Somehow Mateo managed to swallow it down and roll his eyes, but Archer sank onto a chair, watching Caleb smirk and giggle with Grace, and he didn’t like the sense of wrongness settling in his gut. Their behavior was straight out of high school, and he was too old for that shit.

And of course, the more Mateo swallowed down, the tighter it wound him up. He was short and sharp with everyone, snipping instructions, and not bothering to sugarcoat anything, and his patience for the B-Boys’ drama had worn thin to the point of nonexistence.

Beau and Ben were fighting over their Latin routine that week, of all things. Ben had nearly dropped Beau in a lift in the early show.

“You missed the count. I always go up on four,” Beau snapped, throwing his towel onto a chair.

Ben could barely deign to respond. “I have been lifting you on five this entire summer.”

“You absolutely have not.”

“Let me know,” Mateo interrupted at full volume, so the entire greenroom could hear, “if you’re breaking up again with as much advance notice as you can, yeah?”

“We are not breaking up, Mateo,” Beau informed him, offended. “We are just discussing our choreo.”

“Sure,” Mateo said, shaking his head.

“Rude,” Beau muttered.

“So rude,” Ben agreed. “And it was on five.”

“Four.”

“Christ.” Mateo stormed off.

Archer wondered if the troupe would even be able to make it through the summer without bloodshed. Everything probably looked fine to the average guest, but nothing felt fine. After the show, Archer was off. His skin itched, his eyes were dry, and he was somehow bone-tired and jittery at the same time. He ignored calls of see you at the cabin, slow to peel off his costume and pack up his bag, and he was the last one out when he left. Halfway back to his dorm, he realized he had left the backstage lights on. He swore and turned around.

When he swung the stage door open, he was surprised to see that all of the lights were off, except for the red light of the exit sign and a white glow coming from the stage. Then he heard the music, quiet and somber, a piece he recognized but couldn’t quite put his finger on. He crept through the wings toward the stage, illuminated by a single spotlight.

Mateo was dancing.

He was wearing only his black tights, as black as the shadows that ridged his every visible muscle. Archer froze, hidden in the dark. Mateo whipped around in tight fouettés, until he slowed and came out of the last one in a leisurely stretch, leg rigid, arm extended overhead in an aching curve. His face burned with emotion, eyes closed, features gleaming in the light.

Archer knew he was watching something personal, something private, and yet he couldn’t look away.