#now left on their own who knows what marley would have done abt this but their father very much wanted them to take power | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

1dfangirls35 · 3 years

Text

The Language of Your Soul

An enemies to lovers ballet AU in five acts.

Masterlist

Banner: @booksncoffee

Warnings: This story (and chapter) will contain language, mentions of emotional abuse from a parent and eating disorders. Please read at your own discretion.

Act III

Six Weeks To Opening Night

Giselle is beginning to feel the toll of playing Odette. Physically, in the form of sore shoulders and a nagging ankle pain. Mentally, in the overwhelming pressure that she would never master the two personalities of Odette and Odile.

Her biweekly extra rehearsals with Harry had become routine. She no longer had to tell her uncooperative partner what time to show up. He was always there, not always enthusiastically, but present.

Their extra rehearsals have helped. Mistress Ivanova stays for rehearsals. Their partnering isn't perfect-but it's less foreign. And Mistress Ivanova has found a new flaw to focus on- the emotion in Giselle's dancing.

Sometimes, Giselle stays late into the evening, standing in front of the mirror and practicing her expressions. Finding out the best way to demonstrate the pain that her character is feeling. It doesn't seem to help. Hours and upon hours of practice don't seem to give Mistress Ivanova, Anna or Viktor the 'emotion' they so desperately seek from her.

But nevertheless she tries again. Today, she stands in front of the shining glass before her rehearsal with Harry. Staring into the icy blue of her own eyes in an effort to show some sort of feeling. It wasn't that she lacked emotion- she felt plenty.

Harry notices Giselle's slim figure as he enters the studio. She's standing in front of the mirror again- making faces. But even in her acting practice, she looks concentrated and focused.

Harry is slowly beginning to learn more about Giselle-not by the words she speaks, but through her actions. The hesitation in her voice when her mother is mentioned. The way she groans whenever she messes up a piece of choreography. That she is always the first one in the studio and the last one to leave.

Harry supposes he has revealed things about himself too. Suddenly showing up to rehearsals for one, likely revealed to Giselle that he did indeed care about his career- contrary to what folks at the Royal Ballet might tell you. He'd stopped making his rounds through the company members, fearful of a second Eliza event pushing him onto thinner ice then he already was here at ABT.

"Don't know if concentrated is the emotion Mistress Ivanova wants from Odette," Harry says as he enters the studio, causing Giselle to jerk away from the mirror. He notices the faintest pink rise in her cheeks.

She doesn't say anything as he removes his sweatpants and slips on his black ballet shoes, making his way to the center of the floor.

"Well, what are we rehearsing today?"

"Act II Pas de Deux- again," Giselle says with a sigh.

Harry doesn't protest, instead he makes his way to upstage left for his entrance. He lets the music take over his movements, telling the story of a Prince crossing paths with a beautiful girl in the woods. But as he dances, his hands firm on Giselle's waist as she pirouettes, penchés and promenades around him, he feels how disjointed her movements are. While her movements were near perfect technically, her face stayed firm and concentrated. She was doing everything right except for the most important part of a ballet- the storytelling.

"Stop," Harry shouts, dropping his arms from Giselle's waist and throwing them up to his head as the music continued in the background. "You make this seem like torture."

Giselle stares at him, her expression a mix of shock and annoyance.

"Torture?" Giselle repeats, sounding offended. "And why is dancing with me torture?"

She crosses her arms in front of her black leotard, fighting her own tongue to keep more insulting words at bay. Here she thought she and Harry were finally developing a partnership and now he was making comments like he had two weeks before. It was an endless cycle.

"You're so focused, Giselle. And technically speaking, your movements are beautiful. But..."

"But what?" Giselle spits, although she's sure she already knows what Harry is going to say. He isn't the first person that has critiqued her on this. And she's sure he won't be the last.

"You aren't feeling the movement. The character. You don't look like Odette when you're dancing. You look like an excellent ballerina who is trying to execute the choreography perfectly."

Giselle doesn't say anything in response. Mostly, because she doesn't know what to say. She knows her dancing is lacking the emotion. And yet, she can't get her mind to stray from concentrating on the next movement, on the technique. One thought of anything but commanding her body to execute a perfect pirouette and her movement failed.

