Divine Yearning

Élise and Amalia are 18, okay?

The theater is vast, the air thick with expectation, with the collective breath of an audience held in anticipation. Élise does not see them. She never does.

She sees her.

Amalia moves like water, her limbs unfolding with an elegance that is too sharp, too precise to be soft, and yet--it is. She is. The clean line of her neck as she turns, the impossible lift of her chin, the tension in her spine, the perfect, devastating curve of her arch as she extends one leg behind her.

She is a painting, a sculpture, a dream made flesh.

And God, Élise aches.

She moves across the stage in counterpoint, her body a reflection, a contradiction. Where Amalia is fire, Élise is ice. Where Amalia's fingers flutter like the last breath of autumn, Élise's strike with the finality of winter.

Their bodies never touch. Not here.

But they almost do.

Élise sees it in the space between them, the fragile, unbearable inches of nothingness that might as well be a canyon, that might as well be a wound.

She sees Amalia in pieces--as she sees her, not as she is.

Her collarbones, etched in moonlight. The impossible symmetry of her ribs, rising and falling in the cadence of the music. Her wrists, delicate but strong, capable of breaking apart a heart more thoroughly than any cruel word.

The audience does not know.

They watch the ballet and they see beauty, see the story unfolding in deliberate, practiced perfection. But they do not see the war behind Élise's eyes, the betrayal in Amalia's silence.

They do not see the way Amalia's gaze flickers toward her--only for a second--before she turns away, before she denies them both the thing neither of them can name.

They do not see the hunger.

But Élise does.

And for a single, devastating moment, she thinks she sees it in Amalia, too.

Then the music ends. The spell breaks.

Applause roars.

And just like that, the moment is gone.

Their reflections in the long dressing room mirror move like echoes of one another--two small, precise bodies caught in the relentless rhythm of the company's tour. One at a time, then together, then apart again. Always circling. Always too aware.

Élise yanks at the ribbons of her pointe shoe with more force than necessary, the sharp movement making her wrist flick with irritation. She doesn't look up, but she knows Amalia is watching her from across the room.

"Must you always make everything a battle?" Amalia's voice is quiet but sharp. Her accent carves each word like a sculptor's knife.

Élise laughs, a short, cruel sound. "Says the girl who treats every pas de deux like a war."

Amalia rises from the bench, smooth and feline. "Maybe if you weren't so desperate to be seen, you wouldn't need to claw for attention in every rehearsal."

The sting lands. Of course it does. Amalia has always known exactly where to place the knife.

Élise stands, hands on her hips, heart hammering against the fragile sternum beneath her leotard. "And maybe if you weren't such a coward, you'd admit why you're so angry with me."

Silence. Amalia's mouth presses into a thin line, but her nostrils flare just slightly.

The company chatters around them--costumes rustling, makeup brushes whispering over skin--but their world has narrowed to this charged space between them. The scent of rosin, sweat, and powder clings to the air, to their skin.

Élise exhales, slow. Controlled. If she doesn't keep it controlled, she might do something dangerous.

"You think you're the only one suffering?" Amalia finally murmurs. "You think you're the only one who wants?"

It isn't an admission. But it's close.

Their eyes lock, breath catching in tandem. Something in the air shifts, heavy and hot, and Élise is the first to break, turning too sharply, grabbing her bag with unnecessary force. If she doesn't leave now, she won't leave at all.

"Have a good performance, Amalia."

She stalks to the door, even as Amalia remains still, perfectly poised. The girl doesn't chase her. She never does.

And maybe that's the most unbearable thing of all. The applause still rings in Élise's ears as she steps into the shower room, skin humming from the performance, from the lights, from the impossible perfection of it all. The scent of sweat and effort mingles with steam, the sharp tang of body wash and shampoo curling in the air. The room is a blur of lean, powerful bodies--beautiful, familiar, untouchable.

She doesn't stare. She can't.

