So lately there's been all this talk of couples other than the canon ones in Tutu, and it made me want to explore some of them a bit. Hence, fanfiction. Really, really short fanfiction, because I have not the time, attention span or skill to write long fic for all of them :'( Bear in mind that I chose pairings based on what interaction any two characters had on screen, and on the potential I thought their relationship might have had, given the chance. Some are more platonic than romantic, but there's nothing particularly graphic in any of them.
Finally, I know not all of these will be your cup of tea, but I appreciate advice/critique/debates/whatever. Anyway, enjoy!
1. Siegfried/Tutu - Introspection, Bittersweet
She remembers a radiant prince, beloved by his people
She remembers a brave, kind-hearted man, who’d do anything to protect the weak.
She remembers a dear friend, who’d tease her when she tripped over the skirts of her gown, but always caught her before she fell.
She remembers a betrothal, full of nerves, excitement, happiness and long walks through the palace gardens, of sitting by the duck pond with their feet trailing in the water when no one was looking.
She remembers his fear. He feared for his people, feared he wasn’t strong enough to protect them, spent sleepless nights worrying over a future that once seemed so bright. She remembers wishing how he could just forget everything, and be free from the sacrifice he would one day be forced to make.
Now . . . she looks at him now, and remembers the pride, courage, kindness, faith and love that once made this lifeless doll a prince. Underneath it all, he is still that prince, and underneath this clumsy child, she is still the princess who loves him with all her heart.
She cannot speak of her love, but prays that one day, he will remember it anyway.
2. Rue/Ahiru - Missing Scene (mid series 1), Companionship
They made an odd sight, walking down the street together. Rue kept a steady, stately pace, looking every inch the graceful princess. Ahiru, however, couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line. She skipped, stumbled and jogged along beside the taller girl, literally running circles around her like a restless bumblebee.
“Keep still, would you?” Rue said, exasperated. Somehow she’d become accustomed to this daily ritual without ever agreeing to it. “You’re making me dizzy.”
“Sorry.” Chagrined, Ahiru made an effort to keep pace with the older girl.
“Where do you get all that energy, anyway?”
Ahiru scratched the back of her head sheepishly. “Ehh, well my routines aren’t nearly as hard as yours. Actually, they mostly involve mopping floors . . . but oh, speaking of that, you were really great in class today!”
Rue grimaced. “Hardly. I fell over again, and this time I can’t even blame you. I haven’t been so clumsy since beginner class.” Nor so tired, she thought wearily. It had been weeks since her last undisturbed sleep.
“But still . . . you got up and did the whole thing again, even though it hurt. That was really great.” She beamed up at the brunette, full of blithe sincerity.
Rue glanced away and didn’t reply. She couldn’t say how it was more important than ever for her to be perfectly controlled, when everything else in her life seemed to be unravelling. Some days, she could barely distinguish her nightmares from her memories, and it frightened her. She frightened herself.
They reached the dorm, and Ahiru turned to say goodnight. “See you tomorrow?”
Rue looked down at her last reliable constant. She smiled wearily. “I hope so.”
Fakir was sick of feeling like an invalid. Mytho, who had spent the last week patiently listening to his bedbound companion’s grumbling, finally said, “You don’t rest enough, Fakir. You ought to enjoy it while you can.”
“I’ve had enough rest to last a century,” he snapped. “What I ought to do is get up and do something. There are things that need taking care of, and . . .”
He was silenced by the prince’s finger over his lips. Stunned, he could only watch as Mytho climbed onto the bed, wary of his injuries, and leaned over. Gently, his fingers untied Fakir’s ponytail and combed through the knots and tangles, so that the black tresses fell smoothly around his shoulders. He shivered at the sensation, caught between pleasure, uncertainty, and unaccustomed shyness.
“Mytho . . . what . . ?”
“Shh,” Mytho pressed a kiss to his forehead, then pulled back with a smile. “Let me take care of you for a change.”
The next kiss found his lips, and after a moment’s hesitation, Fakir finally allowed himself to relax.
4. Autor/Rue - Post-series, (sort-of) Bittersweet
Once upon a time, a composer fell in love with a princess.
His fingers dance nimbly over the piano, weaving tendrils of music like the finest silk. As always, his thoughts soon drift to his muse, and the sweet fantasies she once promised.
He thinks of midnight; of black wings and feathers on the wind; of rose-red lips and eyes full of mystery. Time passes slowly, and the threshold between dreams and reality becomes blurred. He imagines a lithe figure stepping out of the shadows, crossing the room en pointe to stand in the moonlight. In his peripheral, he watches as she unfurls her limbs and begins to spin in slow, languid circles, gliding along his music the way a swan glides on air currents.
They make a perfect duet, the two of them. The musician and the prima ballerina, and it doesn’t matter that he isn’t a prince, because she isn’t a princess and doesn’t belong in a fairytale. She is Rue, and she is beautiful and amazing, and she belongs here, in the real world, with him.
Because you can’t fall in love with a story.
5. Autor/Fakir - Post-series, Friendship/Partnership
“You’re handwriting is atrocious. So is your grammar.”
