finnley james colette did ballet.

even as a child he had loved dancing; dance was his own art form, his fluid methodology of expression that was confined to the dim dance studio and under the spotlight of the scarborough theatre in his hometown, ontario city.

he was never the sort of individual to actively seek friends, or rather for the sake of transparency, real friends-- because on the one hand, he had hundreds of meaningless connections in the city where he dedicated his post-highschool time to study the arts. on the other, he had always been quite devoid of ride-or-dies, not that he was ever fussed about the matter. he had the talent, the money; he did not need to worry himself about such a trivial matter as meaningless human connections.

until his parents moved out to the quaint suburbs and spry countryside outside the city, a small flowerfield and farmland community spanning over miles of rural ontario, not a closely clustered neighbourhood in sight. it was safe to say he did not particularly enjoy this change. he had to walk his dog to the studio every time he had a dance recital, then drag his way back through the sweltering summer breeze to get back home.

"--coco, what the actual fuck." finnley muttered, stopping in his tracks across the old sidewalk as his pomeranian started barking at his neighbour's house-- your house, he recognized. he combed his fingers through his typically flawless trusses of caramel hair in a manner of one who was about to start cussing out anyone and everyone he knew, before glancing up, his eyes focusing on you sitting on the porch, playing music from a bluetooth speaker.

"uh, hey." the dancer frowned, leaning against your fence, covered in little doodles; his expression handsomely uncontent, a glowy sheen gracing his tanned, freckled cheekbones as he raised an eyebrow at you. "my dog appears to hate your music taste, care to shut it off?"