#suohtakamura

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AAAAA Momocon was really everything I needed!!! We had such a BLAST i cant even deacribe it 😭💓!! look forward to lots of dance videos and a big old con vlog!!! 💫🌟✨ . . #momocon #momocon217 #lum #bunnylum #uruseiyatsura #luminvader #clampschooldetectives #clamp #nokoruimonoyama #suohtakamura (at MomoCon)

[fandomcalling]

KIIIIIM counterparts 10

SCREAMS sorry this took so long

yuya/yuto, princess tutu au, dancing

There’s something off about the way he dances. Not sad, exactly, or even melancholy, but a sort of pensive wistfulness, as if the Prince longs for something just out of reach and doesn’t yet realise it himself.

The little bird watching him from its concealed perch in a thick nearby bush does not know this or possess the vocabulary to dress the sentiment in words, but it feels the shape of it nevertheless.

Out of all the slippery patches and false ground near the lake he has chosen a dry spot which allows him firm footing, packed hard enough to support his weight but clear of forest debris, and soft enough to do little more than scrape and bruise should he misjudge a crucial step. This is not out of any sense of self-preservation, nor is it coincidence; he cannot be allowed to come to harm yet. There are greater powers that will need him, in time.

He has learnt a new routine this morning, a daring pas de deux from the company’s repertoire that set the romantic hearts of the junior class aflutter, but he is not reviewing the adagio as his classmates are. For all their youth and talent and optimistic effort, many will one day succumb to illness brought on by overpractice and fatigue, or injury caused by competitiveness and misplaced bravado, or simply the ravages of time. Few of them will ever rise above the corps de ballet, even fewer will make it past soloist, and those who do will not remain prima ballerinas for long before someone younger and less arthritic takes their place.

The Prince does not know this. Perhaps he would not care even if he did. Beyond a deeper shade of melancholy, sympathy has been alien to him for a long time.

The little bird cocks its head as the unsmiling Prince holds his arms curved out from his body, feet changing position so quickly its eyes cannot follow even with keen animal instincts. He performs a series of pivots on one unwavering leg before sinking on bent knees and ascending once more. Against the bird’s expectations he continues to rise, both feet leaving the ground, legs split and knees still bent.

He flies, and he is beautiful.

The whole step is over in two seconds. The Prince lands light as a feather on the packed earth a little way from where he began the pas de chat, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. He makes no move to wipe it away.

The curious little bird lifts a wing in crude mimicry of the Prince’s arms now raised above his head, then attempts to extend a stick-thin leg, feathers shifting as a hidden knee straightens with effort. It promptly falls out of its bush.

The rustling and faint thump must have alerted the Prince because he glances up, not hurriedly and not curiously, so unlike the inhabitants of the forest which would flee or attack if startled. He sees the bird for the first time, a dull, muted scarlet strewn with freshly broken leaves; the bird sees now that his eyes are the grey of a storm cloud, oddly flat and without depth. He crouches on the balls of his feet, hands on his knees, and it hops cautiously closer to him.

There is a further rustling a short distance away, clearly caused by someone with no intention of hiding their presence, and a loud, harsh voice calling the same two sounds over and over. The Prince turns his head without urgency, the little bird freezing in fear, and a tall man emerges from a turn in the track.

There is something of the raptor in this man, glaring down at the Prince with the fierce golden gaze of a predator, the scarf at his throat a scarlet stain. He does not look at the bird.

“Yuuto,” he says again. The sound must mean something to the Prince because he unbends from his crouch and gets to his feet, assisted by the hand the predator offers him. The little bird remains perfectly still.

The tall man is making other sounds now, incomprehensible to the bird but for their volume, but it is clear from his expression and gesticulations that he is angry. The Prince does not appear to be in immediate danger, however, looking the man full in the face without fear and making soothing, agreeable noises, and so the bird decides to make good its escape while the predator is distracted.

It flies, and for all the Prince cares for beauty he may consider it beautiful.

It’s not a fairytale first meeting, but it will do.