(1) it takes courage

[thecountofthree]

Characters: Claude, Vincent.
Date: March, 1893.
Place: Outside the Palais Garnier.

The flowers – roses in white and yellow - haven’t wilted, at least, during the past hours in the cramped standing room spacing in the back. It’s a bit of a pain, standing up in the crowd for such a long stretch of time but honestly, the greater concern… is the viewing distance. Especially tonight. Vincent pauses some feet away from the back entrance, stepping to the side for a group of tiny ballerinas, leaving the premises with a brightness on their faces that you can’t help but admire. Such an exhausting work on the muscles, on every inch of your body – and yet, afterwards, they are prepared to continue onwards into the night. He doesn’t turn to watch them leave, eyes fixed on the door.

Gods, what if… is it really very proper, this? Bringing flowers for the star of the show would, naturally, be almost common place but he didn’t dance the main role, did he? Not officially, anyway. Vincent doesn’t remember anything else, really, apart from his… his visual. Despite standing further away from the stage than he'd like, there’s a bronze shine burned into his eyes, surely, and perhaps that explains the tremble of his hand, his restless shifting from foot to foot. Perhaps the mind simply cannot tolerate such an… an onslaught. As it were, as it always is. For him.

A couple of female dancers pass him by, this time taller than the others, their clothes more expensive. Higher ranked, it seems. One of them looks at him curiously, perhaps making the wrong connections at the sight of the bouquet. He doesn’t mirror her look, choosing instead to look away quickly, making certain to show her his turned back before she can ask any questions. Like this, he’s facing the door. And that’s as it should be, naturally. Get it over with, just do it.

Just… do it.

Comments

[waywardious]

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.