FIC: Tombé

[splix]

Title: Tombé
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean AU
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I sit upon a throne of lies.
Summary: Tombé: In ballet, the act of falling, usually landing with a bent knee.
Notes: A housewarming gift for caras_galadhon. This is part of my balletverse.







April 30, 2011


*



The cabdriver swiveled to face them. "Fifteen dollars and fifty cents, please."

"I've got it," Viggo said.

"Don't bother," Sean replied, more harshly than he'd intended. He handed the driver a twenty. "Here. Keep the change." He opened the door, but before he could touch the soles of his shoes to the pavement, Viggo was there with an outstretched hand. Sean pressed his lips together and pushed himself out of the car. "I'm fine."

Silently they rode up the elevator; silently they entered the apartment. Viggo tossed his keys on the sideboard and went to the window, throwing it open to the seamless, unceasing ostinato of Manhattan traffic. Sean sat on the sofa and rubbed his eyes until red sparkles glittered in front of him.

Viggo tapped the button on the answering machine. Kit Pearce's voice emerged in a tinny echo. "Hi, guys, it's me. Just calling to see how it went today. I called both of your cell phones, but they went straight to voicemail. Hope everything's okay. Let me know. Bye."

Sean leaned back and shut his eyes.

"Should I call her back?"

"If you like." Sean did his best to sound indifferent.

"Maybe I'll leave it for later." Viggo worked his feet out of his shoes and dropped onto the sofa beside Sean. He took off his socks, rolled them into a ball, and tossed them neatly onto the seat of the Barcelona chair across the room. "Swish. Three points."

"Now they'll sit there for two weeks until Mathilde finds them."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Viggo chuckled.

"I doubt she appreciates picking up your dirty socks."

"How do you know? Maybe she's got a dirty sock fetish. You never know."

"Very funny." Sean wanted to get up and leave, but his truculent mood and an imp of perversity kept him seated. "And so thoughtful."

Viggo sighed. "It was just a joke. I'll get them in a minute. You want a drink?"

"No."

"Should I order out? You want Chinese tonight?"

"I'm not hungry, thank you."

Viggo rested his hand on Sean's thigh and tapped out a rhythm with his fingertips – the dark opening notes of the Danse Infernale of Firebird. He was blocking it for the summer tour, and hummed it constantly in a tuneless monotone. "Look. It's not so bad. Four to six weeks, you'll be back to normal."

"I know. I was there at the doctor's office."

"Is it the work? You can't worry about that. Anyway, you don't need to. Kit will handle it, and besides, you'll be out of the hospital after a few days. Maybe it'll be good to let up on your frantic schedule a little. You can work from home. You've got your laptop and a phone – what else do you need?"

"Nothing. You've got it all sorted."

"I'm trying to help you out, Sean. You don't have to be a prick about it." Viggo got to his feet. "I'm going to take a shower. Do you want Chinese or not?"

"I said no." Sean heaved himself off the sofa – amazing how uncomfortably low it seemed lately – and headed for the guest bedroom. "I'm going for a nap."

"Yeah. Sleep well."

Sean didn't reply. He closed the bedroom door behind him – gently, without slamming it – took off his jacket, loosened his tie and collar, kicked off his shoes, and unfolded the light quilt at the foot of the bed. He lay down and listened to the soothing hum of running water. The walls were thick enough to completely block the sound of traffic – a world of difference from their years-ago downtown loft, where even six floors up sounded as noisy as an IRT station.

1981, they'd moved into that loft. Thirty years ago. Thirty years they'd been together.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to sleep. Eventually, he did.



*



He woke up overheated and uncomfortable. The sun had set, and milky, twinkling lights from the surrounding buildings filtered through the slats of the copper blinds. He sat up, throwing off the quilt, and looked at the clock. Nine-fifteen; he'd slept almost four hours. Groaning, he got to his feet. His knee twinged – no, not a twinge, he admitted to himself. A pain, the unwelcome and alien sensation of bone grinding against bone. He gritted his teeth and limped out of the bedroom.

A few lamps were lit in the front room, but the apartment held that immovable silence that meant Viggo was gone. It wasn't that Viggo was noisy, but after so many years, the awareness of a partner's absence was almost palpable. The window had been closed, and the balled-up socks had been removed from the Barcelona chair.

