This was a very self-indulgent fic. I started dancing the Lindy Hop a year ago, and it has become a huge part of my life. "Let's write a vintage AU swing dance fic," I said to myself. This is not quite the fic I originally intended, because it became so heavily intertwined with my fascination with World War II.
That being said, I tried to make this fic as historically accurate as possible, down to the radio broadcast about Pearl Harbor. If you have any questions about slang or historical events or anything, really, feel free to ask. I was going to include a 'Historical Notes' chapter, but there's just far too much for me to define it all.
A huge thank-you goes out to khaleesimaka for betaing, as well as snowbunnie42 for working with me and creating such amazing art. Also to bleedingsamauri for being my personal cheerleader through this entire process and the mods, for putting everything together.
Without further ado, this is:
It Don't Mean a Thing (if it ain't got that swing)
KarmaHope
The year was 1941.
War raged across the Atlantic; an allied effort against the manifestation of all that was evil in the world. For many, it was a worst nightmare come true. The Great War had not been forgotten, and mothers saw not their sons' shoulders as they turned and walked away, but those of their absent husbands in horrifying echoes of the past.
Two years had passed since Germany invaded Poland. Two years since the fighting began, and it showed no signs of stopping. The United States hovered on the precipice, dipping her toes in the water but ultimately unwilling to dive. It was easier to feign ignorance.
The brassy cries of the trumpet drowned out the ear-shattering explosions landing an ocean away, the warmly lit dance hall a stark contrast to the cold, fearful blackouts taking place across Europe. The carefree laughter that echoed throughout the room was ignorance at its finest. After all, the only immediate concerns were either having toes trodden upon by inept dance partners or bungling notes.
Solomon Evans, more commonly known to his friends simply as 'Soul,' would never forget the first night he spotted her in the crowd. How could he, when he missed a note? His fingers slipped in his distraction; the resulting sour, atonal chord was what jarred him back into focus. He glanced briefly at his bandmates to see if they'd noticed, but they were all too enthralled in their rendition of Benny Goodman's Sing, Sing, Sing to notice his boner.
It was his first night playing at the Shibusen Ballroom, and he was doing his part in helping the American people forget about the war, at least for a few hours. The brassy swing was uplifting, and a welcome change from the stuffy classical music he had grown up with.
He glanced over the crowd, and for a passing moment, he wished he could dance. The jitterbugs made it look easy as they twirled around the floor, going through the motions of the Charleston, the Lindy Hop, and the Shag. The dancing ranged from fumbling and conservative to confident and wild, depending on the skill and experience of the dancers.
The movement blended together until it wasn't much more than the visual equivalent of background noise, and just as easily ignorable. It made it that much more surprising when a single pair of dancers in the corner caught his eye. He found himself watching them, muscle memory becoming the only thing that kept his fingers ghosting over the piano keys in his distraction.
As much as the Lindy Hop was new to him, he had never seen a dance look more like a fight. The two partners threw themselves into and away from each other, their clasped hands the only thing that kept their momentum from sending them flying across the dance floor in opposite directions. The other dancers gave them a wider berth than most, almost unconsciously, and for good reason.
The moment Soul's fingers slipped was the moment the man grabbed his partner and tossed her around his shoulders as if she weighed nothing. She landed on the beat, and they threw themselves right back into the dance as if nothing short of spectacular had ever occurred. Even in the dim mood lighting of the dance hall, Soul could tell they were both grinning with exhilaration.
Who wouldn't be, after something like that?
He tore his eyes away and pointedly focused on nothing but the music and the ivory keys beneath his fingers for several minutes. While he had originally auditioned for the spot in Spartoi for no other reason than the fact that playing the piano was one of his few skills and he needed a job, his shoulders moved a little with the rhythm as he played, and he realized he was actually having fun.
Then his bandmate Kilik dove into the drum solo with gusto, and Soul was left with several bars of nothing to do. Again, his attention drifted toward the dance floor, and again, he was enraptured by the same couple that had caught his attention before.
