egobaby [drunz]

that's your ego, baby

make it up as i go along

i won't

(that's your ego, baby)

__________________________________

"punz, close your ribcage!"

"sorry," he half-heartedly mumbles, the sudden directive startling him off of his footing. despite the excruciating ache in his calves, punz toes back up onto his relevé, this time sure to abide by the order of closed ribs. his toes are bruised and bashed from relying on canvas slippers to support a hundred-seventy-something pounds on bare ankles.

punz is exhausted, having only trained for five out of the seven hours he has today. it really doesn't help that the most aggravating student here, dream, is on the ballet bar adjacent to his, pointed feet nearly prodding him in the eye (dream swears it's his side arabesque and not a taunt). the praise of 'beautiful feet!' can be heard beside the blond, and he loathes in jealousy, knowing that logistically, the praise is for the all-mighty dream.

once his ballet danseur is out of sight, out of mind, punz is quick to snap at dream, eyes drawn to his sourly perfect posture. "hands to yourself, stop jabbing my face, dream!"

"my hands are to myself," dream's head faintly gestures to his dainty, slender fingers gripping the bar, his face plastered with a stupid little ivory grin gracing his lips. "don't know what you're talking about."

for fuck's sake. punz shoots him an eye-roll and he hears faded giggles to his left.

and this is one of the things punz despises about dream. he's the embodiment of a snarky, overconfident, daddy's money, full-of-himself asshole that thinks being sly and pesky makes him irresistible and hilarious. punz admits, he's kinda pr—attractive, but that goes for just about any ballerino. he's blond, tan, muscular, just about the type of anyone who's into men—not that punz would agree with that statement—and he can't blame anyone for...falling.

"head out of the gutter, punz, squeeze your legs!" he hears it from across the room, head-spinning a million miles a minute. he's sure that dream has tossed him a toothy grin by now, already imagining the look on his face but making no eye contact to prove his theory. punz doesn't want to give dream that kind of attention—or by best means, any attention at all. 

"you heard him," and oh, that voice again. "head out of the gutter, punzie."

punzie.

the dumb nickname trips him off his near-perfect balance, and he fumbles down onto the sole of his foot. 

how many times is he planning on messing up today? 

"seriously, punz!" the elder danseur critiques him again. "focus!"

he's trying! 

✯

two hours pass incredibly slowly, and punz is thankful he can go home not having to hear his ballet danseur commend dream time and time again. 

punz's body flops to a seat of the changing room, tiredness looming his limbs and one of the last ones to leave the studio. he's exhausted and oh-so ready to go home, hopeful he has a little time to play a round of valorant with sapnap or get some studying done before sleep plagues his mind. 

his hands go to reach for his feet, fingers gripping the material of his ballet slipper, and suddenly, he feels a hot breath graze his neck. 

"holy shit!" his arms and legs scramble to turn and face the source of his panic, calming down and simultaneously tensing back up when he realizes who it is.

"sorry!" and it's dream, the last person he would like to talk to before he goes home. "sorry, punz, i didn't mean to scare you."

"what do you want?"

"oh—well, uhm," all punz can think of is, where the fuck did his ego go?  "just—this, for you."

dream slides a small, folded, magenta piece of paper on the cushion of the stool, pleated so many times that the paper has gone soft from sweaty fingers. 

"i-um," dream twiddles his thumbs, eyes glued to the wall behind punz. "see you on monday, punz."

lanky legs quickly shuffle out of the room, disappearing behind doors, and dream has left punz more confused than ever.

whatever. punz doesn't care about him, he doesn't give a shit. he's never unfolding that paper. in fact, when he gets home, it's gonna be the first thing in the bin. and when he comes back the next week, he won't even remember that he talked to dream, let alone handed him the creased, obnoxious, pink sticky note.

he is jolted out of his thoughts, however, when the hinges on the door in front of punz slowly creak open, and punz glimpses danseur louis. he mumbles a second 'holy shit' under his breath, not anticipating his entry as his body droops. 

nobody can leave him alone today, can they?

he walks up to punz with long strides. "what is up with you lately?" punz shivers, not expecting to be lectured by the french accent of his danseur. the nude ballet slipper lays warm in his palms. 

"i've never had to give as many corrections to you as i have these past couple of weeks."

when punz doesn't respond, weary that words may anger him further, "is it one of the freshmen?" yes. "no."

he's too abrupt, too brisk, making the response all the more doubtful. but how can punz even be capable of suspicion in the first place? it's not like dream actually serves as a valid and reasonable distraction. punz is supposed to hate him, not let dream be the root of his decline.

but for whatever reason, danseur louis persists the question. 

"is it dream?"

"no, why does everyone think that?" sapnap told him that, sam told him that, and god damn, even karl did! it's hard, but punz tries to sound as nonchalant as possible, careful and cautious, not wanting to upset his danseur even further his technique.

"you've been julliard's top ballerino for two consecutive years," he recalls, reminiscence of when he used to be the finest here. "and everything went smoothly for you until this year's new students arrived."

"i'm just worried that dream dancing this year has intimidated you."

and, god. 

dream, dream, dream. it's the only name he hears now, the only name that rolls off of anyone's tongue. what is so special about him anyway?

"well," punz starts, words covertly laced in envy. "he did just waltz into this school," dream did exactly that, robbed his prestige in this school with his parents' cold, hard cash. 

strange how money can purchase anything. talent, even.

"...but he doesn't threaten me. i promise."