December, 1980
*
Sean pressed Viggo into the dusty black velvet wall of the stage wing and kissed him, allowing his hand to slide down Viggo's taut Lycra-clad thigh.
"Come on, boys and girls!" The voice of Jens, the ballet master of MBT, whipsawed through the air, bouncing around the stage and into the empty auditorium of the State Theater. "Once more, please." He gestured to the company pianist in the pit and began again. "Plié, stretch, demi-plié, first position – Nathalie, watch your turnout, you're not twelve for Christ's sake – and stretch, and grand plié, second position – Sean and Viggo, if it's not too much trouble, could I ask you gentlemen to join us?"
Viggo laughed and pushed Sean away. "Our master's voice. C'mon."
Giggles rippled through the company as they stepped onstage. Hot blood crept into Sean's face, and he didn't dare look at Viggo, who was shedding his ancient Norwegian sweater without a trace of remorse or embarrassment. "Sorry, Jens," Sean muttered. He slipped out of his warm-up jacket and swiveled his toes in the rosin box, then took an empty place at the barre. Viggo positioned himself on the other side of the barre and winked at Sean.
"Thank you," Jens said with an expression of saintly patience.
"Nice beard-burn, Viggo," someone stage-whispered.
"Thanks. It's a good look on me, don't you think?" That got a laugh, and Sean blushed harder.
Jens clapped his hands for attention. "All right, boys and girls. Three more Nutcrackers before we hang it up until the new year, and I swear to God above that if you make asses of yourselves I'll ride you like horses when you come back from holiday." Jens' English was confident, but occasionally erratic.
"Jens, you kinky bastard," one of the older male principals said, and the company burst into laughter.
"You're all having entirely too much fun!" Kit Pearce, the associate director, strode onto the stage, her Ferragamo flats clattering against the floor. "I'm sorry, Jens. I won't take but a moment of your time. Since we're all here, I'd like to remind you that next week, Christopher and I are hosting our customary Christmas Eve party." Cheers and whistles erupted, and Kit beamed. "For those of you who are new to the company, it's just a little gathering I hold every year, nothing elaborate. If you don't have plans, we'd love for you to stop by, and do feel free to bring a friend. If you don't have the address, one of your colleagues will help you. We're looking forward to seeing you. Thank you, Jens." She went down the stairs over the pit to loud applause.
"Kit's looking forward to seeing us," Sean muttered. "Mr. Brill is going to spend the party standing in a corner, glaring at everyone."
"The way he does every year," Sarah Yates agreed.
"I think he just comes to see who's fucking each other," Brian Scappaticci offered.
"Well, he knows it'll be someone different every year if you show up, you slut," Sarah said with a laugh.
"Back to work, boys and girls!" Jens shouted. "Left hand on the barre, second position, rond de jambe, please!"
*
Viggo heaped more chicken parmesan on Sean's plate. "Eat up. You need your carbohydrates."
"It's really good," Sean said through a mouthful of chicken and cheese. "Thanks."
"My pleasure." Viggo refilled Sean's wineglass and set the bottle on the floor. His kitchen table was full of books, magazines, and paint, so they sat on cushions on either side of the old trunk that served as a coffee table. The steam radiator clanked comfortably, and a string of colored lights wrapped around Viggo's only window blinked on and off, lending a gaudy cheer to the cluttered room. "You see all those little girls tonight? They were staring at you like you just invented sex. You've screwed everything up for them."
"Oh, God. What are you talking about?"
"Well, imagine it. It's 1993, and one of those girls who played an angel is going to be in bed with her boyfriend. "'Gee, Tom, it was nice,'" Viggo said in an exaggeratedly high-pitched voice, "'but I once saw Sean Bean in tights as the Nutcracker Prince, and since then –'"
"Fuck off," Sean growled. "What about you?"
"Oh, they never look at the Sugar Plum cavalier," Viggo said blithely. "Maybe if I had a pretty tutu on."
"I'd look at you if you wore a tutu."
"I hope you look at me anyway," Viggo grinned.
Sean ducked his head. "I do." They'd only been dating, if you could call it that, for a few weeks, and Sean sometimes found it difficult to get used to Viggo's sudden bursts of affectionate exuberance. He wasn't sure where they stood – he hadn't seen anyone else since the premiere of Swan Lake, and as far as he knew, Viggo hadn't either, but he didn't want to seem possessive.
"Hey, have you ever been to one of Kit's Christmas parties?"
"I went last year."
"What are they like?"
