Tutus and Treachery

Another giggle rings out, plunging an ice-cold dagger into Elsa's heart.

"Bend over!" a male voice growls. "Go on, bend over. I've always wanted to fuck you like this."

Another giggle and another scrape of furniture being moved. There's a few seconds of silence, before Kerstin gives a long low moan.

"So biiiig," she manages to gasp.

Elsa's heard enough. She can't stay any more. She's got to go. She doesn't know where, but she's got to go. Anywhere. She doesn't care. She's just got to get out.

She runs, fleeing along the corridor and down the stairs, pursued by the grunts and wails of the amorous couple. She flings open the stage door and dashes out into the street, almost colliding with Frau von Tanzenhohe.

Outside it's almost dark. And it's raining. Cold, bitter, sleety rain that swirls around her, taunting her as she flees. Thoughts and questions pour through her head. Nothing makes sense. She's been a fool. Humiliated. Betrayed. Broken.

She stops to catch her breath. She's soaked through. She needs to find shelter. She needs to get out of the weather.

The street is deserted, but there's a light on in the café opposite her. She looks inside. With relief, she sees its empty. She pulls her coat tightly around herself, dashes across the road and dives inside.

Through a haze of painful despair, she manages to order a black coffee and take a seat by the window. She can't go back. She can't face him -- or her for that matter. She hates everything about him - his stupid blond bangs, his little piggy nose, his... his everything.

Elsa stares at the window, watching the bullets of ice raking against the glass. It takes a few seconds to notice the billboard at the bus shelter opposite. There, staring back at her, is one of the advertising posters for the ballet. It's one of the big ones, with the large, full-length photo of her and Nils standing together. She stares coldly back at it, remembering the day it was taken -- she'd been so happy. But all she feels now is cold contempt.

As she closes her eyes, her phone pings. She reaches into her pocket, but as her hand closes around the device, she hesitates. She really doesn't want to look at it if it's from Nils or Kerstin. She doesn't care if they want to apologise or beg for forgiveness. Not that she thinks they will.

But it might not be from them. If it's from her parents, she'll need to reply. They'll only worry otherwise.

She's got to check it. She's got to force herself.

The phone buzzes again.

Reluctantly she lifts the device from her pocket and unlocks the screen.

"Notification from Matteo" it reads.

"My Grandmother says that you are the best Clara she has ever seen!" he's written.

A trickle of warmth floods into her heart. In that moment it's the closest thing to a lifeline and she knows she's got to grab it.

She scrolls down. There's photo of her and Matteo taken during the Battle Scene. He's lifting her high above his head as her carries her across the stage to the cage.

She hesitates. She wants to reply. She's got to reply.

"And you're the scariest Mouse King I've ever seen," she types, adding smiling and laughing emojis.

"Thanks," he responds.

She hunts through her photo gallery, wincing at the number of pictures she's taken of Nils. She finds the picture she's looking for -- Matteo in the Russian Dance from Act II, leaping high in the air, his legs splayed straight out either side of his torso.

She sends the photo to him, then types "I can't believe how high you leap!"

Her thumb hovers over the "x" key. Should she do it? What will he reply? Will he just ignore it? She can't face another rejection today.

An image of Nils and Kerstin going at it in the girls' dressing room flashes into her mind. Fuck the pair of them, she's gonna do it.

"I can't believe how high you leap xxx," she sends.

There's a moment's pause and then he sends back: "Thanks xxx"

Elsa's heart leaps and a wave of excitement swells within her.

"I wish you were the Nutcracker," she replies. "You're a much better dancer than Nils xxx."

There's a longer pause. She takes a sip of her coffee, imagining Matteo working out how to respond. Does he say a simple "thanks"? Does he deny he'd be the better choice?

"LOL xxx," he writes after what seems like an eternity.

She sends back a smiley face. But what should she message next?

There's a pause of about thirty seconds, presumably he doesn't know what to write either.

"Are you coming to the party tonight? xxx", he asks.

"Yeah. You? xxx".

"Of course xxx".

Another pause of about thirty seconds or so.

"Good luck, in case I don't see you before we meet on stage xxx."

Elsa smiles.

"Good luck," she replies. "You're gonna be awesome as usual xxx."

