Chapter Text
"Step one. Step two. Step arabesque. Pas de bourrée. Very good. And one, and a two, and three. Close."
Grayson’s voice cut through the room, sharp and in time with the piano. "Leg up. Tighten your core, Kiramman. You’re behind. Focus!"
She clapped, each strike ringing in Caitlyn's ears like a gunshot. A once-familiar sound had grown foreign—irritating.
There was a time when every word Grayson uttered felt like law. With her mother in the wings and her father cheering in the crowd, Caitlyn had felt untouchable. Back when Jayce would lift her toward the lights. Back when she still believed in all of this.
"Again."
She leapt, spun, stepped. But it was never enough.
"No. Again."
Grayson sighed and gestured to the accompanist. Caitlyn pushed through the motions, but the fire was gone—only embers remained.
"Wrong. No! Kiramman, what’s going on?!"
Grayson slammed a scarred fist into her palm. Frustration wasn’t unusual—but being the target was.
"You're sloppy and lazy. It's disgusting ballet, and I won't have it."
She stalked toward Caitlyn, face taut with fury.
"You used to be a star. What happened to you?"
The room was silent. Dancers pretended to fuss with their shoes or stretch at the barre, but Caitlyn felt their eyes—vultures circling.
So be it.
"You're right, Grayson. I haven't been myself. I think it's best if I leave for now."
She turned, grabbed her water bottle, and shoved it into her duffel. The weight of her peers’ gazes didn’t slow her.
"Leave?" Grayson scoffed. "You're our étoile. Jayce is already out with an injury. If you walk now, this season is dead."
Caitlyn didn’t stop packing.
"There are plenty of dancers foaming at the mouth for a promotion," she said, heading for the door.
"Caitlyn, stop right there! This is your mother's company. Her legacy depends on you!"
She paused, hand on the cold metal handle, then looked back once—at the fake smiles, the hunger, the emptiness.
Her grip on the handle tightened. This fictitious "legacy" only fosters talentless snobs and wannabe elitists. The whole building could burn for all she cared; this wasn't ballet. This wasn't her mother.
"I guess I'll be letting my mother down this time."
Caitlyn stepped out into the hallway; a breeze blew in from the open window at the end of the hall. For the first time in months, she could breathe.
She heard the beginning of Sergei Prokofiev's Op. 64; surely they'd find a new Juliet. She wasn't the only talented dancer despite her hatred of what this company has become. There was always someone better if given the proper stage to shine.
As she exited the front of the building, her phone buzzed in her pocket, then again, and once more. She rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the drama waiting for her, but it didn't stop. Jayce was insistent when he wanted attention. She groaned, taking her phone out to type up a quick, half-hearted reply and get him off her back.
"I'm driving. I'll get back to you." She mumbled to herself as she typed, Einstein couldn't come up with a better white lie himself—woah!"
Caitlyn stumbled over something solid —her ankle twisted sharply, the hardened tip of her pointe shoe scraping against the stone step. Her phone slipped from her hand, fingers fumbling as she reached out. Cold metal met her palm. The iron railing bit into her skin, the grit of city grime coating her fingers as she clung on.
She gasped, heart thudding in her chest. Her foot landed just in time. Her other leg trembled, the thin satin of her shoe offering no cushion. A sharp ache flared in her toes—concrete didn’t forgive mistakes like marley floors did.
Two small hands gripped her waist, and a soft, panting sound filled her ear.
Caitlyn peeked over her shoulder now that she was confident she wouldn't topple over to her death. Lo and behold, a small figure with a rather messy head of pigtails was putting their last bit of energy into holding up her torso. Caitlyn quickly pulled herself up using the railing and moved down to the bottom step. "Pardon me." She said quickly, reaching out to pat the back of the small child savior.
She was clearly exhausted, but it was honestly adorable. Her cheeks were puffy and red as she tried to take in large breaths.
