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It’s truly not hard to teach someone how to perform just one dance. Sure, there are hiccups, but there’s things that go a bit better too. A proper dancer would need to know the ins and outs of a plié, the five positions, and other basic maneuvers of that nature before they ever thought to an arabesque, let alone a grand jeté. The mechanics build off each other, a ladder of skill and collection of muscle memory working together to form a unified and well-built dancer.
But just one dance could allow for some short-cuts, especially if one is on a tight schedule. Like, perhaps, being given corporeal form rather recently, and desiring to perform for your King. Such had been the start of Blue and Yellow’s dancing lessons.
Yellow had latched onto Asgore’s love of old cowboy films, the sound of banjos and faux gunshots rattling from the old CRT. But Blue had a passion for the times, far sparser they were, that Asgore would turn on ballet performances. Swan Lake, Romeo and Juliet, The Nutcracker. Tales given form through wordless dance and musical passion. When given the opportunity— the body— to dance, Blue knew he had to do an excerpt from the production. Without much time, both to practice and perform, Blue knew he needed to do a piece that popped! Well, what better than a pas de deux? Double the dancers, double the oomph.
Of course, there was no Flower that Blue would rather perform with than his dear Yellow, as clumsy and unintelligent as the others may claim him to be. But Blue knew it wasn’t so, knew that Yellow had an intelligence to him that simply worked differently. Even if he wasn’t much for words, Yellow was fluent in the language of emotion. And dance didn’t truly need words— it didn’t matter if Yellow could pronounce pas de basque, all that mattered was if he could perform the action.
Plus, Yellow’s role as Prince Siegfried, the traditional male role, gave him some leeway. It would still need skill and coordination, but Yellow wouldn’t need the sort of weightless grace that took dancers years of practice (or in Blue’s case, years of observation and absorption) to achieve. He would simply need the passion to keep up, the same passion that Yellow poured into just about everything he did. Blue wasn’t worried.
Of course, the whole plan had been doomed from the start. Not through any fault of the duet’s, but rather… well, King Asgore was a busy man. Then he was gone. The Flowers, watching their Fountain trickle to a stop, watching the sun set on their perfect world, did not expect to Exist again. This was their Eden, their paradise, but the apple had been bitten and they were now to be cast away, back into simple flowers, a bouquet meant to be forgotten and discarded.
But Susie, dearest Susie, refused. Blue had adored Susie from the moment he’d first heard the song of her heart. The cacophony of sleigh bells practically screaming the name Noelle Holiday were the most prevalent, but it was backed by a wonderful symphony of instruments, a heart so full of love that it might just burst. Love for a world that barely ever gave back. This was the song that accompanied their arrival to Castle Town, one that answered all his questions before he could ever ask them.
Of course she’d done it. Of course she’d figure it out. She was Susie.
But still. Blue felt distinctly unmoored, in a new location for the first time in a long time, without the steady and guiding hands of Asgore. This wasn’t meant to be a tragedy.
It takes some time to get all of them their rooms. They aren’t bedrooms in the traditional sense, given that Flowers don’t sleep the way Real Humans do— and they’ve all come to terms with the fact that they're not Real Humans, though a few of the others still refuse to believe that they don’t at least look the part— but their rooms are rather more reflective of their hobbies. A kitchen for Green (even if they’re free to use Ralsei’s cauldron at any time), a practice studio for Blue, a library for Seth. Aqua spends much of her time in Orange’s traditional Japanese dojo, much unlike the ‘Love Dojo’ down in the midst of Castle Town, though Aqua’s own room is a play area with an eclectic collection of games of every kind (alongside a variety of dulled knives). Yellow has something that Ralsei calls Ralsei Rancher, though Susie refuses to let any of them touch it, and Flowery’s room is a pleasant mix of one of his Diners and the Quiet Glade from their Dark World.
When Blue sees his new studio, there’s a moment of bitter discomfort. Asgore introduced him to ballet, passed down his fondness for the music and movement and life and love, then didn’t even care to share it with him once Blue was physically capable. The others miss Asgore, and truly Blue does too, but it feels like there’s a festering spot of mold next to his heart, one that might spread and decay his whole being if he doesn’t snip it right out.
Besides, if he comes to despise anything that he should associate with Asgore, then however is he meant to love Yellow, to love his bouquet of siblings? It’s preposterous.
So, he simply returns to dancing. It comes easy, once he’s in the room and the music starts to flow, to lose any inhibitions he may have had. To move because he wants to, to love simply because that's who he is. Like always, it doesn’t take long for Yellow to find him— an ineffable draw that ties the two of them together, fate decreeing they should be together before they ever were anything at all. So Yellow finds him at the barre.
