Don't look at me, somebody commissioned me to write this. Yes, literally. I was paid for this.
Anyway dsmp dance moms AU let's go
When he was younger, dance meant everything to Philza.
He lived to dance. He breathed dance, he dreamt about dance, he had dance for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day until he was rushed to the hospital and the doctors told him eating the foam floors of the dance studio was going to be the death of him.
That was a bad day for Phil and his career in the professional dance world. Though not as bad as the day three years later when he was hit by a bicyclist while crossing the street and managed to fracture his kneecap.
The thing is, dance still means the world to Philza Craft. But it's not something he can enjoy the way he used to, or partake in himself anymore. His knee won't allow it. For a while, this was a tough pill to swallow. Phil was twenty-four years old when it happened, had forgone ever getting any type of formal education in favor of chasing a goal that had been ripped away from him by one mountain biker who lost control of his bike because he'd been trying to film an epic GoPro video, and didn't know what else to do with his life if not perform.
Dance was how he expressed himself. Dance was how he told his stories to the world.
That's when the epiphany came to him.
If dance was the music, then dancing was merely the instrument.
Simply put: Philza didn't need to do any dancing if he could just let others do the dancing for him.
He took the sizable insurance payout he had gotten from that bicycle accident and bought himself a studio. It was hard going at first but with persistence, creativity, smart advertising, and a smidge of blackmail, he'd managed to build himself a thriving business. Phil employs several dance instructors and choreographers now. And while he offers lessons for all ages, his sights are once again set on greener pastures.
National championships.
Which he has proceeded to completely demolish, thank you very much. With three consecutive wins under their belt, Philza's Hardcore Dance Studio and their elite competition team are the title defenders. This puts a lot of additional pressure onto Phil's shoulders to make sure his team is in the best of shapes. Something that is made a little harder due to the… everything else always going on in the studio.
Philza is often the first to arrive in the morning, probably because he sleeps on a bedroll in the studio's back office. He quite literally lives three steps away from the job, and boy does it save him on commutes. Despite this, he's usually late to class. Sometimes because he gets distracted scrolling social media, sometimes because he's feeding the crows out in the parking lot (they're sweethearts and they complain less than the dance parents do). One time, he got stuck in the office because the door jammed and there was so much drama going on nobody even noticed until three hours later.
Today, however, is much too important for intrusions. Today is the last rehearsal day before the competition. Phil can't allow petty grievances to ruin that. They all need to focus to make the best of it.
"Good morning, mister Craft!" Tommy chirps at him pleasantly, almost bouncing in place in front of him. Phil ruffles the boy's blond hair.
"Hi mate. Are you nervous about your solo? Just one more day of waiting." It would make sense for the kid to be excited, but with Tommy it's hard to tell. It might just be a sugar high, or maybe Tommy is on cocaine or something. He definitely has that type of high energy.
But Tommy shakes his head vehemently. "Oh, I'm not nervous. I'm going to fucking destroy it. Dad says it'll be very pog!"
Phil snorts. "I'm sure it will be, buddy." Kids and their weird internet pseudo-languages. "Is either of your dads here today?"
Tommy huffs. "Nah, I'm old enough to come to rehearsal by myself. I'm not like the other babies who still need their parents to hold their hand."
As if to indicate this very statement, an ear-piercing screech almost deafens them. Phil watches in slight apprehension as Bad tries to wrangle an uncooperative Sapnap into behaving. Phil knew not giving that spoiled brat a solo was going to come and bite him in the ass.
"Sorry, sorry." Bad smiles apologetically at them while Phil waves Tommy off to go do his stretches. "He's a bit moody today, he hasn't had his vitamins yet."
"You fall for that 'organic all-natural health' bullshit?" Wilbur asks, seemingly materializing next to them. Fundy, who is standing at his father's hip, waves at Phil. He is sipping on a blue slushie. One that is probably neither organic nor all-natural.
"There's scientific evidence," Bad insists. His hand lands on Sapnap's shoulder. The kid hasn't stopped loudly screaming, they're simply all ignoring it. "Unlike some parents, I want the best for my child." Bad glances down at Fundy's slushie in disgust.
When Fundy sticks out his tongue, it's dyed blue from the artificial coloring. Bad shudders, appalled.
"I don't know what you're implying," Wilbur says, "so you better stop before I figure it out."
"How about you take Sapnap to do your stretches now," Philza says to Fundy.
