The Rival Acrobat

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The morning air is cool and sharp, the sky a pale canvas as the sun fights to rise above the horizon. Inside the practice tent, the scent of damp rope and sawdust lingers, a familiar presence in the quiet before the day begins.

Ail rolls their shoulders, stretching the stiffness from their body. Across from them, Avik does the same, his jaw set, his expression unreadable. They have trained together for years, their rivalry woven into the very fabric of their performances.

Avik is a force of energy—sharp, fast, and aggressive. Every movement is designed to impress, to dazzle, to overpower. He thrives in the spectacle.

Ail is the opposite. They are calm, methodical, effortless. Their strength lies in precision, in balance, in the mastery of the smallest details.

And that is what infuriates Avik the most.

The tightrope stretches between them, high above the ground, taut and waiting.

Avik smirks, his fingers curling around the wooden pole used for balance. "Try to keep up, Star."

Ail steps onto the rope first, weightless, their expression unreadable.

Avik follows, eyes locked onto them. The moment Ail takes their next step, he mirrors them exactly, matching their rhythm, refusing to be outshone.

Their movements are like a dance of precision and arrogance, a silent battle fought through control and grace.

Avik pushes faster, trying to force Ail to react. He leaps into a turn, the rope swaying slightly beneath him.

Ail, unfazed, responds with their own turn—smoother, quieter, perfect.

The irritation flickers in Avik's eyes.

They continue like this, moving in sync, yet against each other.

Avik twists into a double backflip, landing with a slight bounce but keeping his balance. He turns to Ail, waiting for them to falter.

Ail does not hesitate.

They mirror the double backflip, except when they land, there is no bounce, no adjustment. They are still, poised.

Avik feels a cold rush of frustration.

Ail steps down first, landing lightly on the ground. Avik follows, fists clenched.

"Your tricks are boring, Ail." His voice is edged with something dangerous, something bitter.

Ail turns to him, their expression unreadable, voice steady.

"They are perfect."

For a moment, Avik wants to throw something. To break the stillness around Ail, to shatter the quiet confidence that makes them so untouchable.

But he doesn't.

He sneers, arms crossing over his chest, but deep down, he knows the truth—Ail is better. He hates them for it.

In the dim glow of the lantern, Avik stands before a cracked mirror in his tent. The flickering light casts shadows across his sharp features, his jaw tense, his eyes narrowed.

His reflection stares back, unreadable.

Ail is better.

Not because they try harder. Not because they take risks. But because they don't have to.

Everything about them is effortless—like they were born for this like they don't even care.

Avik tightens his grip on the edge of the table, his knuckles white.

"I will be the best," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "No matter what it takes."

His fingers brush against an old ticket stub pinned to the wall—one from his first performance as a child. A reminder of why he started, why he has to win.

The flames of the lantern flicker, stretching his shadow against the wall.

Tomorrow, he will push harder. He will make Ail acknowledge him.

Because second place is not an option.