(based on original characters & story by princess keda. 'the heirs' post-ch 25)
M isn't a quitter. Not when it comes to keeping Amber enrolled at Marty Oppenheimer's. Not when it comes to seeing his mother again.. eventually. Not even when it comes to maintaining the Oppenheimer legacy the rest of his life.
(He can't find it in himself to admit he's getting close to it on that last one.)
But especially not when he's stuck doing a stupid Argentine Tango routine worth a quarter of his grade.
M likes the tango, really, he does, but this particular routine is really getting to him. Usually, M picks up routines, no problem. He's good with the technical stuff – proper positioning, precise form. The works. But this dance - this assignment - is not about technicalities.
"You have the choreography down in theory, but all of your pieces have been lacking something lately," his Ballroom Performance professor had said during their bi-monthly performance assessment meeting last week. "When you dance, your eyes are trained on your hands or feet, probably trying to get your positions accurate, yes? But where's your passion? Where's your zeal for the dance?" The older man punctuated each question with a flourish of his hands, like his enthusiasm might fly from his fingertips into M's very soul. His student nodded slowly, trying to not let his uncertainty show, but M can't get by with even the smallest lie. The professor exhaled and sobered a bit.
"I've known you since I started teaching here, Marty. I appreciate you working so hard on your technique all these years, but I also want you to enjoy being onstage. It's been a while since I last saw you dance without it feeling like a recital piece. The best performances don't feel like performances, right? It's about dancing because there's nothing else that could express what you're feeling besides it." He handed M a sheet with their meeting notes and smiled. "I'm assuming you know our next module in class is on the Argentine Tango, which gives you the perfect opportunity to practice your presence onstage. After all," he added with a wink, "the tango is all about passion."
The thing is, M doesn't do passion. Emotions aren't something he can just conjure whenever he wants, which is exactly why he focuses on the things he can control, like how much he practices and how hard he works each skill. Besides, he usually relies on Amber for the theatrics. He can't fake it 'til he makes it this time, though; partners are randomized the day of the test.
This leaves him no choice but to practice passion. God, he feels stupid just thinking about it.
M peeks into the studio, making sure he's alone before slinking in. He sets up a little portable speaker and starts the music, just listening for a few moments before counting himself in – five, six, se-ven, eight – and jumping into the dance himself. He holds an invisible partner in raised arms and tries to imagine their feet stepping in time with his own. The dance is in full swing now and he tries, tries to lose himself in the feeling of the music. The song is a strange concoction of strings, bass, and piano, and while he can appreciate a good piano piece, it's not an easy song to dance to. He catches a glimpse of himself in the full-wall mirror and scoffs, not only at how dumb he looks with his arms open and empty like that, but at how spectacularly he's failing. Every move he makes is so mechanical, so overthought and calculated on its face that even he can't fool himself into seeing authenticity.
So he tries again. And again. He thinks he's seeing improvement at one point, only to mess it up just as badly as before. He loops the track until he's so frustrated with himself that he just stops midway through a turn. He walks right up to the mirror, smooshes his forehead against it in a very undignified way, and closes his eyes as he makes a groaning sound. He's going to fail, and when his dad finds out he'll be absolutely grounded the rest of the decade.
"I would ask what you're doing, but I don't think you'd know either."
M looks up with a start to see Amber leaning against the doorway, a sly smile betraying her dry tone. His cheeks turn light pink. "How long have you been watching?"
She doesn't answer, walking past the barre and his bookbag with his sneakers on the floor. Amber hits replay on his speaker and stands in the middle of the floor, arms out and waiting for the intro to play out.
"What are you doing?"
"Helping you practice, idiot. Who dances the tango alone?"
"Well, if you're just gonna insult me the whole time…"
The intro is reaching its end, and she nods at him as if to say you're really going to argue with me? Somewhat sheepish, M joins her.
The music starts. They step into each other's arms on the first beat, M's hand on the small of her back as hers lands on his shoulder. He can't help but smirk. Amber rolls her eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me you needed a partner to practice with in the first place?"
"You like to have time to call your family on Fridays. I didn't want to intrude," he mumbles, leading them to the left.
She does some advanced footwork; it looks effortless. "I'm going to see them in person in a few weeks for my birthday. I think they'll survive."
M hums in distracted agreement as the main section of the song begins. Amber's eyes meet his for a second before they step back together, heels and toes tapping against the floor in a flurry of moves that would have left a beginner winded. M nails the beginning two measures, and maybe he's going to get it this time – but then he risks a glimpse in the mirror. His feet fumble a little from the distraction, stumbling over his partner's shoes. Amber expertly steers clear of any further interruption, her dance a masterpiece next to his train-wreck. The music seems to power her, its rhythm punctuating her every movement. She's everything their professor wants, and everything he isn't. M feels his face burn as he goes through the motions, feeling less passion and more frustration as the last few measures of the section wrap up.
Amber steps out of his hold as the music ends, lips pressed in a line. "You know, you're never going to get this right if you're only thinking about messing up."
Sometimes, M really hates that his best friend can basically read his mind.