The dame was wearing a pale blue dress, or at least he thought it was blue – it was hard to tell in the light. The fabric was thin and floaty, and when she twirled, the skirt twirled with her, making her movements that much more pronounced. She was a tiny thing – she barely came up past her partner's shoulder – but her presence on the dance floor was practically larger than life.
The man she was dancing with might have been leading, but it wasn't his show. It was hers.
Soul managed to come in on cue when the music demanded his attention once again, and the band finished out the piece. They took a few seconds' pause, and then they were rolling immediately into the next piece. The dancers switched partners, and the movement never stopped.
When he looked up again, he had lost track of the dame in the blue dress. A small wave of irrational disappointment washed over him, but he figured it was probably for the best. Without the distraction, he could focus on the music instead, as he was supposed to be doing. A few piano solos came and went, and he nailed each one of them.
Toward the end of the set, when his fingers were tiring and he was about ready to go home to his shithole of an apartment, things took a sudden turn. The song ended, and he watched as the motion on the floor came to a still. The people created a horseshoe around the stage, and a hush of anticipation fell over the crowd. It was only once the band began playing again that Soul realized why.
His friend Blake had told him about 'Showtime,' a tradition that Shibusen had borrowed in part from the Savoy, when the floor would clear for the best Lindy Hoppers to try to outdo each other. Anticipation began to grow within him as well, and he wondered if the dame in blue would be making an appearance. Surely she must, he figured, because he had never seen anything so stunning.
Spartoi plunged into a rendition of Count Basie's Blow Top, another upbeat tune that had Soul moving as he played. When he spared a glance up, there she was, with the same man he had seen her with earlier. Now that they were standing closer, he could confirm that her dress was, in fact, blue. Her hair was an ashy blonde, and it was falling out of what must have been painstakingly arranged curls. She didn't look like she noticed, or even cared, as she watched the first couple dance with fire in her eyes.
Her partner stood beside her, his arms crossed and his dark hair beginning to fall into his face as it broke free from the hold of the pomade. While he was much more reserved than his partner, it was clear that he was just as ready to grandstand as she was.
Two other couples took their turns, and both performances were amazing – at least from what he saw of them. He was lucky that his piano solo had already come and gone by the time the dame in blue and her partner took the floor, because they were really cooking with helium. Soul had a hard time looking away from the daring airsteps and the raw energy they exuded.
Damn, he wished he could dance.
But he couldn't, and so he settled for playing the music for others to dance to instead. Spartoi took the repeat several times over to allow the dancers an unbroken rhythm, and Soul's gaze wandered on the second and third repeat. He found himself watching the dame in blue more often than not, and on one occasion, his eyes lingered for a little longer than perhaps they should have.
She looked up – looked directly at him – met his gaze, and smiled.
Well, fuck.
He tore his eyes away immediately to stare down at the fascinating black and white teeth of the piano. It was only then that he realized he should have smiled back. Or something. A hot blush rose up into his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and he sighed in relief when the bandleader finally signaled the cutoff.
When he finally took another cautious look at the crowd, she was gone.
He told himself that was a good thing. She probably thought he was some creep, and he'd rather not have to come to terms with that right now.
"Hey, bub! That performance was killer-diller! You were really cookin' with gas!"
Soul laughed as Blake Barrett, Spartoi's first trumpeter and his best friend, approached him after the set. He was hauling his trumpet case, and Soul felt a familiar wave of relief at the fact that he played an instrument he didn't have to carry with him.
"I did all right," he hedged as they began to walk. "I made a few boners. It was stupid, really."
Blake rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a fat-head. It's jazz – nobody notices if you goof or not. All the hep cats are caught up in the dancin', anyway."
"Yeah, well."
Soul wanted to ask about the dame in blue, but he bit his tongue. The resultant teasing that was sure to follow just wasn't worth it. He knew he'd see her again – after all, she had looked like she was a regular. He'd have plenty more opportunities to make a mook of himself, especially since Spartoi played at the Shibusen Ballroom three nights a week.
"So how'd you like it?" Blake asked, interrupting Soul's musings. "It might not be the Savoy, but the Shibusen's still in the groove."
"It'll pay the bills." Soul shrugged. "But I had fun. Swing's much more fun than classical ever was."
"Oh yeah, I keep forgetting you were some fuddy-duddy before you met me."
