December 1977, Marley
Mikasa was conceived on the dance floor. Well, almost.
In truth, she was only a few hours after. But he knew when the seed was planted. When the disco ball glittered against her form in all of its perfection, embracing every piece of exposed skin, each delicate curve. Her long black hair swung with the movement of her hips, and such a beautiful sway it was, that his eyes followed her, drifted from hip bone to hip bone. He became lost in her, taken by her beauty, the way she moved. From the sunlight that beamed from her smile.
Johnny Ackerman hadn't been a fan of ABBA, especially their more popular hit Dancing Queen. But when he saw her dancing and taking the floor with her friends, how elegantly and freely she moved—those perfect hips, her pants emphasizing the point of each bone—he decided it was now his favorite song. And it must have been written for her.
Her body was speckled with the stares and gawks of others. She was not for his eyes only. Not yet. But he would make sure she would be his. Because the night he first saw her and watched her dance was the night that he knew he was in love with her.
In love with her presence, with the sweetness that bled from her and enveloped her form. In love with her smile, how her skin shone as a luminous pearl coated by the reflect of mirrored lights. She was sparkling. Like an angel, a shimmering pixie. Some ethereal, majestic being yet it felt like sin just looking at her. Condemned to the flames of hell for resting his eyes upon such trepid beauty.
Platform heels glided across the dance floor in ease, a gentle curve to her back. Those hips again, swaying, shifting, arms elongating above her head. The soft curve of breasts cradled in a cropped white halter top, pants hugging at her hips—those fine hips—flared into dramatic bellbottoms at her ankles. Her stomach was exposed. Thin, delicate lines creasing where muscle should be. But only just subtly, because she was just so soft. He wondered what it would feel like to touch her—her hair, fingers trickling over the bare skin of her waist, dipping into the curves, tracing those lines.
"You jivin' yet?"
It felt like he had been jerked into a different world. No longer focused on the allure of her as if she were the only one in the room. Suddenly he could hear the clamor of the music, the vibrato of the beat as if it were trying to pound its way out of his chest. Sharp smells of alcohol itched at his nose. And all those reflective lights from the massive mirrored ball twisting above them became more bothersome rather than captivating.
Johnny leaned his back against the bar, tequila sunrise in hand, feeling the rounded edge press into his spine. And he looked over at the man next to him, significantly shorter despite the heavy platforms he wore. Shaggy black hair, shimmery brown dress shirt unbuttoned half-way down. Several rows of gold chains rested against his collar bone. Johnny watched him down another shot, throwing his head back, a swirl to his bellbottom slacks and he turned his body to face him. He slammed the shot glass against the counter, though the noise was engulfed by the music.
"Well? Are you?"
Johnny sighed, digging his fingers into his neck. "Yea, sure. Definitely, Levi."
His brother's eyes narrowed to their usual bleak slits, a suspicious lift to his brow. "What's got you so bugged out?"
Johnny became visibly flustered then, placing his drink onto the bar, a patter to his heart as his eyes scanned the dance floor once more. He found her again quickly, gaze locking onto her as she did a series of precise turns, lifting a foot to her knee before kicking her leg forward with glorious flexibility.
Levi huffed, elbows lounging onto the bar top. "Which one?"
The sequin headband wrapped at her forehead glistened magnificently beneath the reflective lights. And that smile—consuming her face, pressing sweet dimples into her chin. Large, uncontrolled, elated. She was something else, out of this world.
"The girl in the white. The Asian one."
It took a brief moment for Levi to catch her, and it was apparent from the sheen that glossed his eyes, a slouch taking his back as he let out a low whistle. "She's a stone fox."
Her hair brushed the floor as she arched into a striking backbend. The perfect curve, her body twisting like clay. Long and straight raven locks grazing the hardwood, all while that headband glittered like a halo on her head.
"She's really groovy," Johnny agreed, a gushing feeling stuffing his chest. He rubbed at his head, fingers kneading into short dark blonde strands, as if it would convince him that this were a dream. She wasn't real. She couldn't be. Too beautiful and graceful to be true.
He didn't even realize the next words spilling out of his mouth like a sinful confession. "I'm going to marry that girl."
His lips fumbled when he heard Levi force a sarcastic laugh, and when a swarm of disco goers shuffled passed them, he panicked at the loss of her radiant vision. Because he could stare at her for hours. Forever preferably. Watch her dance, see her smile.
And when Dancing Queen phased out and the next song began, Johnny felt the instantaneous lift of his posture, a tap against the heel of his boot, the flair of his slacks swaying in anticipation. Fingers curled into his palms, and he felt the tautness of his dress shirt, unbuttoned in the same fashion as Levi. Hair peppered his chest, brown coils nestled against tinted peach skin. His vest was equally snug, belt clinching at his lean waist, the same leathery brown hue as his bellbottoms.
Levi groaned upon hearing the music change, rubbing heavily at his eyes as he looked up at his brother, his frown pressing into his cheek. "I am so fucking tired of hearing this bullshit song. It's literally on the radio every five fucking minutes."
Johnny was barely listening to him grumble, because he was able to spot her again. As the Bee Gee's new hit Stayin' Alive filled the room, the dance floor became flooded with those who also wanted to boogie to the popular tune. Even though others less enchanting surrounded her, her effulgence and shine was undeniable, a glowing pearl in a sea of rocks. Shimmering, enchanting. Sunshine dripping from her grin, spilling and flooding the room with her sweet aura.
"I'm going to dance with her."
Levi was mid-shot when Johnny made the bold declaration. And he gagged, a small stream of vodka dripping down his chin like a line of drool as he wiped at it briskly with his knuckles. His eyes shone a dull grey, despite the reflective bright squares that glinted against his form like shards of glass.
"You can see this girl is more than just a disco queen, right?" Levi said, gesturing vaguely to the heavily crowded floor. "She's out there spinning and bending like a fucking ballerina. And you think you're going to impress her with your B-grade Travolta moves?"
But Johnny didn't care—if he wasn't as good of a dancer as her, if he would make a fool of himself even attempting to do so next to her. He just needed to meet her, to directly feel the embrace of the shine that evaded her mouth, to take in her scent, touch that luscious pearly skin. Delve his fingers into her hair and feel how soft it was. Because he already knew he was in love with her. He was going to marry her. He just needed to meet her first.
