splix | Ficlet: shave

Title: Shave
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: Shave

*

Sean's finger jittered as it dipped into the pot of green eyeshadow, knocking it over and spilling glittery green powder across the table. He sighed and pressed his sweating palms together, staring at his face in the mirror, pallid beneath the layers of stage foundation and powder. The whole effect was sickly green. He looked disgusting.

It had been a wretched day. There hadn't been any hot water in his bedsit – a not uncommon occurrence – and he'd had to wait for it to boil. He'd cut himself shaving twice, missed the bloody train, and was late for company class. Then he'd trooped to the theatre, and Agoston, the ballet master, had been in a foul mood, screaming and swearing at them, and the more they rehearsed, the worse things got. Most of the corps boys were half a beat behind, and in the small silences, the sounds of heels thudding onto the stage were like cannonballs.

From the look of things, this was going to be the most slovenly La Bayadère in the history of ballet. At the end of rehearsal, too weary to scream any longer, Agoston had shaken his head.

-- You've just disgraced yourselves, boys and girls. Moreover, you've disgraced me. And that was our last rehearsal. Please don't disgrace me tonight.

Applause as Agoston had trudged into the wings had been grudging and unhappy. The dancers had huddled together for comfort, massaging each other's tense muscles, drifting off in pairs or threes.

Except for Sean. In three months, he hadn't quite found the knack for making friends in the company. All the dancers possessed a confidence, an enviable worldliness, that he seemed to lack. He could feel their gazes as he walked through the corridors, weighing, assessing, finding him somehow less than interesting. No one invited him to supper, to go shopping, to pot parties, to any of the hundred and one things that dancers did when they weren't dancing. Maybe that was just part of being the new boy. That was what some of the others called him, in fact – they hadn't even bothered to learn his name. And in class and at rehearsal, he sensed the weight of mean, crafty glances, just waiting for him to trip up.

Well, they might get their wish tonight. He felt like hell. His first performance – Covent Garden, Christ almighty – and he wanted to vomit. His limbs felt leaden. His lunch of granola and cottage cheese drizzled with honey sat like a stone in his gut, and he felt the short vest and loose trousers of his costume sticking to his body – not from the fine mist of warmed-up muscles, but the harsh sweat of frayed nerves. He stared at the telegrams taped to his section of the mirror: from his mum, from Lorraine, from Madame, from his mate Gerry's parents. They would all be in the audience tonight, so he could fuck up royally in front of them. They'd sent flowers, too, all of them; they stood out, conspicuous. It was just another performance for the rest of the corps. They laughed and chattered and catcalled back and forth, warmed up and dressed, guzzled coffee and smoked, and ignored him utterly.

Sean tried again with the eyeshadow, dipping a swab into the pot and jabbing. His neighbor, a Spanish boy named Javier, watched him in the mirror. His eyes were dark coal framed by perfect shadowed wings. "Nervous?"

A clumsy grab wasn't enough to prevent the eyeshadow pot from tipping over again. "Fuck," Sean muttered. "Sorry – is it that obvious?"

"A Covent Garden virgin?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." Sean focused down at the scattered items on the makeup table. He didn't know if that was a jab or not, but he didn't have it in him to fight tonight. He couldn't even get his eye makeup on.

"You want some help with that?"

Sean swallowed. "Would you mind? I'm no bloody good at it and all I'm doing is buggering it up somehow."

"Sure." Javier's eyes met his in the mirror, and a smile of genuine friendliness spread over his face. "I'm Javier."

Sean returned the smile – tentatively, then broadly. "Sean."

*