Chapter Text
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Pas de deux
(pa-de-dur)
Noun
1 : A dance or figure for two performers; step of two
2 : An intricate relationship or activity involving two parties or things
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The opening notes of Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker, Op. 71: I. Overture filled the tiny studio apartment, swelling into the familiar crescendo that Tweek had set as his alarm months ago in preparation for his upcoming performance in December.
He groaned and blindly fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, managing to hit the silence button after a few failed tries. The apartment fell quiet once more, except for the rhythmic click of the old radiator in the corner of the room. Tweek buried his face into his pillow.
“Morning,” he mumbled to himself.
As he slowly rose from his bed, Tweek rubbed his weary eyes, stifling what would’ve been an obnoxiously loud yawn. He stretched his arms above his head, allowing his spine to expand and pop, relieving the stiffness from his back with a quiet moan.
Sighing, he swung his legs over the mattress and stood, wincing slightly at the dull ache within his right Achilles tendon. He looked down at the clock on his homescreen and cursed upon reading the time, realizing that he only had forty-ish minutes to get ready for his 9 A.M. technique class.
Shit.
He really wasn’t in the mood for another ass-chewing from his instructor for being late again.
As a soloist in the Colorado Ballet Company, Tweek had to meet the high expectations that came with the position, especially considering he had been accepted there as an apprentice on a full-ride scholarship a few years prior. Leaving his podunk hometown of South Park, Colorado, at the tender age of 16 was a dream come true for his dancing career, and now that he was contractually signed to the company, there was a certain status quo he had to uphold.
He really hated morning classes, though.
After a quick shower, Tweek briskly towel-dried his hair and let the blonde locks fall naturally to his shoulders. He made a mental note to arrange a touch-up with his hairstylist soon. He applied some deodorant before dressing in a loose tank top and a pair of black trash-bag shorts over his dance tights, carefully pulling the fabric so it wouldn’t snag on his navel piercing. He donned a squishy pair of sandals with good arch support for the walk to the facility, knowing he would switch to his ballet flats once he reached the studio. He then zipped up a lightweight hoodie over his outfit, ensuring he would stay warm before class without overheating during barre.
While Tweek filled his mug with his morning coffee, his gaze drifted around the humble apartment. It wasn’t much, just a little room with a kitchenette squished against one wall, an unmade twin bed tucked beneath the window, a bathroom beside the radiator, and just enough open space to lay down a yoga mat or block out choreography when the studios were closed for the night.
The hardwood floor was marred with old scratches and scuffs, some caused by the furniture he couldn’t decide the placement of—curse his fickle personality—but most from his practice. A portable PVC barre stood near his bed, the paint worn smooth from where his hands would rest as he warmed up with a few relevés and leg stretches.
The rent was reasonable enough, even with his low annual pay. He was in a prime location in Denver with a pretty sweet view of the Santa Fe Arts District, but he often felt like a little fish in a big pond.
Truth be told, he was lonely.
The thought made Tweek twitch involuntarily, his left eye shutting briefly as his shoulder hitched upwards in a quick spasm. He didn’t like dwelling on the fact that, despite being in the city for nearly a decade, he was still single. Sure, he’d made friends in the company—best friends, even—but he hadn’t found… the one.
He had given online dating a shot, but most connections fizzled out before they even got anywhere. He could count on one hand the number of men he’d gone on a second date with, and he didn’t need any hands to count the ones who’d made it to a third. He didn’t think his standards were that high; if anything, Tweek considered himself reasonably lenient when it came to odd quirks and questionable personalities. But when every relationship ended the same way, it was hard not to wonder if the universe was trying to send him a message.
At this point, it was less of a message and more of a bludgeoning-him-over-the-head type of thing.
After one too many sad attempts at finding his Mr. Right, Tweek had resigned himself to casual hookups with men he’d meet at local clubs and bars. They were exciting enough in the moment, but the novelty quickly wore off. By morning, he was left with the same frustrated feelings churning in his gut, knowing that no matter who he shared the bed with the night before, he’d still be waking up alone.
Maybe he’d been watching too many rom-coms, yearning for a meet-cute scenario that seemed to be reserved for charming female leads in cheesy Hallmark movies.