"Here," Caitlyn took up one of the girl's hands in her own. She took a long breath, then let it out. "Breathe for five, hold for two, release for five. That should help you catch your breath."
She listened, taking in breath after breath until she could finally stand on her own without support from Caitlyn.
"I feel terrible making a child hold me up like that. I hope you're—" She hadn't realized it before, but this child was wearing a leotard. Not only a leotard but also tights and leg warmers. "Are you perhaps a student here?"
The girl shook her head no, and strands of hair flew loose from her messy do. Caitlyn scoffed; her mother would've thrown a fit if Caitlyn had shown up to any practice looking like she'd just rolled out of bed when she was about her age.
Caitlyn was perplexed. This girl had the outfit, and she was at the right place, but she was adamant she wasn't a student at the company, and her dance shoes looked about twelve years too old.
"I'd like to help you as best I can. Do you have a name? A cellphone, maybe?" Another no. Great, this kid was clearly confused, and she had nothing on her that could be of any help. Who leaves a kid alone like this, without a phone or name? She had half a mind to call the police.
"Look, kid. I'd love to get you back where you belong, but I can't do that if you don't give me a clue. Do you live around here? Could you point me in the direction of home?"
Talking was useless; from the looks of it, this girl was more interested in Caitlyn's outfit than what she had to say. She reached out and grazed her hand over the chiffon of her ballet skirt. Caitlyn watched the way her smile brightened and then dimmed as the girl looked down at her own clothing. It didn't look like it by a long shot; it was out of style and frumpy in places.
A question was nagging away at the back of Caitlyn's mind; she knew if she asked it, she'd be getting much too deep into this child's personal affairs, but it was on the tip of her tongue now. "Do you..." The words died in her throat. Ugh, whatever. "Can you dance, kid?"
Dance, that was what this was all about in the first place. Why else would this girl be sitting outside a company with her tattered old dancing shoes and a twinkle in her eye? Dreams, passion—this girl had it all. Everything Caitlyn was currently lacking.
Caitlyn sighed and rubbed at the back of her neck. "It'd be great if you could talk—"
"Isha!" Someone yelled from across the street. Caitlyn spun around to look at the sudden commotion. Another girl was standing there, her blue hair bright and blazing under the sun. Caitlyn didn't fail to notice the resemblance. "Isha, Vi told you to stop running off, dammit! I've been looking' for you for hours."
Hours? Caitlyn raised a curious brow. This girl was sitting out here for hours. The sun was at its peak in the sky, and it was a little over eighty degrees today. This little girl must be burning up.
"Hey, lady in the tights! Keep' her right there, okay"?
Caitlyn blinked and looked around to see if there were any other tight-clad ladies around, and of course, there weren't. Why would there be? No one was dumb enough to get involved with a strange kid sitting on the steps of an establishment. No one but Caitlyn Kiramman, of course.
They both watched as their new visitor crossed the road; Caitlyn cringed at the lack of attention to the road while jaywalking. A couple of cars stopped and beeped, to which they got a very polite middle finger in response.
"Damn, Isha. How many times do we have to tell yo'u, stop coming' here? Vi can't afford the lessons; you know she would if she could." The girl grabbed the little girl's hand. She started dragging her down the street. "Jeez, you really know how to' make us worry, don't you, Kid?"
Caitlyn wanted to speak up, say something, anything. She wanted to know more about this little girl; that fire behind her eyes was no joke. She wants to dance; she wants to do more. A washed-up ballerina like Caitlyn couldn't do much, but she had connections; that was something hard to come by. If no one was going to help this girl discover her potential, Caitlyn was. She had to; she needed to. This is what her mom wanted: her real passion, her legacy.
"Uh-" What was her name again? "Isha?" She called out, the name foreign on her tongue. She hoped she was pronouncing it correctly.
Both girls spun around, the older of the two taking up a defensive stance. "Look, lady, I may not look it, but I'm pretty good in a fight. If you want Isha, I'll knock you on your ass before you can yell for your precious pigs."
