Ficlet: Entrechat Cinquante: tongue
Apr. 15th, 2009 11:07 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: tongue.
September 2000
*
It was a long-accepted truth, in New York at least, that people at a certain level of achievement appeared to know each other by osmosis. That was how it seemed to Sean as he made his way through the tuxedoed and gowned crowd in the theater corridors, his own tux draped over his shoulder in its bag. He smiled and nodded as graciously as he could, accepting congratulations left and right, a little numb from the noise level, the air-kissing, and the smothering miasma of a hundred wildly expensive perfumes. The cheerless fluorescent-lit concrete halls had always been a haven from the ballet hordes, but tonight the hordes clogged the passage to the dressing rooms like excruciatingly rich and fashionable plumbing problems.
Backing away from Nina Barton Glass, a tireless flirt and annual MBT booster, Sean bumped his foot against a portable bar and swore under his breath in irritation.
“Sean, are you hurt?” Nina, seal-sleek in a black satin gown and a diamond choker big enough to blind the unwary viewer, moved toward Sean and laid a possessive hand on his upper arm.
“I’m okay. Could you excuse me, Nina? I’ve got to get dressed, or there won’t be a performance tonight.”
“Of course. I mustn’t monopolize you.” Nina bared dazzling teeth in a wide smile. “For the moment. I’ll see you afterward?”
“Absolutely.” Sean matched her grin for grin and ducked into the dressing room corridor, opening his door to find Viggo, already made up and in costume, playing gin rummy with Kit. Kit’s metallic copper-colored gown was hiked over her knees, and her hair was rumpled. The pair of them looked more comfortable than they had a right to be. “Kit, why aren’t you out there hobnobbing with the rich and famous? Isn’t that your job?”
Kit stuck her tongue out at Sean and took a swallow from the champagne glass on the low table. “It’s your job too, pal.”
“I’m dancing tonight,” Sean informed her haughtily, hanging up his tux. “I’ll kiss arse at the reception. Why the hell are they in the goddamned hall anyway?”
“If you’d proofread the invitations like I asked you to weeks ago,” Kit said, “you’d have seen the insert that offered special donors a chance to experience the glamour and excitement of a performance night backstage.”
“Even though it’s about as glamorous as cleaning a toilet,” Viggo added, scooping up a number of cards.
Kit smirked. “Well, they don’t know that, do they? They’ll be gone soon anyway, to get to their seats. And MBT makes another hundred thousand from a clever marketing gimmick thanks to yours truly.”
“You’re so sharp,” Sean said. “Now get out there and raise some more money so I can get dressed.”
“Hang on,” Kit said, and sorted her cards. She lay three suits down and tossed the last on the pile. “I’m out.”
“Bitch!” Viggo exclaimed.
“You owe me a martini.” Kit got to her feet, shook out her dress, and went to the door. She paused and turned, a soft smile creasing her cheeks. “It’s been a good twenty years, you two. Knock ‘em dead tonight.” She left hurriedly, before Viggo and Sean could reply.
They traded knowing grins. Kit was a tough tomato. You’d never catch her leaking at the eyes.
Sean stripped off his trainers and socks, then his t-shirt and jeans. He stepped behind the screen to change into his dance belt, then slipped into his costume and shoes. He washed his face at the tiny sink and sat down at the lighted makeup mirror. He coughed discreetly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Viggo rose and stretched, lit a cigarette, and sauntered over to the table. “You know, there’s a reporter out there from Dancemagazine. When he asks me the most notable thing about working with you, I’m going to say ‘Two dozen years as a dancer and the fucker still can’t put stage makeup on to save his life.’”
“Go on, tell him,” Sean replied. “I’ll tell him that Lycra makes your balls itch. Anyroads, I can do my own makeup. It’s just that you do it better. Give us a drag there.” He took the cigarette from Viggo’s hand, inhaled, and handed it back. He sat perfectly still while Viggo applied his makeup, then looked in the mirror. “Christ, I look a hundred years old.”
“How’s your back?”
“Hurts. How’s the ankle?”
Viggo raised one elegant foot and rotated it. “I wrapped it. I’m not taking chances.”
Sean squinted. “I don’t think you’ll be able to see it from the seats.”
“Good. Let’s get warmed up.”
*
They waited on opposite ends of the stage as Kit took the microphone to explain the significance of the evening – both artistic director and ballet master were celebrating twenty years with the company, and to mark the gala occasion, were performing a pas de deux that they had created many years ago.
There was a hush. Sean and Viggo mouthed merdes, and the curtain rose.
The music was quiet and gentle, lovely. It filled his ears and poured itself into his limbs, and he moved toward Viggo, forgetting his bad back, his trick knee. Motes of dust danced in the harsh stage lighting, slowly, drifting upward, then down. Sean followed them, as slow, as graceful, allowing Viggo to mold him into the difficult penché. Instinct and experience told him when to conserve his energy, when to take risks. Beside him, around him, Viggo partnered, his hands sure and steady, whatever pain he felt in his ankle pushed aside. Afterward, they would be gasping for breath, dripping sweat, limping offstage, but for now, at this moment, the fragile illusion, the eternal miracle of dance, was preserved.
