Ficlet: pie
Jan. 18th, 2009 11:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Pie
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.
Additional note: Please check out the nifty-gorgeous banner beneath the cut, made bygovi20 and a friend. :D
Prompt: Pie
*
It was the most eye-boggling array of food he’d ever seen, much of it unidentifiable. Mousses, aspics, patés, iced bowls of creamy stuff that looked like custard but probably wasn’t, raw vegetables smeared with a strange green dip. There were tureens of colorless consommé and chafing dishes of...something...blanketed in a pale pink sauce. Giant heaps of lumpy grey caviar glistened in mother-of-pearl bowls. A huge fish, cooked and reassembled so that its single visible eye gazed sadly upward, had pride of place on a central table.
Sean turned away, appalled. He’d heard Cybilla Harrington-Law’s parties had incredible food, but he wasn’t eating what he couldn’t recognize, and he certainly wasn’t eating any part of a bloody huge dead fish that gazed at him so reproachfully. He would have sold his soul at that moment for a Fray Bentos steak and ale pie.
“Sean, try this. It’s sublime.” Carol, at his elbow, proffered something on a plate.
He regarded the pale-brown blob with suspicion. “What is it?”
“Boiled quail eggs marinated in Polish vodka. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Sighing, Sean declined and moved toward the dessert table. How frighteningly weird could desserts be? He chose what looked like some kind of fruit ice in a frosted crystal cup. It tasted vaguely creamy, vaguely lemony, and wasn’t bad at all. He ate three in quick succession and looked around hopefully. Maybe he’d missed the cheese and biscuits table.
He moved through the glittering crowd of balletomanes and society and would-be society, feeling out of place in his dark green silk shirt and black trousers. Almost everyone was in evening dress. The dancers who’d been invited weren’t – some had even shown up in blue jeans -- but most of them wore their clothing with the aplomb and arrogance of peacocks. Sean fingered the hair-thin gold chain around his neck with discomfort. Adam Thaxter, another soloist he’d been seeing for a few weeks, had encouraged him to buy it, saying he looked sexy, but he felt like a fraud, an aspiring disco clone. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drained it.
“Sean! Sean, there you are.” Cybilla Harrington-Law clattered up to him in sky-high heels and a violet evening dress cut halfway to her navel. Cybilla was an ex-dancer, the sort who made her way through ballet school thanks to small talent and large financial endowments. Once she’d realized she’d never move past the corps, she'd quit, but she and her parents still donated generously to BNT, she chivvied her society friends into doing the same so Martin Saunders let her help him in a dozen harmless ways. “I want to introduce you to Kit Pearce from Metropolitan Ballet Theater. Kit’s Christopher Brill’s assistant.”
“Associate director,” Kit Pearce replied with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes as she shook Sean’s hand vigorously. “Sean, I saw you in Spectre last night. Outstanding.” She was tall and sturdy, with a direct brown gaze, short red hair, and a manner that suggested she’d be more at home hoeing furrows in fields rather than exchanging banalities with socialites. Sean liked her at once. “I’m at Claridge’s until Monday morning. Why not stop by for coffee tomorrow if you have a half hour to spare?”
“Not poaching, I hope, Kit.” Martin Saunders, resplendent in white tie, placed a hand on Pearce’s shoulder. The two exchanged stiff nods, not so much smiling as baring teeth at each other.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. How are you, Martin?”
“Splendid, thanks. Sean, might I have a brief word with you?”
As Sean started after Saunders, Pearce grasped his arm. “Listen, Sean. Saunders is going to snow you. Give me twenty-four hours to match his best offer. He shouldn't be burying a treasure like you as a soloist. We can make you a principal in a year.”
Sean was impressed. Metropolitan was the top ballet company in America. Was she serious about offering him a contract? Still, he was happy at BNT; he had solos, decent pay at last, a few good mates in the company, corps and soloists alike. He’d just become comfortable. He mustered a frown. “I don’t think I’m buried, Miss Pearce.”
“Just think about it,” she murmured, letting him go.
Sean hurried after the director, following him into a small, sumptuous library. Saunders closed the door behind them and motioned to a red leather Chesterfield. “Please, sit down.” Sean sat obediently. The champagne he’d guzzled was making him feel warm. Saunders let out a sigh and perched on the desk opposite. “Sean, you’re still a very young man. Not even twenty, isn’t that right?”
“Twenty in a month, sir.”
“Well. Congratulations.” Saunders favored him with a smile. His keen blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re at a very, how shall I say it – there are a dozen possible paths lying at your feet right now. Your potential at this moment is utterly glorious. Other companies are beginning to notice you. I want to caution you, though, against making any rash decisions. Naturally you’ll consider other offers, but you’re a talented, intelligent young man, and I think if you keep your head steady, you’ll be fine.”
Sean swallowed a hiccup that wanted to emerge from his chest. “You think I’m talented?”