"When's the last time you danced because you loved it? When's the last time you just danced?" Harry asks, his green eyes losing their sharpness for only a moment.

Giselle laughs aloud. Just dancing? She hadn't done that since her earliest childhood. "I don't think that's even part of a professionals vocabulary,"

"Well then you're doing it all wrong."

"Well let's do it again then," Giselle says rolling her eyes. She hated this hot and cold act Harry had on. One day she thought maybe she could tolerate him, the next minute he converted back to asshole she'd first been introduced to.

"No," Harry says suddenly.

"What do you mean no?" Giselle asks, bringing her hands to rest against her slender hips. The confused look on her face only makes Harry smile.

"We are going to do something different for rehearsal today. C'mon."

"What are you doing?" Giselle asks as Harry reaches for his sweatpants, pulling them over his tights before zipping up his hoodie.

"I'm getting ready to go. Think it's a little cold to be walking outside in a pair of tights."

"So you're just leaving now?"

"WE are leaving," he gestures between the two of them.

Giselle stares at him.

"Oh c'mon Giselle it will help. I promise. Just trust me." Harry offers out his hand, waiting for Giselle to take it. She looks at him, and he watches her blue eyes flicker in thought.

"Fine," she sighs, ignoring Harry's outstretched and reaching for her sweatpants on the side of the studio. "But if this doesn't help, you owe me another rehearsal."

Harry chuckles softly. "Believe me Giselle. I'm not going to owe you a thing."

When they exit the studio- the crisp March air bites at Giselle's cheeks, it's only slightly warmer than it has been. Reminding her that although spring is around the corner, winter still has its grasp on the world.

"Can you at least tell me where we are going?" Giselle asks, wrapping her jacket around her tighter, trying to keep pace with Harry's long strides against the New York City pavement.

Harry looks back at her, a grin on his face. "You'll find out in about five minutes. Walk faster- we don't want to be late."

Late for what? Giselle thinks, but she keeps her questions to herself knowing that Harry wouldn't humor her anyway.

Five minutes later they arrive at a red brick building a few blocks from ABT. It doesn't look like anything in particular, and Giselle still doesn't quite understand what's going on.

"Come on," Harry says, opening the heavy black door and gesturing up the staircase. Giselle can hear the faint beat of music making its way down the stairs. But it's not the slow, smooth, classical music she is used to- this rhythm is much faster and more energetic.

Following Harry's lead, Giselle slowly makes her way towards the music. When she reaches the top of the stairs she's surprised to see the black marley floor of a dance studio, but instead of the room being filled with pink tights and black leotards, it's filled with people of all ages dancing around the room and laughing.

"What is this?" Giselle asks, looking towards Harry for an explanation.

"It's salsa class," he says, as if the answer is obvious.

"Salsa?" Giselle asks again, still trying to figure out how this was going to help their Swan Lake performance.

"Did I stutter?" Harry says and Giselle rolls her eyes. "Let's go."

"You know how to salsa?" Giselle asks as they enter the room, setting her jacket on the floor as Harry pulls off his sweatshirt.

"Don't you?"

Giselle shakes her head.

"Well you're going to learn today," Harry says, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the dance floor before she has a moment to protest.

Giselle feels like she's in a foreign place as couples dance around them. The women swaying their hips to the music in fluid movements, their partners twirling them from their fingertips. Each pair that spins past them has smiles plastered to their face, not a single person looking as if they are thinking through each count in their head.

"Tell me again how this is going to improve our pas de deux?" Giselle asks as she watches Harry begin to move his feet side to side.

Harry groans. "Because it will. So are you going to learn or are you gonna just stand there for the next hour?"

"Fine." Giselle sighs, looking straight into Harry's eyes. "Teach me then." She meets Harry in the center of the dance floor.

"Okay. Well first, take this hand and set it on my shoulder," Harry reaches for Giselle's left palm, bringing it to rest on his right shoulder as his palm holds firmly in the center of her back. His hand feels warm against the exposed skin of her lower back. "And the other one..." he murmurs as he grabs Giselle's left hand in his own bringing it to the sides of their bodies.

