[ And, it's a wrap. Production's been hugely successful, a well-known ballet returning with a keen awareness of its own former glory and the production's been praised more than once, though the reviewers haven't really paid any particular attention to the part that belongs to Ed and his crew which is just as well. In certain productions, the light's a main character, a part of the setting to the same degree as the humans drifting through it but in this case, they're mostly background, there to light up something or someone else and allow it to shine. It's fine. Light's a lot of things and Ed's around for all of them, always has been.
For now, they're packing up their equipment at one in the morning while the party's still going inside the theatre. Ed's hanging around on the stairs near the back entrance, watching his guys do what they're paid to do while he smokes his third cig of the night. He needs to speak to the artistic director before he leaves and is currently waiting for the man to message him - hopefully, he's not so busy getting high or whatnot that he forgets.
Ed frowns and blows out a smoke ring. He missed the performance tonight but has seen two throughout the run. It's a nice ballet. Long. Very sad. The theme about missing your chances at happiness, of being too afraid, has sort of made him less inclined towards it; it makes him feel restless in his chair, like he'd rather be elsewhere.
She left the love of her life because he didn't deserve someone as foul as her.
Yeah, Ed absolutely hates that idea.
He shakes his head at Ivan when he asks a question - no, none of this is for storage, next stop is Rotterdam and everything's going - and leans back against the wall. ]
[ The end-of-run party is always a messy affair. All the hierarchy bullshit, the intrigues and the cat fights for attention and roles, just full-blown jealousy exposure, the moment you step inside. Claude never stays for long, for that reason. That, and he isn't there to sleep with anyone. Sleeping with someone, preferably someone with a say in things, is the main reason these things are thrown in the first place. So, he shows up, drinks a few beers and then goes home to sleep. On nights when he has performed in the closing night show, he has a natural excuse to retreat early. On nights, like tonight, what he hasn't? He just has to be honest. Like he said to Yvette, no one actually likes to be here, I'm just the only one who isn't afraid to say so. She'd kissed him on the top of his head and sent him off. Be brave, Claude, she'd called after him, be brave.
So, he only had one option, and that was to be brave.
He knows that the stage technicians are taking down the rigging and the lighting now, even past midnight, they need to send the equipment to their next destination, very little stays static in this world. Ballet is an art form that exists in the moment, because movement changes all the time, it becomes something else or it stops, dies. All the things that make ballet come alive? They die with it. It's kind of sad, really.
Backstage, clad in his nice suit, brown, a colourful tie, vintage shoes that creak a little when he walks, because they're real leather, he asks a guy where he can find Ed, getting pointed to the back entrance with a non-commital there, proceeding to follow his directions, trying not to hesitate, not to question himself.
He didn't go to that party to get laid, just as he isn't coming here to be. He just wants to say hi. Before the man vanishes once more, like a sylph or a willi in the light, a mirage, gone with the morning. When he sees him, smoking - no smoking indoors, come on - he breaks out in a wide smile despite himself. Even so, he shakes his head notably at him as he approaches, nodding at the cigarette. ]
First off, hi. [ He purses his lips, playfully. ] But no smoking inside, you rascal.
[ Creak, creak. Ed's gaze darts sideways briefly as he registers the sound of approaching footfalls, at first taking in just the outline of a figure drawing closer and finding no particular reason to pay attention. Not at first glance. Then again, Ed's first glance tend to be a fickle thing indeed, his attention span notoriously compromised at any given moment and consequently, it doesn't exactly shock him that his initial impression is so utterly, mind-numbingly wrong; because it's not just anybody walking up to him, is it, it's Armand himself. Ed's managed to catch him in the role both times. That had been a treat, definitely.
Usually, he likes to see different dancers, just to feel the way the story changes, gains or loses nuances - but in this case, well.
Well. ]
Hi! I - oh. [ He picks the cigarette from between his lips and stares at it for a second or two, the all-too-familiar taste of nicotine heavy and dark against the back of his throat. Then, with a shrug, he dumps it to the ground and stubs it out. ] Right, right. Rules. Can't believe I forgot about those.
[ Said with a slight wink. Of the many things he's known for, being all humble and law-abiding definitely isn't one of them. Habitually, he pushes away the thoughts that always follow in the wake of that knowledge - darker thoughts, the kind that makes you feel rotten through to your core. No place for those right now. He's got an empty apartment waiting for him along with half a bottle of rum, he'll pencil those fuckers in at a later date, thanks.
For now, he leans back against the wall a little and gives Claude a smile and a once-over, just taking him in. He looks nice in that suit. Vintage shoes are on point, too, gotta say. Ed thinks a little forlornly about his own wardrobe, all black and grey, just a few, dark purples here and there, snuck in amidst the rest. ]
[ The audience thinks the world of the theatre starts and ends with the stage, most of the people sitting in the red, velvet seats out there won't even know that half the life of the stage happens at the back, they won't ever recognize how huge it is back here. Claude meets Ed's eyes when they come back around, and by that he means up, to his face, his expression warming for a moment - then, with a slight shrug that says, spare me but good-humouredly, he walks over to the slap of wall next to the other man and places himself against it, back and shoulders and nice suit jacket, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning his head as far back as it'll go, so he's staring up towards the darkened ceilings with their ropes and their mechanical systems, shut down for now. Where the magic happens, whether the audience can see the intricate workings of it or not.
