Chapter Text
Every professional dancer begins their career knowing two indisputable facts.
The first—and most pressing—is that every moment of every day, it's going to hurt.
The second—and most important—is that it takes only one rolled ankle, one bad landing, one botched leap; one moment of disharmony or poor communication—and everything they've bled and sacrificed and suffered for, is all over.
After seventeen years of dancing, Poe knows that bowing out before his body tears itself apart is never going to be in the cards; knows that he'll probably end his career being carried out on a stretcher with a shattered knee or ruptured Achilles tendon—a torn ACL, if he's really lucky.
He never imagined it would be because of the fine print.
--
The first week of a new season is always the worst week of a dancer's life.
It's when the horrifying reality of the injuries from the previous season manifests itself in the form of missing dancers—missing friends—and signals in a new batch of eager apprentices who know too much about technique and not enough about style. The first week is one of mourning—one of anger at having to relearn how to flow as a unit that's had a few of its broken parts replaced.
In the first week, the joy of dancing is boggled down by petty tantrums over placements and hysterical breakdowns over shoe fittings—only briefly paused for the flickering of excitement when the ballets are announced and the cast lists go up—but even that joy quickly fades when the hours and hours of regimented practice, constant criticism, and rigorous exercise begin taking their toll.
The winter season is always the longest, which means it's the most challenging, but that's exactly why it's always been Poe's favorite.
Nobody can escape the obligatory 'keep the lights on' productions of The Nutcracker and Swan Lake—which everyone can dance in their sleep and get very little joy out of—so the real fun is the annual Coruscant Gala that closes out the season and rings in the New Year.
Every dance corps of note participates in the Gala. Wealthy patrons will fund two seasons worth of shows for their favorite company, so Ballet Masters spend months walking their best dancers through elaborate, specially choreographed performances that are less about polish and more about flash. It's the closest thing to a competition as the ballet world can produce, and Poe's been a regular feature in the Gala since his rendition of the Seven Veils Dance from Salome he'd performed when he'd been seventeen and bold and dying to make his mother's memory proud.
Ever since prima ballerina assoluta 'Princess' Leia Organa founded the Alderaan Ballet Corps, their performances have made the front page of The New Republic without fail. Despite her classical training at the hands of 'Queen' Breha and her husband Bail, she insisted that ballet needed to adapt to the times. She innovated ballet, making sure every dancer at the ABC was trained in many styles of dance. Every performance became unique, and under her guidance the ABC developed a loyal following that bought a season's worth of tickets before the ballets were even announced.
She promised them that this year's Gala performance would be her magnum opus—that they would somehow outdo the glow paint and black light reimagining of Onegin that every critic hailed as the single greatest modern ballet performance ever seen.
For weeks now, Poe's seen the orchestra conductor, Ackbar, rushing around with thick stacks of heavily marked up sheet music. Poe's sight-reading was never great, but even he can tell it’s going to be something fast and loud with a heavy bass.
He can't wait.
--
Everyone's warming up in the main dance studio when the request comes out through the ancient PA system.
The mocking ooooohs from the soloists set off a chain reaction in the corps de ballet. Poe had just completed a flawless set of brisés that he purposefully turned into a sloppy bow as Iolo and Bastian slap the floor in a parody of a drum roll.
"Damn, Dameron!" Jess laughs, one long leg stretched on the barre as she tucks strands of her glossy black hair into her bun. "The season hasn't even begun and you're already being called to the Director's office."
"Bet she figured out what you did with all the pointe ribbon from last season," Karé chimes in as she tightens a section of said pilfered ribbon across her slender ankle.
"Impossible," Rey says from the floor, legs spread in an impossibly straight split. "It's definitely about the missing scotch from Artoo's private office."
"That wasn't just me," Poe reminds her as she uses the hem of his sweat soaked shirt to hoist herself up. The fabric barely shifts around his neck. "If fact, if I remember correctly, you were the one Finn and I lifted through the window to deactivate the alarm."
It had been Rey's first night with the company after transferring from the Jakku Ballet. She'd showed up at the beginning of their rehearsal with her short hair pinned in three tiny buns, wearing an oversized grey knit sweater, and acted as if it was the most normal thing in the world to have Luke Skywalker—the greatest living danseur—be her personal dance instructor.
