Everything ached. He’d spent nearly eight hours practicing his Grand Adage and failing miserably. If he couldn’t get this right every time, he wouldn’t land the role he wanted this month, or any role, for that matter. Alexei leaned against the bars; his head pressed to the cool glass behind him. He felt it seep into his scalp, sending shivers straight down to his toes. His cigarette was held precariously between his lips, the slow trickle of smoke spreading up towards the ceiling.

Alexei opened his eyes, slowly standing up straight. He raised his arms, stretching his limber body. He’d come to the company early, intent on getting the practice room to himself for a bit. He let out a sigh, moving into a few leg stretches. His thighs flexed, the thin fabric he wore doing nothing to hide the taught muscles beneath it. He let out a soft groan, squeezing his lips around the thin body of his cigarette.

With a final grunt, he stood up straight, letting out an involuntary yawn. Alexei winced, feeling a pain in his lower back. He scowled. That damned Monsieur Pascal Bourbeau had kept him for an extra thirty minutes. He’d done far too much to earn his squalor amount of favor. In the end, he’d barely earned anything.

The ballerino dropped his cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his shoes. This was bullshit. He needed to focus; he couldn’t afford to mess this up. If he lost his position, then he’d effectively be homeless, a worthless piece of scum not worth the air he breathed.

As Alexei prepared himself to attempt a grand adage again, the door to the practice room opened. He jerked his head over towards the door, his eyes wide. It was only Anon. Alexei’s hackles raised, staring at them. They were the current manager at the Paris Opera Ballet, and his effective boss. Alexei didn’t trust a damn word from their mouth.

He frowned, crossing his arms. “Yes, Anon? Is there a problem?” He asked in his thick Russian accent.