*
November 1980
Still wearing his Prince Igor costume of baggy trousers, pointed shoes, and sash, Sean moved past the night janitor trudging offstage, his push-broom edging rose petals and confetti snow into a tidy pile. “Good night, Jerry.”
“So long, buddy. Go home, get some sleep.” It was his ritual farewell; all the girls were honey, all the boys were buddy, and they all needed a good night’s rest. That was true. Sean needed a shower, dinner and his bed, but his muscles were still trembling from the failure of the night’s performance, and the showers would be jam-packed, full of laughing corps boys and soloists trading jokes and gossip and making plans for the evening, and if he walked in now he’d get sudden silence and two dozen sideways glances – not hostile, exactly, but wary. He was on the cusp of soloist and principal, everybody knew Christopher Brill was grooming him, and it seemed as if everyone was waiting to see how he’d behave. He hadn’t changed, he was sure of it, but they watched him all the same.
It was lonely, but he wouldn’t have confessed it for the world.
Sean dragged his prop bow behind him and moved past the wing leg, listening to the disconsolate shuffling sound of his feet. The fire curtain was down, the house was dark, the footlights were dark; only the exit signs and one work light illuminated the theater. He walked to the middle of the stage and plopped down, stretching his legs out, shutting his eyes, and reliving the nightmare moment when he’d realized he was a measure ahead of everyone else.
He hadn’t been counting; he’d been listening to the music, hot-blooded, and when the orchestra had speeded up, he’d thrown himself into the melody. Then he’d nearly slammed into Eric Myers, another soloist. Eric had hissed, “Nice going, asshole!” and Sean had lost the thread. He’d had to wait to fall back into place with the other dancers, and his face had flamed with humiliation as he’d heard the thrilled, bitchy murmuring in the audience. Balletomanes were worse than football fans; they were out for blood. After the performance, he’d caught Christopher Brill’s eye; Brill had nailed him with a single contemptuous stare and turned away. Eric and a couple of other dancers had snickered.
Grasping his ankles, Sean bent forward, touching his head to his knees, and stayed there for a moment. He shivered as the sweat cooled on his skin, and hummed the first few bars of the piece – off-key, but it soothed him, like a lullaby. The faint, ringing percussion chimed in the back of his head, the unearthly feminine vocals soared, and he found himself moving upward, planting himself firmly on both feet. He marked, but the music was too strong; it forced him into motion. He tucked one foot up and went into a double pirouette.
Better.
The tempo increased, wilder, pounding in his veins. He felt the fatigue evaporating as he moved: passé, relevé, passé, relevé. His jetés burst forth like fireworks, one after the other, cleaner, higher than in performance. The darkness of the house and the music in his head surrounded him, carrying him along until he slid into the final grand reverence and heard a smattering of soft applause. He sprang to his feet, suddenly wary.
“It’s just me.” A figure stepped out from the shadows, costumed identically to Sean.
Viggo.
Sean’s blood turned to ice water. He gathered up his prop bow. “I didn’t know anyone was watching.”
“I was waiting to shower. I didn’t want to bother you – you were concentrating so hard. That was great.”
Almost against his will, Sean’s spine stiffened. He pulled off his sash and wiped his sweating face and chest with it. “Thanks. Too bad I couldn’t manage that in performance.”
“It wasn’t you. The fucking orchestra speeded up, and you stayed in perfect time. It was everyone else that screwed up, not you. It just proves how musical you are. And that you were born to be a principal, not a corps boy.”
Don’t fucking patronize me, Sean wanted to snarl, even though he knew the words were kindly meant. He nodded shortly. “Thanks.” The disbelief and hostility must have been audible in his voice, but Viggo only smiled at him in a friendly fashion.
“Listen, I was wondering –“
“Very nice, Sean.” Christopher Brill moved out of the wings onto the stage, compact, impeccably dressed, his short silver hair gleaming in the dim work light.
A hot flush rose to Sean’s cheeks. Was the whole fucking company hiding in the wings, watching him? “Thank you, Mr. Brill.”
“Did you forget how to count this evening?”
Sean wet his lips. “About that, Mr. Brill – I’m sorry. I was listening to the music, and they –“
“Sean’s more musical than the rest of us, Mr. Brill,” Viggo said.
Brill turned his cool blue gaze on Viggo. “I doubt he needs your defense, Viggo. And please don’t think I missed your slip on the gargouillade tonight. I’d have each of you coach the other, but I don’t believe in the blind leading the blind. I want both of you to speak to Jens tomorrow. You could both do with some extra coaching. This doesn’t bode well for next month, boys. I don’t want to start our season with a humiliation. Now go home and go to bed. You need your rest, from the looks of things.” Brill gave them both a short nod, and walked back into the wings, his footsteps echoing into the silence of the dark house.
Sean’s limbs seemed to have turned to cold stone. Only his neck and face were burning, stung by Brill’s insults.
“Wow,” Viggo said softly. “He sure knows how to cut, doesn’t he?”
It was a moment that could have turned into camaraderie, but Sean chose to remain cold. “He’s right. I’ve got a lot of work to do.” He left it unspoken that Viggo had a lot of work of his own. “Good night.” He pushed past Viggo and slipped into the wings. Against his better judgment, he sneaked a look over his shoulder; Viggo was standing onstage, his posture dejected.
You’re fighting for the same role, and he’s not your friend.
The burning in his face grew hotter as Sean made his way to the showers.
*
November 2011
Sean leaned against the wing leg, watching Viggo working with Chloe, one of the new corps girls. Patiently, Viggo molded her into each position, kneading the nervous stiffness from her limbs.
“Preparation, plié, and then into the wings. Ready?” Viggo’s hands on Chloe’s waist were firm, reassuring, stronger than her partner Gabriel’s; Sean would have to speak to him tomorrow. Gabe had pushed Chloe around like a broken doll onstage, and after the performance she’d collapsed in tears. Now, Viggo was bringing her back to life, helping her master the footwork that had befuddled her earlier.
“That’s better. Much, much better.” Viggo patted Chloe’s shoulder. “Work on those échappés, and I’ll talk to Gabe tomorrow. Go home and get some sleep, okay?”
Chloe nodded. “Thanks, Viggo.” She gave him a brief hug and trotted offstage toward the showers. Viggo dropped to the floor and stretched, extending his upper body parallel to the floor.
Sean ambled onstage, his leather soles echoing against the stage floor. “Ready to go?” he asked softly.
“Hey!” Viggo glanced up and smiled. “I thought you’d left.”
“I wanted to wait for you.” Sean held out a hand and helped Viggo to his feet. He heard a loud pop from Viggo’s knee and winced. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Viggo grimaced. “Don’t worry. Man, one of those days, I guess. I have to talk to Gabriel tomorrow. Remind me, okay?”
“You’re three steps ahead of me.” Sean looked Viggo up and down. T-shirt, striped track pants, battered Adidas, messy hair: fucking gorgeous. Still holding Viggo’s hand, Sean gave it a squeeze, then brought it to his lips and kissed the palm.
Viggo beamed. “What was that for?”
Sean pulled Viggo close, grasping his arse and holding on tightly. He smiled and bumped his forehead against Viggo’s, then kissed him. He pulled away reluctantly and traced a fingertip down Viggo’s handsome nose, then over his lips, trying to think of something to say that would encompass the moment.
“For you.”
Summary: Piu Mosso: A quickening of tempo. This is part of Entrechat Cinquante
Rated: PG
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1453 Read: 545
Published: 01 Dec 2011 Updated: 01 Dec 2011