DUO SOLARA

The Life At Home

Third Person's POV

Saturday mornings at Balle Académie Saint never felt quite as busy as the weekdays, but Camille had never understood why people treated Saturday as though it were a day meant for rest. For her, it was simply another opportunity to practice without having to spend hours moving from one class to another, and that was precisely why she had arrived at the academy before most of the other students.

She walked through the entrance with her dance bag resting against her shoulder, her mind already occupied with the things she wanted to correct in Studio 4. Her ankle still felt slightly tender from the previous night, although she had ignored it before leaving home. There was no point in allowing a little discomfort to distract her when there was so much she still could not do.

“Do you ever wake up and decide that perhaps you would like to have a normal Saturday?”

Camille did not need to turn around to know who was speaking.

“I am having a normal Saturday.”

Adrien caught up with her, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. “Camille, you came to school before ten in the morning on a Saturday, and judging from the expression on your face, you have already planned how you are going to spend the next several hours. That is not normal.”

“It is normal for me.”

“That is exactly what concerns me.”

She glanced at him, and despite herself, she almost smiled.

Adrien noticed the movement immediately, and his expression brightened as though he had just won something.

“There it is, that little smile you keep pretending you don't have.”

“I wasn't smiling.”

“You were, and I would like you to know that I consider it a personal achievement whenever I manage to get one out of you.”

Camille adjusted the strap of her bag and continued toward the dining area. “Then you should probably find a more meaningful achievement.”

“I have several meaningful achievements.”

“Such as?”

“Making you smile twice in one week.”

“You have never made me smile twice in one week.”

“I did on Tuesday.”

“That was not a smile.”

“What was it?”

“A facial reaction.”

Adrien laughed, and Camille felt the corner of her mouth threaten to rise again. They entered the dining area together, where several students were already gathered around the long tables near the windows. Weekend training meant that the academy still had enough students to make the room lively, although there was none of the usual weekday rush. Some dancers were eating breakfast, others were discussing their schedules, and a few had already changed into training clothes beneath their academy jackets.

Camille collected her breakfast and followed Adrien toward one of the quieter tables, hoping that they could eat without unnecessary conversation.

That hope lasted approximately thirty seconds.

“I still don't understand why you're here,” one of the girls at the table behind them said.

Camille recognized her voice before looking over. She had heard it often enough during classes, usually followed by some comment about Camille's performances, her grades, or the amount of attention she received from their instructors.

Camille calmly continued arranging the food on her tray.

“She's always here,” another student added. “Maybe she thinks the academy will disappear if she leaves for one day.”

A few people laughed.

Adrien looked at Camille before turning toward them. “If the academy disappears because Camille goes home for one Saturday, I think we have much bigger problems than any of you realize.”

The first girl gave him an unimpressed look. “Nobody was talking to you.”

“I know, but you seemed to be having trouble finding anyone else willing to answer.”

Camille finally looked across at them. “You don't have to defend me, Adrien.”

“I know.”

“Then don't.”

“I wasn't defending you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Adrien shrugged. “I was defending the peace of the dining hall. You just happened to be involved.”

The girl laughed under her breath. “You two are ridiculous.”

Camille took a sip of her drink before answering. “And yet you've been watching us long enough to form an opinion.”

Her expression tightened.

Another student leaned forward. “You really think you're better than everyone here, don't you?”

Camille set her cup down carefully. She had heard variations of that accusation enough times that it no longer surprised her, although she had never understood why simply being focused on something seemed to offend people who had no intention of pursuing the same thing.

“I don't think I'm better than everyone,” she said. “I simply don't spend my time comparing myself with everyone else, and I suppose that can look like arrogance when you're expecting me to.”

Adrien waited until they were both eating before leaning slightly toward her.

“You know, one day you are going to have to teach me how you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make someone regret speaking to you without raising your voice or even changing your expression.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You have this very particular way of looking at people when they're irritating you.”

“What way?”

“Like you're wondering whether they're worth the effort of answering.”

Camille looked at him for a moment. “Sometimes I am.”

He laughed so loudly that a few people turned toward them.

Camille shook her head, although she could feel a small smile returning.

By the time she finished eating, she had already decided she had spent enough time sitting there.

“I am leaving.”

Adrien immediately looked up. “Already?”

“I came here to practice.”

“I know, but you could at least pretend you enjoy having breakfast with me.”

“I did enjoy it.”

His eyebrows rose. “That sounded dangerously close to affection.”

“Don't ruin it.”

He smiled and pushed his chair back. “Wait for me.”

“You don't have to follow me.”

“I know, but I'm going to.”

Camille gathered her tray and carried it toward the return station. Adrien followed beside her, still talking about how he was certain she secretly enjoyed his company, and although she told him several times that he was wrong, she did not ask him to leave when they reached Studio 4.

Instead, she disappeared into the changing room.

She changed out of her academy uniform and into the black dancewear she had brought with her, pulling her hair into a secure bun before slipping on her dance shoes. She spent several minutes warming up properly, stretching her legs and working through her ankles before beginning the exercises she had planned.

Adrien had already taken his place at the piano.

“You're taking this very seriously today,” he said as she stretched one leg across the floor.

“I am always serious.”

“I know, but today you look as though you're planning to declare war on the floor.”

“The floor has been winning.”

“That is probably because you keep attacking it.”

Camille looked at him.

Adrien smiled innocently. “I'm only trying to help.”

“You're distracting me.”

“Then I'll play.”

“That would be helpful.”

He placed his fingers over the keys and began to play.