"Catch you on the flip side." Johnny's lips curled into an enthused smirk, saluting his brother with a wink as he left him alone and shaking his head at the bar.
And as he sauntered over to the dance floor, a confident swing furthered his hips, his stance tall and strong, moving to the beat of the music, flowing with the rhythm. It wasn't a walk, but a fucking strut. It felt so stupidly good to be in love.
He found her in the cluster, through the shuffle—guided by shine, the glimmer of her headband, the ferocity of her smile. He found her and took her hand. Small, petite. Clean nails, soft skin. A beautiful milky shade. He wanted to drink her, tempted to bring her hand to his lips and sip from her knuckles. But instead, he pulled her, twirling her into his arms.
A cramped, condensed space. People all around them, dancing, laughing. But nobody was there that moment. Even the music became a sweet melodic hum. Hazy, like a dream. She clamped against his chest and it took her by surprise, that her eyes opened amply. Silvery, glistening orbs perched like doves on her face. The grey in her irises was a never-ending swirl. Shimmering metallic circling large, stunned pupils.
Crinkles had set near her temples from the sudden jolt, that when she looked up at him, she seemed almost annoyed, bewildered. But their eyes soon met, warm hazel blending into her silver, a shot of something electric and wild springing between them. Johnny felt it, from the hollow flutter in his belly, to the gushing warmth sinking in his chest. And he knew she must have felt it too, because her startled expression soon transitioned into that smile he had already fallen in love with. So vast and enveloping, embraced by soft, pink lips. His fingers brushed against her own and he felt the drumming of his heart, his pulse swift and erratic.
Johnny fell in love with her during Dancing Queen. And he was convinced she must had fallen in love at Stayin' Alive. Together they danced, closely, their bodies undulating, moving as one in synchronization. The back of her head pressed against his chest. So small—she looked taller while he was watching her dance. But next to him, she seemed almost fragile.
And he could feel her moving against him, swaying her hips, the bones poking so erotically and perfectly that he reached to touch them. And she let him. Fingers smoothing against the point, trailing up at the curve of her waist, feeling her skin. It was just as soft as he imagined.
Her smell—something warm, sweet. Like vanilla and spice. He breathed her in so he could memorize her scent. Not that he could ever forget now. Now, that she was forever engraved in him. His vision embossed with her grace, nostrils flaring from the luscious scent of her.
And when she turned around to face him, he pulled her close, palms pawing at the small of her back. Their eyes connected again, weeping in unspoken confession. So many surrounded them but nobody was really there. The beat of the music pulsing through their bodies, bringing them closer, heartbeats melding into one slow, chaotic rhythm.
"Johnny," he asserted, though she hadn't asked.
Her hands found haven at his shoulders, squeezing against the compact muscle plated there. "Aiko."
Bodies so close they were almost one. One heartbeat, one breath. Eyes melting to form a color that had never before been seen by the world. He hunched his back so he could press his lips against her ear. Tempted to taste the tender droop of skin that dangled there, instead a smirk coiled his mouth as he spoke to her.
"Aiko Ackerman. How does that sound?"
She laughed. Boldly, playfully. Like a harmonious chord pressed gently onto keys of a piano. Johnny knew he wanted to hear that laugh for the rest of his life.
And he felt the gentle press of her chest on him, her neck curved dramatically as she looked up towards him. Her face shone in reflects from the disco ball, the light catching the sequins on her headband. Her eyes glittered just as beautiful, like shimmering crystals.
"It sounds ridiculous," she answered him. Her voice was clean, light, well-spoken and feminine. And she laughed again, the sound a melodic tremble from her throat.
Even when she went home with him that night, and he asked her again, she answered the same. As he was sheltered between her legs, their hips moving as they had at the disco, but this time he was taking her, making her his, just as he had promised. Even as he filled her, took her, made her mouth drip with delicious moans that he swallowed with ravenous hunger. Her answer was the same.
And when they were married four weeks later—giggling as they ascended the steps of the courthouse as falling snow sprinkled them like celebratory rice. Their wedding attire flared slacks and bellbottom jeans, embellished with winter coats—even then, she insisted it sounded ridiculous. And it did, it really did.
February 1979, Marley
The rattle shook with persistence, waving in front of the baby who sat wailing in her high chair. But Johnny knew it was a pointless effort. It would not stop the crying that had plagued their tiny kitchen for the last half hour. Mikasa had a vibrato laced in her screams like an opera singer. Her mouth opened wide, the noise spewing from her throat almost like a weapon.
Aiko sat at the table, her petite body the perfect size for the wooden round surface. She looked like a doll, seated with her tea, legs crossed as long, straight tresses of black hair fell over her shoulder and against the newspaper. The transistor radio perched beside her looked like a timbered box, hazy sounds of classical music echoing gently. It was a chaotic composition mixed with the tune of screaming baby.
A thick brown sweater hugged her torso all the way up to her neck, and she gave the duo a concerned smile, watching her husband attempt to calm their daughter. She stretched her foot in a perfect point, rolling her ankle to trace the circumference of her flared pantleg.
"I don't think that's working," she mused smugly. And Johnny gave her a look that didn't need any words.
Another button of his shirt slipped open as he turned to face her. "Do you have any ideas?"
She placed a slender finger against her mouth, the shimmer of a dainty diamond sparkling under the dim yellowy light. Reaching towards the knob on the radio, Aiko increased the volume. The room filled with the tender fingering of a piano, a song even he recognized as Fur Elise by Beethoven. It seemed to only make her cry louder.
Johnny sulked his way to the table to join her in defeat, scooting the chair outwards as he planted his face onto the surface. He could feel the vibration of the music, the sound pattering against his ears. He felt her hand rest on top of his. Still so small and beautiful and perfect, just by the sensation of her touch alone.
Their eyes met when he glimpsed from the haven of the muffled darkness, discovering her soft smile, the sterling luster of her gaze.
"You know, my parents invited us to move in with them in the suburbs."
The music amplified, baby screaming, Aiko speaking insanity. It was a lot of noise to listen to all at once.