Soul sighed. "I wasn't some fuddy-duddy," he mumbled defeatedly; they'd had this conversation before. "My parents were just … civilized, y'know?"
"Civilized? Soul, from what you've told me, your parents were the definition of Fifth Avenue," Blake scoffed. "I'm still surprised you ain't hincty."
They paused on a street corner, and Blake took the opportunity to set his instrument down for a moment. Soul leaned casually against a nearby lamppost as Blake pulled a cigarette from the tin of Potter's he kept in his trouser pocket and lit up. He inhaled deeply, dragging the medicinal smoke into his lungs before letting it all out.
"Your lungs are still bothering you," Soul said. It wasn't a question. His friend had practically hacked up a lung immediately after their set, and it was evident that he still wasn't breathing right.
Blake just shrugged and coughed. "It's not too bad tonight," he said, "just wait until October. That's when it all goes to shit." He took another drag. "Come on, there's no use dallying here."
Soul pushed off the lamppost to grab the instrument case, but Blake smacked his hand away and picked it up himself. "You're such an eager beaver, gosh. I can handle it."
They crossed the street. "Forgive me for wanting to help," Soul muttered petulantly, pushing the brim of his fedora up higher on his brow.
"Nah, I know you mean well, but how many times do I have to tell ya? There's nothin' that can stop the great Blake Barrett!"
"No, no there's not," Soul agreed.
They fell into silence for the rest of their walk. The August evening was warm, but not unpleasantly so. The warm yellow glow the lamps cast into the street provided a certain sense of security. When they reached their apartment building, Blake dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and stubbed it out with his toe. Soul followed him inside, doffing his hat as he stepped through the door.
They climbed the three flights of rickety stairs to get to their floor. The elevator had been out of service for a week now, and Soul doubted that getting it fixed was one of the landlord's priorities. He wouldn't mind so much if the stairs didn't feel like they would collapse beneath his feet.
He sighed in relief when they exited the stairwell on the fourth floor. "Well," he said once they reached the door to his shithole of an apartment, "if I don't see you around, I'll see you Wednesday."
Blake grinned. "Oh, you'll see me before then. We're gonna turn you into a hopper yet."
It took Soul a minute to process what it was his friend just said. "Wait, what?"
But Blake was already disappearing into the apartment next door, and Soul was left standing in the hallway like an idiot. Slightly dazed, he finally pushed his way into his apartment and flipped on the light. He hung his hat on the rack and loosened his tie before collapsing onto his small, lumpy couch.
There was no way Blake could have known, right? There was no way Blake could have seen him watching the dame in blue. After all, the first trumpet was positioned on the opposite side of the stage from the pianist, and Blake would have been concentrating on his own thing. And yet.
And yet, Blake had just told him, in not quite so many words, that they were going dancing tomorrow evening. A momentary panic seized him, and Soul hoped against hope that his friend would forget. He knew it was unlikely – once Blake Barrett got something into his head, it was pretty much guaranteed to happen. He instead discarded that idea for the hope that they wouldn't be going to Shibusen. Maybe he could convince Blake to go to the Savoy instead, as much as the idea intimidated him.
If all else failed, there was the chance that the dame in blue wouldn't be at Shibusen tomorrow night, but that was probably just as unlikely as Blake forgetting about going dancing altogether.
It wasn't that Soul didn't want to see her again; in all actuality, he wanted to see her more than he probably should. He'd never been good with the ladies, however, and he just wanted to avoid the embarrassment he knew was inevitable.
Because the fact was, Solomon Evans couldn't dance to save his life.
He groaned loudly and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it up artfully. He'd always been more comfortable with messy, soft hair, much to his parents' consternation. He hated the crunchy feeling of the product he put in it every morning, and it was always a joy to ruin the careful styling in the evening.
With a grunt, he pushed himself off the couch and made his way to the small upright piano that was probably the most expensive piece of furniture in his shitty apartment. It sat against the wall he shared with Blake, and although it was late, he probably wouldn't wake anyone up if he played quietly.