“Those things don’t matter."
“Oh really? Being unable to tell the difference between ‘there’ and ‘their’ could mean that, instead of a rainy day, someone drowns in their bathtub! Do you really want other people to suffer the consequences of your cutting corners?”
“Alright, alright. I’ll fix it. Just . . . stop talking.”
“Hmph. Ungrateful ignorant. Writes one decent story about one person – who isn’t even a person – and thinks himself a literary genius . . .”
“Nagging, neurotic slave-driver . . .”
“What was that?!”
It was the end of another long day, and the town’s current Story Spinner had fallen asleep on top of his work. Again.
Rolling his eyes, Autor tried excavating the paper gently as possible so as not to wake the other boy. Honestly, if he kept this up, they’d never make any progress at all. Perhaps Autor should make their weekly sessions daily ones, just so he could force the stubborn, infuriating moron to eat and sleep, two things he clearly did not do on his own.
He tossed a blanket around the Story Spinner’s shoulders, then settled down for another night of scrawling critique over painfully bad handwriting. Being a tutor, editor and babysitter all in one was a tough job, but Autor had always prided himself on versatility.
After all, if he didn’t take care of the idiot, then who would?
6. Fakir/Rue - Alternate Universe, UST (This one is the longest. Not my fault, they just wouldn't shut up.)
He glanced up at the smirking waitress and scowled. “I thought you didn’t work Thursdays.”
“I’m covering for Freya tonight. Lucky you. So, let me guess . . . black coffee, no sugar?” She scrawled down the order without waiting for affirmation. “Really Fakir, you’re predictability is so endearing.”
She flounced off, and he forced himself to glare at the notebook, not her retreating back. He managed to scrawl a few words down, but the peace was short-lived. Rue returned with remarkable speed, handed him his coffee (he grunted something that she knew wasn’t a thankyou) and sat down in the seat across from him.
“Don’t you have work to do?” he asked irritably.
“It’s a slow night.” She watched him studiously ignore her for a minute, then said, “So. Who am I?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
She tapped his notebook with her fingernail. He yanked it out of reach. “In your book, silly. Which character do I inspire?”
“What makes you possibly think I’d base a character off you?”
“Well, novelists write about the people around them, only with different names and special powers, yes? So far, I have seen you interact with exactly two people – myself, and that editor of yours who kept gawking at me indiscreetly. Thus, if your book is to have any characters at all who are worth reading about, you’re rather low on options.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Also, I know you wouldn’t be able to resist killing me off violently. So my guess is . . . I’m a villain of some sort. Evil sorceress? Arch-enemy, perhaps?”
Fakir snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
She smirked. “Well, when you do kill me, at least make it an interesting death.”
He grunted, already absorbed in another sentence. She studied the way his pen moved across the page, and wondered where the bandage on his hand had come from. He was a regular at Crown Coffee, but fancied himself quite the brooding enigma. She’d been trying to needle information out of him for months now, to limited success.
He paused to sip his coffee. She took the opportunity to ask, “So who’s the hero? I certainly hope he’s not your editor.”
Fakir stiffened, and she thought he’d shut down completely. He did that sometimes, when she asked one too many questions. But to her surprise, he put down the pen, took out his wallet, and slid it across the table. “Open it.”
Eyebrows raised, she was about to make some smart comment about generous tipping, but the words froze on her lips as she looked at the photo inside. Gazing up at her was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen . . . and also the saddest. It was a colour photo, but the boy himself seemed almost monochrome; unnaturally pale skin, platinum hair (was it even blonde?), white pants and collar shirt. His eyes were a light, brownish colour, but they seemed blank and glassy, like a doll.
“That’s the prince,” Fakir said quietly. “Or at least, it was. I’m writing this story for him."
“Is he sick?” she asked, still studying the photo.
“He’s sick in the mind. Has been for a long time.” He held out his hand, and she reluctantly passed the wallet back.
“What sort of prince is he?”
“The best kind. Strong, selfless, compassionate. Too altruistic for his own good, always getting into trouble.” A small, unguarded smile crossed his lips. “Has no sense of direction, until someone really needs him. Then, he’ll be there in no time at all."
Rue tried to imagine someone as beautiful as the man in Fakir’s memory, with warm amber eyes and nothing but love to give. She found it impossible. Men like that only existed in fairytales.
The bell above the door jingled, and a group of people walked in. She stood up and tried to shake off the sudden sense of melancholy. Stupid, morbid writer. “Well, I wish you luck with the story,” she said. “Be a gentleman and tip well – I poured my heart and soul into that coffee for you.” She winked and wandered over to serve the new customers.
Fakir sighed, pocketing the wallet once more. He really ought to start frequenting another coffee shop, where the staff acted like staff and not the Spanish Inquisition. Although, he had to admit – being around annoying people was much more stimulating for the creative mind than being left in peace.
He bent down to once again to write, but continued to watch the waitress out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he could give the evil witch a redemptive death rather than the cruel, viciously satisfying one he’d been planning. Deep, tragic villains were people-pleasers, after all. Who knows? If he is feeling generous enough he might even give her a happy ending.
Thanks for reading!