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Entry tags:
Ficlet: fruit
Title: Fruit
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: Fruit
*
Silver-grey rain hammered onto the skylights in counterpoint to the thumping piano, intensifying Sean’s headache. He was starving, but lunch – yogurt and an apple – had been seven hours ago, and Louis, the choreographer, had threatened that nobody was leaving the studio until each couple’s pas de deux was at least bearable to watch. BNT didn’t like to pay overtime, but no one dared to mention that to Louis, who was practically foaming at the mouth. The music was Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio Espagnol, a sprightly piece, but the overworked dancers were dragging at least half a beat behind, exhausted, trembling; Sean’s partner, Carol, was near tears.
“Stop, stop!” Louis clapped his hands for silence and glared at Heinrich, the other male soloist. “Sean, Heinrich -- you look like a tornado in a cornfield. Heinrich, where are your hands meant to be?”
Heinrich shook his head. Rivulets of sweat gleamed down his face and bare chest. “I don’t know, Louis. Where are they?”
“Here!” Louis shouted, demonstrating. “En baisse! And then –“ He brought his arms up into a perfect arc and whipped into a turn. “Pirouette, en dedans. Again. Do it again. And!” They tried again, but Sean missed the downbeat. “No!” Louis screamed. “God damn it! Are you a dancer or a dray horse?”
Sean could hardly find breath to speak, but he stepped forward and filled his chest with air. “What we are is bloody tired,” he snapped. “Christ, we’ve been at it since one – what do you expect?” Behind him, the other dancers murmured agreement.
“He’s right, Louis,” Lucy said from behind the piano. The dancers looked in stunned surprise at their unexpected ally. “My hands are numb, and the music’s dragging. I can’t play any longer. Let’s try again tomorrow.”
Louis’ mouth jerked in silent rage. Sean wondered where he got the energy. Coke, probably; he’d seen the man on more than one occasion emerging from the gents’ sniffing and wiping at his nose.
“I work with professionals. Not children.” His eyes brimming with scorn, he stared at each of them in turn, not sparing even Lucy. “Children,” he repeated, and marched out of the studio, slamming the door hard enough to crack the battered old frame.
The dancers and Lucy looked at each other uneasily. Louis was unpredictable. He might return in an even greater rage, or he might be tranquil, or bubbling with energy courtesy of his vial and spoon. In any case, they were afraid to leave without being dismissed. At last Sean shook his head. “Ten minutes,” he announced. “Then I’m gone.” The others acquiesced with a murmur, and dropped to the floor to massage each other’s strained and quivering muscles. Lucy flexed her fingers back and forth until they crackled.
The door opened. But it wasn’t Louis – it was Martin Saunders, tall and lean and impeccable in his chalk-striped suit. He had a silver box in one hand, a portable cassette tape recorder in the other. He strolled to the piano, set the box atop it, and gestured to the dancers. “Come here, please.” Impassive, he watched as they approached timidly. “Take what’s in the box.”
Carol pushed aside the silver paper and smiled. She extracted an orange, then another. She tossed one to Lucy and shared the others with Sean, Heinrich, and Serena. Greedily, they peeled the fruits with their fingernails and bit into the plump flesh. Sean felt his stomach offer a little gurgle of thanks. He gave the director a shy smile of gratitude, but Saunders was abstracted, peering at the now darkened skylight.
“Do you know where those oranges are from?” Saunders asked.
“The fruit shop,” Heinrich said. Sean wanted to belt him, hard.
“Very droll, Heinrich. Actually, these oranges were sent to me by a friend from Seville. Beautiful country, Seville. Serena, you were with us when we toured there three years ago, were you not?”
“Yes, Mr. Saunders. It is beautiful.”
“The Spanish are a very wise people for two reasons. They are clever enough to remain in a place with plenty of sunshine –" Saunders pointed upward at the skylight, still deluged with water. “And they recognize the soundness of a nap after lunch.” The dancers laughed softly, and even Lucy smiled. “Can you imagine poor Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov eating his breakfast kasha with snow rising over his windowsill and writing this homage to Spain? Perhaps longing for that sunshine, the sensual heat, the perfume of an orange grove.” He turned on the tape recorder, and the throbbing horns and percussion of the Scena e canto gitano filtered from the speaker. Gently, he took Serena by the hand, and led her to the middle of the floor. “Just mark, my dear. Come, all of you. Mark the steps. No need to dance full out. Gypsies. Oranges. Heat. The scent of sun-warmed skin. Please – mark.”
