A/N: So, this started as a random idea, but I've decided that I'm going to write a dance AU for Ryden. It's a bit different from their real personalities, so I'm excited to see where this goes. Anywho, I present to thee: The Piano Knows Something I Don't Know. (Title from Panic! song of the same name)
The piano sang soft chords the background, the sweet melody accompanying the low drums and gentle guitar. It was an old recording, but the sounds that wound through the studio were beautiful nonetheless. Of course, they shied in comparison to the sole figure in the building, spinning and leaping, lost in his head, lost in the music.
His name was Ryan Ross.
Quietly, he counted to himself: one, two, leap, four arabesque, peke, was in perfect time to the music, and his technique was sharp and far from looking forced.
The dance flooded across the floor like spilled paint, colorful and pure. it was breathtaking.
The music built to a crescendo as the dancer prepped for the next move, winding into an endless number of pirouettes. Then, the music stopped. or, more accurately, someone stopped it.
"Ryan," His instructor spoke, "Take a break, you'll wear yourself out." Ryan opened his mouth to protest. "No," he was cut off, "I want you to get some rest, we have a lot of work to do tomorrow."
Ryan sighed, "Yes Mrs. Iero." he turned to pull on a sweatshirt.
"Oh, and Ryan," she called, before leaving, "That was some great form out there today. Keep up the good work."
Ryan smiled at the praise, throwing on a pair of tennis shoes as the door clicked shut behind her.
"But...mom!" Brendon groaned, "Why do I have to go to a stupid dance class?"
"Because, you vandalized a building in the name of self expression. You want to be creative, then do it in a controlled environment." Vandalism was such a strong word. All he did was graffiti the side of a brick building. It wasn't anything inappropriate either. Brendon just wanted to, as he put it, express himself. Of course, those words came back to bite him. Hard. "Besides," Mrs. Urie continued, "You may even enjoy it."
Brendon scoffed, thinking that he would never 'enjoy it.'
Just then, the phone rang, and his mother ran into the kitchen to answer it.
Brendon thought back to what he knew about dance. Oh, right. Nothing. Not only would he get picked on at school if word got out about his "extra curricular activity", but he would be the laughing stock of his class, the only one incapable of executing a perfect fuette turn. At least, he thought bitterly, I know what a fuette turn is.
"And step, chasse, balance, turn." Mrs. Iero shouted over the music, clapping her hands on each downbeat. "Spencer, you know I think you're a great dancer, but you really need to work on your timing. You're about three beats ahead of the music. You have nice osture today, though." That was how she ran the class, precise, strict, but far from cruel. That was one of the reasons that Ryan loved to come to this studio.
That, and the fact that for once, he wasn't the only male dancer. He was close friends with Spencer, who majored in hip-hop. Spencer was great, too! He just couldn't seem to be able to slow down enough to perform well in ballet or lyrical.
Spencer sent Mrs. Iero a small smile and paused, letting the music, and the rest of the class, catch up. When he jumped back into motion, he was perfectly in step, and their teacher moved on to correct another student.
"Hey, did you hear? We're getting a new student!" Spencer leaned over to whisper to Ryan. Ryan shook his head, no, he had not heard, but before he could ask if Spencer knew what he was like, Mrs. Iero yelled from across the room, "Spencer! Straighten up!"
Blushing, Spencer did as he was told, Ryan stifled a laugh. A new kid, huh? He thought, almost stumling over a pas de basque. I wonder what classes he'll be in?
"Ballet?" Brendon was incredulous. His mother attempted to place a hand on his shoulder, but he brushed it away. "That's a girl class!"
Mrs. Urie tried to reason with him, "No, it's not! And besides, you'll also be in jazz, hip-hop and tap, and boys take those classes, don't they?"
"Man, I'm so going to regret this." he muttered, staring down at the enrollment paper in front of him. It was all right there, in black ink, mocking him. "I can't believe this." He sighed.
"Honey, I know you don't want to go, but it was either this or 200 hours of volunteer work. You and I both know that you cna barely keep your room straight, much less a library." THey were sitting in their small kitchen, Brendon pouring over his scheedule, his mom bustling around the fridge. She pulled out a carton of milk, sniffed its contents, grimaced, and threw it into the trash bin.
"I could have worked somewhere else!" Brendon's mother set a bowl full of milk-less cereal in front of him. As he picked up his spoon, she responded:
"don't you remember volunteering at the outreach? We don't want another repeat of that."
Brendon was going to point out that that was when he was in the eighth grade, but he knew she was right. Finishing his breakfast in silence, he put the bowl in the sink.
"Go on, get ready to go. We can't have you be late for your first lesson!" his mom called as he retreated upstairs to his room.
Once inside, he slumped against the door. From that angle, he could see the dance uniform his mother bought him resting on the back of the chair. The uniform included tights. Tights!
He balled up the clothes and shoved them into a duffle bag. He could hear his mother below him, opening the front door and calling for him to get in the car. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and called out, "I'm coming!" before making his way back downstairs, dragging the bag behind him.