Caitlyn blinked; she took a step back and raised her hands in surrender. "Pigs?" What on earth was she on about? "No, no, I promise I'm not anyone suspicious."
"That's exactly what a suspicious person would say, buttercup." The girl crossed her arms and raised a brow. Seriously, was she really being accused of something so beyond ridiculous right now?
"Okay… well, I'm not. My word is all I can give you at the moment. I just want to talk."
"About what, Princess Tutu?"
Caitlyn stifled a laugh. Sure, she was the butt of the joke, but honestly, it was refreshing to speak to someone who didn't care who she was.
She glanced around, and her eyes landed on Jericho's. It wasn't her first choice; no fast food place ever was. "Do you want to go sit down? It's rather hot today, and she was sitting outside for a while. She looked pretty exhausted earlier."
"She's... I mean, I don't need you to—"
Isha tugged on the girl's pants; she nodded and gave her a look only a soulless creature could turn down. Gods, kids have it so easy.
"Ugh, fine!" The girl unfolded her arms in defeat and rolled her eyes. "But I'm not buying' anything; Vi's going to kill me if I spend our allowance on Jericho's."
"No problem! My treat."
Both girls gave her an unimpressed stare. "I—in exchange for talking with me! Of course, it's not free." Caitlyn quickly added, hoping for a recovery.
They both lit up at the proposal. Caitlyn wasn't a fan of kids, but sometimes they could be tolerable.
The artificial yellow lights overhead cast a strange glow, turning her pale tights a jaundiced hue. The AC rattled in the ceiling above them, humming cold air against the sweat still clinging to her back.
The air smelled of fryer grease and old cola syrup, her tights still damp from sweat. She felt like a ballet mannequin dropped in a dive bar. Across the booth, Jinx slurped noisily on a melting milkshake, the straw gurgling near the end.
"So let me get this straight, toots," Jinx said, leaning forward. Her elbow smacked the sticky tabletop. "You want to, uh, sponsor? My little sister?"
Caitlyn watched as Isha devoured her nuggets; she nodded slowly, fingers still curled around her untouched drink. It was lukewarm now. The condensation had soaked the napkin beneath it, bleeding the company’s cheap logo into a watercolor smear.
It made sense. The hair, the attitude, the.. well, outfit. It's not exactly with usual look around Piltover, but it was cool. Much too cool for the Kiramman Company of Ballet and Arts. Jinx was undoubtably Isha's big sister.
"Isha has something I'd like to see more of. If I can convince some friends in the company to help out, I think she could be a great dancer with training and dedication."
"Training and dedication, huh?" Jinx rolled her eyes. "What about money? We don't have any of that."
Caitlyn saw the shoes and the clothes, but she figured that Isha had taken them from someone who used to dance. She was curious where she found them, but now wasn't the time to ask. She shook away her questions and focused herself.
"That's what the sponsorship is for. We'll take care of all of Isha's dance-related needs, and in return she just needs to show progress and dance for our company in shows once she's ready."
As a kid, Caitlyn had the luxury of focusing on dance—endless hours at the barre, chasing perfection, chasing her mother’s approval. That was her reason. But it was never her reason.
After Cassandra’s funeral, something else died too. Whatever made ballet feel like ballet—pure, real, hers—was gone. This... this wasn’t ballet. And it sure as hell wasn’t her mother.
Jinx scoffed and finished the rest of her milkshake. Caitlyn watched the way her fingers fidgeted with the empty cup, her eyes weren't focused like she was thinking really hard about something.
Finally she gritted her teeth and looked up at Caitlyn, a question behind her stare. "Thanks for the offer and the food, but you don't know anything about us." Her brow furrowed deeply, "You don't even know what Isha's capable of; you've never seen her dance. What if she's fucking terrible? What then?" Jinx stood and leaned over the table, she lowered her voice so that Isha wouldn't hear. "What happens when she doesn’t meet your mark? You hand her a milkshake and say ‘better luck next time’?"