She puts the phone back in her pocket and looks out of the window again. It's still raining but the shards of sleet have softened. She cradles her coffee cup between her hands as she stares at the poster at the bus stop, trying to superimpose Matteo's face over Nils'.

And slowly, very slowly, the cogs in her brain begin to turn, as she formulates a plan of revenge.

--

There's no sign of Nils or Kerstin when she gets back to the girls' dressing room. The room is tidy, with nothing out of place. The Sugar Plum tutu is hanging neatly on the costume rail and there's not even a trace of cologne in the air.

Elsa changes quickly into her costume and then hurries down the stairs to busy herself helping the youngest dancers to get ready. There's an excitement that's unmatched since opening night. Most of the parents will be in the audience for the final performance. She casts her mind to Matteo's dad and grandparents, setting out for the long drive back to Italy. It's a shame they won't be here tonight, but at least they got to see him dance this afternoon.

She always likes to get to the wings early, but this time she's there before the call for the starters goes out. As she watches the stage manager checking the set, the orchestra is starting to tune up, occasional blasts from the brass section cutting through the hubbub from the auditorium. She imagines her parents taking their seats. She feels so proud to dance for them and she feels how proud they are of her. She takes a deep breath. She's on top of the world!

The party scene at the start of Act I flashes past and the quick change into her nightdress costume goes like clockwork. As the lights dim, the scurrying music starts and the mice appear to chase around the stage. Then the big blast of trombones as Matteo appears as the Mouse King. He lifts her high above his head and, perfectly in time, he throws her in the cage.

From behind the bars, Elsa watches as Nutcracker and Mouse King fight. With the scales swept from her eyes, Matteo's clearly the better dancer. And better by a very long way. He's stronger, sharper and lighter on his feet. And he moves with a grace that makes Nils look almost robotic.

She doesn't want to throw the shoe. But instinctively, her hand grasps it firmly and, at the right moment, she launches it towards the duelling dancers. She watches as it traces a perfect arc, hanging almost motionless in the air, before striking the Mouse King squarely between the shoulders. Matteo turns to her, reaching out his arm, their eyes meeting through the mask, holding each other's gaze for a fleeting moment that feels like eternity. Then Nils runs him through with his sword.

As the music quietens and the lighting brightens, the Nutcracker crosses to the cage to release her. He holds out his arm to help her step down. She accepts his hand, returning his smile, but her eyes are cold. He has no idea what's coming.

The two of them dance their pas de deux, but Elsa is not with him. She imagines herself high above, looking down, fully detached from the two figures below. This dance has always been the one the matters, the one she has to get right, for Nils' sake, not hers. But now that pressure is lifted, she flies across the stage with a virtuosic lightness that she's never felt before.

The snowflakes are gathering around them, spinning and twirling as the end of Act I approaches. With her final pirouette, Elsa lifts her leg a little high, straightens her knee a little too much and, with the force of a sledgehammer at ramming speed, drives the blunt end of her point shoe into Nils' testicles. He winces, but manages to hold it together as the pair face the audience together for a final pose. The curtain descends and he falls to the floor, clutching his groin as the snowflakes scurry to the wings. Elsa strides confidently after them, her face a picture of oblivious innocence. But inside a triumphant euphoria is surging - Kerstin won't be getting any more from him today!

As she reaches the wings, she looks back at Nils. The stage manager has rushed across to him and is helping him to his feet. She casts a withering look that no one will see and heads for the exit to the staircase. But blocking her path is the tall, terrifying figure of Frau von Tanzenhohe.

"I saw that," the ballet mistress hisses accusingly. "You did that on purpose!"

Elsa opens her mouth to protest, but her teacher holds up her hands and leans a little closer.

"Frankly," she says quietly, almost under her breath, "that was the least he deserved!"

Elsa blushes, betraying her guilt.

"Get upstairs," Frau von Tanzenhohe orders, "and I'll see you for the second act."

Elsa moves to pass her, not quite sure if she should swagger proudly or adopt her usual meek shuffle.

"Oh, by the way," her teacher calls after her. "Matteo was looking for you."

Elsa turns back. Frau von Tanzenhohe's eyes are dancing and there's a broad smile across her face.

"I think he wants he wants to wish you luck for the rest of the performance!"