He wanted to frown, but her smile was addicting. "They hate me."
"They've gotten used to the idea of you," she said, a hint of a giggle punctuating her statement. Her fingers shifted into the hollows of his own. "It would be nice, wouldn't it? To raise Mikasa outside of the city? Have support from my parents."
He didn't answer her, but shifted his mouth uncomfortably as he gripped her hand. And when he glanced at the radio humming beside him, he clutched the knob and shifted through the stations.
He skimmed through mostly static and news channels before landing on the first sign of an upbeat song. It took a moment for it to register in his head, and at the realization, his posture straightened, a consuming grin taking his face captive.
Aiko groaned playfully, hiding her amused expression behind cupped palms. "Johnny, really? This is what you are going to have our daughter listen to?"
But he was already up and strutting away from the table, rattle in hand, shaking it to the rhythm of the music as he confronted the stubborn little girl once more. Little plump fists slammed against the foiled counter of her high chair, drool sobering down her chin as tears drenched the apples of her cheeks.
Johnny knelt before her, bringing the rattle to his mouth like a microphone. His hips swayed, body undulating as if he were back at the disco. Heel tapping, chest pushed forward, he mouthed the words as if he were Barry Gib himself.
Here I lie, in a lost and lonely part of town. Held in time, in a world of tears I slowly drown.
The busted flickering light above them felt like a spotlight, shining down directly on them. It highlighted Mikasa, the real star. And suddenly she transitioned from desperate sobs to tickled laughter, the most beautiful smile he had even seen taking her face. That smile—it could win contests, bring world peace, give hope to even the most troubled spirit. Johnny would dedicate the rest of his life to making sure that gracious smile would always be a natural lift to her sweet pink mouth. Those loving giggles a permanent rumble in her throat.
And Aiko—hearing her laugh in unison, watching the miraculous moment between them—he pulled her from her chair. Reluctant at first, she joined him in this number, dancing against him as he feigned his voice against the rattle microphone, pulling his wife into a waltz as Mikasa clapped and giggled in a sweet, sweet harmony.
Goin' home, I just can't make it all alone. I really should be holding you, holding you. Loving you, loving you…
Spring 1987, Paradis
Neon pink tights clamped onto her legs like a second layer of skin. She could feel the elastic of her cerulean hued leotard dig into the skin right below her bum. Matching leg warmers bunched around her calves and even the heels of her feet. Her mother warned her to lift them, she could slip during a turn. But she was too old to know this was the fashion now.
Mikasa could feel the swing of her side ponytail as she danced, her sashays like little sprints against the studio floor, bright white lights hitting her harshly and almost judgmentally. Music pounded from a large rectangular boombox on the ground, and Mikasa could feel it's pulse against her toes as she lifted herself into a releve and delved into a series of traveling pique turns—spotting herself in the mirror once, twice, three times—
Her mom was right, she slipped on the edge of her sock. And she saved it, landing into a perfect split. But it wasn't enough to save her from the scolding as she saw her mother shuffle up from her comfortable seat against the mirror, an arch to her back as she rested a palm against the large, round bump that was her stomach.
Teased black bangs bounced against her forehead, a soft rosy gold hue glossed onto her lips. Long, black permed hair flung over her shoulder, and she walked over to her daughter, splayed in half on the floor. She bent down towards her restlessly, their eyes clashing like two silver bullets.
Mikasa took the hand that was offered to her, springing from the ground with flexible knees. And she clung onto the loose white sweater of her mother, kneading the fabric into her fingers. It was so soft, luxurious.
She was at eye level to her stomach, the reminder of what was to come directly in her face. Mikasa felt weird hugging her mom, as if she would squish the baby. Or worse, feel it kicking against her cheek. So instead, she embraced her sweater, skin soothed by the feeling of tender cashmere.
They turned towards the door in unison as it squeaked open, and when Mikasa saw her father, she squealed in joy, galloping to him as a dancer would, throwing herself into his arms. And he lowered himself to her level, scooping her up against him. She pulled on the tie snug loosely around the collar of his shirt while he kissed her cheek. Small pearly hands rumpled his dirty blonde hair, and when he placed her down, his ears visibly twitched as he had caught the sound of the bustling music.
"Is this the Bee Gees?" he asked loudly, as if he didn't already know the answer.
Aiko held her belly as she approached him, and the two of them seemed to connect like magnets, instantly drawn together in the most wholesome, magnificent way. Mikasa believed her parents were soul mates, that she was created from the purest, deepest love that had ever existed. Their bodies curved together like two pieces of a heart. And she fit in the open crevice in the middle.
"Mikasa insisted to dance to this song for her talent show," Aiko jeered, a trickle of a laugh lacing her voice as she pulled her daughter in towards them. "She is her daddy's little girl after all."
Johnny beamed, watching Mikasa stand there, palms clasped behind her back, a gentle sway to her leg. She adjusted the hot pink headband against her forehead, a clever smile curling her mouth.
"But I want to be a disco queen, just like mommy."
Aiko huffed in amusement, smoothing her hand against Mikasa's cheek. "You'd have better luck learning from your father."
And she seemed to regret it the moment she spoke the words, her stare fluttering towards her husband nervously. An idea crossed him, that he rubbed at his chin with intrigue, an interested smirk planted on the side of his jaw.
"I can show you some disco moves," he quipped, taking his daughter's hand, "from back in the day."
"Are you going to teach her John Travolta's dance from Saturday Night Fever?" Aiko interjected, resting crossed arms over her stomach. "Because those are all the moves you know."
But Johnny chuckled as he tossed his wife a sardonic look. Mikasa followed him to the boombox, while he stopped the tape and rewound it to the beginning. The silence that filled the studio was sudden, and she could hear the winding of the cassette until it stopped abruptly with a sharp snap.
He looked over at Mikasa, finger hovering over the play button. "Are you ready to boogie?"
And she nodded, swiftly, energetically.
The intro melody of Tragedy started once more, and Aiko resumed her position resting on the floor, back against the mirror, while Johnny and Mikasa took their stances at the center of the studio.
She watched their reflections, noticing how tall and strong her father was, while her mother looked so cute and petite sitting there observing them with that strict dancer's eye of hers. Johnny's slacks were a beige color and tapered at the ankle, secured at his hips with a leather belt. He hadn't bothered to remove his penny loafers, which would have usually garnered scolding from Aiko.