If he disturbed Blake, it'd just be payback for all the times he'd been woken way too early in the morning by the sound of Blake's trumpet. His friend didn't understand the concept of 'quiet' outside of musical dynamics, and even then it was dubious.
So even though his wrists were still sore from Spartoi's set earlier, he took a deep breath and played for nearly an hour before the events of the day caught up with him. Yawning loudly, he turned in for the night. At least he didn't have to get up early for anything.
The next evening, the crack of knuckles against the shared wall heralded the very things he spent the entire day worrying about, and he – very reluctantly – dressed for what was sure to be a disastrous evening out.
That same night, a few blocks away, a similar scene occurred.
"Come on, Maka," a dark-haired woman complained to her roommate in Japanese, "hurry up! You're taking forever!"
Maka Albarn laughed as she slicked an extra coat of lipstick over lips that were already red. "You know that's not true, Tsubaki," she replied in the same language as she replaced the cap. "You take even longer to get ready than I do."
"Yeah, and you're hogging the bathroom. I still need to get in there!"
Maka rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she removed the pins keeping her snood in place, careful not to destroy the rolls she'd so painstakingly crafted that morning. When she pulled the crocheted net from her hair, the pin curls she'd set the night before tumbled down to her shoulders. She ran a brush through them and then, deciding it was as good as it was going to get, exited the small bathroom.
"Your turn," she told Tsubaki, who was waiting impatiently in their small living room. The other woman was absentmindedly thumbing through a copy of Kitty Foyle, which she put down immediately.
"I won't be long," Tsubaki said, although Maka knew that was unlikely. Tsubaki took great pride in her appearance, and why wouldn't she? She was gorgeous.
As Tsubaki ducked into the bathroom, Maka fiddled with the radio until the sounds of Tommy Dorsey flooded the small living space. Almost immediately, her feet began to trace familiar steps in time to the music. After a day of ferociously boring secretary work at Stein & Gorgon, she was itching for the freedom dancing provided.
Sometimes, she tried to imagine what her life might have been like if she hadn't received the scholarship to attend Yale for law school. She and Tsubaki would likely still be stuck back in Nevada; Maka with her drunken, doting father and distant mother and Tsubaki with a family who paid very little attention to her at all.
She was much happier here in New York, she mused as she shuffled around the room with only her thoughts for a partner. At fifteen, during the early days of the depression, she never would have dreamed that she would end up living on the eastern seaboard; and yet, ten years later, there she was. She may not have the job she wanted, but she was living in her own apartment with her best friend, and that was enough.
"Really, Maka?" Tsubaki asked as she stepped back into the living room some indeterminate amount of time later, the foreign syllables rolling easily off her tongue. "You couldn't wait until we actually got to the dance hall?"
Maka shrugged. "I'm just warming up," she said as she turned off the radio. "I hope Kidd's there tonight. I'd really like to work on my pancakes."
The Japanese girl shook her head, the rolls in her hair bouncing slightly with the movement. "You and your airsteps," she said, not unkindly. "You know, it wouldn't hurt you to do some casual dancing, for once."
"But where's the fun in that?" Maka asked, grinning as she retrieved her purse and her dancing shoes. "You ready to go?"
"Sure thing," Tsubaki replied. "I'm just waiting on you."
The two women locked the door behind them as they stepped out into the hallway of their apartment complex. They weren't in the nicest part of town, although it certainly wasn't the worst. Still, there was no point in taking any chances.
"Maka! Tsubaki!" Their landlady greeted them happily as they passed her on the landing. "Going out again tonight?"
Maka smiled. "Never a dull moment," she replied gaily, switching to English outside the privacy of their apartment.
"Well, you girls have fun tonight."
"Thanks, Mrs. Blair," Tsubaki said. "We will."
They'd just turned to leave when the landlady stopped them with, "Oh, and Maka?"
"Yes, Mrs. Blair?"
The older woman grinned. "Find yourself a man, won't you? Surely there are single men at those dance halls you go to. You're getting too old not to have a strapping young thing on your arm."
Maka felt heat rising to her cheeks. "Yes, ma'am," she said meekly, because this same conversation had occurred often enough that she knew it was pointless to argue. Really, though, she was perfectly fine on her own. She'd never needed anyone else, and with war hanging on the inevitable horizon, she felt that a relationship at this point would be a useless frivolity.