"Now," he begins, his eyes meeting Giselle's. "The steps are simple. Back, replace, together. Front, replace, together. Back, replace, together. Front, replace, together." Giselle follows Harry's movements as he leads, slowly beginning to understand the cadence of the movement.

Harry counts aloud for the two of them as Giselle commits the movements to memory. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."

It doesn't take long for Giselle to get the hang of it. She'd tackled much more complicated choreography in a matter of minutes.

"And now," Harry says softly into Giselle's ear- softer than Giselle knew was possible. "We just dance."

At first their movements are calculated- Giselle focusing on the steps, careful not to step on Harry's toes. But as time goes on, her body takes over. The music takes over. And she's just dancing- with Harry's hand firm on the small of her back.

Giselle realizes she'd forgotten what it felt like to simply let the music seep into your soul, to allow your body to move with rhythm, without thinking. It's refreshing. Freeing. Harry and Giselle dance around the room, their bodies moving closer, their movements merging into one. Harry swings Giselle out and she spins back in, laughing. Her gaze lands on Harry's and she's surprised to see a smile across his face. A real smile- not one coming from sarcasm.

Somehow this 'rehearsal' had been exactly what she needed.

As they exit the studio, the cool air feeling refreshing against their sweaty bodies, Giselle speaks. "So how long have you been salsa dancing for?"

Harry shrugs, pushing a stray curl back from his forehead. "A few weeks."

"A few weeks?" Giselle repeats, confused by Harry's answer.

"Found this place one day when I was exploring the area. Seemed like a good way to clear my head and it gave me something to do instead of sitting in my apartment." Harry surprises himself with his answer, he wasn't usually someone who shared aspects of his personal life.

Giselle doesn't say anything, instead walking slowly shoulder to shoulder with Harry along the pavement.

"Well, do I owe you a rehearsal?" Harry questions, even though he already knows the answer.

"Surprisingly, no..." Giselle says. "But..." she begins, glancing at Harry with a teasing smile. "You owe me one tomorrow."

"Okay," Harry replies with a smile and Giselle notices for the first time a pair of dimples on his cheeks.

A few feet ahead, the inside of a dance studio catches Giselle's eyes. A floor to ceiling glass windows giving an intimate view of the dancers from the street. Harry looks on as Giselle stops and watches, her eyes transfixed on the much younger ballerinas. Harry would guess them to be 13 or 14. Young enough to be relaxed but old enough to have control of their movements.

"You can tell so much about a person by the way they dance," Harry muses. His eyes darting from dancer to dancer. "Movements tell you more about a person then their words ever will. The touch of a hand, the smile of a stranger, the way a man in love can't keep his eyes off of his partner from across the room. Dance is all that in one- but bigger, bolder. It's one thing to be told what you are supposed to feel. But to see it, to watch a story be told in front of your eyes with only your own experiences to interpret it. That's the magic."

Giselle breaks her gaze from the dancers and meets Harry's green eyes. "Then tell me something. About how they dance."

"This one in the pink skirt," Harry points, "She's relatively new. She's still trying to learn the technique. Notice how her movements are still a little loose and unrefined. And that one, in the far corner. She doesn't want to be here. Look how weak her movements are. Look how she doesn't even react to the corrections the teacher is giving."

"And well, see that one," he says, pointing to a tall red head in the center of the room. That one is a younger form of Giselle Mason. See how her movements are strong, tense, almost as if she's thinking too hard. That tells me she's a try hard, a perfectionist. She's good, but she thinks she can always be better, so she never loses her focus."

"But that one," this time Giselle's eyes follow Harry's hand to a short, dark-haired girl in a maroon leotard. "That one's the one that loves to dance. She's not the best or the most graceful. She's even got the steps wrong half the time. But look at her face, look at the way her body simply moves. It's almost like you can hear the music just by watching her."

Giselle studies the girl carefully, watching her bronzed arms moving delicately. She can't see the girls facial expressions from this far, but she imagines they would match her movements. She compares this girl to Harry's declared young Giselle, and for the first time she finally understands the criticizing of her movements. With such focus something is lost. It's not something tangible, it's not the technique or the fluidity. But there's something about the girl who just seems to be dancing, the one that is the most carefree, that draws Giselle's eyes back to her again and again. It is in the imperfections that the dancer is truly the most beautiful. The most perfect.