"Alright, first, disco was all about the hips. Moving them side to side, forward."
He planted his hands near his hip bones then, shifting them horizontally. Mikasa followed along, and immediately found her movements to be stiff.
"See, you have to pull out of that ballerina stuff your mom's got you programmed into. You have to move your whole body."
It was difficult for her to break out of what she had been trained to do since she could walk. But she tried to imitate the movements of her father, loosening her torso and hips so they could sway with the same range of motion as his.
"Far out—now let's go forward."
She observed his pelvis swing go the front in calculated thrusts. Mikasa giggled as her hands planted firmly onto her waist, shoving her hip bones in a similar fashion.
The sound that evaded Aiko's mouth was overdrawn and wavering, something between a groan and a laugh. She rubbed at her temple as she shook her head tediously. "What are you teaching our daughter?"
They had evolved soon towards arm movements, shuffling hands, hips poking forward in all sorts of directions. Side steps and touches. Body rolls and undulations. And finally, the move that defined an entire era—the point.
"Point your finger in the air nice and sharp, shift your hips in the opposite direction—"
She followed enthusiastically, her little finger flying above her, opposing elbow bent.
"Bring it down, move your hips to the other side—"
Hips side to side, arm extending up and down, finger pointed, pelvis thrusting. Traveling steps, all the move combined.
Down I go and I just can't take it all alone. I really should be holding you, holding you. Loving you, loving you.
And that was how nine-year-old Mikasa Ackerman became a disco queen.
That afternoon, Johnny dropped off Mikasa at home with her grandparents. Aiko had a doctor's appointment to check up on the baby. And Mikasa hugged her dad goodbye, kissing her mom on the cheek. She was still too afraid to hug her, so she held her sweater again, rubbing the fleecy material generously. But if Mikasa could have changed one thing in her life, she would have embraced her. Held her so tightly, vehemently. She would have never let go.
And she could still remember the feel of her mother's sweater. It was the last time she ever saw it, felt its soft edges between her fingers. Kneading, curling into her skin.
If she could relive that moment in the studio only hours earlier, choreographing with her mother, learning disco moves from her dad—if she could go back in time—
Held in time, in a world of tears I slowly drown.
Everything had been fine. Why did this happen? Why did it have to happen?
Two pieces of a heart. And she fit in the crevice in the middle. Why did this happen?
How could everything be over in an instant? Taken from her as if it were nothing.
Gone in a moment, gone forever. Flashing lights from vehicles outside her home. Police men in uniform, speaking to her grandparents. She had seen stuff like this before, in the movies. But it wasn't a movie. It wasn't pretend. The way her grandmother collapsed into her husband's arms, the tears and hysteria that ensued. The emptiness she felt in her own heart. Too depleted to cry, to scream, to feel anything but absolute shock.
I really should be holding you, holding you. Loving you, loving you.
How did this happen? They always wore their seatbelts. Always. But that didn't matter when someone crashed into them. It didn't matter if they were doing everything perfect and wearing their seatbelts. None of it mattered. Not that they were happy and their lives were beautiful. It didn't matter Mikasa was supposed to have a baby brother. Everything taken from her. Taken, gone in an instant.
Nothing mattered. None of it mattered.
During the funeral, she asked Armin to run away with her. No clear destination in path as they got on their bikes and ditched the repast held at her home. Mikasa felt her dress hike up to her hips as she peddled with a fury, the front of her thighs burning as she rode faster, speeding in front of Armin.
They made it to his treehouse. It wasn't much for running away. But it was somewhere they could go to for a while, where no one would immediately find them. He climbed the ladder first, helping her inside. And they sat alone, huddled together as she leaned her head against his shoulder.
Mikasa could smell the gel in his hair, medium blonde strands slicked back behind his ear appropriately, the black suit he wore stiff around his small body. And she looked down at herself, at the flowy black dress that made her back itchy, dress shoes pinching at her toes. They were too young to be dressed this way. So void of color, denim, comfortable vibrant sneakers. It felt like death and gloom surrounded her.
Without thinking, she took Armin's hand. Their fingers coiled together, almost like two pieces of a heart. It made her feel sick to her stomach. Her grief came to her in waves—sometimes her emotions so strong that it was too physically painful to relinquish them. Other times, the tears were manic, spewing from her eyes with the grace of a hailstorm.
Bringing her knees against her chest, she found comfort resting beside her best friend. She reached for his blazer, curling the fabric against her palm. It was not soft like her mother's sweater.
"I can't listen to our song anymore."
She was met with the tender gaze of trembling blue eyes, interwoven with her own. Like the calming shores of a sea splashing against tarnished silver. Her lip quivered as she spoke the words, her fingers clamping onto his.
"What do you mean?" His voice was light, sympathetic. It made her gulp away the urge to cry, but it was a matter of time before it would come rushing back to her.
"Me and my dad's song. It's called Tragedy. He would sing it to me always since I was a baby. It was our song. I can't listen to it anymore."
She felt the shake of her body like an impending earthquake, and sensing her distress, Armin shifted closer to her, smoothing strands of long black hair away from her face. "Why not?"
"Because," she spoke, her voice cracking as a tear escaped her eye. "Because it's so sad. The words, I never realized how sad they are. And now when I try to listen to it, I just think, I can't—"
The influx of tears was sudden and doused her face, that she collapsed into her knees, staining her dress. And Armin tried to comfort her, the best that a nine-year-old boy could. As he slipped his arm around her shoulder, he brought her into a delicate embrace, the stiff fabric of their mourning clothes rubbing together in an awkward friction. She liked the smell of his hair, how the gel made it gloss and look so neat. And sobbing against him, she held him back.
"You shouldn't think about the words when you hear the song." His voice was gentle and soothing, passing through her ears like a calming melody. "Think about your mom and dad. Think about the last time you listened to the song with them and how happy you felt. Think of all the good times, Mikasa. Forget the words."
She nodded along his chest, while she tucked her head into the crook of his neck and felt the buttons of his shirt graze her cheek. And she hummed the song, the tune spilling from her throat in desperate croaks and quivers. But she couldn't help thinking of the words, remembering her father showing her how to tilt her pelvis while her mother watched in horror and amusement.