The hairs on Caitlyn’s neck rose. Her fists clenched. "Of course not. I—I would never do that; I just see her potential!"
Jinx slammed her fist on the wood table between them. Some customers looked up from their meals, Jinx didn't seem to care. "You don’t see her—you see a charity case. And Isha isn’t anyone’s pity project, got it? Let's move, Isha."
So she doesn't know what Isha can do yet, sure that's reason for concern. But isn't this overboard? Caitlyn grit her teeth, she couldn't find it in herself to argue, to fight back. Jinx was right, she didn't know this kid. She didn't know anything. Who was she to make empty promises she couldn't be sure she'd keep.
Isha hesitated for a moment; she stared at Caitlyn. Was there a little disappointment in that look? It wasn't unusual for Caitlyn to disappoint people. But was it so wrong that she wanted to make one person see her a little differently for once? If this one little girl could pursue something thanks to her...
Fuck it. Arrogant, spoiled, naive, be damned. Caitlyn stood, blocking Jinx from the exit. "Wait, please." Jinx stepped closer; she resembled a caged feral cat. "One lesson."
Jinx didn't say much for a while. She just stood and stared, ignoring Isha's pleading pulls at her t-shirt. Caitlyn watched as she grinded her teeth, her fists clenching and unclenching.
She couldn't crack; she had to stand her ground. That's the only way one of them was going to give in, and it damn sure wouldn't be Caitlyn. Not if it meant Isha could have a chance. Not if it meant she could figure out what about this little girl made her want to keep trying.
It felt like a long time, but it couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds or so. Finally, Jinx looked away. She turned and kneeled down to hold Isha's hands. "You want this, kid?"
She didn't even need an answer; the look in Isha's eyes said it all. Her desperation, her need. Jinx sighed, "You're going to miss stink, ma, you know?"
Isha laughed, her hands moved a little, Caitlyn couldn't quite see behind Jinx's frame. "Vi's gonna ask a lot of questions too."
Isha shrugged with a crooked smile to match those burning amber eyes.
"Stink, ma'?" Caitlyn repeated under her breath. Kids are weird.
"So is that a yes?" She asked with a buzzing excitement building.
Jinx looked over her shoulder and shot her a sharp glare. "It's a maybe, tights. Don't get your leotard in a twist." Jinx still had this air of uncertainty about her, but she held her sisters hands with a fierceness. "My sister's still got to sign off on all this. I can't just let my baby sister run off with a stranger no matter how convincing you sound."
"Your sister? But she just agreed, didn't she?" Caitlyn tilted her head in confusion.
Jinx groaned loudly; she stood and stared up at Caitlyn again. "Do I have to explain everything? I thought you Pilts were supposed to' be smart." She snorted; Caitlyn didn't find it very amusing. "Our big sis, Vi. You need the okay from her before you guys can go all frills and tutus. She's not big on being community service."
"Sponsorship," Caitlyn corrected.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, toots." Jinx sneered, picking up her sister. "Write your number on a napkin or something; she's tired, so we'll be heading' home now."
Caitlyn did just that and handed it over to Jinx, who very carefully crumpled the napkin up like a piece of trash and stuffed it in her pocket. At least she put it in her pocket and not the bin.
The two girls made their way out, Isha waving goodbye from her place in Jinx's arms. Jinx not bothering to spare a second glance.
Caitlyn slumped back in the booth. She was tired. No, wrung out. But in that exhaustion, something stirred—like the faintest flicker of a match.
She thought back to what Jinx said, "Big sis," Caitlyn huffed; she rubbed at the growing migraine between her brows. Maybe this was a bad idea, or maybe this was what she needed.
If even a little of that fire Isha has for ballet could rub off on her, that might reignite her love for dance, and right now love was something thoroughly lacking in Caitlyn's life.