Jesus, he thought, shaking his head. Knock it off. Don’t bum yourself out before the day even starts.
Tweek took the warm mug with both hands once the coffee finished brewing, letting the heat seep into his stiff, bony fingers. His shoulders gradually began to loosen, but his hands continued to tremble. It was a persistent struggle that came with his anxiety and panic disorders. He took prescribed medications, though they didn’t always solve the problem. The tremors varied in intensity; sometimes they were barely noticeable, but at other times they would travel up his wrists, making basic tasks like pouring coffee or tying his shoes nearly impossible.
Today landed somewhere in the middle. Coffee helped.
His phone chimed beside him, piquing his curiosity. He set the mug down and picked up the device with his left hand, tapping the notification.
The message was from Bebe Stevens, a fellow soloist with whom he frequently partnered with during performances.
Bebe S.
Lmk how the PT appt goes ;)
He furrowed his brows in confusion for a brief moment, but a small chuckle soon escaped him, his voice still scratchy from sleep. It was typical of the nosy blonde to remember that Tweek was scheduled to meet with his new (allegedly charming and good-looking) physical therapist today.
His thumbs danced across the cracked screen, typing a response.
Tweek T.
Good morning to you, too. I’m not meeting him till later in the afternoon.
He watched the pulsing dots before receiving Bebe’s reply.
Bebe S.
Boo! Was hoping u were meeting w him before class. See u soon xoxo
Tweek rolled his eyes affectionately, setting his phone aside and downing the rest of his coffee. He considered eating a granola bar for breakfast, but ultimately decided against it. He’d never really been a breakfast person.
From the nearly empty fridge, Tweek fetched a water bottle and a Tupperware container labeled “Tuesday,” filled with the chicken Caesar salad he’d prepped the night before. Given his sensitive stomach, salads were the go-to lunchtime option. They were light and convenient, and eating anything more than his small appetite would allow left him feeling sluggish for the rest of the day.
He also couldn’t complain about what they did for his figure.
He placed the container in his lunchbox, along with a banana and a protein bar for snacking on in case he needed energy between classes.
By the door, Tweek’s dance bag sat ready for him to double-and-triple-check. He often worried that something vital might somehow vanish the moment he needed it. He knelt beside the bag and added his lunch to the assortment of items that he had already packed. His ballet slippers were nestled in their mesh pouch, along with his jazz shoes, ready for his noon class. Resistive bands, a small massage ball, a notebook filled with scribbled critiques from his instructors, pencils, a phone charger, and a compact first-aid kit containing blister patches and athletic tape were messily strewn about.
He cringed as he pulled out an empty Greek yogurt container from the depths of the bag. I really need to clean this thing out.
Tweek slung the duffel over his shoulder, scanning the apartment one final time, ensuring that all of the windows were secured and the coffee maker was off. Satisfied that all was in order, he stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind him.
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It was 8:45 when he arrived at the studio, grateful to whichever higher power that his apartment was only a five-minute walk from the main building. Music drifted faintly from adjacent studios, muffled laughter echoing off the hallway walls as he entered Studio Three.
Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over the rosin-stained marley floor and mirrored walls. A handful of dancers had already settled into the space, some already gravitating towards their preferred spot at the barre while others stretched and rolled out their calves over foam rollers near their belongings.
Tweek nibbled at his chapped lower lip, surveying the studio and looking around for—ah. There they were.
Across the room, Bebe Stevens and Wendy Testaburger sat cross-legged on the floor beside the windows, absorbed in conversation. Bebe was working on her feet, rubbing the knuckles of her thumbs against her arches while Wendy broke in her new pointe shoes by bending them at the shanks.
Bebe’s bouncy blonde curls were slicked back and tucked into a neat French twist, adorned with naturally colored bobby pins to keep any wayward strands in check. Wendy’s black hair was secured in a low bun, carefully twisted to remain firm and secure against the nape of her neck. Her bangs, which were usually pinned back during class, hung loose to frame her slender face.
The girls looked up simultaneously as Tweek approached.
“Well, look who finally showed up before the pianist,” Bebe teased, flashing a grin.
Tweek snorted as he plopped down beside Wendy, discarding his sandals and bag. “I was early yesterday,” he defended half-heartedly.