She keeps her eyes low as she pulls the pins from her bun, hair unraveling in damp waves against her nape. Around her, the other dancers move through the motions of routine--tired, satisfied, euphoric in the way only a flawless performance can bring.

Amalia is two showers down. Élise can feel her presence like a held breath, like the moment before a jump where gravity hasn't yet reclaimed her.

She doesn't look. Not at the elegant curve of Amalia's back under the spray, water streaming down over tight, sculpted muscle. Not at the sharp edges of her shoulder blades, the dip of her spine, the way her collarbones jut like poetry.

Not at how she stands still under the stream, eyes closed, head tilted back--like she's letting herself feel something.

No one speaks. The quiet is thick with exhaustion, with post-performance glow, with the strange intimacy of shared vulnerability. They have been seen--truly seen--on stage, and now they return to themselves, to their bodies, rinsing off sweat and triumph.

Élise forces herself to move, scrubbing at her skin harder than necessary, pretending she doesn't feel Amalia's gaze flicker toward her. Just for a second.

She knows what it would take. A single step closer. A single word, spoken low enough to be hidden under the sound of the water.

But they both know what it would cost.

So they stand there, side by side, apart and yet too close, steam curling between them like an unanswered question.

The bus hums beneath them, the road stretching long into the dark, Austria pulling them forward. The exhaustion of the performance settles deep in Élise's bones, but sleep refuses to take her. The adrenaline still lingers in the marrow, a ghost of movement, a phantom echo of the stage.

Beside her, Amalia is silent, her head tipped against the window, eyes closed. Not asleep--Élise knows the difference. Amalia never sleeps on these long rides. Neither does she.

The space between them is barely there. Their thighs brush when the bus hits a bump, but neither moves away.

It's a kind of truce. A fragile one.

Outside, the world is black and full of motion. Inside, the quiet is heavy, punctuated only by the occasional murmur of another dancer, the rustling of a jacket being adjusted, the sigh of the tires against the road.

Élise watches the ghostly reflection of them both in the window--two bodies drawn too tightly, two faces too full of something unspoken.

She wants to say something, but words feel too sharp, too fragile. Everything they say to each other cuts, and she doesn't have the energy for wounds tonight.

Amalia shifts slightly, her breath audible in the hush.

Élise risks it, just barely, her voice low.

"You danced beautifully."

A beat of silence. Amalia's lashes flicker, but she doesn't open her eyes.

"So did you."

Something in Élise's throat tightens. She looks down at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting the hem of her sweater.

The bus jolts, and Amalia sways. Instinctively, Élise moves to steady her, just barely--her fingers brushing against Amalia's wrist before pulling back. The touch lasts less than a second, but it lingers in the charged space between them.

Amalia finally turns her head from the window, meeting her gaze in the dim light. There's something there--tired, raw, wanting.

For once, it isn't cruel.

And for once, Élise doesn't look away.

Élise can feel it before she sees it--the shift in Amalia's breathing, the faint tension in her fingers as they grip the hem of her coat. And then, when she dares to glance sideways, she finds Amalia watching her, not with sharpness, not with challenge, but with something quieter. Something that trembles, despite her best efforts to keep still.

Touch me.

The words aren't spoken, but they live in the air between them, in the flicker of Amalia's lashes, the way her pulse flutters just beneath the fragile skin of her throat.

The bus rumbles beneath them, and Élise's hands--so precise in their craft, so used to knowing exactly where to place themselves--hesitate now. She could do it. She could reach, close the distance, let her fingers find warmth in the cool press of Amalia's wrist, let her palm settle in the hollow between Amalia's ribs. She could feel her, real and right there, instead of just imagining it in the spaces where they never let themselves exist.

She flexes her fingers once against her thigh, a breath held tight in her ribs.

Amalia is still watching, barely breathing.

And then, Élise moves--just enough. Just barely.

Her pinky brushes against Amalia's, tentative and weightless. A whisper of touch.

It's nothing. But it's everything.

Amalia doesn't flinch away.

