Ficlet: smoke
Jan. 7th, 2009 05:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Smoke
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: Smoke
*
Sean didn't look up as she approached, nor did he acknowledge her, though as she stopped in front of him, he saw her feet clearly enough – small in her comfortable unstylish shoes, planted squarely apart and splayed outward like a duck's. He drew fiercely on his cigarette and kept his gaze fastened to the ground.
"So here you are at last. I travel all over Sheffield looking for you. Why you not come to class for a week?"
He forced himself to look at her, then dropped his eyes again as he saw the surprise in hers. It was the bruises. The entire left side of his face looked like a winter sunset. He shrugged and mumbled something incoherent even to his own ears.
"Speak up!"
Sean hunched forward in his coat. "I don't know, Madame."
Madame Krawczeniuk snorted, then sat beside him. She crossed her arms and stared at a cluster of leafless trees, stark and black against the steel-grey sky. "What happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
She sniffed meaningfully, then stretched out her legs and leaned back against the bench. Sean leaned back as well, his arms crossed, and gave her a sideways glance. Her always made-up eyes were closed, her long nose tilted upward as though she were inhaling some luscious perfume instead of the stink of the mill down the street. "I got in a fight," Sean muttered. There was no reply. Sean scowled. She was like a bird – she'd peck at your ankles for hours, tiny little pecks, until she drew blood. "With some mates."
"They make your face look like that, those mates?"
Sean half-turned away. "They called me a poof because I were a dancer." That silenced her for a moment, and Sean felt a stab of malicious satisfaction. It hurt her. Good.
"Louts. Why pay attention to what louts say? Why care what they think?"
"That's bollocks!" Sean slammed a fist on the bench between them. "Everybody cares what people think. Everybody. You –" He clamped his teeth on his tongue, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. When Madame put her hand on his leg, he jerked away, swiping angrily at his eyes. They hurt. His whole face was fucking killing him. He let out a choked gulp and threw his cigarette into a puddle. You'd care, too, if they called you that and it were the truth.
Without a word, Madame handed him a handkerchief. Sean swiped at his eyes and blew his nose – even that hurt – and tucked it in his pocket. "I'll have it washed for you, Madame."
"Is okay. You have extra cigarette?"
Sean extracted two from his crumpled pack, lit them both, and handed her one.
"Thank you." She exhaled a plume of smoke and sighed, examining the cigarette held elegantly between two fingers. "Twelve years I haven't smoked, Sean. You are bad influence on me." She glanced at him. "There. You smile a little. Good. So – you want to quit dance?"
"I don't," Sean protested. "But –"
"But what?"
Sean shook his head, miserable, mute. What if I'm no good? If I fail, if there's no room for me? Then I'm stuck here, not just a poof, but a poof who thought he could dance ballet and came to nowt. Might as well throw myself off a bridge now and get it over with.
Madame smoked in silence for a time. "I had phone call from old friend yesterday. Ballet master at British National Dance Theatre. He saw you dance Mouse King and Spanish cavalier in Leeds." She paused. "He wants you to audition next month."
Sean turned, surprised. "In Leeds?"
"In London." She watched his face. "I went to see your mother before I came here."
"What did she say?"
"I think she is scared for you, a little. But she wants you to be happy." Madame blew a final smoke ring and crushed her cigarette under her shoe. "Depends on you now. What you want. How hard you work. If you can ignore your mates." She endowed the last word with limitless scorn and rose to her feet. "So. I will be in the studio at six tomorrow morning. If you are still interested, that is."
Sean felt something in his chest expand. "I'll be there," he said softly.
"We work seven days a week now. No time to waste." She turned and started away.
He watched her strange duck-walk for a moment. "Madame?" As she turned back, he hesitated. "I...."
Madame shook her head and flicked her fingers at him. "Pssht. I see you tomorrow."
*
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: Smoke
*
Sean didn't look up as she approached, nor did he acknowledge her, though as she stopped in front of him, he saw her feet clearly enough – small in her comfortable unstylish shoes, planted squarely apart and splayed outward like a duck's. He drew fiercely on his cigarette and kept his gaze fastened to the ground.
