Nothing but Skin

Part 2

Nick didn't usually practice in his full costume, but their big Nutcracker performance was close and he needed to get used to the weight of the tutu against his legs. He faced away from the mirror as he yanked off his binder, wincing, and tugged the white leotard over his breasts. He didn't own bras anymore, since the leotard was always tight enough.

Sometimes, it was even too tight: he had thick thighs and a thick upper body. Not ideal ballerina-style. The pressure to look like Barbie in the ballet industry meant Nick wasn't the only one with body dysphoria. While other dancers (even Quito, years ago) had suffered from eating disorders, he had struggled with equating his self-identity with his undeniably female body.

He slid on his leg warmers, too, and pulled his dark hair back. It wasn't long enough to wear in a real bun, so he pinned it back and rolled the synthetic hair bun over his stub of a ponytail. The stupid tiara-thing pinched his scalp, but he didn't complain.

He stood up off the bench, pointe shoes in hand. He still didn't turn around to face in the mirror -- he knew what he looked like. He was barely tall enough to dance ballet, and anyone could have mistaken him for the Nicole Washington he had been in middle school, with the white dresses his mom always made him wear.

He wished, not for the first time, that he could wear a male uniform and dance a male part. But by the time Nick had transitioned, it was too late to switch. Nicole had already had a name in ballet circles, and if he had tried to learn a new role, he would get behind. Years behind.

Nicole could be a professional dancer; Nick could never be. Sometimes he wished he could choose his gender identity over his dancing, leave Nicole and tutus behind forever, but he couldn't. Ballet was his life. He was ballet, before he was any Nick or Nicole or gender pronouns.

He left the changing room and went into the practice room, which was of course full of mirrors. Quito was already stretching, so Nick settled next to him and finished the stretches he had done that morning. They did their warm-ups in silence. They rarely talked while Nick was dressed like this -- like a girl.

He always felt like a stranger during warm-ups. He wasn't Nick Washington, the day-by-day college boy who bought ramen at the supermarket, but he wasn't a dancer yet either. He was someone else, someone dressed in women's clothing. Someone waiting.

But then they stood in position, in the corner of the room, and the lights dimmed. And the music started. And together they counting the opening notes, and then their toes went out in unison, right legs lifting behind them -- and then Nick transformed.

The music made him into someone new -- someone who didn't need a gender, someone who didn't need a name, someone who only needed a dance. He bent backwards into Quito's arms and Quito's hands were there, strong and unwavering. Legs lifted and arms curved and Nick put his soul into his fingertips, balancing his life on the tip of a pointe shoe -- He spun, arm stretching up gracefully to meet Quito's hand --

And it wasn't flying, because it was too much work for that, too many muscles tight and straining, but it was beautiful. Nick lost himself in the dance, counting his steps and jumping and twisting, always always with Quito's hands firm on his waist.

And he belonged.

He threw his head back, exposing his neck to the ceiling, and Quito held him firm. He lifted, slow, and then spun, and it went faster and faster and faster and Nick breathed steadily, planting his feet firmly after every jump -- and he wasn't Nick, wasn't Nicole. He was just a dancer.

All too soon the dance was over, but Nick was still buzzing with the adrenaline. And Quito looked at him with that hard, determined look that he only wore in the studio. And they did it again. And again.

Sometimes, when the dances ended with Nick spread out against one of Quito's legs, held up only by their joined hands -- sometimes Nick thought he might like to kiss Quito. Right there in the studio, faces flushed with the effort of the dance, still tingling with the aftermath of the music.

But of course he never did.

Not in the studio, anyway.