(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]

He’s about to answer Claude’s comment with something complimentary – but then, he goes tumbling sideways, arms flailing for balance as the other man bounces into him. Had it been someone else, he would have been quite unappreciative of the gesture but as it is, all he can truly think about is how Claude’s suddenly so close, the sense of proximity emphasised by the tingling in his arm and shoulder. And then, before he can fall flat on his face in an embarrassing heap of limps, that strong hand – strong and steady – closes around his upper arm and pulls him to a stop. Balance restored while he finds his feet, his heart beating fast enough to leave his head rushing from it.

For a long moment, he just tries to regain his composure, following along shakily, Claude’s grip loosening only slightly as they walk on. Swallowing his nerves, he tries to push all the wrong thoughts aside once more, wondering how he can even remain acquainted with this man in the long run if this is what he does to him, to his mind and body and soul. It’s a losing battle. At some point, he’s bound to ruin it all and is it really worth the resultant pain? Is it?

Glancing sideways at Claude, noting the awkwardness of his laugh, the slight stumble in their conversational flow, he finally smiles. “Quite alright. As you can see, I’m no dancer myself.” His hands tighten harshly in the fabric of his coat. Raising an eyebrow at Claude’s hand still curled around his upper arm, he adds, “It’s hardly going to break me.” It’s an almost impossible feat, however, keeping the underlying resignation out of his voice. There’s a flatness to it, it seems. Despite his best intentions.

[waywardious]

Vincent, rather pointedly, glances at Claude's hand, fingers still gripping him by his upper arm even as they've ventured at least five steps down the street and the other man's no more due to fall than a tall, windswept tree in the prime of health. Releasing his hold on him, Claude retreats with a given respect and obvious reluctance - Vincent may be thin underneath his Inverness, but he's certainly still the perfect display of sinewy muscle and physical presence as only men ever manage. It has been a long time since Claude stopped questioning why his attractions swung the way they do. He touches enough women in his professional life to know even the most trained ballerina body has nothing on the feeling of the masculine. One must be allowed to have preferences, he supposes. In this country, at least, it won't get you killed, although there's something to say for social death as well...

"You don't strike me as someone easily broken, Vincent," Claude says by way of acknowledgement. His lighter voice and narrow build aside, Vincent truly doesn't give off the air of spoils and privilege that often underlies the frailty of the upper classes. Then again, resilience and force has always been a stamp of the French working class, called middle class these days because society is changing all around them in the wake of the growing industry. Whatever name - these were the people who beheaded kings and accomplished revolutions. Not people to mess around with. "What do you do for a living?"

Something that earns him enough to attend the Opera. And something which keeps his hands incredibly soft.

[thecountofthree]

Claude lets go and it’s a mercy just as well as a torment. The loss of touch makes him shiver, an odd chill spreading through his upper body for a brief second before dissipating. Returning his focus to the road ahead, he rubs his arm with one, stiff hand, trying to think of a way to answer without revealing the absolute boredom of his general existence and coming up empty. Very fitting, when you think about it. Easily broken? He's never been close enough to danger to test it, has he?

“I’m an accountant.” He speaks the word without much sentimentalism or indeed, much of anything. He’s never hated his job, he’s got a head for numbers and order – really, it’s the most logical thing he could do. Sometimes, however, logic becomes a rather numb excuse for motivation. “My father…” He swallows without meaning to. “My father’s acquaintance owns a somewhat sizeable dressmaker’s business. He was kind enough to give me work.”

It’s not that getting a job by himself would have been impossible but truly, using your family connections remains a much less vulnerable approach to the market. Naturally, his father owes his friend for taking Vincent in years back and keeping him on – and indeed, favours slip from hand to hand, solidifying the arrangement in a way that a flawless performance never could. LeBeau doesn’t come out of that deal any poorer and obviously, if he did, there’d be no deal to speak of at all. He knows what they’re like, all of them. His father always looks quite ashen when they talk about it. But he’s chosen to accept that the world works as it does, that in order to provide for his household, he’ll have to endure those who’d take advantage.

[waywardious]

An accountant? His first association of accountancy is rows by rows of numbers. Dust dancing in the air, drying ink, the slightly cramped smell of small places. Then again, he finds it incredibly easy to imagine Vincent's fingers holding a pen, striking the lines and adding the swirls of a two and a five. An accountant - yes, he can imagine it, now that Vincent is telling him, but he might have put his money on something just slightly more flimsy in nature. A tailor's assistant, if not a tailor himself, perhaps.