Tragedy.
When the feeling's gone and you can't go on.
It's tragedy.
When the morning cries and you don't know why it's hard to bear. With no-one to love you, you're goin' nowhere.
They had successfully run away together until later that night when they were finally discovered. It was the most peaceful few hours she had felt since her world had ended. The stillness, the warmth from Armin's embrace. Feeling the gentle breeze trickle through the cracks in the timber, swerving and caressing their bodies as if it were a divine hug. If only she could have been a runaway a little while longer.
Mikasa found the courage to listen to the song. Through the tears, the heartache, focusing to relive the moments with her mother and father that she never wanted to forget. But the lyrics had remained a dull reminder of what she had lost, everything she longed for. If only this were a dream and she could finally wake up. To open her eyes and see them beside her. Holding her, holding her. Loving her, loving her.
And after she conquered listening, she found the strength to dance. Her body fueled with the lessons taught to her by both her parents. The elegant, elongated grace of her mother mended with the sensuous sway of her dad. Two different styles becoming one, her own. Because Mikasa was a dancer, conceived by the lust and passion of dance. And by dancing they would always be a part of her, remaining in her heart, her spirit.
Whenever she danced, she felt them—every turn and spin, each undulation and swing. It was like they were with her, moving through her, guiding her, loving her.
Only months later she stood on stage in the auditorium at school. Dressed in a black leotard and green tights, leg warmers hugging her shins but stopping at her ankles. Her mother told had warned her she would slip and fall if she rolled them under her feet like all the other girls. Different faces speckled in the audience, of classmates and their families. All watching her, as the sound of the Bee Gees filled the small venue and propelled her to start moving.
Move, keep moving—that was all she could do. Move and don't think about the words. Move and remember them, feel them. Because they would always be with her through the beauty and power of dance.
Grace, elegance, long extended movements blended with hip tilts and pelvic rolls, that pointed finger that defined the dance and the generation it came from. Dancing until her throat was dry and she couldn't gather enough saliva to even swallow. Dancing so hard she felt the drumming of her heart trying to keep up with her ferocity, sweat peppering her body.
Dancing until she started spinning, finding somewhere to spot in the audience—Armin, with her grandparents and uncle. All there watching her, supporting her, clapping for her. But it wasn't enough. They were missing. They were gone. Her mom and dad were supposed to be there with her family. All of them, together.
And she lost her spot as she closed her eyes, tears spilling down on her cheeks as she continued to turn. The wetness showered her from the momentum, and she found herself focusing on the words again, only briefly. Because it was just so hard not to think about how much she missed them.
Tragedy.
When you lose control and you got no soul.
It's tragedy.
When the morning cries and you don't know why it's hard to bear. With no-one beside you, you're goin' nowhere.
Mikasa opened her eyes and caught herself mid-spin, refocusing her spot in her reflection of the studio mirrors.
The heels and shelling of her ballroom shoes were encrusted with adhered crystals, shimmering gloriously as they caught the light, like shards of glass adorning her feet. Sheer white tights hugged the curves of her long, lean legs as she sashayed and kicked up into a dramatic developpe.
And she could feel the press of her dance briefs caressing her hips and right below her bum, a pearlescent white matching the rest of her outfit. As she moved into a set of pique turns, she caught the shimmer of her bustier, covered in rhinestones and white sequins, her cleavage pushed up and enhanced beautifully, sensually, two soft swells spilling but maintained.
She danced for herself, for no one but the spirit of those she loved who dwelled within her. They moved her, guided her, pushed her forward. That same tape from so many years ago, pulsing through the speakers, playing the song she would never allow herself to forget.
Tragedy.
When the feeling's gone and you can't go on.
It's tragedy.
When she looked to her right, Mikasa saw her father through the mirrors. Exactly the way he looked twelve years ago. That same red tie loose around his neck. And he danced alongside her, adjusting the belt of his slacks as they broke out into a racy disco routine. Bodies rolling in swift undulations while their hips shuffled to the side, hands secured at the point of their bones.
Hips swayed as they extended their fingers to the sky, looking dramatically towards the floor. Feet tapping, bodies moving to the feeling, to the rhythm. Overtaken by the beat, the will to move and keep moving. He was with her as long as she kept on. Arms up and down, flung with a flowing groove diagonally, elbow bent and secured to their sides. Fingers pointed, with power and finesse. They were royalty of the disco.
She lost her spot when she turned again, spinning in precise and skilled pirouettes, feeling the air compress against her body as she moved. And when she opened her eyes, Mikasa saw only her mother to her left.
Wearing that soft white sweater she never thought she'd see again. The roundness of her belly curved gently into the fabric. Barefoot, stretchy black pants hugging her ankles. Her movements transitioned into something more graceful, elegant and controlled as they danced together now, the way she had been taught to and trained all her life. The ballerina in her came alive, ripped free into something unique and lively and spilling with emotion. And they experienced it together—sashay steps and a turn, fierce developpe and then they moved in the opposing direction, running into a leap until she turned again and again and again—spotting herself in the mirror, fighting the urge to close her eyes in fear she would lose them if she did.
And they appeared together, each by her side, and went through all the motions with her.
The sexy and sensuous confidence of disco combined with the swift dexterity of classic dance. The three of them danced together, like one. As one. Until they united as one, becoming a part of her. She could no longer see them, but they weren't gone. They would never be gone. As long as she danced, they would always be with her. Through the extension of her body, the soul that bled through her movements. Always there, in the beating of her heart.
When the morning cries and you don't know why it's hard to bear. With no-one beside you, you're goin' nowhere.
A clamor of energetic clapping startled her, that she lost focus and stumbled in her steps, catching herself before she fell. Mikasa could see Connie in the mirror, leaning against the door as he eyed her in interest. He was wearing white sweats and a matching tank, a cream-colored beanie clamped onto his scalp. She rushed to stop the music, ending the noise abruptly and she pushed her finger into the stop button.
"Holy Shit, are you Travolta's long-lost daughter?" She rolled her eyes as he sauntered towards her, scanning her up and down with a swipe of a thumb over his chin. In true perverted Connie fashion.