"If it's passion you're trying to emulate, you can't be thinking about how dumb you look. That's not what this dance is about. You've got to listen to the music. Think about what emotions go with the tone and channel them into your movements."
M frowns. "The emotion that goes with this song is definitely annoyance."
Amber shoots him a glare and opens her mouth to disagree, but M continues. "It's just… I'm not good at this like you are, Amber. I don't have some Oni superpower that tells me what emotions I'm supposed to be showing. It's just… dancing, you know?"
She's quiet for a moment, seemingly processing his words. "You don't seem that way when we're dancing for fun."
"That's different."
"Why?"
"I donno," he mutters, but it's a lie. Dancing with Amber is different because he's not being watched or graded or judged. He won't have someone lecture him for hours afterward on how his stance is incorrect or how he was a little offbeat. He's not Marty Oppenheimer V, future headmaster of Marty Oppenheimer's School of Performing Arts, the fifth in generations of protégés and. He can just be... M.
The music's intro restarts before she can protest his answer. M pulls her into position with him, training his focus on the horned girl and breathing deep.
They begin, and it's just as humiliating as the last time. He hates how incapable he is of a stupid tango. He hates how Amber can tell just how much he doesn't belong here while she fits right in. And he wonders for the millionth time why he even dares to hope she'll be the one person in his life who actually stays–
Without preamble, Amber makes a turn. M looks up, startled. That wasn't a part of the choreography…
"You know what emotion I think goes with this song?" She pulls him with her, and suddenly they aren't doing his rehearsed routine anymore. "I think it's about feeling out of place. You hear all the big, bold major chords, but there are some minor chords almost hidden in the mix. It sounds kind of bittersweet."
They pause to take in the sounds from the speakers, and M can't help but agree. The rhythm is a little chaotic, and the bass somewhat gutsy, but the strings and piano are vaguely sentimental. "It sounds… like someone standing still in the middle of a party," he states simply.
Amber looks up at him, taken off guard by the observation, and smiles a little. "I'm really glad I came to Ninjago," she says quietly as they slow their dance. "I met you, and I'm living my dream going to school here. But I'm always wondering if I'll ever feel like I belong. Not only am I the creepy Oni-girl, but I don't make friends easily. A lot of the time, it's like everyone else has the privilege to be here, while I'm just… existing."
He frowns as her eyes drop, and he can't help but relate to her. Not that he's made an outcast by being the only Oni-Superpowered-Princess in the realm like she is, but generations before him have been built upon the infamous Oppenheimer legacy. He was practically born to carry on the family business, and he's been preparing for it before he could even comprehend the responsibility. He couldn't back out now if he wanted to. So he just is, passing grade after grade until there's nothing to do but become the one thing he's expected to be.
He's still musing over his life purpose when Amber meets his eye again. "The thing that I love about dancing, though, is that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Like I have a place, even if I'm doing it alone. And, dancing with you.. it feels like I could belong here."
The words make his heart swell, because he knows exactly what she means and by the First Spinjitzu Master, he's lived here his entire life and it's never felt more like home than when she's with him. Not only when they're dancing, but when he slips her notes the middle of class, or when they pass each other in the hallway with a grin that says they'll have to talk later, or during free period where they aren't doing anything, just talking and hoping the hour will never end.
It's more than existing.
"What if the song's not about standing still at a party, or being out of place?" He wonders aloud. "What if it's about making your own place? Dancing when the rest of the world is standing still."
"Maybe it is." Amber pulls them back into a starting position. "Now all you have to do is dance like it."
It really shouldn't work. But it does.
M feels a surge of courage and picks up the dance from where they left off. The textbook steps he's been rehearsing blend together as one long, intricate flow of motion. Amber is in her element, picking up the pace now that they are on the same page. He feels her love for the dance in the way she holds her body, how she gets ahead of herself and adds extra steps just because she can and it's fun. Her gaze is intense and unreadable, but her eyes glint with the hidden energy under her skin.
For one tiny instant, he thinks he feels the sparks, too.
They walk through the dance together, spinning through the room like it's their own personal theatre. The song intensifies. M almost loses focus by glancing at the wall mirror – right before receiving a quick bop on the shoulder. He throws a mock scowl in his partner's direction as the music comes to its final notes. He raises their hands to let her make a final spin before taking her in his arms to dip her backward. The track ends, and the only thing they know is the intake of air and each other's wide eyes.
"See," Amber whispers, a half-smile on her lips. "You've got it."
Out of the blue, M's stomach feels fluttery. Elated, but sick at the same time, like right after a loop in a rollercoaster. It's gone as suddenly as it came, replaced with goosebumps on his arms and a light flush on his cheeks. He hesitates for a second. That was weird.
Amber's looking at him questioningly before he recovers with an eyeroll. "And I suppose you're going to say 'told you so,' right?"
"Well, I hadn't thought about it, but if you're asking-"
M drops her, snickering as she gives an indignant squeak. Serves her right.
…
A week later, grades are in. M receives an A- with a sticky note attached to his evaluation sheet: Best improvement this semester.
He's only a little proud.
(senseless fluff is all i'm good for)