[ He's third cast, meaning he gets dress rehearsal. That's the way they make their favouritism add up, on high; third cast gets one extra performance as a 'sorry' for being prioritized the least in everything else. Is it fair? Not really. Is it pleasant? Fuck no. But it's the Paris Opera Ballet, it's an ancient and sick system, it will probably take death of some sort to restart those old gears. Until then, Claude yells when he gets irritated enough, takes a fight or two over principles sometimes, like picking the scaps and what have you that fits the metaphor. Bloodletting. Minor procedures.
Time will do the rest. He hopes, for those who're going to follow in his footsteps.
It's The Lady of the Camellias this afternoon. They've soldiered through the first two acts with minor issues, Yvette and him, though the first act pas de deux got some corrections in intermission, but now comes the real test of endurance, right? The true battle. Act three. He's gotten through costume change, waiting in the wings now while, behind him, all the Champs Élysées couples are likewise getting ready, chatting in low voices, paired up two and two together. Yvette has found the bench in the middle of the stage as is her quirk, she likes to take two minutes to herself, just sitting there, waiting for the bell to chime the first time. Gets me in the mood, she says. They've got ten minutes till showtime.
A lot of things can happen in ten minutes. André, their artistic director can find him twice over and pick apart his performance, disasters, miracles. The next ten minutes are an open arena.
Claude breathes in long, hard, turns around, meaning to find Caspar, who dances Armand's father, and see if he can't make him laugh before they have to be utterly devastated and destroyed on stage. Caspar laughing is a lovely sound, after all. Since he wasn't really looking, he almost runs head first into someone, stopping himself before they do a frontal collision only thanks to his pretty great reflexes and, he has reviews claiming this, superb motor skills.
It's their head stage technician. Claude has seen him around today, he's a nice change from the guy they're usually stuck with. So he reaches up, clasping the other man's shoulder for a moment, because that's how close they're standing now. When he speaks, it's with a wide smile, though he lets go of him quickly, realizing that touching probably is a bit out of bounds. ]
Sorry. [ His hand drops to his side, the curtain shielding them off from view on one side, the stage opening up on their left. The light's nice. Soft. ] Didn't mean to run you over.
[ Looking around, the Champs Élysées couples muttering in voices that seem to get lower and lower all around them, Claude looks up at the other man, older than him, his beard greying, and he's got kind eyes. That's what Claude notices first.
Yes, very different from that other guy. He returns his attention to him, the one he caught. Who caught him. ]
[ So, this is a ballet production and consequently, Ed definitely wouldn't be here under normal circumstances, except Izzy's run afoul with the director because of course he fucking well has and now, someone's gotta put their foot down. Ed, of course. It's always Ed. In any case, he resolved the issue within the first five minutes of visiting the stage, re-organising a few of the lights to account for the altered choreography, last-minute, which is why Izzy wouldn't hear of it. It changes their entire fucking lightning plot but so long as everyone's on board with that, Ed doesn't see the issue. Weird hill to die on, in his opinion. Their people are here to work, not lounge about in the wings.
Unlike Ed, who's definitely just hanging out at this point but.
Ballet is so fucking pretty.
He's currently standing in the wings, watching as the rehearsal moves on to act three and trying not to get in the way of anyone. Years of experience helps in that; also, dressed as he is in leather and black, he sticks out like a sore thumb. And everyone's so goddamn limber, they squeeze around him like they're some sort of fucking liquid and Ed's the only solid thing in the whole theatre. Tiny, flexible, god-like people, ballet dancers. Or butterfly-like, maybe, if you wanna get more naturalistic about it, whatever.
