The house was dark, the safety curtain rung halfway down, the stage silent and empty. The season’s final performance was finished. Like any sanctuary, though, traces of worship remained: the smell of canvas and sweat and rosin, the lingering heat and dust from the lights, stray leaves and rose petals the janitor’s push broom had missed. And if Sean closed his eyes, he could hear the faint, lingering echoes of bravos and applause. He walked to the center of the stage, dropped into a crouch (ignoring his protesting knees) and stared down at the darkened footlights, then out over the sea of empty seats.
This spring marked his thirtieth year with the company; he’d joined in 1979, a kid with stars in his eyes, symphonies in his heart, and a lithe, buoyant body that could perform effortless miracles onstage. He’d made his home in New York, made his place in the company. From corps boy to soloist to principal, from free shows at the bandshell in Damrosch Park to center stage at Avery Fisher Hall, to seeing his own choreography performed, to finally becoming artistic director, to meeting the love of his life. Thirty years rushed past him in a swirling profusion of movement and music and memory.
Now he was almost fifty. For most dancers, a professional career was spring and summer, brief and brilliant as the lifespan of a butterfly. He was one of the lucky ones, and even so, it hadn’t been easy. Blistered feet, pulled muscles and aching tendons, dragging tours and musicians’ strikes, backstage wrangling, a thousand infinitely complex inter-company rivalries, climbing costs, union hassles, box-office worries and fundraising nightmares. He’d held on through every conceivable misfortune and it had all been worth it, every bloody bit of it. He’d had more spring and summer than any dancer had a right to, and when the chill of autumn came, the best thing to do was bow gracefully and retreat to the wings.
There was a week’s respite before the company embarked on tour; in that week Sean would have to tell Viggo the news.
He rose and backed toward the wings, still staring at the tide of empty seats, one foot gliding behind the other en arrière. Just as he reached the safety curtain, a hand came out and grasped his arm. He stifled a yelp and wheeled. “Jesus! A little warning next time – you near gave me a bloody heart attack.”
“Sorry.” Viggo spoke mildly. “What are you doing out here, anyway? They’re going to lock us in.” He steered Sean past the prop bins and stacks of folded cycloramas.
“Just thinking.”
“Can you think over a gigantic plate of pasta? I’m starving.”
“Sounds good.” They came to the security door, then into the flat, fluorescent glare of the corridor that led to the street. Suddenly Sean halted in his tracks and caught Viggo’s sleeve. “Viggo --“
“What is it?” Viggo frowned, his eyes seeking Sean’s face. “Something the matter?”
Sean’s breath caught in his throat, then he shook his head and smiled. “Nay. Just wound up thinking about the tour, is all.”
“Tell me about it.” Viggo propelled Sean toward the door. “So is everyone else. If Glenna comes to me in tears once more because her variation isn’t getting applause, I swear I’m going to kill her. And Alonso and Russ are already bitching at each other about their sleeping arrangements....”
Sean let Viggo’s chatter, comforting, familiar, flow over him as they left the theatre. One week, and then he’d tell the news. Until then, he pleaded silently,let’s just be happy for a little while.
*
Summary: Sean and Viggo are members of a fictional ballet company in New York City beginning in the late 70s, a period when ballet was still a fairly popular cultural attraction.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: Entrechat CinquanteChapters: 50 Completed: Yes
Word count: 56862 Read: 114056
Published: 16 Aug 2009 Updated: 16 Aug 2009