“By three minutes, mind you,” Wendy corrected matter-of-factly. She continued to bend her left pointe shoe back and forth, gradually softening the arch before deeply pressing into the sides of the tip with her manicured thumbs. “That’s hardly early.”
Tweek shrugged indifferently, unable to muster a retort. Instead, he began to roll out his neck, closing his eyes and letting out a soft sigh as he prepared his muscles for the day of classes ahead.
“New shoes?” He asked upon reopening his eyes, pointing to the pair of baby-pink pointe shoes Wendy was aggressively trying to break in.
“Yeah,” she furrowed her brows, placing one palm on top of the square-like tip of the shoe and bracing the other on her thigh as she pressed down. “My old pair died yesterday during Snow rehearsal. I didn’t have time to sew the ribbons on my other Gaynors before class, so I’m stuck with these backup Grishkos until tomorrow.”
She gave the shoe another firm bend, huffing in frustration.
“The box is way too hard, though—”
“God, my feet are killing me…” Bebe interrupted with a whine, scowling at her feet as she flexed her leg and twisted her ankle, thrusting her foot in Tweek’s face. “Look at these fucking things!”
Tweek recoiled with a surprised grunt at the unexpected gesture, his eyes going wide as he peered down at her injured foot. He grimaced at her bruised and blistered toes, already encased in the protective gel-squares of second skin.
“Jesus—ngh—Bebe, please conceal those wretched things,” Tweek reprimanded with a mixture of amusement and disgust, playfully pushing her leg down.
“I swear to god, this blister is gonna burst while en pointe,” she complained. Turning to Wendy, she pleaded, “Can I borrow some lambs' wool, babes?”
Wendy nodded and rummaged through her tote, tossing Bebe a small container of lambs' wool. Being a principal dancer, she possessed the uncanny ability to always have enough extra gear to rescue whoever needed it throughout the day.
Usually, it was just Bebe.
As Bebe tucked the lambs' wool away for later, Wendy’s attention shifted to Tweek, who was busy gathering his hair into a short ponytail.
“How’s your Achilles feeling, Tweek?” She asked.
Tweek glanced down at his right foot, rolling his ankle in slow, deliberate circles before letting out a thoughtful hum.
“It’s a little better, I think. Still pretty tender, though. Rehearsal yesterday was a nightmare.”
Wendy nodded sympathetically and secured her bangs with a clip.
“You’re seeing your new physical therapist today, right?” she asked. “Hopefully he’ll have some new exercises to help keep those flare-ups under control.”
Tweek huffed quietly in agreement. His Achilles tendinitis had been a constant source of frustration this past year, made worse by the fact that his previous physical therapist had been spectacularly useless. One of his instructors had recently recommended someone new in the area—a guy named Craig… Tucker? Thompson? Something with a T. He worked at a new clinic downtown called Nova PT.
Between classes, rehearsals, and performances, he hadn’t found the time to do his usual deep dive into the man’s credentials. Or, more realistically, shamelessly stalk him online. Judging by the way Bebe kept biting back amused little smiles whenever his upcoming appointment came up in conversation, he was beginning to regret that lack of preparation.
“What time are you meeting with him?” Bebe asked, feigning innocence as she tugged her leg warmers over her tights.
“Around three,” Tweek answered, fishing his ballet flats out of his bag.
“Have fun,” she said with a poorly concealed snicker, earning a knowing look from Wendy.
Tweek froze mid-motion, one flat in hand, and narrowed his eyes at her.
“… What’s that supposed to mean?”
Before Bebe could answer, a fresh wave of dancers filtered into the studio, followed closely by Madame Strong. The conversation dissolved as the three of them rose to their feet, placed their bags neatly against the wall, and made their way to the barre to claim their usual spots.
As the pianist began the opening notes and the class warmed up with pliés, tendus, and ronds de jambe, Tweek found his thoughts drifting back to his mysterious new physical therapist.
__________________________________
By the time Tweek had reached the clinic that afternoon, he’d already talked himself out of multiple full-blown panic attacks.
He was being an idiot. It was a physical therapy appointment. That was all.
