Tony and you came from very different worlds.
He had grown up in Brooklyn, been a rebellious and arrogant teenager —stuck in a monotonous life he despised— and then moved to Manhattan to achieve his dream of dancing. You had grown up in a wealthy home, present but absent parents forcing you into dancing classes —demanding perfection from you— and you moved to Manhattan to keep on doing the only thing you were good at.
In other words: He lived to dance, and you danced to live. He had the passion, but obsesión always won talent.
He danced whatever he needed to dance to get in a show and you did ballet —typical rich girl stuff. The odds aligned for you to meet at a random audition and a.. 'relationship' bloomed. ~if you could call fucking around and cuddling, then having breakfast and not heating of each other for days a relationship~.
Tony had It bad, living in a cheap motel and working as both a dance instructor and a waiter. But you had It worse, practising until exhaustion —or body collapse— to be perfect for someone that didn't really care.
That, and the not so kind words that the male ballet teachers enjoyed to drop like bombs on their students about their weight or bodies.
You and Tony had hooked up again, the first time for a month —you both had been busy. You were just baskinc on the afterglow, tucked under the sheets on Tony's chest, his hands stroking your sides and hips until..
His brows scrunched up as if deep in thought. He shifted slightly, hands kneading your hips with more prupose.
Some strands of his messy hair fell over his angelic blue eyes when he looked down —searching for your gaze. "You've lost weight.." he mumbled, his Brooklyn accent stronger than ever.
He saw the way your lips twitched upwards, you were about to say 'thank you', and he shook his head. Giving your hips a little squeeze —as if searching for something that wasn't there. "tha' wasn' a compliment, babe" he clarified with a frown, worried.