Somewhat unconsciously correcting his gloves, tugging them back over his wrists because they tend to slip down, smooth enough to slide over his skin, Claude smiles - another small tug near the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure your handwriting is something I should take note of, in that case." Their footfalls dull and uneven across the newly repaved Place de l'Opéra, they steer around the carriages making their way into the night. At this hour, the traffic is nightmarish, everyone with somewhere to be and someone to see finding themselves in transit. "I hear it's a work-related injury for your kind, to wield an immaculate cursive."

His own is barely readable, if he's not concentrated enough and Heaven knows, the concentration he needs to manage anything beyond a scrawl is not something he often begrudges the world. He can do very neat things with his feet, thus the point just remains lost on him. Pavel used to tease him about it. Called it a proof that he lacked sensitivity. Naturally, he would fall blissfully silent when Claude put his hands to an altogether better use... The blush sneaks up on him and he doesn't catch it in time. A slight frown and he fixes his gaze on the corner where Avenue de l'Opéra crosses Boulevard des Capucines.

[thecountofthree]

He smiles very slightly, taking the compliment for what it is. The truth of the matter is, Vincent’s got a very excellent cursive, both highly readable and more simplistic than many others. Ever since he first started learning the letters and how to put them to paper, people have commented favourably on his precision. The elegance of it. His mother, in turn, smiles in public and sighs once the doors are safely closed and barred. His expression fades into neutral once more.

“I have worked along side people with unintelligible handwriting, Claude. Nothing in the world is for certain, right?” He shifts just a bit closer again, looking sideways at the other man, very consciously keeping his eyes from roaming downwards towards his hands. It would only lead his mind onwards and he’s already torturing himself enough by far. Is he blushing, though? Quite a fitting look for him, isn’t it? All rose-coloured subtlety. Imagine how that would look... whilst… Or don’t, actually. No. Heat spreading on his face as well, Vincent adds, somewhat hastily: “Why would you take note of it, though? Surely, a man with your physical skills…” He can’t finish the sentence, swallowing the last words, whatever they would have been. Physical skills indeed. He’s implying, of course, that a ballet dancer who can work his body through the air not unlike the strokes of a painter’s brush should have no difficulties with pen and paper. But his mind is taking his words into indescribable places and all he can do is hope that Claude catches his meaning regardless.

For some reason, though, he can’t help but think - even if he doesn’t… surely, they’ll work it out. Claude hasn’t once made him feel awkward or inadequate despite his slip-ups and lack of self-restraint. He’s been so kind, so very, very kind. There’s a reason why the man’s taken over the nameless stranger’s place in his dreams, has settled himself so thoroughly in the main role despite Vincent’s frantic attempts at sparing even his fictional self the humiliation of it. Of having to partake in… in that. In any of it. But Claude simply stays right where he is, all calm strength and presence, all him.

Almost all.

[waywardious]

He likes Vincent's choice of words. Naturally, he's referring to Claude's talents as a dancer, but the sentence that trails off really leaves the conclusion up to interpretation, doesn't it? Returning his attention to its prior focus, in due time to catch Vincent turning his own very pointedly elsewhere, Claude raises an eyebrow as high as it will go and adverts his gaze only long enough to check both sides of the road for advancing horses, before stepping out onto the boulevard. "They're not too accustomed to working with small, thin objects, my hands," he tells the other man in a purposefully innocent voice, although there's laughter enough behind the words to make the innuendo clear. Or so one can hope, yes? After all, the oblivious might begin thinking of ballerinas and rounded female waists, concluding on those grounds, but just as Claude would never assume Vincent easily breakable, he gets the equally distinct impression that he isn't that stupid, either. Not stupid at all, in fact.

From here, they can't make out the water yet, but as they continue down Avenue de l'Opéra, Claude knows they're only a long cobblestone stretch and a few rows of tall apartment buildings from the banks. The grin fading from his face little by little, he remembers how often they would walk the same route, Pavel and him - to the same restaurant in the Latin Quarters every time, after practice or rehearsals. Sighing slightly, he reaches up and runs his kidskin-covered fingers through his hair, all golden specks carefully washed out tonight when he hoped and halfway expected someone would be waiting for him. Since that fall, he hasn't talked to anyone about what happened. Enough people knew and he couldn't think of anyone in addition who'd need to. Maybe until now.

The glance he throws to the side is as stolen as anything Claude can ever manage. Which is to say, not very much. Not very much at all.

