Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Have you ever heard of the Story of the Swan Lake?
Maybe you used to grow up hearing about it, saw it or even read about it.

I didn't. Not until I moved to Paris.

Here, everything was about elegance, richness and especially tradition. Or maybe it was just my blurred Imagination of it. I was an outsider the moment I stepped foot in this city. But it was far different from where I came from, buzzing "city that never sleeps" New York. Sometimes, when I walked through the never ending streets or laid in my bed watching as the Eiffel Tower sparkled at midnight, I missed it. I missed how every day there was something new, how everyone was so individual and creative. At most times you could even catch people speaking all the different kind of languages when you walked past them. Here, it was far different.

Stubborn, stuck up and never enough of being all the same as everyone else. The second you spoke a different language or dared to dress slightly different you'd get stares and whispers from old ladies, sitting in Cafés since 3 hours sipping chatting about anyone's business but theirs, as if it was their only priority. What surprised me even more was how even young people judged the same as their elders. Don't get me started on accents, god. One wrong tiny word spoken differently and the person in front of you judgingly started to speak in a broken English. No one ever wanted to know if you could speak multiple languages, if you couldn't pronounce one word correctly, you should leave. I always questioned why it was so important to them for a 16 year old to speak French perfectly, what did they expect?

I even considered moving back to New York after my first 3 months in Paris. But I knew the second I'd step into that huge, dirty and awful building I'd get either punched, yelled at or locked behind doors. So I chose to just instead bear those looks and whispers. After 2 years I spoke fluently with barely any accents, and I thought maybe then, I was accepted into this City, which I adored since the day I saw pictures of it on the New Yorker streets. I remember how I used to spend all my earned money from the Café on the metro going to the Eiffel Tower almost every single day, just to stare at it. While tourists quickly snapped a picture of it, Parisians scoffing and the entire city in a rush behind me, I was just in awe. But I was never interested in architecture, so after a time, I grew bored of it.

The judging never stopped though, not even after I started working in a job that required high French skills. I never really could spell the word "l'arrondissement" whenever someone asked me where I lived, and in the end they walked away with rolled eyes, sighs and uninterest looks. My social life never got any further than that, so I never really considered improving it, after years and years of trying. I was fine being alone in the city I admired just living my everyday life. Minus the judgement, it was like acid in my throat whenever I thought about it, a hard pill I refused to swallow and accept the truth; that this city in Fact, was horrible to us all.

That feeling left me a few years after. I really stopped caring about it, although it always made me piss off. I couldn't even name one person in my area who didn't, if not publicly, secretly judge me.

Except for one Person.

Cross never cared about how I spoke or how many times he had to correct me saying district in French. It's what I liked about him, at least one of the many things. I never saw him roll his eyes whenever I tried to explain a word I still couldn't name after 8 years or sigh when I didn't know a strict tradition. He just stood there and smiled, waiting for me patiently as I struggled before helping me. He never rushed me, in Fact, he was the one who was always left behind in line when trying to do something. So for us, we both got stares, whispers and rolled eyes with annoyed sighs, and I still believe that was what made us both different, but also same in some way. The only difference in his situation was, people could never decide wherever to admire and respect him, or look down on him like the last rotten rat on the street. 

I never understood how one could like the pain of those pointe shoes while continuing to dance in them for more hours than required, and then let alone bear the disrespect of not only people who considered it a "female hobby", but also a coach that only gave a shit if you made a mistake. What was then the reason, why would one even continue? But I guess he asked himself the same question when I chose not to move back to New York. The answer was passion.

Passion, I never really thought deeply about what it really meant, what mine was. I always saw it as something positive, something you were happy to continue to do. I still don't really know what it means. Maybe it means individuality. But Paris of course didn't have that.

As a Parisian, Cross grew up with stories of the swan lake, although he could never see it in any version himself like many rich kids around the city, he dreamt of watching it, later even perform it. For that, he was judged too. For a while it didn't bother him.

Until it did.

Chapter Text

The rain poured softly against the dark fabric of the umbrella, each drop a soft, rhythmic pattern that kept me intact while I walked over the busy streets of Paris. People all around me ran and sought shelter, cursed the skies for this weather and hid either in already filled up cafés or under tiny roofs, hoping to be spared from getting wet. Did none of them even think to bring an umbrella? I sighed.

My only source of light that led my way across tiny streets back to wider ones were the golden shimmering night lights and neon sign lights of various shops. The rain on the stone floor beneath me flood down, and hoping to not get soaked too, I sped up my tracks.

But truly, I loved autumn. To me, it was the best season for many reasons. The soft rustling of the leaves in the park where people would do Picknicks as I walked past them, the rain pouring against windows and cafés filled up were especially some of my favorites. I wasn't such a big fan of Halloween though, how people could dress differently then, but never everyday. Not to mention how others didn't pay attention to what it was actually supposed to be many, many centuries ago. I could've sworn I read it somewhere in one of those religion books...

