Title: like the second years
Pairings + characters: Rebecca (my OC) and every one else
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: I wish that I could be like the cool kids, 'cause all the cool kids, they seem to get it. / set in second year somewhere

Very inspired by the song, Rebecca's all made up but I'm kind of loving her

She has just paid for her salad, holding it close to her chest as she makes her way through the jungle of chairs and tables to get to her booked studio for this Sunday morning. Her newly died hair, a pathetic excuse for blonde with hints of orange, gets caught in the wind that fills the sleeves of her jean jacket with cold air. Tucking an insufferable strand behind her ear, she turns her face towards the beach to avoid her eyes running more than they already do thanks to the cold going around first year. The waves at sea are crazily gorgeous, the sand burning in the hot almost-summer sun, and she spontaneously decides she needs to go for a swim after she's done training.

She's pushing yet another chair to the side when her eyes accidentally locate him, his moving feet and sweaty shirt; Benjamin Tickle, the partner who was too good for her. He runs along the heavy sand graciously, his muscular arms in perfect sync with his dancer's legs. His dark grey t-shirt is soaked in sweat and he's not wearing socks in his choice of running shoes, and she holds back a laugh as she notices the pink headphones covering his ears (not his, she assumes). His brown hair is wet, glistening in the sun just like everything else today, and he breathes heavily as he keeps going.

Ben was their beloved class-clown, the guy everyone loved to hate. They had only called each other partner for a month and a half when it was announced he was being moved up, because everybody could see just how great he was. They were great together, always and effortlessly topping every single class but still enjoying themselves. His hands on her were always steady, so confident, and she never struggled with trusting him. He never gave up on something they just couldn't get, and he was always up for studio-dates.

She stops in her tracks, watching him go, and tries not to wonder about whether he misses her too. He's doing amazing in second year, still making everybody laugh with well-concealed annoyance. His partner is amazing, his newfound dedication is amazing - she knows somewhere deep down that she was never a match to him, no matter how hard she pushed herself to be. Chances are he probably doesn't even remember her and her then-brown hair, their stupid knock knock jokes or her exceptionally jealous boyfriend turned awkward ex.

Shaking her head to rid of all the nostalgia, she tightens her hold on her chicken salad before heading for the stairs that lead directly to the rehearsal. Ben probably keeps running out of her sight, further and further away from their first year past and towards his second year success. Tucking strands getting caught in lipgloss behind her ear, she pushes the door open with her hip. The smell of hairspray and sweat hits her nose the second the door slams shut behind her, and she immediately feels at home – she sets for rehearsal 4 while finally munching on her well-made salad of the day.

Sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall are a bunch of ballet-clad third years, gossiping about everything from the prix to the most attractive summer-jobs. They all pay her close to no attention as she passes them in first year uniform, and she's just about to roll her eyes at them when her ears catch an all too familiar laugh coming from the open door of her booked rehearsal. Stopping in the doorway with her half-eaten salad and wind-raped hair, she struggles to stop a smile from forming on her tired face. By one of the many mirrored walls is every first year's role model, Abigail "perfection" Armstrong. She too is clad in ballet wear, unsurprisingly awake and alert this early on a Sunday; her hair is up in yet another picture perfect bun, and her worn out pointe shoes are tied perfectly around her dancer's feet.

There's a smile on her gorgeous face, and her satisfied giggles fills the empty studio easily. Holding onto her hips gently, grinning stupidly, is Ethan Karamakov; the third year star turned company-choreographer. There's no music to help with the emptiness, but neither of the two seem to mind at all. They're beyond perfect together, the only two whose success is built solely on passion and dedication; never has there ever been a more perfect dancer-choreographer relationship.

She leans against the doorway, still fighting that smile, "Excuse me? I'm sorry, but I've booked this studio."

Abigail's cold and dark eyes snap in her direction immediately, the smile instantly gone from her pretty face. Ethan lets out an awkward laugh, assuring her they were just finishing up - she herself stops fighting the smile. The soon-to-be couple scramble together their stuff in an adorable hurry, instantly discussing lunch and making stupid jokes like she isn't in the doorway effectively ruining the moment.

