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theimpossiblescheme · 6 months

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Past Our Dancing Days

(This is another one that just ended up writing itself--I hope everyone enjoys!)

Drone’s wasn’t that sort of club, he’d explained many times. Neither was Fox’s or the Stage and Screen. Ladies and gentlemen of “good breeding” (what exactly that meant in a human context, Bustopher didn’t pretend to know) came there to socialize, to play billiards and other idle games, to organize golfing or hunting trips that would inevitably be canceled by atrocious weather, and of course to enjoy good food. Their cats did largely the same, albeit at floor level with smaller plates, although Bustopher had his usual spot on Old Harold’s lap reserved for teatime. Music and other forms of livelier entertainment was primarily a background feature, something to listen to only when the conversation was less than scintillating and to politely clap for when you noticed the sudden silence. No one really… danced. Not even the cats. The one time Bustopher had suggested it, the tom on the other chair had looked at him like he’d suddenly sprouted antlers, and the subject was summarily dropped.

For a very long time, Bustopher was rather afraid he’d never know how to dance.

Octavia had tried to remedy that, Everlasting bless and keep her dear soul; she’d been a fellow regular at the Glutton with a similarly curious mindset and a better ear for music than he could ever claim. After cleverly orchestrating a meeting between her Carlotta and Old Harold–and the exchange of some Scott Joplin and Noel Coward in the place of Enrico Caruso–she began to give him lessons while the humans were occupied. Patiently guiding him across the sitting room as he didn’t so much glide as stumble, adjusting his paws with every step, encouraging him to look at me, not at your feet, you goose, how do you expect to see where you’re going? She cut such a stately, but vibrant figure: back straight, ankles and wrists turned just so, neck longer and more poised than the entire Ballet Russe. How could he help but listen and watch and marvel? They were lovely evenings–more than lovely, they were (she was) breathtaking–but they danced the way cats of their “station” were expected to dance. A certain cordiality was expected, embedded in them, and cordiality was often the enemy of freedom. And he could never imitate the quickness of her own paws, the flexibility of her spine, the way she could dart and weave and leap about as if gravity were only a polite suggestion. Bustopher was still too stiff, too clumsy and unnatural. The years of dancing as an impossible rarity were still too carved into his body, and he could feel the difference when he walked now like a phantom ache. He wanted to move, to loosen the marble column under his coat and enjoy himself, but he wasn’t sure he knew how.

The Jellicle Ball was always a bittersweet affair for that very reason. He’d never dream of missing it, good heavens no. But whenever he’d hear some excited newcomer talking about the Midnight Dance, how the Jellicle Moon would free every cat from their inhibitions and instill them with the same freedom and muscle memory no matter how young or old, he could only think, How I wish that were true. He couldn’t dream of following his family–Mistoffelees’s electricity and Alessi’s elegance, Mungojerrie’s acrobatics and Etcetera’s energy, darling Jenny’s firecracker taps across the pavement. Even watching Noilly Prat take to the air like a bird, he found himself recognizing some of the steps he’d taught her and wishing that her mother could have done better. The dear girl always had Octavia’s spirit, after all.

Little Electra must have noticed him looking wistful because she tucked up against his side midway through the Dance and gave him a determinedly cheerful smile. “Cassandra’s such a good dancer, isn’t she?” she said, startling him out of his reverie. “I wish I could dance half as well as her and Mom.”

“Oh, now, you must give yourself a bit more credit,” Bustopher replied, injecting an airiness he didn’t feel into his voice and folding his paws over his spoon as if he were just watching leisurely without a care in the world. “I’ve heard no complaints about your own dancing.”

Electra shrugged. “I keep up, I guess. Y’know Gareth actually asked me to teach him–tonight’s only his second Ball, and he didn’t feel like he was good enough the first time. I just… did my best.”

“Mmm–and which one is Gareth?”