The music changed the atmosphere of the studio almost immediately. Camille stopped thinking about the dining hall, the students who disliked her, the argument she had heard at home the night before, and even the ache in her ankle that she had been trying not to notice.

She danced.

Adrien adjusted the music as she moved, following her rhythm rather than forcing her to follow his. When she repeated a sequence, he repeated the passage on the piano without complaint, and when she stopped to catch her breath, he would sometimes glance at her over his shoulder and ask whether she wanted to continue.

Most of the time, she said yes.

“You know,” he said sometime later, after she had repeated the same movement several times, “if you keep doing that, I think you're going to wear a hole in the floor.”

“I haven't got it right.”

“You've done it twenty times.”

“And?”

“And perhaps the twenty-first attempt should be tomorrow.”

Camille wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “You're tired.”

“I have been playing for almost two hours.”

“And I've been dancing.”

“That is why I'm suggesting we stop before one of us collapses dramatically.”

She looked at him for a moment before turning back toward the center of the studio.

“I'll stop when I'm satisfied.”

Adrien sighed, although there was affection beneath the complaint. “You are impossible.”

“You've known that for years.”

“And yet I continue to come back. I'm beginning to think that says something unfortunate about me.”

“It does.”

He laughed and began playing again.

The hours slipped by without Camille noticing them.

She worked through combinations, repeated difficult movements, corrected her posture, started again when something felt wrong, and pushed herself through each attempt until the music and movement became almost inseparable. Adrien remained at the piano, occasionally teasing her when she became too serious and occasionally reminding her to drink water whenever he noticed she had forgotten.

By the time nearly four hours had passed, Camille's muscles were beginning to ache, and even she knew she had pushed herself far enough for one day.

She was reaching for her towel when there was a knock at the studio door.

A senior dance instructor stood outside.

“Camille, do you have a moment?”

Camille nodded and walked over.

The instructor gave her a small smile. “The academy has decided that you will represent us in another competition next month. Your performance record has been strong, and the faculty believes you're ready.”

Camille listened without much reaction. Another competition meant another performance, another set of rehearsals, another opportunity to prove that she was improving.

“Okay,” she said. “No problem.”

Adrien stared at her from the piano.

“No problem?” he repeated once the instructor had left. “That's your reaction?”

Camille gathered her things. “What reaction were you expecting?”

“I don't know, perhaps a little excitement. You have just been chosen to represent the academy.”

“It is another school competition.”

“And that's supposed to make it less important?”

“It isn't the Grand Stage.”

Adrien's expression softened slightly.

Camille knew he understood what she meant.

“Still,” he said, standing from the piano, “you should let yourself be happy about things sometimes. Not everything has to be measured against the Grand Stage.”

Camille slipped her earphones into her ears. “I know.”

“Do you?”

She looked at him.

He smiled gently. “That's the problem with you, Camille. You know exactly what you want, but sometimes you forget that getting there is supposed to mean something too.”

She didn't answer immediately.

The words stayed with her as she put on her blazer and gathered her bag.

Adrien followed her out of the studio, and by the time they reached the academy entrance, a familiar black town car was waiting outside.

Henri stepped out when he saw them.

“Good evening, Young Master Adrien.”

“Good evening, Henri.”

Adrien turned toward Camille. “Come on. I'll have Henri drop you home.”

“No.”

He frowned. “No?”

“I'll walk.”

“Camille, it's already getting late.”

“I know where I live.”

“That isn't what I meant. I just don't think you should walk home alone after spending nearly four hours dancing.”

“I'll be fine.”

Adrien studied her for a moment, clearly wanting to argue, but Camille had already put her earphones in.

“Fine,” he said eventually. “But at least message me when you get home.”

Camille gave him a look.

“I'm serious.”

“You worry too much.”

“And you don't worry enough.”

She turned away before he could continue.

The music filled her ears as she walked.

For the first few minutes, the familiar sounds of the city were almost completely drowned out, and Camille found herself thinking about the competition announcement, then about Solara, then about the movement she had failed to perfect in the studio. Her mind returned to it again and again, as it always did, because no matter how many times she practiced, there was still something beyond her reach.

By the time she realized how late it had become, the sky had already darkened considerably.

It was close to seven when she reached her street.

Camille slowed as she approached the building, pulling one earphone from her ear when she noticed voices coming from inside.

She recognized Lucien, her grandfather's voice first.

“You cannot continue treating her like this, Claire. She is your daughter, and whether you like her choices or not, she deserves to feel that her own mother is standing beside her instead of constantly waiting for her to fail.”

Camille stopped outside the door.

Her hand tightened around the strap of her bag.

Claire answered from inside, and even through the door Camille could hear the strain in her voice.

“How else am I supposed to treat her? Tell me, Father, how am I supposed to look at her every day and pretend that everything is fine when the day I gave birth to her, my husband died?”

Camille's breath caught.

Lucien's voice became quieter, but the anger in it had not disappeared.

“That was not her fault.”

“Yes, it was.”

“How is that?.”

There was a pause.

Camille felt something warm slide down her cheek before she even realized she was crying.

She wiped it away quickly, stood outside for another moment, and forced herself to steady her breathing before lifting her hand to the door.

She knocked.

The voices inside stopped.

Camille opened the door when she heard nothing.

“Good evening.”

Her grandfather looked toward her, and whatever he had been about to say disappeared from his face.

Claire stood near the sitting room, watching Camille without speaking.

Camille lowered her eyes, tightened her grip around her bag, and walked past them toward the stairs.

Neither of them stopped her.

She climbed quietly toward her room, carrying the words she had overheard with her, although she wished she could leave them behind.