Like Nobody's Watching

prologue: adrien

Two Years Ago

"Higher!"

I grip the barre so tightly my knuckles are white and lift my leg as high as I can. My entire body shakes with exhertion, but it isn't enough for my teacher, slamming a cane against the floor in anger.

"Release that barre, Adrien Agreste!"

Taking a deep breath, I release the barre, only to wobble and topple over. I land heavily on my side, trying my best not to cry. I don't mind facing adversity - that I can handle - but I've run this drill seventeen times now with no break. My body can't handle this.

"Adrien." The footsteps of my instructor are punctuated by the sharp rap of his cane. "This is an incredibly basic routine. Why haven't you mastered it yet?"

"I - "

"You are bringing shame upon yourself. Shame upon your heritage. Shame upon me, and my reputation. How am I to maintain my status as a world-class choreographer if my own son cannot perform the most basic of my routines?"

"Yes, Father," I gasp, looking up at Gabriel Agreste. My father writes beautiful dance scenes for the most elegant of ballet dancers. His work is world-renowned. Unfortunately, he tests his routines on me, and he seems to view his son as a robot rather than a human.

The door to the studio bursts open and in saunters my older brother, with shaggy black hair, a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and dark tanned skin. The only similarities between him and me are our eyes - a bright, glowing green. His name is Pierre Louis Agreste, but he typically goes by his "street name" Plagg (based on his initials - P. L. Ag.).

"Pierre. Where have you been? And I've told you a million times, dress more appropriately for someone - "

"Laden with the surname Agreste, yeah, yeah, yeah," he laughs. Catching sight of me, his lopsided grin falls into a concerned face; stretching out a hand, he pulls me (wincing) to my feet. "Dad, Adrien and I have plans, so we gotta jet. You know how it is - gotta be punctual and all that. L-ater!" He turns sharply on his heel and speedwalks away before our father can respond, but I catch his disappointed, disapproving face in the mirrors lining the walls.

"A, you can't let him push you around like that. So what if he's the best choreographer on the damn planet - you're his son! You aren't some computer that he can program with routines to test them out. How many times did you fail that move, again?"

"Seventeen," I mutter, hanging my head in shame. Plagg grabs my duffel from the front desk with a flirtatious wink and the receptionist and practically shoves me into the passenger seat of his jet-black car.

"Jesus Christ, Adrien! Seventeen times?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm so pathetic. I'm bringing shame on the family, yadda yadda yadda."

"Nah, you misunderstand me." He throws my bag in the back, starts the engine, and pulls away with a tire-screech. "I can't believe that he thought he could write that move into a routine after one of the most talented ballet dancers I've ever seen can't do it seventeen times in a row. He's completely bonkers! What the hell is he thinking?"

"I don't know."

"Hey, you should come with me tonight, you know? Breakdance battle - I'm not competing but you need to show your ass up. You should see these guys. None of the choreography bullshit, just pure fluid motion. Whatever the music calls for. You're coming with, kay?"

"Are you crazy? That's against the rules - Dad would have an aneurysm if I snuck out like that!"

"Only if he catches you. Which he won't. Anyway, screw rules! I don't live by any rules except my own and look how awesome I am."