Sean got his robe from the bedroom and limped – God, it hurt – into the bathroom. He stripped, staring at himself in the mirror. Even in the flattering light of the recessed lamps, his face was pinched and unhappy, clear evidence of the anxious misery that no nap could cure. There were new lines at the corners of his mouth, he was sure of it, and his eyes were bloodshot. He'd shaved badly that morning, cutting himself in two places. The flesh on his body was pale, and his arms were beginning to look stringy. He hadn't been in the studio in weeks. He looked terrible, and – yes, there was no getting around it – old.

He ran the shower, stepped in, and stood immobile for long moments under the hot spray. Eventually he washed, generous with the black pepper Molton Brown gel Viggo had bought because he knew Sean loved it. Viggo, who would have as happily used dishwashing detergent for himself, took voluptuous pleasure in drenching Sean in exotically scented soaps – an excuse, he said, to fuck in the shower.

There would be no fucking in the shower for the foreseeable future.

The thought depressed him into a deeper melancholy. He rinsed and turned off the taps. Stepping out of the shower, he dried off perfunctorily and slipped into his robe. The silk clung to his damp body like a second skin. He pulled it away impatiently and opened the bathroom door.

A swirl of delectable fragrance drifted past his nose – orange chicken and pea pods. Viggo was back.

Sean raked wet hair with his fingers and went into the kitchen. His knee hurt less after a shower, but it was only a temporary respite. The pain would return soon enough in a constant abrasive mutter.

Viggo was eating at the kitchen table, a book propped up in front of him. He glanced up at Sean. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes." Sean went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a double Glenlivet. He tossed it back and poured another, then went to the refrigerator, glass in hand. He opened it and pondered the contents doubtfully. The perfume of orange chicken made his mouth water.

"There's enough for two."

Sean closed the refrigerator door. "You don't mind?"

"No, there's plenty."

Turning, Sean saw an empty plate at the table, neatly crosshatched with napkin and chopsticks. Next to it was a carton of iced tea and an ice-choked glass. Shame rose in him, stronger than his pride. "Vig –"

"Shut up and eat." Viggo didn't lift his eyes from the book.

Sean sat and heaped chicken, rice, and the beautiful crispy green pea pods onto his plate, and ate ravenously. At least his appetite hadn't been affected, he thought ruefully. Per Viggo's directive and his own remorse, he didn't speak until he was finished. When he looked up, pushing his plate away, Viggo was gazing at him over the top of the book.

"Shall I clean up?" Sean ventured.

"If you want."

Sean put the dishes in the dishwasher, the napkins in the hamper, and cleared the trash, making enough noise to cause comment, but Viggo only continued to read his book. When the room was restored to cleanliness, Sean stood uncertainly, waiting, but another silence had fallen, and he couldn't seem to break it. "I'm going to bed," he murmured.

"G'night."

The sheets were cold against his skin. Last week, in a fit of optimism, they'd put away the down duvet, but the weather had turned chilly again, and there was only a light comforter on the bed. Sean turned out the light and curled onto his side. He lay awake, listening to the sounds of Viggo moving around the apartment, turning off lights, going into the bathroom, running the water. He heard Viggo coming into the bedroom, heard the sounds of clothes being shed, then felt the soft pressure of Viggo sliding into bed. Sean waited, but Viggo didn't slide close, fitting himself against Sean's body the way he did most nights; tonight, he kept his distance.

It was no more than he deserved.

"Viggo."

"What?"

"I'm sorry I was a prick."

He heard a soft sigh. "It's okay. You're under a lot of pressure. I know that."

"No, I –" Sean's breath hitched. "It's none of it your fault, and I acted like a right bastard. I'm sorry."

Viggo shifted a bit closer. "It's not the end of the world, you know."

"I know. I know."

"And you'll be fine in a couple of weeks. Back at work. Ranjit said you won't even need a cane by then because you're in good shape."

"I'm not. I've not been in the studio for three weeks at least. I couldn't do a demi-pliè if you put a gun to my head."

"Well, let's get in there tomorrow. You can help me run through the Danse Infernale. It's a bitch, and the corps is moving like they've got glue on their soles."

Sean curled up more tightly. He was freezing. "I can't, Vig. I've got no balance, no turn, no extension. I can't even do bloody half pointe."

"You can mark. I'm not asking you to go onstage tomorrow." Viggo fell silent a moment. "Jesus, Sean, is that what it's about? That you can't dance anymore?"