So, uh. He doesn't expect it when someone nearly crashes into him. He stumbles backwards half a step out of reflex, the other - a man, oh, the one who dances Armand, isn't it, fuck, he's amazing - grabbing his shoulder briefly before apologising. Ed's eyebrows go up, about to tell him that it really was his fault for trespassing where he doesn't even go, but then, the man asks him about the lights and his gaze flits to the scene, instead. ]
Oh. Uh, yeah, it's looking great. [ He waves his hand at the back wall which is currently being lowered into place. A pretty thing, very soft and subtle. ] Long as you stick to the script and don't fall off the deep end in the back, I think we've got you covered.
[ Said with half a smile. Man's definitely a pro, from what Ed's seen. He's not gonna go anywhere he isn't meant to. ]
[ Don't fall off the deep end in the back, the man tells him and Claude's smile widens slightly as he chuckles; in a way that would have been a proper laugh if he weren't saving his breath, sorry gorgeous person in front of him. He'll laugh with you for real next time. ]
I'll try not to roll into the deep.
[ Shaking his head in a way that doesn't mean no, it means don't worry, Claude straightens up, stretching slightly in his shirt and vest plus jacket that always feel a little bit constricting, even with all the extra seams and inlays. Arms well above his head, that's how he does it, the stretch. All the while he regards the other man, noticing his long hair this time, easy bun at the back of his neck, keeping it out of his face. The rest just hanging loose. Looks good on him. Looks natural. Even with the trends of the time, not a lot of guys dare go that long, but - Claude thinks - this man couldn't have it any differently.
And Claude likes it, too. He supposes.
Arms coming down, shoulders doing a roll, he gives a little wave at some of the Champs Élysées couples that are beginning to mill by them, though most of his attention is still on the head technician. He wishes with everything he has that he isn't going to take his leave yet. They've got five minutes yet, and Claude feels invigorated. For some reason.
So, if not for Claude, he wants the man to stay for the performance. He'd like to dance for him, he thinks. Of course, dancing for people is what he does, he's a professional, a true artist, as it has been termed by the dancers, but there are performances that are more personal, intimate, still.
He swears, though, he isn't trying. He doesn't even know which way the man swings, leather is no real indicator anymore, if it ever was, like everything else you put on your body it's just an aesthetic. Choice.
He's just got a feeling. ]
Will you throw me a lifebuoy if I do fall in?
[ The guys on the spots are usually pretty amazing, they can save anything and everyone, but they're not really talking about the guys working the spots. Claude hopes he knows. Whatever his name is. ]
[ The other man gives him a small laugh, a chuckle, restrained. But somehow, Ed knows it's a true laugh, that it could've been more under different circumstances and the thought makes him smile back in response, his shoulders relaxing an inch or two. For someone so talented, this guy doesn't read arrogant at all which is amazing in itself; artists can be... fickle, supposedly. That's why Izzy hates working these gigs and conversely, why Ed likes it. It's interesting, the way they work, these people. What they see between the shadows and the moving lines of light.
He stretches like a ballet dancer - all cat, maybe one percent human. Ed's back creaks a little at the sight of it, all those joints just rolling with the motion. Fuck, when he stretches he has to take care not to give himself a fucking leg cramp. Ed watches as the man waves at some of the dancers passing by while Ed stares at the ladies or, you know, the dresses. All that fabric, just swishing by in the dark. Once they step out into the light, everything looks so soft and bright, colours swirling against the darkness of the stage floor. Beautiful. He's so caught up in it, he nearly misses the man's follow-up comment, delivered gently, unassuming.
Like you wouldn't even know the man was flirting if you weren't looking for it.
Ed's not gonna lie - it's hard not to look for it when everybody around here is so goddamn gorgeous. ]
Gonna throw my entire body into it, swan dive, the whole thing.
[ A small wink. Two can play that game, thanks, and while he isn't expecting to get laid while on the job (or ever, basically, feels like he's never not working these days), they can have a little back and forth without messing up any schedules, can't they? Can't hurt. Doesn't have to, surely. ]
[ It comes out very earnestly, while also still keeping the balance of flirtatiousness, just a little bit impish, not too serious, you know, just true. Very true. Claude isn't worried. These guys have never let them down, everyone knows they're the best at what they do, that's why the Opéra bothers hiring them for the big jobs in the first place, to get that kind of quality control where it'll matter the most.