"Good. Lots of food, lots to drink, nice music. Her flat is huge. I think her parents owned the building at one time." Sean described Kit's apartment, all stone floors and gleaming wood and mirrors, the drawing room big enough to hold a concert grand piano, a nine-piece chamber orchestra, all hundred-plus members of MBT's company and staff, and a sprinkling of balletomanes Kit chivvied into donating Capezio store gift certificates for the poverty-stricken dancers in exchange for the privilege of mixing with company members.
"You think you'll go this year?"
"I guess. Will you?"
"Oh – no, I'm heading upstate. My brothers will be home from college. I haven't seen them in a long time, not since before I left for Copenhagen."
"Oh." Sean was assailed by unexpected disappointment. They hadn't discussed Christmas plans at all. Sean hadn't been home for Christmas in years. Soloists' pay didn't allow for it, and even though he was dancing principal roles, his contract and pay wouldn't be effective until January. Dancers knew better than to ask for retroactive pay. Viggo was in the same boat, and in the few weeks they'd been together, they hadn't mentioned their families much. Sean had assumed – erroneously, as it happened – that Viggo would be staying in the city for Christmas. "That'll be nice."
"Yeah." Viggo took another forkful of pasta and chicken, and chewed in silence for a moment. "Look, why don't you come with me? You'd have to sleep on the couch – the house isn't that big – or I could sleep on the couch and you could have my bed. We couldn't, um…you know…but my mom would love to meet you, and so would my brothers."
Sean flushed, mortified that his chagrin had been obvious enough for Viggo to take pity on him. "I couldn't. I – my mum's expecting me to call on Christmas day, and I promised Kit I'd be at the party. Sorry. Thanks for asking, though." He took a deep drink of wine to cover his embarrassment. God, what a prat he was.
If Viggo discerned the lie, he was gracious enough not to mention it. "No problem," he said easily. "Maybe it's not such a great idea anyway. My mom's cool, but Ernest is kind of touchy about the gay thing."
"Who's Ernest? One of your brothers?"
"No. Ernest is my mom's boyfriend. He's kind of a reactionary." Viggo shrugged. "I don't see him too much, so it's not a big deal. Well – maybe I can call you over the break."
"Yeah. Do that," Sean said. He still felt a nagging unhappiness that surprised him with its strength. He was being stupid, he told himself. It wasn't as if they were really a couple. He took another drink and pointed at a small painting leaning on the newspaper-covered sofa, a ferocious blob of primary colors layered atop each other. "Is that new?"
Viggo peered over his shoulder. "Yeah. Just finished it last night."
"It's really great."
"You think?" Viggo seemed pleased.
"Yeah. It's really –" Sean struggled for an appropriate arty word. "Kinetic."
"Wow. Thanks." He held up his glass. "I'll miss you at Christmas."
Sean touched his glass to Viggo's. "I'll miss you too," he said softly.
*
"Oh, sweetheart, it's good to hear from you. Why didn't you reverse the charges?"
"It's okay, Mum. How are things there? Sounds a bit noisy."
"Oh, your sister's boys. I don't know how I'd have managed with two sons. "
Sean laughed. "One was enough, eh?"
"I wouldn't trade you for all the tea in China, though. Do you want to speak to your sister, love?"
Sean talked to Lorraine, then listened patiently to her two boys babble with endless enthusiasm about a train trip and a stuffed bear with a ripped tummy and Christmas crackers. Eventually Sean's mother pried the phone away from them and got back on the line.
"I see what you mean," Sean said.
"They're spending the night, too. We're all going to Uncle Mark's tomorrow for Christmas dinner. What are you doing, lad?"
"Oh, there's a party at Kit's tonight," Sean said. "Then tomorrow I'll go to a friend's house for dinner."
"I wish I could afford to send you a ticket."
"I'll be getting principal's pay soon, Mum. Maybe next year."
"And you could even bring someone, if you wanted."
Sean knew that by someone, she meant a girl. He covered the mouthpiece briefly and sighed. "Thanks, mum. Look, I'd better go. I've got some shopping to do."
"Right, I'll call you next week. Merry Christmas, love."
"Merry Christmas, Mum. I love you." Sean hung up the phone, dispirited.
*
He'd told his mother the truth, at least in part. Pasha Menshikov had invited him over for Christmas dinner with a few friends, but Sean was fairly certain they'd probably end up at a disco, with two hundred people cheering as Pasha snorted a line of coke off some model's ass. Maybe he was boring, but he wanted to spend Christmas quietly, and even being alone was better than showers of glitter and Olivia Newton-John backbeats thumping in his ears.
