Chapter Text
Will makes an excuse to leave the studio and Hannibal’s company once he regains his breath, stuffing the thoughts of bedroom escapades to the bottom of his dance bag overflowing with ripped tights and old moleskin.
What the fuck was that?
The sweat pooling at the nape of his neck and small of his back turns icy as he steps out into the chilled night air filling the Paris streets. His work-supplied apartment is only a few blocks away, and soon he could scrub his body clean and fade into a dreamless sleep before he wakes for his 8 a.m. barre class. Regrettably, all classes until noon are company-wide, and Hannibal will be right there doing pliés with Will as equals.
He enters his flat and immediately starts the shower. The flat is small and worn, and he admittedly hasn’t done much to improve the interior. A twin bed sits in the corner surrounded by bare walls. Will is thankful that he has a small kitchenette and his own bathroom. The only real furniture is a desk placed underneath a window. On the sill sits several small dog figurines, all mismatched and varying sizes, all bought from random thrift stores or street stalls. Will has always wanted a dog, but it’s impossible right now with his living quarters, work schedule and frequent travel. The ceramic, plastic and wooden miniatures fill the gap for now and he cherishes them.
As he exits the shower and towel-dries his unmanageable curls, he thinks back to his dance with Hannibal, how easily he fell into step alongside him. Effortless. He always feels a fleeting connection with his dance partners. He would even say that he falls in love, or hate, or jealousy—whatever the script calls for—during those few minutes on stage. Once the music stops, it ends just as quickly and he returns home to nobody. Tonight was different. The feelings linger, and he’s uncomfortable with the unfamiliar, extending attachment. He can still feel the man’s fingers gripping his shirt, face pressed against his abdomen, lasting moments longer than choreographed. He laments the fact that he and Hannibal will likely never dance again.
The thoughts dissipate as he drifts off, and Will falls asleep in twirling dreams.
—
Hannibal ponders for a long while on what to do about this curious situation. Visions drift through his mind, some vulgar and burgundy, and some soft against a dim-lit room. His ideas still have moth holes in them, but he would mend them. One plan seems feasible, and he lets the logistics fall into place as he walks through the lamp-lit streets to his condo, pristine and opulent with crown molding and exterior balconies. By morning, he is committed to his plan and his chest is devoid of anything close to guilt.
When Hannibal arrives in the studio, Will is already warming up and lost in his own world. Hannibal places his things in the adjacent space on the other side of the barre, looking over at the man with unconcealed wonder. If he’s lucky, their fingers may even brush during the combinations, but this is the kind of luck he can influence.
“Good morning William.”
Will rushes back to his surroundings and his mouth opens wordlessly at the man in front of him. Hannibal has never worked at the same barre with him. He blubbers like a fish for a moment before working out a solitary “morning.” The rest of the company filters in and grabs their own spots at the barres throughout the room. Bedelia looks at them with suspicion and a tight lip. He usually stands beside her.
Alana Bloom, the company’s ballet master, walks to the front of the room and grabs attention with two loud claps.
“We’ll start with a basic pilé combination. Two in first, one grand, then port de bra forward and back. Second position, port de bra side, all the way around for fourth, then fifth back, sous-sus and passé balance.”
She shows the port de bras for the combination, arm in second for the grand plié before raising it up and over her head, then down to her waist. Her lines are beautiful, and it’s a shame that she’s resigned to teaching behind closed doors instead of performing on stage. One fall tore the labrum on both sides of her hip, resulting in a limp that halted her stage career but still allowed her to teach.
The pianist begins the accompaniment and Hannibal uses his epaulments to glance at Will beside him. His movements are controlled but come naturally, muscles contracting and expanding as the man bends and elongates.
“And left side,” Alana shouts after the balance, sending them right along without a pause.
Hannibal uses the soutenu to briefly touch Will’s hand while they turn around. He freezes, misses a beat but regains his composure and moves his hand away to build more space between them.
The class continues this way, Hannibal taking every opportunity to take the man in, and Will poignantly ignoring him, until the barres are put away and the class moves to center. After three hours of adagios, promenades, pirouettes and leaps, noon arrives and they must depart into their separate classes, Hannibal staying put with the other principal and lead soloist dancers, and Will leaving to rehearse with the rest of the corps.
One of Will’s dances is a duet with Beverly Katz, a demi-soloist who came from the Washington Ballet two years before he joined. It may just be that she’s one of the few fellow Americans in the company, but he feels at ease with Beverly and might even consider her a friend if they ever hung out outside of work.
“You and Mr. Hotshot got a little close this morning. What’s all that about?” She asks him.
Will shakes his head before answering. “I’m really not sure. We ran into each other last night while I was practicing after hours. He’s probably just being friendly.”
Will leaves out the piece about their dance, not yet ready to dive into that. Beverly picks up on the omission and squints her eyes at him.
“If you say so.”
They begin marking the steps with the other four couples in this scene, and Will tries to forget about Hannibal’s warm hands.