Ethan's out the door first, not sparing her a single glance or friendly smile, and Abigail follows shortly after – the smile comes back to her face as Ethan wraps his arm around her shoulders while leading them out the way she herself came in. She remains in the doorway, watching them go while finishing her salad, and wonders why some people get so lucky in life. There's people who have partners as talented as Benjamin Tickle, people who are as close to perfection as Abigail Armstrong, people who have guys like Ethan Karamakov to keep them smiling all day.

And then there's the people like her, hopelessly in love with their mess of a partner who fails to take notice of her outside of classes. There's girls like here out there too, the kind of girls who constantly pretend they're not alone. She's not born lucky, but she is at the academy and for now that's more than enough. Running her hands through her dry locks, she scans the room in search for the remote to the stereo. Her hair stays down, her pointe shoes remain in her bag, and for once she lets herself be consumed by her ever-present anger towards all the lucky ones.

Three hours later she's walking back from the beach, her hair soaking wet (she can't help but think that the blonde's been washed out) and her tan feet bare. She runs her towel over her arms for the hundredth time, her steps heavy as she makes her way towards the first year boarding house. The burning sun is nearly gone, but she's not cold in just her bikini – she can't for the life of her think of a better way to end her eventful weekend.

Life at the academy is just like living in fast motion, forever experiencing constant chaos. There's pressure from all angles all the time, and despite how hard you work nothing's ever right. It only slows down after curfew's up, when everybody stops being students and start being themselves instead. After curfew, the hard workers finally get to rest while the troublemakers party their worries away. Partners break up and couples hook up, pointe shoes are hidden away and countless blisters are taken care of. At 10:00PM every single day the chaos settles, if only for a couple hours.

She just knows her partner to be clubbing, drink after drink in his hand and his arm wrapped around the shoulders of some girl – the exact opposite of her lonely swim and apple before bed. But in the gazebo is the least adventurous second year, the girl everybody seems to love, dancing all her troubles away. Tara Webster the cliché country-miracle, star of her year, spins beautifully on her toes with a carefree smile plastered on her tired face. She's in her pajamas, a pair of printed shorts and a worn out grey tank top, and her hair is an absolute mess atop her head. Her arms are in perfect position, strong, and her foot's placed perfectly right above knee height. The older girl lets out a laugh as she messes up her landing, and the first year with the wet hair thinks about rolling her eyes yet again.

Tara's a great student, who started at the bottom of the class with mockery hovering over her head at all times. She's extremely uncool and stubborn, easy to affect and easier to hurt – yet she's spent her first two years at the academy breaking one unbreakable boy after the other. Her feet are amazing and so is her innocence, but without her choice of blonde-haired, reckless best friends she probably would've been eating her lunch in the bathroom every single day.

She decides to keep walking, because thinking about Tara Webster has never done anyone but the star herself any good. The cool air slowly but surely dries her pin-straight shoulder-length hair, her wet towel uncomfortably resting on her exposed shoulder. She starts making a night-snack up in her mind, day-dreaming of a refreshing shower before calling it a night. As she sees the third year boarding house, tomorrow seems unusually far away.

Almost an entire Sunday has passed, with salads and training and swims to go with, and for the first time in almost a year she's not ready to start the week all over again. Her feet ache and beg for a break, and she's not ready to dance on them again just yet. Her hair drips on her feet as she walks, and she realizes she'd much rather show off her newly dyed blonde locks than pull them up in yet another perfect bun. She's not ready for things to start back up, for everything to go back to normal; summer's almost up, and it's made her realize how uncomfortable she is with her own normal.

"Excuse me?"

She looks up from the darkening asphalt, startled, and makes eye-contact with a certain adorable jerk. His eyes are unfocused and his hair a mess, but he's still the same handsome "tour guide" from the beginning of the year; she's still to this day beyond happy that she didn't take the bait. She plasters on a fake one either way, wrapping her arms around herself subconsciously as she meets his gorgeous green eyes.

"Yeah, did you need–"

"Your number? Maybe some other time," he laughs drunkenly at his own joke, running a hand through his hair. "Uh, which way is the beach?"

She laughs despite herself, "Why, so you can go skinny-dipping with your girlfriend of the week?"

"I'm sorry," he says, but she's not sure what for. "I just, I needed a break."

"It's the weekend?" she questions. "Break's practically over already. And at the academy you can't just take one when you feel like it, you know."