And although it disturbs his train of thought, very work-centered, very unsexy by comparison, the wink doesn't even catch him off guard. It's just there, so easy, so unintrusive, it could mean anything, nothing and everything in one happy mix, maybe even at once. He smiles, holding the man's gaze for a moment, before he eventually has to glance towards the stage where Yvette is sitting, quietly, noting how she's making ready to get off the bench any moment now, the way the muscles in her upper arms shift.
Okay, he'll have to remember that five minutes are a very short time when in good company. Then, he turns his head back towards the stranger. The man with the nice hair and the even nicer eyes. Who takes a tease, and doesn't run with it, but dives, goes deep. ]
You look a great many things.
[ His voice is soft as he speaks, so soft it almost drowns out as the bell chimes, times the first. Looking over his shoulder, catching sight of Caspar across the stage, picking up the prop dress that they're going to exchange in a moment, Claude very decisively sticks out his right hand for a shake, the proper, neutral, unassuming way of greeting someone, of letting them understand you want to know them better. ]
I'm Claude. Bérubé. I have to go in a second, but I wanted you to know, it's been a pleasure.
[ I'm Claude says Claude and oh yeah, that's right. He remembers looking over the cast list when he'd had a free moment earlier in the day. He looks at the other man's hand for maybe half a second before taking it because his hands are actually pretty dirty and fuck, isn't he supposed to hoist the lady on the bench around some, what if Ed's nasty fingerprints gets on the fine dress, just - but he shakes it, all the same. Wouldn't wanna be rude.
Besides, it's not every day he's told he looks a great many things without any underlying insults. Hah. ]
Ed.
[ Edward Teach, he'd say under normal circumstances but the time isn't right for long introductions, Ed knows the script pretty well and he's aware that Claude's about to step on, seeing the very subtle softening of the lights centerstage. Gonna emphasize his entrance from the wings very nicely, right? Make the breath stick in your throat for a little while, just that quiet sense of and now - wait! - before the musical cue catches up with the story and ups the pace for everything else.
Anyway, yeah. If he'd had oceans of time, perhaps he would've been formal, restrained, a little bit more likely to pull away immediately and turn his back. It's how things go, usually - that's why more time, as much as Izzy loves it, isn't particularly inspirational for him. It's just more of the same. ]
Pleasure's all mine. Break a leg, Claude.
[ He gives Claude's hand a small squeeze and steps back a little, just to increase the sensation of space. Though he's fairly sure the ballet dancers could squeeze past him with only inches to spare, he's not really supposed to be down here right now and if he's in the way, if he annoys people, it'll just get awkward going forwards. And he likes the feel of it, is the thing. Of being allowed close to the stage, to the visuals, without anyone questioning him or wondering why the fuck he isn't up in the booth, doing his actual job. ]
[ 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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Time will do the rest. He hopes, for those who're going to follow in his footsteps.
It's The Lady of the Camellias this afternoon. They've soldiered through the first two acts with minor issues, Yvette and him, though the first act pas de deux got some corrections in intermission, but now comes the real test of endurance, right? The true battle. Act three. He's gotten through costume change, waiting in the wings now while, behind him, all the Champs Élysées couples are likewise getting ready, chatting in low voices, paired up two and two together. Yvette has found the bench in the middle of the stage as is her quirk, she likes to take two minutes to herself, just sitting there, waiting for the bell to chime the first time. Gets me in the mood, she says. They've got ten minutes till showtime.
A lot of things can happen in ten minutes. André, their artistic director can find him twice over and pick apart his performance, disasters, miracles. The next ten minutes are an open arena.