Instead, she shifts, the tiniest movement, letting her hand turn, her fingers parting ever so slightly. A silent invitation.

Élise's pulse stutters. Slowly, deliberately, she lets her fingers slip between Amalia's, a featherlight press of skin on skin.

It's dangerous. It's too much.

But Amalia tightens her grip, just for a moment. And Élise lets her.

They don't look at each other after that. They don't speak.

The road hums beneath them, and Austria rises ahead, indifferent to the small, stolen thing they have carved out in the dark.

The plane hums around them, a dull white noise that presses against Élise's ears, making the world feel soft at the edges. She should sleep--everyone else is. Heads tilted against seats, necks bent at uncomfortable angles, the entire company resting in the glow of exhaustion.

But Élise can't sleep. Not with Amalia beside her. Not with the ghost of last night still clinging to her skin.

Their hands had stayed entwined for nearly an hour on the bus. Nothing more. Just the fragile press of fingers, the silent promise neither of them had dared to voice.

Now, sitting here, Élise doesn't know where they stand.

Amalia is curled up against the window, as small as someone with so much presence can be. Her knees are drawn up slightly, her arms tucked in close, but her body leans toward Élise in the subtle way of someone unconsciously seeking warmth.

Or maybe she's doing it on purpose.

The memory of their touch lingers between them, more present than the narrow armrest that divides their seats.

Élise exhales slowly and lets her head tilt back against the seat, closing her eyes. She should ignore it. She should let it go.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she shifts, just slightly, letting her arm brush against Amalia's.

At first, there's nothing. Just the cool press of leather and fabric, the steady breath of someone pretending to sleep.

Then, so delicately Élise almost doesn't notice, Amalia moves.

It's the smallest shift--her shoulder pressing just a little more against Élise's, the faintest lean of weight into her space. A request. A plea, maybe.

Élise doesn't pull away.

She lets Amalia rest against her, just enough that it could still be excused as accidental if someone were watching.

But no one is.

For the first time, they are not fighting.

For the first time, the space between them is quiet.

And as the plane hums steadily through the sky, Élise closes her eyes, feeling Amalia's warmth against her arm, and lets herself rest.

The room is small--two narrow beds pressed against opposite walls, a single window letting in the amber glow of the Roman evening. The company's booking is practical, efficient. No one had given it a second thought when their names were paired together. Just another arrangement. Just another stop on the tour.

But for Élise and Amalia, it is something else.

They stand in the doorway for a beat too long, neither moving, their bags hanging from their shoulders. The hum of the city filters in through the window--motorbikes, laughter, the distant echo of a violin somewhere in the street below.

Amalia is the first to break the stillness, stepping inside, dropping her bag on the floor beside the left bed. Élise exhales, following, setting hers down on the right.

They don't speak.

The air between them is thick, charged in a way that is almost unbearable. Since the bus. Since the plane. Since every silent glance and every touch that didn't--couldn't--go any further.

Élise moves first, walking to the window, pressing her fingertips to the old wooden frame, looking out into the night.

"It's beautiful," she murmurs, though her voice feels distant even to herself.

Behind her, Amalia lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Rome always is."

Élise doesn't turn. If she does, she won't be able to stop herself.

She can feel Amalia moving behind her, the soft rustle of fabric, the shift of weight on the wooden floor. The heat of her body too close, then closer still.

Then, the moment Élise knew was coming--knew she wouldn't stop if it happened.

A touch.

Barely there, barely more than a whisper.

Fingertips grazing the small of her back.

It would be so easy to move away.

It would be so easy to ruin this. To say something sharp, something defensive. To turn this into another fight, another push-and-pull of need and refusal.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she exhales. A slow, shaking breath.

And when Amalia's fingers press just slightly more firmly against her back, Élise leans into it.

Not much. Just enough.

Outside, Rome is waiting. A city built on passion, on tragedy, on everything too large for the body to contain.

