#the dennor arc is done!!!

[drowning-in-dennor]

Awarded

The Prix draws to a close, and it is time for the dancers to reap the rewards of their week of hard work. [A continuation of this.]

  As the rest of the dancers finish up their variations, Henrik takes his friend (or are they boyfriends now?) down to the theatre cafe. They split a chocolate muffin, stuck in their costumes and stage makeup until the prize-giving ceremony is over. Stellan clearly has forgotten about this fact, because halfway through eating, he gets a smear of dark chocolate across his cheek. He glares at Henrik while getting a napkin to wipe it off.

 “Who do you think are going to be the prize winners?” Henrik asks.

 “The Prix’s been all that’s on my mind this past seven days. Can we talk about something else?”

 “Okay then.” He racks his brains for a topic. “What if you told me about yourself?”

 Stellan gapes at him. “What?”

 “We literally kissed each other ten minutes ago, and I don’t know anything about you that isn’t related to dance.” Henrik leans forward. “Where in Norway are you from? What’s your favourite colour? I want to learn about the guy behind the dancer.”

 Setting down his mug of coffee, he answers, cheeks slightly pink, “I live in Trondheim, and I’ve only left three times — twice for summer intensives in Stockholm and Oslo, and once for this. Um…” Stellan pauses for a moment. “My favourite colour is blue. Now you answer those questions.”

 Henrik smiles and nibbles at his muffin. “I live in Odense and I go to the branch of the Royal Danish Ballet School there. And my favourite colour is red.” Then he prompts, “ask me some questions.”

 He takes another drink from his mug. “Let’s see.” He blinks up at him, big blue eyes captivating as always. “Do you have any siblings other than Berwald?”

 “Nope, he’s the only one. He’s a total weirdo who was pretty much useless this week, but I would die for him. How about you?”

 “I have a younger brother, too. Harald is twelve and trains at my studio with me.” Stellan blinks. “I brought the topic back to dance again. I’m sorry.”

 “No, no, it’s fine.” Henrik folds up his muffin wrapper. “It’s my turn to ask, anyway. What’s your favourite subject in school?”

 “I’ve always loved literature, and sometimes I consider being an author as a second job. How about you?”

 “My favourite subject is music,” Henrik says. “I always thought it was a bit boring until I started learning the cello.”

 That gets his attention. “You play the cello?”

 “I’m not very good at it, since I’ve only been playing for two years, but yeah.”

 “I’d love to hear you play one day,” Stellan adds.

 He can feel his cheeks prickle with heat. “Thanks.”

 “It’s my turn to ask..” Stellan thinks for a moment. “When’s your birthday? Mine is the seventeenth of May.”

 “My birthday is on the fifth of June,” he replies. “They’re not too far apart.”

 After that question, the two of them fall into an easy silence. Henrik goes on his phone, occasionally glancing up at Stellan. He’s stunning even when idle, one dainty hand playing with his fine soft hair while he watches something on his phone. Henrik gets away with looking at him until an alarm suddenly goes off.

 The sound makes them both jump. Stellan turns off the alarm and drains his mug of coffee. “The prize-giving ceremony is in five minutes.”

 He already knows he won’t be getting an award. Surely, that honour will go to another of the twenty finalists. But no matter — being a finalist isn’t half-bad, either. Henrik wipes his mouth and follows his fellow dancers towards the stage area.

 They line up in two rows, facing the jury as well as the many people below the stage. The Prix’s artistic director is giving a speech of some sort, a thick stack of envelopes — each one containing a prize — in her hands. She passes them to the head of the jury, and he begins by announcing the winner of the “Best Swiss Candidate” award — that goes to 101, Erika Zwingli.

 Two more prizes are given away before the main event starts. The head of the jury takes the envelope holding the name of the eighth scholarship winner.

 Eighth place goes to Sandor, who half-stumbles his way towards centre stage. He clearly wasn’t expecting to win a prize. His shocked smile rivals the spotlight shining above them in brightness.

 Seventh, sixth, fifth and fourth place are announced, but none of those titles go to either of them. But then the artistic director reads off the third-place winner: “Stellan Grieg, dumber 407!”

 He rushes out to bow to the audience’s cheers, practically glowing beneath the lights. Stellan takes the envelope that proves his talent and goes to stand next to the rest of the prize winners.

 After the second and first prizes are awarded, the curtains close. Everyone drops their composed masks and rush to congratulate the winners. Henrik approaches Stellan, sweeping into a mock-bow. “I knew you could do it.” He tires to press down the disappointment welling up inside him.

 “I wish you could’ve won a prize too.” Stellan runs his fingers over the envelope. “Your performance really was nice.”

 “Too bad they’ve got that rule,” Henrik agrees. “Imagine how much of a power couple we’d be if we were both prize winners.”

 “We can still be a power couple.” Stellan places his hand on his arm, playing with the golden sequins on the sleeve. “Seeing how you’re the only Danish candidate here, I’d say you’re the best the nation has to offer.”

 He grins. “So you admit I’m good?”

 “Well…” He half-pouts up at Henrik.”I suppose you’d have to have a bit of talent to make it to the finals.”

 “Aw, that was almost a compliment.”

 “Don’t expect any more.”

 Somewhere across the stage, one of the prize winners bursts into laughter, her arm around a finalist’s shoulder. Henrik speaks above them. “Well, the finalists get prizes too.”

 “If I remember correctly, you get a cash prize, right?”

 “And bragging rights.” He momentarily gets distracted by the sight of his brother emerging from backstage, looking around in search of somebody. “I’m a special finalist, though, so I also won a boyfriend.”

 That gets a smile from Stellan. “A prize like that comes with a lot of perks. Let me demonstrate.”

 Before Henrik can question anything, Stellan grabs his wrist and pulls him down for a kiss.

…

 The Prix is over. Everyone is saying their goodbyes, snapping photos left and right. Henrik finds Stellan sitting by a window, trembling slightly while bundled up in a scarf.

 “Don’t have a jacket?”

 “Left it at the hotel.” He rubs his arms. “And I can’t dance to warm up.”

 Henrik sits next to him and wraps an arm around his waist. Outside of the studio, he hardly looks like a glacial ice prince. The tip of his nose is red and his hair ruffled, and he’s never looked so adorable.

 Wordlessly, Stellan nuzzles up to him. “You’re warm.”

 His heart skips a beat when he places his head down on his shoulder. “Which school are you planning to choose?”

 Stellan plays with the tassels on his scarf. “I have a month to make my choice, but my teacher and I have already decided.” He raises his head and looks at Henrik. “We both agree I’d do best at the Royal Danish Ballet School.”

 “The Royal — “ He starts. “That’s my school.”

 “Yes, that’s quite obvious.” He pokes Henrik in the nose. “And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m so sweet, picking this school just to spend time with you. But I’ll have you know I didn’t just choose the Royal Danish because you go there.” Stellan places his head back on his shoulder. “My teacher wants me to keep training in the Bournonville method, and your school is the best place for that. Your happening to go there as well was merely a secondary factor.”

 Henrik presses his nose to Stellan’s forehead. “If you say so. I’m still excited to be training alongside you, though.”

 “As am I.” He takes Henrik’s hand. “We won’t be apart for long, too. I’ll see you in person again this September.”

 “Oh, don’t talk about separating just yet.” He dares to kiss the crown of his head. “Your flight is at one, so we still have a few hours together. I want to make the most of them.”