Dance Central 2 fandom.
This focuses on the origins of the MoGlitch couple. If you're against said pairing, PLEASE take your leave. I don't tolerate flamers of any kind. They bore me and ruin what we're here to celebrate: art.
*This contains boy's love, but it features NO HARDCORE ROMANCE.
*The last names I give the characters, Porter and Dominguez, are NOT official. They are NOT canon names.*
*The scene that focuses on the origin of Glitch's name was inspired by Disney's 'The Little Mermaid', when Prince Eric tried to figure out Ariel's name. Glitch suggesting the name 'Steve' at one point was inspired by a Dance Central 2 joke I don't understand.
'Always expect the unexpected'.
Mo learned that from his parents. When a world-famous saxophonist fell in love with a rough yet surprisingly shy fireman, one of many unexpected tales joined hands with reality. When fireman and jazz musician gave birth to a wide-eyed, music lovin' breakdancer, another unexpected but cherished adventure began.
Mo learned to expect the unexpected from Resident Evil. It was unwise to turn a corner without expecting a head-on collision with Hell; that slapped him in the face, on many occasions. Angel mocked him for forgetting to reload his shotgun ammunition, leaving his friend in the dust while monsters moved in for the kill. Silent Hill and Parasite Eve were good teachers, too. So, you'd think, after running into his ten-thousandth monster, Mo would've been more prepared for the unexpected.
But then he ran into a meteor.
Actually, the meteor crash-landed into his life. It was the strangest meteor Mo had ever encountered, and NASA would have definitely felt the same. The creature was a meteor, all right, dressed as a skin bag. Short black hair, passionate eyes, and an unparalleled drive for success-definitely a meteor, in human form.
The brown-eyed breakdancer discovered the meteor in an alley, rocking the floor for a pack of sleazy bandits. The filthy, low-rate crew treated the kid like dirt, but he stuck to his team mates like glue. Their names were the only ones he knew, after all. Even though they called him things like 'asswipe', 'scumwipe' and 'beetle', the kid held their names close. They were the only ones that kept him safe. The only ones that kept him going, every morning, noon and night.
Mo let things slide for a while. He watched the meteor from afar, passing by the alley with Angel. The Dominguez prodded at his friend whenever they passed by the alley crew, but the Porter shrugged him off. He and the brunette were just on their way to work, after all. Off to rack up more points at Starbucks, with Angel flexing his muscles and Mo flashing that sweet, beautiful smile of his. Yeah, the kid was being yanked around. Tossed around, laughed at and cursed at. But he was with his crew. His homeboys. So what if they were possible sex addicts, drug addicts or alcoholics? So what if they used the kid as a pinata, whenever he tripped up on one move? So what? Mo couldn't snatch him from his crew. 'Crew' was another word for 'family', and family was important. Crews couldn't be torn apart. To be a part of a crew was to have a special bond with someone. Someone that trusted you. Someone-
-that apparently didn't give a shit about a certain kid.
"Eres increible! You're going to take th' beetle home?"
"Sho th' fuck am. 'N don't call 'im that. I ain't leavin' 'im wit' that shitty-ass crew e's got. 'E deserves better than that."
"Your kindness never fails to amaze me, mi amor. I am forever charmed by not only your wit and style, but your radiance as well."
Angel fell in love with the Porter years ago. They synchronized during the first Dance Central, but not in the romantic sense. Despite the Latino's unwavering thirst for all things sex, he never went any further than perfectly harmless squeezes to a perfectly pert, tasty ass. While he pictured Mo in skimpy, black outfits on a regular basis, the brunette adored him far too much to forfeit their friendship. So he had absolutely no problem with Mo wanting to take 'Beetle' home. He vowed to be right there for both of them, forever and always.
