Lead & Follow

Jeté

Part 1: Lead

9th Movement, Jeté

Jeté

jeté, (French jeté: “thrown”), ballet leap in which the weight of the dancer is transferred from one foot to the other.

(From Britannica[dot]com)

🖤🤍

You're thrown for a loop when the door to Baxter's condo creaks open a few days later, and your boyfriend peers wearily out from behind the white-washed wood.

He's rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and his hair is disheveled in a way that suggests he's just rolled out of bed. You indulge yourself with a top-to-bottom appraisal of his luxurious black and white pajamas, and then you make a subtle attempt to check your phone.

9:30 A.M. You sigh. Right. You didn't think you were that early. 

"Sorry," Baxter grumbles, and there's not a trace of his trademark grin or his usual inquisitive gaze. He cracks the door open wider, and affords you your first glimpse of his temporary home. "Please, come in."

The deep cast of his scratchy morning voice is a surprise boon upon your day; it might've made you nervous if you weren't already so confused.

Didn't he ask you to meet him for breakfast? You give it some thought, and realize that his initial request had a distinctly P.M. time-of-arrival before you'd had to work around pre-established plans with your cousin's folks.

He steps out of your path enough to afford you entry, and something clicks for you when you walk in.

Ah. Your thoughts connect. I've never seen him out and about earlier than noon.

"I know I heard my alarm go off an hour ago," he sighs miserably. "Surely I laid in bed just a moment longer–but you're here, and I know you're nothing if not perfectly punctual."

His steps are lethargic as he leads you to the sitting area of his home, and he barely conceals a mighty yawn.

"It's okay," you assure him as you take a seat on his stiff, high-backed couch–the sort of furniture chosen with a clear preference for elegance over comfort.

"It's not," he mumbles in a bitter tone. "Fortunately, we still have time."

He doesn't even bother to turn away from you before he's pulling off his cotton sleep shirt, and it's at this moment more than ever that you feel certain: Baxter Ward is not a morning person.

"B-Baxter!" you squeak, and your cheeks blossom with warmth. You throw a wayward, decorative pillow at his head.

He's not at his peak, and he couldn't have dodged it even if he wanted to. Your aim sucks though, and the pillow thumps benignly against his pale stomach.