(2) after and before.

[waywardious]

The post-performance bustle is always exceedingly pronounced on closing night. The dressing rooms reverberate with the chatter of the ballerinas and the loud shouting of the danseurs, trying to hear themselves above the rush of water and clothes. Claude has slipped relatively unseen through the commotion, narrowly avoiding Jules and managing to excuse himself when Marise makes a brave attempt at cornering him. He has no idea whether he’ll actually meet Vincent at all, on the street once more, but his entire system is overwrought from the emotional charge it required to dance like he did tonight. Watched, all over again, by a pair of non-judgmental eyes. The rest of the company may be headed for their scheduled parties, but he fully intends to go easy on himself tonight. Grant himself just a little elbowroom.

So, out of his costume and his makeup – tonight (at least) wearing a vest over his shirt, he thumps his brown top hat into position on his head and shrugs into his coat. Slides on a pair of kidskin gloves, but no scarf tonight, because April has brought along gentler winds and kinder temperatures.

Opening the heavy door leading out, right at the heels of the first corps girls, he feels the initial gusts of contentment seep into his system. He danced that variation better tonight than he has ever danced anything in his entire life; he doesn’t even care if his promotion remains obscured in the fogs of the future. He danced like Pavel taught him. Like Pavel inspired him to. All the while, someone watched him and Claude hopes to God that Vincent doesn’t decide to simply disappear back into the crowd.

Comments

[thecountofthree]

They’re men, of course, and motherly gestures are reserved for the other sex (supposedly, ‘softer’; sometimes lines aren’t truly lines at all) but even so, there’s something terribly careful and caring – gentle – about the way Claude brushes his bangs out of his eyes and kisses his forehead. He can’t help the way he leans into it, not the touch itself necessarily, but the implication. The unexpressed acceptance underneath.

When Claude lies down, his hands urging him to follow suit with no dominance or force to speak of, Vincent follows his initiative without hesitation. It feels like he’s lying down forever, his body slow and muscles unresponsive, every small glimmer of vigour sprayed out across Claude’s fingers, across his stomach and the sheepskins. There’s nothing left but a dazed kind of resignation – the knowledge that once he shuts his eyes, there may only be darkness left once he opens them again. All the same… at least he won’t be blind. Not as such, not anymore. Lying down fully on his side, he shifts closer almost without thinking, accepting Claude’s chest as his new, favourite pillow. He’s broad and warm, much preferable to any bed, his chest completely smooth beneath Vincent’s chin. Brow furrowing, he reaches down with one hand and runs his fingers lightly down Claude’s flat stomach, following the line of his treasure trail before flattening out his palm over his abdomen, his cock resting some inches further down, heavy and spent. He feels silly to realise so very late in the game – that Claude clearly shaves his chest for his roles, obviously so. Imagine, then, what this wonderful pillow would feel like if he didn’t…

Sniffing, his tears already drying on his cheeks as tiredness simply flattens all other emotions in its wake, he manages a weak smile, gaze moving from Claude’s body to the shadows on the floor, broken up in uneven patterns by the fireplace. “I should have known,” he says, voice low and flat, devoid of most nuances. “Dancers – you truly give everything to the arts, don’t you? Whatever it takes.” Compared to broken toes and deceased lovers, surely hair isn’t much to speak of. On the other hand, it’s one thing on a list longer than most outside the world of theatre could procure and the thought, for some reason, gives him strength. There’s something on the other side – no matter what he’ll choose to part with once the dust has finally settled.

[waywardious]

Claude's eyes are already fluttering shut when Vincent's fingers slip down his stomach and there's a moment where he finds himself thinking that the other man is going to attempt waking the beast all over again. Claude likes him. He likes him a lot (he realises), but like is no recipe for miracles. No, that takes stronger feelings and a lot of hard, hard work. About to reach down and redirect his hand, though, Vincent ends up simply flattening his palm over his skin and peace is restored. Claude's eyes close. Behind the empty darkness of his eyelids, it takes him a moment to process Vincent's words as he comments on what he was apparently figuring out in the most physical sense.

Whatever it takes? Claude manages a slight smile, manages not to think of Pavel and curls his left arm around Vincent's waist, keeping him close to his body, adding to the weight of his head on his chest. It's comfortable and rather cosy, but it'll be cold in the morning, if they're planning to sleep like this. Here. With his free hand, he yanks the nearest sheepskin free from its constraints beneath his arse and tugs it into place over first his own front, then Vincent's. In natural succession.

"We are the arts," he replies. Meaning that it's only natural, everything that they give. Themselves, too. Well, as natural as shaving your very, very natural chest hair off to fit into costumes effortlessly. Everything comes at a certain price. As Vincent already knows and will soon discover all over again, Claude's aware. And as Claude himself will be reminded, if he's supposed to just... let Vincent go tomorrow. With no promises extended.

None expected.