week," Shouta drawls, eyebrow cocked up in annoyance.
Goddamnit.
With their show premiering in just under two weeks, practices have been grueling. Katsuki has one major and one minor role, but since Shouto is a principal, there's even more on his plate. He hasn't had a chance to demand clarification on what sort of dinner invitation the man so nonchalantly threw out there, and as much as he tries to pretend it's not driving him insane…it is. When Shouto is rehearsing, Katsuki is waiting, and vice versa.
He's leaned up against the wall next to Erika — with a K, which she never lets people forget — who stifles a yawn. It's nearing five o'clock and it seems everyone is either tired or hungry. Or, as the ballerina, who's part of the Corps de Ballet, complains for what feels like the thirtieth time, both. It's all Katsuki can do to bite his tongue. He's not necessarily in disagreement — his stomach is also screaming for some kind of sustenance — but he wishes she would shut the fuck up already. Nobody is forcing her to dance for a fucking living and he doesn't get paid enough to listen to her incessant whining.
He lets out a sigh of frustration, turning his focus back to the center of the room. Currently, Shouto's running through his pas de deux with Momo, one of the female principals, and even Katsuki can admit how well they work together.
With his hands around her waist, he bends his knees into a plié to put himself under her and hoists her into an arabesque lift. They look regal, like royalty, and even with the stuffy, unforgiving heat that's built up through the day, creating dark patches of sweat that's soaked through both of their tights and leotards, they look incredible. It's truly a thing of beauty seeing rehearsals like this, raw and imperfect, but with every ounce of mustered determination.
Shouto is lean and tall, but like Katsuki, he's strong as fuck. They have to be, not just to dance in general, but especially to lift the women into the air in a manner that's safe and doesn't hurt them. Katsuki has done his fair share. There's a reason male dancers lift weights and have strict workout routines. There's also a reason why they say they need to trust their partner and often encourage them to hang out outside of work. Building bonds and all that jazz. Hell, for all Katsuki knows, that's why he hasn't been promoted to principal yet. He doesn't have many weaknesses but can recognize that as one of the few — his lack of intra- and interpersonal skills is often glaring.
Some steps, some turns. A few jumps. No problem, right? To the audience, it looks easy. Effortless, like if given the chance, they could stride up to the stage and have half a chance at pulling it off themselves. They can't, obviously, and it takes a lot of work on both dancers' parts to achieve it in a way that makes it appear seamless. They move with grace and elegance. Their transitions are fluid. Every step is purposeful and light, every touch perfectly planted and every time their eyes meet? It's magic.
That's what they aim to create in those that come to their shows. Magic. Mystery. It's not just about dancing, putting one foot down, then another. Lifting one arm up and twirling around. They become someone else, just like actors in movies, and they want to draw the audience into the show with them, to make them just as much a part of it as they are. They want to enshroud them in the awe of it all, and when they file out at the end, one by one, all they can hope is that it's with smiles on their faces and sparkles in their eyes.
It's such a high, honestly. One that, even after twenty years, Katsuki never tires of, no matter how many roles he's had, how many shows he's performed in, or how many thousands of hours of classes and rehearsals he's attended. He keeps chasing that high. They all do. It somehow makes every rejection sting just a little less, and adds fuel to the fire that burns within him, urging him to do more. Be more.
"That's a wrap! Same time, same place tomorrow!"
The shrill voice, many decibels above the tired groans and sighs of relief that follow, is that of Yu Takeyama, another ballet master as well as the artistic director for their upcoming premiere. She's tough as nails, a trait Katsuki tends to respect more than anything, but she knows her shit and doesn't take it from the dancers. It doesn't stop Katsuki from dishing it out, but that's not targeted at her alone; he's an equal-opportunity asshole.
The current production, being performed by another troupe, has just three performances left. One tomorrow night, two on Saturday, then after a day of cleanup and strip down, the stage crew for their production will begin to move their set in piece by piece on Monday. Load-in will probably take a week , then they'll have a week of rehearsals with the set before final dress rehearsal the day before opening night.
When he was new to professional dancing, it was mind blowing how quickly an entire production, whether a shorter length or multi-act performance, came to fruition. Rehearsals started five weeks ago, which is standard for the type of ballet they're putting on. It gives enough time for group rehearsals as well as individual practice since they are tasked with writing some of their own moves. While there is a choreographer, a lot of it falls upon the dancers, not that they mind. It's fairly commonplace to fill in the gaps, unless you work for one of the top companies in the world.