The dancers resumed their places, and began to mark the steps with their hands. After a moment, Saunders stepped away and made an encouraging gesture with his hands. Lucy started to play again, softly, the piano insinuating itself through the trilling flute. Then the brass whizzed up and down the scale, and finally the strings and percussion began again, and the dancers began dancing full out – not perfectly, for seven hours of rehearsal had taken their toll, but with keen attention to the music.
Sean gradually felt the exhaustion draining from his body as the melody threaded through him. He leapt, came down knife-clean, feather-soft, then guided Carol through her multiple pirouettes. They moved together: plié, chassé, plié, chassé, and as the final fandango began, all four dancers flung themselves toward rhythm and blinding speed, and flew over the abyss.
When it was over, they glanced at each other, panting, breathless, but triumphant.
Saunders’ gaze touched Sean’s face for an instant; he smiled briefly, then nodded. “Much better, I think, boys and girls. Go home now. Tomorrow, Louis will be furious with you, but now I believe you know what to give him.” He emptied the silver box onto the piano lid; five oranges rolled out and stopped at the hinge. “For inspiration.” He took the crumpled paper and the box and left as quietly as he’d entered.
The dancers and Lucy collected their things. Heinrich lifted his bag onto his shoulder. “I think I needed to hear the percussion again. I was losing it.”
Serena shrugged. “I think it was the orange. I was so bloody hungry.”
Sean, who knew it was neither, plucked one of the oranges from the piano lid on his way out.
*
The music: part one part two
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: Fruit
*
Silver-grey rain hammered onto the skylights in counterpoint to the thumping piano, intensifying Sean’s headache. He was starving, but lunch – yogurt and an apple – had been seven hours ago, and Louis, the choreographer, had threatened that nobody was leaving the studio until each couple’s pas de deux was at least bearable to watch. BNT didn’t like to pay overtime, but no one dared to mention that to Louis, who was practically foaming at the mouth. The music was Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio Espagnol, a sprightly piece, but the overworked dancers were dragging at least half a beat behind, exhausted, trembling; Sean’s partner, Carol, was near tears.
“Stop, stop!” Louis clapped his hands for silence and glared at Heinrich, the other male soloist. “Sean, Heinrich -- you look like a tornado in a cornfield. Heinrich, where are your hands meant to be?”
Heinrich shook his head. Rivulets of sweat gleamed down his face and bare chest. “I don’t know, Louis. Where are they?”
“Here!” Louis shouted, demonstrating. “En baisse! And then –“ He brought his arms up into a perfect arc and whipped into a turn. “Pirouette, en dedans. Again. Do it again. And!” They tried again, but Sean missed the downbeat. “No!” Louis screamed. “God damn it! Are you a dancer or a dray horse?”
Sean could hardly find breath to speak, but he stepped forward and filled his chest with air. “What we are is bloody tired,” he snapped. “Christ, we’ve been at it since one – what do you expect?” Behind him, the other dancers murmured agreement.
“He’s right, Louis,” Lucy said from behind the piano. The dancers looked in stunned surprise at their unexpected ally. “My hands are numb, and the music’s dragging. I can’t play any longer. Let’s try again tomorrow.”
Louis’ mouth jerked in silent rage. Sean wondered where he got the energy. Coke, probably; he’d seen the man on more than one occasion emerging from the gents’ sniffing and wiping at his nose.
“I work with professionals. Not children.” His eyes brimming with scorn, he stared at each of them in turn, not sparing even Lucy. “Children,” he repeated, and marched out of the studio, slamming the door hard enough to crack the battered old frame.
The dancers and Lucy looked at each other uneasily. Louis was unpredictable. He might return in an even greater rage, or he might be tranquil, or bubbling with energy courtesy of his vial and spoon. In any case, they were afraid to leave without being dismissed. At last Sean shook his head. “Ten minutes,” he announced. “Then I’m gone.” The others acquiesced with a murmur, and dropped to the floor to massage each other’s strained and quivering muscles. Lucy flexed her fingers back and forth until they crackled.
