Ficlet: witch
Jan. 12th, 2009 10:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Witch
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: PG-13
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: Witch
*
The tiny room in which the schedules and casting lists were posted seemed expressly designed for maximum exposure and minimum privacy. When a new list went up, the dancers gathered with astonishing speed, stampeding to the cork boards in sweaty rehearsal clothes, hauling tote bags and mayonnaise-smeared sandwiches and lit cigarettes to peer anxiously at the sheets of pale-blue paper crosshatched with thin, slanting capitals. Those who won roles rarely hid their triumph; those who lost them became experts at concealing disappointment, knowing that they'd be assessed by the rest of the dancers for the smallest reaction.
The company's creative director, Martin Saunders, wrote the lists himself, and never troubled to tell the dancers personally about a new role. Let them read the list, was his shrugged philosophy; he was in the business of showcasing dancers, not coddling them.
Saunders himself hadn’t danced in over twenty years, but his frame was as lean and muscular as if he’d never stopped. He wore immaculately tailored three-piece suits with an utter lack of affectation, and never needed to raise his voice to be heard. Most of the company hated, feared, and revered him in equal measure, and stared and grumbled amongst themselves after he’d passed.
Sean never joined the grumbling, though it would have been an easy way to ingratiate himself with the dancers. A man didn’t get to be creative director of one of the top ballet companies in Britain by sitting on his arse and letting people walk all over him. He deserved the dancers’ respect, not their pissing and moaning. And if Sean were entirely honest with himself, he was still in awe of Saunders. Beyond their initial few meetings upon Sean's hiring, he had scarcely spoken two words to the man, and considered himself fortunate if Saunders nodded at him in the corridor.
Sean and Javier stayed behind as the rest of the company thundered out of the studio. Lucy the pianist, seeing that the room was practically empty, stopped in the middle of an improvised honky-tonk of "Makin' Whoopee," shrugged, closed the piano lid, gathered up her music, and left without so much as a fare-thee-well.
“’Bye, Lucy,” Sean called. As ever, there was no reply. Sean smiled. Lucy was democratic in her contempt for dancers; their sole reason for existence, she had been heard to say, was to interrupt her music when they fucked up.
Javier, finishing a slow somersault that ended in a split, rolled his eyes and grinned. "Masochists. All that disappointment and so little joy. Especially in the corps. What bloody difference does it make?”
Sean laughed. "I don't know. Could be your day, Javier – you might get picked to dance Florimund or Albrecht.”
“I wouldn’t have Albrecht on a silver platter.” He sprang up, bounced to the barre, and did a grand plié, rotating his bottom. “Christ, I need a cigarette. Have you got any left?”
Sean threw a nod toward the wall, then hooked a leg over the barre and stretched. “In my bag.”
“Sean.”
The voice belonged to Belinda Dyson, one of the principals. She was a bad-tempered blonde, prone to throwing fits onstage, and Sean was sure she’d had no idea who he was. “Sorry – what?”
“You had better come see this.” She turned without waiting to see if he followed.
Javier in tow, Sean hurried behind her to the schedule board, conscious that half the company was staring at him. He ducked his head and frowned at Belinda. “What is it?” As she pointed to the board, Sean saw her name. She’d been cast as one of the witches in the upcoming season’s Macbeth. It seemed a bit moronic to congratulate her on being a witch, since it was no more than a lateral move, but he smiled at her anyway. “Cheers.”
“Not me,” she said with exaggerated patience, and jabbed a finger at the board again.
There was his name. His name on the short list.
He’d been cast as Malcolm. A featured role, one that only experienced soloists usually merited. He gaped, disbelieving.
“Well done,” Belinda said quietly, and gave him – impossible – a smile before gliding away. He turned, and received other smiles, pats on the back, softly murmured accolades. Others stared at him with undisguised envy, one or two with outright hatred.
Speechless, Sean could only nod at the words of praise. He pivoted back to the board, unable to believe his luck. A sudden hush and rustling made him turn again. There was Martin Saunders, hands in his vest pockets, regarding him with what seemed to be mild curiosity.
“You see I’ve elevated you to soloist,” Saunders said.
Sean automatically drew himself up, danseur noble straight and tall. “Yes, sir.”
“Studio seven, tomorrow at noon. I’ll be observing the first rehearsals myself.”
“Yes, sir.” Sean watched his departure, feeling heat creeping up from his belly into his chest. Most boys never left the corps. Some, but not many, made it to soloist after a few years. A very few achieved the title of principal. Sean had been with the company for two years, and he had somehow vaulted over the heads of boys who’d been with the company for seven or eight years.
“Congratulations, Sean.” It was Javier. He was looking at the list, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Jesus,” Sean began, “can you believe –" He broke off as Javier’s eyes met his. Javier was smiling, but it was only the thinnest veil of composure. Behind it Sean recognized anger, resentment, and jealousy. “Javier?”
Javier shrugged. “I always knew you’d move up.” He smiled wider; his teeth, despite constant smoking, were dazzling white. “Like a surfacing shark, no?” He spun on his heel and darted out of the room, maneuvering between slower-moving people. The company members left observed his departure and swung their attention back to Sean, as if they were watching a tennis match.
There was a hollow gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he remembered something Madame had said to him before he’d left.
God gives you talent to show, not to share. Is big difference, Sean. Be selfish. Keep your strength and courage for yourself. You cannot give it away.
Only now did he realize what she had meant.
*
My table is here
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: PG-13
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: Witch
*
The tiny room in which the schedules and casting lists were posted seemed expressly designed for maximum exposure and minimum privacy. When a new list went up, the dancers gathered with astonishing speed, stampeding to the cork boards in sweaty rehearsal clothes, hauling tote bags and mayonnaise-smeared sandwiches and lit cigarettes to peer anxiously at the sheets of pale-blue paper crosshatched with thin, slanting capitals. Those who won roles rarely hid their triumph; those who lost them became experts at concealing disappointment, knowing that they'd be assessed by the rest of the dancers for the smallest reaction.