Because what if her man was sent off to fight, as he surely would be? Would he return like her father had, broken and buried in the bottom of a bottle?
But she didn't voice any of this, because it was pointless to argue with Mrs. Blair once she had her mind set on something. Appeased, the other woman nodded firmly in approval before bustling off to do whatever it was she had been doing before she had stopped to talk.
Maka and Tsubaki headed out onto the street, joining the throngs of others already enjoying the clear New York evening. The sea of white noise that hundreds of conversations created washed over them, and they added their own voices to the mix. Despite their earlier rush, they took their time walking the few blocks to the Shibusen.
Of course, it took a little longer than perhaps it should have. The two young women were no strangers to derisive or even hostile looks cast in their direction as they walked down the street. Maka, never one to ignore such things, often stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to glare at those who looked at Tsubaki in such a way. Each time, she started forward again only when her friend begged her not to cause a scene.
Despite that, it didn't take them long to reach the dance hall. They each paid the small admittance fee to the doorman, and then they were inside.
Maka felt her spirits lift immediately, bolstered by the band's boisterous music. All her worries faded to the background, as if she'd left them at the door and so with every further step into the dance hall, they got even farther away. She sighed heavily, and smiled.
"I'm going to go find Blake," Tsubaki said, yelling over the band's rendition of Glenn Miller's American Patrol in order to be heard. Maka nodded absently and followed after her friend, her eyes on the various dancers on the floor. It wasn't until she'd nearly run into three different people that she finally focused on where she was going.
In the end, they didn't find Blake. As usual, he found them first.
"Hey sugar," a familiar voice crooned. Maka felt a hand brush against her as the man slid his arm around Tsubaki next to her. "Are you rationed?"
Maka watched as Tsubaki fought a giggle, smiling demurely instead. "I am, actually. He's a real nice fella, too."
Blake laughed. "Nah, he's a bit of a crumb, really. He still can't figure out how he got a doll like you to be his girl."
"I –"
"She can't figure it out either," Maka cut in before Tsubaki could reply.
"Ooh," someone else said. "That was good. She got you good there, Blake."
Blake rolled his eyes and looked back at the man standing just behind him. "Ladies," he said, "this void coupon here is my friend Solomon Evans. Be nice, he's a bit of a dead hoofer."
Solomon smiled tightly; it took Maka only an instant to realize that the man was the same one she had seen playing the piano the night before. It wasn't hard to place him, what with the white-blond hair. "It's Soul," he grumbled, just loud enough for her to hear. "Don't listen to anything Blake says."
Maka grinned. "We never do," she said. She met his eyes, and a moment later his smile relaxed into something more natural.
"Well, that's introductions done with," Blake announced. "Now, Tsubaki and I are gonna go have a ball. Later, alligators!"
They slipped off into the growing crowd, leaving Maka with Blake's friend, Soul. It would be rude, she realized, if she simply left him on his own. Unfortunately, she also wasn't sure how to break the awkward silence between them, the silence that occurred when two individuals were aware of the fact the other was there, but didn't know how to make conversation.
Instead, Maka took a deep breath and turned toward him. "Do you –"
"I don't –"
They both fell silent mid-sentence and simply stared at each other for several seconds. "Uh," Soul said, "ladies first?"
Maka sighed. "I was going to ask if you wanted to dance," she explained. It was considered a bit forward for the girl to ask a guy to dance, but she had never had much patience for the societal norms.
Her statement was met with a chuckle. "Sorry," Soul apologized, "I was about to say that I don't know how to dance, but if you wanted to, I could figure it out? I saw you last night, dancing, I mean, and you're really good. If you don't wanna put up with me that's totally fine, I'm more than happy just sitting and watching. I didn't really wanna come, but Blake dragged me out ..."
"That's real sweet of you," Maka said, cutting off his babbling. "Of course I'll dance with you. I could even teach you, if you'd like."
"You wouldn't mind?"
Maka smiled. "Tsubaki was telling me just before we left that it wouldn't hurt me to do some more casual dancing once and a while."
