(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]

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.