Ficlet: Entrechat Cinquante: earring
Apr. 12th, 2009 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Entrechat Cinquante
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: G to NC-17
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: earring.
November 1994
*
There had to be some sort of scientific term for the litter of stuff that crowded the shallow top drawer of a desk, Sean mused, all those useless and useful things that couldn’t just be thrown away without a vague sense of guilt: paper clips, rubber bands, small change, subway tokens, Band-aids, promotional letter openers, theater ticket stubs, programs, pads of sticky notes down to their last three or four sheets, pencil stubs, unfiled Rolodex cards, mini-calculators, index cards scribbled with notes and telephone numbers to be transferred to the Rolodex. Sean picked up an index card. On it, in his handwriting, was written Friday – notebook – citywide – banner advertising. He had no idea what it meant, but suspected it came from last week’s board meeting. He had to learn how to take coherent notes, or start listening to the recorded minutes, a notion only slightly less horrifying than going to the meetings themselves. Sighing, he tucked the card back in the drawer and shut it. Out of sight, out of mind.
A tap sounded on his door. “Come in,” he called.
Viggo entered, sexy and sweaty in practice clothes, a Cheshire cat grin on his face. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Sean shook his head and pointed to a chair. “You don’t have to knock, you git – I keep telling you that.”
“What if I just barge in one day, and there you are with some corps boy bent over your desk?”
“You’re automatically invited. What have you got there?”
Viggo waved a copy of New York. Sean was on the cover, which proclaimed that he was MBT’s Crown Prince of Cool. “Didn’t you get an advance copy or something? I had to go pay good money for this.”
“There’s probably one on the table at home,” Sean mumbled, turning red. “Jesus. Crown prince of cool, my arse. Who comes up with this crap?”
“Whoever wrote it has a crush on you. Listen to this.” Viggo opened the magazine, coughed, gave Sean a pointed look, and read. “’Though British by birth, Sean Bean has a thoroughly Yankee-esque spirit of determination.’ Is Yankee-esque even a word?”
“God,” Sean groaned.
“Hang on, hang on. There’s lots more. ‘The past fourteen years have found Bean unassumingly, but steadily, making his way up the ladder of the ballet firmament.’ I think that’s a mixed metaphor. ‘And it’s easy to see why. At thirty-three, with the blond good looks and smoldering green eyes of a matinee star, he still dances like a dream. It’s a pity that he’ll have to cut back his dancing schedule to look after the quotidian administration of Metropolitan, but lucky New Yorkers will still see him now and again in performance.’”
Sean snorted laughter. “’Smoldering?’”
“’The day I meet Sean, he’s in his ballet drag: tights, ballet shoes, an ancient t-shirt with Sheffield United Football Club emblazoned upon it, a touching nod to his hometown. His longish golden hair is pulled back, glistening with sweat, and small hoop earrings glint in each ear. Turning away from me, he yanks off his shirt to reveal his glorious shoulders and muscular chest, and at this moment, he looks more like a pirate than a ballet dancer.’” Viggo made a growling purr deep in his throat. “Pirates. Tasty. Arrr.”
No mirror was necessary for Sean to know his face was almost purple with embarrassment. “I’m going to be a laughingstock after this.”
“Are you kidding? It’s great. Ooh, sexy photo.” Viggo held up a candid photo of Sean in rehearsal, wearing a plain white t-shirt and black tights.
“Oh, shut it. Stop taking the piss.”
“It is sexy. I’m not kidding. Okay, hang on. ‘Bean is surprisingly devoted to classical ballet, even more so than his mentor, the late Christopher Brill -’” Viggo raised his eyebrows, but kept reading. “ – who made a pastime of mounting ballets seemingly designed to challenge the viewer.’ No shit. 'I suppose I’m a traditionalist, Sean shrugs, and offers a shy smile that blinds for one dazzling second. Then he blushes. There’s something absurdly charming about a ballet star – now artistic director - maintaining this degree of shyness despite years of acclaim, and one gets the sense that it’s not a put-on.’”
