BALLERINA HARRY (Patreon)

HELLLOOOO! First of all, I want to apologize for the lack of content you all have received. As I'm sure most of you guys know, my grandmother passed at the end of December, finals kicked my ass, and then I went on vacation for a week so I've barely had any time to write at all.  HOWEVER I am going to make up for it tenfold! Each day this week I'm going to have something posted and then some! Y'all are about to be slammed with content, and I hope you're as stoked as I am! I've got loads of a ideas and feelings to get out, so be ready spaghetti

ALSOOOOO tell me how you guys feel about this one, depending on the response I will continue it as a series! 

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i.

Harry was starstruck. 

The feeling that envelops his body is one that he could only describe as an all encompassing shudder that centralized right in his gut. Inside of his head was a cluster of fizzles and sparkles that made him feel like he was floating, wrapping down from her shoulders, over her biceps, to his fingertips and proliferates from his neck to his toes. If he had not been sat down, he thinks he might have definitely considered fainting. This, plus a combination of frazzled nerves, an hour of sleep the night prior, and three coffees that he had practically poured down his throat - made it feel like he was in a tunnel. One composed of marble bursts of color that billow and warp through their hues, and he throws himself through it. 

Being apart of The Royal Swedish Ballet had been something Harry had dreamt of since he was young, watching an excerpt of their performance of the Nutcracker in music class, before going home and watching video after video of performances and interviews. The following Christmas, he received his first pair of ballet slippers and a ticket to see their upcoming performance live from his Nan who had supported his dream wholeheartedly. It was of Don Quixote, Harry followed their movements and longed to be on stage beside them for the duration of the show, and had decided right then and there that he was meant to be on stage with them. One of the sixty-eight full time dancers was what he dreamt of. 

That was why he was in Sweden now; an audition of sorts created as they were looking for another member after one of their own decided that a career route in law was his calling (though there is some conspiracy that he was let go due to a physical ailment undisclosed to the public). Harry’s ballet instructor from home had sent recommendation letters (with an attachment of his dancing) without his knowledge and after three weeks, he received an acceptance letter for an audition into a small production they were putting on. From that production, they would choose from them the one they felt was suited better for the open position. There were twenty other participants that Harry was up against, all of which are from different areas of the world, all of them with the same goal. 

Yet, Harry could not wash away this feeling that this was his chance. After so many years of dedication to ballet, the sores on his feet, the ache in his bones, the ice baths that pimple goosebumps so prominent they threaten to pop from his skin. The constant questioning of his sexuality and if he thought that a career could be legitimately gained from the hours upon hours of practice - it would make all of that worth it. If he could have this, then all of the pain, discomfort, and doubt. . .it could finally make that mean something to other people. Though Harry didn’t necessarily need the validation of others, it would be a bit nice to finally feel it. He had always wondered what it would be like to have more than just your mum, your Nan, and your sister in your corner. 

He had gotten in late last night, around one in the morning and by the time he got checked into his hotel (which was being paid for, courtesy of the ballet company), his brain had already conjured up about a dozen different scenarios. All of which, everything goes the absolute worst that they could and Harry has to take the first flight back home. It kept him up all night, only wavering into sleep for a few spare moments before his eyes would refocus on the ceiling above him, realizing that he was no longer in his room and the roar of the heater shuddered unlike the one at home. 

At 7AM, he forced himself out of bed to get ready. There was a scheduled meeting between the newcomers and one of the instructors in charge, who would go over the semantics of their schedule in a reserved room at a coffee shop. Prior to this, they would give everyone about an hour to introduce themselves to one another and acquaint since they would be spending so much time together. Harry viewed it a bit as a “get to know your enemy” session more likely, and he got there incredibly early. Like, two hours too early kind of early, had three kokkaffe, and was jittery out of his mind. 

All of this combined lead Harry to believe that he was seeing a mirage, like his brain was attempting to give him something to keep chugging for. He blinked a few times, knuckled at his eyes, but she appeared to him all the same, with a small pastry in her hand and a small smile at her mouth. It felt as if she had stepped out from a screen, stepping foot before him like something out of a movie. 

Her name was Y/N and she was one of the 67 (once 68) dancers. Something short of a paradigm in a ballet dancer and the fact that she had not been a childhood prodigy is what makes her stand out so evidently. She started ballet at the age of seventeen, practiced and worked an intense regimen until she managed to get where she wanted to be. . .here. He had watched about thirty thousand interviews about her, from what people had said to her to what she believed about herself. He fell in love with how she danced so passionately and how incredibly humble she managed to be and there were many people who could contest to the fact that she kept herself grounded (which you could not say for many dancers). 

He was starstruck! 

Y/N is making her way towards him familiarly, a pastry in her hand and she lets her purse slide from her shoulder down to the crook of her elbow, which throws her off balance only slightly. She pauses at the booth he’s at, placing her hand onto the table gently, “I recognise you,” she says with a big, cheek splitting, all knowing grin, “You’re from Cheshire here for the audition, right? Harry Styles?”