The company's creative director, Martin Saunders, wrote the lists himself, and never troubled to tell the dancers personally about a new role. Let them read the list, was his shrugged philosophy; he was in the business of showcasing dancers, not coddling them.
Saunders himself hadn’t danced in over twenty years, but his frame was as lean and muscular as if he’d never stopped. He wore immaculately tailored three-piece suits with an utter lack of affectation, and never needed to raise his voice to be heard. Most of the company hated, feared, and revered him in equal measure, and stared and grumbled amongst themselves after he’d passed.
Sean never joined the grumbling, though it would have been an easy way to ingratiate himself with the dancers. A man didn’t get to be creative director of one of the top ballet companies in Britain by sitting on his arse and letting people walk all over him. He deserved the dancers’ respect, not their pissing and moaning. And if Sean were entirely honest with himself, he was still in awe of Saunders. Beyond their initial few meetings upon Sean's hiring, he had scarcely spoken two words to the man, and considered himself fortunate if Saunders nodded at him in the corridor.
Sean and Javier stayed behind as the rest of the company thundered out of the studio. Lucy the pianist, seeing that the room was practically empty, stopped in the middle of an improvised honky-tonk of "Makin' Whoopee," shrugged, closed the piano lid, gathered up her music, and left without so much as a fare-thee-well.
“’Bye, Lucy,” Sean called. As ever, there was no reply. Sean smiled. Lucy was democratic in her contempt for dancers; their sole reason for existence, she had been heard to say, was to interrupt her music when they fucked up.
Javier, finishing a slow somersault that ended in a split, rolled his eyes and grinned. "Masochists. All that disappointment and so little joy. Especially in the corps. What bloody difference does it make?”
Sean laughed. "I don't know. Could be your day, Javier – you might get picked to dance Florimund or Albrecht.”
“I wouldn’t have Albrecht on a silver platter.” He sprang up, bounced to the barre, and did a grand plié, rotating his bottom. “Christ, I need a cigarette. Have you got any left?”
Sean threw a nod toward the wall, then hooked a leg over the barre and stretched. “In my bag.”
“Sean.”
The voice belonged to Belinda Dyson, one of the principals. She was a bad-tempered blonde, prone to throwing fits onstage, and Sean was sure she’d had no idea who he was. “Sorry – what?”
“You had better come see this.” She turned without waiting to see if he followed.
Javier in tow, Sean hurried behind her to the schedule board, conscious that half the company was staring at him. He ducked his head and frowned at Belinda. “What is it?” As she pointed to the board, Sean saw her name. She’d been cast as one of the witches in the upcoming season’s Macbeth. It seemed a bit moronic to congratulate her on being a witch, since it was no more than a lateral move, but he smiled at her anyway. “Cheers.”
“Not me,” she said with exaggerated patience, and jabbed a finger at the board again.
There was his name. His name on the short list.
He’d been cast as Malcolm. A featured role, one that only experienced soloists usually merited. He gaped, disbelieving.
“Well done,” Belinda said quietly, and gave him – impossible – a smile before gliding away. He turned, and received other smiles, pats on the back, softly murmured accolades. Others stared at him with undisguised envy, one or two with outright hatred.
Speechless, Sean could only nod at the words of praise. He pivoted back to the board, unable to believe his luck. A sudden hush and rustling made him turn again. There was Martin Saunders, hands in his vest pockets, regarding him with what seemed to be mild curiosity.
“You see I’ve elevated you to soloist,” Saunders said.
Sean automatically drew himself up, danseur noble straight and tall. “Yes, sir.”
“Studio seven, tomorrow at noon. I’ll be observing the first rehearsals myself.”
“Yes, sir.” Sean watched his departure, feeling heat creeping up from his belly into his chest. Most boys never left the corps. Some, but not many, made it to soloist after a few years. A very few achieved the title of principal. Sean had been with the company for two years, and he had somehow vaulted over the heads of boys who’d been with the company for seven or eight years.
“Congratulations, Sean.” It was Javier. He was looking at the list, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Jesus,” Sean began, “can you believe –" He broke off as Javier’s eyes met his. Javier was smiling, but it was only the thinnest veil of composure. Behind it Sean recognized anger, resentment, and jealousy. “Javier?”
Javier shrugged. “I always knew you’d move up.” He smiled wider; his teeth, despite constant smoking, were dazzling white. “Like a surfacing shark, no?” He spun on his heel and darted out of the room, maneuvering between slower-moving people. The company members left observed his departure and swung their attention back to Sean, as if they were watching a tennis match.
There was a hollow gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he remembered something Madame had said to him before he’d left.
God gives you talent to show, not to share. Is big difference, Sean. Be selfish. Keep your strength and courage for yourself. You cannot give it away.
Only now did he realize what she had meant.
*
My table is here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 06:35 am (UTC)And I love that it's Macbeth that Sean becomes a soloist for. That's so absolutely perfect.
Poor Sean, though, at Javier's reaction. I suppose it's not a big surprise, but even so... Ow.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 06:49 am (UTC)Heh, cool. And I'm so glad you're liking the little sketches! Thanks so much for saying so.
And I love that it's Macbeth that Sean becomes a soloist for. That's so absolutely perfect.
A wee nod and wink there. :)
And yes, kind of a bummer to get that sort of reaction. The whole system is kind of rooted in tyranny, it's crucial to have people you can count on. :-/
Thanks so very much for the lovely, lovely feedback! And how much do I adore that icon of yours? Gorey and ballet, two great things that go so well together. :D