"#also i am thirsty for some ballerina!Stiles #like secret dancer Stiles that nobody except scott knew he practice twice a week" I mean, I dont think anyone would mind if you wrote a fic or a headcanon about it... just saying. ;) ♥ (ilu and I've missed you, but i hope you had a great time and that you're doing well despite the world being horrible and people like trump & pence existing)
Here my dear :) I tried! This was written really fast during the night, so I’m sorry for the crappy quality. Hope you enjoy this little headcanon anyway :D
(Thank you to the great Sergei Polunin, who will always be the perfect dancer!Stiles to me. You can find one of his video here. Enjoy :p)
There was a black and white picture at his nana’s house, small and
slightly crooked, lost in an old frame. Stiles was only a kid when his
grandmother took it off the piano to show to him for the first time.
The girl inside the picture was tiny, thin, with dark hair severely pulled back in a tight bun. Her face was turned to the side, her arms held high over her head in a graceful arch. She was wearing a tutu but the other details of her silhouette were blurred into yellow hues by the years.
Fascinated, Stiles sat near his nana and listened to stories of her
youth in Russia. Of cold winters and women with warm blood and laughter.
Of the peaceful studio with its dark wood and unending mirrors, and of
the beautiful girls and boys that worked there every day to turn their
bodies into art.
His nana kept getting more pictures out of old books, clips of newspapers in an unknown language or beautifully lit shots of dancers on stage. In the photographs, she was only a young girl, frail and beautiful and flying with the grace of a bird.
That’s how it all started.
In his nana’s living room, with her standing tall and proud on her
old, damaged feet. At seventy years, she still looked tiny and weak, but
she spun him around the room without effort, her feet quick and light.
Her white hair floated and her smile was the most beautiful thing Stiles
had ever seen.
On the sofa, his dad was clumsily trying to hum some classic melody, all eagerness and no rhythm. His mom laughed at them all and clapped, her enthusiasm and happiness intoxicating the room.
At five years old, Stiles bought his first ballet shoes. They were tiny, shiny and pink, and they didn’t make a sound when he walked shyly into Ms Muller’s dance studio. The wood in the room was bright and glossy, and light spilled all over the floor from gigantic windows. They were only seven other kids in the room, and all of them were girls.
Stiles didn’t care.
Ms Muller’s hands were strict and demanding, never treating them like the children they were, but her voice was warm and full of compliments. The weeks passed, and while Stiles started to tame his body into the foundations of grace, his brain stopped trying so hard to pull him in every direction at once.
In the studio, in the middle of the terse French words, the
glittering music and the soft sounds of slippers on wood, Stiles
discovered for the first time what peace felt like.
From there on, Stiles decided to keep his love for ballet and his school life separate.
Scott was the only point of intersection. From the first moment they met, Scott was sincerely interested. He came to many of Stiles’ practices, sitting quietly in a corner of the studio and looking at them with big, brilliant eyes. Ms Muller often tried to convince him to join but Scott always refused, blushing and babbling excuses about his asthma.
The girls still got him to dance with them sometimes, dragging him along to join them in silly warming exercises. Scott once received Ms Muller’s congratulations on his fourth position and Scott had beamed at midair for three days straight.
Then, Stiles’ mom left them after months of terror and tears.
And Stiles danced.
He danced in the studio, in the dirt of the forest, between the suffocating walls of his room.
He danced for hours, pushing, bending his body.
He twirled fast enough to keep the world spinning, jumped high enough to keep breathing, learned to bow low enough to keep from breaking.
At night, his feet bled, his knees screamed in constant pain and his body turned into one big hurt.
But his mind was blank and he was able to sleep.
He didn’t dare ask for more.