Chapter Text
When picturing the soul of absolute justice, a figure who dedicated their life to standing up for good and defending what's right, many people would picture someone mighty. Someone grand. A weathered, old war general, who spent decades fighting for what they believed in, maybe a detective who stayed awake day and night, living off bitter coffee and cigarettes. Now, just about the last thing anyone would have ever pictured was probably an eight-year-old kid who watched too many western movies and was afraid of the dark, but when push came to shove, Tathy was always able to fill those boots.
The kid was tall for his age, lanky. He spent his mornings waking his mama up with cereal, and a peck on the cheek, his nights hunched under blankets on their couch, turning the volume down on his movies to be nearly silent so he could watch them without gettin’ hollered at for it.
Every night, they told nearly the same tale. Some rotten crook was terrorizing the town, or robbing banks, or nabbing the pretty damsel; the only hope left was the hero. A blazing sheriff, with a shining gun, a cool hat, and an even cooler man-beard. A rootin’ tootin’ cowboy.
Now Tathy here, he watched these crappy old movies, in all their poor quality and black-and-white glory, with nothing but stars in his eyes.
There was absolutely nothing cooler in the world to him than watching as the cowboy, just a poor stable boy in the beginning, swoops in, guns ablazin’, hat casting a mysterious shadow over his eyes, as he takes down the roughest, toughest evil, and brings them to the justice they right deserve. And one day, Tathy swore, and vowed, and prayed that it would be him wearin’ those boots, standing tall, wielding the shiniest gun, and blasting off into the sunset with the prettiest damsel around, after busting the baddest guys in town.
It would be… pretty darn awesome.
But, until then, Ol’ Tathy still had much to learn! School had just gotten out for the summer, and boy, did he have plans! Today was a busy one; he had woken up at the sharp crack o’dawn, and his first super secret cowboy task was to deliver lil’ ol’ Miss Miller's medicine from the pharmacy. His second was to help Elena from the playground find her lost basketball. And don’t even get him started on his final, hardest task of them all, keepin’ real busy till his mama got home from work so they could have them a nice, fun movie night (where he was picking this time!!).
It really was gonna be a perfect day.
The delivery went off without much trouble, aside from Tathy nearly tripping over Mrs. Miller's cat, a mean ol' thing named Buttons who scratched first and asked questions never. Miss Miller gave him a peppermint for his troubles, called him a sweet boy, and pinched his cheek darn hard enough to make the left side of his face all red. Tathy considered that a fair trade.
From there, it was on to Mission Number Two.
Now, finding Elena’s basketball oughta have been easy! A basketball was a big, round thing. Bright orange. Practically beggin’ to be found. But somehow, that thing had managed to disappear clean off the face of the earth! For nearly an hour, Tathy searched high and low.
He checked under slides. Behind bushes. Inside a drainage pipe that smelled so awful he done nearly lost his breakfast. At one point, Tathy became entirely convinced a gang of outlaws had stolen it and hidden the evidence.
…The truth ended up being a whole lot less exciting.
The ball had rolled into old Mr. Turner's garden and gotten tangled up between his tomato plants. Still, when Tathy marched back into the playground carrying the recovered treasure under one arm, Elena must’ve looked at him like he'd just slain a dragon (Well, probably. He was just guessing; he was doing way too cool of a pose to actually see her face).
"Where'd ya find it?"
Tathy adjusted an imaginary sheriff badge on his chest, plastering on his best humble cowboy grin. "Wouldn't you like to know." Elena prob’bly thought that was the coolest darn thing anybody had ever said. He certainly felt like it was.
At least. It sounded pretty darn cool in Wild Wild West VII—Revenge of the Westerners, where he’d stolen it from.
The rest of the afternoon drifted by slow and warm. The sun hung heavy overhead. Sprinklers clicked and hissed across front lawns. Ice cream trucks wandered through the neighborhood like great migrating beasts, their music echoing down the streets.
Tathy spent some time riding his mighty steed (bike) around the block, then some more time sitting beneath the big ol’ oak tree near the park, shooting pinecones off the dangling branches with his gleamin’ sheriff’s gun of greatness (a little wooden pea shooter styled to look like a revolver, that he’d gotten for his last birthday).
A cowboy’s work was never done, after all.
A suspicious dog barked at a mailbox. Tathy kept an eye on it.
Two squirrels got into what appeared to be a heated disagreement. Tathy monitored the situation carefully.
A little girl dropped her juice box. Tathy assisted.
Justice sure was exhausting work.
By the time evening started creeping in, the whole world seemed painted gold. Long shadows stretched across the sidewalks. The air cooled down just enough to make sitting outside pleasant. And finally, after what felt like a hundred years, Tathy spotted a familiar car turning onto their street. His mama was home!