Claude breathes in long, hard, turns around, meaning to find Caspar, who dances Armand's father, and see if he can't make him laugh before they have to be utterly devastated and destroyed on stage. Caspar laughing is a lovely sound, after all. Since he wasn't really looking, he almost runs head first into someone, stopping himself before they do a frontal collision only thanks to his pretty great reflexes and, he has reviews claiming this, superb motor skills.
It's their head stage technician. Claude has seen him around today, he's a nice change from the guy they're usually stuck with. So he reaches up, clasping the other man's shoulder for a moment, because that's how close they're standing now. When he speaks, it's with a wide smile, though he lets go of him quickly, realizing that touching probably is a bit out of bounds. ]
Sorry. [ His hand drops to his side, the curtain shielding them off from view on one side, the stage opening up on their left. The light's nice. Soft. ] Didn't mean to run you over.
[ Looking around, the Champs Élysées couples muttering in voices that seem to get lower and lower all around them, Claude looks up at the other man, older than him, his beard greying, and he's got kind eyes. That's what Claude notices first.
Yes, very different from that other guy. He returns his attention to him, the one he caught. Who caught him. ]
Is everything looking alright out here?
no subject
Unlike Ed, who's definitely just hanging out at this point but.
Ballet is so fucking pretty.
He's currently standing in the wings, watching as the rehearsal moves on to act three and trying not to get in the way of anyone. Years of experience helps in that; also, dressed as he is in leather and black, he sticks out like a sore thumb. And everyone's so goddamn limber, they squeeze around him like they're some sort of fucking liquid and Ed's the only solid thing in the whole theatre. Tiny, flexible, god-like people, ballet dancers. Or butterfly-like, maybe, if you wanna get more naturalistic about it, whatever.
So, uh. He doesn't expect it when someone nearly crashes into him. He stumbles backwards half a step out of reflex, the other - a man, oh, the one who dances Armand, isn't it, fuck, he's amazing - grabbing his shoulder briefly before apologising. Ed's eyebrows go up, about to tell him that it really was his fault for trespassing where he doesn't even go, but then, the man asks him about the lights and his gaze flits to the scene, instead. ]
Oh. Uh, yeah, it's looking great. [ He waves his hand at the back wall which is currently being lowered into place. A pretty thing, very soft and subtle. ] Long as you stick to the script and don't fall off the deep end in the back, I think we've got you covered.
[ Said with half a smile. Man's definitely a pro, from what Ed's seen. He's not gonna go anywhere he isn't meant to. ]
no subject
I'll try not to roll into the deep.
[ Shaking his head in a way that doesn't mean no, it means don't worry, Claude straightens up, stretching slightly in his shirt and vest plus jacket that always feel a little bit constricting, even with all the extra seams and inlays. Arms well above his head, that's how he does it, the stretch. All the while he regards the other man, noticing his long hair this time, easy bun at the back of his neck, keeping it out of his face. The rest just hanging loose. Looks good on him. Looks natural. Even with the trends of the time, not a lot of guys dare go that long, but - Claude thinks - this man couldn't have it any differently.
And Claude likes it, too. He supposes.
Arms coming down, shoulders doing a roll, he gives a little wave at some of the Champs Élysées couples that are beginning to mill by them, though most of his attention is still on the head technician. He wishes with everything he has that he isn't going to take his leave yet. They've got five minutes yet, and Claude feels invigorated. For some reason.
So, if not for Claude, he wants the man to stay for the performance. He'd like to dance for him, he thinks. Of course, dancing for people is what he does, he's a professional, a true artist, as it has been termed by the dancers, but there are performances that are more personal, intimate, still.
He swears, though, he isn't trying. He doesn't even know which way the man swings, leather is no real indicator anymore, if it ever was, like everything else you put on your body it's just an aesthetic. Choice.
He's just got a feeling. ]
Will you throw me a lifebuoy if I do fall in?
