Chapter Text
"Can I just pay a fine and you won't force me to work as a free cleaner?"
"You, or rather, your parents will pay the fine in any case. So seventy-two hours of penalty labor is your personal punishment for an act of vandalism."
"Graffiti is art, not vandalism."
"Sure. After all, we have all the walls in the city covered with paintings by Monet and Van Gogh, right next to your doodles."
"They are not just..."
Gulf suddenly realizes that there is no point in proving anything to this guy in a suit and tie.
An act of vandalism. Mhm. About Banksy, of course, it is useless to even stutter.
"If there are no questions - sign here," they slip him a stack of papers. "You start tomorrow evening."
Wow!
He's already outside. False freedom.
Seventy-two hours. Due to the age, you can work out a maximum of four hours a day. Excellent. Eighteen nights down the drain! And after all, it would be for what? I got caught by my own stupidity.
Gulf recalls how the day before he, in the company of skaters, made his way to a closed parking lot for heavy trucks, where an hour later several vans were decorated with signs, Marvel and DC characters and geometric mazes.
The raid. Three of the ten detainees - the rest managed to escape. And Gulf would have succeeded if he had not spared the expensive paints and would not have started stuffing them into a backpack, the zipper of which did not give in to his fingers in any way.
And today he was so beautifully presented that in addition to the fact that his parents' purse will be empty for several thousand, he also has eighteen working evenings ahead of him, which he will spend cleaning the premises at the ballet school.
☯ ☯
"Come on, Gulf! There are such chicks, all in tight outfits, you will be grateful! Chill out, dude!"
"Yeah, of course," Gulf has no desire to look at his friend Mild trying to cheer him up, he, of course, managed to escape and get away with it.
"Well, what if you pick up the most flexible and chic beauty there, preferably with an equally chic friend."
"Maybe that's enough, huh? My mood is at zero."
"Okay, okay, I'm silent."
They say goodbye at the intersection. Today, Gulf heads in the other direction.
He finds the building of the ballet school without much difficulty. Classes should end there. In any case, he notices only a few students walking towards the locker room.
And whom can I "pick up" here?
He is shown a room for technical staff, where he will have to change clothes and get equipment for cleaning the halls. His bright green skate is held hostage until the end of the working evening.
What a scarecrow!
Gulf glances at himself in the mirror, or rather, a whole series of mirrors on the entire wall, opposite the one where the ballet barre stretches.
Blue jumpsuit. Yellow gloves. He still left his beloved beanie on his head, so that black curls that have grown almost to his shoulders stick out from under it. His pleasant tan skin shines beautifully in the light of brightly burning lamps.
Okay. Let's get started. I'll get out of here faster.
He is just picking up the mop when a quiet cough is heard in the corner. Gulf turns around instantly. There, on the floor, some dude in a tight leotard is sitting in the splits — and stupidly stares at him.
"Actually, this hall is not yet free," they tell him from the very corner.
"Actually, I don't give a fuck. I'm not going to wait here and work over hours."
The guy gets to his feet and walks over to Gulf:
"I have an official allowance for individual practice until nine in the evening right here in this hall. So, it would be great if you left it immediately."
What is there about the "tight-fitting" look? Yes, everything is exactly this very tight! The body is like a sculptural statue. And honey eyes with caramel flecks.
"So, as far as I can see, you aren't going to leave, are you?"
"I think so."
"Okay," the guy nods a couple of times, calmly turns around and heads for the exit. "In that case, I have to report the principal."
Being super annoyed, Gulf, spitting on the floor, - fuck it, he still has to wash himself, - only has time to shout out to his back:
"Go ahead! Don't lose your pointe shoes, ballerina!"