Well. The cowboy wiped his hands on his shorts, sliding his hefty gun back into its holster. That was that, then.
The town was safe. The secret package had been delivered. The legendary item had been recovered. Law and order had been preserved for another day. Tathy hopped off the park bench so fast he nearly forgot his boots, tearing down the walkway with a grin so wide it hurt. Movie night was finally here!
As Tathy sped to a run (and tripped himself almost immediately on his too-big boots), he heard a man calling out near the theater, lookin’ for someone. The boy couldn’t help but screech to a halt, eyes flicking from the turn to his own cul-de-sac before up to the setting sun. His mama had just gotten home from work; she wasn't goin’ anywhere for the rest of the night, he’d known her too well. It was the cowboy’s—no, the sheriff's—duty to solve and resolve every problem and crime this here town held. His mama would keep his spot ready for him; he just would have to hurry before the popcorn got cold!
Right outside the town's little theater, a few people spilled out; the first voice Tathy heard lured him over first, a man, standing tall and built solid, with dark skin and neat hair. He cupped his hands around his mouth as he called, looking for someone. Sounded like a job for Tathy!
The boy walked right up, tipping his hat. "Why, howdy there, sir!" he smiled. "Now, what seems to be the problem, ‘round here?"
The man blinked. For a second, he sorta just stared down at the tiny sheriff standing before him, all skinny knees and oversized boots. "...Howdy?" he repeated, sounding a little disbelieving of himself.
"Ayyeup." Tathy nodded proudly. "What’s happenin’?"
The man glanced around, as if maybe there was supposed to be an adult standing somewhere behind him. Finding none, he sighed. "My son is… gone."
Well. That got Tathy's attention right quick.
The boy straightened up so fast he nearly popped a button. Missing people were serious business. Cowboys found missing horses all the time. Sons couldn't be all that different.
The man rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "He ran off during the show. I turned around for one minute, and..." He shook his head. "Nobody's seen him since."
"What's he look like?" Tathy asked.
The man knelt down a little. He said a lot of words really fast. "Did you get all of that?"
A nod, "Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"The important parts,"
"Um." The man blinked. "…could you repeat them back to me?"
Tathy blinked.
"Uh… alright." The man grimaced, "Just remember, boy, your age, looks like me, wearing blue, and had a big pink tutu. Hard to miss." He stared at him for a moment, serious. "You got that?"
Tathy nodded along with every word, committing the details directly into his sheriff brain. "Any known hideouts?"
"...Known what?"
"Hideouts."
The man blinked again. "No."
"Hmm." Tathy crossed his arms. This was a tough one. The toughest one he'd had all day, actually.
The crowd ‘round the theater had started thinning out by now. The last few folks drifted away down the sidewalks, chatting amongst themselves as the sky slowly turned orange and pink overhead.
The man looked tired. Really tired. The kind of tired grown-ups got when they were worried. That settled it.
Tathy reached up and adjusted his hat. "Don't you worry none, sir."
The man opened his mouth.
Tathy beat him to it. "I reckon I'll help ya find ‘im."
"...You will,"
"Yep."
"Kid."
"Yep?"
"Are you supposed to be doing this?"
The boy considered the question. Probably not. "Absolutely." The man laughed despite himself. Just a little.
The two of them spent the next little while searching around town. Mostly, this consisted of Tathy asking increasingly important questions to increasingly confused people.
Had anybody seen a kid?
No.
Had anybody seen a suspicious kid?
No.
A suspiciously normal kid?
Also no.
Had anybody seen any clues?
Nobody seemed entirely sure what even counted as a clue.
…The two split up around the time Tathy insisted on checking the same place thrice.
The search carried the boy alone through town as daylight slowly slipped away. Shopkeepers flipped signs to CLOSED. Porch lights flickered to life one by one. Crickets began tuning up somewhere out in the grass.
And then, just as the last bit of sunlight started sinking behind the hills, somebody finally spoke up.
"Oh." An old woman looked up from watering her flowers. "That boy?"
The cowboy nearly jumped. "Y’saw him??"
"I think so."
Tathy leaned forward.
The woman pointed toward the distant silhouette looming beyond town. The mountain.
Mount Ebott stood dark against the evening sky. Even from here, it looked big. Too big.
"I saw a little boy heading that way an hour or two ago," she pursed her cracked lips. "Sounds like what you just described… uh, tutu… and all that. I didn’t think much of it."
Silence settled over the two of them.
Tathy looked dramatically back again at the mountain.
It looked... mountain-y.
The old woman squinted at him. "You’re not thinking of going up there, are ya?"
"No, ma'am." The boy tipped his hat.
Then immediately started gunning toward it.
"HEY!"
"I'm investigatin'!"
The woman hollered something else after him, but Tathy was already too far away to hear it. Or he was just pretending not to.