Sean closed his eyes. “Maybe we can go away for a couple of weeks.”
“No way. Oh-ho...’For the past fourteen years, Sean has been devoted to Viggo Mortensen, his colleague, collaborator, and dearest companion. Viggo’s star rose almost as quickly as Sean’s, and their relationship seems free of the insecurities and jealousies that seem to plague dance. And it must be said that Viggo can be described as gorgeous too. It makes you wish there were more male pairs in ballet. Quite a fetching couple, and in this day and age, rather brave of them to come out so publicly. Viggo and ballet – I couldn’t live without either of them.’” Viggo lowered the magazine and gave Sean a smile that was full of affection, not teasing. “You’re quite a guy.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Viggo tossed the magazine on a low table and hoisted himself onto Sean’s desk. He leaned in close for a kiss.
Sean took Viggo’s face in his hands. “Well, so are you.” He kissed Viggo deeply. Bending him over the desk didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
A rapid knock sounded at the door. Viggo pulled back and grinned. “See? If someone had just barged in –“
“You’re the only one allowed to barge in,” Sean said with a laugh. “Get the door, and I’ll give you a prize.” The knocking sounded again, more aggressive and urgent this time. “Go on, shift it!”
Viggo opened the door. Trilby Sheldon, one of the soloists, rushed in, crying. “Sean, I have to talk to you. Eveline keeps upstaging me in the Candy Cane variation – she throws in those extra pirouettes and milks all the applause. She’s such a bi-bi-bitch,” she wailed, and burst into loud sobs. Viggo made a sympathetic face and slipped out, leaving a bemused Sean alone with Trilby.
Sean opened his top desk drawer and found a travel pack of Kleenex. He got up and brought them around to the weeping girl, patting her back when she clung to him, bawling. He hid a smile. Crown prince of cool, my arse.
*
picture bygovi20
My table is here
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: G to NC-17
Author: Alex
Warning: AU
Written for the
seans_50 challenge.Beta: the most excellent
kimberlite.Disclaimer: Utterly untrue.
Prompt: earring.
November 1994
*
There had to be some sort of scientific term for the litter of stuff that crowded the shallow top drawer of a desk, Sean mused, all those useless and useful things that couldn’t just be thrown away without a vague sense of guilt: paper clips, rubber bands, small change, subway tokens, Band-aids, promotional letter openers, theater ticket stubs, programs, pads of sticky notes down to their last three or four sheets, pencil stubs, unfiled Rolodex cards, mini-calculators, index cards scribbled with notes and telephone numbers to be transferred to the Rolodex. Sean picked up an index card. On it, in his handwriting, was written Friday – notebook – citywide – banner advertising. He had no idea what it meant, but suspected it came from last week’s board meeting. He had to learn how to take coherent notes, or start listening to the recorded minutes, a notion only slightly less horrifying than going to the meetings themselves. Sighing, he tucked the card back in the drawer and shut it. Out of sight, out of mind.
A tap sounded on his door. “Come in,” he called.
Viggo entered, sexy and sweaty in practice clothes, a Cheshire cat grin on his face. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Sean shook his head and pointed to a chair. “You don’t have to knock, you git – I keep telling you that.”
“What if I just barge in one day, and there you are with some corps boy bent over your desk?”
“You’re automatically invited. What have you got there?”
Viggo waved a copy of New York. Sean was on the cover, which proclaimed that he was MBT’s Crown Prince of Cool. “Didn’t you get an advance copy or something? I had to go pay good money for this.”
“There’s probably one on the table at home,” Sean mumbled, turning red. “Jesus. Crown prince of cool, my arse. Who comes up with this crap?”
“Whoever wrote it has a crush on you. Listen to this.” Viggo opened the magazine, coughed, gave Sean a pointed look, and read. “’Though British by birth, Sean Bean has a thoroughly Yankee-esque spirit of determination.’ Is Yankee-esque even a word?”