Or maybe it would be better tomorrow. Right now he felt hemmed in by the emptiness of his flat. He pulled on his coat, wrapped the knitted muffler Lorraine had sent around his neck, and headed out.
An early dusk was falling over the city, and snow threatened to fall from lead-colored clouds. Christmas lights twinkled everywhere and last-minute shoppers thronged the streets, inordinately cheerful in spite of Christmas pressure. Trees and garlands bedecked every window, along with yellow ribbons for the hostages in Iran. John Lennon's Christmas song was playing from some hidden speakers, reminding Sean that John's widow and young son were having a far worse Christmas than he was. He saw a ragged man pushing a grocery cart loaded with possessions along the sidewalk. There had been more and more homeless people in New York lately, it seemed. He had nothing to complain about.
He pushed open the door of Capezio's and stopped just inside, breathing in the familiar dance-shop smell: leather slippers, polyester, dust, and a faint, not unpleasant mélange of mingled perfumes and sweat. The store was empty but for the clerk tidying a stack of kiddie leotards. "Hi. What time do you close?"
"Half-hour." She popped her gum and stared meaningfully at the clock above the register.
"I'll make it quick," he promised, and shouldered his way through the overcrowded aisles to the adult men's sale rack. His mother had sent him some money for Christmas, and he was in desperate need of some new practice clothes. Most of his tights looked like Swiss cheese. A certain amount of dishevelment was fashionable in practice clothes, but his had outdistanced chic some time ago and were now teetering on the brink of unwearable. One wrong pulled thread and he'd be naked except for dance belt and slippers.
Every item on the rack seemed to be either extra-small, or extra-extra large. Hopefully, he pulled out a black unitard, saw it was big enough to fit a gorilla, and put it back. Maybe it had been made for a weightlifter. He sorted through a large assortment of single-sleeved black and red diagonally striped unitards – hideous, but cheap – and didn't find his size. Finally he located four garments in his size: a burgundy stretch tank marked down to a dollar fifty, a pair of charcoal footless tights for three dollars, and two unitards the color of mushy peas. The unitards were as ugly as sin and the color would make him look jaundiced, but they gave him a pang of nostalgia for his mother's cooking, and they were only five dollars apiece, so he scooped them up and threw them over his arm. He picked up two pairs of black shoes – one canvas, one leather – a new dance belt, and a pair of plain black tights, and plunked everything down on the counter. The cashier gave him a dirty look and started ringing up his purchases.
The shopping expedition took almost every penny of his mother's gift. Outside, Sean examined the contents of his wallet. Just enough to buy a steak, some spaghetti, and a bottle of wine, and he'd make himself a nice Christmas Eve feast. Maybe he should have gone to Kit's after all, but he hadn't the heart. Too many people had asked him if he and Viggo were going, as if they were a confirmed couple.
"Sean?"
Sean looked up to see Viggo, in a long tweed coat that looked as if he'd bought it at Goodwill, and a knitted cap pulled low on his forehead. His face shone as if he'd just showered, and wet fringes of hair peeked from beneath the cap. He had his dance bag slung over one shoulder. "Vig?"
"Hey."
"What are you – I thought you were headed to your mum's."
Viggo offered a wan smile. "Well, I was there, for a little while. I decided to come back to the city. I was just – I thought I'd go over that Spectre scene that was giving me shit. Just got done." He looked Sean up and down. "Doing some shopping?"
"Yeah." Sean nodded unnecessarily. "Yes." His face flamed. Yes sir, he'd say if he didn't shut up. Yep. You bet. Uh-huh. Aye aye.
Why aren't you at Kit's?"
Sean kicked at a dirty clump of snow. "I just didn't feel like going this year."
"Oh." Viggo reached into his pockets and pulled out a pair of battered ski gloves. "Did you get to talk to your mom?"
"Yeah." Anything else Sean had wanted to say stuck in his throat. He peered at Viggo, wondering why he'd come back to the city early.
"How is she?"
"Fine. My sister was there, and her boys." Viggo nodded and bit his lip. Sean could see he was itching, probably to get away, so he said, "Well, I'd better –"
"Would you – do you want to come by my place tonight, Sean?"
Sean hesitated, paralyzed by his own confusion. Sure, I'll drop in for a bit he wanted to say casually, but he knew it would come out sounding false, that his loneliness would show through the bald patches of his pride.
Viggo seemed to falter. "Unless you have other plans."
"I'd like to come." Now that it was out, Sean felt better. Inside him, something clicked quietly into place.
