Halfway into the run and the choreography is settling with him, finally. Tonight was a good performance - not perfect, but his dancing did manage to rise above the physicality of it all. His jumps were great. He nearly touched Heaven with those pointed toes, didn't he? Unfortunately, it doesn't lessen the ache thumping persistently against the inside of his new leather shoes. La Bayadère is everything Paris could have ever imagined wanting, the next two weeks sold out unless you want to stand with the rabble at the back. Claude won't be surprised if they extend the run into next month.

Marise had kissed both his cheeks before leaving with the rest of the corps girls and now - in the relative solitude remaining behind - he shrugs into his thick coat, wraps his scarf loosely around his neck (March weather is always treacherous) and heads for the door, their lively chatter nothing but a faint echo in the darkness. He can feel the remains of his golden body paint sticking to his hairline - Well, his flat is a stone's throw away. While he balances here on the mere fraction of a star, knowing well that the road ahead is as long as ever...

Shoving his hands into the comfort of his pockets, feet producing hollow thuds against the stone staircase, he does notice the man waiting off to the side. All the ballerinas are long gone. Coming to a halt a few feet from him, he cocks his head a little.

"I'm afraid that you're too late." The underside of his face mostly obscured by tartan fabric, his voice rings muffled, but audible.