“Oh, Sean.” Saunders chuckled and sat next to him on the Chesterfield. “I shouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t. But I believe you mean more, yes? I do think you’re talented. I think you’re flowering beautifully. And if I may say so, you’re something of a delight to work with. Professional. Courteous. Industrious. Everyone says the same.”
Sean was frozen in place. Saunders had never been so close to him before, not still like this, with Sean dressed up, not in sweaty rehearsal clothes. He could smell the man’s cologne, something quietly expensive. He felt his hands tremble.
“I hope you understand what I’m trying to tell you,” Saunders said patiently when Sean failed to react.
I’ve been in love with you for two years, Sean wanted to say, but the words were strangled in his throat. The heat of the champagne combined with the man’s proximity forced a flush up his neck. He moved forward, clumsily, then saw his hand float up and caress Saunders’ temple. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned toward the man and pressed a kiss to his lips.
Saunders opened his mouth. For a moment Sean felt a sweet yielding, and then Saunders put a hand on either side of Sean’s head and forced them apart. “Sean – no.”
“What,” Sean stammered. All the air seemed to have drained out of his head, pressed out by Saunders’ large palms.
“Sean, Sean...dear boy. I can’t. I can’t, don’t you realize?” Saunders pushed him away almost roughly and rose. He turned his back to Sean and stared at the tiny coal fireplace.
Sean wanted to stand, but dizziness and profound bewilderment threatened to topple him. Through numb lips he asked, “Why?”
“I’m the director, for Christ’s sake!” Saunders kept his back turned. “We’ll forget this happened. The company can be such a nest of vipers, Sean. You’ve heard them gossip. They might say that you…that you hoped to advance your career through me.”
Sean felt his face burning. “That weren’t it at all.” A hot desert wind of mingled disappointment, shame and humiliation gusted through him. “Not at all!”
“I realize that. Don’t you think I know you well enough by now? Believe me, if circumstances were different, I’d accept in a heartbeat.” Saunders turned toward Sean, who had risen from the sofa, and took a step forward. His gaze was laden with tender melancholy. “I want you to know that.”
It was probably true. Martin Saunders wasn’t a deceitful man. But all Sean felt was a sword thrust of mortification, and the man’s pity. He turned and stumbled out of the room, ignoring Saunders calling his name. God, to hear it like that, and not –
He almost ran headlong into Kit Pearce. She smiled at him as he gathered breath and composure to do more than nod. He looked into her brown eyes, and the scurrying flight of his emotions collided with opportunity. “Can we have a chat?”
Her smile widened. “Of course. Let’s get out of here for a bit.”
*
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.
Additional note: Please check out the nifty-gorgeous banner beneath the cut, made by
govi20 and a friend. :DPrompt: Pie
*
It was the most eye-boggling array of food he’d ever seen, much of it unidentifiable. Mousses, aspics, patés, iced bowls of creamy stuff that looked like custard but probably wasn’t, raw vegetables smeared with a strange green dip. There were tureens of colorless consommé and chafing dishes of...something...blanketed in a pale pink sauce. Giant heaps of lumpy grey caviar glistened in mother-of-pearl bowls. A huge fish, cooked and reassembled so that its single visible eye gazed sadly upward, had pride of place on a central table.
Sean turned away, appalled. He’d heard Cybilla Harrington-Law’s parties had incredible food, but he wasn’t eating what he couldn’t recognize, and he certainly wasn’t eating any part of a bloody huge dead fish that gazed at him so reproachfully. He would have sold his soul at that moment for a Fray Bentos steak and ale pie.
“Sean, try this. It’s sublime.” Carol, at his elbow, proffered something on a plate.
He regarded the pale-brown blob with suspicion. “What is it?”
“Boiled quail eggs marinated in Polish vodka. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Sighing, Sean declined and moved toward the dessert table. How frighteningly weird could desserts be? He chose what looked like some kind of fruit ice in a frosted crystal cup. It tasted vaguely creamy, vaguely lemony, and wasn’t bad at all. He ate three in quick succession and looked around hopefully. Maybe he’d missed the cheese and biscuits table.
He moved through the glittering crowd of balletomanes and society and would-be society, feeling out of place in his dark green silk shirt and black trousers. Almost everyone was in evening dress. The dancers who’d been invited weren’t – some had even shown up in blue jeans -- but most of them wore their clothing with the aplomb and arrogance of peacocks. Sean fingered the hair-thin gold chain around his neck with discomfort. Adam Thaxter, another soloist he’d been seeing for a few weeks, had encouraged him to buy it, saying he looked sexy, but he felt like a fraud, an aspiring disco clone. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drained it.
“Sean! Sean, there you are.” Cybilla Harrington-Law clattered up to him in sky-high heels and a violet evening dress cut halfway to her navel. Cybilla was an ex-dancer, the sort who made her way through ballet school thanks to small talent and large financial endowments. Once she’d realized she’d never move past the corps, she'd quit, but she and her parents still donated generously to BNT, she chivvied her society friends into doing the same so Martin Saunders let her help him in a dozen harmless ways. “I want to introduce you to Kit Pearce from Metropolitan Ballet Theater. Kit’s Christopher Brill’s assistant.”