"Good luck proving it." She pats his cheek. "You were very drunk." She has a tendency to tell jokes with a serious expression on her face. Poe's still working on telling the difference—usually relies on Finn's reactions for a reading. He's got an infectious, proud smile splitting his face. A joke, then. Poe retaliates by nipping at Rey's fingers and makes her squeak when she doesn't pull back fast enough.
"Dameron! Quit flirting with my girl!" Finn shouts from across the room. He sounds scandalized, but his grin is bright enough to light the studio. He darts toward Rey in two powerful leaps, catches her delicately around the waist and sweeps her up in his arms. "And you," he looks at Rey, trying to school his face into something resembling seriousness, "quit flirting with my boy."
Poe can see how hard Rey is trying to keep from grinning. Finn nuzzles her neck and a muffled giggle pops from her lips—makes something warm shake loose in Poe's chest. Rey had come to the ABC a pile of raw nerves. Years of fending off petty sabotages from dancers at Jakku had left her defensive, but after three hours and the main pas de deux from Romeo & Juliet, Finn had somehow managed to gain her trust. They were together by the end of the week.
The PA system sputters to life again. "While we're young, Dameron."
"I'm taking you all down with me," Poe threatens as he exits, has to bat away the wave of flat shoes and socks and hair scrunchies thrown at him. He just barely catches the bright orange scrunchie Jess aims at his nose and uses it to tie up his hair. "I'm keeping this," he tells her.
Jess blows him a kiss before she flips him off.
--
Poe's good mood dissipates the moment he steps into Director Organa's office and sees a pale man with sharp eyes sitting off to the side.
"You know who I am," he says without preamble.
Of course Poe does.
The Hux estate has single handedly funded the ballet world for nearly forty years. Brendol Hux had been an arrogant man with little talent for dancing, but possessed a massive inheritance that he used to line the pockets of every critic and company to ensure his short-lived career had been rife with glowing reviews.
He had bankrolled the First Order Company—the top ballet academy in the country—and flew in the top dancers, instructors, choreographers, musicians, and doctors from across the world to craft the next generation of professional dancers.
The Hux name has power in the ballet world. It's the only reason why Hux's equally talentless son was appointed Artistic Director of the First Order at twenty-seven, despite a brief and truly humiliating debut.
It's why said talentless son is currently leering at Poe from a chair positioned across from Director Organa who is flanked by the ABC's perpetually nervous lawyer, Threepio. For Director Organa to have purposefully dragged Threepio from the office she goes out of her way to keep him in, means whatever Hux is here for is probably going to cost them a fortune.
"Director Hux." He forces a charming smile in acknowledgement, bows his head in respect. "Director Organa." This time, the respect is genuine.
"I have something impossible to ask of you." Director Organa's voice is weary, crackles like a dying fire. She's a tiny woman, only made smaller by age, but Poe's grown up listening to her belt out knifelike French as dancers scramble to obey. To hear her so defeated makes Poe straighten his spine, squeeze his fingers nervously behind his back.
"If I may, Director," Hux interrupts with the illusion of politeness, proceeds without concern. "As you're aware, First Order Dancer 2187—"
"Finn," Poe interjects. "His name is Finn."
Hux's sallow face pinches sourly. "2187 left our academy last season to join this…" he trails off, eyes Director Organa's modest office with disgust, "I'll be generous and call it a company."
His arrogance makes Poe's skin crawl.
"What our very skilled lawyers brought to my attention was that 2187 was in violation of the non-compete clause in his contract that came into effect when he was appointed demi-soloist. A rank he achieved despite abandoning the First Order."
Poe's chest clenches. He can't school the look of horror off his face in time—has to watch as Hux draws obvious pleasure from the situation.
"Quite simply, if the dancer my organization trained so much as brings someone on this premise a cup of water, I will sue him for breach of contract and then sue the Alderaan Ballet Corps for contract violation."
"It's all very true, I'm afraid," Threepio jitters anxiously.
