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Ficlet: Entrechat Cinquante: rough
Title: 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: rough.
May 1995
*
They were at the end of tour rehearsals, with London only two days away. The older dancers lounged in the studio, chatting and cat-napping and languidly massaging each other’s muscles. They’d been through it all before and were lackadaisical, on their way to boredom. The twenty-city tour of Europe, Australia and Japan was no novelty, no romp in the park. It was, in fact, a pain in the arse, a nightmare hash of confusing passport formalities, currency-exchange hassles, cramped and dirty hotels, peculiar food, expensive cigarettes, elusive first-aid kits, pulpy stages, and lighting techs who didn’t speak English and didn’t care if the dancers were blinded.
The younger dancers, fortunately, hadn’t had their illusions shattered yet. They moved in an aura of strained impatience, like horses at the starting gate, ready to spring out and display their brilliance to the world. Sean savored their youthful naïveté while he had the chance. By the end of the tour they’d be as jaded and surly as the older dancers, but that was the way it went. They, at least, didn’t have to be spurred and prodded into liveliness. Yet. The trouble was, the older dancers outnumbered the younger three to one, and despite the younger dancers’ excitement, they still tried to emulate their elders’ blasé attitude, and it showed in their feet.
Sean and Jens traded a despairing glance, and Sean made an executive decision. He clapped his hands for silence. “Okay, boys and girls. I can see that synchronization is breaking down, not to mention your enthusiasm. Remember, we’re trying to impress our host cities, not horrify them.” Sean’s scowl took in the whole room, and there was some muttering and giggling. “Viggo, could we try your variation one more time? Then a final run of the pas de six, then the saber dance, and then we can wrap it up for the night. Come on – I’m tired too. Fake it if you can’t feel it.”
Viggo moved to the mirror and waited, dropping Sean a wink. When the music began, bombastic and tinny, he ran to the center of the studio, stopping in a perfect arabesque. His first tour en l’air was knife-clean; he seemed to hang in the air for a split second, then came down quick and soft. His second turn was higher still, pure defiance of gravity. When he landed, there was an audible pop, and he sprawled to the ground with a gasp.
“Fuck –“ Sean dashed to Viggo and knelt beside him. “Vig, what’s wrong?”
Viggo’s face was rigid and white with pain. “I snapped my Achilles tendon.”
“Oh, God – are you sure?”
“I heard it,” Linda said, kneeling beside Viggo. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get you taken care of.”
Sean whipped his head around to the cluster of corps boys and girls watching with wide, frightened eyes. “Go get Kit and get her to find Dr. Chaudhury, or an ambulance – whichever is faster.” When none of them moved, Sean snarled at them, helplessly enraged. “Now! And turn that fucking music off!” He turned back to Viggo and helped him into a sitting position. “Steady on now, Vig. Won’t be a moment.”
A choked laugh forced its way out of Viggo’s throat. “I think I broke the metatarsal in the other foot when I landed. Let me try standing.”
“Wait ‘til Dr. Chaudhury comes,” Sean pleaded.
“Help me up, or I’ll do it myself, goddammit.” Resigned, Linda and Sean supported Viggo as he slung an arm around their necks and tried to stand on the foot with the working Achilles tendon. “Ow, ow, never mind. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Jens was waiting with a chair, and they settled Viggo into it. Kit and Dr. Chaudhury, the company physician, came hustling into the studio. The doctor knelt in front of Viggo and gently probed his leg. Viggo emitted a clenched noise from behind his teeth, and his face grew whiter still as he gripped Sean’s hand. “I don’t have to ask if that hurt,” Dr. Chaudhury said. She opened her bag. “I’m going to give you a painkiller so we can get you to the hospital without you passing out. Let’s take this shoe off so it doesn’t impair your circulation.”
Viggo turned to Sean. “The tour – I’m sorry –“
“Shh,” Sean said, and brushed Viggo’s hair away from his face. “It’s okay. Never mind the tour. Let’s get you sorted out.”
*
He’d refused general anesthesia for the surgery, so they’d given him twilight sleep. When Sean was admitted to the room, he found Viggo asleep, motionless and still frighteningly pale against the scratchy hospital sheets. His left leg was encased in a weird sort of aluminum tent, and his right foot was in a cast. He sat beside the bed quietly, longing to wake Viggo. The nurse hadn’t told him not to; she’d said he’d be shaking off the drugs in fairly short order. Still, if he needed the rest –
Viggo stirred and murmured. His eyes opened, but they were lost and unfocused.
“Vig?” Sean’s voice was rough with unshed tears. “Vig, you okay?”
Viggo turned and squinted in the dimness of the room. “Sean? That you? I can’t see so good. Dark out.”
“I can put the overhead light on.”
“Too bright. Just give me a couple of minutes.” Viggo closed his eyes again.
Sean stroked Viggo’s limp hand. “Do you want anything?”
“No.” A deep sigh emerged from Viggo’s chest. “What did the doctors say?”