[ The guys on the spots are usually pretty amazing, they can save anything and everyone, but they're not really talking about the guys working the spots. Claude hopes he knows. Whatever his name is. ]
no subject
He stretches like a ballet dancer - all cat, maybe one percent human. Ed's back creaks a little at the sight of it, all those joints just rolling with the motion. Fuck, when he stretches he has to take care not to give himself a fucking leg cramp. Ed watches as the man waves at some of the dancers passing by while Ed stares at the ladies or, you know, the dresses. All that fabric, just swishing by in the dark. Once they step out into the light, everything looks so soft and bright, colours swirling against the darkness of the stage floor. Beautiful. He's so caught up in it, he nearly misses the man's follow-up comment, delivered gently, unassuming.
Like you wouldn't even know the man was flirting if you weren't looking for it.
Ed's not gonna lie - it's hard not to look for it when everybody around here is so goddamn gorgeous. ]
Gonna throw my entire body into it, swan dive, the whole thing.
[ A small wink. Two can play that game, thanks, and while he isn't expecting to get laid while on the job (or ever, basically, feels like he's never not working these days), they can have a little back and forth without messing up any schedules, can't they? Can't hurt. Doesn't have to, surely. ]
I'm a great swimmer, don't worry.
no subject
[ It comes out very earnestly, while also still keeping the balance of flirtatiousness, just a little bit impish, not too serious, you know, just true. Very true. Claude isn't worried. These guys have never let them down, everyone knows they're the best at what they do, that's why the Opéra bothers hiring them for the big jobs in the first place, to get that kind of quality control where it'll matter the most.
And although it disturbs his train of thought, very work-centered, very unsexy by comparison, the wink doesn't even catch him off guard. It's just there, so easy, so unintrusive, it could mean anything, nothing and everything in one happy mix, maybe even at once. He smiles, holding the man's gaze for a moment, before he eventually has to glance towards the stage where Yvette is sitting, quietly, noting how she's making ready to get off the bench any moment now, the way the muscles in her upper arms shift.
Okay, he'll have to remember that five minutes are a very short time when in good company. Then, he turns his head back towards the stranger. The man with the nice hair and the even nicer eyes. Who takes a tease, and doesn't run with it, but dives, goes deep. ]
You look a great many things.
[ His voice is soft as he speaks, so soft it almost drowns out as the bell chimes, times the first. Looking over his shoulder, catching sight of Caspar across the stage, picking up the prop dress that they're going to exchange in a moment, Claude very decisively sticks out his right hand for a shake, the proper, neutral, unassuming way of greeting someone, of letting them understand you want to know them better. ]
I'm Claude. Bérubé. I have to go in a second, but I wanted you to know, it's been a pleasure.
no subject
Besides, it's not every day he's told he looks a great many things without any underlying insults. Hah. ]
Ed.
[ Edward Teach, he'd say under normal circumstances but the time isn't right for long introductions, Ed knows the script pretty well and he's aware that Claude's about to step on, seeing the very subtle softening of the lights centerstage. Gonna emphasize his entrance from the wings very nicely, right? Make the breath stick in your throat for a little while, just that quiet sense of and now - wait! - before the musical cue catches up with the story and ups the pace for everything else.
Anyway, yeah. If he'd had oceans of time, perhaps he would've been formal, restrained, a little bit more likely to pull away immediately and turn his back. It's how things go, usually - that's why more time, as much as Izzy loves it, isn't particularly inspirational for him. It's just more of the same. ]
Pleasure's all mine. Break a leg, Claude.
[ He gives Claude's hand a small squeeze and steps back a little, just to increase the sensation of space. Though he's fairly sure the ballet dancers could squeeze past him with only inches to spare, he's not really supposed to be down here right now and if he's in the way, if he annoys people, it'll just get awkward going forwards. And he likes the feel of it, is the thing. Of being allowed close to the stage, to the visuals, without anyone questioning him or wondering why the fuck he isn't up in the booth, doing his actual job. ]
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.