Will was probably the only one in the entire world who didn't absolutely despise tech week. It was usually deemed Hell Week, and for good reason. Plenty of good reasons, actually, both for the performers and everyone else who made the performance happen.

The long hours cramped in the lighting booth or balancing on the slats of the catwalk and trying not to fall (to impending death) were worth it. Will didn't mind being a techie anyways, even if everyone onstage treated him like the rosin on the bottoms of their pretty satin shoes. To the dancers, Will and the other members of the tech crew were just the Help, the expendable ones.

Plenty of dancers were pretentious, but Will had gotten over feeling like a House Elf or Quasimodo a long time ago. The dancers never got to see the view Will had.

The reason Will didn't hate doing lights for the New York City Ballet was because however rude the dancers were, their art form was beautiful. On the catwalk, above the stage at the Lincoln Performance Center, Will felt like God, or at least one of His angels. The beauty and grace of the people leaping across the sage, flying through the air like they had been born with wings, was not lost on Will.

Maybe it was because Will had two left feet and couldn't keep up a two-step, much less manage the feats the performers on stage made appear effortless.

The spring show was Sleeping Beauty; Will's love of Tchaikovsky was quickly growing.

And so was his love of the prince.

Will's view of the man from his perch on the catwalk was only a little better than a bird's eye view. The prince was lean, with catlike agility, olive skin and a head of dark curls. From his few days in the booth, Will had a slightly better angle, but no matter what the man looked like up close, he was talented. No doubt about it.

He'd heard from previous shows that ballets were all about the primas—the female leads. They were gorgeous, Will would give them that, gorgeous and talented and not the type that gave the backstage crew dirty looks.

But if anything, the male lead was just as important. Maybe more so. Will had learned that in the few ballroom dance lessons he'd been forced into by his mother. It was always up to the man to make his partner look good. The male lead had to be very technical: he had to know the right amount of pressure to use to help his partner pirouette correctly. He had to know how to hold her in lifts without gripping too hard, the distance he had to be from her as to not be hit with the extension of her leg, how he had to stand so the prima could hold onto him with just her legs.

It was those little things that compelled Will to watch so intently. Well, that and the fact that Will had to keep a spotlight on the prince for a majority of the ballet.

"Mark!" The director shouted. Years of dancing had given the director an incredibly set of lungs that were often put to the test. They hadn't failed yet. "Mark, from the beginning please!"

The music started up again, a symphony filtered through the speakers.

The dancers moved together as though they are one mind, moving in tandem. Will's eyes were stuck on the prince as he bounded across the stage. Will followed, trying to keep up with his spotlight.

Six minutes later and the director yelled cut. Something was wrong, she said. Their legs should be higher. Their faces should be more expressive. Try not to look like you're tired and dizzy, she said.

Will wanted to jump up to defend them. The audience won't care. The audience will love it, love the performers, love the art.

Everyone on stage nodded sheepishly. "Back to work!" The director shouted, "From the top again, Mark! Quickly, now. We don't have all day!"

Six hours later, Will climbed down from the catwalk. It was nine pm and his feet were sore from standing for so long. He wanted to go home to his apartment and sleep but he couldn't leave for at least another hour. The director wanted this place swept and the Lincoln was short staffed as it was.

He'd finished dragging the broom and dust pan over from the supply closet backstage. The annoyed looks from the dancers had been enough to make his sweeping look violent.

"So she bosses you around as well?" A voice said from behind Will.

Will whirled around. It was the prince. The dark hair and olive skin were a dead giveaway. Will had never seen his face up close but Lord in Heaven it had to be him because no one's face had ever made Will want to get down on his knees and thank God for His creation.

His lack of answer to the gorgeous man made the prince's grin disappear. Will resisted the urge to shout, "Wait, no! Come back!"

"Sorry," the man said with a blush dusting his cheeks, "That was rude of me to say. It's just, you don't look much like the regular janitors."

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he even had an accent. Vaguely European. He had dark eyes and bowed lips and freckles on his high cheekbones. He looked like royalty.

The perfect fit for a prince in a ballet.

"Oh, no, sorry," Will stuttered, "You j-just surprised me, that's all. I-ah-do some of the lighting. Your director actually scares the shit out of just about every techie here so we all try to do what we can to appease her."

The man laughed. (Will gripped the broom a little tighter to keep his knees from knocking together.) "She scares everyone in the company as well. I'm Nico, by the way."

"Will," Will said, extending a hand and hoping it wasn't too sweaty from his nerves. Even Nico's hands and fingers were graceful as he gave Will's hand and warm and hearty shake.

"It's nice to meet you, Will." Nico said. "Are you enjoying the show?"

"Oh, definitely!" Will said, "It's-it's amazing. You're all so talented, and I'm still a little in shock that I get to watch you all."

Nico blushed again then ducked his head, looking at the floor of the stage. "You're too kind. Sometimes it seems like nothing can please the director."

"Ah, forget about her, the audience won't notice half the imperfections she does. Not saying that you have any imperfections, but just saying that—,"

"I know what you mean, thank you, Will," Nico said, not unkindly. Will was thankful Nico got him to shut up. He could already feel himself going pink in the face.

Nico cleared his throat, "Well, I should really get going. Eight-thirty call time and all."

"Right, right," Will said and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, "And I should get back to sweeping."

Will turned away to go back to his broom when there was a tap on his shoulder. Nico had produced a pen from somewhere (probably his dance bag slung over his shoulder that looked like it could fit a blue whale inside of it) and said, "Usually I would offer you a ticket as an excuse to give you my number, but since you're already here…may I?"

Immediately, Will stuck out his arm to Nico, who pushed the sleeve of his black shirt up enough to write his number on Will's skin.

"There," Nico said after a few seconds, "I will see you tomorrow, Will. Buonanotte."

"Uh, yeah, good night!" Will called after him. He watched Nico walk down the steps on the right side of the stage.

After Nico had left the room, Will turned his attention to the arm Nico wrote on. There, in neat print, was Nico's phone number and a little message: "Nico di Angelo. Your prince charming."