lyonkingsley:

King had been, again, walking aimlessly around the academy. According to his timetable, he would not have any classes till later this afternoon. He rolled his eyes at this—he was extremely bored. He checked his wrist watch and smirked. “Pity.” he murmured to himself and turned around the corner.

King had realised that he had reached the wing where all of the arts were being done. Painting, music, performing arts…his brows had furrowed when he heard a familiar tune echoing around the hall. He followed the source of sound and was led to the dancing room. There, he saw one of the students of Jardin practising her ballet. Something’s wrong with her stance. he thought. His eyes widened when she fell all of sudden. He strode and caught her on time before her head hit the floor. “Hey, miss?”

Rosella gasped loudly when she felt someone catch her by the waist, her eyes flying open partially in fear and partially in curiosity. She drew back slightly, staring at him with a bit of apprehension. “Hello.” she said softly, wincing slightly as her feet touched the cold flooring of the stage. “I’m Rosella Fawn, who are you? Are you one of the Nottingham boys? Do you dance?” she asked, her knees giving way again as she tried to balance without his help. ”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

King arched one brow at her and smirked as he helped her to steady herself. “Kingsley Lyon. Obviously, I am one of the Nottingham boys.” he paused, crossing his arms against his chest. “What do you think, Rosella? Do you think I can dance?” he retaliated in blank voice as he looked at her expressionless. Realising that she was putting all her weight to him, King rolled his eyes and led her to the nearest chair and seated her there. “How long have you been practising?”

“Hello Kingsley.” she said politely, though inside she felt like giggling. Kingsley Lyon - She could only think of the Lion King, and tried to imagine Kingsley as one of those lions. He would probably be…Simba. Or…That other one. Scar’s son. ”Everyone can dance.” she said vaguely, her head more concentrated on her pain instead of his words, and rightly so. “I…I don’t know. Since last night?”  It was early in the morning and Rosella did not stop for anything since she had received her mother’s letter the previous night. “Will you dance with me?”

(Source: rosellafawn)

lyonkingsley:

rosellafawn:

Rosella had been dancing for hours, afraid to stop, afraid to face the fact that she might just be an inch away from having her mother whisk her away from Jardin, back to France, or London, or Bulgaria, or wherever else in the world her mother now stayed. She had long since exhausted her dance routine, but she did not stop -lost in an endless repetition of dizzying spins that made her stumble and leaps, eyes clenched shut, toes clenched so tightly together she was afraid of cramping.

She was afraid of stopping and opening her eyes to see her mother infront of her, her bags packed. She dances until the weeks and weeks of dancing alone in this same theater take their toll, until her legs buckle out beneath her and the blisters on her feet start to sting, her toes crumple open and her dry throat screams for water. Her eyes remained shut though, and she waits for the impact of her head hitting the floor. 

King had been, again, walking aimlessly around the academy. According to his timetable, he would not have any classes till later this afternoon. He rolled his eyes at this—he was extremely bored. He checked his wrist watch and smirked. “Pity.” he murmured to himself and turned around the corner.

King had realised that he had reached the wing where all of the arts were being done. Painting, music, performing arts…his brows had furrowed when he heard a familiar tune echoing around the hall. He followed the source of sound and was led to the dancing room. There, he saw one of the students of Jardin practising her ballet. Something’s wrong with her stance. he thought. His eyes widened when she fell all of sudden. He strode and caught her on time before her head hit the floor. “Hey, miss?”

Rosella gasped loudly when she felt someone catch her by the waist, her eyes flying open partially in fear and partially in curiosity. She drew back slightly, staring at him with a bit of apprehension. “Hello.” she said softly, wincing slightly as her feet touched the cold flooring of the stage. “I’m Rosella Fawn, who are you? Are you one of the Nottingham boys? Do you dance?” she asked, her knees giving way again as she tried to balance without his help. ”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Rosella had been dancing for hours, afraid to stop, afraid to face the fact that she might just be an inch away from having her mother whisk her away from Jardin, back to France, or London, or Bulgaria, or wherever else in the world her mother now stayed. She had long since exhausted her dance routine, but she did not stop -lost in an endless repetition of dizzying spins that made her stumble and leaps, eyes clenched shut, toes clenched so tightly together she was afraid of cramping.

She was afraid of stopping and opening her eyes to see her mother infront of her, her bags packed. She dances until the weeks and weeks of dancing alone in this same theater take their toll, until her legs buckle out beneath her and the blisters on her feet start to sting, her toes crumple open and her dry throat screams for water. Her eyes remained shut though, and she waits for the impact of her head hitting the floor.