Inside, in this tiny hotel room, Élise and Amalia stand suspended, on the edge of something neither of them dares to name.

Not yet.

Élise turns, slowly, as if she is afraid any sudden movement might shatter this fragile moment.

Amalia is right there. Closer than she thought. Closer than she should be.

And her eyes--mon Dieu.

They hold her still, pinning her in place more effectively than any harsh words or sharp rebukes ever had. Dark, burning, impossible to escape. A storm contained within them, something held back by the sheer force of will that has kept them apart for so long.

For the first time, there is no mask. No anger to hide behind. No cold, cutting remarks meant to push each other away.

Just this.

Just the unbearable gravity of standing so close, of wanting so much, of knowing they should not--cannot.

Élise's breath catches in her throat, her fingers twitching at her sides.

She could touch her. She shouldn't, but she could.

Amalia's gaze flickers, just briefly, down to Élise's mouth. Then back up. Her lips part, but no words come out.

She doesn't need to say it.

The question is already there, in her eyes, in the way her breath trembles between them.

Please. Please, just this once.

Élise sways forward, a fraction of an inch, as if drawn by something outside of herself.

Amalia doesn't move away.

Instead, her hand--hesitant, unsure for the first time in her life--rises to hover just over Élise's arm.

If they do this, there is no going back.

If they do this, everything will change.

Élise's heart is pounding. Every muscle in her body is taut, waiting.

She tilts her chin up, barely. Come closer. Do it. I dare you.

Amalia exhales, slow. Then, finally--finally--she moves.

And their lips crash together like something inevitable.

It is everything they had feared, everything they had fought against, everything they had wanted but never let themselves have.

It is heat and relief, frustration and surrender. Amalia's lips are softer than Élise expected but just as fierce, just as consuming. Their bodies collide, all tension and trembling hands, months--years--of silent longing unraveling in a single, shuddering breath.

Élise grips at Amalia's shoulders, pulling her closer, needing her closer, their mouths desperate, searching, taking. There is no hesitation now, no uncertainty. Amalia kisses like she dances--flawless, controlled, but hungry, her body pressing into Élise's like they are meant to fit together.

And God, they do.

Amalia's hands find Élise's waist, fingertips skimming over the curve of her ribs, then up, tracing the dip of her spine through her thin shirt. She presses, just slightly, guiding Élise back until her hips meet the wooden frame of the bed.

They break apart only to breathe, foreheads touching, breath mingling, their hearts slamming against their ribs.

Élise stares up at Amalia, dazed, lips tingling, her hands still clutching the fabric of Amalia's shirt like she's afraid to let go.

"You--" Amalia starts, but the words die against Élise's lips as she surges forward again, swallowing whatever thought might have ruined this.

Because there is no more thinking. No more waiting.

Only the feeling of Amalia's body against hers, the warmth of her skin beneath Élise's hands, the intoxicating reality that this is happening--this is finally happening.

And when they collapse together onto the bed, tangled and breathless, neither of them even considers stopping.

It is not rushed.

It is not desperate, not clumsy, not the frantic fumbling of a mistake about to be made.

It is inevitable. It is right.

Amalia moves like she's always known Élise's body--like she's danced this dance a thousand times in another life, in another world where they had never needed to pretend. Her hands are reverent, memorizing every curve, every subtle shift of muscle, every sharp intake of breath as if she had spent years dreaming of this moment. Maybe she had.

Élise is no different. She follows instinct, follows the unspoken choreography that has always existed between them--on the stage, in the studio, in every glance held too long, every insult thrown to hide the unbearable want beneath.

They move in perfect synchronicity.

Amalia's lips find Élise's pulse, pressing there, lingering, drinking in the erratic rhythm she has created. Her fingers trace along Élise's ribcage, down her spine, committing her to memory. And Élise--oh, Élise--she lets herself feel it all. Lets herself melt beneath Amalia, lets her mouth part with soft, shuddering gasps as Amalia moves over her like she's something delicate, something precious.