"How convenient he was deemed eligible for a soloist rank despite not finishing his time in the corps," Director Organa spits with derision.
Hux doesn't flinch. "Consider yourself fortunate, Director. Fortunate that it was I the lawyers brought this to and not our most wise leader, Snoke. He isn't as understanding as I am. And that is precisely why you're here, Poe Dameron."
His name sounds vile on Hux's tongue; like an unwanted caress. Dread knots in Poe's stomach, spreads through his limbs, thick and cold.
"I'm a reasonable man." The faux graciousness in Hux's voice is toxic. "I've informed Director Organa that I'm willing to allow 2187 to remain at the ABC—his pesky contract legally signed over without any repercussion whatsoever—if she is amenable to a trade. A fresh, promising new principal dancer—trained under the greatest ballet company in the country—for a seasoned principal of exceptional dancing stock. For you."
It takes a moment for Hux's words to register. Then—
"You want me to dance for the First Order?" Poe laughs, feels like he's suffocating, like he's been flung out in space.
"Just for this season," Hux clarifies. "Your company has taken one of my best dancers. Now, I want this company's best dancer."
"This is your decision," Director Organa says, clearly displeased with her options. "Whatever you decide, I'll support you."
Hux's smug smile intensifies. "Should you decline, 2187 will be returning to the First Order."
"You can't have Finn back," Poe says through clenched teeth.
Poe remembers the first time he'd noticed Finn—decked out in the pristine white uniform of the First Order—staring at their troops through the glass window of their practice room that overlooked the street. Poe recognized the fierce, desperate yearning in Finn's dark eyes—saw how he craved the laughter and the camaraderie.
He'd invited Finn inside to practice with them and Finn's enthusiasm and warmth immediately won everyone over. He'd quit the First Order that afternoon, returned to the ABC with the thrift store bomber jacket Poe lent him and a smile that rocked Poe right to the gut. Poe gained a friend and a roommate that night—the company, their future headliner.
It had taken nearly a month for Finn to lose the stiffness when the First Order was mentioned; to stop kicking awake in the middle of the night; to rid him of the panic that would sour his face whenever he'd mess up a move. He still goes hollow-eyed whenever he talks about how he was bullied and mocked and harassed by the weaker dancers in the corps who were jealous of his abilities.
Poe can't let Finn go back there—not when Finn's finally found friends who care for him, who don't resent him for his talent, who cheered when he'd been appointed principal over dancers who had been with the ABC for years. Not when he now has Rey—when he's finally happy.
One season. Just three months of Poe's time in exchange for the rest of Finn's career. His sanity.
It's the easiest decision Poe's ever made.
--
A standard dance contract is thirty-two pages long.
When Poe signed his first contract with the ABC, he'd been fifteen and cocky and far too pleased with himself to even bother read it all the way through—just skipped right to the dotted line and put his faith in Leia Organa and everyone she brought on board to run her troupe.
The contract for the First Order that Hux produces from his briefcase is bound in smooth red leather and is thick enough to make the legs of Director Organa's desk groan. When Poe cracks the spine of the contract, he discovers everything is written in French. It's the first time he's glad to have Threepio around, as the man never stops mentioning he's fluent in six languages.
The legal language seems to get denser and denser as the pages go on, the process made all the more frustrating coming from Threepio's tinny, high voice. Poe has to initial and sign his name next to every subsection or clause, no matter how insignificant. The First Order has strict rules about basically every waking facet of their dancer's lives, with a separate contract that stipulates the decorum requirements and non-fraternization policy. Hux assures him they are rigidly enforced.
Poe does his best to avoid the manic glee that intensifies in Hux's eyes as he signs more of the contract. Instead he focuses on the cramp in his wrist and the ache in his jaw from biting his tongue. Afterward, before he fastens his coat and marches off, Hux informs Poe he's to report to the First Order at 8 a.m. sharp the next morning.
Poe simultaneously starts and stops breathing once Hux is out of the room.
For the first time since Poe's known him, Threepio gathers the two contracts Hux left behind—Finn's official pardon and his signed condemnation—and escapes Director Organa's office without saying a single word. It's a testament to the mood in the room that someone as mechanically programmed as Threepio could pick up on the tension and excused himself before being ordered elsewhere.