And he circled her then, following the curves of her body until he stopped several paces in front of her. She stood about two inches taller than him in those heels.
"You look so fucking good," he cooed, a little too gushy for her liking. "Like goddamn. Thank god for this dance belt."
Mikasa smiled only slightly, gently shoving his shoulder with two fingers. "You're not wearing what we agreed to."
Connie shrugged, emphasizing the gesture with a toss of his palms. "I wasn't really digging the tights. Especially when you look like that. Besides, this is how I dressed while we've been practicing. It looks better this way, trust me."
She hated to admit that it really did look better. Closer to their source material. And the jazz shoes seemed to blend in more with this outfit. She gifted him a playful side eye, crossing her arms against her in defeat.
"Now, you got to tell me what the hell that was."
A series of blinks fluttered against her curled lashes, and she was caught off guard by his sudden enthusiasm. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"This." He emphasized the word as he gestured towards her body as if she were an hourglass. "You dancing just now like the sexiest and most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
She felt a blush darken her already painted cheeks, that she further draped her arms along her chest for a sense of some modesty.
"That was nothing. I was just messing around—"
"No, Mikasa. Like that was some real fucking dancing. The stuff you see in movies. Like the main character who's a dancer and going through shit. I could feel everything you were feeling. It was like watching a story. Don't you get it?"
She didn't know why his words struck a chord in her. A sweet, tragic melody that was always bottled up inside and she avoided touching. Because it was too painful to think. When she danced, she didn't have to do that. All she could do is feel and experience and fucking live. To dance was to be alive, to live through their memories. But sitting down and really thinking about it and remembering?
A slouch took her back as everything started to feel very heavy. Like a weight of something grand and painful thrust upon her shoulders and forcing her down. She could barely look at Connie now, nodding in a vague agreement. Her eyes sprinkled around the room, taking in the light, the emptiness, how dark and scuffed the studio flooring seemed when she really just stared at it.
"I appreciate that, but we're about to go dance in this shit in less than an hour and probably lose, so I'm sure you're only one of few who thinks that way."
A soft gasp tickled her throat, hanging from the edge of her painted lips when he took her hands, jerking them towards his chest. There was tenderness to the way he embraced her, how his palms smoothed against her own, fingers clasped against her securely. And she was forced to meet his stare, lock into his eyes. There was something sweet yet solemn in the way he looked at her.
"Do you know why I think you're an amazing dancer, Mikasa?" When she didn't reply, he furthered. "Dancers dance for other dancers. But you—you dance for everybody."
Her brows slanted then, pinching a dimple between them, and she felt a hollow flutter at her belly, beginning to melt at his praise.
"This whole show is going to be dancers dancing for each other. And no dancer watches another dancer with the intent to be entertained. They're judging, always judging. Looking for something that could be fixed or improved. It's fucking bullshit. And these bitches are gonna go on that stage and over-dance. They're gonna do a million fucking moves a minute, cram as much as they can just to impress the dancers. But to regular people? That shit is chaotic. It gets lost. Every beautiful movement just a blur of madness to them."
Connie wasn't one to give her pep talks like this often. But when he did, he was really fucking good at them. It made her knees quake, a dryness succumb her throat. She fought the urge to cry with all her strength, her fingers fastening against his, while her breathing faltered.
And he smiled at her warmly, a sweet simple delving into his chin as he brought her hands to rest on his heart. "When you dance, Mikasa, I feel everything. See every movement, experience it all. Because sometimes you just stop moving for a second—you stop, and it's like you haven't. Because you're pouring so much emotion that it becomes part of your dance. You don't overpopulate every second with movement but with feeling. I've never met another dancer like you. It's beautiful, Mikasa. You should be so fucking proud of yourself."
She felt the tears gather in clumps against her mascara, and she was still struggling, holding it back. Yet, a brilliant glassiness glossed over her eyes, her irises glittering like silver doused in the rains. She could feel his heartbeat. Slow, controlled. Unlike her own. And it was soothing, reassuring. Like everything was going to be ok.
"So yea, we're probably not gonna win. But we never do," he confessed, a simple laugh decorating his diction. "But who gives a fuck. We'll still be the crowd favorite. I can guarantee that."
A tear slipped down her cheek. And then another. She caught the third against her finger before it made its harrowing trek, dabbing lightly at her face. Connie sighed, gently dropping her hands, that same kind smile still bound to his mouth.
"Come on, don't cry. You're going to ruin your makeup," he teased, and Mikasa smiled then, blinking to secure the wetness from overtaking her face. He waved short gusts of air towards her with erect palms. "Fan it out, fan it out."
And she laughed lightly, the sound chucked from her throat as she joined him in fanning her face. But a moment later, she took Connie into a hug, his arms snaking around her waist as they held each other in the stillness.
~oOo~
"Ballet…jazz…modern?"
Floch looked up from the programme, auburn hair shuffling as he snapped his gaze to the side. He further buried himself in his sweater, the crimson turtleneck enveloping his neck.
"Modern, what's that? Like hip-hop or something?"
Eren felt like a heavy weight in his seat, as if he were a bagged pile of bricks holding a bouquet of flowers and trying not to crush them. And he was really trying not to. The beautiful assortment of flowers was clasped against his compact fist, and not even the delicate and colorful paper that protected them could spare them from his anxiety.
His eyes found Floch's and his question had jittered a memory. He had asked a similar question before.
It's like ballet but kind of weird and you roll on the floor a lot.
As he heard the replay of Mikasa's voice echo in his mind, Eren smiled gently. She sounded like a sweet hum in his head. Her words, even when sarcastic, like a sprinkling melody whenever she spoke.
"No, it's like…weird ballet," he paraphrased, and Floch nodded vaguely, shifting his attention back to the paper in hand. It crumpled as he grasped it, eying the list briskly until he found something that intrigued him to a cunning smirk.
"Yo Eren, check this out." Floch shoved the paper onto his lap, finger trailing down the list of names and acts.
"Everybody on here has like one thing, two max. Ballet, modern, jazz, tap—Now look when we get to your girl."
Eren's eyes scanned the lineup of names, taking note as Floch suggested. He stumbled upon one row, that had been crossed off with a pen, and he stuttered there for a moment.