The walk took longer than he'd expected.
The town slowly fell away behind him. The sidewalks became dirt paths. The dirt paths became winding trails. Before long, there wasn't much ‘round but trees and the chirp of crickets hidden somewhere in the dark.
Truth be told, Tathy wasn't exactly… clicking his heels about the situation.
Now, he wasn't scared. A sheriff was never scared.
He was simply being cautious. Extremely cautious. So cautious, in fact, that he checked behind himself every thirty seconds.
…For safety.
Still, he kept going. Because somewhere up ahead was a missing kid. … And because turning around now woulda been real hard to explain to himself.
Eventually, the trees began to thin. The trail grew steeper.
And before long, Tathy found himself scramblin’ up the final rocky stretch (with the world's most slippery cowboy boots ever, apparently) toward the summit, he hauled himself over the last ledge, and Tathy was about ready to sue mountains.
His legs hurt. His lungs hurt. He almost lost his hat about twenty times.
The sheriff doubled over, hands on his knees, wheezing something fierce as he attempted to catch his breath and maintain at least a little dignity.
…Neither task was going very well.
Once he finally managed to look up, though, he almost forgot about all that. "...Huh." The whole town stretched out below him, tiny and glowing beneath the last streaks of sunset. Porch lights blinked on one by one. The sky overhead was painted all sorts of oranges and pinks and purples Tathy didn't know the names of! For a moment, he just stood there.
Then a soft sob drifted through the evening air.
Tathy froze.
There it was again.
Somewhere nearby, hidden amongst the rocks and tall grass, somebody was crying.
Perfection was a virtue. It was integral to success. A standard that the most elite probably held themselves to. The bare minimum required to go from good to great. Nobody comes to football games to see them fumble the ball, nobody attends a concert to hear auto-tune, and absolutely nobody ever buys tickets to see a dancer fall flat on their face. At least, that was what a nine-year-old kept repeating in his mind as he missed a step in the easiest ballet routine ever for the twelfth time today.
Pierre was getting tired of this. He’d been up since it was still dark out to practice for today; his forehead was damp with sweat, his feet started to ache from being en pointe for so long. Even so, his body felt even heavier than it did an hour ago. It was infuriating. He’d been practicing all day—no, all month! All week! Why wasn’t he getting better yet??
The rehearsal was tonight!
His grandparents were coming to town to see him! His dad was going to be watching! Pierre could not mess this one up. He just couldn’t bear it.
Miss Jennings, his instructor, rested her head in her hand as she watched him run through it yet again, with no clear missteps, but not as confident as he wanted it to be. "I keep telling you, as long as you remember the routine and don’t stumble too much, you’ll do beautifully."
Pierre pouted. "I don’t want to just do good; I want to do it right!" He dusted himself off. "What am I missing?"
The woman pressed her lips together. "Maybe just… Could it be possible that the tutu may be throwing off your balance? You’re still sure you want to wear it to the recital? I get how you’re the only boy and all, but—"
"I’m keeping it." Pierre frowned. It was pretty. The boys' outfit was boring, made to blend into the background and support the girls. The tutu and soft pinks were showstopping. He wanted to be showstopping. "I learned the routine just fine without it; everything should be fine."
Miss Jennings gave him a look. The sort of look adults wore when they thought a child was making a mistake, but had already accepted they weren't going to win the argument. "Well," she sighed, pushing herself up from her chair. "If you're determined."
Pierre nodded firmly. He was. A true artist had to commit to their vision. That was probably a thing somebody famous had said. If not, it ought to be.
The woman wandered off to help another dancer, leaving Pierre alone with the mirrors.
He stared at his reflection, striking the opening pose. Then adjusted his posture. Then adjusted it again. One shoulder seemed higher than the other. His chin wasn't quite right in angle. The butterfly clip in his hair looked crooked. Pierre fixed it. Stepped back. Squinted. Fixed it again.
A group of dancers hurried past behind him, chatting and laughing about something. One nearly bumped into him. "Sorry!"
"It's alright," Pierre called back politely.
The second they disappeared, he looked back at the mirror. His butterfly was crooked again. Somehow.
Ugh.
A few minutes later, he found himself practicing a turn.
Just one.
Then another.
Then one more.
The recital wasn't for hours, but Pierre couldn't help himself. If he stopped practicing, that was time wasted. And if time was being wasted, somebody else was probably getting better. The thought alone was enough to make him do the turn again.
"Pierre." The boy nearly jumped. His father stood in the doorway.
"Oh."
"Uh oh."
Pierre frowned. "What?"
His father crossed his arms. "You've got that look."
"I don't have a look."
"You absolutely have a look."
Pierre opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "...Maybe a little."
His father laughed. "A little?"