His mouth runs dry, heart ramping against his chest harshly and he blinks at her with wide, stricken eyes. She knew about him? He nods slowly, his breath wavering as he straightens up, “I-yes— yes that’s me.” He blinked owlishly, “You know about me?” 

Her eyes brighten as she nods, “Course! I very well picked you didn’t I?” She settles her belongings across from him, wriggling into the booth, “It’s so nice to meet you finally! After a month of looking through videos of someone, it’s always surreal, you know?”

Of course I bloody know! is what he’s thinking as he stares at her, seeing her as a real being before him instead of on the screen, but he can’t say it aloud. Hell, he can barely process it as her words finally begin to sink into his brain. I very well picked you didn’t I? What did that mean then? She picked him? Did they input her on the decision? And what videos did she? How many did she? Why was she seeing them? Did they offer to show her? Or had they wanted her input? 

“Oh,” he began, his voice trembles embarrassingly and his eyes widen, “It’s an - it’s an honor, really, I -- you are great -- how did you see the -- did you see the videos?” He is struggling to figure out how to say the words, or even string a proper sentence together, because she’s just. . .she’s just absolutely stunning and looks mythical somehow sat before him. This was him meeting his Beyonce. He feels like he’s only going to continue sputtering, but she just smiles easily at him, “I’m sorry I’m nervous, m’just -- I’m in awe of you.” 

She reaches across the table, her hands sliding over his and giving him a little squeeze (Harry tries to pretend like it isn’t the best day of his life), “Don’t be so nervous,” she tells him, her voice soft and encouraging, “I’m no big deal, you and I are on the same playing field now; just wait until you meet the director to get starstruck, she’s the one who deserves it.” She slides her hand away, peeling her pastry in half and laid it on a napkin, sliding it towards him, “As for me watching your videos -- I guess I wasn’t supposed to let you know this yet, but nobody’ll be mad ‘cos everyone knows I’ve got a big mouth when it comes to things like this.” Peeling off her own piece of her pastry, she hovers it over her lips, “But each newbie has a “mentor” kind of; we got to pick. And I fought tooth and nail for you, honestly, almost started a full brawl.” 

Harry’s heart feels like it’s going to pop out of his chest with how quickly it is racing - an idol of his so casually speaking with him, not acting like she was the pinnacle of all things holy, which is how he felt. He thinks it’s taking everything inside of him not to gush to her about how much he enjoys her work, how he has marveled at her videos to become inspired, and how he had dreamt of being able to share a stage with her. How could he even focus on that though when she hits him with such a statement as she had; to find out that she had not only watched his videos, but liked him so much that she wanted to be his mentor, and fought to do so? It was the biggest kiss to the ego, if Harry were not as humbled by an incredibly honest Russian instructor he had when he was 12-17 then he would have let it go to his head (24 years old and he still cannot shake the glare in his eye when Harry screwed up his Tour en l’air once after doing it perfectly for five practices). 

The pastry before him makes his mouth water and he realizes very quickly that he hasn’t had anything to eat in the past sixteen-ish hours beside the shortbread cookies he got on the plane ride. He plucks from it greedily, tearing off the croissant-y piece and thanking her politely before stuffing it into his mouth. “You got here early,” she remarks, looking down at her watch, “I feel ya, I do -- my first audition I showed up about five hours before and had a good stress cry when I saw how big the stage was, and how many seats were going to be filled by judges.” Harry feels his blood run cold -- how many judges would there be for him? -- but Y/N must notice the drop in his gaze, because he has never been very good at hiding the emotion from his face, “Yours won’t be on such a drastic scale at first though! You n’I get to meet a few times prior to that and then when you do step in front of the judges for the first time, it’s about half the amount and I’ll be there too! It’ll be much more comforting, I think - at least I hope.” She runs the pad of her thumb across her brow, “I’ve got loads of team building exercises for us to do together, so we’ll be mighty close, I hope you don’t mind.” She gives a short, huffy sigh, “And I hope you don’t mind how much I’ve been prattling on either, I’m really excited to meet you and had about two coffees prior to coming here.” 

He could express to her how much he loves the fact that she’s prattling because he was just so entirely baffled by her presence before him, and how he had imagined a moment that they meet and he could tell her how much he appreciates her story and her dancing and what she stands for, but his own shaky voice would not allow such intricate thoughts to pass. That seemed like too much of a mouthful though, and he was too busy finally letting something enter his stomach other than Swedish coffee to say something so long. Instead, he just shakes his head, and responds, “It’s okay, really.” He smiled gently, “I’m very excited to work with you and I’m - I’m very grateful that you chose me. And flattered.” 

She reaches across the table again, locking their fingers together and giving him a good squeeze before she scooches a little closer. 

“I don’t know if it’s the coffee or the general excitement, but I feel as if I could burst! We’re going to get along so well, I just know it.” 

The elation Harry feels, is insurmountable.