He takes lessons, not because he's trying to impress anyone, but because he does very much like the feeling that dancing can give him. All he's done throughout his childhood is ballroom, and that will only get someone so far. Being classically trained is fine, but so very limiting in terms of movement - ballroom dance is all about form, all about control. There are strict guidelines to how you can move your feet, or how you can shift your body. How many inches apart is too many, and how little is too little. How many times you can rotate in a turn or a spin before it becomes overdone, or disallowed. The length of an arm extending outwards, the angle at which hands are clasped (tilted too far forward, and it gives a sloppy appearance - hands should be straight up, pointed skyward, the very essence of elegance and dignity), the stiffness of a spine so that one isn't slumped over or slouching (never slouching, never hunching).

Auguste knows all of these rules very well. He's been brought up with them, can still remember the press of a hand against his back to keep him standing tall, the tick tick tick of a pendulum so that every step is in time, so that he doesn't get off the beat (sometimes he hears that pendulum still ticking, even now, even months, years later, a steady and almost reassuring sound).

His dance teacher was the same for many years - Madame Archambault. A tall, imposing woman many years past her prime, but well-mannered and confident, all sharp cheekbones and elegant silver hair pulled back into a sleek knot at the base of her neck. Her age was never an issue - even past the middle years of her life, Madame Archambault was all grace with every step that she took, every step that she taught Auguste.

He was too short to be a male lead, unless dealing with a shorter partner. Sometimes the girls were young and dainty and fit neatly into the circle of his arms. Sometimes they were tall and slim, and all he got were raised eyebrows and looks of resignation before they inevitably requested a change of partner.

I can't dance with him, he's too short.

I can't dance with him, he looks too much like a girl.

I can't dance with him, he's too awkward.

Though the last of these was only true of the ones who simply didn't want to be his partner for selfish reasons, such as having their eye on one of the many other taller, more handsome boys in the room. Auguste had never minded being relatively effeminate - but it did make keeping a partner more than just one lesson rather frustrating. A short stature and slender frame made him ideal for being led, not necessarily doing the leading himself - and in ballroom dancing, at least the ones that Auguste attended, this was a large disadvantage, especially considering the size of his partners.

But this is not ballroom dancing. This is not ballet, either, though Auguste wishes he had had the foresight to attend the classes when he was younger. He had the chance, once upon a time, but decided on horseback riding lessons instead, because horses were pretty and they were majestic, and he always did love them. At the time, he'd thought it was the right choice, and maybe it was. Maybe he was never meant to be a ballet dancer, though it doesn't mean now that he doesn't still love to watch it. Ballet is not something anyone can just pick up at any age, after all; it takes years upon years of strict dedication and practice, rigorous training that isn't simply picked up on a whim.

Auguste is not a ballet dancer, but these are also not ballet lessons.

He starts taking them quietly, on the side, without telling one. A part of him would like to think he's just doing this for fun, but really it's just another facet of trying to belong. Maybe it's not exactly the most ideal way of handling things, but he can't deny that it makes him feel good, that it makes him feel alive.

Not that he isn't. But there's just something about learning how to move that makes him feel, for the first time in a long time, like he can actually do things - that he can actually make a difference in the life he is choosing to live. It's just a silly thing - it's not like dancing will get him anywhere far, but it will at least help him in regards to his agility - or at least, hypothetically speaking. And Auguste is nothing if not a quick learner - one of his few positive traits. He is quick on his feet, and in spite of his naivete, he is very much able to think fast in situations that require it.

And dancing is no exception.

When his new teacher calls for him to extend his leg after a particularly hard leap forward, he does so without hesitation, in spite of the strain it puts on his body. This isn't ballet, isn't ballroom, but modern, so the steps are unfamiliar - but Auguste is determined, unwilling to walk away just because it might be hard. He sinks down into a crouch and then shifts his leg around, tapping at the floor in time to the music before he flips back around, sharp and quick. His teacher isn't pleased with his form - he corrects him several times before he's satisfied, and by the time he's finished the first verse, Auguste is drenched in sweat and red faced from exertion, but the fire has not gone out of his eyes.

He knows what it is he's trying to do, and he's going to accomplish that.

By the time Auguste gets home later that night, he is sore beyond belief, body aching in ways he hasn't felt since he first started dancing, all those years ago. This isn't even the same kind of ache, muscles throbbing painfully with each step and twist - but it's a good kind of ache, an ache that Auguste doesn't mind.

He's proud of himself.

(It's a strange feeling.)


[ WORD COUNT: 1047 ]