Pierre chose not to answer.
The man stepped fully into the room and jerked a thumb toward the hallway. "C'mon."
"What?" Pierre blinked. "Where?"
"Food."
"But—"
"Your grandparents are waiting for us at the diner."
"Dad, I have to practice—"
"You've been practicing all day." His father huffed softly, "And all week. I think you’ve more than got it by now."
A pout. "I can still practice more. It's today!"
His father gave him a patient smile. The kind that usually meant Pierre wasn't going to win this argument. "Two minutes."
"Dad—"
"One."
Pierre gasped. The negotiations had somehow gotten worse.
His father was already steering him toward the door. "I’m starting the car," he said, giving a wave without looking back. "Walking out the door now."
"Wait—" Pierre was already scrambling after him, grabbing his bag on the way.
A few minutes later, the two found themselves squeezed into a booth at the diner. His grandparents had already beaten them there. His grandmother pulled him into a hug the second he sat down. His grandfather immediately started asking questions.
How had practice gone?
Was he excited?
Nervous?
Ready?
Pierre smiled politely.
"Great."
"Mmhm."
"Of course."
"Probably."
His grandfather laughed. "Probably?"
Pierre laughed too. A little.
The waitress came. Orders were placed. Food arrived. Pierre hardly touched his. The fries slowly turned cold. The sandwich remained suspiciously intact. He picked at a corner of his napkin while everyone else talked.
His grandmother told a story about getting lost on the drive over. His father teased her for refusing to use a map. His grandfather claimed he would've gotten there faster if he'd been driving. The argument that followed was apparently one they'd been having for thirty years.
Pierre nodded at all the right places. Smiled when everyone else smiled. Laughed when everyone else laughed. But most of his attention was somewhere else. He should have been practicing—this was a waste of time.
The thought made his stomach twist.
"Pierre?"
The boy looked up. Everyone was looking at him. "...Sorry?"
His father raised an eyebrow. "We asked if you wanted dessert."
Pierre blinked. "Oh." A pause. "...No, thank you."
His grandmother frowned softly. "You feeling alright, sweetheart?"
"Perfectly." Which would've sounded much more convincing if he'd touched more than three fries.
The car ride back to the theater was a lot quieter than it was an hour ago. His father kept sending him glances over his shoulder as they drove back to the theater, upon Pierre’s insistence on getting the final time in to rehearse. He had to squeeze his own hands together tightly to prevent himself from biting a nail. They were neat today; he didn’t want to ruin them again.
“You know how I did football in high school?" His dad asked at some point, snapping him from his thoughts.
“What?” Pierre looked at him through the car's mirror. “Uh… yeah?”
“I sucked at it,” His dad laughed, eyes on the road. “I ever tell you how they kept me on the bench for months, and on my first real game, I got knocked straight out by a tackle?”
Pierre snorted, “What?”
"Oh, I was terrible.” He smiled, "Your grandma would stop coming to my games because I just got whooped over and over again.”
Pierre giggled.
"It's true! I don’t even know how the hell I stayed on that team.” He glanced once at him from the mirror. “Coach refused to kick me until he thought I was done trying," a huff. “I just…didn’t stop. I knew it was what I wanted to be doing, so I just kept showing up. Trying. Failing. Getting better.”
The smile on the kid’s face froze. He saw where this was going.
“Eventually, I got pretty damn good. Could've kicked some ass in college.” A small laugh, “Well, maybe not, but I was pretty good.” At the red light, he looked back at him. “You always worry yourself sick when it’s time to do these. You’re really good. This is your dream, right?”
“Dad, it’s not just…” Pierre frowned. “If I mess up out there—”
“Then you mess up." A simple shrug. “The audience still claps; we all go out for ice cream and forget about it.”
Pierre frowned. "It isn't that simple."
"Sure it is."
"No, it isn't."
His father chuckled.
The rest of the ride to the theater was quiet, but he felt a bit better, at least. The moment the car pulled into its usual spot, Pierre grabbed his bag from the seat, and hopped out as fast as humanly possible as his dad sent him a final wish of luck.
The next hour and a half seemed to move in double speed, a blur of different songs playing in different rooms, as Pierre yanked the tutu back on and replayed the same dance he’d already practiced at least a hundred times today alone.
Turn. Step. Turn. Step. Again. And again. And again.
At some point, Miss Jennings informed him he was going to wear a hole through the floor. Pierre wasn't entirely convinced that was a joke.
One moment he was practicing. The next, somebody was touching up his hair. Then somebody else was adjusting costumes. Then Miss Jennings was clapping her hands and reminding everyone to stay calm. A statement that immediately caused Pierre to become significantly less calm.
Before he knew it, dancers were filing backstage. Parents were finding seats. The chatter beyond the curtains grew louder and louder. The recital had somehow gone from being hours away to minutes. Which Pierre felt was extremely unfair.