The door opened. But it wasn’t Louis – it was Martin Saunders, tall and lean and impeccable in his chalk-striped suit. He had a silver box in one hand, a portable cassette tape recorder in the other. He strolled to the piano, set the box atop it, and gestured to the dancers. “Come here, please.” Impassive, he watched as they approached timidly. “Take what’s in the box.”
Carol pushed aside the silver paper and smiled. She extracted an orange, then another. She tossed one to Lucy and shared the others with Sean, Heinrich, and Serena. Greedily, they peeled the fruits with their fingernails and bit into the plump flesh. Sean felt his stomach offer a little gurgle of thanks. He gave the director a shy smile of gratitude, but Saunders was abstracted, peering at the now darkened skylight.
“Do you know where those oranges are from?” Saunders asked.
“The fruit shop,” Heinrich said. Sean wanted to belt him, hard.
“Very droll, Heinrich. Actually, these oranges were sent to me by a friend from Seville. Beautiful country, Seville. Serena, you were with us when we toured there three years ago, were you not?”
“Yes, Mr. Saunders. It is beautiful.”
“The Spanish are a very wise people for two reasons. They are clever enough to remain in a place with plenty of sunshine –" Saunders pointed upward at the skylight, still deluged with water. “And they recognize the soundness of a nap after lunch.” The dancers laughed softly, and even Lucy smiled. “Can you imagine poor Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov eating his breakfast kasha with snow rising over his windowsill and writing this homage to Spain? Perhaps longing for that sunshine, the sensual heat, the perfume of an orange grove.” He turned on the tape recorder, and the throbbing horns and percussion of the Scena e canto gitano filtered from the speaker. Gently, he took Serena by the hand, and led her to the middle of the floor. “Just mark, my dear. Come, all of you. Mark the steps. No need to dance full out. Gypsies. Oranges. Heat. The scent of sun-warmed skin. Please – mark.”
The dancers resumed their places, and began to mark the steps with their hands. After a moment, Saunders stepped away and made an encouraging gesture with his hands. Lucy started to play again, softly, the piano insinuating itself through the trilling flute. Then the brass whizzed up and down the scale, and finally the strings and percussion began again, and the dancers began dancing full out – not perfectly, for seven hours of rehearsal had taken their toll, but with keen attention to the music.
Sean gradually felt the exhaustion draining from his body as the melody threaded through him. He leapt, came down knife-clean, feather-soft, then guided Carol through her multiple pirouettes. They moved together: plié, chassé, plié, chassé, and as the final fandango began, all four dancers flung themselves toward rhythm and blinding speed, and flew over the abyss.
When it was over, they glanced at each other, panting, breathless, but triumphant.
Saunders’ gaze touched Sean’s face for an instant; he smiled briefly, then nodded. “Much better, I think, boys and girls. Go home now. Tomorrow, Louis will be furious with you, but now I believe you know what to give him.” He emptied the silver box onto the piano lid; five oranges rolled out and stopped at the hinge. “For inspiration.” He took the crumpled paper and the box and left as quietly as he’d entered.
The dancers and Lucy collected their things. Heinrich lifted his bag onto his shoulder. “I think I needed to hear the percussion again. I was losing it.”
Serena shrugged. “I think it was the orange. I was so bloody hungry.”
Sean, who knew it was neither, plucked one of the oranges from the piano lid on his way out.
*
The music: part one part two
My table is here
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It almost elevates Saunders to a magical figure. ^_^
Sean would agree, I think. ;)
I'm so very happy you liked it - thank you so much!
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You can feel the dancers shifting their perceptions from exhaustion, cold and rain into sensual, ageless, rhythm, one can almost smell the oranges and feel the warmth of the sun . Loving this story. Perfect.
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*pays tribute to your writing's greatness*
Anto
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Hope you like it.
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You'd think after all these years it'd be easier for me to ask someone if I could add them to my flist but I still hesitate. *shakes head* So I'm just going to do it. :-) Would you mind if I added you to my flist?
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Not at all, please do! Am adding you now. :D