I got ripped out of my thoughts when I accidentally bumped into someone, getting a yell and a "watch where you're walking!" before I shook my head to get back on track again. I kept jogging through the streets, my black, thick jacket bouncing on my chest in rhythm and my breath a little shaky by it. What was I even gonna do tonight? Sit around, watch the Parisians get drunk again, or listen to gossiping? I wasn't sure. It was better to listen to stories from others instead of focusing on his own life, if I was honest. Maybe I'd even hear a new topic or theory I could research on in the library again. My 16 year old self would've killed me for that, I was sure. But there wasn't much going on in my life.
I arrived at my destination quicker than i thought, and with a relieved exhale I clicked the buttons on my Umbrella to close it, before opening the huge, heavy wooden door, stepping into the Bar.

It was as usual; the loud jazz music, the talking and laughing mixed with people cheering on each other with their drinks. It was mostly men, drunk or at least tipsy, or elder women sitting in the corner with their hats still on and a long cigarette between their tiny fingers. They'd sometimes look over at me, point and then whisper as if i could've heard them across the overly loud room. And when I glanced back, they'd start smiling and laughing with each other like some teenage highschool girls, and by that, they definitely had the mind of one. It always managed to piss me off, and never failed to make me awkwardly turn back around in my seat.

I sighed nervously, trying not to think about the possible embarrassing outcomes of tonight, I brushed away a wet strain of my black hair behind my ear, trying to find a seat somewhere, if there were any even left. There was, a squeezed one right in front of the Bar beside some other stools in front of the door directly, so you could feel the cold rushing in every time someone entered or left. Great.

After managing to walk through the crowd with some apologies here and there to get to the seat, I could finally sit down on one of the round red, high chairs and take off my large jacket, covered in the drops of the rain. I put it on my lap, hoping it would warm me up somewhat before feeling the disappointment.

The lady at the bar immediately came up to me and asked what I would want to have. Her brown curls on her shoulders bounced like springs every time she made the tiniest move, while her utterly large green eyes started at me.

“Hey, can I take your order?”
The woman waited for a response with a sweet sheepish smile.
“Oh, yes. A beer please.” I smiled back for a second before she ran off with a nod. I had time to look around in the meantime.

The bar was as usual, all brown and steady wooden walls and floors with huge, old style, typical jazz paintings hanging in the corners, most of them pretty much hanging sideways. In the most far corner from me was a tiny stage with a small woman in an elegant, silver shining night dress, singing. The band behind her - all older men, black suits and huge saxophones and tiny trumpets in their hands - played the loud music in synch. Nobody looked at them, not a single eye focused on what they were playing, how the woman was singing about old times with a missed lover. Did no one really notice?
The room was filled with golden light, it's source being the tiny, sparking ones all over the walls, mixed with a dim colorful light from the high wooden bar in front of me. Most people were drunk, just a few not. An old lady with a dark purple coat, a bright red beret covering her snow white, short hair. She fidgeted slowly with her long, shining pearl necklace between her fingers. Her wrinkles covered a lot of her face, and the only thing moving besides her fingers were her eyes. A light color I couldn't tell from afar, and before I knew it they met mine. I recognized her quickly from the other nights I came here; she was the woman who'd come every night, no days missed, and look around as if she was waiting for someone. She must've been in her 70's, if not 80's by now.
She turned away her gaze uninterested and so did I as my drink arrived.

I nodded the bartender a quick "thank you" before taking the glass to my lips and taking a sip. The alcohol rushed through my body in a second like a cold shower in the overheated bar, and I shivered from it just for a moment. I set the glass back down, and looked around again for something more interesting. It's what I would usually do at this bar, have a drink, look around for whatever could entertain me for the short time and leave. It wasn't really an everyday routine, just something I'd do whenever I got too bored of the world around me. But the music overlapped the talking, and so I couldn't hear a word. With a sigh I turned again to the other side, but nothing. Everyone was in their own bubble, and I couldn't figure out what the Parisians were chatting about. I sighed again and turned my head back to the bar disappointed. My head turned to my left unbothered, when I spotted someone and my head slowly raised again.

A man, maybe around the same age as me, his darker skin the color of sweet caramel, his white to greyish short curls messy around his forehead and his huge eyes staring at the red wine in front of him. His features were soft and his thick eyebrows frowned as he seemed to be lost in thought. Even a stool further from me, I could see his freckles spread around his cheeks and small nose. He didn't just seem to be lost in thought, he seemed to be troubled. As if he had just lost a loved one, or got his heart broken. But who would come into a bar after either of those things?
He tapped with his thin fingers against the glass slowly, barely even blinking. His plain, grey sweater didn't fit in with the atmosphere of fancy suits and evening dresses most people wore. His brown jacket hung behind him on the stool and his wine looked like he hadn't even touched it.