“Associate director,” Kit Pearce replied with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes as she shook Sean’s hand vigorously. “Sean, I saw you in Spectre last night. Outstanding.” She was tall and sturdy, with a direct brown gaze, short red hair, and a manner that suggested she’d be more at home hoeing furrows in fields rather than exchanging banalities with socialites. Sean liked her at once. “I’m at Claridge’s until Monday morning. Why not stop by for coffee tomorrow if you have a half hour to spare?”
“Not poaching, I hope, Kit.” Martin Saunders, resplendent in white tie, placed a hand on Pearce’s shoulder. The two exchanged stiff nods, not so much smiling as baring teeth at each other.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. How are you, Martin?”
“Splendid, thanks. Sean, might I have a brief word with you?”
As Sean started after Saunders, Pearce grasped his arm. “Listen, Sean. Saunders is going to snow you. Give me twenty-four hours to match his best offer. He shouldn't be burying a treasure like you as a soloist. We can make you a principal in a year.”
Sean was impressed. Metropolitan was the top ballet company in America. Was she serious about offering him a contract? Still, he was happy at BNT; he had solos, decent pay at last, a few good mates in the company, corps and soloists alike. He’d just become comfortable. He mustered a frown. “I don’t think I’m buried, Miss Pearce.”
“Just think about it,” she murmured, letting him go.
Sean hurried after the director, following him into a small, sumptuous library. Saunders closed the door behind them and motioned to a red leather Chesterfield. “Please, sit down.” Sean sat obediently. The champagne he’d guzzled was making him feel warm. Saunders let out a sigh and perched on the desk opposite. “Sean, you’re still a very young man. Not even twenty, isn’t that right?”
“Twenty in a month, sir.”
“Well. Congratulations.” Saunders favored him with a smile. His keen blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re at a very, how shall I say it – there are a dozen possible paths lying at your feet right now. Your potential at this moment is utterly glorious. Other companies are beginning to notice you. I want to caution you, though, against making any rash decisions. Naturally you’ll consider other offers, but you’re a talented, intelligent young man, and I think if you keep your head steady, you’ll be fine.”
Sean swallowed a hiccup that wanted to emerge from his chest. “You think I’m talented?”
“Oh, Sean.” Saunders chuckled and sat next to him on the Chesterfield. “I shouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t. But I believe you mean more, yes? I do think you’re talented. I think you’re flowering beautifully. And if I may say so, you’re something of a delight to work with. Professional. Courteous. Industrious. Everyone says the same.”
Sean was frozen in place. Saunders had never been so close to him before, not still like this, with Sean dressed up, not in sweaty rehearsal clothes. He could smell the man’s cologne, something quietly expensive. He felt his hands tremble.
“I hope you understand what I’m trying to tell you,” Saunders said patiently when Sean failed to react.
I’ve been in love with you for two years, Sean wanted to say, but the words were strangled in his throat. The heat of the champagne combined with the man’s proximity forced a flush up his neck. He moved forward, clumsily, then saw his hand float up and caress Saunders’ temple. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned toward the man and pressed a kiss to his lips.
Saunders opened his mouth. For a moment Sean felt a sweet yielding, and then Saunders put a hand on either side of Sean’s head and forced them apart. “Sean – no.”
“What,” Sean stammered. All the air seemed to have drained out of his head, pressed out by Saunders’ large palms.
“Sean, Sean...dear boy. I can’t. I can’t, don’t you realize?” Saunders pushed him away almost roughly and rose. He turned his back to Sean and stared at the tiny coal fireplace.
Sean wanted to stand, but dizziness and profound bewilderment threatened to topple him. Through numb lips he asked, “Why?”
“I’m the director, for Christ’s sake!” Saunders kept his back turned. “We’ll forget this happened. The company can be such a nest of vipers, Sean. You’ve heard them gossip. They might say that you…that you hoped to advance your career through me.”
Sean felt his face burning. “That weren’t it at all.” A hot desert wind of mingled disappointment, shame and humiliation gusted through him. “Not at all!”
“I realize that. Don’t you think I know you well enough by now? Believe me, if circumstances were different, I’d accept in a heartbeat.” Saunders turned toward Sean, who had risen from the sofa, and took a step forward. His gaze was laden with tender melancholy. “I want you to know that.”
It was probably true. Martin Saunders wasn’t a deceitful man. But all Sean felt was a sword thrust of mortification, and the man’s pity. He turned and stumbled out of the room, ignoring Saunders calling his name. God, to hear it like that, and not –
He almost ran headlong into Kit Pearce. She smiled at him as he gathered breath and composure to do more than nod. He looked into her brown eyes, and the scurrying flight of his emotions collided with opportunity. “Can we have a chat?”
Her smile widened. “Of course. Let’s get out of here for a bit.”
*
My table is here
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Date: 2009-01-19 10:51 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you like the banner. And thank you for the thoughtful feedback! :)