"What about you Harry Styles? What does your dancing tell me about you?" Giselle asks, her eyes studying Harry's sharp side profile as he studies the class.

"You tell me," he answers his eyes not moving from the window.

Giselle thinks for a moment. Harry was a phenomenal dancer to watch, and she wasn't the only one who thought so. It was obvious why he had been dubbed one of the greatest ballet dancers of the present. She remembered a YouTube video she'd watched of him performing in Romeo and Juliet years ago, before she had any idea their paths would cross. There was something about that way he danced, she remembered that made her feel something. Like he was releasing his own own emotions upon the audience through his motions.

"I think your dancing tells me that underneath that hard, prideful exterior, you are just as vulnerable as the rest of us. Because you can't portray emotion so well if you have none can you?"

Harry stiffens. Because she's close. And no one has ever come that close to understanding the pieces that make up his soul before. The pieces he so desperately tries to hide.

He looks at her, her eyes flickering over his for just one vulnerable second before he turns away from the window. "I'm hungry," he states, changing the subject before this girl finds out more then he wants to share. "Let's stop and get a chocolate shake on the way back. I know a great place."

Giselle looked at Harry like he was crazy. She thought he was, suggesting something as calorie filled as ice cream before they continued their rehearsal.

"I shouldn't..." Giselle argues. She knew how tempting that chocolate shake would be. It would go down smooth. Rich and creamy and tasting like heaven. But it wouldn't seem so delicious on the way back up. Or when she had to make up for the calories with extra workouts the rest of the week. Her stomach churns at the image.

"Believe me, this shake is worth the extra calories. And besides, you've earned it. I've never see you dance like that before."

Giselle wonders if that was supposed to be a compliment. Harry doesn't seem to be taking no as an answer on the chocolate shake, so she follows begrudgingly, telling herself that she didn't have to drink more than a few sips. Harry would never know.

Harry was right about the shakes. As they re-enter the American Ballet Theatre building, Giselle has devoured more than a few sips out of the large paper cup, and she silently curses herself for the lack of self-control. She tosses the remaining half in the trash can outside of the studio before she can be tempted any further.

"You aren't going home?" Harry asks as he picks up his bag from the floor where he left it earlier, slinging the thin black strap over his shoulder.

"Home? We've barely rehearsed," Giselle says incredulously. "You may be good to leave but I've got to work for at least a few more hours."

Harry wonders if Giselle had understood anything from their excursion today. For a moment, he'd thought she'd seen it. That she didn't have to try so hard. That she could more gracious to herself. She was dancing just fine. Better than fine even. But he decides now is not the time to argue with her.

"Well, I'm gonna head home for the night. I'll see you tomorrow?" He leans against the doorframe of the studio entrance instantly wondering why he'd phrased his statement into a question.

"See you tomorrow," Giselle says, pulling off her jacket and reaching for the pointe shoes laid next to her bag.

Harry smiles again, and turns away from the door, Giselle watching him as he leaves.

"Wait, Harry!" she calls, rushing to the hall with one pointe shoe on and the other in her hand. "Thank you for tonight. It helped."

Harry shrugs. "Of course." And Giselle watches as he retreats down the hall.

Giselle returns to the studio, tying up her other pointe shoe. She stares at herself in the mirror, the outline of her body reminding her of the chocolate shake that now sat in her stomach. Any pleasure that she had gotten from the creamy ice cream had now turned into disgust. She couldn't rehearse like this. So she makes her way to the bathroom.

Harry realizes once he's down to the street that he's left his phone in the studio. He must have left it near the speaker when he was using it to play their rehearsal music. He lets out a sigh, adjusts his bag on his shoulder and makes his way back up the three flights of stairs to the studio.

He doesn't see Giselle in the studio when he steps back inside, grabbing his phone from where it lay near the speaker just as he suspected. Her stuff is still here though, a black duffle bag in a pile near the corner of the room. He thinks for a moment about calling out to her, wondering where she went off to, but he stops himself. It wasn't as if one salsa class and a chocolate shake had made them friends.