He has a firm rule about not having the parents argue in front of the kids. And with rule he means it's just a basic decency Phil tries to uphold as to not inflict any more trauma on these kids than the competitive dancing world is already likely to give them. Too bad the dance parents do not give a single shit.
If he can manage, Phil tries to have the kids in another room when the snark comes out.
"I'm implying we've all seen Fundy's rond de jambe is getting a bit sloppy and it's probably that extra weight he's been putting on."
Wilbur gasps loudly. "How dare you say that when your own son can't even do a fucking cross leap with straight legs!"
Bad puts a hand on his chest as if struck. "Language!"
"Gentlemen-" Phil is about to interject but Techno beats him to it.
"It's too early for you guys to be this loud." The man has just walked in, shooing Ranboo off to join the other kids after Ranboo gives Phil his usual polite greeting.
Technoblade is the only person Phil knows who always manages to look like he has spent three hours in front of the mirror that morning while simultaneously looking like he can't have rolled out of bed more than five minutes ago. It is a unique talent he has.
Either that or Technoblade has made a deal with the devil.
He is holding two paper Starbucks cups, handing one to Phil immediately. "Black coffee with two sugars and some whipped cream on top."
"Aw, thanks mate. You shouldn't have," Phil says.
"He's clearly just trying to suck up to you," Wilbur complains, glaring at him. "He wants Ranboo to get the second solo."
"I wouldn't dare," Techno says. "But also if I were sucking up, would it be working?"
Phil takes a sip of the coffee. Aside from missing some caramel drizzle and maybe chocolate chips, it is absolutely perfect. "It's working a little bit, yeah."
"I can get you coffee too, Phil." Wilbur almost snatches the cup right out of his hands but Phil holds it out of his reach.
"You two should be ashamed of yourself," Bad says disapprovingly. "Preying on a sick kid's solo is a new low, even for you."
The second solo of the competition was supposed to go to Eryn, but Sam had called to let them know the boy had come down with a horrible case of pneumonia. There's no way he'll be better in time for the competition tomorrow so Phil decided to let the other kids in the team rehearse it until he's ready to make a final call on who's performing.
"Yeah, I'm sure you wouldn't accept that solo immediately if Phil offered it to you," Wilbur says.
Bad purses his lips, looking away. "I didn't say that."
"We'll see what I decide," Phil says mildly to steer the conversation away again. "Let's just wait for everybody to get here first. Where's Quackity?"
As if on cue, the sliding doors to the entrance of the studio open.
"Speak of the devil," Techno says.
Much like Technoblade, Quackity manages to look at all times as if he's heading down to a million-dollar gala rather than a dance studio. Today, he's wearing big Gucci sunglasses. It's the middle of February and cloudy as hell.
"Sorry, sorry I'm late." Quackity grins at them. "I didn't mean to keep anybody waiting on me."
"We weren't," Wilbur mentions but goes ignored. Phil doesn't bother correcting him, since they very much did just spend ten minutes standing around waiting.
"I brought some treats!" Quackity hands Phil another Starbucks cup, which he's now forced to take with his non-dominant hand because his other is already occupied. "Black coffee with two sugars and a little bit of whipped cream on top, finished off with a caramel drizzle and chocolate chips."
Techno frowns. "Oh, I hate that."
"I also got you some muffins. I didn't know which ones you liked so I just picked three popular flavors." A paper baggy is shoved into his arms next. Phil is holding on for dear life but he's not complaining. He hasn't had breakfast yet so this is a welcome development.
It's also absolutely a bribe, but he's not above taking those. "Thank you."
"Don't worry about it." Quackity steps closer then, pulling his sunglasses down a bit to peek at Phil over the golden rim. "Between me and you, Phil, I should mention that Charlie hasn't stopped gushing over that solo all night. He was practicing in the living room because he was so hooked on it, the little bugger. Almost kicked over one of my ancient china vases too. I paid an arm and a leg for that thing, I'll say. Real heartstopper of a performance." He leans back again. "I can't tell you how to run your business - despite, you know, me running a very successful business myself so I know a thing or two about how to run a business - but you should really consider him for the solo."
Phil snorts. "Sure. Speaking of Charlie, uh… where is he?"
Quackity pulls back, taking the sunglasses off completely as he looks around him. He seems absolutely stunned when his child doesn't magically appear in his vicinity. "Shit! I knew I was forgetting something."
"We'll head inside while you go get him from the car," Phil says.
He sits on his teacher's bench and enjoys his double serving of coffee and a whole bunch of muffins while watching the kids go through their warmup routine. He can't finish all the pastries though. Apparently, Quackity brought five of each flavor. That's an ungodly amount of muffins.