--

Elsa flies up the stairs to the dressing rooms, but it's the girls' door that she enters first. Mercifully the room is empty. She slides the bolt across and unzips her holdall, reaching for the little cloth bag that she keeps her Band-Aids and toe-tape in. Her fingers dive inside for the pair of scissors that she keeps in there.

She's already spotted Kirsten's pointe shoes on the chair in front of her dressing table. She picks the first one up and opens the scissors to their fullest extent. She pauses, blade hovering above the elastic straps of the shoe. She's all ready to cut into it. But she hesitates.

If it comes undone during the performance, it could be a career-ending injury.

She can't do it.

She closes the scissors and places them back in the bag.

--

Matteo hangs up the Mouse King tunic on the costume rack behind him and sits back down at his dressing table. After the Battle Scene was over, he stayed to watch Elsa's pas de deux with Nils. He's seen the dance several times, but today was undoubtedly her best performance. She was radiant, alive in a way he's never seen before. He wants to dance more with her. Nils holds her back so much. And today the gulf in ability was so painfully obvious.

He picks up a sponge and begins to apply his make-up, first his foundation, then adding some shadow and eyeliner. He's almost finished, when there's a knock at the door.

"Come in," he calls.

To his surprise, it's Elsa's head that pops around the door.

"Are you decent?" she asks.

She wouldn't mind if he wasn't, but she knows it's polite to ask.

"Yes, it's fine. You can come in"

She opens the door and slips inside.

There's an awkward moment as the two just look at each other, each expecting the other to speak first. Just as it's dawning on her that Frau von Tanzenhohe was lying and that Matteo wasn't looking for her, he speaks.

"I thought your pas de deux went really well," he says.

"Thanks," she mumbles. "I just wanted to say well done for Act I -- I thought it was the best we've ever done!"

"Thanks," he replies, turning back to the mirror. "That's the magic of the final show, I suppose!"

Elsa lets him concentrate on applying his lipstick.

He turns back to her.

"What do you think?" he asks, pointing to his face.

"Just a few little tweaks" she replies.

She picks up the make-up brush and lightly brushes it across his cheeks. She realizes she's bending forward with her breasts at his eye height, but her nightdress costume is so modestly cut and the neckline of her ivory leotard is so high, that there's nothing much for him to see.

"Perfect!" she pronounces.

She places the brush back down on the dressing table and bends down to check her own make up, making sure that she presses suggestively against his arm and shoulder. She straightens up again.

"Anyway, good luck for the Russian Dance. I'll see you on stage, I guess."

"Same to you," he says.

She's about to turn for the door, when a wild impulse seizes her. Without warning, she leans down to him and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

Surprised, he hesitates and she pulls away from him.

"Do I not get to kiss you?" he protests.

"Not with that lipstick. But... maybe later."

She gives Matteo a final backward glance as she opens the door. He watches as she disappears, a big smile painted across his face. He's as smitten as she is.

--

For Elsa, the second act passes in a blur, driven along by the adrenaline within her. Of course, she has to dance with Nils, but she can deal with that, her body's on autopilot, guided by Matteo's bright light. Her dance partner is a shadow of himself -- yes, he's going through the motions, but gone is that brash confidence and smug superiority. He's the frightened little boy who got caught. And he knows he's screwed up badly.

Matteo changes back into the Mouse King costume for the curtain call, carrying the mask under his arm. He has pride of place on the front row next to Elsa. He feels her squeeze his left hand as the company takes the final bow. As soon as the curtain's down, she drags him through the ranks of departing cancers to the back of the stage. There, in the dark, the two of them make out, her enormous bouquet hastily dropped at their feet.

"Take me home with you. Please!" she whispers urgently. "Take me home with you now!"

--

Snow is beginning to fall as the two of them duck into a taxi outside the theater. They're in such a hurry, they haven't even bothered to get changed -- they've just thrown their tracksuits over their base layers, grabbed their holdalls and now they're heading home together.

If Matteo's bemused by the sudden pace of events, he doesn't say. She listens as he chats politely with the taxi driver -- it's all the usual questions about ballet dancers and rehearsals and training and diet. In the darkness of the back seat, she squeezes her man's hand as the vehicle slowly winds its way out of the town.