Director Organa won't look at him, but the rigid set of her shoulders speaks volumes to her displeasure, her guilt. Poe's been dancing for Leia Organa for his entire career—knows she can be demanding and ruthless as an Artistic Director—but she loves her troupe; would never barter her dancers away like poker chips in a hand of cards.
"Don't show them your belly, Poe," she says cryptically before she waves him away and tells him to take the rest of the day off.
She thinks she's being kind, but Poe heads right back to the studio to take in the noise and energy of his friends—his family. He needs to be around them to lessen the sinking feeling that this morning's messy warm-up was the last time he'd ever dance with any of them.
By the time he tucks himself away in the nook just outside the practice window, everyone is well into the interpretive pas de deux exercises that Lor Sen Tekka makes them run through before they can even start rehearsal.
Karé and Iolo are winding down from a song that sounds like clocks in a beehive. They break apart smoothly and dart to opposite ends of the studio as Rey and Finn rush to the center of the dance floor to await their turn. They haven't even begun dancing and already their movements are perfectly synched. They remind Poe of how his parents moved—like their orbits were connected solely to each other.
Rey leans against Finn's chest—both on demi-pointe—as they wait for their song to begin. The music blasts from the speakers—something heavy with weeping violins and the somber death knell of cellos—and without even pausing to hear the rhythms of the song, they both spin away from each other. Rey twirls into an elegant arabesque and Finn effortlessly swings around and positions his hand against the small of her back, lifts her high over his head on one arm, before they smoothly descend into a fish dive. The music grows darker and heavier with each passing beat, and Finn and Rey accelerate their tempo.
Rey's form is immaculate. She glides when she dances—pirouettes so smoothly and cleanly that the very air around her parts beatifically. Finn dances with purpose—is bold and powerful and his moves are executed with military precision. Their styles flow into each other so seamlessly it's like they're reflections on rippling water. Finn is always reaching out for Rey, and Rey responds as if magnetized.
Their dance is about loss, about sorrow, about a pain so profound it hollows out Poe's chest and makes him quiver with remorse. They dance as if they've been denied contact for years; as if every touch is a sacred gift; as if Poe hadn't woken their lazy asses up this morning while they groaned and complained and curled into each other like pill bugs.
They're young and beautiful and in love and they dance like they would die for each other.
Poe will protect that with everything he has.
--
He waits till they're home before he breaks the news.
After they've finished eating, Finn grabs three of the four cups they have in the apartment and carefully pours out the last bottle of white wine they had in their reserves. Rey is already on the sofa in a pair of Poe's boxers and Finn's old First Order hoodie, flipping through their Netflix recommend so quickly Poe only sees a blur of color.
Finn shucks off his shirt before he slides in beside Rey, passes over a chipped mug filled to the brim with wine, and starts to pull her hair from her buns while she's distracted with balancing the cup on her knee and choosing whichever terrible film they'll watch tonight. Finn stretches like a lazy cat when Rey rubs her palm down his smooth skin of his spine, kisses her pointy knee, and then licks at the dribble of wine that trails down her leg when she jostles the cup.
They'd both been so touch starved when Poe first met them that every tender caress or stolen moment of intimacy makes him feel privileged to be an observer, let alone a sometimes participant. He loves watching them almost as much as he enjoys being pressed between them—feeds off the energy and enthusiasm they're willing to share and returns it tenfold.
"No, behind me," Rey demands when Poe starts to sit at the opposite end of couch. Poe doesn't mention how Rey is crammed right in the corner with Finn's body pinning down her torso—knows he's not going to win that fight—and simply wedges himself behind her; his legs crushed until Rey squirms and shifts her and Finn's weight so Poe can straddle her hips. Rey immediately settles back flat against Poe's chest, lets their arms hook and rest on Finn's chest.
"Are you going to tell us what happened today now, or do we really have to watch this stupid movie before you start talking?" Finn asks, the vibrations of his voice rippling deliciously across Poe's fingers.
