Ficlet: Entrechat Cinquante: ice
Jan. 29th, 2009 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Entrechat Cinquante
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.
Prompt: Ice.
*
The office of MBT’s artistic director, Christopher Brill, was a room to please only the most Spartan of souls. The walls were plain white, innocent of memorabilia, the heavy walnut desk unembellished, the two chairs opposite hard wooden affairs that looked as if they belonged in a classroom. The message was twofold – one, that Brill was a man who brooked no nonsense; two, that one of the most feared and admired men in ballet needed no external ornamentation to remind him, or anyone else, of his rightful place in the firmament.
The four dancers filed into the office quietly: Sean, Constance Weir, MBT’s prima ballerina, Linda Blessing, a new principal, and Viggo, the dancer from Copenhagen. Sean hadn’t spoken to Viggo much beyond their initial meeting, though he’d nodded to him in the halls and admired his athletic, blade-clean technique in class. And naturally, he’d listened to the gossip. Some said he was straight, others gay, but nobody knew for sure. All they knew was that he was a nice guy, disciplined, and a good dancer. Maybe even great. They watched him cautiously, measuring the length of his muscles, the strength in his arms and shoulders, the arch of his long, elegant feet. It was too soon for judgment.
“Close the door, please,” Brill said, and Sean obeyed, then urged Linda into one of the wooden chairs. Constance, supple and carelessly sublime in a pale grey hand-knit cashmere sweater thrown over her practice clothes, took the other without asking. Brill leaned back and studied each dancer in turn. Sean, in a sudden flash of enlightenment, let his gaze briefly travel over the white walls and come to rest on the director. How easy it must have been for Brill to assess his artists in close contact; the place was almost as bare as an empty stage.
“Thank you for coming. I hope you’ve fully recovered from jet lag and so on?” The dancers nodded or murmured acquiescence. “Wonderful. I wanted to gather you here before the season was announced. “Most of you,“ he said with a nod toward Viggo, “are aware that we do one classical ballet per season.”
Sean half-smiled at the faintly contemptuous tone in Christopher Brill’s voice. It was widely known that Brill preferred experimental ballet, but in order to be competitive with the other companies, it was necessary to perform the classics. “You’ve got to get the public’s asses in the seats, Chris,” Sean had overheard Kit saying. “Once we have the subscriptions, then you can scare the crap out of them.” Brill’s last ballet, Waiting for the Man, a semi-plotless paean to heroin and violent sex set to Lou Reed and spoken Burroughs, had left the audiences shaken and raw around the edges. Critics had gone into ecstasies, but the public had been less than thrilled. Sean, who had portrayed a smack-addicted whore, privately sided with the public, mostly because he wasn’t a fan of Lou Reed.
“We’ll be doing Swan Lake,” Brill said.
Constance sighed and fished in her pocket for her cigarettes. “Flap, flap, flap,” she muttered.
“I have some news,” Brill went on as if Constance hadn’t spoken. “Pasha, unfortunately, is leaving us.” Constance’s beautifully arched eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. Linda looked upset. Viggo’s face betrayed surprise. Only Sean failed to react. Pasha had told him he'd been offered the position of creative director at New York City Ballet. They’d been in bed at the time. “With Ethan’s departure, that leaves two spaces for male principals. Sean, Viggo...those spaces are now yours."
Sean and Viggo glanced at each other. Simultaneously, they grinned, shook hands, then turned to the director, thanking him. Linda congratulated them. Constance crossed her legs and blew out a jet of smoke. "Choreography, Christopher?"
"Petipa-Ivanov."
"Delightful," Constance said flatly. "Soviet Realist ending?"
"No. Misery ending. Double suicide."
"Well, that's something, at least."
Brill gave her a tolerant smile. “Constance, you’ll be –“
“Wearing that same damn costume from ’77, I suppose,” Constance said wearily. “That thing molted feathers all over the stage. It was like a hurricane in a henhouse.”
“You’ll be dancing the Queen Mother.”
Constance went very still. “Then who...” Slowly, she turned toward Linda. Her eyes narrowed to pinpoints.
“Linda will be dancing Odile/Odette. I haven’t told your substitutes yet, so please keep this information to yourselves for the moment.” Brill reached into a drawer and extracted a spotless crystal ashtray, which he pushed toward Constance. “Linda, that’s all for now. I’ll speak to you privately after class.”
Linda sat ramrod-straight in her seat, her eyes wide, her hands clasped tightly together. She neither spoke nor made eye contact with Constance, but rose from her seat and backed to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Brill,” she whispered.
Sean turned and brushed a kiss across her cheek. “Cheers, lass.”
Her face broke into a smile. “Thanks, Sean.” She slipped out. Before he closed the door again, Sean saw her exuberant, silent leap of joy.
“That’s my role.” Constance’s voice was low and even.
“Constance, you’re forty-one.”
“Thirty-eight!”