“Aye, Blue, it’s good t’see yer dancin’!” Blue looks over his shoulder at the man, a bright smile cutting across his concentration. Yellow, for his part, looks adorably fond, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops as he leans against the doorframe. The perfect picture of a dashing cowboy.
“Hello, dear,” Blue greets with a serene nod. He keeps his fondus going, even as his concentration is now elsewhere. “I suppose it’s been a while since I have had access to a proper studio, it’s nice to be back.”
Yellow blinks, tilting his head. “Naw, it ain’t just that— Well it is true you ain’t had a good place to dance n’all, but you ain’t been twirlin’ around all purdy-like just ‘cause, at least not like youse used to.”
Blue stills at the observation, considering. “Oh. I suppose you’re right, my love. I hadn’t even noticed.” His hand falls away from the barre, a frown pulling at his features for a moment. “I’ll get back in the habit, most likely. You needn’t worry.”
Yellow rocks on his heels for a moment, his lips twisting as he stares at the vinyl flooring. Blue gives him the space to think with ease, moving to the center of the floor rather than the barre.
“Hey, we’s never did that per-four-mants for Asgore like we saids we would. Didja wanna… Keep doing that?”
Blue looks back at him, brows furrowing in consideration. He wasn’t sure if Yellow would’ve wanted to, not wanting to ask because he wasn’t certain that Yellow would state his real opinion on the matter. But with his time in Castle Town, Yellow has been slowly-but-surely gaining confidence in stating his own thoughts. Mostly because the alternative left him at the whims of Castle Town’s more eccentric residents. Blue could scare off that Rouxls guy fine enough, but not even he could interrupt Queen once Yellow’s accidentally gone and provoked her into something strange.
So while Yellow wasn’t always the most straight-forward, he was getting there, and this offer was rather clear. I want to, but I’m worried you’ll be upset. Do you want to?
“I’d love to.” Blue finally answers, voice soft and fond. “Would you like to get some practice in?”
Yellow nods, smiling, and walks further into the studio. “Ah-ah-ah!” Blue tuts, causing Yellow to practically jump out of his boots. His hat goes soaring upwards, before floating back down to land on his disheveled head. “Boots off if we’re dancing.”
Yellow looks down at them. “You ain’t never said that before?” He mumbles, but leans down to pull them off regardless.
“Before, we did all our practice on the wooden stage. This is a different type of floor, dear. No boots.” Blue taps the box of his pointé shoe against the vinyl flooring. Then, he takes a moment to consider, before tacking on, “No hat either, it’ll get in the way.”
Yellow gives a disgruntled frown, but Blue can see in his eyes that the cowboy isn’t too bothered by the dress code. Blue makes his way over to a cabinet in the corner, filled with various supplies. He skips past all the spare leotards and tights, pointé shoes and hairnets, to dig around through the collection of simple ballet flats. He eyeballs a pair, then Yellow’s discarded boots, before nodding. “Put these on? They should fit.”
He hands them to Yellow, who looks at them like he’s never seen such a confounding shoe in his life, then pulls them on. He wobbles a bit as he stands, walking with an unfamiliar gait as they get into the beginning poses of their duet. “I’unno how you ballet-rinas can move in these darn things, feels like my feet are gonna slide right under me. An’ don’t even get me started on them boxy ones youse wear, them things scare me. Like Queen’s still-letters, but without even the back to keep youse up.”
“I know they feel odd, but you’re perfectly alright. Just try to keep your weight in the front of your feet. My pointé shoes are certaintly not for the faint of heart, and neither are stilettos, but practice makes perfect.” Blue placates, nudging Yellow's foot until he shuffles it into a more accurate position. He still seems uncertain in the loaned flats, ankles wobbling at the lack of support. Blue feels for him— the fabric shoes aren't very much of anything, especially when compared to Yellow's usual sturdy cowboy boots. Boots that were absolutely banned from being worn for longer than five minutes on the vinyl flooring, especially if they’d be dancing. “And I'm a danseur, dear.”
“Hmm. I knew yer a dancer, Blue,” Yellow replies, sticking his tongue out as he looks at both of their feet in concentration. “But I's thought youse was a ballet-rina ‘cause you do ballet?”
Blue lets a tender smile grace his lips, though he refrains from kissing the concentration off his partner’s face. It seems the conversation on footwear has been abandoned for words, as Yellow tends to do nowadays. His commitment to learning more of Blue’s vocabulary makes his heart beat loud and melodic in his chest, aortas plucked like a harp just for his dear cowboy. “I do ballet,” Blue acquiesces, turning to stand properly into his own positioning as Yellow finds his footing. “But ballerinas are mademoiselles— that is, women. As a man, I'd be a danseur.”