*
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: tongue.
September 2000
*
It was a long-accepted truth, in New York at least, that people at a certain level of achievement appeared to know each other by osmosis. That was how it seemed to Sean as he made his way through the tuxedoed and gowned crowd in the theater corridors, his own tux draped over his shoulder in its bag. He smiled and nodded as graciously as he could, accepting congratulations left and right, a little numb from the noise level, the air-kissing, and the smothering miasma of a hundred wildly expensive perfumes. The cheerless fluorescent-lit concrete halls had always been a haven from the ballet hordes, but tonight the hordes clogged the passage to the dressing rooms like excruciatingly rich and fashionable plumbing problems.
Backing away from Nina Barton Glass, a tireless flirt and annual MBT booster, Sean bumped his foot against a portable bar and swore under his breath in irritation.
“Sean, are you hurt?” Nina, seal-sleek in a black satin gown and a diamond choker big enough to blind the unwary viewer, moved toward Sean and laid a possessive hand on his upper arm.
“I’m okay. Could you excuse me, Nina? I’ve got to get dressed, or there won’t be a performance tonight.”
“Of course. I mustn’t monopolize you.” Nina bared dazzling teeth in a wide smile. “For the moment. I’ll see you afterward?”
“Absolutely.” Sean matched her grin for grin and ducked into the dressing room corridor, opening his door to find Viggo, already made up and in costume, playing gin rummy with Kit. Kit’s metallic copper-colored gown was hiked over her knees, and her hair was rumpled. The pair of them looked more comfortable than they had a right to be. “Kit, why aren’t you out there hobnobbing with the rich and famous? Isn’t that your job?”
Kit stuck her tongue out at Sean and took a swallow from the champagne glass on the low table. “It’s your job too, pal.”
“I’m dancing tonight,” Sean informed her haughtily, hanging up his tux. “I’ll kiss arse at the reception. Why the hell are they in the goddamned hall anyway?”
“If you’d proofread the invitations like I asked you to weeks ago,” Kit said, “you’d have seen the insert that offered special donors a chance to experience the glamour and excitement of a performance night backstage.”
“Even though it’s about as glamorous as cleaning a toilet,” Viggo added, scooping up a number of cards.
Kit smirked. “Well, they don’t know that, do they? They’ll be gone soon anyway, to get to their seats. And MBT makes another hundred thousand from a clever marketing gimmick thanks to yours truly.”
“You’re so sharp,” Sean said. “Now get out there and raise some more money so I can get dressed.”
“Hang on,” Kit said, and sorted her cards. She lay three suits down and tossed the last on the pile. “I’m out.”
“Bitch!” Viggo exclaimed.
“You owe me a martini.” Kit got to her feet, shook out her dress, and went to the door. She paused and turned, a soft smile creasing her cheeks. “It’s been a good twenty years, you two. Knock ‘em dead tonight.” She left hurriedly, before Viggo and Sean could reply.
They traded knowing grins. Kit was a tough tomato. You’d never catch her leaking at the eyes.
Sean stripped off his trainers and socks, then his t-shirt and jeans. He stepped behind the screen to change into his dance belt, then slipped into his costume and shoes. He washed his face at the tiny sink and sat down at the lighted makeup mirror. He coughed discreetly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Viggo rose and stretched, lit a cigarette, and sauntered over to the table. “You know, there’s a reporter out there from Dancemagazine. When he asks me the most notable thing about working with you, I’m going to say ‘Two dozen years as a dancer and the fucker still can’t put stage makeup on to save his life.’”
“Go on, tell him,” Sean replied. “I’ll tell him that Lycra makes your balls itch. Anyroads, I can do my own makeup. It’s just that you do it better. Give us a drag there.” He took the cigarette from Viggo’s hand, inhaled, and handed it back. He sat perfectly still while Viggo applied his makeup, then looked in the mirror. “Christ, I look a hundred years old.”
“How’s your back?”
“Hurts. How’s the ankle?”
Viggo raised one elegant foot and rotated it. “I wrapped it. I’m not taking chances.”
Sean squinted. “I don’t think you’ll be able to see it from the seats.”
“Good. Let’s get warmed up.”
*
They waited on opposite ends of the stage as Kit took the microphone to explain the significance of the evening – both artistic director and ballet master were celebrating twenty years with the company, and to mark the gala occasion, were performing a pas de deux that they had created many years ago.
There was a hush. Sean and Viggo mouthed merdes, and the curtain rose.
The music was quiet and gentle, lovely. It filled his ears and poured itself into his limbs, and he moved toward Viggo, forgetting his bad back, his trick knee. Motes of dust danced in the harsh stage lighting, slowly, drifting upward, then down. Sean followed them, as slow, as graceful, allowing Viggo to mold him into the difficult penché. Instinct and experience told him when to conserve his energy, when to take risks. Beside him, around him, Viggo partnered, his hands sure and steady, whatever pain he felt in his ankle pushed aside. Afterward, they would be gasping for breath, dripping sweat, limping offstage, but for now, at this moment, the fragile illusion, the eternal miracle of dance, was preserved.
*
picture by
govi20My table is here