All the while salivating over Mo in-
Ah. There would be plenty of time for imagining the breakdancer chained to a bed, wearing very little. Mo had to figure out the kid-their new roommate, and Angel vowed to help. 'Beetle' didn't come with an instruction manual, so figuring out Korean was definitely a lot harder than beating Jack Krauser, half-way through Resident Evil 4. The Porter's second roommate spoke some English, but that was the key word. Some. Steering around the kid's reluctance for a new home was trickier than Hell, too, but-
When 'Beetle' revealed just how frightened he had been of his crew, when the clothes came off and wounds were revealed, shit hit the fan.
Leon Scott Kennedy had nothing on Mo Porter.
Angel made a few remarks on 'packing heat', and paying a visit to the kid's 'old amigos'. The Latino became uncharacteristically silent, once the kid told a story of what he had been forced to eat on one occasion, supposedly forcing his crew to sulk off in defeat. Hearing it in choppy English didn't make it any better. So the brunette didn't say a word for hours.
Neither did Mo. And 'Beetle' thought both of them were angry. He couldn't peg why, but he feared they would throw him away. Just like his family. Just like his sorry excuse for a crew. Nobody wanted him. Nobody would ever want some broken-down, scraggly, disgusting little runt. Nobody-
-had ever whipped up a feast for him.
After his incredibly wonderful, inspirational story, Mo finished another round of patchwork and stormed out of the room. Worried, furious and heartbroken, 'Beetle' burrowed into his bed sheets and cried himself to sleep. But then smells came from the kitchen. Warm, lush, fragrant smells. What were they?
According to Angel, they were Abuelita's specials. And Mo was throwing in Momma Porter's mac 'n cheese.
The kid stared. What else could he do? His two hosts, the first ones to ever give him a home, were whipping up a feast for him! Talking was already difficult enough, but even if he had a grip on the English language, he wouldn't have known what to say because it was just too beautiful, too wonderful, too amazing-!
If the food had been absolutely horrible, he wouldn't have cared. Angel and Mo saw fit to cook him things. They had already opened their apartment to him. They bought him clothes, talked to him, smiled at him. Sincerely respected him, despite the language barrier. And there they were, stirring up a storm in their kitchen. For him.
For him.
When Mo patched up the kid's wounds, the air was tense. Tense but sweet. Filled with a lush, golden light that spoke of warm Summer mornings. 'Beetle' always looked at Mo in worship, wondering why such a big name dancer had even opened his home, his world, to a street rat. Wondering why such gentle, brown eyes cared for him. And Mo wondered how a mother and father could abandon such a precious, bright-eyed, fragile creature.
Who could ever want to abandon a meteor?
When Mo made the kid a plate of Ma's mac 'n cheese, the former scumwipe burst into tears. And Angel felt two things at once: a pang of deep, searing envy and an equally passionate, fiery burst of happiness. "Mama knew her shit was good," a beaming Mo said, clapping over the kid's tearful response to the dish.
"But she never knew it was this good! Wish ya coulda met 'er!"
"Ka...kamsa hamnida. Kamsa hamnida." Thank you.
"Cheon-man-eh."
Mo gave his lifelong friend a curious look, hand on one hip. Grinning from ear to ear, Angel shrugged. "What?" he asked, in true Angel fashion: flashy and dramatic. "I am learning our guest's native language. It is my duty not only as his friend, but as a connoisseur of the world's great beauty."
The kid either glared or frowned whenever Angel gushed over Mo, but adored the Latino with a fiery passion. He was reminded of how much he loved Angel, when he found out the brunette was learning how to speak a third language. The Dominguez gave him one of his charismatic, beautiful winks, but once Mo patted him on the head, time crashed to a halt. The flow of time, rhythm and melody came together as one, enveloping both breakdancers in a world all their own. In a world Angel couldn't reach-much to the kid's happiness.
For what seemed like forever, they gazed at each other-mac 'n cheese momentarily forgotten. A set of wide, fiery, embarrassed eyes united with a pair of warm, tender eyes, colliding in a groove of delicate but passionate wildfire. "Hate it when ya cry," the Porter said softly, cupping the kid's face and wiping away tears. And from that point on-
Angel knew the kid was gone. He had flown all the way to Mars.
