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Well.
That was a disaster.
The sea of red flowers brushed against yellowish skin and the soft straps of pale-pink ballet shoes as Frisk stumbled out of Toriel’s home. Their head hung low, shoulders slumped even lower until they finally sank to the ground.
Luckily, they haven’t been hurt— even if they acted as if they were. But no, it was merely the exhaustion getting to them.
They stretched their legs out carefully, mindful not to crush too many of the flowers, while their fingers idly traced the soft edges of the petals. Each one bent gently under their touch before swaying back, carrying the faintest sweet smell on the air.
A beautiful front garden, really. But beauty alone couldn’t bind them here. If it were that easy, they wouldn’t keep trying— and failing— to best her.
“…Tough crowd, huh?” Though quiet, cracking as if sick with a sore throat, a familiar voice pulled their attention away from the surrounding flowers.
And there they were again. Hovering, as if gravity had no claim on them. Dark-blue sneakers and baggy pants, a green hoodie pulled so far forward that only a few brown bangs escaped, framing a pair of red eyes fixed squarely on Frisk.
They weren’t even upright… Chara’s head dipped lower than the rest of their body, one leg cocked up lazily in the air, arms folded behind their head as if they had reason to support it. Since they first appeared, that’s all they’ve been doing. Hovering around Frisk, throwing snarky comments here and there, nothing more.
“…You been watching?” Frisk hunched forward, tilting their head to peer past hood and hair. A slim smirk greeted them.
Chara didn’t bother with words. Just flicked their head to the side and muttered: “Mhm.”
“And? Was I any good?”
Chara looked them over, eyebrows narrowing as if deciding whether Frisk was joking or not. But when they didn’t even do so much as to giggle, Chara scoffed. “Good? Please. That was shit. Else you wouldn’t still be here.”
The rough taint in their voice softened as they went on— but not enough to make it sting any less, youch.
“…Eh, what do you know.” Frisk tugged at the collar of their blue turtleneck, then let their hands fall back against the pink silk of their tutu with a faint thump.
“…Really.” The snappy tone of Chara’s voice yanked Frisk’s gaze back up. Now they were upside-down, spinning lazily in the air— hood, hair, limbs all dangling— chest aimed at the ceiling.
“A stupid tutu and ballet shoes ain’t making you no dancer.” That smug smile cut deeper than the words themselves. Frisk sighed, head drooping away for a moment— until an idea sparked. Their head snapped back up, teeth flashing in a sudden, mischievous grin. The smugness vanished from Chara’s face, replaced by irritation.
“…What.”
“If you know what’s so ‘shit’ about it… then teach me.”
For a moment Frisk was very hopeful. But when Chara merely tilted their head to rest against one shoulder, that hope was quickly washed away again. “Why would I?”
Good question.
Why would they?
Frisk’s grin faltered. Their eyes flicked around— the sea of flowers, the bare tree reaching into the dim ruins— before they shrugged.
“Sooo you don’t have to watch me fail here for the next five years?”
Sometimes the magic word is not ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. Sometimes it’s just pointing out that someone will be stuck watching you crash and burn if they don’t step in. Maybe they could ignore it— if Chara wasn’t bound to Frisk’s existence.
Chara’s eyes narrowed as the truth of it sank in. With an exaggerated roll of their eyes, they finally swung themselves toward the ground. Gravity caught them this time, their feet meeting the stone without any sound, as they could still phase through, if they wanted.
“Key. Good point.” They didn’t sound thrilled about it—but Frisk? Very much so! They lit up instantly. Hands braced against the cold, purple wall, they pushed off the flowers and bounced to their feet with renewed energy.
Hands behind their back, fingers intertwining with another, Frisk took a step forward. They rose up on their toes, spine straight, trying to hold themselves in some kind of presentable form.
Chara’s response was another long roll of their eyes. With a snap of their wrist, they extended a hand toward Frisk—palm turned away from themselves, fingers bent ever so slightly.
“Uh, soo, what do I do first?”
The question alone looked like it pained Chara. Their shoulders lifted, a heavy sigh dragging out of their throat, even though no lungs fueled it, as they prepared for an annoying session.
“…First of all, you forget everything you think you know.”
“…Huh?”
No explanation. Just the faintest shake of that waiting hand, crimson eyes narrowing until Frisk understood. They complied, reaching out hesitantly as they slid their hand into Chara’s.
The next instant, the world tipped. Chara tugged, pulling them forward into a sharp half-twirl, momentum halted by a Chara’s other hand high against their back. Frisk’s breath caught in surprise, the sudden shift making their chest press tight against their sweater.
“You listen to your soul when you dance with a monster,” Chara murmured, voice lower now again— they weren’t teasing anymore, just, trying to figure out how to explain this whole mess. “Because really—”
They guided Frisk’s posture with a nudge at their shoulder, fingers brushing lightly but enough to ground them in place. Only then did Frisk let out the breath they’d been holding.
“…Tell me, you think I can teach you that? And then you’ll run off and teach Toriel ballet?”
“…Probably not?” Frisk’s nervous laugh was so quiet, even to themselves, lost in the open space and the rustling flowers around them. They realized too late that they had never asked what Chara meant by “teaching.” Because from the way this was going, it wasn’t going to be a dance lesson. Not like any they’d had before to compare it against.