[thecountofthree]

… pause. He catches Claude’s eyes for half a second before looking away, the colour rising in his cheeks intensifying. Rather a lot, too. Not too accustomed to working with small, thin… He gulps, throat feeling suddenly dry, wondering how to proceed from here. Because by now, he’d have to have been an idiot not to notice how Claude’s been catching his every misstep and rather than correct any of them, he’s… simply followed his lead. The man may be a dancer and a fantastic one at that – but considering the subject matter, it’s beyond generous of him to keep playing. Isn’t it. Unless of course…

Biting his lip, he runs one hand through his hair quickly, every muscle in his body seemingly tense. There’s a slight shake to his hand again, a tremble running right beneath the skin as his blood rushes just a bit faster through his veins. God. His… his fantasies, his dreams… Surely, he’s simply forgetting himself again, deceiving his senses because he’s too weak to withstand the temptation. Eyes searching the ground uselessly, he finally looks back at Claude, managing nothing even close to a smile this time, his voice just a bit thinner than normal, audibly frail around the edges.

“Claude, I…” A quick breath as he squares his shoulders somewhat, knowing exactly what he looks like when he slumps, “Forgive me, but I… I wonder if you often invite your loving audience out for post-performance dinners.” True, there’s no question mark at the end of his sentence, not in his voice either or in his facial expressions. Whether Claude wants to treat it as a question, however, is entirely up to him. All he knows is, this talk about hands and sizes and whatever else is making him feel lightheaded and incredibly silly at the same time and if he doesn’t in some manner verbalise his confusion, it won’t take very long before it drives him mad.

[waywardious]

Whatever loving audience Vincent imagines Claude has had, it has never included anyone he'd consider taking out for dinner, no. Far from it. Claude was rising in ranks, before Pavel came to Paris and he certainly did receive love letters every now and then when he'd danced particularly high-profile roles, but the senders had always gone by names such as Charlotte or Irene and thus, his attention had never extended beyond complimentary notes back. One mustn't disappoint the patrons who pay to see him and whose interest could fuel his career on the long run, but taking a young lady out for dinner would send very definite signals not only to her, but to her family. If Claude is ever to marry, he certainly won't marry a woman who holds any romantic feelings for him. It would be too cruel and he isn't a cruel man, he'd like to think.

Remaining quiet for a long time, his shoes tap across the more level, more worn pavement of the Avenue de l'Opéra. His hands sink low along his sides while he considers how to present the issue to Vincent without either offending him or scaring him away. "Usually, the people who show that level of investment in my person aren't someone I would waste that kind of attention on," he settles with. Keeps his eyes focused on the long stretch of sidewalk ahead. The women they pass fall into one of two categories, either clad in their big fur coats still or hoping for gentler weather by mere willful thinking. A delivery boy, hardly more than twelve, runs past him on his right, managing not to bump into him even as he jumps through the narrow space where Claude is passing by a young, seemingly newly-married couple.

And to be completely clear, unmistakably clear - he slowly adds, inclining head enough to cast a look at Vincent's face first, then at the ghostly facade of the window front behind him which reflects the somewhat hesitant look in Claude's eyes back at him: "So, no. I shouldn't say."

[thecountofthree]

Oh. They walk on, silence spreading between them in the wake of Claude’s… whatever it is. Well, at its barest level it’s a negation to Vincent’s question, implied and buried beneath layers of nerves as it may have been. But then, it’s so much more, too. If he doesn’t often do this, if it’s such a rare occurrence, then what does that make Vincent? Right now, here, walking alongside Claude and trying not to fall apart at the seams, trying not to look at him the wrong way or say something that’ll give him away…

“In that case,” he says, voice oddly pensive as he tries to gather his thoughts, “I’m honored to be here.” Making absolutely no conscious effort to emphasise his point, he manages to do so regardless by drifting closer to Claude, close enough for their shoulders to brush once more. This time, though, he decides that it’s not an accident. It’s just… a natural conclusion. Vincent’s always thought himself at least half-way alone in this world concerning his bizarre, sexual urges – maybe there are others, yes, but surely only the deranged, the bastards in the gutters. It’s still difficult to imagine this somber, calm and talented man be anything but in line with… with what, exactly?

Hands loosening slightly in his pockets, he thinks it over as carefully as he’s capable of in his current state, his body still tense enough to hurt beneath his clothes. It’s not much, granted, but even like this, he’s starting to realise that something doesn’t add up. Something about his view of the other man, idealised as it may be. Idealised, yes, and perhaps that’s the problem in a nutshell. Surely, if Claude turns out incongruent with the image Vincent’s constructed of his morality in his head, maybe the constructor needs to re-assess his calculations. His building blocks. He pushes the thought aside quickly, disturbed by himself – but regardless, it lingers.