“Ah, it’s too soon to hear all that. Why don’t you –“
“C’mon, tell me. Not like I don’t know.” Viggo licked dry lips and focused on Sean. “What’d they say?”
“Well, you were right,” Sean said, assuming a façade of good spirits. “You broke your metatarsal, but it was a clean break, they said. Ought to be healed in four to six weeks.”
“And the tendon?”
Sean hesitated. “Well, you’ll be in physical therapy for a good long while, but it’s not permanently damaged.”
“I heard them. They said it was worse because of my age, the wear on it.”
Sean gripped the slat of Viggo’s bed. Fucking doctors, couldn’t keep their mouths shut long enough for the anesthetic to knock a patient out. “It’ll take awhile,” he agreed reluctantly.
“How long?”
“Nine months to a year before you can dance again.” Sean forced himself to meet Viggo’s eyes. He kept stroking Viggo’s hand, as if that would soften the blow somehow.
Viggo turned his face to the window. Evening was settling over the city; the sky was a fading indigo, and the lights twinkled orange and yellow. When he turned back, his eyes were wet, but he was smiling. “At least I don’t have to tour, huh?”
“I’m staying with you.”
“You can’t. You know that.” Viggo rested his other hand atop Sean’s. “You’d better go home and pack.”
“Maybe I could come home after a few weeks.”
“I’ll be okay. Go home and get some sleep. Don’t forget to pick up your pinstriped suit. And the shirts. And there’s a package on the hall table. I didn’t open it, but I think it’s your new shaving stuff.”
Sean saw the fear and anxiety in Viggo’s eyes, but knew that Viggo was shoving him out for a reason. Even after almost fifteen years, he still preferred to have his tears and storms in private. “Okay. You want anything from home?”
“Yeah. Some music, my books, maybe my robe.” Viggo bit his lip. “I’ll see you later, okay?” He waved at Sean. “Go on, beat it.”
“Okay.” Sean bent down and kissed Viggo’s forehead. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Sean left without a backward glance. As he rode the train home, he silently cursed the doctors, the nurses, the company, himself, the tour, and Fate, until there was no one and nothing left to blame.
*
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: rough.
May 1995
*
They were at the end of tour rehearsals, with London only two days away. The older dancers lounged in the studio, chatting and cat-napping and languidly massaging each other’s muscles. They’d been through it all before and were lackadaisical, on their way to boredom. The twenty-city tour of Europe, Australia and Japan was no novelty, no romp in the park. It was, in fact, a pain in the arse, a nightmare hash of confusing passport formalities, currency-exchange hassles, cramped and dirty hotels, peculiar food, expensive cigarettes, elusive first-aid kits, pulpy stages, and lighting techs who didn’t speak English and didn’t care if the dancers were blinded.
The younger dancers, fortunately, hadn’t had their illusions shattered yet. They moved in an aura of strained impatience, like horses at the starting gate, ready to spring out and display their brilliance to the world. Sean savored their youthful naïveté while he had the chance. By the end of the tour they’d be as jaded and surly as the older dancers, but that was the way it went. They, at least, didn’t have to be spurred and prodded into liveliness. Yet. The trouble was, the older dancers outnumbered the younger three to one, and despite the younger dancers’ excitement, they still tried to emulate their elders’ blasé attitude, and it showed in their feet.
Sean and Jens traded a despairing glance, and Sean made an executive decision. He clapped his hands for silence. “Okay, boys and girls. I can see that synchronization is breaking down, not to mention your enthusiasm. Remember, we’re trying to impress our host cities, not horrify them.” Sean’s scowl took in the whole room, and there was some muttering and giggling. “Viggo, could we try your variation one more time? Then a final run of the pas de six, then the saber dance, and then we can wrap it up for the night. Come on – I’m tired too. Fake it if you can’t feel it.”
Viggo moved to the mirror and waited, dropping Sean a wink. When the music began, bombastic and tinny, he ran to the center of the studio, stopping in a perfect arabesque. His first tour en l’air was knife-clean; he seemed to hang in the air for a split second, then came down quick and soft. His second turn was higher still, pure defiance of gravity. When he landed, there was an audible pop, and he sprawled to the ground with a gasp.
“Fuck –“ Sean dashed to Viggo and knelt beside him. “Vig, what’s wrong?”
Viggo’s face was rigid and white with pain. “I snapped my Achilles tendon.”
“Oh, God – are you sure?”
“I heard it,” Linda said, kneeling beside Viggo. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get you taken care of.”
Sean whipped his head around to the cluster of corps boys and girls watching with wide, frightened eyes. “Go get Kit and get her to find Dr. Chaudhury, or an ambulance – whichever is faster.” When none of them moved, Sean snarled at them, helplessly enraged. “Now! And turn that fucking music off!” He turned back to Viggo and helped him into a sitting position. “Steady on now, Vig. Won’t be a moment.”