"So here you are at last. I travel all over Sheffield looking for you. Why you not come to class for a week?"
He forced himself to look at her, then dropped his eyes again as he saw the surprise in hers. It was the bruises. The entire left side of his face looked like a winter sunset. He shrugged and mumbled something incoherent even to his own ears.
"Speak up!"
Sean hunched forward in his coat. "I don't know, Madame."
Madame Krawczeniuk snorted, then sat beside him. She crossed her arms and stared at a cluster of leafless trees, stark and black against the steel-grey sky. "What happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
She sniffed meaningfully, then stretched out her legs and leaned back against the bench. Sean leaned back as well, his arms crossed, and gave her a sideways glance. Her always made-up eyes were closed, her long nose tilted upward as though she were inhaling some luscious perfume instead of the stink of the mill down the street. "I got in a fight," Sean muttered. There was no reply. Sean scowled. She was like a bird – she'd peck at your ankles for hours, tiny little pecks, until she drew blood. "With some mates."
"They make your face look like that, those mates?"
Sean half-turned away. "They called me a poof because I were a dancer." That silenced her for a moment, and Sean felt a stab of malicious satisfaction. It hurt her. Good.
"Louts. Why pay attention to what louts say? Why care what they think?"
"That's bollocks!" Sean slammed a fist on the bench between them. "Everybody cares what people think. Everybody. You –" He clamped his teeth on his tongue, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. When Madame put her hand on his leg, he jerked away, swiping angrily at his eyes. They hurt. His whole face was fucking killing him. He let out a choked gulp and threw his cigarette into a puddle. You'd care, too, if they called you that and it were the truth.
Without a word, Madame handed him a handkerchief. Sean swiped at his eyes and blew his nose – even that hurt – and tucked it in his pocket. "I'll have it washed for you, Madame."
"Is okay. You have extra cigarette?"
Sean extracted two from his crumpled pack, lit them both, and handed her one.
"Thank you." She exhaled a plume of smoke and sighed, examining the cigarette held elegantly between two fingers. "Twelve years I haven't smoked, Sean. You are bad influence on me." She glanced at him. "There. You smile a little. Good. So – you want to quit dance?"
"I don't," Sean protested. "But –"
"But what?"
Sean shook his head, miserable, mute. What if I'm no good? If I fail, if there's no room for me? Then I'm stuck here, not just a poof, but a poof who thought he could dance ballet and came to nowt. Might as well throw myself off a bridge now and get it over with.
Madame smoked in silence for a time. "I had phone call from old friend yesterday. Ballet master at British National Dance Theatre. He saw you dance Mouse King and Spanish cavalier in Leeds." She paused. "He wants you to audition next month."
Sean turned, surprised. "In Leeds?"
"In London." She watched his face. "I went to see your mother before I came here."
"What did she say?"
"I think she is scared for you, a little. But she wants you to be happy." Madame blew a final smoke ring and crushed her cigarette under her shoe. "Depends on you now. What you want. How hard you work. If you can ignore your mates." She endowed the last word with limitless scorn and rose to her feet. "So. I will be in the studio at six tomorrow morning. If you are still interested, that is."
Sean felt something in his chest expand. "I'll be there," he said softly.
"We work seven days a week now. No time to waste." She turned and started away.
He watched her strange duck-walk for a moment. "Madame?" As she turned back, he hesitated. "I...."
Madame shook her head and flicked her fingers at him. "Pssht. I see you tomorrow."
*
My table is here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(it's the closest thing I've got to a ballet icon)
Date: 2009-01-08 03:11 am (UTC)Oh!
SO.MUCH.LOVE.
So much.
close enough!
Date: 2009-01-08 05:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-08 07:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-08 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-08 05:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-08 05:16 pm (UTC)I know those implacable little women who won't take silence for an answer.
*laughs* Yes, precisely! :)
no subject
Date: 2009-01-08 09:54 pm (UTC)Humbly I can only offer you my unreserved admiration.
*stands up and claps*
Love! Anto
no subject
Date: 2009-01-08 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-21 04:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-21 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-27 11:33 am (UTC)