I didn't even notice how I was staring until I started to wonder, what was he so worried about? What did he go through? And it all seemed to be just one more reason to approach him. I wasn't very much the guy to talk to others if not needed, but he stood out. For what reason, I didn't know yet. With one inhale and exhale I leaned forward.

"You seem troubled."

He looked up slowly, rather surprised that anyone was talking to him. I finally got to see his eyes, light grey like fog, how they looked up like shattered pieces of a glass that was thrown and stomped on. Or I was overthinking. He raised his white brows before slowly tilting his head back to the glass, but still spoke.
"Really, what makes you say so?"
His voice was a little more deep than I expected from his soft features, but still had a nice ring to it. Like those men you'd listen on the radio just to hear their voice. But to me, it seemed like he didn't want to be exactly disturbed in his own bubble, but decided to listen anyway.

"I don't know, I just noticed."
I straightened up, taking another sip from my drink.

"You must have good intuition then." 
He did the same. But the stranger sounded like he wanted to get this conversation over quick. I didn't really wanna let him, even if that meant having to bother.

"I've never seen you here before."
"It's not a bad place."

He looked up again, his eyes sparkling a bit with interest, but he still tried to keep his neutral face, stubborn while he wanted to seem like he was blending in, too.

"What's your name, if I may ask?"
He frowned at that, turning his body to me with his wine in between his fingers. The stranger stared at it for a moment, before replying dryly.

"Cross."
I nodded in understanding. I've never heard that name before...
"You?" He asked in response.
"Killer."

After a brief moment of silence where he just gave a small "hm." and me staring. I spoke again.
"You don't look like someone who goes to a bar."
"Do I really?"
He smiled a bit, slowly stirring the wine around the round glass before taking a sip again and looking up with his eyebrows raised.

"You look more... careful" It almost sounded more of a question as I shifted my my hands in the air to gesture his appearance. But I liked it, it was somehow refreshing to see someone casual in a bar that was meant to be easy and casual too. Not like those around us trying to show off or stand out, and fail horribly.

Cross chuckled. "You have a strange way of complimenting people."
"If you take it as a compliment."
"Oh? Were you trying to insult me instead?"
"Not in the slightest."

He let out a small chuckle, trying to hide it behind his hand as he tilted away a bit, clearing his throat to go back to his serious look. I smiled a bit in response and felt more warm in whole, or was it just the Alcohol?

"So," I began, and took another sip. "What troubles you?"
He tilted his head back away from me, his lips turning into a thin line, and his response dry again. "..My job."
That was unexpected. Maybe I was just so used to make up dramatic fairytales of the strangers I saw, but I definitely didn't expect something so simple as a Job. 
"Hm.. What do you work as?"
He shook his head slightly, his cheeks turning a soft color of red. I was not only surprised, but confused.
"It doesn't matter, really." He finished his glass of wine in one sip, as if he was rushing. Something told me he was about to brush it off and leave, and I quickly replied.

"Oh- hey, come on. Why are you rushing? You haven't even told me yet. I'm a stranger, we won't meet again anyway."
"Am I really obligated to tell you?" he asked, defensive all of a sudden.
"I didn't say that - I'm merely interested."

He sighed in annoyance, mumbling something I didn't catch. 
"Sorry?"
"I'm a ballerino." He replied louder now, and I stopped with whatever sarcastic joke I could reply with. I expected everything but that. A lawyer, a nurse - hell, maybe even a banking person. But Ballerino? I've never even met any in my life. Not to mention anyone who ever did ballet, really. I was stunned, the least to say.

"That's.. surprising." I finally replied after a few seconds, slowly. He scoffed and turned around, more pissed than before.
"Yea, right." He turned away again, but I wasn't quite sure why. Was it the way I asked him or the actual fact he was a ballet dancer?
"Well, I think that's interesting, actually. I've never met any ballet dancer before but I find it quite beautiful how- wait, are you going?"
He already handed over the euro to the bartender and stood up to grab his coat and leave when I noticed.

"It's getting late, I need to go."
"You didn't even tell me what the issue was."
"You said we were just strangers, never meeting again."
"I also said that you're interesting!"

Cross stopped. He looked down at me, zipping up his jacket slower. He looked more vulnerable and maybe even hurt for some reason, than he looked annoyed. He stopped, hesitating. His brows frowned, judging and maybe even questioning. Then he zipped up his jacket completely.
"That doesn't mean we'll stop being strangers."

He took his bag, fumbled around before turning back to me, more out of balance now.
"It was pleasure meeting you - Killer - and uh, I hope you have a good evening." He already turned around to leave me there, stunned and ready to walk out when I stopped, just to hear my last words.

"Wait - where do you work?"
Cross turned around, opening his mouth to reply with some defensive sentence again, before he relaxed a bit, considering his choices.
"Théâtre des Champs-Élysées" He answered after a brief moment. He seemed to hope for something as he left the bar, but I wasn't sure yet what.

On my way home I wrote down the name of the Theatre.