A choked laugh forced its way out of Viggo’s throat. “I think I broke the metatarsal in the other foot when I landed. Let me try standing.”
“Wait ‘til Dr. Chaudhury comes,” Sean pleaded.
“Help me up, or I’ll do it myself, goddammit.” Resigned, Linda and Sean supported Viggo as he slung an arm around their necks and tried to stand on the foot with the working Achilles tendon. “Ow, ow, never mind. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Jens was waiting with a chair, and they settled Viggo into it. Kit and Dr. Chaudhury, the company physician, came hustling into the studio. The doctor knelt in front of Viggo and gently probed his leg. Viggo emitted a clenched noise from behind his teeth, and his face grew whiter still as he gripped Sean’s hand. “I don’t have to ask if that hurt,” Dr. Chaudhury said. She opened her bag. “I’m going to give you a painkiller so we can get you to the hospital without you passing out. Let’s take this shoe off so it doesn’t impair your circulation.”
Viggo turned to Sean. “The tour – I’m sorry –“
“Shh,” Sean said, and brushed Viggo’s hair away from his face. “It’s okay. Never mind the tour. Let’s get you sorted out.”
*
He’d refused general anesthesia for the surgery, so they’d given him twilight sleep. When Sean was admitted to the room, he found Viggo asleep, motionless and still frighteningly pale against the scratchy hospital sheets. His left leg was encased in a weird sort of aluminum tent, and his right foot was in a cast. He sat beside the bed quietly, longing to wake Viggo. The nurse hadn’t told him not to; she’d said he’d be shaking off the drugs in fairly short order. Still, if he needed the rest –
Viggo stirred and murmured. His eyes opened, but they were lost and unfocused.
“Vig?” Sean’s voice was rough with unshed tears. “Vig, you okay?”
Viggo turned and squinted in the dimness of the room. “Sean? That you? I can’t see so good. Dark out.”
“I can put the overhead light on.”
“Too bright. Just give me a couple of minutes.” Viggo closed his eyes again.
Sean stroked Viggo’s limp hand. “Do you want anything?”
“No.” A deep sigh emerged from Viggo’s chest. “What did the doctors say?”
“Ah, it’s too soon to hear all that. Why don’t you –“
“C’mon, tell me. Not like I don’t know.” Viggo licked dry lips and focused on Sean. “What’d they say?”
“Well, you were right,” Sean said, assuming a façade of good spirits. “You broke your metatarsal, but it was a clean break, they said. Ought to be healed in four to six weeks.”
“And the tendon?”
Sean hesitated. “Well, you’ll be in physical therapy for a good long while, but it’s not permanently damaged.”
“I heard them. They said it was worse because of my age, the wear on it.”
Sean gripped the slat of Viggo’s bed. Fucking doctors, couldn’t keep their mouths shut long enough for the anesthetic to knock a patient out. “It’ll take awhile,” he agreed reluctantly.
“How long?”
“Nine months to a year before you can dance again.” Sean forced himself to meet Viggo’s eyes. He kept stroking Viggo’s hand, as if that would soften the blow somehow.
Viggo turned his face to the window. Evening was settling over the city; the sky was a fading indigo, and the lights twinkled orange and yellow. When he turned back, his eyes were wet, but he was smiling. “At least I don’t have to tour, huh?”
“I’m staying with you.”
“You can’t. You know that.” Viggo rested his other hand atop Sean’s. “You’d better go home and pack.”
“Maybe I could come home after a few weeks.”
“I’ll be okay. Go home and get some sleep. Don’t forget to pick up your pinstriped suit. And the shirts. And there’s a package on the hall table. I didn’t open it, but I think it’s your new shaving stuff.”
Sean saw the fear and anxiety in Viggo’s eyes, but knew that Viggo was shoving him out for a reason. Even after almost fifteen years, he still preferred to have his tears and storms in private. “Okay. You want anything from home?”
“Yeah. Some music, my books, maybe my robe.” Viggo bit his lip. “I’ll see you later, okay?” He waved at Sean. “Go on, beat it.”
“Okay.” Sean bent down and kissed Viggo’s forehead. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Sean left without a backward glance. As he rode the train home, he silently cursed the doctors, the nurses, the company, himself, the tour, and Fate, until there was no one and nothing left to blame.
*
picture by
govi20My table is here
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So tragically real !!!
Breathtaking.
Thank you so much for posting, Alex. Thank you, dear.
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Thank you, Anto, as ever, for your lovely comments and support. *hug*
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You know, I thought we'd hit all the emotionally charged catastrophes possible by this point, and I was wondering what you'd do with six more prompts left to go, but wow, you've still got more than a few surprises left, eh? Wonderfully done. *G*
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I wasn't sure I'd be able to fit in one more upheaval, but hey, luck prevailed. ;) Thanks very, very much!
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Yeah... I've heard that tendons do that when they're severed at full tension. *daintily prances away from THAT mental image*