Phil doesn't want the kids to eat in the dance hall where all the expensive laminated floors are, so he gives the leftovers to the parents instead. When he goes back inside, they've all lined up on the floor.
"Okay guys. As you all know, tomorrow we're going to Star Dance Competition in Utah. This is a very important competition, so I want you all to be performing at your best. The group dance-" He cuts himself off, staring at the raised hand in front of him. "Yes, Tommy?"
"Is it because of that woman?"
Phil blinks for a moment, stunned. "What?"
"The competition. Is it important because that lady will be there?"
"It's important because these judges are going to determine if we're qualified for nationals," Phil says. "You know this."
"Oh, I also thought it was because that other dance studio will be there," Ranboo cuts in. He taps his chin, trying to recall. "The pretty woman with the long black hair owns it."
"Her name is Kristin," Phil answers automatically, then feels his face turn red. "Why are we talking about this?"
"Because you want to make her your wife!" Tommy says.
"That's not- what are you talking about!?"
"You do always get very heated when we go up against them." Ranboo nods to himself.
"I get heated because Death's Door Dancing is a popular studio with enough titles to their name to be a threat to ours. It's very important we win when going up against them. Nothing more."
If denial is a river, Phil would be soaked up to the fucking knees.
"Really?" Tubbo asks. "Because my dad said you're just trying to impress her because you want her to uh…" He trails off and Phil is inwardly very grateful Tubbo has forgotten the exact wording Schlatt must have used because he doubts it was very child-appropriate. "He says you like her!" Tubbo finishes eventually.
Dragging a hand down his face, Phil can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks. "Look, a woman can be gorgeous and funny and smart and so incredibly mesmerizing that you dream of her each night, while also being your business rival, okay? Those things aren't mutually exclusive."
"So are you in love with her or not?" Fundy asks in confusion.
"We're moving on," Phil continues. He refuses to answer such questions without his lawyer present anyway. "The group dance is all finished and reblocked, so we only need to keep running it to get all those little details right. I don't want to see any sloppy feet or weak knees, it's important you guys work on your technique."
He can see the kids immediately lose interest as he talks about the more technical stuff. Little shits.
"Tommy is doing the 'Broken Bird' solo. I got your costume in today as well, so we should do a fitting. I want to make sure the fake wings don't impede your arm movement."
Tommy puffs out his chest in clear pride. Despite getting a solo each and every week, he still acts as if it's some major accomplishment each time.
Phil just likes winning first place, something Tommy is consistently good at.
"The second solo is still up in the air. I want all of you to run it for me today, taking turns. Then I can see who to assign it to."
"Can I run it?" Tommy asks.
"You already have a solo," Phil tells him. As if the boy could have possibly forgotten.
"I can have two solos," Tommy simply answers. "As a treat."
"I mean… I guess that's not factually untrue." Phil shrugs. "Sure, you can run it."
Half an hour later he's walking back outside, leaving the kids to take a quick break in between dancing. The parents are staring at him with clear apprehension. They could see their rehearsal through the glass wall of the studio, they know Phil has made up his mind.
"Honestly, I have half a mind to let Tommy do it."
As expected, his statement causes some controversy.
Phil picks a spot on the wall to blankly stare at while he's being yelled at, retreating into his own happy place within his mind. While they hurl their displeasure at him and probably have several bouts of infighting while doing so, Phil is imagining sitting on the beach with a margarita and maybe a plate of nachos. That would be a good change of scenery. Maybe Kristin would like to come too. God, wouldn't that be perfect?
By the time he snaps out of it, the worst of the yelling has died down.
"Listen, I know everybody wants a turn to have a solo. I get it. But this competition is what qualifies us for nationals, so we can't afford any screw-ups." Phil can't beat around the bush. Also, he can't be embarrassed in front of Kristin by anything less than perfection. "Tommy ran the solo, and he ran it well. Objectively he ran it best out of all of them."
"It's easy to run a good solo when you drop out of school and fill the void with dance classes. Tommy is at this studio 24/7 and Dream never is," Puffy says. "How have we not called CPS on this guy yet?"
"Homeschooling isn't a form of child abuse," Phil answers. "Aimsey missed out on their own solo by going on a school trip. It's about dedication.."
If glares could kill, Phil would be in a casket then. "You did not just say that."
"Is one child even allowed to run two solos at the same competition?" Bad asks. "Maybe there's some kind of, I don't know, legal addendum."
