<span style="color: #FF0000"> That was it. She was done, gone and he was just fine with that. Fine with all of it. That night, he drove home in silence save for the roar of the engine and the dark thoughts that continued to drag through is mind. High above the night life below, Athanase stared out the windows of his penthouse and thought over her words. <br/><br/>It had been so long since he felt anything truly human and genuine. That notion and thought process long since beaten from him by his sire, that now he could not even remember what it felt like anymore. <br/><br/>Or...did he...<br/><br/>Was that what was wrong? That he still felt something and her words stung far more than he wanted to admit. The scotch he poured, now watered down, was clutched in his hand while he stared down at those far below. Were they happy? Did they live their dream and feel as if it were a waking nightmare? Did they disappoint their mother....tarnish her name....<br/><br/>An angry snarl twisted on his face and the glass was thrown against the wall. That done he stormed to prowl the night. The need to hurt, the need to feed, nearly consuming in his need to make his pain end and to cause another to hurt instead. That night the streets ran with the blood of his victims, multiple fell to his rage and his inner pain. Torn up inside by just her words and the thought that he had somehow failed. All of these years could have been for nothing and that scared him. <br/><br/>The following night, he stood there before the director, now red in the face for the yelling and shouting that he had done at Athanase. <br/><br/>“FIX IT!” <br/><br/>The only phrase he had focused on through the whole thing. <br/><br/>“FIX IT! OR YOU ARE DONE!” <br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">How...how am I to fix it?</span><br/><br/>This question ran through his mind over and over again, while he danced. Steps jerky and now they lacked that perfection. At one point he merely sat there on the stage. Knees pulled up to his chest, chin rested on his forearms, while his mind thought about what to do. Then it became that he could sit still, that he had to dance again. <br/><br/>So, he rolled back into a handstand and then rolled into a tumble back up onto his feet once more. The stage became the canvas for his pain and frustration. Strong jumps and leaps through the air, power and grace his brushes which he used to paint the stage with these feelings. At the end of it, he felt wild, untamed and desperate. Desperate to have back what he once had. To have back that freedom, that thrill, that emotion...<br/><br/>He needed to have Tempest back....<br/><br/>It took another three nights before he found the...courage to seek her out. A knock at the door to her apartment as he waited for her to answer and for himself to bite the bullet.</span><br/><br/>She didn’t need him.<br/><br/>She didn’t need anyone.<br/><br/>What she<span style="font-style: italic">did</span>need, however, was the Pad Thai she’d ordered and to watch more of the dance videos she’d taken to mimicking.<br/><br/>For four days, Tempest didn’t leave her small studio too much. The morning jogs and the occasional run to the store were really all she left for. Otherwise, she’d shifted all her furniture around so that her living room became magically spacious as her kitchen became cramped, allowing her room to practice what she watched in those videos. The technique…the form…<br/><br/>As much as she didn’t want to admit it, part of her needed that if she wanted to advance anywhere in the industry. If you’re a one trick pony…one who’s not trained by any means, you’ll get nowhere. Temp wasn’t naïve enough to think otherwise.<br/><br/>A makeshift bar had been set up in the middle of her dance space, one she’d currently perched one leg upon, to practice her rigidity. All her movements were flowing, rippling from one to the other, but there wasn’t any structure, nothing hard, no lines except the occasional held leg. So, with her leg held atop the bar, she continued to stretch out, to work on her lines, the sounds of<a class="postlink" href="https://youtu.be/Aqfsto6mJ_4">Boyce Avenue’s</a>crooning as the overture for her frustration.<br/><br/>She couldn’t find the balance…the balance those who had training and passion seemed to create with ease. How could one be so rigid, so curt with their movements…but still convey the struggle she felt, the passion that she had, when the song wasn’t something angry? It was why she’d chosen a song that was initially more upbeat, but had more feeling slowed. It still fit her style, and allowed her to experiment.<br/><br/>Leaving the bar in an intricate walkover and jump, she went into a spin, trying to pirouette like those she’d watched, keeping her lines as sharp as possible while maintaining the fluidity…but it just left her more agitated, which showed through in the dance. More jumps (thankful that she had enough grace to catch herself without loud stomps), twists and turns, until the knock came at the door. Pushing her hair back from her face, the waves hanging about her shoulders in chaotic waves, she jogged to the counter to grab her money for the delivery, opened the door…<br/><br/>…And just stared for a good minute. Her eyes hardened, the music still playing in the background, entire body going stiff…<br/><br/>Without a word, the door was slammed in his face, money left on the table by the door, and moved to her stereo to crank the music and drown him out.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000"><span style="font-style: italic">Slam!</span><br/>It was expected and he had not even flinched when it came. Instead he sighed, took a deep breath and knocked again. <br/><br/>“Tempest...”he called out loud enough to be heard, but what he hoped was not a tone to anger her further. At the moment he felt like he was walking on pins and needles, on the verge of losing it all forever, so he would have to tread lightly. <br/><br/>“Please....can we talk?” the words nearly caused him to choke on the fact that he begged, but these were desperate times and at the moment he was prepared to do whatever it took to at least get the chance to win her back. “The other night....” another pause and sigh. “I was wrong,” his words sincere, honest and true without even the smallest hint of his usual condescending nature. “You were right and I was wrong....”