Brill let the denial fade away. “Be realistic, Constance. You can’t do thirty-two fouettés any longer. The role demands too much of you now. And – I can’t stage a ballet where Odile/Odette is twice Siegfried’s age.”
Constance stood. She tapped her ash onto the floor, pointedly ignoring the ashtray. “So that means Bobby is out too. We’re both too old for you.” She turned and regarded Sean and Viggo coldly. “Careful, boys. And congratulations. You’re about to get your heads fucked with.” She pushed between them and slammed out of the office.
Brill passed a hand over his hair and sighed. “Sit down, boys.” He offered them a tired smile. “That’s the sort of behavior you’ll have to endure eventually – but not for some time yet, I hope. I’m glad Constance is gone, though, because there’s something I want to say to both of you.
“I haven’t yet decided who I’m going to choose as the primary Siegfried.” Brill looked from one to the other. “You both have qualities that would make an ideal prince. Viggo, you’re strong, athletic, and extremely lyric. That’s a rare combination of talents. Sean, you’re musical, and unmatched, really, when it comes to extension and elevation.”
Sean nodded and tried to smile graciously. That’s it? A little tra-la-la, line, and lift?
“Until I see both of you dance the role, there’s no way I can know who will be better suited for it. So I’m going to ask each of you to learn it, and when I choose, to cover for the other. It’s not an easy thing to ask, believe me, but you can both rest assured that you’ll be receiving prime roles throughout the season.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Brill,” Viggo said. “When will we find out which of us has the role?”
Brill was silent a moment. “I can’t say for sure. All I can tell you is to be prepared. Thank you, boys, that’s all.”
*
They were silent in the elevator back to class. The door opened and they walked down the hall together, slowly, wordlessly. Muffled piano and the smell of sweat filtered through the door to the studio. Sean put his hand on the knob, then turned to Viggo. “Cheers.”
“You too.”
Neither spoke for a moment, but Sean knew what Viggo must have been thinking. A premiere like Swan Lake could make a principal’s career. Only one of them would have that chance, though.
“Sean,” Viggo blurted, “whatever happens –“
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, and they both knew it. Their joy at being made a principal had already diminished. Sean didn’t want to play games, not so soon. He offered Viggo the traditional good-luck. “Merde, Viggo.”
“Merde,” Viggo replied. His voice was soft, slightly graveled, pleasant to the ear.
Sean felt a rime of ice form around his heart. Viggo had been kind to him in Copenhagen. And now, with a few precisely chosen words, Brill had made them rivals.
*
picture bygovi20
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.
Prompt: Ice.
*
The office of MBT’s artistic director, Christopher Brill, was a room to please only the most Spartan of souls. The walls were plain white, innocent of memorabilia, the heavy walnut desk unembellished, the two chairs opposite hard wooden affairs that looked as if they belonged in a classroom. The message was twofold – one, that Brill was a man who brooked no nonsense; two, that one of the most feared and admired men in ballet needed no external ornamentation to remind him, or anyone else, of his rightful place in the firmament.
The four dancers filed into the office quietly: Sean, Constance Weir, MBT’s prima ballerina, Linda Blessing, a new principal, and Viggo, the dancer from Copenhagen. Sean hadn’t spoken to Viggo much beyond their initial meeting, though he’d nodded to him in the halls and admired his athletic, blade-clean technique in class. And naturally, he’d listened to the gossip. Some said he was straight, others gay, but nobody knew for sure. All they knew was that he was a nice guy, disciplined, and a good dancer. Maybe even great. They watched him cautiously, measuring the length of his muscles, the strength in his arms and shoulders, the arch of his long, elegant feet. It was too soon for judgment.
“Close the door, please,” Brill said, and Sean obeyed, then urged Linda into one of the wooden chairs. Constance, supple and carelessly sublime in a pale grey hand-knit cashmere sweater thrown over her practice clothes, took the other without asking. Brill leaned back and studied each dancer in turn. Sean, in a sudden flash of enlightenment, let his gaze briefly travel over the white walls and come to rest on the director. How easy it must have been for Brill to assess his artists in close contact; the place was almost as bare as an empty stage.
“Thank you for coming. I hope you’ve fully recovered from jet lag and so on?” The dancers nodded or murmured acquiescence. “Wonderful. I wanted to gather you here before the season was announced. “Most of you,“ he said with a nod toward Viggo, “are aware that we do one classical ballet per season.”
Sean half-smiled at the faintly contemptuous tone in Christopher Brill’s voice. It was widely known that Brill preferred experimental ballet, but in order to be competitive with the other companies, it was necessary to perform the classics. “You’ve got to get the public’s asses in the seats, Chris,” Sean had overheard Kit saying. “Once we have the subscriptions, then you can scare the crap out of them.” Brill’s last ballet, Waiting for the Man, a semi-plotless paean to heroin and violent sex set to Lou Reed and spoken Burroughs, had left the audiences shaken and raw around the edges. Critics had gone into ecstasies, but the public had been less than thrilled. Sean, who had portrayed a smack-addicted whore, privately sided with the public, mostly because he wasn’t a fan of Lou Reed.
