Ficlet: pub
Jan. 5th, 2009 11:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Pub
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: PG
Author: Alex
Warning: AU
Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
seans_50 challenge.
Beta: the most excellent![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite.
Disclaimer: Utterly untrue.
Note: The idea behind this series of fics is that 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. This way I can also stay true to their actual ages. It will generally be linear, and will range in rating from G to NC-17. Hope you enjoy.
Prompt: Pub
*
It was above a pub, the École Krawczeniuk, in a grotty part of town, and always smelled deliciously of the mingled perfumes of beer, tobacco, and chips. Sean would sit on the back steps on warm days and listen to the fellows at the bar arguing about football or politics or the way Sheffield was headed to hell in a handbasket. Only on cold days was he forced inside, to do his schoolwork and tune out the hectoring voice of the dance teacher, Jozia Krawczeniuk, as she instructed the rows of wobbly little girls in identical pink leotards, tights, and slippers.
Sean’s mum couldn’t walk Lorraine to class and sit reading or knitting with the other mothers. She was a secretary in a tool-and-die factory, and every penny counted. She had to work; Sean’s dad had been killed in the pit when he was five and Lorraine an infant, leaving them with brownish photographs that Sean augmented with memories of a deep voice, a prickly cheek, and a green Fair Isle jumper worn on Sundays. There had been a settlement, but even that didn’t stretch far, so it was left to Sean to walk his sister to ballet class three times a week.
There was a radiator near one of the cracked leaded windows, toasty warm in the winter, comfortingly clanky, and out of the way of the reading and knitting mothers. The music was nice enough – usually scratchy piano on the teacher’s portable record player – and it was a fine place to curl up and do schoolwork, or nap, or daydream. After class, Lorraine would come and nudge him, and they’d be off.
Today Sean was restless. It was cold, and he was dying to run over to Woodmere Park and have a kickabout with some of the lads. But no, he was stuck here until six, and by then they’d all be called home to supper. Sulkily, he traced the word FUCK in the window’s condensation.
The music changed to a piece Sean had never heard before. It was bright, infectious, joyous. Sean found himself tapping one toe, then caught himself and tried to concentrate on maths. It was impossible; the music kept intruding (ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three) along with the teacher’s voice in her funny broken English – “LEAP! Very good, Jennifer! Kate – LEAP! Once again! Again! Pretend there is puddle there, in front of you – LEAP! Legs up! Better you do it again!”
Frowning, Sean peered round the coat rack to see one of the little girls jump awkwardly over two taped lines on the floor. He rolled his eyes. Any dimbo could do that! He ducked behind the coat rack again, looked at the expanse of floor in front of him, and jumped. There. Easy. Like the woman said, just like jumping over a puddle. He peeked again in time to watch the teacher demonstrate. She soared over the lines, her legs scissoring outward into a split, and landed with hardly a sound. The little girls clapped and oohed.
Sean marked the expanse of floor again, waited for the beat of the music (ONE-two-three) and jumped, kicking his legs out in imitation. Clumsy landing. He tried again. Better. The music started over. He did it again, and again, brushing the sweat from his forehead. Again.
“You!”
Sean leapt again. It was like flying.
“You!”
The music came to a scraping halt, and Sean froze. The teacher was watching him, flexing a switch as long and skinny as she was. She tilted her head, heavy with a coil of dark hair, to one side. “Come here.”
Sean blushed furiously. “What – me, miss?”
“Madame. And yes, I mean you. Come here.” She beckoned with a finger.
The finger, and the voice, were too imperious to resist. Sean moved forward, his body tingling with alternate heat and cold. “I weren’t – I didn’t mean to –“
“Shush! You show them.” She leaned over and replaced the needle on the record. The music started again, loud, exuberant (ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three). “Leap!” When Sean stood there, paralyzed, she grabbed his hand and ran with him toward the taped marks. “LEAP!”
He soared.