Shouto jogs off the floor with Momo right behind him. She always appears to glide rather than walk. After she nods at Katsuki, she veers off to the side toward her bag that's lined up with the others along the wall. The slight imperfections and minor hiccups in their performances would go unnoticed to those in the audience, but not to them. No dancer is perfect, no matter how much they tell themselves they are, but they're so close to nailing it. A few more rehearsals and the nit-picky things that the ballet masters continue to harp about would work themselves out like kinks from a knot.
"Hello Katsuki," Shouto greets, lifting one foot, then the other to remove his slippers one at a time. "How was your day?"
"You ask that like you weren't here for all of it," he grumbles in return. If he hadn't been fixated on the pas de deux, he would be ready to walk out by now. Instead, removes his own slippers, then squats next to Shouto to put them away. He keeps his bag like he keeps his apartment: meticulous and uncluttered. Each item has a place, and he sighs in annoyance because clearly someone has kicked or otherwise moved his bag whilst he wasn't looking. It's in total disarray. "I wish you damn heathens would watch what you're doing!"
"Ugh, don't be such a diva," comes the voice of his nightmares. Katsuki bristles, lip curling up into a sneer. He doesn't need to look, nor does he want to. The less he sees of Neito Monoma the better, fucking conniving bastard with his innate ability to weasel himself into all the places he probably shouldn't be. He doesn't work with the idiot often, since Neito thankfully only dances in a few shows a year and always in the Corps de Ballet.
"Shut the fuck up, you eighty-pound twink, nobody asked you," he shoots back, raising his signature middle finger for added emphasis.
"Or what, you're gonna hit me? Push me down the stairs? Or, what was your threat last week…hang me from the stage light by my non-existent balls? You need some new material, Katsuki. I think you're starting to repeat." Neito's rebuttal was airy and uncaring, and Katsuki wonders if he realizes he's the actual diva here. "Plus, my balls very much exist, thank you, but you'd have to pay me to let you see them."
"Sex work is a fitting career path for you." Katsuki stands, stepping into a loose-fitting pair of sweats and pulling them up over his tights and smirking when he gets the exact reaction he's hoping for from the pompous ass. Neito always acts as if his shit doesn't stink — factually incorrect, seeing as the men all share a goddamn bathroom every day — and sits on his throne of judgment like he was born for it.
Once the blond has thrown his hissy fit and storms away, Katsuki chuckles, shaking his head as he stands up again.
"I'm pretty sure he does have balls, Katsuki."
"Oh my god, Shouto, do you not understand sarcasm?"
History deems that to be true, no matter what Shouto's answer, which in this case is a shrug. He is the most literal, dry-humored person Katsuki has ever met, no contest. He could tell the man to take a long walk off a short plank and…well, actually, he's pretty sure he's already done that.
"So, about dinner," Shouto starts, pushing himself from the floor and shouldering his bag. "Perhaps you'd like to come to my place on Saturday."
Through his amusing altercation with Neito, he'd temporarily forgotten about Shouto's one-off dinner invite from earlier, and the resulting confusion that followed.
"Dinner at your place? So you are asking me out, then?"
Shouto seems to ponder his question in a way that only he can pull off without angering Katsuki, but before he can speak up, Shouto answers, "You are very good looking Katsuki—"
"I know."
Shouto grins, then continues, "I suppose it's not out of the question, though the others might be confused as to why there's a date happening in the midst of our weekly get together."
The others.
Katsuki does a mental face palm, then shakes his head as he grabs his own bag and walks side by side with Shouto toward the exit. "What is this, some kind of friend dinner?"
"Well, if not a date, then yes. You are my best friend, after all, and subsequently reminded me that we have not yet been friendly outside of work."
The way Shouto words things can often be taken in multiple, equally hysterical ways, and the laugh he barks out is obnoxious. "You're a freak," he says, still grinning as they push through the doors and out onto the sidewalk. The fact that he doesn't get hung up on the fact that he pretty much made a fool of himself by assuming it was a date is telling, but then again, Shouto seems as unbothered as usual, so there's that.
After a quick glance at his phone, he's pleasantly surprised to see it's earlier than he expected. "See ya tomorrow, Icy Hot." With a smirk, he walks backwards for a few steps.
"So that's a yes? I will text you the address. No need to bring anything." Shouto's soft smile, almost always present when he's not dancing, plays on his lips.
Does he want to go? Not really, but those weaknesses of his are still at the forefront of his mind, so…fuck it.
"Sure, I'll come."
He turns and jogs toward the station, only to hear Shouto calling out to him, "I don't have your number!"
He can wait until practice tomorrow. Katsuki might be able to get a decent work out in if he hurries.