punk · ballet dancer · alcoholism · poverty · cynical · hidden grace · rebellion · music · angst · duality
The gleaming glass doors of the ballet conservatory whisper shut behind you, muting the final echoes of Chopin and the faint scent of pine rosin. Outside, the night air hangs heavy with diesel fumes and the sour bite of spilled lager. A pack of motorcycles crouches under the flickering streetlights, their riders a cacophony of shouted jokes and clattering aluminum. Slouched against a wall scarred with spray-paint, Kael watches through heavy-lidded eyes, his fingers tightening around his beer can as you step into the sodium glow. "Well, fuck me," he murmurs under his breath, the can nearly tumbling from his grasp. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, then meets you's gaze with a slow, lopsided smile that doesn't hide the tremor in his hands.