As he walks back towards the staircase, he hears noise from behind the closed bathroom door. He recognizes the sound immediately, a noise he'd heard many times during his years as a ballet dancer, most often from Alice.

The thought of his former partner makes his heart ache, even after all these years. He tries to push her golden blonde hair and green eyes out of his mind, but he can't. The image of the fragile girl he had once been in love with burned in his mind.

Harry considers knocking on the door, making sure Giselle is alright, but he knows from his previous experiences that this would likely not yield any results. She wasn't alright, clearly. But Harry doubted that there was much he could say at this point that would make her feel like she was. So instead he turns back down the stairs and towards his apartment.

Alice's face remains in his mind the rest of the evening.

Harry had met Alice at the age of twelve, when they were still young and impressionable and would stop at nothing to achieve their dreams of becoming principal dancers at the Royal Ballet.

Alice was his first partner. She was the person that taught Harry the importance of trust, the sacrifices a male dancer made to make sure his ballerina looked effortless and that relationships between partners rarely ended well.

But Harry and Alice were young and energetic and they spent hours together working to be the best in their class. It didn't take much, they were both naturally-gifted dancers. But even when they were the best, they didn't stop.

By the time they were thirteen, they were best friends. Harry knew everything about Alice. From her favorite purple leotard, to her favorite ballerina and even her favorite movie (although they didn't have much time for movies at the Royal Ballet School). Alice knew everything about Harry too. About his past and his love for dance and the fact that he absolutely despised adagio for no reason in particular.

By the time they were fifteen, friendship had blossomed into love. Or what they thought of love at that young age. The kind of young, innocent love where nothing was complicated and every moment spent together was the best thing to ever happen to them. They dreamed of dancing together for years, becoming principals at the Royal and working til they retried, then living out their lives teaching the next generation of dancers at the Royal Ballet School. Because they were best friends and they were partners and they knew everything about each other and that was what was supposed to happen right?

But Harry didn't know everything about Alice. He hadn't noticed how as she began to transform from the girl he met at twelve into a young woman she'd begun to loathe her body. He hadn't noticed the way she'd skipped meals or ran a few miles every evening after rehearsals. He hadn't noticed that every time she was corrected about the tone of her arms or the tightening of her core that she'd take it to mean her body wasn't thin enough or she wasn't following the right diet.

Until one day he did. When found her perched over the trashcan after they'd been out for pizza with some of the other students. She blamed it on a stomach bug and said it was nothing. But then he'd heard that noise a second time. And then a third and a fourth and a fifth. Until one day, he came to anticipate the sound of Alice purging whatever meals she was forced to eat.

He confronted her about it one day. Told her that he was concerned about her. That maybe she should talk to someone, the school had people for that sort of thing after all. He told her she was more than thin enough, too thin nearly- but she didn't hear a word he was saying. Instead she was angry at him, for not understanding and even more, he suspected, for never being criticized for his own ballet body.

It tore them apart as a couple. It tore them apart as partners. And one day that trust that Alice and Harry had built so high was broken when she fell from a lift. The fall wasn't far, and for most of people would have only yielded a bruise or two. But Alice's body was fragile and osteoporotic and when she fell she broke her wrist, her bone's as fragile as an 80-year-old woman's from lack of nutrition.

That's when everyone else noticed Alice's struggles. Her parents become distraught, pulling her out of the school and sending her to an inpatient center for individuals with body dysmorphia. Harry thought that when she was done with treatment, she'd come back to the school and they'd be partners again. Their dreams of becoming principal dancers still attainable. But Alice didn't come back, and when Harry visited her one cool day in October, he realized he didn't recognize the girl staring back at him. The ballet world had destroyed her self-image, her self-confidence and worst of all, her love of dance. She could never look at ballet the same way again or Harry.

For a long time, Harry was angry. Angry at himself for not recognizing what Alice was going through sooner. Angry at their ballet mistresses and directors for saying things that made Alice think she didn't measure up, that her body was something different from what it was. Angry at the ballet world for the culture that obsessed with thinness and lightness and pushed dancers to their breaking points. But most of all he was angry that even when he became a principal, it wouldn't be him and Alice dancing out that stage for the rest of their career, like they'd dreamed when they were just kids.