“God,” Sean groaned.
“Hang on, hang on. There’s lots more. ‘The past fourteen years have found Bean unassumingly, but steadily, making his way up the ladder of the ballet firmament.’ I think that’s a mixed metaphor. ‘And it’s easy to see why. At thirty-three, with the blond good looks and smoldering green eyes of a matinee star, he still dances like a dream. It’s a pity that he’ll have to cut back his dancing schedule to look after the quotidian administration of Metropolitan, but lucky New Yorkers will still see him now and again in performance.’”
Sean snorted laughter. “’Smoldering?’”
“’The day I meet Sean, he’s in his ballet drag: tights, ballet shoes, an ancient t-shirt with Sheffield United Football Club emblazoned upon it, a touching nod to his hometown. His longish golden hair is pulled back, glistening with sweat, and small hoop earrings glint in each ear. Turning away from me, he yanks off his shirt to reveal his glorious shoulders and muscular chest, and at this moment, he looks more like a pirate than a ballet dancer.’” Viggo made a growling purr deep in his throat. “Pirates. Tasty. Arrr.”
No mirror was necessary for Sean to know his face was almost purple with embarrassment. “I’m going to be a laughingstock after this.”
“Are you kidding? It’s great. Ooh, sexy photo.” Viggo held up a candid photo of Sean in rehearsal, wearing a plain white t-shirt and black tights.
“Oh, shut it. Stop taking the piss.”
“It is sexy. I’m not kidding. Okay, hang on. ‘Bean is surprisingly devoted to classical ballet, even more so than his mentor, the late Christopher Brill -’” Viggo raised his eyebrows, but kept reading. “ – who made a pastime of mounting ballets seemingly designed to challenge the viewer.’ No shit. 'I suppose I’m a traditionalist, Sean shrugs, and offers a shy smile that blinds for one dazzling second. Then he blushes. There’s something absurdly charming about a ballet star – now artistic director - maintaining this degree of shyness despite years of acclaim, and one gets the sense that it’s not a put-on.’”
Sean closed his eyes. “Maybe we can go away for a couple of weeks.”
“No way. Oh-ho...’For the past fourteen years, Sean has been devoted to Viggo Mortensen, his colleague, collaborator, and dearest companion. Viggo’s star rose almost as quickly as Sean’s, and their relationship seems free of the insecurities and jealousies that seem to plague dance. And it must be said that Viggo can be described as gorgeous too. It makes you wish there were more male pairs in ballet. Quite a fetching couple, and in this day and age, rather brave of them to come out so publicly. Viggo and ballet – I couldn’t live without either of them.’” Viggo lowered the magazine and gave Sean a smile that was full of affection, not teasing. “You’re quite a guy.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Viggo tossed the magazine on a low table and hoisted himself onto Sean’s desk. He leaned in close for a kiss.
Sean took Viggo’s face in his hands. “Well, so are you.” He kissed Viggo deeply. Bending him over the desk didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
A rapid knock sounded at the door. Viggo pulled back and grinned. “See? If someone had just barged in –“
“You’re the only one allowed to barge in,” Sean said with a laugh. “Get the door, and I’ll give you a prize.” The knocking sounded again, more aggressive and urgent this time. “Go on, shift it!”
Viggo opened the door. Trilby Sheldon, one of the soloists, rushed in, crying. “Sean, I have to talk to you. Eveline keeps upstaging me in the Candy Cane variation – she throws in those extra pirouettes and milks all the applause. She’s such a bi-bi-bitch,” she wailed, and burst into loud sobs. Viggo made a sympathetic face and slipped out, leaving a bemused Sean alone with Trilby.
Sean opened his top desk drawer and found a travel pack of Kleenex. He got up and brought them around to the weeping girl, patting her back when she clung to him, bawling. He hid a smile. Crown prince of cool, my arse.
*
picture by
govi20My table is here