Bebe was just being weird because she was, well… Bebe. She’s a professional instigator whose main source of joy is making Tweek squirm.
All he had to do was meet the therapist, explain the issue with his Achilles, go over how he’s prone to injury, and get started on a new conditioning regimen. It wasn’t anything new; he’d done this a million times.
So why was he so fucking nervous?
So nervous, in fact, that he had spent the entire walk from the studio rehearsing introductions in his head.
Hi, I’m Tweek. I dance professionally. My Achilles is being a pain in the ass. Fix it.
Nope, too blunt. Scratch that. Don’t say that.
Hi, I’m Tweek. Sorry if I seem nervous, but apparently you’re some ridiculously hot stud my friends won’t stop giggling about. Nice to meet you.
Yeah, absolutely not. Tweek would rather jump out a window.
He had mentally rewritten his introduction at least a dozen times as he walked up the front steps of the clinic.
After checking in, the receptionist pointed him toward the waiting area. Tweek thanked her and settled in one of the chairs, his knee bouncing restlessly as he pretended to scroll through his phone.
A few minutes had passed before the sound of approaching steps caught his attention.
“Tweek Tweak?”
His head snapped up.
The man standing there held a clipboard tucked against his side, dressed in a simple navy Nova PT polo and neatly pressed slacks.
He was also, hey, fucking gorgeous.
His olive-toned complexion complemented the sharp angles of his face, from an unfairly defined jawline to the drooping slope of his nose, which somehow made his features that much more striking. His dark hair was neatly styled without looking stiff or overdone, soft bangs falling just enough to brush his eyebrows and frame his face, the ends grazing the area around his eyes.
Oh, Jesus, his eyes.
They were a rich, warm amber, unlike anything Tweek had seen before. He didn’t even know it was possible for eyes to come in that striking shade. As if that wasn’t enough, a small beauty mark rested just beneath his left eye, perched perfectly on the apple of his cheek.
Seriously?
How was it fair for someone to have all of that going for them?
Tweek suddenly felt sick.
Who the hell was this beautiful freak of nature? And why was he looking at him like that? How long had Tweek been sitting there staring? Had he already said something?
Oh, God. Had he just asked him something, and Tweek had been too busy mentally undressing him with his eyes to even hear?
“Craig Tucker,” the man introduced himself, his voice professional and his expression impossible to read. “I’m your physical therapist.”
Oh.
Oh, shit.
That was not what Tweek had been expecting.
After all the hype Bebe had given him, he’d prepared himself for someone attractive enough. He’d pictured someone along the lines of a Matt Damon type—good-looking, sure, but in a normal, approachable way (no offense, Matt Damon). Maybe a little older, with a few graying hairs and an aura that came with years of experience.
Not… this.
Not someone who looked like they’d wandered off the set of a Calvin Klein campaign and accidentally ended up working in sports medicine.
And definitely not someone who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Tweek himself.
I’m gonna kill Bebe.
Tweek snapped out of his daze when Craig lifted a thick brow, clearly noticing the fact that he had been staring for longer than was socially acceptable.
“R-Right,” Tweek stammered, scrambling to his feet a little too quickly. The chair scraped the floor beneath him, and he hastily had to grab it and push it back into place. “Craig. Tucker. Right. Yeah, I knew that. I—yeah.”
Was jumping out of a window still a viable option?
Craig simply blinked at him, his expression remaining completely unreadable.
If Tweek weren’t already so mortified, he would’ve been impressed with himself. He hadn’t even made it past the initial introduction, and he was already acting like a nervous wreck.
“Uh…” Tweek cleared his throat, forcing himself to stop fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Sorry. I’m—uh—I’m Tweek.”
He wanted to smack himself. No shit. That’s literally why Craig had just said his name.
Craig’s eyes flickered briefly to the clipboard in his hand before returning to him. “Yeah. I got that.”
Awesome.
Tweek swallowed, feeling his face heat up. “Right. Yeah… good.”
Now that Tweek was on his feet, he had a much better understanding of just how tall Craig was.
The man easily had a couple of heads on him, which wasn’t really saying much considering Tweek stood at a modest five-foot-eight. Not unheard of in the ballet world, but certainly not the ideal height for a male dancer. The industry had always favored a certain build, and Tweek knew that if he hadn’t been as talented and hardworking as he was, he never would’ve made it this far.