“We’ll be doing Swan Lake,” Brill said.
Constance sighed and fished in her pocket for her cigarettes. “Flap, flap, flap,” she muttered.
“I have some news,” Brill went on as if Constance hadn’t spoken. “Pasha, unfortunately, is leaving us.” Constance’s beautifully arched eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. Linda looked upset. Viggo’s face betrayed surprise. Only Sean failed to react. Pasha had told him he'd been offered the position of creative director at New York City Ballet. They’d been in bed at the time. “With Ethan’s departure, that leaves two spaces for male principals. Sean, Viggo...those spaces are now yours."
Sean and Viggo glanced at each other. Simultaneously, they grinned, shook hands, then turned to the director, thanking him. Linda congratulated them. Constance crossed her legs and blew out a jet of smoke. "Choreography, Christopher?"
"Petipa-Ivanov."
"Delightful," Constance said flatly. "Soviet Realist ending?"
"No. Misery ending. Double suicide."
"Well, that's something, at least."
Brill gave her a tolerant smile. “Constance, you’ll be –“
“Wearing that same damn costume from ’77, I suppose,” Constance said wearily. “That thing molted feathers all over the stage. It was like a hurricane in a henhouse.”
“You’ll be dancing the Queen Mother.”
Constance went very still. “Then who...” Slowly, she turned toward Linda. Her eyes narrowed to pinpoints.
“Linda will be dancing Odile/Odette. I haven’t told your substitutes yet, so please keep this information to yourselves for the moment.” Brill reached into a drawer and extracted a spotless crystal ashtray, which he pushed toward Constance. “Linda, that’s all for now. I’ll speak to you privately after class.”
Linda sat ramrod-straight in her seat, her eyes wide, her hands clasped tightly together. She neither spoke nor made eye contact with Constance, but rose from her seat and backed to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Brill,” she whispered.
Sean turned and brushed a kiss across her cheek. “Cheers, lass.”
Her face broke into a smile. “Thanks, Sean.” She slipped out. Before he closed the door again, Sean saw her exuberant, silent leap of joy.
“That’s my role.” Constance’s voice was low and even.
“Constance, you’re forty-one.”
“Thirty-eight!”
Brill let the denial fade away. “Be realistic, Constance. You can’t do thirty-two fouettés any longer. The role demands too much of you now. And – I can’t stage a ballet where Odile/Odette is twice Siegfried’s age.”
Constance stood. She tapped her ash onto the floor, pointedly ignoring the ashtray. “So that means Bobby is out too. We’re both too old for you.” She turned and regarded Sean and Viggo coldly. “Careful, boys. And congratulations. You’re about to get your heads fucked with.” She pushed between them and slammed out of the office.
Brill passed a hand over his hair and sighed. “Sit down, boys.” He offered them a tired smile. “That’s the sort of behavior you’ll have to endure eventually – but not for some time yet, I hope. I’m glad Constance is gone, though, because there’s something I want to say to both of you.
“I haven’t yet decided who I’m going to choose as the primary Siegfried.” Brill looked from one to the other. “You both have qualities that would make an ideal prince. Viggo, you’re strong, athletic, and extremely lyric. That’s a rare combination of talents. Sean, you’re musical, and unmatched, really, when it comes to extension and elevation.”
Sean nodded and tried to smile graciously. That’s it? A little tra-la-la, line, and lift?
“Until I see both of you dance the role, there’s no way I can know who will be better suited for it. So I’m going to ask each of you to learn it, and when I choose, to cover for the other. It’s not an easy thing to ask, believe me, but you can both rest assured that you’ll be receiving prime roles throughout the season.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Brill,” Viggo said. “When will we find out which of us has the role?”
Brill was silent a moment. “I can’t say for sure. All I can tell you is to be prepared. Thank you, boys, that’s all.”
*
They were silent in the elevator back to class. The door opened and they walked down the hall together, slowly, wordlessly. Muffled piano and the smell of sweat filtered through the door to the studio. Sean put his hand on the knob, then turned to Viggo. “Cheers.”
“You too.”
Neither spoke for a moment, but Sean knew what Viggo must have been thinking. A premiere like Swan Lake could make a principal’s career. Only one of them would have that chance, though.
“Sean,” Viggo blurted, “whatever happens –“
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, and they both knew it. Their joy at being made a principal had already diminished. Sean didn’t want to play games, not so soon. He offered Viggo the traditional good-luck. “Merde, Viggo.”
“Merde,” Viggo replied. His voice was soft, slightly graveled, pleasant to the ear.
Sean felt a rime of ice form around his heart. Viggo had been kind to him in Copenhagen. And now, with a few precisely chosen words, Brill had made them rivals.
*
picture by
govi20My table is here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-01-30 09:59 pm (UTC)We shall see what happens with the boys! Hope you stay tuned, darling!
a young shy love endangered by ambition's law
What a lovely way to put it.