"Ey. I'm givin' ya somethin' that'll make those tears stop. I'm gonna give ya a name."
'You are?' the Beetle's eyes asked, so wide and filled with so much emotion: hope, adoration, fear and longing. If his parents ever gave him a name, he couldn't pull it out of memory. And the names his crew called him...well, they weren't really good names. In response, the Porter nodded with shining, strong eyes. "Sure th' Hell am, yo," the older breakdancer said, flashing Angel a wink.
"Tell me. Ya like th' name Eagle?"
Halfway between a radiant smile and a pout, the kid thought for a moment-then shook his head vehemently. Angel muttered something in the nearby background, and had a dinner roll chucked at him. Then Mo tried again.
"Whadda 'booooout...Loki?"
A brunette's thick, warm accent filled the air. "Are you serious, my beloved blossom? Eagle was fine, but now you're just pulling at strings!"
"Hey! 'e liked th' damn comic books, lemme alone!"
"So what? You want to name him after one o' the Ninja Turtles? How about his favorite, Michaelangelo?"
"I like Raphael, too."
"I'm happy that yer laughin'," a thoroughly happy, relieved Mo said, patting a head of black hair. Not only that, but the former Beetle rarely spoke in complete sentences-English or Korean.
"But this ain't no laughin' matter. Y' ain't got a name, 'n ya need one!"
The young breakdancer's eyes lit up like the lights on a Christmas tree. "Steve!"
"What th' fuck-where in th' Hell did THAT come from? Angie, you been feedin' 'im some o' yer shit?"
Before the Dominguez could make his case against the name 'Steve', and his choice in educational, sweat-laden documentaries, the youngest member of the apartment raised a hand. "Axel," he threw in, cheeks adopting a soft shade of red. And to that, Mo nodded.
"I know where ya got that from. Ya got that from yer Kingdom Hearts shit. But I ain't namin' ya after no lame-ass punk from Organization XIII."
Mo knew about the game Angel bought for him. As if the Porter wasn't cool enough.
"Shuddup 'n lemme take care o' this. How d' ya like Glitch?"
An admiring Angel leaned over the dinner table, brown eyes shining with vibrant interest. "Mucho mejor, Princesa. Where did that come from?"
"Simple. From 'im bein' so damn amazin'."
Yep, the kid was gone. Far beyond the moon, far beyond Mars, and far beyond Pluto.
"Ya like it? Ya better, 'cuz I ain't callin' ya Steve or Axel."
"I...I'm...I'm d-d-down...with that," the ex-Beetle replied, nodding with a tear-stained smile. And embracing the taste of his response, his own voice, he repeated his answer.
"I'm...I'm down with that. I'm down with that!"
Not knowing what was in store behind door number two, Glitch dug into the rest of his mac 'n cheese with exuberant gusto. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he ate the rest of his dinner. His first feast, with two people he loved very much: Angel and-
Well, Mo. But he loved Mo in a way that was a billion times different from the way he loved Angel.
The beetle thought he was prepared for everything. Thought he could deal with anything.
After all, he had been dumped in a faraway country by his parents-who obviously had no use for him. And then the only 'friends' he had were slave masters. Pigs that cracked a whip over his back, whenever he fouled up on one tiny move. So he thought there wasn't much to deal with, other than rejection, cold nights, an empty stomach and degradation. But then-
-he ended up in a warm, cozy apartment. Ended up with a friend, and ended up-
-falling madly, hopelessly, helplessly in love with someone eight years his senior.
Glitch knew how to expect and accept the unexpected. And maybe, just maybe-
The 'unexpected' would work in his favor again, and all the world would stop long enough...for the beautiful, radiant, warm Mo to fall madly in love with him.
Ahhh, problems, problems, problems. "Better not be sneakin' into 'is room again," the former scumwipe muttered one night, bundling himself into the bed Mo bought for him. Referring to, of course, Angel-who snuck into a sleeping Mo's bedroom on occasion. Scowling over Angel, but only for a moment, the breakdancer soon fell asleep-
-and dreamt of his first great love.