The audience beyond the curtain sounded enormous. His stomach twisted.
The other dancers chatted excitedly amongst themselves. One girl was talking about where her family was sitting. Another was showing off the flowers she'd already gotten. Pierre barely heard any of it. Instead, he peeked through a gap in the curtain. Rows and rows of seats stretched out before him. People filled nearly all of them. Near the middle, he spotted his father. His grandparents sat beside him.
His grandmother waved the second she noticed him. Pierre gave a little wave and ducked back behind the curtain. A nearby dancer giggled. His face burned. Then the lights dimmed. The conversations out front began to quiet. And suddenly, all at once, it was time.
The curtain rose. The music lilted in. And Pierre stepped out beneath the lights.
For a moment, everything was perfect. The song was a gentle ballad, something light and pretty. He’d adjusted his costume at least a million times by now, so every stone and tuft of tulle would catch the light just right. The dance was hardly that complicated. Certainly not nearly as much as his mind made it seem.
Well. Until he actually missed a step.
Hardly, even. It was a stumble. Not a big one. Barely noticeable. The sort of mistake nobody in the audience would ever catch. But Pierre noticed. The mistake sat in his chest like a heavy stone almost immediately.
The next turn felt awkward. The next jump felt wrong. Every movement after that seemed just a little off.
Not bad—not even close to bad. Just not right.
And somehow, to Pierre, that felt even worse.
Pierre’s pulse was hot in his ears, far heavier than the ballad ever had been. A slow lump rose in his throat, slowing his movements. He felt slow. Uncoordinated. He couldn’t even tell if he actually was, or if the world just felt like it was moving in slow motion, revolving around him, rather than letting him go, freeing him of this trance.
And in this state, his clumsy missteps truly caught up with him. He must have tripped over his own feet, nearly a full dive as the polished wood floor rushed to his face. He barely even registered the pain. Everything felt fuzzy. And hot.
The music returned to his ears, just to slowly fade as someone clicked it back off and flicked on some lights. Pierre raised his heavy head; distantly, the taste of blood wet his lips. Someone was tugging at his arm, helping him up somewhat as the world very slowly spun to a stop. The voices sounded far away.
A few people had been gathered around him now. Miss Jennings. A couple dancers. Someone handed him a tissue. Pierre stared at it. Then at the bright red spot blooming across the front of his leotard. The blood wasn't even that bad. Just a nosebleed. A stupid little nosebleed, rendering his once pretty pink costume a mess.
The audience murmured somewhere beyond the lights.
Pierre couldn't make out any words. He didn't want to. His heart was in his throat. The heat rushed straight to his face.
"Oh." Was all he managed. "...Huh."
"You're okay," Miss Jennings assured him quickly. "You just took a tumble."
A tumble. Right.
Pierre looked out toward the audience. Rows and rows of people. Eyes wide with surprise, and soft with pity. His father had stood up. His grandparents looked worried. The knot in his chest twisted so tight it hurt.
…God.
He couldn't do this. Before anyone could stop him, Pierre pulled away.
"Pierre?"
He didn't answer. The boy darted behind the curtain. Someone called after him. Then someone else. Miss Jennings, maybe. Pierre wasn't listening. The backstage hallway blurred past as tears dampened his eyes.
He yanked open his dance bag with shaking hands. The first thing he found was a blue tank top. Good enough. The tissue hit the floor. The tank top went over his head. Covered the blood. Covered the costume. Covered him. A little.
His eyes burned.
He could still hear voices behind him. Following. Worrying. People probably talking about it already.
Pierre shoved the bloody fabric into the bag
Then ran.
In another life, the kid really could’ve made it as a track star. He cleared the theater, out the back door. Past the dumpsters. Past the parking lot. Past the block itself. His pointe shoes slapped against the pavement as he tore down the sidewalk. He didn't have a plan. Nor a destination. He just knew he needed to get away. Away from the stage. The audience. Away from the look on everyone's faces.
He messed up. He ruined everything. He could never show his face there again.
The town blurred past in streaks of light and shadow. Pierre kept running. And running. And running.
Until the theater had disappeared completely behind him. And after that, the town.
His path was practically paved in tears, every step followed by a shaky sob. He hardly paid attention to where he was running to; his feet just carried him to a place to disappear.
A mountain. One fabled to hold a handful of missing children cases around town.
Truth be told, Pierre hardly even knew the name of it; he just more or less recalled his school having an assembly last year about a missing kid, pleading with the grades to stay with your family, and to never wander off alone, like the glasses kid must have. Or the little girl whose face painted just about every milk carton for months. Or… the, um…he didn’t remember the other kids right now; there was a lot going on in his mind.