Craig, on the other hand, had to be well over six feet. Six-foot-two, maybe even six-foot-three. Tall enough that Tweek had to tilt his head slightly to meet his gaze.
Craig didn’t look annoyed, but he didn’t look amused, either. He watched Tweek with the same unreadable expression, leaving the shorter unable to tell what he was thinking, which was somehow worse.
“Do you want to come back with me?” Craig finally asked.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yep. That’s why I’m here. To go… back there.”
Shut the fuck up, Jesus Christ!
He could feel some blush creeping up his neck, but thankfully, Craig didn’t comment on it. He simply gave a small nod and turned to the hallway, motioning for Tweek to follow.
Trailing a few steps behind, Tweek seized the opportunity to respectfully admire the view.
Emphasis on respectfully.
He kept his eyes firmly above Craig’s waist, hoping that was enough to preserve whatever dignity he had left. As much as he wanted to stare shamelessly, there was still plenty to notice above the waistline. The sleeves of Craig’s polo hugged lean, well-defined biceps that flexed subtly as he carried his clipboard beneath one arm. He wasn’t overly muscular, but he was undeniably fit. A few prominent veins traced down his forearm, disappearing beneath the band of the watch on his left wrist.
Fuck.
Tweek couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious.
Craig led him into a small treatment room, his name displayed on a plaque beside the door. Inside, a padded, paper-lined examination table sat near one wall, while a height-adjustable workstation occupied the other.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” Craig said, gesturing to the table.
Tweek set his dance bag on the floor beside him and climbed onto the edge of the table. Craig crossed to the standing workstation and logged into the computer, pulling up what Tweek assumed to be his referral and medical records.
The office itself was exactly what Tweek had expected from a physical therapy office. Potted plants sat in the corners of the room (that Tweek had a sneaking suspicion were fake), and Craig’s credentials were neatly framed on the wall behind the workstation. His Doctor of Physical Therapy degree hung beside his state license, while a narrow bookshelf held anatomy textbooks, rehabilitation manuals, and a detailed 3D model of the human foot.
The bachelor’s degree was signed in 2018. He did the math in his head.
Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?
He was only about two or three years older than Tweek.
His attention then drifted to the workstation. Everything was organized cleanly: the monitor was centered above a pull-out keyboard, pens were located in a small holder, a stress ball colored as the earth rested beside the mouse, and—what the fuck?
Tweek narrowed his eyes.
Was that… a guinea pig?
A small picture frame sat near the edge of the desk, angled just enough for Tweek to see it. Inside was a brown-and-white guinea pig, its little black eyes fixed on whoever was behind the camera, wearing a very serious expression.
Tweek softly laughed under his breath.
“Is that your guinea pig?” He asked, nodding toward the framed photo.
Craig glanced up from the monitor, seeming faintly surprised that Tweek had broken the silence. His eyes followed Tweek’s to the picture, and for the first time since they’d met, his stoic face softened ever so slightly.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s Stripe.”
A smile tugged at Tweek’s lips.
“He’s cute. Or—is it a she?”
“He,” Craig confirmed, attention returning to the computer.
Tweek hummed in response, his smile lingering as he murmured, “Cute,” once more. The room settled into a comfortable quiet again. Tweek drummed his fingertips lightly against his thighs while Craig finished reviewing his chart. After another moment, Craig finally cleared his throat and turned back to him.
“I looked over the information you sent over, but I want to hear everything from you directly,” Craig explained.
“Right. Yeah, um…” Tweek paused, collecting his thoughts before motioning towards his right leg hanging over the edge of the table. “Basically, my Achilles has been giving me problems for a while. It’s never been, like, a full tear or anything serious like that, but I’ve been having a lot of flare-ups. Especially during rehearsal periods when the workload gets heavier.”
Craig nodded, looking down at his clipboard as he listened. “How long has that been going on?”
“Off and on? A couple of years now.”
Tweek leaned forward slightly, rubbing his palms up and down the skin of his thighs in a self-soothing motion. Craig’s eyes instinctively followed the movement, flickering over his legs before quickly looking back up at Tweek’s face.