Chara hummed quietly. “So. Follow.”
They released Frisk’s hand only long enough to pivot, guiding their temporary dance-partner to face them again with a simple turn.
They didn’t explain what to do— they simply took both of Frisk’s hands into theirs again. Chara’s palms facing down, Frisk’s up; fingers curled lightly as Frisk instinctively mirrored the act, locking their hands into another as Chara took slow steps back.
One step back. Another. Chara retreated at a slow pace, dragging Frisk with them into a rhythm that had no music, no instruction— only the strange certainty in the crimson gaze locked onto them.
Frisk’s feet stumbled at first, catching on uneven stone. They searched Chara’s expression for guidance, some signal, a flicker of reassurance. But nope, none of that. Nothing at all.
“So, do something.” Instruction at last— though none that helped.
“Like what?” So far Frisk simply followed, step by step.
Chara shrugged their shoulders, only when they were close to hitting against a wall, did they guide Frisk to turn a curve. Other than that, simple steps. “Anything, really.”
They said it so easily…but Frisk really didn’t know. So, without giving it too much thought, they pushed one of their hands ahead— clumsily, uncertain if that was what Chara meant.
No resistance.
Chara moved with the motion— one longer reaching step back, the mirrored hand pulling Frisk with them.
The sudden give made Frisk stumble into the space Chara left, one leg flying up behind them, balance teetering until Chara stopped them and forced a startled huff out of their chest with the sudden stop.
“…And now?” Chara’s eyebrow lifted, gaze darting to the raised leg hanging high—almost higher than Frisk’s head.
“Ah… backwards?” Frisk’s voice shook. They looked up into crimson eyes, searching for confirmation, guidance— anything at all.
None came. Only a cold, dry: “Whatever you think, really.”
So, Frisk followed their gut feeling.
They let the motion carry them, flinging their leg back down and following the weight of it into a few quick steps away. This time Chara met them head-on, both hands pressing forward. The sudden force sent Frisk retreating further until their torso bent, arching back in a bow so deep the cold stone rushed near— until a hand slipped free from theirs, rushed up their sleeve and caught them.
Chara’s palm pressed to their curved back, firm against the wool of their sweater, halting them before they could collapse completely. Their bodies brushed, fabric tugging against fabric at the point of contact, heat sparking under the pressure.
Not quite as flexible as Frisk, they couldn’t follow the lead all the way— but nonetheless, Frisk met the attempt of Chara’s body to chase them with a wide smile, and a warm feeling rising up in their chest. Embarrassment? No, they were having fun, feeling at ease, calm even.
Seems like they could manage now. At least partly. The lead switched seamlessly between the two. Frisk pushed forth, Chara let themselves be moved and flung, pushed, pulled, caught; whatever may come up to Frisk’s mind— it didn’t matter.
“See?” Chara’s voice came quieter now, threaded into the motion itself. “Don’t think so much. Just—move. Our souls do the thinking…or yours, I suppose.”
Frisk didn’t quite understand why, but it did indeed work.´
Their body flowed into Chara’s lead— almost against reason. Even when Chara’s pace picked up, their movements like sparks leaping off stone, Frisk found themselves swept along somehow.
Even when Chara let their ghastly knees crash into the floor only to jump back like a loaded spring, Frisk tipped forward instinctively, one foot pointing upward toward the ceiling before spilling into a quick scatter of steps that caught Chara in turn.
It shouldn’t have matched. It shouldn’t have blended, this shouldn’t work.
Frisk’s ballet carried a grace and flexibility Chara couldn’t mimic; Chara’s raw, jolting rhythms demanded strength and jumpy decision-making that Frisk didn’t have.
But somewhere between stumbles and near-misses, it began to click. Chara’s hand braced them just as they pitched forward too far; Frisk steadied Chara when their momentum snapped too hard into a fall. Every mistake turned into momentum for the next step, every misalignment into a new attempt to find the lead again, sometimes they caught it, sometimes they had to chuckle into the failed attempt.
Nonetheless, slowly— so slowly it was almost startling— their shared soul began to set the rhythm.
Fingers didn’t need to stay locked anymore. One hand was enough, a single link between the two. The other could do what it had to— flung outward when Frisk leaned into Chara’s chest, pressed briefly to the stone when Chara shoved them low, or float loosely in the air when their movements rose in tandem.
And as the dance became smoother, even if not perfect, something shifted.
Barely visible— Chara’s lips twitched into the thinnest smirk. Quite wide, but so slim it was hard to stop, but enough to make the air around them change.
And Frisk felt it.
Even without words, without instruction, without reason, they could feel it—that Chara was enjoying this. That despite previous annoyance and sighs and scoffs, they were caught in the same rhythm. The thought loosened something deep inside Frisk, and for a heartbeat it felt less like a dance, more like a conversation in the language of their soul.
The ruins may had been silent, but within this silence they moved as though they’d filled the whole place with music only they could hear.
No need to count their steps, no need for rules— just the steady flow between them, two different dances mixing into one messy but fun moment.
Neither of them could help it now.
They smiled wide, both of them.