—
In the main studio, Hannibal and Bedelia are to refine their steps for the last farewell scene near the beginning of the final act. It has a fairly slow tempo, but there is one lift that will work for his plan, if he can time it just right. Without flattering his ego, Hannibal knows he is very good with timing.
They begin the rehearsal, working through the initial steps and integrating the lifts they have been practicing. She splays and stretches, winds and unwinds above him as he carries her in his arms and on his shoulders. She clings to him, holding him tight to entice him to stay with her. When on stage, he will remove his shirt as a metaphor of their love making. Hannibal knows that Bedelia would love to engage in love making with him, though it would be more like fucking he is sure. Bedelia is a beautiful woman, and before he met Will, he could see himself going down that path. But not anymore.
They prepare for the lift. He holds her like a strung bow, swinging her back and forth for momentum to be able to twist and raise her onto a seated position on his shoulder. He feigns a falter, grips her right leg closest to him, and allows her to fall onto her other ankle at a terrible angle, adding additional force to cement the injury. The other dancers gasp and it’s punctuated by a definite crack. And then a scream. Not from Bedelia, but Alana.
It’s a compound fracture, Bedelia's tibia breaking through her nude tights and staining them with blood, down to the pink ribbons on her pointe shoes. Hannibal kneels down beside her, shushing and stabilizing her to not cause further damage, though he truthfully would hope for it.
“Alana, call for an ambulance,” he says. He holds her face, “Bedelia dear, I am so sorry. Look at me. Everything will be fine and we will get you to the hospital.”
Bedelia doesn’t speak. She doesn’t utter a single sound. For all the emotions she portrays on stage, she is expressionless and despondent. There is no anger yet; that will come after the doctors tell her her prognosis. He muses over the possibility of complications and a necessary amputation, but stores them away for later. The ambulance arrives and sweeps her away in a stretcher.
Once the chaos is gone, the studio is filled with utter silence for an unsurmountable amount of time. Jack Crawford, the artistic director, had entered during the ordeal, clearly more displeased with the inconvenience this will all cause.
“What the hell was that, Hannibal?” He booms “Everyone who isn’t going to fix this, get out.”
The room clears until it’s just him, Jack and Alana.
“Jack, mistakes happen.” Alana says, defending Hannibal, but her strained eyebrows show the doubt in her mind.
“This mistake just cost me my best female principal,” he says, aggravation building. “We don’t have an understudy, we never pick them for her roles. She’s never missed a damn performance in her entire career.”
The room is silent once again, Jack and Alana thinking about the difficulty to replace her, and then thinking through who among their dancers could assume the role.
“Maybe Margot, or Freddie,” Alana suggests.
“William Graham could do it.”
Jack and Alana look at him incredulously.
”The American?” Jack asks.
“Let him dance for you. He’s been well taught.”
It takes some persuasion (Hannibal admits he’s quite good at that, too) both for Jack and Alana, but also for Will, but soon Will and Hannibal are preparing for an impromptu audition. They perform the balcony scene again and Jack, Bella and Chilton, one of the répétiteurs, struggle to process the artistry in front of them. Chilton still scoffs at the performance, no doubtably dubious of the potential casting. Alana is also watching, concern evident on her face. But they’re dazzled. Unbeknownst to even Hannibal himself, his misstep that brought him to the studio last night has corrected itself.
“I can’t argue with that,” Jack says reluctantly. He lets out a deep sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose for a few beats, then exhales again. “Someone get Jimmy, we’ll need to figure out costumes. Alana, spend this afternoon walking through the score with them both.”
Production staff run throughout the buildings in a mad panic, but soon Will and Hannibal have a few moments alone, standing once again in the grand ballroom studio where they had their first real conversation less than twenty-four hours before. Bedelia’s blood is still on the floor, coagulated into a thick, drying pool. Neither man address it.
“Well, I don’t know where to start,” Will says.
The last, he doesn’t know how long, was already a distant blur. Will can barely recall any memory from their dance that was apparently so moving he was instantly cast as Juliet. The logistics of all of that have already formed a growing migraine between his temples. He can’t deny this is beyond his wildest dreams and it will certainly change the trajectory of his career, but it was also absolutely absurd and he was nearly certain he would wake up drenched in sweat and find out this was all an unimaginable nightmare.
“A congratulations is in order, I think. It’s unheard of for a corps to get a principle role. I’m sure it will ruffle Freddie’s feathers, and the press will have a field day, but it’s the proper casting I believe.”
“Do you think Bedelia will be okay?”
No emotion crosses Hannibal’s features to match the words. “I dearly hope so, but,” he pauses.
“But?”
“I’ve seen many injuries in my career. My optimism is lacking. I will have to live with this.”
Will nods.
“Well we have a lot of work ahead of us.”
“Yes, William.”
Hours later, as Hannibal steeps earl gray tea in mug, he is absolutely delighted. Everything fell into place according to plan, and he determines this will be the perfect farewell to his career with the Paris Opera Ballet. He sips the warm liquid and makes a note to visit Bedelia tomorrow to make amends.