"It's perfectly allowed," Phil says. "But you make a good point. I will ask Tommy's father when he comes to pick him up tonight." He throws a meaningful glance at Puffy there but the woman is refusing to look at him. "I don't want to put too much hay on his fork. But if Dream agrees to let Tommy do two solos, he's doing it. My say in this is final."
Sometimes with these parents, Phil has learned he needs to put his foot down.
Also, if Kristin will think he's hot shit for having a first place medal, imagine what she'll think if he has a first AND second place medal. This is a perfect plan.
There's some more minor protesting but Techno clearing his throat makes that die down. He's a quiet guy, so usually when he speaks it's to say something important. People listen. Techno is an enigma and uses that to his advantage.
In fact, nobody is quite sure where Ranboo even came from. All the other parents have a spouse, a divorce sob story, or the adoption papers framed on their wall. Technoblade just… he just has a kid. No explanation. And they don't look alike either. Phil is fairly certain Techno just found Ranboo at the side of the street or something and took him.
Sometimes Phil thinks he should inform the cops about that, but he knows damn well he can't have the feds snooping around the studio lest they find out about the egregious tax evasion he's been committing.
"Phil is only doing what's best for the studio," Techno says in perfect monotone. "If you actually cared about your kids' future, you'd acknowledge that."
It makes them all quiet down almost instantly. Phil smiles gratefully.
"Thank you. I'm getting back to the kids now, let me know when Dream gets here though."
"Okay, so… what's the plan?"
Techno wafts the disgusting smoke from Wilbur's cigarette away and levels Quackity with an unimpressed stare. "Hm?"
The three of them are standing outside the studio on the curb, the cold winter air a minor inconvenience in the face of Wilbur needing a smoke and Techno needing to be outside because he was about to strangle somebody. Also, his phone has a better internet connection out here.
"The plan. A real nice act you put up there, by the way." Quackity clasps his hand and bats his lashes obnoxiously, putting on a high-pitched voice. "'Phil is only doing what's best for the studio, if you actually cared yada yada'" Dropping his arms, Quackity drops the mockery too. "So what's the actual plan."
"Is Bad still peddling narcotics in there?" Wilbur asks abruptly.
"They're vitamin supplements," Quackity says blankly. It's laughably easy to distract him.
Quackity is like a bird, Techno thinks. You dangle a shiny in front of him and you can direct him exactly where you want him to go. But you better keep in mind birds can have talons too.
Techno trusts Quackity to sink in his claws when he shows weakness, not pretend to be his friend. Quackity expects the same from him in return. That's why they get along, in that weird 'I'd sell your soul to satan for a corn chip but I'm the only one allowed to make that wager' way.
Quackity shakes his head. "Yeah, as if we don't all know that man's in a cult or something. I swear those pills are sus." He steps in front of Wilbur to continue talking to Technoblade. "Not my main concern though. The plan?"
"I don't know," Techno says.
He has a few ideas but nothing concrete yet. All he knows is that they can't let Dream get away with this. It'd be unfair.
"You're not going to let Tommy and Dream snipe that solo, are you?" Quackity asks. "That's not the Techno I know. Remember when that guy at Squidilicious Dance Studio got into an argument with you so you stalked him until you knew exactly when he was and wasn't home, and then you stole his kid's dance shoes so she couldn't perform."
The memory made him smile vaguely to himself. "Yup, good times, good times."
"That's the Techno I know!" Quackity insists. "A complete and total jackass."
"You're not exactly soundin' like you wanna get a favor out of me right now, Quackity."
Those eyes are burning with an intensity that should be offputting but really is comforting to Techno. The world makes sense when Quackity is acting like a loose cannon. "I'm saying we can combine our energy to ruin Dream's day."
And that. That has merit. "You have my attention."
"You're not going to get far on attention alone," Wilbur says, exhaling smoke into the air between them. He leaves a dramatic and entirely unneeded pause there. "But I do have a better idea."
Quackity is getting visibly excited at that. "Spill the beans."
Wilbur smiles around the cigarette, the grin stretching his face almost unpleasantly. "How do you feel about becoming part of a cult?"
Dream enters the studio right before lunch. Techno stands up to meet him before he can walk far enough for Phil to spot him through the glass partition. "Yo, Dream, what's up?"
Immediately, something close to annoyance passes over Dream's features. "What have they been up to?"
