Ficlet: Entrechat Cinquante: steel
Apr. 16th, 2009 11:16 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: steel.
October 2005
*
Sean took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, listening to the plaintive rumbling of his stomach. He’d gulped coffee and a single piece of toast for breakfast at six this morning. Since then he hadn’t eaten a thing, and it was past three, and there was a young woman sitting on the chair opposite him, looking as though she were awaiting the executioner. In a way, that was true.
Sophie-Anne Gibbs was dark-haired and milk-pale. Her back was straight and inflexible, not touching the chair. A fine sweat misted her skin. Her huge black eyes darted to and fro, then settled on Sean as he replaced his glasses. “Is this about the Act II mazurka?” she whispered. Her voice was surprisingly low and husky.
Sean sighed. “In a way, Sophie-Anne. You see –“
“It was just a slip. It could have happened to anyone, Sean. It’s not really fair to pick on me. Besides, I was hyper-oxygenating and Juliette pushed me and –“ She stopped and folded her hands in her lap. Sean watched in almost painful fascination as she re-oriented herself. “I don’t see why you haven’t called her in here too.”
“You fainted.”
“I told you, I was hyper-oxygenating. The studio was stuffy.”
“Sophie-Anne, you fainted because you’re not eating.”
She lifted her chin, the picture of dignity. “That’s not true.”
Sean scowled. “Green tea, ginseng, and cigarettes do not constitute a proper diet.”
“I eat.”
“The last thing I saw you eat was a celery stick and three slices of cucumber. No wonder you’re fainting.”
Sophie-Anne’s eyebrows drew together. “What, are you following me around and watching me eat now?”
“I’ve been watching, yes.” Sean stood up, came around the desk, and sat in the chair beside her. He lifted her hand and encircled her upper arm with his finger and thumb. “What’s happened to all your muscle mass, love?” She started to speak, but he held up a warning finger. “I’ve made an appointment for you with the nutritionist. Tomorrow at nine.”
Her face was mutinous. “This is so unfair. Just because I don’t pig out on sweets and carbs like everyone else –“
“There are plenty of good things, healthy things that you can eat without eating lots of sweets and carbs,” Sean said. He released Sophie-Anne’s arm and clasped her hand in his. “You’ve worked here long enough to know that we don’t make excessive weight demands like some companies I could name. I want you to be fit and strong. Without the proper food, you won’t have the strength you need. Without strength, you can’t dance. If you can’t dance, there’s no place for you in the company. Am I making myself clear?”
Sophie-Anne nodded without looking at him.
“If you need to speak to a counselor, Karin can arrange that for you as well.” Sean paused at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Viggo stuck his head inside. “I can come back.”
“No, we’re finished,” Sean said. “Thank you, Sophie-Anne.” The girl nodded again, rose, and slipped out without a word, slamming the door behind her. Sean raised his eyes heavenward and shook his head. “Give me strength.”
Viggo dropped into the chair she’d vacated. “Did you tell her?”
“Yeah. You know, it’s such fun walking that line between caring director and total bastard.”
“But you do it so well,” Viggo said, his eyes twinkling. “Look, Karin will straighten her out.”
“I hope. I made the veiled threat.” Sean sighed, put his glasses on again, and picked up the new costumers’ contracts he hadn’t had a chance to look at yet.
“Maybe I could sit in next time,” Viggo offered. “We could play good cop-bad cop.”
“No sex games in the presence of the dancers,” Sean murmured.
“Fair enough. Have you got a couple of minutes? I want you to see something.”
“Okay.” Sean tossed the contract aside. “I can’t focus on that fucking thing today anyway. What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
“Leftovers.”
“In that case –“ Sean rooted through his desk drawer and came up with a half-full bag of roasted almonds. “I’m not going to last until dinner. What did you want me to see?”
“Come with me.” Viggo led Sean out of his office to the elevator. They rode to the seventh floor and ambled down the hall to one of the larger studios. Six men and women were inside, rehearsing the finale to Swan Lake. There were two principals for each role – Odile/Odette, Siegfried, and Von Rothbart. The corps of swans was absent, rehearsing in another studio.
Sean finished his handful of almonds and stepped inside, followed by Viggo. They took seats along the wall and watched as the ballet’s tragic end unfolded: the two lovers outwitted the evil sorcerer by leaping into the depths of the lake and drowning.
“Misery ending,” Viggo whispered in Sean’s ear.
A smile tugged at Sean’s mouth. He’d never mounted a production of Swan Lake as artistic director before now. Remembrance prickled at him as the music crescendoed, sharp and triumphant, stirring a bittersweet longing in his feet and limbs. “Looks familiar.”
Viggo squeezed Sean’s hand briefly.
Sean watched the dancers, their youthful flexibility, their musicality, their lyric grace, their spun-steel strength. They were artists, their own glorious creations, but they were his, and Viggo’s, as well. They’d helped mold them, as they’d been molded, handing down skill and knowledge as best they could, learning their bodies and hearts and minds, and then had stood back to watch them fly in a blaze of rhythm and color and motion.
His heart quickened. Had he once been so young, so strong, so audaciously assured of his own invulnerability? “Vig,” he whispered. “Were we....” He trailed off. It seemed silly to ask. “What year did Tchaikovsky write this?”
Viggo turned to him with a slight frown. “It was –“ His brow cleared as he looked from Sean to the dancers. “Eighteen seventy-something. Can’t quite recall.”
Sean nodded. It was bittersweet, but it was the way of things. He wouldn’t trade it for all the world.
