a sum of small things | camren (au)

the second year | july - september

You know every single inch of her body.

The curve of her collarbone, the shade of dark in her eyebrows, the edge of her hipbones, the line of her jaw, the shape of her lips. You know what the skin on her ankles feels like. How to kiss the tips of her fingers. The inside of her wrist. You know the exact heave and fall of her chest when your mouth is between her legs. How to work your fingers to make her scream. You know the taste of her skin. The hardness of her nipples. Where her pulse beats in her throat against your lips. The sounds she makes when you pull on the hair in the nape of her neck. You know the marks of dancing all over her body - you've seen them appear, you have caused some of them too.

The London Royal Opera House doesn't have the slightest clue that the girl they're watching dance on stage is all your body has ever reached for.

:::

july

:::

It's the middle of the summer - and Camila's got you shivering all over.

She curls her thumb right over the hem of your shorts, grazes the tips of her fingers slowly over the edge of your hip... You feel like you can't breathe. Her other hand tangles in your hair and your eyes flutter shut involuntarily as you lean back against the wall of the theatre, while she lets her mouth hover closely over yours, almost brushing her lips against yours. It makes you lightheaded and heated and frustrated out of your goddamn mind-

-and then she kisses you and you shiver so fucking hard that she laughs into your mouth. .

It spikes your adrenaline. You pull on her waist, making her stumble against you and then you switch her around and pin her against the wall, kissing her so intensely that she moans. The sound burns right through you. You run your hands down her back, under her shirt, going dizzy on the taste of her tongue and the heat of her skin and the way she's got your shivering in the middle of the fucking summer with-

The backdoor of the theatre opens right next to you and you jump away from Camila as if she's stabbed you.

It's just one of the technicians, carrying a large speaker set outside. He gives the both of you a cheerful smile and a goodhearted good morning, ladies, but you can't feel anything besides the ice cold panic that is suddenly sucking all the oxygen out of your lungs.

Fucking hell what are you doing someone could have fucking seen you kissing her and-

"Lauren."

"Stop," you choke out. "Just - stop. I have to go. We can't do this."

She looks at you - hair a mess, lips wet and slightly swollen, eyes so captivating - and in a second of complete electricity, you think you want to tell her you look beautiful but then your fear wins out, as always, and you push past her, into the theatre, not saying anything at all.

//

Summer school is tough.

Clara Jauregui's classes are a walk in the park in comparison to what Peter Martins from the NYCB is making you do. He's the City Ballet's Master in Chief - and for some reason your mother managed to get him onboard for the program, causing all hell to descend upon you. He's absolutely fantastic, of course, but ruthless.

After the first week, all your toes are bleeding, no matter how carefully you bandage them.

Your muscles are straining so much that the only thing you really feel is pain. You've got sweat dripping down your temples almost permanently and the same piano melodies burning in your veins over and over again - and none of what you're doing even feels remotely like dancing anymore, but you know that it's necessary. You know that this is what being a classical ballet dancer is like.