Harry supposed this is why even to this day he didn't trust the ballet world- all the stuff that happens beyond the stage. He was a dancer for one purpose- because he loved the art form. Not because he loved the school or the culture or the people in it. He loved to dance and only to dance. What happened to Alice had proved to him that if you give too much to anything but the stage- everything can be taken from you.

He pushes the thoughts of Alice aside and makes a mental note to be nicer to Giselle. He wouldn't be the reason another person lost dance. Because if Giselle was anything like Harry, dance was the only thing she had.

**********************************************

Giselle notices that Harry is awfully cheery the next day. He slides in next to her on the bar during company class, saying good morning in a tone that causes even Caleb to raise his eyebrow. He compliments her after she rehearses her Act II solo and gives her nothing but praise all through rehearsal with Viktor and Mistress Ivanova.

Giselle grows suspicious. This is not the Harry Styles she knows. This is not even the Harry Styles she had seen salsa dancing. This Harry was cheeky and flattering and...flirty? She'd seen Harry like this before, and usually it was when he was chatting it up with some corps de ballet member he wanted to bring back to his place.

Did Harry think that salsa dancing meant she wanted to sleep with him? Did he think she was just another member of the company that he could 'escape' with? Giselle rolls her eyes at the thought. Had Harry Styles learned nothing about her?

Giselle isn't going to stand for this nonsense. Opening night is six weeks away and there is far too much at stake to play one of Harry's games. She decides if he says anything that isn't sarcastic or rude to her tonight at their rehearsal, she is going to call him out on it. Harry couldn't fool her, not even with those gorgeous green eyes of his.

"Ready for rehearsal?" Harry asks as he enters the rehearsal studio that night. Giselle is already wiping the sweat from her brow after running through the Odile solo three times and so she simply nods.

"Mistress Ivanova seemed really impressed with our Act II pas de deux today," Harry says as he pulls off the grey hoodie he's wearing, the bottom of his toned abs showing as the black tank top he wears underneath pulls up with it. "You were really channeling Odette today, Giselle. Just beautiful dancing."

And there it was. The compliment instead of the sarcastic comment.

"Why are you doing this?" Giselle snaps.

Harry looks at her, his eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Because I want to be nice?" Harry replies, trying to figure out just what was the problem with being nice towards Giselle. Would she rather he be an asshole?

"What you whisk me off to salsa dance and then think that you are going to seduce me? Because I'm not going to fall for your act Harry, I know who you are."

Giselle's face is stern and Harry feels at a loss. He didn't know she would react like this just to him trying to be cordial. He wasn't trying to seduce her, Giselle is beautiful, it wasn't that he couldn't see her that way. But something was different with Giselle, something Harry couldn't put his finger on. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep with her and jeopardize their partnership on the stage.

"It's not that Giselle. It's just..." he pauses. Should he say something? There was no other explanation for his niceties. He had to tell her the truth. "The other night, after we salsa-ed, I forgot my phone and had to come back to the studio and I thought I heard you.."

Giselle stops him before he can finish. She knows what he is going to say and she doesn't want to hear it aloud. She feels her face flushing and her hands begin to tremble. She can't do this. She can't talk about this. So she panics.

"You didn't hear shit Harry," she spits, storming to the edge of the room and grabbing her duffle bag. She doesn't even bother to pull on sweatpants or take off her pointe shoes before making her way to the door.

"Where are you going Giselle?" Harry shouts after her as she walks towards the door.

"I'm leaving!" she shouts back. "Mistress Ivanova said she loved our rehearsal today didn't she? No need to force you to practice!" And then she runs down the stairs, leaving Harry standing the hallway.

Harry Styles knows her secret, and she's never felt more exposed.

Taglist:

@tpwkhoney , @swtxel , @stylessugarhigh , @morethanamelodyy , @masumiyetimziyanoldu , @hhh33-3l

#an update finally!#loys #writingby1dfangirls35 #hs #harry au #harry styles #ballet au #harry fanfiction #1dff #enemies to lovers #harry fanfic

45 notes · View notes