A wide smile crossed Viggo's face. "Give me an hour and a half so I can clean up a little. I'll make you dinner."
"Let me bring something."
"You can bring some booze, if you want."
Sean nodded. His heart grew a little lighter. "Okay. See you in a while."
*
He stopped at a liquor store, bought a bottle of Jameson's and a six-pack of Coca-Cola, and took a bus home. He showered, shaved, and hustled into his one good pair of wool trousers and his dark green silk shirt. He stopped in the middle of tying his shoes. "Fuck." He hadn't thought of a gift for Viggo. They hadn't talked about exchanging presents, but it didn't seem right to show up empty-handed at Christmastime. The Jameson's didn't count.
Frantically, he looked around his flat. Was there anything that would function as a gift and not be too sad or embarrassing?
His eyes lighted on the Capezio bag.
*
Viggo opened the door and smiled. The telephone, its cord stretched to the limit, was cradled between his shoulder and ear, and he beckoned Sean in with a hang-on-a-minute gesture. "I know," he said into the phone. "I know that, Ma. Look, I've got to go. Sean's here." He winked at Sean. "Yeah, I told you about him. No, I know. Don't worry about it. I won't. I – no." Covering the phone, he whispered, "Just throw your coat anywhere. It's hotter than hell in here."
Sean nodded and shrugged out of his coat, then set it and his bags down on the sofa. Viggo was right; it was hot. The window above the radiator was open, and a few flakes of snow drifted in past the blinking lights and disappeared. Viggo's clock radio was playing Christmas carols. Some tempting fragrance drifted from Viggo's tiny kitchenette. Sean went to the bookshelf and examined the titles, trying not to listen to Viggo's one-sided conversation.
"No, I can't. I'm sorry. Maybe you can come down here sometime. I know. No, don't do that, Ma. Don't – I do. Of course I do. I've got to go. I love you too. Bye." He hung up the phone and flopped onto the couch. "Mothers, huh? Pain in the ass."
"Sometimes." Sean went to the bag and pulled out the Jameson's and Coke. "Merry Christmas."
"Oh, a man after my own heart. I'm making shepherd's pie. That'll go great. C'mon, let's have a drink."
*
They both leaned against the couch. Sean sighed, happily full of shepherd's pie and whiskey-laced Coke. "That were frigging delicious," he mumbled.
"It were?" Viggo teased. "Thanks. And thanks for the booze. Good stuff." He peeled off his sweatshirt, revealing a cotton tank beneath. He rolled the sweatshirt into a ball and tossed it across the room. "I'm glad you came by tonight."
Sean didn't hear his last words. He stared at Viggo's arm. "What's that?"
Viggo glanced down at his upper arm, where a quartet of finger-shaped bruises dotted the flesh. "Oh. Not much. Nothing." He jumped up and collected the plates. "Better wash these, or I'll have roaches dancing all over them. You want dessert yet? My friend Nils sent me a ton of chocolate."
"No, that's okay." Sean sat still and listened to Viggo clattering in the kitchen against the strains of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. After a moment, he got up and went to the window. The only view was of a brick wall. Sean leaned out, breathing in the smell of impending snow and listening to the rumble of city traffic, undiminished even on Christmas Eve. He moved into the kitchenette and watched Viggo for a moment. "Vig."
"What's up?" Viggo asked brightly.
"Look, if you're seeing someone else, that's okay." Maybe Viggo hadn't gone upstate at all. There were a number of people in the company who'd cast lustful glances Viggo's way, and he couldn't have been unaware of them. And now that he was a principal, he'd be even more popular. Sean looked at the large purple smudges: a man's fingers, not a woman's.
Viggo stopped rattling dishes and stared at Sean. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Sorry. It's none of my business. I just saw those –" He nodded at the bruises. "And all I wanted to say is that you don't owe me anything."
A ragged laugh echoed in the kitchen. "My mom's boyfriend did that."
"Your –" Sean shook his head, then froze. "You mean he –"
"No, he didn't have sex with me. Hardly." Viggo wiped soapy hands on his jeans. "I got up to the house day before yesterday. Ernest came by at night, and everything was fine – my brothers were there, and my mom, and he was behaving. He made some stupid comments about nuking Iran, but other than that, it was okay. Well, yesterday morning, my mom took my brother shopping, and I was helping Ernest bring some wood in for the fire. He started in on me."
"What do you mean?"