Matteo pays the fare and leads Elsa to his front door. He's being the perfect gentleman, carrying all the bags, while she follows with her flowers. The snow is beginning to settle and there's a satisfying crunch beneath their feet. He fumbles with the key as he fights to get them out of the cold. As soon as the door closes, the two lovers embrace again, the bouquet falling to the floor for a second time.

But it's a calmer embrace this time -- gentler, more tender, more loving even. Matteo senses the change of pace. He knows he mustn't push her. He knows he mustn't rush her. So much about Elsa is a mystery to him. He has no idea what she has planned. Wherever she leads, he'll follow. And if she wants him to lead, he will. But she must dictate the pace.

He helps her off with her coat and picks up the flowers for her.

"We should put these in water," he says quietly.

Matteo can't find a vase, but he fills a glass pitcher with water and places it on the countertop. He hands Elsa a pair of scissors, then darts quickly into the bathroom.

He splashes a little water on his face and quickly checks the mirror to make sure he's removed all of his makeup. He's thinking back to the pizza place, about how Elsa suddenly got cold feet when he thought they were getting on well. He's worried the same thing might happen again. It must have taken a lot of courage to ask to come back here. He doesn't want to blow it.

Quickly he strips his tracksuit and compression top, before washing his underarms with soap. He balls the dirty clothes and drops them into the laundry basket. He's gonna leave his tights on, he's decided. He dives his hand into his dancebelt to adjust himself. He knows how to deploy his best assets.

A quick dash into his bedroom and he's wearing a clean top -- a nice tight t-shirt that shows off his figure and his muscles well. With a bit of luck he won't be wearing it for very long, but that's for Elsa to decide. He casts his eye around the room to make sure everything's tidy, just in case they do end up in there.

Elsa's just finishing arranging the flowers when Matteo reappears. The bouquet's so big, that not everything would fit in the pitcher, but she's managed to find an empty coffee canister for the rest.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks as Elsa catches sight of the bulge in his tights. "Something hot or...?"

"Actually, just water, please," she answers.

Matteo opens one of the cupboards above the counter, his face disappearing from view behind the door. He pretends to hunt for a tumbler, giving her a perfect side view of his bulge and his butt. The slight flush in her cheek as he hands her the glass, tells him she's taken full advantage.

He settles on the carpet and begins to stretch out. Dancers are always stretching -- it helps to cover their nerves. The kitchen, dining room and lounge are all combined and, still pretending to adjust the flowers, Elsa has a perfect view as spreads his legs and reaches for his toes with his hands.

She can't quite believe what she's seeing -- his masculine perfection -- and it's only for her. She wants to throw herself at him, let him ravish her, do whatever he wants -- so long as he holds that strong, hard body against her own.

Quietly she walks across to join him, unzipping her top and folding it neatly over on top of a dining chair. She turns away from him and bends down to strip off her tracksuit bottoms. In her mind she's rehearsing her line, ready to ask Matteo to help her stretch, wondering how she might accidently get him to touch her bottom, or her breasts or anywhere else she might want him to.

He's watching her. And she knows it. He's watching as she pushes out her butt towards him, watching as she pretends to struggle to free her ankles from her tracksuit. He knows what she's doing. He can feel himself getting hard. And getting hard when you're doing the splits is not the most comfortable thing in the world. He wants to leap up, grab that pert bottom, rip the leotard and tights aside and plunge his throbbing hardness deep in her hot, little snatch.

But he can't. He mustn't. She's gotta come to him. He takes a deep breath and leans back, settling his elbows behind him on the carpet, opening his body to her gaze.

She turns around and beholds the man at her feet, drinking in his strong, muscular frame. She's standing calmly, not awkwardly, not bashful or embarrassed -- the picture of teenage beauty in her ivory leotard and pure white tights. He studies her face -- her cheeks a little flushed, her delicate lips still a little red with lipstick, her glazed eyes locked firmly on his throbbing bulge. He knows that look, knows she's under his spell -- she might be dressed as the most innocent ballerina, but inside she's consumed by lust.

But to his surprise, Elsa's the one to make the move.

"Can we dance?" she asks shyly.

"Dance?"

"Just like this."

She takes his arms and pulls him to his feet. She steps towards him, encircling his torso with her arms, resting her head on his shoulder, feeling his hardness between their bodies, luxuriating in his strong embrace.