He sighs in agreement, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head with practiced easy even in his drunken state. For someone she constantly catches babbling along about everything and nothing in the hallways, Sammy Lieberman sure is quiet. He doesn't look her in the eyes for longer than necessary, but doesn't seem to remember his hitting on her a year ago. He handles himself surprisingly well considering it's Sunday and the third years are having a house-party, but makes her comfortable without even trying.

Her gaze rests longingly on the first year boarding house at the end of the road, which she doesn't have the consciousness to head over to; not until she's sure the figure of pure awkward in front of her is okay and safe. Sammy Lieberman is probably the luckiest guy at the academy, having tons of friends and people falling for him at every corner – he's even escaped a ton of failed exams. And now he's standing in front of her claiming he needs a break from second year, and she's wondering just how many people miss him in this exact moment.

She's been tucked away to herself all weekend, waking up to an empty bedroom and eating her breakfast in the bathroom while getting ready. She ran her morning run to the opera house with just her music to keep her company, and ate her lunch in a studio with the same music filling her ears. She swam alone, in the nearly-cold water after the sun was gone, because her roommate would rather go clubbing. And she had plans to walk back to the boarding house alone and uninterrupted, taking a shower with her music and having a book come to bed with her. Instead Tara Webster manages to turn her mood around without even trying, and Sammy Lieberman puts a stop to all her plans and doesn't even look guilty about it.

He nods, his eyes tired, "You're right, I'm sorry..."

"Rebecca," she supplies despite herself, almost-smiling. "My friends moved on just fine from those poisonous break-ups by the way, in case you were wondering."

"Oh, you're a first year," he states, and she swears she sees the gears in his head turning.

"So who do think is the most deserving of a break?" she changes the subject, suddenly realizing she doesn't want their moment to end.

He laughs, glad the tension's clearing up, "That's debatable."

"Agreed," she replies immediately. "Maybe we should think about it while asleep, and get back to each other in the morning?"

He smirks at her well-chosen words, stopping his drunken self from going to the beach alone and sending him to bed instead – either way, he agrees. They walk in an abrupt silence, their hands dangling too close for comfort but not touching. His feet are surprisingly steady, and she can't decide if she's actually relieved he doesn't need to support his weight on her. Sammy is everybody's best friend, there's too many people around who love him, yet he's walking next to her after sharing that he think he needs a break even though it's the weekend.

When he grabs her hand and clumsily intertwines their fingers, she doesn't jump in surprise or send him one of her well-practiced glares. He's a good guy and she trusts him without actually knowing him, but he won't remember holding some first year's hand tomorrow morning. People like him aren't meant to hold hands with people like her, because she's a dedicated ice queen and he's a struggling good guy. When they reach his house, with the party still very much going on, she sends him the most apologetic smile she can muster – and he smiles right back.

His messy curls peek out from under his hood and his unfocused but amazingly green eyes are fixed on her; she realizes then and there why he gets all the girls, and the one boy. Her tired gaze drops to his pink lips, which probably taste like alcohol, and she lets out a laugh as they curve into a surprisingly confident smirk. But she never leans in, never even considers it – she merely gives his soft hand a small squeeze before pulling away from the greatest fifteen minutes of her life completely. Other than a tired sigh, he doesn't acknowledge her being the responsible one despite the fact that she's younger and lonelier.

"I will think about what you said, Rebecca," he assures her, adjusting his hoodie.

"Uh huh," she replies, disbelieving. "Thanks for tonight though."

"No, thank you!" He calls as he makes his way up the stairs to the door.

When she sees him in the hallway next morning, running late for jazz with her extremely hungover roommate who forgot to plug in the alarm, she's not surprised he doesn't even glance her way. He laughs with Tara, his arm thrown over her shoulders, as they make their way down the hallway clad in ballet wear. She barely remembers last night herself, not because she spent it partying but because it was one of those nights when the chaos got to her and she had to give her parents a call.

Sammy Lieberman is gorgeous, with his extremely kissable lips, soft hands and chocolate brown eyes. He's funny and sweet, cracking jokes at all the wrong times and making people like him without even trying. But she never kissed him and barely even thought about it, because he's taken and in love. He's a year older and so completely out of reach it's ridiculous, then again she never let herself consider last night as anything but a one-time thing.

"Becca, who are you staring at?" Anna asks with a laugh, grabbing her arm to support her unsteady feet.