Yellow nods slowly, a few strands of his hair moving in front of his eyes. He blows them away with a huff, though they fall again mere seconds later. Blue reaches back to tuck them behind his ear, the action familiar despite the strange angle, before lifting onto pointé.
“So if Orange or Aqua was doin’ ballet, they'd be ballet-rinas, but you, me ‘n’ Flowery are dancers?” Blue nods, not bothering with pronunciation correction. Yellow's manner of speech was endearing, and Blue has learned that accuracy comes with familiarity. “Whats about Seth and Green?”
Blue pauses, thoughtful. His arms rise to fourth as he considers the question. “I can't say I know of a specific term off the top of my head… I believe they'd just be called dancers.”
Yellow’s own arms raise quickly, suddenly remembering their previous lessons. His right hand cups Blue's right wrist, while Blue's left hand rests delicately in Yellow's larger palm.
“I'see, this is mighty interestin’ Blue!” Yellow chirps as music begins to play. The Dark World, in all it's mystical and knowing glory, keeps the music low to allow for both conversation and correction. The violin and harp combine to form the soothing melody, an excerpt of Dances of the Swans.
While the words from another may have sounded placating, from Yellow they simply ooze genuineness. Integrity, if you will.
Blue lifts his leg into passé, then begins the partnered pirouette. He can feel Yellow’s laser focus as his hands shift on Blue’s hips, guiding the spin into the arabesque. In the corner of his eye, Blue can see Yellow attempt the associated tendu, though it’s loose and lacks the firm point that it should. He mentally notes to tell him later. Yellow’s hands are steady as they hold Blue’s hips, and that’s the main action of importance.
“Though,” Blue notes, the thought striking him. “There's another term that would fit you better, actually. A male dancer that acts primarily as a support to his partner is called a cavalier.”
Blue hears a scuff as their combined balance shifts. He looks over his shoulder, only to see Yellow's cheeks fully flushed a pretty salmon color. “I'ma— a cavalry?”
Blue nearly bursts out laughing. Only experience with Yellow's gentle heart keeps the amusement off his face. Not laughing at Yellow, never, but the awe on his face at the thought of being cavalry, something Blue understands to be somewhat related to cowboys? Well, it just makes something joyful stir in Blue's petals.
Alongside suppressed laughter, Blue must also suppress the whimsical blossoming of his wings. No use in further breaking Yellow’s concentration with a mouthful of scales.
“Cavalier,” he corrects kindly, though he doesn’t feel this correction to be of much importance. “But, I believe they are meant to be similar, yes. Reliable, strong, dependable.”
The flush spreads to Yellow’s ears. Goodness, they’re both quite distracting for each other, aren’t they? The music continues without them as Blue holds the arabesque far longer than he should. Then, given that they’ve firmly lost their place in the choreography, Blue decides to improvise a little. He drops his back leg into fifth position, executing a sharp pencil turn once, twice, until he’s stopping to face Yellow. Yellow, bless his heart, looks overwhelmed at the movement— but he kept his hands on Blue’s waist, still steady, and when Blue lowers his palms, Yellow’s own come up to hold them. His grip is loose, just like Blue taught him, allowing Blue the theoretical freedom to return to the dance. Reliable, strong, dependable.
Yellow may not be much for vocabulary, but he truly could be as smart as a whip, no matter what he or the rest of the Flowers said.
But Blue has no desire to reorient their place in the music, so he grasps Yellow’s hands firmly in return. Yellow’s eyes dart to them, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “I— I’s dunno about all that, Blue…”
Such a good, sweet thing, and lacking so much in confidence. Blue tuts, pulling his hands away. Yellow’s flutter in the air for a moment, before falling back to Blue’s hips. Blue executes another partnered pirouette, this time finishing with a front attitude rather than a back arabesque, his bent leg hardly bringing him any balance issues as Yellow, shifting back to hold him by the hand rather than the hips, keeps him steady. “Reliable,” Blue murmurs, watching Yellow’s shock form clear on his face.
Then, Blue pulls Yellow in. Yellow steps forward, feet just a bit too heavy against the vinyl, but his body seems to recognize the move as one arm swoops behind Blue’s lower back. Blue bends backwards over the appendage, rocking on the box of his pointé shoe. His arms raise above his head, but he dips low enough over Yellow’s arm that his fingertips nearly grace the floor. He wishes he could see Yellow from this angle, moving with him in the dip. Blue can imagine his straw-colored hair falling in a halo around them, shadows obscuring the firm look of concentration that Yellow always makes when he dances properly, overtaking even his most anxious expressions. A little selfishly, Blue wonders what Yellow must think of his own view— the angle isn’t particularly pretty, the long expanse of his neck and awkward underside of his jaw.
