so you think you can dance? [pascal]

[FELICE GIRAUD]

Okay, so, technically speaking, Felice wasn’t allowed in here right now. The drama meeting or whatever had ended, and she wasn’t even supposed to have been in here for that. Not that is really mattered. All they’d done was go over dates for auditions and other useless things. Though they did mention that they could use dancers, so she would consider a musical. Still, this world wasn’t really her scene. She belonged in a professional dance company, not amateur hour in a place that smelled like the gymnasium with more paint. Of course, she hadn’t seen any of them perform, but she doubted it would match up to the Broadway world they were surrounded by. Seriously, who went to a high school play in New York City?

Shaking her head at the silliness of it, she waited for the rest of them to clear out then walked to the sound booth, ipod and auxiliary cord in hand. She had on a simple dance outfit, and had laid her pointe shoes in the wings for the moment. When she needed them she would get them, but it was never a good idea to start with pointe unless she wanted her feet to be aching through every other dance she planned on practicing today. Wearing both tights and shorts felt a little constricting as she was used to wearing much less when practicing and performing, but she figured if she hadn’t been dressed somewhat modestly she would’ve been pulled over in the hallways as these American schools seemed to love doing. And at least she’d gotten away with this “croc top” or whatever. Though why they’d name a style of shirt after any reptile was beyond her. Apparently there were shoes of the same name, but they were very taboo.

With so many routines in her brain, old and new, she wasn’t sure which routine she wanted to do first, so she decided she would just start with some improvisation. She set it to shuffle and grinned when “In This Shirt” by The Irrepressibles came on. It was one of her favorites to dance to, but she sprinted back to the stage and leaped on determined not to go with a routine. But she knew the song, and that helped her grasp the feel from the very beginning. And so she began to dance.

She’d stretched while she was waiting, so though it started simply it quickly developed into something more advanced. The song was a sad one, but a fighting one to her. She was lost. But she was soon fighting to become found. She could still stumble, and even fall, but she would be victorious. It was very uplifting in the end, despite the initial dismal feel. As the song ended, her chest heaved satisfactorily from the stunts she hadn’t planned on doing, that she hadn’t done for so long. She’d been so long without dance, and it was so liberating to be back on a stage, even with no one to cheer. She felt free again, like the weight of this stupid school, this stupid country, had been lifted off of her chest.

Oh, it was good to be back.

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notes; sorry this took so long, bizzy darling! also, this is the dance she's doing.
muse; Various dance videos. Mostly Megan Branch. Also The Civil Wars.
outfit; dance dance dance! (and click) =P
credits; zie @ CAUTION!
lyrics by fun.!

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[PASCAL FISCHER]

Where had she gone?

Where the fuck had she gone, that pretty little thing that he'd seen slip into the auditorium, melting into the chaotic fray of some drama meeting or another that had taken place in the massive branch of Baum. He had watched her go in and– unlike the many other, far less becoming actors of the meeting– never had she come out. And Pascal had waited her, so eagerly, like a hunter awaits his every prey. Calm, patient, every tick of the clock a tock closer to his target's death and his family's dinnertime. Deer, anybody?

He waited another ten minutes, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, but damn if Pascal let another tick-tock go by he would drive himself mad! The true beasts of the jungle didn't even have fucking clocks hampering them– but then again, the true beasts of the jungle did not await the kill but chase it, run and jump and bring the naive gazette to the floor in a flurry of blood and claws and all that is unholy about the natural food chain of the animal kingdom.

On the eighteenth minute, Pascal's madness had reached such a point that he could no longer handle it– expecting the auditorium's wide doors to fly open and the girl and her beautiful face to appear on the other end, but never, not once, did they. Finally, he had gone so crazy awaiting the little deer that he could no longer wait. Pascal was no ordinary hunter, after all. He was a cheetah (he could sure run like one), a lion (he could sure roar like one), a wolf of the night (he could sure be sexy like one, as everyone knows that wolves are among the sexiests of beasts in the entire world) (it's just common knowledge).

He entered the auditorium unsure what to find. Perhaps he expected little Felice– that was the name of the girl, Pascal knew– to be fucking the theater instructor on the floor of the big stage. Well, that would serve as an interesting show if nothing else. Perhaps he had anticipated her to be hanging, her neck in a noose, from the ceiling, having stripped herself of her life in the most dramatic way possible. (read: in a theater.) And perhaps he had expected her to have transformed into a werewolf and shackled herself to the wall to prevent herself to go on a rampage in the frenzied state.

Perhaps.

What Pascal did find was the girl, yes, but not in the midst of fervent sex or dead or in the form of a gargantuan black wolf that would, in all likelihood, would have made Pascal piss his pants were it true. What she was doing was some sort of tribal dance, flinging herself across the stage like a flimsy rag doll and yet bearing all the grace of a swan, or the swan princess herself.

She was beautiful, more beautiful than Pascal had remembered her when she had first disappeared into the throng of drama students, more beautiful than he had expected to find her in all his eighteen plus minutes of waiting. Felice left him breathless like a boxer left his opponent breathless after punching him in the lungs. (If that wasn't masterful poetry of the century, Pascal didn't know what was.)

Pascal had never been much of a fan of dance in any of its many strange forms– that was an understatement. If one were to ask Pascal just what types of dance existed, his answer would probably be inclusive and probably limited to "dance dance revolution" and "grinding". But hey, it is what it is.

She was still dancing, still flying across the polished stage when he shouted over the music– Pascal was a grade-A shouter and would let no soulful tunes overshadow his charming voice. "You're very good,"

but not half as good as Pascal. "Not quite as good at me, but,"

[/color] if Pascal was anything (besides the quintessence of arrogance), it was unafraid to speak his mind. "Still, good. Felice, right? We have a few classes together."[/color]

☆ COUNT 724
☆ NOTES omg beautiful ily kitt[/blockquote][/justify][/color][/blockquote]