The climb wasn’t too torturous; Pierre hardly even noticed the fatigue of it in comparison to the ache in his heart. His tears had long run dry by this point, but still, he couldn’t deny the tremble in his lip, nor the thoughts that consumed him, almost dragging him up the summit more than his own feet.
By the time he reached its peak—or at least the part where it dipped open, a large gorge resting in the middle—Pierre's body just felt heavy. From exhaustion, from humiliation, all of it. The ballerina sat down near the hole, pulling his knees to his chest, lightly scuffed from friction against the rocks, but hardly noticeable at the moment.
He could never show his face in there ever again. Not that theater, not in any theater, ever. The whole town had to know about his fall by now! He fell on his face!! It was bad!!!
Pierre dragged a hand over his face, looking idly down the pit. It was deep—too deep to even see the bottom of, really. He cringed at the thought of wondering just how many skeletons he’d be landing on, if all the other kids really did end up here. This… sucked. He hated using such simple language—he was a ballerina; ballerinas were fancy—but… God. He really wished things had gone better. This was the worst.
Pierre sat there for a while.
Then a little longer.
Then long enough that he stopped being able to tell how much time had passed at all. The initial panic had burned itself out somewhere during the climb. All that remained now was the humiliation. Which, unfortunately, was thriving. The ballerina buried his face in his arms with a groan. How had he managed that?
Seriously.
How?
He'd practiced the routine a hundred times. Maybe two hundred. He'd spent months preparing. Or like… at least one whole one. Whatever—Miss Jennings had practically begged him to stop rehearsing. And somehow he'd still managed to eat the stage. In front of everybody.
His grandparents.
The audience.
His father.
The audience.
The audience.
Pierre groaned louder.
Maybe there had actually been a gas leak in the theater. Maybe he'd suffered a sudden and mysterious attack by gravity. Maybe the floor had moved. Those all seemed more reasonable than the truth… The truth being that he'd simply messed up.
The thought made his stomach twist all over again.
Wonderful.
He was reliving it now.
Pierre picked at a loose thread on the hem of his tank top. Everybody had probably gone home by now. The recital was ruined.
Miss Jennings was probably furious. The other dancers were probably talking about him. His father was probably worried sick. His grandparents had driven all this way just to watch him faceplant. Fantastic. A complete and total disaster. The more he thought about it, the worse it got.
Which was impressive. Because it had already been pretty bad.
Eventually, the sky began to darken. The orange and pink faded into deep blues. The lights of the town twinkled below like little stars scattered across the ground. Pierre watched them for a while. Then sighed. Then sighed again. Then sighed so dramatically he was pretty sure it should've earned him an award.
After another few minutes, he pushed himself upright. His legs felt stiff. His face felt gross-er. His eyes hurt. He wandered a little closer to the edge of the gorge, staring down into the darkness below.
It was really deep. Like, really deep.
The sort of deep that made your stomach do a weird little flip when you looked too long.
Pierre frowned. What was he supposed to do now?
Go home? That sounded awful.
Stay here forever? That sounded uncomfortable.
Switch countries? Still a strong contender.
Jump? …
A shaky laugh escaped him. Then, to his immense annoyance, his eyes started watering again. "Oh, come on," Pierre scrubbed at them. The tears ignored him completely.
Great.
Now he was crying again. That was exactly what this situation needed. The ballerina sniffled, staring stubbornly down into the gorge.
Behind him, somewhere lower on the trail, rocks shifted. A shoe scraped against stone.
Then a voice drifted through the evening air. Very winded. "...I... ain’t never climbing nothin’ again..." Pierre nearly jumped out of his skin—there was another kid up here??
The ballerina choked down a sob, quickly turning back to the gorge to wipe his face. He wasn’t expecting company. This was… humiliating. Another sob slipped out.
That seemed to alert the other kid, “Who’s there?!” The voice sounded shocked, and Pierre heard as his footsteps grew close, “...Hey! Hey, you okay?” They stopped behind him, just close enough for Pierre to graze him in his peripherals, wiping his face a final time before turning to meet his gaze with still-watering eyes. The other boy gasped, “Well, darn my socks! You’re safe now!”
“...Huh?” Pierre could only blink as he heard the words. The boy had wide eyes, sandy hair that hung above his shoulders, and… was dressed… strange? “What… who are you?”
“Name’s Tathy Moore! Sheriff of the town down yonder!” He announced proudly, puffing out his chest and giving a little salute with two fingers to his wide hat. He crouched down just slightly so he wasn’t towering too much over the boy. “You’re that one kid who went missin’, right? The one near the theater?” His eyes darted from the ballerina's face to the pin in his hair, before back to his face. It was shiny.
The ballerina blinked, dark eyes still wet. “Uh… yeah, I suppose.” He sniffled, hesitating before extending a hand. “Um… Pierre.”