Historia/Ymir—Ballet—Sugar Plum pas de deux
Guilt felt like a prison, lonely and lingering, inescapable, and always reminding of the wrong he had done. He had not seen her, let alone talked to her, since that night one month ago. He didn't seek her and she hadn't either. They meant nothing to each other. So why had she dropped out? Why did that night affect her so horribly? It made him feel like a truly shitty person, that he had hurt her that badly.
And he blinked then, trying to refocus, visually scrolling down until he found what Floch had been pointing to:
Connie/Mikasa—Modern/Jazz/Ballroom Fusion—Larger Than Life pas de deux
Reading her name alone was like candy to the eyes, serenaded by poetry, a sweet, sweet sonnet. And he would say it again and again, for the rest of his life if she'd let him. Mikasa. Sing it to the world, spill her name like a sinful curse, a beautiful prayer. Mikasa.
Eren felt himself sink further in his seat, a flutter taking his pulse. Suddenly he felt so stiff in his attire—black blazer, white shirt tucked into dark denim pants. He tried to dress somewhere between formally and casually. But now he wondered was he overdressed? Under? As he glanced around roughly through darting green eyes, those seated around him seemed to be wearing nothing extravagant. But he still doubted himself. Everything needed to be perfect for her. He couldn't fuck this up.
Eren could smell his own cologne. A deep, woody fragrance—maybe that's how he should have known he was wearing too much, if he could smell himself. And out of nervousness, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of Binaca, spritzing some into his mouth. He could feel the mint tickle at his throat, the taste sharp along his tongue.
And he felt the pressure against his scalp, hair pulled back neatly again into a partial ponytail, the rest of his wavy locks settled under his chin and behind his ears. Soft tendrils of baby hair freckled his forehead, and the breath spray wasn't enough to get him to calm himself. Eren tugged at the conch shell necklace resting along his collar bone, his silver Fossil watch sliding up his forearm.
He scanned the room again, leg crossing over his knee. It was a small venue, a little black box theatre in the basement of the arts building. Intimate, yet the audience far enough to give the performers space and dexterity. Everything drenched in black, including the cushioned seats aligned in rows towering over the performance space.
Floch and Eren sat in a more reserved area in the back, mostly out of view. He preferred it that way, to be unseen, undistracting. He wanted to see her, but not affect her. He would hate to impede on her performance with his presence.
Following the flow of attendees as they entered the room, Eren spotted Armin and their entourage—that crazy short girl (his girlfriend?), another bummy looking girl with dark hair and two very tell grungy guys hovering over her. Sasha and Nicolo, trickling in, holding hands—but no Jean. He was missing from their group.
Eren didn't know how that made him feel—relieved, kind of crappy? Was this his way of letting her go, allowing him to make his move and win her back? It was kind of sad, seeing his invisible flag of defeat. He almost wished Jean would have put up more of a fight. Wasn't Mikasa worth more than that, to the both of them?
What made that prick think that he absolutely had no chance with her? Had she said that to him?
Mikasa's waiting. Go win her back. I won't stand in your way.
They sat centered in the front, like fucking VIP, and Eren counted them again. Seven people. Friends, all there for her. So many around her who cared for her, supported her. And she deserved it—fucking more than anybody. But why did it hurt? Seeing something that was so good? Because all he had was Floch and not the support group that constantly surrounded her?
And the lights dimmed around them, a soft white glow caressing the stage, and Eren delved further into his chair, clutching the flowers, feeling the weight of the tiny box in his pocket as he fingered its velvet exterior.
There was only a brief introduction by what seemed like the dance instructors of the school, and then what commenced was one dance number after the other, and Eren eyed the programme carefully, making sure to anticipate when she would enter the stage.
He tried to enjoy the show, he really made an honest attempt. But his anxiety overwhelmed him, afraid he would lose count, somehow miss her entering the stage. And all the acts before her, they were good, impressive—but somehow it was all lost to him. All that technique and constant moving. It all went over his head. Eren wasn't a dancer and didn't know what good dancing was really supposed to look like. But he had seen Mikasa dance, had been entranced and moved to near fucking tears watching her. And if that wasn't what dancing was supposed to feel like, then he was really a fool after all.
Foot tapping in anticipation, Eren reached for that mouth spray again. Somehow the sting of the mint calmed him. He hadn't had a drink in a week. And it was putting him at the edge sometimes. Without the option of pouring something bitter and warming down his throat, he opted for the swift release of mint instead. It was a bizarre way to cope, but it was working. Even if only a little.
Jazz music ended and a pop number began. He recognized it instantly, something constantly played on the radio. Who was it by again? One of those boybands Mikasa liked. And he realized then that he had been so deep in thought that he fucking lost count. This was it, it was her song.
And moments after the upbeat music filled the room, and he could feel the tremble of the bass against the floor, there she sprinted from the corner with her dance partner.
Fucking goddess. Dripping, oozing with everything beautiful and perfect and divine. He almost didn't recognize her. Absent was the misery that had plagued her expression the last time he saw her. Instead, she sprung towards that stage with a grin—ample and engulfing and so addicting that it made him smile too.
Lips colored in a dusty rose, a pink flush pressed upon her cheeks. A frosty silvery shade adorned her eyes, enhancing their own vibrant sterling hue. Her hair was slicked back, covered in glitter, that much of it fell from her body and coated the floor as they both ran to the stage, taking the air to a dramatic leap midway.
Her attire was revealing, more so than the other dancers he had watched. But coy enough that everything was kept in place and controlled. Decked in white, the both of them, while her outfit was more feminine and glittery, her top pushing against the perfect swells of her breasts as the sequins caught the light.
She had worn high heels as she promised, many small crystals glued on, and he focused in on the spike of her stilettos, watching the steep arches of her feet as she perched herself onto her toes for a majority of her movements.
A shimmering bright form draped in white and glitter, her skin so light and milky. Sparkles everywhere. Surrounded by the blackness of the room, her presence was angelic, ethereal. Nothing less than a goddess, with that smile he craved, the one pouring with sunshine.