It is slow. It is devastating.

Every touch carries weight, every sigh is laced with meaning, with the years they have spent pretending, with the walls that crumble between them with every shift of skin against skin.

When Élise reaches for Amalia, she does it with a surety that surprises even herself. She rolls them over, straddling her, staring down at the girl who has spent so long tormenting her, fighting her, wanting her.

Amalia looks up at her, lips parted, flushed, vulnerable in a way Élise has never seen before.

The power of it steals her breath.

Élise cups her face, brushing her thumb over Amalia's cheek, feeling the warmth there, the softness, the way her dark eyes have lost every trace of sharpness. There is no war here. No battle left to fight.

Just them.

Amalia turns her head slightly, pressing a kiss to the inside of Élise's palm. Her hands settle at Élise's waist, holding her, grounding her, and when she whispers Élise's name, it is not a challenge, not a taunt--just a plea.

And Élise gives her everything.

They do not simply take from each other.

They offer.

They learn each other, revel in each other, move together as if they have always belonged like this.

It is not the kind of passion that burns fast and dies. It is the kind that will stay, that will settle into their bones and linger, waiting to be called upon again.

And when it is over--when the storm has passed and the world narrows back to soft breaths and tangled limbs and whispered names in the dark--they do not pull away.

They stay.

Because there is no pretending after this.

No going back.

Only the quiet, undeniable truth of what they have always known.

The words slip from Élise's lips before she can stop them. Before she can weigh the risk. Before she can tell herself that it's too soon, too dangerous, too much.

But it isn't.

It never was.

"I love you."

Amalia stills beneath her, breath catching, fingers tightening just slightly where they rest against Élise's bare back.

For a moment, there is nothing but silence.

The low hum of Rome beyond the window. The cooling warmth of their bodies pressed together. The undeniable weight of what Élise has just said hanging between them, fragile and impossible to take back.

Amalia swallows, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in unsteady breaths.

Élise waits, heart pounding, half-terrified, half-thrilled, her own breath trembling with the aftermath of everything they have just done.

Then, slowly--so slowly--Amalia reaches up.

She cups Élise's face in both hands, her thumbs ghosting over her cheeks, her dark eyes searching, holding her still.

And then--finally--she smiles.

Not the sharp, knowing smirk she wears when she's trying to get under Élise's skin. Not the tight, restrained expression she has worn for so long to keep herself safe.

A real smile. Soft. Unafraid.

"You're a fool," Amalia whispers.

But she says it with such tenderness, such unbearable fondness, that Élise exhales a shaking breath and laughs.

"Maybe," she admits. "But I still love you."

Amalia's fingers slip into her hair, pulling her down, closer, until their foreheads touch.

"I know," she breathes.

And then, so quiet it could be mistaken for an exhale, Amalia whispers:

"I love you too."

Élise's eyes sting. She doesn't know why.

But she kisses Amalia again--soft, lingering, nothing like the desperate collision from before.

This is different. This is home.

And when Amalia pulls her closer, holding her as if she never intends to let go, Élise knows that this--this--was always inevitable.

It happens months later, when they are back in Paris. The tour is over. The performances have passed in a blur of perfection and exhaustion, stolen moments in hotel rooms, secret touches in dressing rooms, the hum of something sacred and unbreakable between them.

They are still together--of course they are. There was never a question. Not after Rome.

But then, Élise starts feeling off.

It's nothing at first. A little extra fatigue, a strange sensitivity in her body that she blames on rehearsals, on the relentless demand of the company. Then comes the nausea. The days where her stomach twists without reason, where she has to breathe through waves of discomfort between pliés, where the thought of coffee--a substance she once relied on with religious fervor--makes her gag.

Amalia notices before she does. Of course she does.

"You're sick," she says one evening, watching as Élise pushes her dinner around her plate, eyes sharp with concern.

"I'm fine," Élise mutters.

Amalia lifts a brow. "Are you? Because you were gagging in the dressing room yesterday, and you nearly passed out during rehearsals last week."