Poe was hoping they'd all be a little tipsier to have this conversation. He'd been mulling it over in his head—thinks he's found a causal enough tone to play off the severity, can reassure and calm any objections or outrage that may arise. He's not even midway through his prepared speech when he remembers he's a terrible liar. He falters even worse when he sees the dawning looks of devastation on their faces.
Putting it mildly, Finn doesn't take the news well.
"No way!" he splutters, jaw slackened and back terribly straight—his body quivering without him seeming to notice. He looks like he's having a nervous breakdown. Rey immediately reaches out for him, and he leans into her open arms instinctively.
"Buddy, don't worry," Poe tries to sooth, amps up the wattage on his smile. "We sorted it all out. You'll be fine."
"No, you don't understand," Finn tries to tug free, but Rey's long, strong arms keep him pressed against her chest. His breathing stutters like a cornered animal. "You don't know what it's like there—what the people are like. Hux is a sadist and he's not even the worst one!"
"It's just for the season." Poe tries again, keeps his tone light. "They just want to bill my name under their colors for the Gala to impress the donors. It's no big deal."
"No big deal?" Finn repeats as if it's the stupidest thing he'd ever heard in his life.
"It's okay, buddy. I know what I'm doing." Poe presses his hand above Rey's—adds pressure for emphasis. Finn immediately clutches at their fingers—squeezes them all together in a painfully tight grip.
"Listen to me!" His voice bleeds desperation. His jaw is set and his eyes are painfully, deathly serious. "I don't want this. I don't want you to have to do this. Not there. Not for me."
Poe almost laughs. There's no one else in the world he would rather do this for.
"There's nothing to be done about it now," Rey says, infinitely practical, "or else he would have told us about it at the studio."
Finn looks at Poe with such misery in his expressive eyes. Rey frowns at the sight, kisses the side of his head. Poe leans into them, closes his eyes when he feels Rey wiggle her long, rough fingers until all their hands are linked, and presses the knot of their limbs over Finn's heart like a silent pledge.
"If they try to hurt our Poe, they’ll have to deal with us." Her confidence is non-negotiable.
"And Rey's word is law. You know that." Poe flashes his most dashing smile, watches as Finn slumps further against Rey's chest, the fear slowly eking out of him. He sighs after a moment, gathers his voice.
"Poe you have to promise me. Promise me," he emphasizes, "that if they ever send you for reconditioning, you just quit on the spot. Don't think about me, just quit and I'll deal with the repercussions."
"Finn." Poe pitches his voice as low as he can—turns Finn's name into as much of a caress as he can—and crowds him against Rey's body. He glances at Rey for approval before he proceeds, nuzzles under Finn's chin and drags his lips against Finn's thundering pulse, when he gets it. "I'm not letting you go back there," he whispers. "No way."
Rey detangles their hands and slides her fingers through Poe's hair. Her sharp nails scratch as she tightens her grip, pulls Poe up by the roots, and brings him closer to Finn's lush mouth. The kiss, when it comes, is soft—very warm. Poe goes foggy around the edges, stutters out a quiet gasp when Finn's strong hands tug at his hair and clutch his ass, the kiss darkening to something possessive and dominating—decadent.
"We must show Poe how grateful we are," Rey pants conspiratorially, her clever fingers pulling down the elastic of Poe's pajama bottoms and Finn's shorts in one sharp tug. Poe goes dizzy with how good Finn's skin feels against his—near lightheaded with how much better it feels when Rey rips off her sweater and pulls them both towards her.
The couch is a tight fit, but the discomfort of being crushed under two hard bodies is methodically blotted away by Finn's thick fingers against his prostate and Rey's strong, slick hands on his cock. They take turns swallowing down his whimpers, cackle between themselves when they manage to draw out a loud moan, and don't stop their two-front attack until Poe's lips are raw and his body is a sloppy, sated mess.
Poe likes that they're never gentle, that they scratch—use teeth. He likes the marks and the bruises that take days to heal, likes feeling like he's part of something that matters—even if only temporarily. Poe adores them unconditionally—will probably never come close to finding a dynamic that makes him feel half as satisfied and loved. He really would do anything to protect them.
Hux can do his worst.
Poe will be ready.