A Leap of Faith - Pansy Parkinson x Daphne Greengrass One-Shot

A Leap of Faith

Warning about the ED content in this story-

This story includes a character who has recovered from her eating disorder and touches on issues of body insecurity and discrimination based on looks. Unfortunately, dance and ballet especially can be incredibly toxic and harmful when it comes to this and I tried to represent it properly.

The story does not intend to romanticize eating disorders and is explicitly pro-recovery. No specific techniques or "tips" are given and I tried to write it in the least triggering way possible. If you have any specific complaints about how I have represented it please tell me.

If you want to skip the part about it you can skip from when Pansy asks if Daphne is hungry to when Pansy says that she is fine.

I don't need the world to see
That I've been the best I can be
But I don't think I could stand to be
Where you don't see me

Francis Forever - Mitski

Pansy liked ballet, she didn't like it because it made her delicate or ladylike, she didn't like it because it was chosen for her, she didn't like it because it was a pastime. She loved it because it was her life. Had things been different it may have been possible to find the place where the ballerina began and Pansy ended, but it wasn't. Pansy was at her core, the girl on stage, toes wrapped under her pointe shoes, core sucked tight, head held high, arms floating at her sides in a perfect second position.

It was an odd comfort she found in Ballet, like finding comfort in six-inch stilettos or warmth in a hail-storm. Ballet was struggle, pain in her feet, insecurity hounding her, chasing her down. Skin-tight leotards and scratchy tights, and Madame Morozov's shrill voice shouting insults in her ears. Tighter. Higher. Softer. Harsher. More beautiful. More delicate. More perfect. Less Pansy.

Still, there was beautiful tranquility in it. There were those moments of Pansy at the bar, staring into the mirror and seeing, truly seeing herself. There was that gratification, the first time she correctly did a pas de bourree. There was the absolute glee she felt hearing the applause after her first dance recital.

Every little girl dreams of being a Ballerina, the pink tulle tutu attracts them, but they stay for the arabesques and pointe shoes. For the elongated limbs, the joy of a flawless pirouette. Their previous life ambitions are replaced by the roles they wish to play, their future only has room for Clara in the Nutcracker or Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. They want to conquer Tchaikoskvy's score and tame Baryshnikov's choreography. Some of them want to be pretty princesses, covered in glitter and false eyelashes, stage makeup making women out of girls. Some girls wanted to be delicate ballerinas, they wanted the beauty without the pain. Pansy wanted more, she wanted greatness.

She was great. Is. She had to remind herself to think of the dream as her present and her future, not her past. Still, it's hard to believe in a dream that the world seems determined to crush. ' You're not what we're looking for.' She didn't fit the mold, she was hard to work with. Arrogant , they'd say. It wasn't arrogance if it was true, Pansy was the best, but no one seemed to care.

She waited tables like a queen. She spun around the restaurant, strong limbs holding trays, nimble feet avoiding spills, posture perfect, a smile painting on her face.

Men hit on her, you're so graceful, what're you a dancer?

Yes, she replies, running in the opposite direction. Away from them and their desire to see how flexible she could be.

She waited for phone calls and floo calls, calls that might tell her ' you've got it kid,' calls that would put her on stage, lights on her face, lifting her to stardom. They didn't come.