Glancing at Ed out the corner of his eye, taking in the elegant line of his jaw, the grey hue of his hair, the sense of softness and maybe a little bit of trouble, too, Claude shifts a bit back and forth on his heels, comments: ]
As long as it's selective memory.
[ Slowly, he turns his head, looks up at the other man, shoulders unusually relaxed, stance as close to a slouch as you get with him, and he smiles at him, wide and inviting and halfway a laugh, the laugh he promised him the last time, right? In everything but words. It means, as long as it's not old age setting in, though he doesn't say it. Saying it would somehow be too direct, too intimate. After all, this is only the second time they talk. He reminds himself. It feels like more. Supposedly, when you share a run of anything, that's a whole life lived together, every time.
Head returning to its previous position, Claude purses his lips, listens for the sounds of the stage technicians further ahead, tearing their own hard work down. Seems a Sisyphean task, to always start over everywhere, huh? Though, maybe that's just life. For everyone.
The company, they've already begun rehearsals for the next thing, too. He blinks against the shadows up there. ]
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no subject
For now, they're packing up their equipment at one in the morning while the party's still going inside the theatre. Ed's hanging around on the stairs near the back entrance, watching his guys do what they're paid to do while he smokes his third cig of the night. He needs to speak to the artistic director before he leaves and is currently waiting for the man to message him - hopefully, he's not so busy getting high or whatnot that he forgets.
Ed frowns and blows out a smoke ring. He missed the performance tonight but has seen two throughout the run. It's a nice ballet. Long. Very sad. The theme about missing your chances at happiness, of being too afraid, has sort of made him less inclined towards it; it makes him feel restless in his chair, like he'd rather be elsewhere.
She left the love of her life because he didn't deserve someone as foul as her.
Yeah, Ed absolutely hates that idea.
He shakes his head at Ivan when he asks a question - no, none of this is for storage, next stop is Rotterdam and everything's going - and leans back against the wall. ]
no subject
So, he only had one option, and that was to be brave.
He knows that the stage technicians are taking down the rigging and the lighting now, even past midnight, they need to send the equipment to their next destination, very little stays static in this world. Ballet is an art form that exists in the moment, because movement changes all the time, it becomes something else or it stops, dies. All the things that make ballet come alive? They die with it. It's kind of sad, really.
Backstage, clad in his nice suit, brown, a colourful tie, vintage shoes that creak a little when he walks, because they're real leather, he asks a guy where he can find Ed, getting pointed to the back entrance with a non-commital there, proceeding to follow his directions, trying not to hesitate, not to question himself.
He didn't go to that party to get laid, just as he isn't coming here to be. He just wants to say hi. Before the man vanishes once more, like a sylph or a willi in the light, a mirage, gone with the morning. When he sees him, smoking - no smoking indoors, come on - he breaks out in a wide smile despite himself. Even so, he shakes his head notably at him as he approaches, nodding at the cigarette. ]
First off, hi. [ He purses his lips, playfully. ] But no smoking inside, you rascal.
no subject
Usually, he likes to see different dancers, just to feel the way the story changes, gains or loses nuances - but in this case, well.
Well. ]
Hi! I - oh. [ He picks the cigarette from between his lips and stares at it for a second or two, the all-too-familiar taste of nicotine heavy and dark against the back of his throat. Then, with a shrug, he dumps it to the ground and stubs it out. ] Right, right. Rules. Can't believe I forgot about those.
[ Said with a slight wink. Of the many things he's known for, being all humble and law-abiding definitely isn't one of them. Habitually, he pushes away the thoughts that always follow in the wake of that knowledge - darker thoughts, the kind that makes you feel rotten through to your core. No place for those right now. He's got an empty apartment waiting for him along with half a bottle of rum, he'll pencil those fuckers in at a later date, thanks.
For now, he leans back against the wall a little and gives Claude a smile and a once-over, just taking him in. He looks nice in that suit. Vintage shoes are on point, too, gotta say. Ed thinks a little forlornly about his own wardrobe, all black and grey, just a few, dark purples here and there, snuck in amidst the rest. ]
no subject
Glancing at Ed out the corner of his eye, taking in the elegant line of his jaw, the grey hue of his hair, the sense of softness and maybe a little bit of trouble, too, Claude shifts a bit back and forth on his heels, comments: ]
As long as it's selective memory.
[ Slowly, he turns his head, looks up at the other man, shoulders unusually relaxed, stance as close to a slouch as you get with him, and he smiles at him, wide and inviting and halfway a laugh, the laugh he promised him the last time, right? In everything but words. It means, as long as it's not old age setting in, though he doesn't say it. Saying it would somehow be too direct, too intimate. After all, this is only the second time they talk. He reminds himself. It feels like more. Supposedly, when you share a run of anything, that's a whole life lived together, every time.
Head returning to its previous position, Claude purses his lips, listens for the sounds of the stage technicians further ahead, tearing their own hard work down. Seems a Sisyphean task, to always start over everywhere, huh? Though, maybe that's just life. For everyone.
The company, they've already begun rehearsals for the next thing, too. He blinks against the shadows up there. ]
Then, things just have to be worth remembering.