"Partly, I suppose," Sean said, ashamed to tell the whole truth. "It's been how long since I've danced full-out? Ten years? Twelve?"

"Eleven. Same as me. Guitar pas de deux, remember?" A gauzy softness filtered through Viggo's voice.

"Yes. Of course." A shudder rippled through Sean's body. "It's just that this bloody surgery makes it permanent. I know it's daft. I just feel old and…used up."

Viggo's hand – it was cold – touched Sean's shoulder. "So how do you think I feel, looking at all those young, springy bodies every damn day? Jesus, I lead company class and it feels like my joints are full of sand and Jell-O. But that's life, Sean. We all get old. You can't say we haven't had a good run."

"You're still fluid, though, and graceful. I've watched you. All those kids staring at you like you're a god. Sometimes I wonder if you think about trading me in." He laughed, but couldn't keep the bitter anxiety and fear from his voice.

Viggo was silent for a long minute. "So that's it."

"What?"

"Jesus, Sean."

Sean feigned innocence, but he knew he'd been caught out. "What?"

"Is that what you think of me? Thirty fucking years. You get a bum knee replaced, and you automatically think I'm going to ditch you and go clubbing with a couple of corps twinks?"

"I –"

"I can't believe this." Viggo sat up and turned on his bedside lamp. "Thirty fucking years and that's what you think."

Sean sat up laboriously. His knee was aching again. He'd forgotten to take his pain pill. "Vig, look at me, for Christ's sake. I can't walk without limping. I'm out of shape. I look like hell. I feel like hell."

"Let me ask you a question. Why haven't you left me?"

Sean was dumbfounded. "Why would I?"

"Oh, I don't know. My hair's grey, and I don't have as much of it as I used to. I've lost muscle mass. If I don't wrap my ankle, it gives like it's made of popsicle sticks. My eyes hurt when I read too much. My ass is beginning to sag. It takes me awhile to get it up these days. Shall I go on? I'm just as much of a mess as you are."

"It's not the same."

Viggo laughed without mirth. "You are so damn dense sometimes."

Sean shook his head, mute with misery. Once he'd leapt across space, his tours en l'air full of brio and dizzying speed. He'd been able to do ten unsupported pirouettes, music surging and singing through his blood. He'd defied gravity and won. Now he supported himself on walls and furniture on his bad days, when no one was looking, and the only music in him was the concerto for hammer and tongs in his joints. Sometimes he fancied he saw pity and exasperation in Viggo's eyes. It was unbearable.

"So dense." Viggo touched his still-damp hair.

Sean screwed his eyes shut. He couldn't look Viggo in the eye to say what he wanted to say. "I'm afraid, Vig."

Gently and with exquisite tenderness, Viggo gathered Sean into his arms. "I know. I know you are. But you don't have to be." He urged Sean back down and kissed his neck. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't be angry with me."

"I'm not angry, you dim-bulb." Viggo caressed Sean's cheek. "Wanna know something? You're even better looking than you were thirty years ago."

Sean gave a hiccupping laugh. "Oh, you're full of it. You're the one who...." He smoothed back Viggo's tousled hair and traced his fingertip down the straight nose, over the white scar on his mouth, over his firm chin. "You are."

"No," Viggo insisted. "I like my men like I like my coffee. Hot, strong, and fifty-two years old."

Sean grinned, weak with relief. "You're such a git."

"I know. And I'm good in the sack. That's why you've kept me around so long, right?"

"That's right. You and your sagging arse." Sean decided to re-acquaint his hand with said arse. "Funny. Feels firm to me."

"I've got something even more firm for you to feel," Viggo said, hooking a leg over Sean's hip. "You know, I've always wanted to do it with the Bionic Man. Now I'll have one of my own."

"Kinky bastard." Sean dove in and suckled Viggo's earlobe. "You'll have to wait a while for that."

"I think it'll be worth the wait." Viggo slipped a hand between Sean's legs.

Sean drew Viggo closer until they were pressed tightly together, reveling in the warmth of Viggo's body. Thirty years – he was the luckiest man alive. "It's been worth it so far," he murmured, and abandoned himself to pleasure.


End.

Comments

[rubyelf.livejournal.com]

Oh, no... that icon's just how I feel about life today. And no, I didn't mean that sean should have known in the story how viggo felt... that doubt was totally realistic and in character! I just meant that your fond readers know viggo better than that and know he'd never give up on sean! Of course sean would worry...