waywardious | (2) after and before.

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.

Threaded | Flat

There might be a slight spring in his step tonight – and who can blame him? Such an amazing performance from the first row of all places, right in the middle! Next to rich couples and other important personages who were all pretending they couldn’t see him at all. More’s the better. When he’d been handed the ticket earlier this evening, he’d been absolutely shocked at the numbers on the small slip. He’d thought about asking whether there might have been a slight mistake; but then, he’d realised what a fool he’d be to trade this chance away. The opportunity to see… to truly see…

He almost wishes he’d been wearing something better. Almost. Because in essence, it doesn’t really matter does it? When the stage is lit, the rest of the room – and the audience, too – falls into darkness and truthfully, Vincent might as well have been naked in his seat tonight with how bared he felt. Watching like this. Knowing that only a short while ago, he’d been sitting in Claude’s apartment, talking about unimportant nonsense, practically drinking him up more so than the expensive cognac in his glass. Weeks have passed since then but nothing’s changed – at least, not for the better. His dreams… Well. Safe to say, he’s been washing his own sheets ever since. Someone ought to invent a cure for this predicament. With all the physical evidence it leaves behind it should classify as an illness well enough.

Wiping the frown off his face, he pauses as the door opens, revealing Claude. Looking quite well-dressed for the night, his top hat fitting his head and his height very nicely. Unlike Vincent who can’t wear top hats unless he wants to look like an extinguished lamp post; thus, he doesn’t. Pulling at his coat somewhat uselessly, fingers jittery, he takes a deep breath and crosses over to the other man, giving him an unhesitant smile.

“Claude! What a stunning performance tonight – with the best view imaginable.” He holds out a hand in greeting, the memory of their last handshake, of Claude’s hands, large and strong, intruding upon his thoughts. Ignoring it, he adds, “I can’t thank you enough. It was unforgettable.”

It’s been a feast, really, of luxurious foods – crackers, cheeses of all kinds and sizes, even a few grapes, though the wine itself was an imported pleasure. France remains too famished, still, from the wine catastrophe of the sixties and seventies and certain expenses are only for those who can cheat themselves to a greater part of the riches. Vincent’s parents aren’t prone to indulging in wine but he himself… well. Even the German production has something to offer if you ask him and luckily, Claude’s chosen to do exactly that tonight. The dinner’s been marvelous, the best in ages. Then again, not unlike Claude, he’s been feeding upon his own solitude for far too long. Following the other man down the dark alleyway leading to his main door, he realises that there’s a very faint spring to his step now – a sense of freedom, knowing that… that he’s found this man, even if he’ll have to leave him behind tonight and wait for the opportunity to see him once more from afar. Even if he’ll never get another chance to be this close to him, to… to breathe him in.

Hands no longer chronically stuck in his pockets, he gestures upwards at the windows far above their heads, a faint light emitted from some of them whilst others seem black as night. “You have a lovely place to live, Claude. Especially when you consider some of the alternatives in this area – imagine having no views except for these bricks!” A wide wave of his arm in the general direction of the walls surrounding them. Vincent’s not spoiled when it comes to living arrangements, not by far, but it’s still a fact of truth that Claude’s apartment with its views to the sky seem just a bit above the rest; stairs and lack of commodities not withstanding.

It doesn’t feel odd anymore, thinking about it. About Claude’s apartment and the fact that he’s already visited, that he knows what it looks like inside. It goes with the rest of this evening, really – with drawing closer and closer to him, listening to him talk, imagine him living his life, a life without all the dirty and sinful humiliations that Vincent keeps ascribing his own afflictions. The more he discovers, the more he realises that his views have been twisted and turned. Possibly he’ll never be more than this – but then again, Claude will always be exactly this much and maybe that’s just a superior mode of thinking.

no subject

(later)