“I’m a ballet dancer, so obviously my feet and ankles take a lot of—ngh—stress. Classes, jumps, partnering, rehearsal six days a week… it all kind of adds up.”
He shifted slightly on the table before continuing.
“I’ve been trying to manage it,” he explained. “Stretching, strengthening exercises, icing it when it gets bad. But lately it’s been harder to ignore.”
Craig hummed.
“What does the pain feel like?”
Tweek thought for a moment. “Mostly tightness. Sometimes it’s a sharp pain if I push too far. The worst is after long rehearsal days—we’re getting ready for The Nutcracker right now, and both of my roles involve a lot of jumps.”
Craig tilted his head. “Which roles?”
“The Harlequin Doll and Russian lead.”
Craig blinked.
Right, Tweek thought, he’s a general PT, not a dance specialist.
“Hang on—“ Tweek reached down into his bag, fishing out his phone. After a few seconds of fumbling through his music library, he tapped on The Nutcracker and held the speaker up as the recognizable opening notes of Scene XII: Trepak began.
He gave it a moment, waiting until the melody seemed to register in the brunette’s mind.
A quiet whistle escaped Craig as he clicked something on the computer, and Tweek immediately had to force himself not to fixate on the way his lips rounded to create the sound.
“Okay, so, a lot of jumping.”
Tweek let out a short laugh, nodding in agreement as he stuffed his phone into his pocket and picked absently at a stray piece of lint on his shorts.
He’d changed before the appointment, trading his usual dancewear for something more comfortable, now wearing a pair of athletic shorts and an oversized hoodie.
“So,” Craig said, “high-impact rehearsals make it worse. What about classes?”
“Depends on the day. Technique is my first class of the day and is usually okay once I’m warm, but allegro can aggravate it. Allegro means quick and fast movements,” he clarified before Craig even had the opportunity to ask. “Partnering’s hit or miss, but I don’t usually do that a lot since I’m primarily cast in soloist and character roles. If I’ve already had a long day, I definitely notice it.”
Craig nodded, typing something down.
“Any swelling?”
“A little, mostly around the tendon. It’s not terrible.”
“Any stiffness when you wake up?”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“Have you taken any significant time off because of it?”
Tweek laughed humorlessly.
“I’m trying to get promoted to principal dancer.”
Craig stared at him blankly. At first, Tweek thought Craig didn’t appreciate his slightly sarcastic response, but soon realized that the man was genuinely waiting for an explanation—as if he didn’t quite understand why that response answered his question.
Tweek’s smile faltered. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.
“… No. I haven’t.”
Craig nodded, finishing whatever it was he was typing before he pushed his desk to the side and dispensed a pump of hand sanitizer into his palms, rubbing his hands together until the gel had dried.
“Lift your right leg for me?” he asked as he moved to stand in front of the treatment table.
Tweek nodded. He leaned back, resting his weight on his hands, and raised his right leg, keeping it relaxed while Craig gently took hold of his ankle.
Without a word, Craig began to examine his lower leg, his fingers tracing carefully along the length of Tweek’s Achilles tendon before moving up into his calf. His touch was intentional and methodical, applying pressure in different spots as he assessed the muscle.
Tweek did his best to focus on literally anything else, suddenly engrossed in the anatomy chart hung on the wall across the room.
After about a minute of silent assessment, Craig stepped back.
“Go ahead and lie on your stomach,” Craig instructed.
Tweek did as he was told, settling onto the treatment table with practiced ease and letting his feet hang over the edge. He’d been to enough physical therapy appointments to know what came next.
Craig positioned himself beside the table and began palpating Tweek’s calf, starting just below the crease of his knee before working his way down in slow, deliberate passes.
Good God, his hands were so warm.
“Let me know if anything is tender,” Craig said, his voice quieter now.
Tweek gave a small nod, his cheek squished against the crinkling paper. He’s just doing his job, he reminded himself. Get your head out of the fucking gutter.
Unfortunately, the mental reminder did little to silence his intrusive thoughts every time Craig’s strong hands shifted against his skin.
This is too much pressure.
“Am I pressing too hard?” Craig questioned suddenly, easing up on the pressure. Tweek’s eyes flew open.
