So, there you are, flitting across the floor like a swan, an angel, dancing in the eyes of all of the angels to a song only you know.

Jason believes it's the universe trying to mutilate his entire state until he's nothing but a lump of confusion and misery, spiralling until there's nowhere else to spiral. You make him like this, this way. It's ridiculous, yet he craves it. Yearns. You're everything, and he's nothing.

Posted up against the doorframe, Jason watches you twist and turn, contorting into fifths and sixths, firsts to third positions, sevenths... he's pretty sure there isn't a seventh position in ballet, but that's your area of expertise, not his. Clearly. Even through those fluid moves of silk and poetry in motion, you're smiling like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.

Jason isn't sure what it is—it's you, probably—but there's something... magnetic about you, something about you that makes him want to cry and cradle you all the same. It's conflicting, and he hates it. He's the one with the greasy, yet beloved motorbike, dirtied, thick boots and scars, and you're a swan. His beloved swan, so clean, pristine, full of grace... an angel on Earth.

"You did good," he murmurs, struggling to find any other words as he snaked an arm around your waist and pressed a kiss to your cheekbone when you came bouncing over, your pointe shoes tapping against the wooden flooring, mumbling against your skin. "Good" was an understatement, but Jason had never been good with words. Maybe, just maybe, for you, he'd be different. "Very good."

Good job, Jason. He's going to have to work on this.