Chapter Text
January 31. 20:51
l’École de danse de l’Opéra national de Paris // it’s reciprocal
Lucas draws his legs in underneath the bench he is sitting on, one of his feet drumming restlessly. There is only he and Eliott left in the changing room. He has tried so hard to avoid this situation, for weeks now. Eliott surely thinks I hate him, he thinks. Which he did, initially. But that’s not true, anymore.
Lucas is an animated person; that’s how he knows himself, but around Eliott he is rendered mute. He doesn’t necessarily want to talk to him, and even if he wanted to, he just couldn’t. Eliott’s mere presence invokes the utter inability to form a coherent sentence. Lucas is equal parts frustrated and relieved each time another moment of possible interaction slides by, without anything but possibly weird glances exchanged back and forth between them. Truth be told, it is difficult to know whether one wants to talk to someone or not, when one simply is unable to. If he could, would he?
So damn tired, Lucas rubs his forehead and tries to push his demons away. He stands up and starts to change out of his attire. There is no help for it now, here they are. He has to say something; they have to say something or he couldn’t live with the weirdness. Lucas shoots a glance at Eliott, who carelessly has discarded all his clothes in a heap on the floor. Lucas has already opened his mouth to speak, but the vision of Eliott’s pale, translucent skin, sculpted muscles, all planes and angles, makes him hesitate and all that comes out of him is a too loud exhale that Eliott hears and looks over to him. Casually. How the fuck is he casual, when Lucas can’t even talk and apparently not not talk either. “So from where did you transfer, again?” he manages, while folding his t-shirt against his chest, holding it with his chin. Was it weird to start talking to people while they were naked? Too late, anyway.
“SAB” Elliot says and glances up. Lucas nods and purses his lips. Makes sense, he thinks. Eliott’s athletic and quick style, bordering on acrobatic, is just the style of School of American Ballet. The common criticism from the Parisian stable would be that School of American Ballet trains athletes - not dancers. Not artists. Lucas had previously been inclined to agree but after watching Eliott take on Romeo and Juliet and almost all of the rehearsals the last two weeks, he knows that it is a depreciative simplification of the truth. Eliott is outstanding. Lucas recognizes it but he doesn’t have the proper words to describe his effortless, yet intense style, because his vocabulary is based on his own schooling, which is different. Eliott wraps a towel around his waist and sits down on the bench next to his gear, across the room from Lucas. “Was there for the last 8 years, but … “ he trails off.
“Then you got …Romeo,” Lucas fills in. He really fucking hopes that bottomless envy that he feels doesn’t transmit to his voice.
Eliott doesn’t reply immediately. “It contributed,” he says, seemingly pensive. Lucas scoffs, incredulous. Seriously? He makes it sound like it was just one factor, which he could add or remove from the equation; like it was optional and not essential. If you got a lead role at the Palais Garnier you fucking took it. Eliott doesn’t elaborate, other than saying “I’m from here, from Paris.”
Lucas knows that. He is too concerned he might say something rude if he opens his mouth again, so he doesn’t.
“But I’m not sure I can belong here again”, says Elliot. It makes Lucas look up at him. When Eliott realizes Lucas is waiting for a continuation, he shrugs his shoulders and goes on, “Things change. I was just a kid when I lived here last time. Home is… I don’t know, in fact, right now”. He smiles a little and stands up.
Lucas feels virginal suddenly; he has only ever lived in Paris. Usually, it makes him feel like a cultured, metropolitan man. But he is not sure just what he is, since recently.
“What about you. Do you love Paris?” Elliot asks. Lucas is a little taken aback by the question.
“I don’t … I don’t know. I’m here for the dance, still. That’s why I’m here.” Lucas shrugs. Nobody has asked him that before. Eliott doesn’t answer at first, just looks at Lucas searchingly.
“But you love dancing?”
Lucas can only nod. Of course he loves dancing, but anyone at their level would know that the dance can act simultaneously as a blessing and a curse. It is the one thing Lucas knows how to do well, arguably better than most, and still it is always bordering on the unattainable. And all of a sudden, someone like Eliott could sweep in from god knows where and simply steal the thunder.
“It’s reciprocal”, says Eliott, still looking at Lucas. Lucas, standing only in his tricots felt uncomfortable. He tries to deflect the compliment just because he knows that he doesn’t deserve it, not from Eliott, who he has spent so much energy trying to ignore the last couple of weeks that it actually has exhausted him a bit. He shrugs and quietly curses the lopsided smile that creeps out over his lips. Such a sucker for compliments. He sits down, too, and tries to think of how to either continue or get out of the conversation, but Eliott anticipates him and gets up. He walks past right in front of Lucas, with a confusing smirk on his lips and then he disappears into the showers.
Friday 18 January. 15:05
l’École de danse de l’Opéra national de Paris // le premier danseur
Lucas reads the white paper in utter disbelief. He is aware of some people around him noticing the lack of his name printed next to premier danseur; he feels their sympathetic eyes on his face. His first thought is, that there must have been a mistake, only there are never any mistakes made regarding the announcements. It wouldn’t happen, not now and not ever. Slowly, he feels tingles start to creep their way up his spine, neck and skull – but not the pleasant kind; more like the chills that your body succumbs to while fighting the flu. He has to get out of there, so he turns, excuses his way through the crowd. Someone calls for him – it sounds like Basile, but Lucas doesn’t stop. His face flushes embarrassingly pink and tears starts to burn in his eyes, competing with the rage that begins to claw on his insides. He makes it to the nearest staircase, runs down two floors like he knows where he is going and he sits down. Breathe, he tells himself. His temper scares him sometimes, and he is on some semiconscious level already worried about how he will deal with this. Emotionally.
“I’m so fucking stupid, stupid,” he mutters and rubs the heels of his palms violently over his eyes, until he starts seeing stars and weird patterns behind his eyelids. This, is him being robbed of the opportunity that would have taken him straight into the permanent stall of the Garnier. A few weeks ago, when Niels said they needed more time before making the announcement he had thought nothing of it. He had assumed it was about someone else, some poor fucker who would not get the part they had hoped for. That was how confident he had been. He puts his palms together in front of his lips, as if in prayer and tries to calm his breathing. He starts debating, What did I do wrong, but it hurts like a knife to his chest to even try to go there, so he shuts that line of thought down. His phone vibrates; Bas wants to know where he is. He doesn’t answer, but stands up after a few shaky breaths. He doesn’t want to meet anyone; not talk to anyone. He quickly cancels his plans of going to the soirée happening later; the kick-off of the spring semester. Shutting off his phone, he takes the rest of the stairs, two steps at a time, down to the basement. He escapes towards the catacombs underneath the school, heading in the direction of the wardrobe and changing rooms in a haze. The thought of the hours; the blood, sweat and tears he has put into his senior year, with Romeo Montague like a mirage in the distance, strikes him like a punch to the guts and a choked cry escapes his throat as he pushes through the swing door. Tears spills over and he stops walking, pushing his hand violently through his hair, yelling PUTAIN into the empty, concrete-enclosed corridor. And who the fuck got it, anyway? He huffs, an almost-laugh in disbelief. He didn’t even register the name of the connard who they’d chosen instead. His mind went wild with envy, searching every corner of his consciousness for the likely culprit. Interrupted by a sudden wave of nausea he starts walking robot-like again. Just get my stuff, and go.