“Pierre!!” The cowboy(??) repeated, giving the name a bright grin, before gently taking the offered hand, giving it one firm, respectful shake. “Well, nice to meet ya proper then, Mr. Pierre! I’m mighty glad I found you safe n’ sound up here!” He straightened back up, and glanced at the massive sinkhole again before turning his full attention to the ballerina.
“Um… thank you,” Pierre tried to keep his tone polite. This was really awkward. And embarrassing. “But… I don't… need saving??” He sounded confused, even to his own ears. He didn’t know what he needed right now. Everything just… sucked.
Tathy blinked, confused. “Whaddaya mean you don’t need savin’? You went missin’! Yer daddy was out searchin’ all over the town!” His eyes drifted from Pierre's to his shirt and tutu, then back up again—just checking the description. “Whatcha doin’ all the way up here anyway?”
“He was??” Pierre's heart dropped, brows shooting up in heartbreak. “Oh my…he wasn’t supposed to—agh!" he huffed, another stray tear slipping from his eyes. “No no no no, this is all wrong, so very wrong…” He held his head.
“Hey, hey…c’mon now,” Tathy said softly, stepping closer without thinking. He knelt down in front of Pierre, carefully reaching out before stopping himself, not knowing if a hug would help or hurt the situation. Instead, his hands just kind of hovered slightly before speaking again. “You’re shakin’ all over. Ain’t no crime if ya cry some more; yer pap’s just lookin’ fer ya, is all.” His voice was gentle now—not the loud sheriff tone anymore.
“He’s not supposed to!” It was starting to hit Pierre now. All the emotions he spent about an hour choking back down were clawing back up, causing his shoulders to tremble as a sob rolled through him. “He’s supposed to… just… not,” a sniffle, “I just want everyone to forget I was here at all!” He bawled openly, humiliating as it was. He couldn’t stop it. Pierre held his face in his hands, bowed and slightly leaning towards the other—for what, comfort?
… This was rough.
The cowboy’s face fell immediately, like someone clenched his heart and twisted it with a wrench. “Wait… you wanted to disappear?” He asked, voice low and careful. He slowly reached out again—this time, gently resting one hand on Pierre’s shoulder, the palm warm over his skin. “You ain’t in trouble or nothin’, are ya? Did somethin’ bad happen down there?”
He couldn’t help it. “I can’t do anything right!” Pierre frowned, eyes pitiful, as he held his gaze. “I can't—I messed up. Bad. In front of everyone! I-I look so stupid, I just want to disappear!” He was openly sobbing now, the embarrassing words spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them. It was all crashing back down on him now.
“Oh…” Tathy just stared for a second. For once… he really didn’t know what to say. “You… you really think yer all wrong?” he asked, frowning deep under his hat brim. “...Even though ya got that pretty outfit an’ everything?”
Pierre’s lip trembled, turning his face down. “...Any kids who come up here, they never return home… I just… I wanted… so bad… to be one of them, right now.” His voice was small, ashamed.
“Pierre,” Tathy said, firm now, like a real sheriff would probably talk to someone in danger, “You ain’t ever comin’ back if you jump in that hole. Ain’t nobody climbs outta there. Ever.” He grabbed the ballerina's shoulders, gently but firm, making sure the boy was looking at him. “That’s why kids don’t come up here! That’s why yer daddy was scared! You think he wanted you to disappear? He probably cried the minute he realized he lost ya!”
Even if they were still brimming with tears, Pierre's eyes couldn’t leave his, reluctantly listening to every word. “You really think my dad…” His lip trembled, before he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around the taller boy, pulling him into a hug, crying. If he weren't the absolute saddest Pierre had felt in his entire life, he would’ve had the sense to feel really guilty for soaking the others T-shirt with snot and tears.
It… wasn’t his best moment, for sure.
“Shhh, it’s okay… It’s really okay." Tathy didn’t seem to mind it one bit, his voice soft and warm like a campfire. He wrapped both arms around Pierre tight and the ballerina could feel the cowboy's chin rest atop his head. His hat tilted sideways from the hug. “You’re safe now,” he repeated. “Your daddy loves you so much… an’ I bet he’s searchin’ this whole mountain and the town right now, just to hold ya again.”
Pierre didn’t know how on earth this kid actually did it, but slowly, very slowly, he felt his sobs slow to gentle cries, his shaking seeping to just a small tremble, before his eyes were finally dry. Finally, after another good minute—it was a really good hug. Give him a break—Pierre pulled away, wiping his eyes. “I think… I want to go home, now.” He sniffled.
“Course ya wanna go home." The cowboy straightened back up to his full height with a grin, “We’ll getcha right back to yer daddy,” he said firmly, puffing out his chest slightly. "He's probably worried sick! So let’s head outta here, ya?”