Viggo shrugged. "Oh, it was benign enough at first. How was the world of ballet, isn't it competitive, it's too bad I'm not making more money, blah blah blah. Then he got nastier. He said my mom was heartbroken, she couldn't hold her head up among her friends, I was an embarrassment, I was morally corrupt, blah blah blah, bullshit bullshit bullshit. Then I heard the word faggot. Nice, huh? So I told him where he could stick the log he was holding."
A familiar arrow of roiling nausea lodged itself in Sean's gut. "Oh, God."
"So he grabbed me and slammed me up against the mantel." Viggo turned and pulled up his tank top, displaying a scraped and blackened upper back. "It's made of stone. Hurt like a bitch." He pulled the shirt down and leaned against the refrigerator.
"Jesus, Vig...."
"I brought my leg up and I shoved him away. It wasn't even all that forceful, but – you know."
Sean knew. Dancers' legs were nothing if not strong and muscular.
"He went crashing into the coffee table. Broke it, a bunch of stuff fell off. I knocked the wind out of him. I saw that he was still alive, the fucker, so I went to my room and packed my stuff. I waited outside until my brother Charlie got home, and I got him to drive me to the bus station." Viggo seemed exhausted suddenly. He trudged to the couch and slumped onto it. "That was my mom on the phone, as you may have guessed. She says she sent Ernest off with a flea in his ear – what do you think that means? Is that some phrase only moms use?"
"I think so." Sean managed a smile.
"Anyway, she asked if I wanted to come back, but I said no. I feel bad for her though. She didn't know he was such a prick."
"He never...he never hit her, did he?"
"No. I don't think so, anyway. If I ever find out he did, I'll kill him myself." Viggo looked down at his arm. "You thought these were love taps or something?"
"I'm sorry," Sean said. The blood was back in his face. "I'm sorry I thought that. Fucking stupid of me. And I'm sorry that happened, Viggo. I'd like to push that arsehole's face in."
"No. You know what? All the way back here, I was wishing I'd stayed in town and spent Christmas with you. Or that you'd come upstate with me, although that might have gotten ugly. When I got back here, I called Linda and she said that Pasha told her you were going to his place for dinner." Viggo smiled. "I was so fucking jealous."
"I didn't think you'd be going home," Sean said. "I wanted you to stay here. I'm glad you came back. I know that's selfish, but it's true." He marveled at his own audacity.
"So am I." Viggo leaned forward and kissed Sean lightly on the mouth. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," Sean whispered. "Oh – do you want to open your gift?"
"Sure. Hang on a second." Viggo trotted to the hall closet and came back with a flat package wrapped in the comics section of the newspaper and tied with twine. The effect was oddly pretty. "Where's mine?"
Sean rummaged in his bag and came up with his own package, layers of white tissue from the Capezio shop, bound with the green ribbon that had come with the scarf Lorraine had knitted. "Open yours first."
Viggo eagerly tore into the package and unfolded the mushy-peas unitard. "Oh, wow! That's great!"
"Really?"
"Definitely! I needed a new unitard, too. Thanks, Sean." He leaned forward and gave Sean a hug. "Your turn."
"It's almost too pretty to open." Sean tugged at the twine and gingerly undid the tape that held the comics page together. He lifted out Viggo's primary-color blob painting. "Vig, that's lovely."
"You can hang it in your bathroom."
"I've never had a real piece of art before." He gazed at the hideous thing, hoping he looked properly admiring, and saw Viggo staring at the unitard.
Viggo glanced up and caught Sean's eye. His mouth twitched.
Sean couldn't prevent a grin. Trying not to laugh aloud, Viggo snorted ungracefully, and they laughed until their eyes teared and their stomachs hurt. They calmed down, looked at the gifts again, and broke into new spasms of mirth. Sean wiped his eyes. "I swear, I'm hanging it as soon as I get home."
"And I'm going to wear this the first day of company class," Viggo promised.
"I bought one just like it," Sean said. That sent them into another helpless fit of half-drunken giggles. When they settled again, Sean impulsively drew Viggo near. He kissed him, threading his fingers through Viggo's hair.
Viggo rested his head against Sean's shoulder and exhaled softly.
Sean skimmed his hand over Viggo's bare arm, scowling at the bruises. He held Viggo close, watching the tulip-shaped colored lights blink on and off. A familiar voice came on the radio: Judy Garland singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Outside, snow drifted down from the sky, errant flakes twirled into the open window, and Christmas bells began to ring.
Summary: Sean expects a lonely Christmas
Rated: PG-13
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 4288 Read: 844
Published: 03 Jan 2011 Updated: 03 Jan 2011
Story Notes:
This story is a one-off from the Entrechat Cinquante ballet 'verse.