She merely shakes her head, determinedly removing her eyes from him and forcing herself to laugh along. He's nobody to her, and she refuses for it to be any more complicated than that. When they eventually pass the two thirds of the famous second-year trio, she looks past him (past last night, past the tickle in her stomach, past the smile that's threatening to break out). Whatever the hell last night was, she'll get over it in the blink of an eye – all she needs are a pair of pointe shoes securely on her feet and music pushing away all other thoughts inside the chaos that is her head.

Both their steps slow when they hear the beat booming in studio 3, and even though they're late Rebecca finds herself stopping to put faces and bodies and movements to the interesting music. Peeking inside, she catches a flash of blonde and immediately knows it's Grace Whitney. She's the leading dancer of second year, straight from the Royal Ballet School with the kind of carefree attitude that wasn't really needed at the academy. She laughs as she spins perfectly but not beautifully, her hands going from her waist to the air above her head automatically but now effortlessly.

The music comes to a sudden, cheeky pause just as the blonde haired perfection stops spinning. A smirk spreads across her beautiful face as she deliberately falls backwards, eyes closed and all. Zack – who's apparently too good to be teaching first years anything – catches her easily just before she hits the ground. Their partner work is stunning. They move together beautifully, teacher and student, their thoughts completely connected even though the choreography won't let them maintain eye-contact. She keeps her eyes closed and feels the music and he's lost in focus. She's smooth where he's sharp, clean where he's rough.

They work like no partners ever have before. Zack's more than the teacher and Grace goes way beyond just a student. Rebecca wonders what happens when they have to turn the music off and the lights on in a couple of hours, if they're ever able to leave their passion in the studio without much trouble. She wonders if Grace misses his touch when she goes to bed at night, whether Zack can help himself from staring after her when she leaves his classes to live her life. With the way they're dancing together, Rebecca's positive they're both stuck hopelessly wishing for more. Before she has the chance to contemplate them any longer, Anna forcibly drags her along because now they're ridiculously late.

She's having lunch with her jerk of a partner that she can't help but like when she spots Christian Reed eyeing the salad bar in obvious confusion. He's cute, she'll give him that much, but so incredibly unapproachable. Christian's not an open book like his best friend and polar opposite, Ben Tickle. She can't for the life of her imagine a partnership without corny jokes and a thousand laughs, stuff she's sure Christian's lacking. Christian's not ice cold like Abigail, and he'll probably never be as close to perfection as she is. Where Abigail's fierce, Christian is shy; of this she's sure.

Christian's not the dreamer Tara Webster appears to be, far more relaxed than she'll ever be. They would never work, even Rebecca could've told them so. Christian's not a good guy like his roommate Sammy, probably why they fill each other out so nicely. Had it been Christian she'd met that night, she would've just pointed in the general direction of the beach without a second thought. Christian definitely doesn't have an ounce of Grace in him either, sane enough to leave some of his dreams unapproached. And Christian's definitely missing the sunshine that is–

"Kat!" Rebecca cracks a smile as the blonde pulls up the chair across from her. "Hey."

"Sup," her partner gives a half-hearted nod that makes Kat's blue orbs roll.

"Hey you two," Kat flips her hair and Rebecca once again realizes she probably would've hated her if she wasn't so cool. "Can we join you?"

Before Rebecca even has the chance to blink Christian Reed is pulling out the other chair, balancing a tray of two salads and a coke. He shakes their hands with a smile and ask them how their day has been so far, how their partnership is holding up through the hell that is the academy. Then he cracks a joke that makes her double over with laughter and she clearly sees the Ben in him. Kat complains that the salad he made for her sucks so Christian just switches with her and all's right in the world; and Rebecca finds the Sammy in him too. As unapproachable as he is, she sees now why Kat doesn't mind constantly keeping him company. They work, and she tells them that exactly.

Kat winks, "So do the two of you, you know."

From time to time she wishes she could be like the second years. That she could run across the beach and away from her worries and then fool around in studio 5. That she could let loose and dance in the gazebo and go midnight-swimming without worrying about having time for Pilates before breakfast. That her talent could be recognized, used and appreciated like she desperately wants it to be. Other times she realizes she's fine right where she is, across the table from the best of them with a smile on her face and her partner's hand on her shoulder. She'll never be Abigail and she'll never have Sammy, but Kat's her friend and she has Christian; and they give Rebecca all the hope in the world. You don't need to be one of the cool kids, you'll get it – eventually – all on your own.