That crazy small girl and Sasha instantly sat up and starting screaming the second they sprang to the stage. Cheering, applauding, like crazed groupies. Was the small one singing along? Eren wouldn't have taken her for a boy band type of girl. He imagined death metal was more up her alley.
As the first verse progressed and they melded into their duet, Eren immediately understood the superb chemistry between Mikasa and her partner. As if they had been born to find each other and dance together. Like some kind of soul mates. The way he countered her movements, how he picked her up with such ease as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. It was enthralling to observe, and he wondered then if people were born with the purpose of finding those who completed them, in different aspects of their lives. Maybe it hadn't happened to him yet, because he had failed to complete himself first.
They fluttered between more sensual and flowy ballroom steps and jazzy combinations in the beginning. Her partner twirled her against him, lightly touching the small of her back as she extended her leg. Elongated, straight, ankle perched on his shoulder. And she held it there a moment before he helped her bend over into a modified back flip.
They way she spun and turned and moved alongside him—so free of her burdens, dripping with a pure bliss and light that captivated everyone who watched her. The chorus of the song found them in a more synchronized choreography—extended swipes of their legs, multiple turns in place and travelling, jazzy steps peppered throughout.
It was during the second verse they took their act to a more playful route, engaging in a cat and mouse sort of chase. Mikasa flounced away from him and he followed her. She turned, moved backwards, taunting him as they enveloped each other in a circle. It reminded Eren of a Michael Jackson music video from the late eighties.
The way her partner eyed her and tipped his beanie sent a gentle wave of laughter throughout the audience. Until he found her again and pulled her against him, hands and legs entwined into another bout of ballroom styled dance and turns.
And Floch was sitting there beside him, hunched forward, gawking at the stage with eyes wider than he'd ever seen on him. Eren only noticed when he shoved his arm a bit aggressively, shifting his attention only briefly to him.
Floch rubbed at his chin, his eyes stuck on Mikasa while his eyes followed her across the stage. "Holy shit," he cursed in a low whisper, shaking his head in slight disbelief. "She's fucking Madonna."
And she could have been—exuding the same confidence, skill, personality—but Mikasa was even purer, honest, just so fucking moving. Even dancing to a pop song he couldn't care less about, it was so fucking fun and free and a needed source of light in this dark world.
After the second chorus, the music slowed, and the both of them fell to the floor. Eren figured this was the Modern part. And it was beautiful watching them roll, shifting their legs over their shoulders like contortionists, bodies gliding and bending beautifully together.
Her partner landed on top of her then, in a position compromising and sensual, but lasted only a moment until she kicked him off of her. Another current of laughter drifted along the crowd. And Eren smiled, his back resting less anxiously and more relaxed against his seat.
Upon his rejection, the dancer crawled away, leaving the floor to Mikasa. And slowly she slid up from the ground, her body curving against itself, rising like a sprouting rose. She was dazzling, delicate—a shimmering flower blooming before them all. Watching her unfurl, open herself up as if she were pouring out the contents of her heart to anybody willing to see.
And the music picked up again abruptly, that she sprang up into a swift turn with the precision, speed, and bounce of a spinning top. Clapping, delicate applause—her groupies cheering for her in the front so loudly as a complete dance break took over the song and Mikasa claimed the floor in a stunning, flashy solo.
Traveling, leaping, splits in the air—so many moving turns in succession, he wondered how it was possible in such high heels. Something took over her then, consumed by her euphoria, her passion in the music, lost in her emotions. Like watching the professional version of someone dancing in their room, shouting the lyrics into a hairbrush and completely losing themselves.
And Eren could feel her reflection in his eyes, his gaze locked into her, unmoving, unrelenting. He had to touch his face to see if he had started crying, because it was that fucking beautiful and perfect—she was. Just a vision of pure light and everything good in the world. Candy and flowers, she was sunshine and rainbows. Such a raw, glorious sweetness seeped from her, like honey fresh from the comb. He wanted to taste her, drink the honey dripping down her neck, slide his tongue against her skin and gather the sugar coating her flesh.
Mikasa took the center of the stage—turning, turning—at first slower, her leg extended and fanning her movement, until she sped up and bent that leg into a point at her knee. He saw her focus somewhere in the crowd as she turned, spotting herself. Swiftly, body stiff and precise until finally she matched the sudden halt of the music and threw herself down onto the floor again, landing between her knees in a dramatic drop.
Cheer—even Floch was clapping—there was a moment where nothing else happened, just Mikasa dropped there and bent like a pretzel on the floor, until her partner sprang back out—was he a cheerleader or something? A series of impressive backflips, twirls midair (more applause, rounds of cheering), until he landed in front of her. And with the will of the rhythm, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back up.
Like a rose rising back into bloom once more, the way her body just melted right up—so gloriously effortless, as if her spine was pulled out from her body. And they moved together again in perfect synch and harmony, reacting to each other, countering movements, even dancing as one.
And it was during the final chorus when they changed up their routine, shuffling close to their friends in the front row, doing a number that was more similar to a typical boyband. Stomping feet, erratic dancing and non-stop motion. The two of them were laughing, the vibration of their elation propelling them to keep going, dance harder, sillier, to have fun.
And the grin that had snaked onto Mikasa's face—embracing that beautiful mauve mouth—so large, engulfing, full of happiness and joy. The way her eyes crinkled, dimples sprinkling her chin and near her jaw. Eren cursed himself for ever stealing that joy from her. That authentic, unadulterated brightness the world needed more of.
He would do anything to keep that smile on her for the rest of his life—to see it and kiss it from her face only to be met with it again immediately after. That smile dripping with sunlight, a shine so luminous that it cloaked the room in its brightness.
The act ended as Mikasa flung herself into her partner's arm, her back curved dramatically as she landed backwards. A backbend within a backbend as he caught her and fell to the ground in a similar drop, holding her beautiful curled form like the gorgeous prize that she was.
The applause that followed was muddled against Eren's ears, the sound overpowered by his heartbeat. So brisk and erratic, it was a desperate tremble against his chest. Seeing her, being so close to her, taken by her talent and passion and just how fucking beautiful she was at that moment. Glitter spilling from her hair, several rhinestones falling off from her shoes. And that smile—a pure ray of light, one that shot him directly in his maddened heart.