Word Count: 1553 Because I always get so carried away...

The face in the mirror was expressionless -- a surprising feat considering the myriad of emotions he’d been experiencing as of late. His eyes, usually so bright and alive, had dulled, marred by light purple smudges underneath that attested to his recent lack of sleep. His face was paler than usual -- his complexion still clear, but wan. The only feature to show any sort of animation was his mouth, turned down at the corners into a disillusioned frown.

Paris stared at himself, standing with a hand on the ballet barre. He looked haggard, he thought -- defeated -- which was exactly how he felt, so it was all rather fitting. He wasn’t pleased with it, though he had to admit the lingering pain brought out a particular form of beauty he didn’t normally maintain. His fair hair had been pulled out of his face and bound back for the duration of his exercises, his bangs pinned to the side to keep them from falling into his eyes. His lips, so recently adorned in paler shades of pink -- an attempt to tame himself for his friend -- had been colored red instead. It stood out, bold and defiant, against the clothes he wore -- black leotard, white sweater, black shorts, flesh colored tights, black and white leg warmers, and flesh toned shoes.

It wasn’t an altogether unappealing image, though perhaps a bit distant and unapproachable. It was a far cry from the usual bright ruffles and bows and silk ribbons he wore, and the confident grins and smirks that came with them. Paris thought his current attire was more classic, almost sophisticated, and the look on his face attested to the emptiness he often felt now, interspersed with periods of passionate anger.

The dance studio around him was empty, and would have been silent but for the music he’d brought with him, his iPod hooked up to the studio stereo. For the last hour he’d attempted to clear his mind and ease his heart, lose himself in dancing and music. He’d tried almost everything -- Britney, Christina, Gaga -- but his favored artists didn’t seem to be of much help this time. If anything, the upbeat, empowering songs and sex-filled lyrics were only making him think more, and didn’t quite fit his mood. “Baby One More Time,” “Ain’t No Other Man,” and “Bad Romance” didn’t exactly contain “******** you, get out of my life” in their message.

As the lyrics “And I’ve hurt myself by hurting you” filtered through the speakers, Paris’s frown deepened and he pushed off of the barre, stalking over to the stereo to scroll through his playlists in an attempt to find something more fitting and less apologetic. He didn’t feel like apologizing. What did he have to apologize for anyway? None of this was his fault. He’d gone over to Ladon’s house the same way he always did, and had done nothing more than attempt to force him to see reason, to realize what he was getting himself into before it was too late. He had been the one who’d been lied to, who’d had the whole thing hidden from him, not Ladon.

Who was it really who had more of a right to be upset in this situation? Who was it really that should be asking for forgiveness?

Finally, Paris found a song he thought was more appropriate. He hit play and waited for the haunting four note piano melody to begin, positioning himself in the center of the room so as to have enough space to dance.

While his style of choice was ballet, Paris had not gone without learning others -- jazz, hip-hop, interpretive -- and would occasionally, for a show or audition, choreograph his own routines without the aid or input of his instructors. It was not always easy, and required long hours of practicing steps, jumps, and pirouettes, but it was liberating in a way, and much more expressive, in his opinion, than following a traditional routine. Dancing as the Sugar Plum Fairy, as Princess Aurora, as Giselle, had always been a dream of his, but sometimes he felt more exhilarated, more effective, dancing as Paris.

The music was better now; he could feel it in the movements of his body, in the way the focus in his mind sharpened and his heart pounded, forcing his emotions out into the open. The affection and lust he’d felt for Ladon and Billy respectively had transitioned into fierce anger, deep confusion, dark suspicion, and an indomitable unwillingness to accept a relationship he viewed as an imitation, fraudulent on Billy’s part -- more a game, a thrilling conquest -- and blind on Ladon’s. He was so lonely and starved for love, like Paris, that he couldn’t see passed his own fantasies.

Paris had not seen either of them in nearly a week. He avoided Billy at school, refused to look at him if they happened to pass one another in the hallways, skipped gym so as not to be in his presence any more than necessary. He told himself it wasn’t cowardly; he certainly wasn’t afraid of Billy, but that didn’t mean the drama at Ladon’s house hadn’t kicked him down a notch. Billy had won and Paris had been cast aside. It was a difficult situation in which to continue holding his head high, and birthed feelings of such hatred that Paris could hardly look at him without feeling the need to claw his face off.

If only Billy had never come along at all, none of this would be happening.

Ladon was far easier to evade. It was simply a matter of not texting him, not stopping by his house in the afternoons when he was bored, not frequenting the shops he and Ladon had once visited together. It was far too simple to go back to the way things had been before. Once again he spent his nights at clubs and bars, dancing and drinking his pain away, though in the morning it always came back, occasionally accompanied by a hangover. To make matters worse, his phone had remained noticeably silent. There were no texts, no voice messages from his one-time friend.

Paris wondered now if Ladon had even cared about him, or if he -- like this make-believe relationship Ladon had with Billy -- had merely been an attempt of Ladon’s to do good, to feel less lonely. Ladon did enjoy patching up cast-offs. How much was Paris really different from all those animals Ladon made new again? Perhaps he was being used all along, and in the end he mattered less than another boy, a boy Paris thought intended to use Ladon in return.

Well, Ladon would know how it felt then, Paris decided, once his “perfect” romance shattered before his very eyes, as it was sure to do.

He hated this constant questioning, this second-guessing of the one and only friendship that had ever really made him feel as if friendship was possible. He knew he must have been a challenge to Ladon, and an interesting one -- not only in forcing the other boy to accept his behavior, his way of life, but in allowing Ladon the perfect outlet for his nagging, nit-picky ways. After all, who better for Ladon to mother, to “fix”, to “heal,” to “save,” than a boy who had nothing and wanted everything?

Paris ended his dance on that thought, the music transitioning from soulful vocals into the instrumental solo that led to the end. His breathing had grown heavy, his hair a bit damp from sweat. He made his way to the duffel bag he’d left in the corner and pulled out a bottle of water, uncapping it as he sat down to drink.

Ladon had no idea what he was doing, Paris was sure of that. He’d convinced himself that he was in love, when in reality he was probably doing the same thing with Billy as he’d done with Paris. He saw someone imperfect in need of his help, his compassion, and he sought to make himself feel less alone in the process. It was almost sad, would have been if it weren’t so frustrating, if this horrible triangle of emotions and relations hadn’t spiraled so far out of control already. Whatever Billy’s true intentions and Ladon’s real desires were, it didn’t change the fact that Paris felt used and rejected, and he wasn’t soon to forgive and forget it.

Placing the water bottle back into the duffel bag, Paris spied his phone sitting amongst the clothes he’d changed out of earlier. He picked it up to look at its blank screen, and when he pressed the button on the side to bring it to life, he noted the time and the date, but no indication that he’d received a message or missed a call. His phone had remained as silent over the last couple of hours as it had over the last few days. If he was being thought of and considered at all, he had no proof of it.

Leaning his head back against the wall behind him, Paris closed his eyes and wondered how long all of this would last. How long would it be before his phone rang again? How long would it take for the pain to fade away?

How much longer until his life returned to normal?