“That one.” Electra pointed a claw to an earnest-looking young tom with cream and brown fur, dancing alongside Alonzo as if he’d dreamed of it all his life. “We’re in Protector training together… I think he’s doing pretty all right, don’t you?”

“Indeed.” Bustopher gave her a nod and watched her glow faintly with pride. “I’d say you were an excellent teacher.”

This time, Electra’s shrug was a little more exaggerated, pretending she wasn’t basking in the praise. But she soon turned her clever dark eyes on him again. “How come you’re not out there dancing?”

And now they came to the heart of the matter… “I, ah… I rather find myself in your friend’s position.” His paws tightened around the spoon, and he turned his head away from eye contact. “I have been taught, of course, but my own aptitude for dance is… not quite so athletic.”

“Oh… well, I mean, that’s okay! Jelly doesn’t really dance like that either–her paws don’t quite go the same.” She held her own front paws in front of her to form an inward V shape, her claws hooked together in front. “But she’s good at what she can do. Murad’s not a big dancer either, but he tries, and so does Grandpa Gus. So y’know… you’re good at what you’re good at, that’s all.” And she dropped her paws into her lap with an air of finality, as if that was all there was to it.

If only that, too, were true. “I wish I had your optimism,” he said, draping an arm loosely about her shoulder. “Unfortunately, better teachers than you have tried and not made much progress. I shall have to be content where I am.”

“Well… who taught you?”

One day, he might be able to say her name without that twist in his stomach… “My mate, Octavia. Noilly Prat’s mother–you wouldn’t have met her.”

“Oh.” Bustopher thought for a moment she might leave it there, but she was nothing if not persistent. “And did you teach her? Noilly, I mean?”

“What I could, yes.”

“Tumble and Cass taught her how to do her solo tonight, too. Maybe you could still talk to Cass–I know she likes you, and she’s actually a really good teacher. She’s not nearly as scary as she comes off,” Electra added with a smirk, as if she’d discovered that fact all on her own and felt rightfully proud of it.

Bustopher couldn’t help but smile at her efforts–bless the dear kit for trying, at least. “I shall keep that in mind.”

Electra beamed a triumphant smile at him and suddenly held out her paws. “C’mon–I wanna show you what I showed Gareth!”

“Oh–my dear, you know I–”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that hard! And it’ll help you be more flexible–that way you can get to the harder stuff after you practice.” She wiggled her claws at him in what was clearly meant to be an enticing manner, still grinning from ear to ear. “Come oooonnnnnn…”

… Well, who was he to refuse a kitten’s request? “You may want to manage your expectations a bit more,” he said, taking her paws and getting to his feet all the same.

If Electra understood or even heard him, she didn’t let it on–she just grinned even brighter at him and squeezed his paws in delight. Before she could say a word, however, there came another voice behind her–”Now what’s going on over here?”

Oh, how he wished the ground would open up beneath his feet!

It didn’t do him that kindness, though, and Electra just laughed. “Get in on this, Aunt Jenny–I told Bustopher I’d help teach him to dance.”

“Oh, did you now?” Jennyanydots’s eyes were gleaming in a way that made him feel a quarter of his size, and he suddenly had the terrible (if terrible equated to the blood rushing under your skin like high tide) feeling that any protests he made would be in vain. Still, he had to try.

“Jenny, darling, not you, too–”

“And why not me?” She lifted his head to meet hers straight on, knuckles brazenly under his chin, pulling his complete and undivided attention with dizzying effectiveness. “I might know a thing or two about shaking off some of the cobwebs.” There was already a note of triumph in her smile, clearly not about to take no for an answer.

So he didn’t give her one, and once again he couldn’t help but smile himself., the familiar ache now feeling more like a thrum of anticipation. “Consider me at your mercy, then.”

#I keep ending up with Emotions(TM) about all the most unlikely characters but I'm not mad about it at all...#cats the musical #bustopher jones #electra #jenyanydots #fanfic #Also more of me projecting my own pigeon-toed-ness onto Jelly because I love her and because I can. XD

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