*
Swan Lake - Finale
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: steel.
October 2005
*
Sean took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, listening to the plaintive rumbling of his stomach. He’d gulped coffee and a single piece of toast for breakfast at six this morning. Since then he hadn’t eaten a thing, and it was past three, and there was a young woman sitting on the chair opposite him, looking as though she were awaiting the executioner. In a way, that was true.
Sophie-Anne Gibbs was dark-haired and milk-pale. Her back was straight and inflexible, not touching the chair. A fine sweat misted her skin. Her huge black eyes darted to and fro, then settled on Sean as he replaced his glasses. “Is this about the Act II mazurka?” she whispered. Her voice was surprisingly low and husky.
Sean sighed. “In a way, Sophie-Anne. You see –“
“It was just a slip. It could have happened to anyone, Sean. It’s not really fair to pick on me. Besides, I was hyper-oxygenating and Juliette pushed me and –“ She stopped and folded her hands in her lap. Sean watched in almost painful fascination as she re-oriented herself. “I don’t see why you haven’t called her in here too.”
“You fainted.”
“I told you, I was hyper-oxygenating. The studio was stuffy.”
“Sophie-Anne, you fainted because you’re not eating.”
She lifted her chin, the picture of dignity. “That’s not true.”
Sean scowled. “Green tea, ginseng, and cigarettes do not constitute a proper diet.”
“I eat.”
“The last thing I saw you eat was a celery stick and three slices of cucumber. No wonder you’re fainting.”
Sophie-Anne’s eyebrows drew together. “What, are you following me around and watching me eat now?”
“I’ve been watching, yes.” Sean stood up, came around the desk, and sat in the chair beside her. He lifted her hand and encircled her upper arm with his finger and thumb. “What’s happened to all your muscle mass, love?” She started to speak, but he held up a warning finger. “I’ve made an appointment for you with the nutritionist. Tomorrow at nine.”
Her face was mutinous. “This is so unfair. Just because I don’t pig out on sweets and carbs like everyone else –“
“There are plenty of good things, healthy things that you can eat without eating lots of sweets and carbs,” Sean said. He released Sophie-Anne’s arm and clasped her hand in his. “You’ve worked here long enough to know that we don’t make excessive weight demands like some companies I could name. I want you to be fit and strong. Without the proper food, you won’t have the strength you need. Without strength, you can’t dance. If you can’t dance, there’s no place for you in the company. Am I making myself clear?”
Sophie-Anne nodded without looking at him.
“If you need to speak to a counselor, Karin can arrange that for you as well.” Sean paused at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Viggo stuck his head inside. “I can come back.”
“No, we’re finished,” Sean said. “Thank you, Sophie-Anne.” The girl nodded again, rose, and slipped out without a word, slamming the door behind her. Sean raised his eyes heavenward and shook his head. “Give me strength.”
Viggo dropped into the chair she’d vacated. “Did you tell her?”
“Yeah. You know, it’s such fun walking that line between caring director and total bastard.”
“But you do it so well,” Viggo said, his eyes twinkling. “Look, Karin will straighten her out.”
“I hope. I made the veiled threat.” Sean sighed, put his glasses on again, and picked up the new costumers’ contracts he hadn’t had a chance to look at yet.
“Maybe I could sit in next time,” Viggo offered. “We could play good cop-bad cop.”
“No sex games in the presence of the dancers,” Sean murmured.
“Fair enough. Have you got a couple of minutes? I want you to see something.”
“Okay.” Sean tossed the contract aside. “I can’t focus on that fucking thing today anyway. What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
“Leftovers.”
“In that case –“ Sean rooted through his desk drawer and came up with a half-full bag of roasted almonds. “I’m not going to last until dinner. What did you want me to see?”
“Come with me.” Viggo led Sean out of his office to the elevator. They rode to the seventh floor and ambled down the hall to one of the larger studios. Six men and women were inside, rehearsing the finale to Swan Lake. There were two principals for each role – Odile/Odette, Siegfried, and Von Rothbart. The corps of swans was absent, rehearsing in another studio.
Sean finished his handful of almonds and stepped inside, followed by Viggo. They took seats along the wall and watched as the ballet’s tragic end unfolded: the two lovers outwitted the evil sorcerer by leaping into the depths of the lake and drowning.
“Misery ending,” Viggo whispered in Sean’s ear.
A smile tugged at Sean’s mouth. He’d never mounted a production of Swan Lake as artistic director before now. Remembrance prickled at him as the music crescendoed, sharp and triumphant, stirring a bittersweet longing in his feet and limbs. “Looks familiar.”
Viggo squeezed Sean’s hand briefly.
Sean watched the dancers, their youthful flexibility, their musicality, their lyric grace, their spun-steel strength. They were artists, their own glorious creations, but they were his, and Viggo’s, as well. They’d helped mold them, as they’d been molded, handing down skill and knowledge as best they could, learning their bodies and hearts and minds, and then had stood back to watch them fly in a blaze of rhythm and color and motion.
His heart quickened. Had he once been so young, so strong, so audaciously assured of his own invulnerability? “Vig,” he whispered. “Were we....” He trailed off. It seemed silly to ask. “What year did Tchaikovsky write this?”
Viggo turned to him with a slight frown. “It was –“ His brow cleared as he looked from Sean to the dancers. “Eighteen seventy-something. Can’t quite recall.”
Sean nodded. It was bittersweet, but it was the way of things. He wouldn’t trade it for all the world.
*
Swan Lake - Finale
picture by
govi20My table is here