Instead of lingering on that thought, Blue continues his point. “Dependable,” he notes, a touch breathless as Yellow draws him back up out of the move, legs coming together then sweeping into another back arabesque as he straightens. Yellow remains his dutiful cavalier, hands once more at his hips, as Blue leans forward, bends his front knee, then finally comes to rest with both feet on the ground. Yellow blinks, his concentration once more breaking as Blue doesn’t continue the dance, though it seems he hadn’t once lost the color in his cheeks.
The example for strong is obvious to Blue, but their methodology leaves much to be desired in terms of execution. They can’t truly be hurt in any significant way here, not without some major intention, besides maybe some bumps and bruising, but Yellow would work himself into an absolute tizzy if he dropped Blue. Plus, not many lifts are performed facing each other, so it’ll be up to Yellow to understand and adapt.
But Blue barely has to give it any thought. He trusts him.
There are a few straight lifts in their excerpt of Dances of the Swan, ones where Yellow holds him in the air for just a moment by the hips. Blue sautés, still facing away from Yellow, and the motion is similar enough that Yellow follows through on the move easily. However, instead of performing the associated grand jeté, Blue instead sits delicately on Yellow’s shoulder. It’s not a move he’d typically choreograph for the two of them, as Yellow’s more lithe figure makes it a tad awkward, but Blue swiftly hooks his right leg around Yellow’s right arm, and falls forward into ‘fish’. Yellow makes an adorable guh?! noise as his left arm comes to wrap around Blue’s chest. He doesn’t quite position himself correctly, not that Blue had expected him to, but Blue never feels even an ounce of fear.
“Strong!”
“Blue—”
“My ca~va~lier,” Blue sing-songs, cutting off Yellow’s needless anxiety. His front leg straightens, finding its footing on the studio flooring. He settles once more into a back arabesque, and Yellow loosens his grip slowly once he realizes that Blue is back on solid ground. His hands fall away fully as Blue straightens fully onto his feet once more. “My cowboy, my cavalry, my cavalier. Whichever do you prefer?”
“Oh, shucks,” Blue gracefully ignores the murmured corn reasons, “I’m just pleased as punch for you t’call me anythin’ at all. But I do quite like your purdy words, even if I never get’em quite right m’self.”
Yellow has a bashful smile, and he reaches up to pull on his cowboy hat. It isn’t there, per Blue’s studio rules, though that one was a more selfish implementation. He just wanted to see Yellow better.
The sight of him now, bashful and rosy, sweet and kind, running a nervous hand through his hair, finally has Blue’s wings blooming from his back in a puff of sparkles and petals. Yellow titters a little laugh, and Blue is reminded that the cowboy can read his mannerisms just as well.
“Gosh,” Blue laments, curling his arms around Yellow’s shoulders. He leans down obediently, recognizing that this was no dance move. “However are we going to get through lessons, distracting each other like this?”
Yellow visibly fights another bout of anxiety, placated by Blue’s soft smile and their noses bumping together. “Well. I’on much mind bein’ de-stracted.” Comes his reply, almost on the edge of coy. Blue’s wings give a happy flutter, even if he purses his lips in a mock frown.
“My studio is a professional environment,” Blue notes, eyes shutting.
“I can be profeshunal.”
He cracks open one eye, an eyebrow raising sharply with it, to watch Yellow. A wide grin has broken through his cavalier’s awkward expression, mirth fueling the flush of his cheeks. The sight has Blue’s own lips twitching, a smile fighting for its place against the comedic frown.
“A mature environment,” Blue continues, as if uninterrupted.
Yellow wiggles his eyebrows dramatically. “Uh-huh. I can be M-rated, yessiree!”
Blue cracks, an ugly snort breaking through the bit as his own face flushes violet. Yellow’s grin stretches further, and Blue presses their lips together. It’s barely a kiss, both their grins too wide for any real connection, it’s just a brief moment of existing in physical tandem. Another facet of dance.
“You’re such a fool.” Blue mumbles, pulling back. There’s a smear of blue lipstick across Yellow’s upper lip. Oops.
“Nuh-uh,” Yellow replies, grin turning soft and besotted. “I’m yer cava-layer!”
Blue kisses him again, real and fully, before he can lovingly butcher any more Français.