Overall, Dream isn't the most liked parent at the dance studio. Jealousy plays a major part in it, the fact that Dream has both the funds and the audacity to use Phil's studio as a permanent daycare and basically sign Tommy up for a bunch of extra classes none of the other kids get to attend because they go to school fulltime makes for bad blood between them.
But Dream likes Techno. Dare he even say: trusts him.
And that will be his fatal mistake. Technoblade likes Dream just fine, but not at the cost of Ranboo potentially getting a solo.
"Them? Oh, the usual. Mostly complainin' that you're not around much." A bold lie, but not one Dream picks up on.
"It's not my fault those idiots don't know what a day job is," Dream bites out. "We can't all be gold-diggers. Some people don't have time to sit around painting their nails all day."
"I have a day job," Techno says plainly.
"Techno, you keep saying that but nobody knows how you make a living."
"And they never will." Techno nods to himself. "Anyway, I just wanted to know if you care to have this leftover muffin from this morning. They're pretty good. Kinda crumbly though, so you should probably eat them outside or you'll get crumbs everywhere."
"Uh, I…" Dream hesitates, taking the muffins but struck at even being offered anything. Again: he's not very well-liked. "Thanks?"
Techno almost feels bad about what he's doing.
Almost being the keyword here.
Dream goes outside to eat his muffin. When Techno sits back down, Quackity fistbumps him. Then he goes back to shit-talking Ranboo's gangly long limbs and Techno yoinks Quackity's phone to smash it against the wall. Business as usual. Ten minutes later Dream rushes back inside to use the toilet. Half an hour later, Techno goes to check on him.
"Dream?" He knocks on the door, pretending not the hear the sound of retching through the wood. "You alright in there?"
"I think I'm dying," Dream groans.
"Nah, you're probably just sick and dramatic. Do you want me to call George or something? Maybe an ambulance?"
He quickly jumps back when the door is opened and narrowly avoids hitting him in the face. "No, I-" Dream swallows, pale and shaky. Yeah, whatever they put in those muffins really did a number on him. "I think I need to go home?"
"Yeah, of course. Whatever you need, man. You want me to drop Tommy off at your house later?"
Despite the nausea, Dream manages a frown. "I never told you where I lived."
"I don't see how that's relevant."
Shaking his head, Dream decides not to question this. Probably because he can feel the next bout of puking coming up. "I owe you one."
"No, no, don't worry about it." Techno grins at him, wildly. "Consider it my favor."
He waits for Dream to be all the way outside before turning back around.
"Damn, I hate to admit it," Quackity says when Techno sits back down, "but that was fucking smooth as hell. You didn't even blink. You don't have an ounce of conscience, do you?"
"I don't think you want to find out," Techno tells him truthfully.
If Quackity wants to stay in the delusion that stealing shoes and lacing muffins is the extent of what Techno will go to, to assure Ranboo's happiness…. Well, that man has a storm coming.
"You're so scary it pisses me off," Quacktity says matter-of-factly.
"Has Dream still not shown up?" Phil asks, walking up to them. He looks a bit concerned.
"I think he had some work emergency to tend to?" Techno pretends to check his phone. He left open the Cute_Dogs_In_Hats Twitter page and barely avoids smiling at the first image. It's a bulldog in a sombrero. "He's not coming."
"Guess you'll have to give the solo to somebody else," Wilbur hums. All of them sit forward a bit, a bunch of sharks that have smelled blood in the water. Prepared to chow down.
But to their utmost dread, Phil smiles. "Oh, that's alright. Ponk called me and they said Eryn has made an unexpected recovery. They'll be here in half an hour so Eryn can rehearse the solo, but I think he'll nail it."
"Oh…" Quackity deflates, like a popped balloon but without the funny noise. "Good for them."
"Isn't it?" Phil asks - either oblivious or enjoying their agony. With Phil, one can never be certain which it is. "Now everybody can be happy!"
"Aren't we lucky?" Techno says with about as much thinly veiled sarcasm as a politician when told that they lost the election but are expected to thank their opponent for a race well run on live television.
As soon as Phil is out of earshot, he's turning to Quackity again.
"I know exactly what route they take to get here. How do you feel about not-so-accidental car accidents."
Quackity is already scrolling through his phone's contact list. "Way ahead of you."
Maybe someday, they will look at their behavior here and reevaluate their life choices. Maybe someday, they will realize this is completely unhinged and unacceptable and also more likely to cause harm in the long run than do any of their kids any good. Maybe someday, Techno will wonder if he's going too far just to get Ranboo that solo.
Today is certainly not that day.