(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

[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.