A nod, “...yeah.” Pierre couldn’t help himself from sending one last, long glance at the sinkhole, almost weary. “...jeez.”
Tathy smiled, tilting his head. “I gotta say… that thing is all sorts o’ nutty.” He rubbed the back of his neck, bashful. “Y’really scared me for a second there. That thing… I couldn’t even imagine goin’ back to tell yer pap that I had to follow ya down and drag ya back out myself.”
A small laugh, “You would not have done all that." Pierre smiled despite himself.
“Are ya kiddin?” Tathy looked almost offended. “I’mma genu-ine sheriff! I'd do whatever I gotta do t’ bring ya home! It’s the job!” He couldn’t help the smile that crawled up his own face, mirroring the ballerina’s. It was a nice one. Even if he was missing a tooth.
“What’s up with that?” Pierre tilted his head, mirroring him back. “Like… you’re a real one?”
“O’course I am!” Tathy dusted himself off, tipping his hat. “As real as you are a real… uh… bal-er-ay-na?” he guessed.
The other boy chuckled softly, looking down to their shoes. “Uh… yeah, something like that.” He took a breath. “I… definitely don't feel like a real one right now.” His smile looked sad.
The sheriff couldn’t have that. “Well yer wrong! I’ve uh… not seen too many like y’ before, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m seeing," he beamed, “Y’look great. Prettiest, uh… skirt… thing… I've seen in m’life!” He noticed something, brows furrowing. “...Hm.”
“What?”
“Yer missin’ somethin’” Tathy crouched down, eyes narrow as he scanned the dirt. “Y’ dropped your hair doohickey. It looked mighty shiny; s’ just hard to see this dark.” He kept looking.
“Oh, my…” Pierre raised his eyebrows, also squinting at the rocks, hoping to see even a glint reflecting the moonlight. “I need that,”
“I’ll get it fer ya,” a nod, “s’what I’m here for.” Another tip of his hat. And another minute of shuffling around. Finally— “Over there!” Tathy stood up, walking over to the hole, bending down beside it. “It musta fallen off when you were cryin’!”
“Careful!” Pierre couldn't help but worry.
“Don’t worry.” Tathy waved a hand. “Sheriff’s on the case.”
Pierre wasn't entirely sure that title actually meant anything. Still. The cowboy was already crouched near the edge of the sinkhole, peering over the rocks. “Y’know,” he muttered, “I bet it bounced over—”
A sharp crack echoed beneath him.
Both boys froze. Tathy blinked. The ground blinked back. Then it gave way.
“TATHY!”
The sheriff yelped as the rocky edge crumbled beneath his boots. For one horrible second, Pierre watched with wide eyes as the other boy vanished completely.
Then— WHUMP.
“Ow!”
Pierre scrambled forward on his hands and knees. “Tathy?!”
“I’m okay!” That was encouraging.
The ballerina carefully peered over the edge. Several feet below, Tathy stood on a narrow shelf of rock jutting out from the sinkhole wall. It couldn't have been more than a couple of feet wide.
The cowboy looked up. Pierre looked down. Both of them slowly realized the exact same thing.
“...This isn’t good.”
“No, it ain’t!”
A few pebbles trickled into the darkness below. Neither boy liked that very much.
Pierre’s brow was furrowed as he ran the numbers in his head, “Tathy, don't move.” His heart was in his throat
"I, uh… wasn't plannin' on it.”
The ledge let out a quiet creak. Pierre swallowed. The shelf looked ancient. Thin. The sort of thing that really ought to have stopped existing years ago. “Okay.” He dropped to his stomach, stretching an arm down toward him. “Just… grab my hand.”
Tathy stared. Then, at the drop beneath him. Then back at Pierre, "...Y'know, I don't think we're supposed t' be doin' this.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“...No.”
“Then grab my hand.”
The sheriff huffed softly, despite his own nerves being more than obvious in his expression. "...Fine," he hesitated. “...Please be careful, alright?” Carefully, he reached upward. Pierre leaned farther.
Their fingers brushed.
Missed.
Then caught. “Gotcha!” Pierre leaned down more, nearly halfway off the edge himself. He grit his teeth as he shifted his grip from the other's hand to his wrist for a better hold.
He was not going to drop him.
For one glorious second, it seemed like everything might actually work. Then the ledge cracked. Both boys froze. A second crack followed. Much louder this time.
Pierre's eyes widened.
The shelf gave one final, miserable groan. And crumpled.
The collapse quickly caused all the support beneath Tathy to drop, all of his weight immediately landing on an unready Pierre, who was already teetering as it was, the new weight causing him to slip, himself. The last thing either boy managed was a startled scream as the darkness swallowed them whole.