Oh my god.
Had he said that out loud?
“N-No,” he stammered, his voice muffled against the table. “No, sorry, I just… I was thinking of something else. Sorry.”
Craig nodded from behind, resuming his ministrations as Tweek’s face scrunched in humiliation.
Then, Craig’s fingers pressed into a spot just above his Achilles tendon.
Tweek flinched and sucked in a sharp breath.
“There?” Craig asked immediately.
“T-That—yeah. There.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It’s just really—ngh—sensitive.”
Craig steadied Tweek’s ankle with one hand while the other rested lightly over the inflamed tendon.
“Can you point your foot for me?”
Tweek hummed, slowly extending his foot, and moved from a relaxed position to a full point before returning to neutral. At Craig’s instruction, he repeated the motion a few more times while Craig watched the tendon glide beneath the skin.
Craig released his ankle and took a step back.
“You can sit up.”
Tweek pushed himself upright as Craig returned to his standing workstation, his fingers moving across the keyboard while he entered a few notes into Tweek’s chart.
Left with nothing to do, Tweek absentmindedly began to pick at the abused skin around his thumb. The habit lasted all of three seconds before he caught himself.
Stop.
His therapist’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, reminding him to redirect the urge whenever he noticed it. With a quiet breath, Tweek tucked both his hands beneath his thighs instead, waiting for Craig to finish typing.
“Okay, well, it’s definitely Achilles tendinitis,” Craig said, rolling his neck before his eyes landed back on Tweek. “It’s common, especially for athletes.”
Tweek could’ve told him that much, but he kept his mouth shut as Craig continued.
“It’s basically irritation and degeneration of the tendon from overuse. You need to reduce the irritation, strengthen it, and make sure you’re not over-compensating with your left leg.”
Craig pulled up a new page on his monitor.
“For the next few weeks, I want you doing eccentric calf raises, slow on the way down. Don’t rush through them. You also need to keep stretching, but don’t aggressively stretch it while it’s already irritated. That won’t help you.”
He turned, eyeing Tweek.
“You’re a dancer, yeah, but you’re also a person. Your body doesn’t care if you’re trying to get promoted or not.”
Tweek winced at that, but he knew it was true. He hadn’t been taking care of himself to the fullest extent.
“Come back once a week for the next month so we can monitor your progress. I’m emailing you a home exercise program along with your next appointment details, and I want you to track your pain levels during rehearsals.”
“Like a journal?” Tweek asked.
Craig nodded simply, crossing his arms and leaning against the workstation by his hip. Tweek gulped.
“Journal, diary, notes app, I don’t really care. I just want you to track it. If it’s a three out of ten after rehearsal, fine. If it’s an eight, and you’re limping through the studio, that’s not fine.”
Okay, he thought. That’s manageable.
Tweek gathered his things as Craig printed out an extra copy of the exercises and instructions, just in case Tweek lost the email. Knowing Tweek, there was a non-zero chance that would happen.
“Thanks,” Tweek said, tucking the papers into his bag and looking up at the taller.
Craig nodded slightly.
“See you next week, Tweek.”
The way he said his name did something weird to Tweek’s stomach, but he didn’t let it show.
“Yeah. See you.”
As Tweek stepped out of the small office, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, taking a moment to orient himself before heading toward the exit.
As he passed the receptionist's desk and offered a polite farewell, something caught his attention.
A pamphlet holder sat on the marble countertop, filled with the usual clinic materials—brochures about injury prevention, mobility, rehabilitation, recovery… nothing that particularly interested him.
Except for one.
Personal Training & Athletic Conditioning.
Tweek paused.
Below the title was a familiar name.
Craig Tucker
Physical Therapist & Certified Trainer.
Huh.
Before he could think too hard about why that caught his interest, his shaky hand had already reached out and grabbed the pamphlet, slipping it neatly into the side pocket of his duffel.
Then, before he could start overthinking it, Tweek turned and walked out of the clinic.
Tweek pulled his phone from his pocket as he walked back toward his apartment, waking the screen and turning off do-not-disturb.
There was a new message from Bebe.
Bebe S.
So??? How’d it go?? ;) ;)
Tweek T.
You’re so dead.