[waywardious]

"Well," Claude replies after a few slow inhalations, a few carefully placed moves forward - once Vincent brushes up against his side once more, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not. He won't make the judgment now, not in the wake of their given subject matter, however veiled it may be. "You are very special. I've been a lonesome diner for the past couple of years." The sentence begins in his usual tone of voice, if a note or two gentler than the unceremonious directness that otherwise characterises him. However, once it has moved into the heavily mined territory of -- history, his voice breaks ever so slightly. Nothing embarrassing, nothing too emotional. Rather, it's a fall of pitch and he clears his throat in the aftermath, jumbling the sudden flood of words about.

Since Pavel died, there has been nobody. Certainly, he hasn't deprived his body of its basic needs... As it is, he's a very physical sort of person, isn't he? He relies on his body enough that it matters with what exactly he stuffs his mouth or how tense he allows his system to become. Ganyméde is a safe place to take care of the basic urges, but when he doesn't eat alone, he eats with other dancers and at this point, the Opera has become forbidden territory in any matters of the heart. If he can't risk it there, it has felt utterly useless to risk it anywhere else.

Jaw tight, he kicks aside a pebble mostly without thinking about it. Such a childlike gesture, of course, but feelings are something he reserves for the stage. Beyond it, he strives for balance. When balance fails him, he can pretend and pretends with enough gusto for the levels to resettle themselves. They always resettle, at times you simply have to wait longer than you'd thought.

[thecountofthree]

First, there’s a very uninvited sense of delight – childish, almost, except not quite innocent enough to qualify – at the word special. But then, something inside Claude visible trembles. Not the rest of him, oh no, and Vincent hasn’t seen him slip up even once on stage so why would his body fail him now of all times? Rather, there’s something about the tone of his voice, the way he kicks that poor little wayward pebble… Vincent takes a moment to understand his words properly. A lonesome diner. Well. There’s a rush of something that’s not quite gratefulness, not quite relief as he realises that he’s not the only one who’s had to resign himself to his own company when two would have been the preferable number. Then, immediately after, he feels a stab of anger at the mere thought – that someone like this, a man like Claude should be left to silence and loneliness despite the way he shines. Brightens up the world, even when the lights go out and the curtain falls.

Reacting rather than thinking, he crosses the distance between them quickly and links their arms together, making certain to strike a pace next to Claude that won’t be… invasive or bothersome. He realises only belatedly that he’s touching him, that he’s invading his personal space without even an ounce of hesitation or humility but surely, surely, there’s nothing quite as important in the world as this. As slowing them both down, just enough to leave a sense of calm floating between their bodies, filling out whatever little distance remains.

“I hope I won’t disappoint, then.” He keeps his voice light, the slight tremble at the last word giving away the nervousness raging through his body with every step. He doesn’t – it doesn’t have to mean anything. If he doesn’t ponder too much, surely there’ll always be the night for regrets and self-reproach. “Apparently, you are a man with very selective tastes in company.”

[waywardious]

In every way possible, Vincent bridges the distance. Not only does he step closer, linking their arms with an assertiveness that Claude somehow expected of him, although perhaps not yet, but his tall frame aligning with Claude's own shorter one fills whatever cracks remain between them with a welcome calm. A welcome break with force and stillness, the traits Claude has come to rely on so heavily to compensate for the rest. The things he lost. Selective tastes in company, Vincent comments and all those words, jumbled and lumped together and drowning in his chest, seem suddenly much too heavy to carry around anymore. No wonder he hasn't been able to rise anywhere, with stones tied to his ankles like this. He frowns. Considers the consequences and the implications only briefly, because part of him knows that if he doesn't talk about it now, he'll miss the chance to. Ever again.