</span><br/><br/>His voice was annoying, like nails on a chalkboard. Like the sound a fork makes when it scratches against a glass plate. It had her eye twitching and her fingers turning the music up louder. Sure, there’d likely be a sound complaint later, but it’d be worth it to drown out the entitled, selfish prick’s words as he tried to salvage what was left of his self-important, sham of a career before it went down into the gutter where his usual sluts deigned to crawl out of for a hundred bucks a night.<br/><br/>She shouldn’t have been surprised that his voice carried through the music, despite her attempts to drown it out. Maybe she should have been grateful for it, though, if only because of the one phrase that stood out in it all:<br/><br/>“I was wrong.”<br/><br/>Her movements stopped, eyes widening as her attention slowly turned to the door in disbelief. Walking to the door, she opened it, her face back to its former hardened appearance, hand steady on the knob in case it was only a trick to get her to say something to her face.<br/><br/>“…Beg pardon?” she asked, brow quirking the smallest fraction.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000">Of course he would have to repeat himself. He should have known that would be the case, which is why he was was not surprised at the question. <br/><br/>Instead he met her eyes and repeated what he knew she wanted to hear. “I was wrong,” his voice clear and calm. “I should not have said what I said about your father, should not have called you fat amongst other things....” he sighed and this time looked away. “I...have been wrong and have tarnished my mother's name....” he looked back up to her. “I need you....”</span><br/><br/>He was wrong.<br/><br/>The great Athanase Durant…was wrong, and openly admitting it.<br/><br/>Inwardly, she was suspicious, wondering what he was playing at. Then again…he brought up his mother, and the way he looked at her, met her gaze…it had her pausing. Stepping away from the door, she gestured for him to follow with a nod of her head, walking away to turn off the music for the time being.<br/><br/>“What could you possibly need me for?” she asked, clearing some space for him to sit somewhere. “Couldn’t you find a replacement?” Her tone wasn’t assuming, wasn’t angry, but instead merely blasé about it.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000">There was a question he had actually prepared himself for, because it was the most important one for him to answer. Why did he need her and not some other girl? Sure, he could have gotten another girl, could have gotten some tramp to dance with him and it would not have been hard at all. However, whomever he got and whomever danced with him would have been someone who listened to him. That was not what he needed. He needed someone with fire, passion and an attitude where his patience would be tested and tried. <br/><br/>“I need you because you told me what I needed to hear and not what I wanted to hear,” he said once they were inside. “You put me in my place, knocked me from my high horse and gave to me as good as I gave to you....” he looked away for a moment, his eyes took the time to take in the state of her apartment. When he looked back he merely shrugged, “I want to feel something when I dance....I don't want to be a robot anymore...”</span><br/><br/>Admittedly, her apartment was in a state. As she’d not had the use of a studio, she had to make due in her tiny apartment. The one section of the room was clear, giving her room to move as she needed to, but the rest? It looked more like a tornado had started in the center of the room and pushed everything else back. The only sections remaining untouched were her bedroom, a small section in the corner separated by a book shelf, and the bathroom, the only real room in the entirety of her apartment.<br/><br/>“You did need to be put in your place,” came her reply with a light shrug. “Your ego has a way of…sucking everything out of a room.” Her eyes meandered back to his, a frown etching into her features. “How do you expect me to trust you enough to do this, though? You’ve already dropped me, on a lift that, thankfully, wasn’t high. Not the best way to start off, I wouldn’t think.”<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000">He undid the buttons of his jacket and removed it, all while he held eye contact with her. “Well, that is something that I am going to have to earn back....” he stated and laid his jacket on the table as he rolled up his sleeves. “We can start now,” he said and strode into the middle of the room. “Now, want to show me what you were doing? We can work on the first part of the dance and just...show one another where the other fucks up and such....” <br/><br/>There was an energy in his voice as he spoke about dance. “As for the trust. I swear on my mother's name that I won't drop you again,”that last statement said with conviction, his eyes on her own the whole time.</span><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">…Right now…?</span>she repeated mentally, her eyes remaining unfazed as she watched him taking off his coat and rolling his sleeves. She’d have made a quip about how he’d never had her trust to begin with, but the fact he wanted to work right then, in the middle of her chaotic apartment, had thrown her a bit.<span style="font-style: italic">…First he comes over…admits he’s wrong…says he needs me…and is willing to start now? …Who are you and what have you done with Athanase?</span><br/><br/>The energy was another thing she didn’t expect. Getting up from her own seat, she followed into the middle of the room, only to pause again. His word meant nothing to her, so had he only given her that, she’d likely have told him to shove it. Instead…he swore on his mother’s name, the name he’d already admitted to tarnishing and making a mockery of. So she nodded and stopped just shy of him. “Not something specific I was working on,” Tempest replied quietly. “Where I thought I was done with the company, I’d instead been working on something you kept saying I needed…and that I concede that I need: technique.”