*
The music Sean heard: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMVcbKIvqJU
My table is here
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: PG
Author: Alex
Warning: AU
Written for the
seans_50 challenge.Beta: the most excellent
kimberlite.Disclaimer: Utterly untrue.
Note: The idea behind this series of fics is that 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. This way I can also stay true to their actual ages. It will generally be linear, and will range in rating from G to NC-17. Hope you enjoy.
Prompt: Pub
*
It was above a pub, the École Krawczeniuk, in a grotty part of town, and always smelled deliciously of the mingled perfumes of beer, tobacco, and chips. Sean would sit on the back steps on warm days and listen to the fellows at the bar arguing about football or politics or the way Sheffield was headed to hell in a handbasket. Only on cold days was he forced inside, to do his schoolwork and tune out the hectoring voice of the dance teacher, Jozia Krawczeniuk, as she instructed the rows of wobbly little girls in identical pink leotards, tights, and slippers.
Sean’s mum couldn’t walk Lorraine to class and sit reading or knitting with the other mothers. She was a secretary in a tool-and-die factory, and every penny counted. She had to work; Sean’s dad had been killed in the pit when he was five and Lorraine an infant, leaving them with brownish photographs that Sean augmented with memories of a deep voice, a prickly cheek, and a green Fair Isle jumper worn on Sundays. There had been a settlement, but even that didn’t stretch far, so it was left to Sean to walk his sister to ballet class three times a week.
There was a radiator near one of the cracked leaded windows, toasty warm in the winter, comfortingly clanky, and out of the way of the reading and knitting mothers. The music was nice enough – usually scratchy piano on the teacher’s portable record player – and it was a fine place to curl up and do schoolwork, or nap, or daydream. After class, Lorraine would come and nudge him, and they’d be off.
Today Sean was restless. It was cold, and he was dying to run over to Woodmere Park and have a kickabout with some of the lads. But no, he was stuck here until six, and by then they’d all be called home to supper. Sulkily, he traced the word FUCK in the window’s condensation.
The music changed to a piece Sean had never heard before. It was bright, infectious, joyous. Sean found himself tapping one toe, then caught himself and tried to concentrate on maths. It was impossible; the music kept intruding (ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three) along with the teacher’s voice in her funny broken English – “LEAP! Very good, Jennifer! Kate – LEAP! Once again! Again! Pretend there is puddle there, in front of you – LEAP! Legs up! Better you do it again!”
Frowning, Sean peered round the coat rack to see one of the little girls jump awkwardly over two taped lines on the floor. He rolled his eyes. Any dimbo could do that! He ducked behind the coat rack again, looked at the expanse of floor in front of him, and jumped. There. Easy. Like the woman said, just like jumping over a puddle. He peeked again in time to watch the teacher demonstrate. She soared over the lines, her legs scissoring outward into a split, and landed with hardly a sound. The little girls clapped and oohed.
Sean marked the expanse of floor again, waited for the beat of the music (ONE-two-three) and jumped, kicking his legs out in imitation. Clumsy landing. He tried again. Better. The music started over. He did it again, and again, brushing the sweat from his forehead. Again.
“You!”
Sean leapt again. It was like flying.
“You!”
The music came to a scraping halt, and Sean froze. The teacher was watching him, flexing a switch as long and skinny as she was. She tilted her head, heavy with a coil of dark hair, to one side. “Come here.”
Sean blushed furiously. “What – me, miss?”
“Madame. And yes, I mean you. Come here.” She beckoned with a finger.
The finger, and the voice, were too imperious to resist. Sean moved forward, his body tingling with alternate heat and cold. “I weren’t – I didn’t mean to –“
“Shush! You show them.” She leaned over and replaced the needle on the record. The music started again, loud, exuberant (ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three). “Leap!” When Sean stood there, paralyzed, she grabbed his hand and ran with him toward the taped marks. “LEAP!”
He soared.
*
The music Sean heard: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMVcbKIvqJU
My table is here
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-08 11:30 pm (UTC)