Step by step. A silent tap on the floor every time the shoe hit. New steps, a new position to play, a general silence. Only minor scribbling to the side of the open floor. The light waved in through the glass wall, pooling across his figure. Perfectly coiffed hair, stunning blue eyes, smooth skin. All perfect. Perfect.

Steps slowed before stopping. An hour had passed of just this. Ms. J had other things to take up issue with. Nice was just a minority, a brand truly. Fans saw him as perfect, so he was. He was…good at everything. Did practice even help anymore? Incorporating ballet as dance moves, a plausible joke. It’s just service to the public, to show off, to add more to his schedule. Time felt warped like this, so much freedom lost.

He lost that shine in his eyes a couple years ago, that flicker of hope, the actual want to help people before it just started to become a play. Nice was the Commission’s pretty boy, their perfected brand deal who couldn’t crack the top ten even if he wanted to. He couldn’t even hold that tight smile in private. It felt wrong, his own skin felt wrong. Eyes just gazed to the corner of the room across the wall, where chairs and a set table were at least seated. The scribbling continued.

————

The pencil in your hand moved with precision, each line on the sketch was deliberate, delicate, easy to smudge. Your eyes kept glancing up from your notebook before noticing the ‘darling’ perfect hero stopped. You sighed as you fixed the strands of drawn hair of his on the paper. Multiple sketches laid in your notebook, drawings, doodles, all of Nice. Notes on the few issues, extra notes to the side pointing out the dance, others your own thoughts.

It was normal for this to be a thing. You had known Nice for years, a developed relationship that never quite touched due to fans shipping him with Moon. Free time like this you were allowed to see him, under the guise you were helping him. Which, well, you were. Pointers, you did ballet for a few years in the past. You didn’t really help much in the actual dance, just stood by and drew him.

Nice was someone who deserved the world in your eyes. Even if his moods grew sour with you at times for being a mess, you were still the only person that didn’t make his skin crawl anymore. That was enough said as is. Steps echoed across the floor as he glided over. A seat skipped beside you. You silently slid your notebook to him across the table.

“Step twelve. You missed the beat but it won’t change anything to the actual routine since fighting will angle your attention to something else.” Your voice echoed, earning only a hum as a response.

“Why is it you refuse dance anymore?” The question was monotone, could be read as a statement with how straightforward you were, watching as Nice took your pencil and wrote whatever he was writing in on the page.

Maybe that was another part. You didn’t know ballet better than him considering he’s seen to be perfect and therefore is, but you still were the veteran of it. Even back in highschool when you, him and Wreck were all together. Both attended your shows. Nothing big. Nothing too important, but it was apart of you at one point.

————

The three of you have all lost pieces of yourselves. Important, heavy pieces. Surviving for the careers you did. Nice lost anything genuine, Wreck lost any sense of belonging, you lost importance.

What more could either of you lose now that you both lost contact with Wreck? What more money was there to squeeze out of either of you, especially Nice?

Maybe savor this moment more, as if you two already didn’t. As if the bare interactions were the last thing keeping either sane.