The tension in the D'Arcy household had never been higher. As the Varna competition loomed closer, the atmosphere in the house thickened with pressure. Every glance, every word exchanged between Etienne and Lucien was laced with unspoken expectations. Neither was willing to back down—Lucien in his silent disapproval of Etienne's self-destructive drive, and Etienne in his unyielding obsession to prove himself.
Etienne had always been stubborn, but now, it felt like he was fighting for something bigger than winning the competition. He wasn't just trying to prove himself as a dancer—he was trying to prove himself as Lucien's heir. His name, his identity, his very sense of self had been reshaped by this life, this art. And now, Varna stood as the ultimate test.
The days became an endless cycle of practice, physical exhaustion, and mental strain. Etienne pushed himself to the brink, every muscle screaming in pain, but he silenced the voice inside that told him to stop. There was no stopping—not now. He couldn't afford to be weak.
Lucien watched it all, his growing concern masked behind a stern exterior. He had always been demanding, but this... this was different. Etienne had taken everything to an extreme. Lucien knew he should intervene, but every time he opened his mouth to tell Etienne to slow down, he saw the fire in his eyes—a fire that mirrored his own once, many years ago.
One night, Etienne stumbled into the kitchen, barely able to stand. His body was drenched in sweat, and his hands shook uncontrollably. He gripped the edge of the counter, trying to catch his breath, but the room spun around him. He hadn't eaten properly in days, his sleep was a distant memory, and his mind was foggy from the unrelenting stress he had placed on himself.
He couldn't keep going like this. But he had to.
Suddenly, he heard voices. Quiet at first, then louder, coming from the study. It was Lucien and Yuna, his mother. Speaking in French. Normally, he wouldn't have cared, but something about their tone made him pause.
"Il va se tuer à ce rythme, Lucien," Yuna's voice was sharp, almost frantic. ("He's going to kill himself at this rate, Lucien.")
"Je le sais," Lucien replied, his voice heavy with regret. ("I know.")
Etienne froze in the hallway, the words piercing through the fog in his mind. His mother. His father. Talking about him. Again.
"Alors pourquoi le pousses-tu encore?" Yuna demanded, her voice trembling. ("Then why are you still pushing him?")
Lucien didn't respond right away. There was a long silence before he finally spoke again. "Parce qu'il est le meilleur espoir que nous ayons... et il le sait aussi. Il refuse de s'arrêter même si je le voulais." ("Because he's the best hope we have... and he knows it. He refuses to stop even if I wanted him to.")
Etienne's heart pounded in his chest, each word sinking into him like a blade. He had always known it, hadn't he? This wasn't just about ballet anymore—it was about becoming the best. He was Lucien's son. And with that came expectations that no one else could understand.
Yuna's voice softened, almost pleading. "Mais il est si jeune… il a encore le temps. Ce n'est qu'un garçon." ("But he's so young… he still has time. He's just a boy.")
Lucien's voice dropped to a whisper, but Etienne could still make out the words. "Pas plus, Yuna. Pas plus. Il est un danseur maintenant." ("Not anymore, Yuna. Not anymore. He's a dancer now.")
Etienne clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he listened. His own mother thought of him as a child, but Lucien... Lucien saw him as something more. He wasn't a boy anymore. He was an heir, a dancer, a prodigy. The pressure was crushing, but it was the only thing keeping him going. If he stopped now, what was left of him?
The next morning, Etienne awoke before dawn, his body aching from the previous day's training. He didn't bother waiting for Lucien this time. He made his way to the training room alone, slipping on the resistance bands and strapping the weights around his ankles. The extra strain had become normal, almost comforting.
As he moved through the motions, repeating the same steps over and over again, his mind replayed the conversation he had overheard the night before. It fueled him, pushed him to go harder, faster, to ignore the burning in his muscles and the sharp pain in his joints. He had to be stronger than this. He would be stronger.
Lucien found him hours later, drenched in sweat, panting, but still dancing.
"Etienne," Lucien said, his voice firm but not harsh. "Enough."
Etienne ignored him, pushing through another series of fouetté turns, his feet barely touching the floor. He felt weightless, as if the pain was nothing more than a distant memory.
"Arrête," Lucien commanded, stepping forward. ("Stop.")
Etienne stumbled, his legs finally giving out beneath him as he collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath. His body screamed in agony, but he didn't care. He would keep going. He had to keep going.
Lucien crouched beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You've crossed the line, Etienne."
Etienne looked up at him, his vision blurred from exhaustion. "I can do it. I'm ready."
Lucien shook his head. "No, you're not. Not like this."
Etienne clenched his teeth, frustration boiling inside him. "You said I had to be the best."
"I said you had to be the best you could be," Lucien corrected, his voice calm but stern. "Not this. Not killing yourself to meet some impossible standard."
Etienne stared at him, unsure of what to say. The fire in his chest refused to die, even as his body begged for rest.
"I'm not going to let you destroy yourself, Etienne," Lucien continued, his hand still resting on his shoulder. "Not for Varna. Not for anything."
For the first time in weeks, Etienne felt a flicker of doubt. He had always known he was pushing himself too far, but he had convinced himself it was necessary. But now, hearing it from Lucien—the very man who had shaped him into the dancer he was—it was like a cold slap to the face.
"You need to rest," Lucien said softly. "If you don't, there will be nothing left of you to compete."
Etienne's breath hitched as the weight of Lucien's words sank in. He had been so focused on winning, on proving himself, that he hadn't realized how close he was to losing everything.
For the first time in a long time, Etienne let himself collapse into Lucien's arms, his body shaking with exhaustion. The fight, the drive—it was still there, but for now, it could wait.