"So all you have to do is sort of... yes, stand like that, sweetheart. No, don't slouch-- Hey! Don't stare at your feet!" The dance instructor clapped his hands as Logan tried to follow the slew of instructions. He was smart, sure, but he was not really used to these lessons yet. However, the second he started to think of it like he was drawing with his movement, like he was trying to escape from something with each correct stroke, he started to pick it up pretty fast. It was a kind of ballet, and it was not exactly something the boy would have picked up alone.

Briar was making him. Like many of the unpleasant things in his life, it was Briar's fault that he was now at a dance studio in a private lesson. It was a gift beyond measure, as it wasn't as though Briar was exceptionally well off. The lessons were a favour, all the same, for some work Briar had done for the studio, but Briar had taken the assignment in order to get Logan dance lessons in the first place. Why? Because he said Logan could use it in the rest of his life.

Maybe because he'd seen how fast and far his son could run, or maybe little Logan had stood on one too many stools and fallen off, prompting his father to find a way to instill him with more grace than he naturally possessed. Whatever his reasoning, Briar certainly hadn't shared that info with Logan: he'd just sent him and told him this was his new evening task for three evenings every week. At first, Logan was pretty resistant. He hadn't even wanted to leave the house, much less in dancing stuff. The shoes were uncomfortable. Logan hated shoes in general, though.

"Okay, watch your footwork. First position, Logan!" his instructor said, snapping Logan back into the moment. Logan slid his feet into what he'd come to know as "first position," and even slightly gracefully took a step forward into the routine as soon as his instructor struck the keys of his piano. His instructor was kind of weird: wavy blond hair and very bright eye makeup, along with rather vibrant lipstick made him look like he had taken a note from the Red Queen. He even wore some kind of dress with feathers on the edging. Weird. Whatever. So long as he did his job, neither Briar nor Logan would say a thing about it.

Logan wasn't necessarily good with music. The only way he could work it out was by really focusing as if he was tracing a drawing into the floor with his body. And so tiny Logan successfully demonstrated the routine he'd been taught, with more grace than should have been imagined of the little Growlithe. At the end of the dance, his instructor looked at him with something pretty close to pride or affection. He'd been learning this for a few weeks, now.

"You did good, sweetheart, you did good. You can go home, now-- But I'll see you next week, and you'd better have your adorable little butt here on time!" his instructor smiled and batted his lashes. Logan, silently, retreated to grab his coat and put it on over his tights and tanktop. He had actually yet to speak in front of the instructor. Sometimes around adults he could be... kind of shy. The instructor was waving Logan out on his own, because he usually just walked home, when Briar appeared.

"Hello, boy.... I've come to walk you home," Briar said. Logan stared at him in confusion, and then silently walked up to him, waving goodbye to his instructor. There were worse things than his father showing up suddenly, he supposed. Except Briar did something else unprecedented: the older man held out his hand to his son, and Logan wordlessly accepted, grabbing hold with his little fingers. Logan smiled.