<br/><br/>A light sigh fell free of her lips as she shrugged. “I’m not trained, and have no idea what I’m doing. I just…feel the music, and feel the moves, and all night, I’ve been watching recordings of dancers who can walk that fine line between technique and passion; that can walk the fine line between rigidity and fluidity…and have been frustrating myself in the lack of ability to do so. Everything I’ve done with straight lines has looked forced. So you’ll have…lots to point out for me fucking up, there,” the last added wryly.<br/><br/>For once, instead of sugar coating her flaws, she laid it out. It wasn’t as though it was a secret, but it was the first time she’d voiced it aloud, and around him, shockingly enough. The music started again, using the remote this time that she’d picked up off of the table. “This had been what I’d been…attempting to rectify my lack of technique with, but I can change the music if you want?” she asked, her attempt at compromise. If he was going to try…she’d give it one more try.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000"> “No the music is fine,” he said after a short listen. “As for your technique....” he paused for but a moment to make sure he worded it correctly. “It is not bad. As I said before it does show that you are lacking, however,” he spoke while he smiled. “There is something in the way that you commit yourself completely to the dance,” he complimented. “I can...feel....the dance with you. If that makes sense?” <br/><br/>This being nice thing was nearly painful, but he would do it. Would swallow the insults and the comments. Do what it was that he must if he were to save the one thing in his life that gave him purpose. “That is something that I know I have lost in my own dance,” he said with a small shrug. “Now, want to start in the first position?”</span><br/><br/>It was so alien…having him be nice. She was almost certain she could see the muscles in his neck tensing as he forced them out without physically choking on them, even if only a trick of the imagination. To go from calling her a fat cow working the pole, to…smiling and assuring her her technique wasn’t that bad? It was just scary.<br/><br/>The first position had her inwardly wincing as she’d be physically trapped beneath him and that it was so…intimately close. Being so close to him was the last thing she wanted right them, but it was necessary to learn the dance and develop a necessary chemistry, so she’d bite the bullet. A small nod and she was on the ground, waiting for the comments of earning her living on her back, legs spread as was the first position…<br/><br/>“The lacking of feeling…” she started cautiously as she waited for him to get situated. “…How did you lose it and…how do you think you can get it back?”<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000">He looked down at her for a moment with a slight frown before he took the time to remove his shirt as well. After he carefully laid it down with his jacket, he lowered himself down onto the floor and with care situated himself into her space. <br/><br/>At her question he paused and sat there a moment while he tried to think about just when he had lost the feeling for dance. “A long time ago....” is all he said before leaned forward more into position. As the song shifted to the next section he started to move with the music. It felt weird, odd, foreign and detached almost...the actions on auto pilot. <br/><br/>He only managed to get to the initial part where she pulled him toward her, when he paused. “This...does not feel right. We should just work on something else for the time being....” he said carefully.</span><br/><br/>It was hard not to breathe an outward sigh of relief when he called it quits on the dance. Her heart had been pounding, her mind racing, trying to get into the proper mindset she was supposed to be in with this dance, this passionate, intimate dance…but it wasn’t happening. Knowing how close they had to be, and how the entire dance was basically sex without actual penetration, it left her nervous. And, with his movements on autopilot, just going through what little motions they’d made it, it left her feeling like she was putting feeling into nothing, that it wasn’t worth it.<br/><br/>Nodding, she kept her face from reflecting her mindset on the matter. “…I agree…but what? The entirety of the dance is…essentially like this?” came her question.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000">As he thought he sat there, “Well, let’s just go over some moves. Change the music and you move to what feels right and I will adjust your technique just a bit. How does that sound?” he asked her.</span><br/><br/>“I’ve a better idea…” she started, sifting through her music before glancing back at him curiously. “We need to find some sort of…emotion, some motivation for you to use. What is the one thing you’ve felt the strongest? Love for a woman? Addiction of some kind? Anger? Depression? We need…something to draw from…” Her tone was thoughtful, almost mumbled as she continued to look through her CDs. “Something for you to evoke and move to…”<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0000">This stumped him for a bit, his hand ran through his hair and he struggled to ignore the random and scattered thoughts that ran through his mind. “It has....”he paused again and continued to run his hand through his hair. “It has been a really long time since I felt for anything....” he finally said after a moment. <br/><br/>Years and years had worn on him, beaten him down and left him what he was now. To rekindle his feelings he would have to figure out just where and when he had lost them. “This is harder than it should be....” he chuckled.</span><br/><br/>She was surprised that he had such difficulty pulling forth…any emotion at all. To lose it in dance was one thing, but in all things? That sounded absurd. Tempest knew without a shadow of a doubt he’d felt disgust only days before, if not contempt and all the emotions that come with a superiority complex. But he couldn’t think of just one…<br/><br/>“Not even the nastier emotions?” she prompted naturally. “Disgust…contempt…Frustration? You sound like you’ve been living for an eternity with all this talk of lost feeling…” It was a joke, of course, but he honestly sounded like the immortals in books she’d read on occasion, where they grew bored, lost their thirst for life. “If you’ve felt nothing for so long…why continue with dance? It sounds more like…work for you than living and breathing the art you create.”