"I was tired."

"You don't get tired."

That shuts Élise up. Because it's true. They both know it.

And then--then, in the silence that follows, it hits her.

She looks up at Amalia, stomach dropping, heart pounding. "... No."

Amalia's expression shifts. "No what?" But there's something wary in her voice, something careful, as if she already knows what Élise is about to say.

Élise swallows, gripping the edge of the table. "That's impossible."

Amalia blinks. Then blinks again. Then laughs. "No. No, you're insane."

But the thing is--they are insane.

They are two impossibly beautiful women, carved by the gods themselves, moving like divine creatures across the stage. The world worships them. Their bodies are temples of grace, of strength, of impossible beauty.

And maybe--just maybe--God noticed.

Maybe God took one look at them--sweaty and tangled together in the sheets of that tiny Roman hotel room, perfection wrapped around perfection--and thought, Yes. This must be rewarded.

Amalia covers her mouth with her hands. "You don't think--"

"I can't think that," Élise hisses. "It doesn't make sense."

"But--what if--" Amalia doesn't finish. She just stares.

And Élise stares back.

And then, in the quiet, in the slow, creeping realization of it all, Élise lets out a strangled laugh.

"God knocked us up for being too fucking hot."

Amalia drops her head to the table. "I can't believe this."

"We have to get a test."

"No," Amalia says firmly. "We have to get an exorcist."

But they don't. They go to the pharmacy, wide-eyed and whispering, Élise grabbing a test with hands that don't quite stop shaking, Amalia muttering about divine interference.

And when they get back to Élise's apartment, when the test blares its answer in small, undeniable symbols--

They don't know whether to laugh or cry.

So they do both.

Because of course. Of course.

Because if anyone was going to get miraculously pregnant by sheer force of being too damn hot, it was going to be them.

Gary materializes in their tiny Paris apartment at 3:42 AM, mid-yawn, mid-angelic radiance, ready to deliver the big news. He's been practicing his speech for weeks. It's supposed to be a whole thing--light, trumpets, divine proclamations. The works.

Instead, he lands in the middle of their living room, wings barely settled, only to find Élise and Amalia already awake, sitting on the couch in stunned, exhausted silence, the pregnancy test sitting between them like an unexploded bomb.

Gary blinks.

Amalia blinks back at him. Élise just stares.

Gary clears his throat, brushing invisible dust off his robe, trying to regain some authority. "Uh. Greetings, mortals. I bring--"

Élise gestures vaguely at the test. "We know."

Gary frowns. "You--what?"

Amalia looks like she hasn't slept in days. She lifts one delicate, dancer's hand and rubs at her eyes. "We know. We figured it out yesterday. I spent the last six hours reading about immaculate conception, and Élise tried to argue with a priest on the phone before remembering she's an atheist."

Gary's wings twitch. He glances at the ceiling, muttering, "No one told me they were gonna figure it out first." He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Shit. I had one job."

An errant wing knocks over a lamp. The shadows in the room shift.

Élise finally finds her voice, standing abruptly, hands on her hips. "Why us?!"

Gary shifts uncomfortably. "Well, uh. You're both, you know... insanely hot?"

Amalia lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "That's it? That's the criteria?!"

Gary shrugs helplessly. "I don't make the rules. The Big Guy saw you two--graceful, ethereal, moving like divine beings on stage--and figured, 'Hey, what if?'" He waves a hand vaguely at Élise's stomach. "And, uh. Here we are."

Élise presses her fingers against her temples. "You're telling me God gave us a miracle baby because we were too sexy on stage?"

Gary shifts from foot to foot. "Not just sexy," he mutters. "It was the yearning. So much yearning."

Amalia throws her head back against the couch, groaning. "We are so fucked."

Gary grimaces. "Well. Not literally, and that's kind of the problem."

Élise flings a couch pillow at him.

Gary, to his credit, does not smite her for it.