"Oh, okay, then."
Tentatively placing her hand in his, Maka then pulled Soul out to a calmer section of the dance floor. This was either a great idea, or it was a really, really bad one. Which one it was, she was about to find out.
Soul was still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. What was happening, currently, as the dame in blue from the night before gently pulled him out onto the dance floor.
After all, what were the chances that Tsubaki, Blake's new sweetheart, would be the dame in blue's roommate? He'd heard about Maka from the stories Blake would tell, but he had never guessed that she and the girl he had so admired the night before would be one and the same person.
He was extremely grateful for the fact that Blake demanded as much attention as he did. It meant that the dame in blue – Maka – hadn't noticed him staring like the mook he was. She wasn't wearing blue tonight, had been his first, stunned thought. Her dress was green instead, patterned with small white polka dots.
Who knew how long he would have continued staring if the sharpness of her comeback to Blake hadn't distracted him? He certainly couldn't have said.
Fuck, had he really asked her to dance? Why did he do that? He knew he couldn't dance for shit. Even the waltzes his parents had insisted upon him dancing when he was younger had been choppy and stiff. And yet, he'd found the words rolling off his tongue.
And had she really asked him to dance? As good as she was? Even knowing, as Blake had so eloquently put it, that he was a dead hoofer? The only possible explanation was that she had meant it as a joke.
But she hadn't, as evident by the fact she was actually pulling him out onto the dance floor. All he could do was let himself be tugged forward, his eyes fixed upon the square set of her shoulders.
When she came to a halt in an empty section of the floor, she turned back to face him. It was only then that he could see that her eyes were as green as her dress. His knees felt the urge to quiver beneath her critical gaze, but he held steady.
"Okay," she said. "Here's what we're going to do."
She took a deep breath before declaring, "I'm going to lead, and you're going to follow."
Now, Maka was not an experienced lead. Her only practice with leading came from the nights she and Tsubaki were too tired to go out, and instead danced together in their living room to the music on the radio. Everything she knew, she had simply picked up by paying attention to the men she danced with out on the floor.
However, she knew from experience that it was far easier for someone who had never danced the jitterbug before to follow well than to lead halfway decently. She only hoped he wouldn't take offense to her suggestion. It was practically unheard of for women to take the lead.
Luckily, Soul appeared relieved rather than offended. "Yeah, okay," he said. "That works. Uh, what do I do?"
Maka smiled at the beleaguered expression on his face. "Well, your hands go here," she explained as she placed his left hand so it rested on her upper arm and took his right hand in her left. Her own right hand rested firmly on his shoulder blade, albeit slightly awkwardly due to their height difference.
She watched as his countenance shifted to one of concentration. "Like this?"
"That's right. Now, step back with your right foot in a rock- step. Then we tri-ple step, tri-ple step, and rock- step again."
Soul nodded. It took him a couple tries, but he fell into the rhythm quickly. Maka couldn't help but grin - knowing the steps meant nothing if one didn't have a sense for the rhythm.
"Okay, I think I get it. It's just one, two, three- and four, five- and six, one, two."
Of course he had a sense of rhythm, Maka realized. He was, after all, the new piano player for Spartoi. Maka didn't play any instrument, but she had a good sense of what was required for those who did.
They danced like that for a while, a simple back and forth, before Maka began to turn them slightly until they were making slow circles on the dance floor. "Okay," she said once they'd moved into the second song, "now whatever I do, keep doing those steps."
"Wait, what?"
She then led him into an inside turn, managing to get her arm over his head despite their difference in height. To his credit, Soul did about as well as to be expected of someone who had no idea what was going on. He stumbled over his feet a little as she led him back through the turn the other way, but quickly recovered.
"Don't think about it," was her advice to him. "Just keep doing your footwork, relax, and follow my lead."
And when he grinned exuberantly after nailing a moderately complex move she sent him through, she felt her heart seize traitorously. She smiled back at him weakly, for how could she not?
When the song ended and they finally stepped apart, Maka could hardly hear anything past Mrs. Blair's words echoing in her mind. Find yourself a man, won't you? Won't you? Won't you?
Maka turned and walked off the dance floor without a word.