"I had a friend," he hears himself begin. Strangely far away. His voice sounding foreign. "An étoile from Saint Petersburg who came to Paris a few years ago to aid the Opera with their staging of two classics in the Russian repertory. One of them was La Bayadère. We --" And he doesn't get further, because the descriptions fail him. Even amongst themselves in Le Ganyméde, there's the eternal struggle of wording their relationships correctly. The two of them, Vincent and him, are drawing closer and closer to the water, the electric lights across the Pont du Carrousel reflecting in the murky surface of the Seine in glimpses. Glimpses of light and darkness and all the nuances in between. "We did our best to be discreet about our involvement, but must have gotten carried away. French legislation in general is liberal and the Opera as a community, you'd think, even more so. Two weeks before the grand premiere of La Bayadère where Pavel was scheduled to dance Solor, the entire Russian delegation was ordered home. La Bayadère was called off. The Opera lost a fortune. I got demoted from my soloist position..." A long breath. The telegram he'd received from Elizaveta two months later is still so vivid in his mind that he could recite it from memory, if he wanted. He doesn't. He doesn't even want to think about it; once he'd grasped its message, his first reaction was to burn it to crisps. "The family of Pavel's fiancée back in Russia had demanded that Pavel would be held personally responsible for the restoration of her honour. He got the choice between remaining in Russia under their surveillance or suffer capital punishment. He told the Tsar to his face that he'd rather die than stay in Russia, so they hung him."

There's something too blasé about the way he ends up telling the story, but when all comes down to it, the events are what they are. It's everything that lies behind, untold... which makes it truly complicated.

[thecountofthree]

So far, he realises, Claude’s been almost too good about asking about his life – his work, his handwriting, his interest in ballet. Though he can’t by any means be called a non-communicative person, the contrast now between their prior conversations and this veritable rush of information – it’s almost startling. Not unlike a dam breaking, though with as much restraint as you’d expect of Claude with his marvelous footwork and precision. He glances sideways at the waters of the Seine, lights reflected off its surface and leaving its dark, murky depths looking quite unfriendly by comparison. They’re not merely scraping the surface anymore, are they? Because Claude’s not just telling him about his unlucky friend, hanged for keeping his back straight against his own home country. He’s not just telling him about his own fall from grace, either, though those elements by themselves are heartbreaking enough to make him swallow, words of comfort stuck in his throat. No, because this man… this friend of his…

“I – you two were…” He swallows, colour welling up into his cheeks once more, not from embarrassment at the subject matter but from the stupidity of the question. Because really, at the core of it, what does it matter in light of all the rest? Not one bit. Instead, he shakes his head quickly, his grip on Claude’s arm tightening subconsciously. “I’m sorry. I…” Pause. There really is not much else to say, is there? “Claude.” A deep breath and then, voice softer still: “I’m deeply sorry.”

Beneath it all, there’s relief. A stark sense of relief, something he can’t even begin to acknowledge or deal with because what are his own, personal troubles against this tragic tale? Vincent’s lived a peaceful life, a boring life too, certainly, but utterly devoid of danger to both himself and his family. Except, perhaps, for whatever hazards his father may subject himself to at work to take home his daily living. When Vincent was younger, his mother once dreamt for him to train and later work as a farrier – his father, in response, had put his foot down. A rare occurrence indeed, but this idea he wouldn’t hear. The thought of burning fire, of harsh metals and dangerous animals were too much for him to bear and Vincent, in turn, silently thanked him from the bottom of his weak little heart. He’s never imagined loving someone and losing them in such a horrendous fashion; even his nightmares, in comparison, seem pale and pitiful.

[waywardious]

"I've been sorry for a long time," Claude admits, as an extension of Vincent's words. It's said with a slight shrug, though. Yes, it was tragic. Yes, it might just have ruined him for good in certain aspects, but life is made up of a million parts, isn't it? Just because these pieces can't be restored, doesn't mean he can't work with the motif as it remains - incomplete, but as a dancer, he's learned to deal with the eternal quest for perfection where the horizon will never truly be within reach. Glancing up at Vincent, he manages a smile; not thin or strained, but plenty curved and warm in its honesty. "You're doing marvellously, Vincent."

Outside the Opera, Claude is a very difficult man to disappoint. If it's not a question of choreography and movement, rules are meant to be disregarded, if they fail to address the situation you find yourself in. Ask anyone, Claude Bérubé is ever the gentleman, but he's also as informal as they come and takes life in stride. Whatever happens tonight, after dinner - Claude doesn't expect that Vincent could let him down, even if he consciously tried. Perhaps because he couldn't imagine the other man wanting to. Try. Consciously. Lines mean edges and edges can be sharp, you won't hear him deny it, but behind Vincent's very handsome armour, Claude doesn't feel even the notion of arms aimed at him. He likes that, it's admirable.

They cross the bridge, their reflections blurry and disturbed in the rippling Seine. Underneath their feet, the passing carriages and heavy trotting of the horses pulling them shakes the very foundation on which they're walking. Then again, isn't that the lesson he's been taught? This ever-trembling nature of living, as if at the foot of a slumbering volcano.