Asya picked some sticky tape off her sweatpants and shifted deeper into one of the grey couches in the living room, eyeing the Russian prodigy sprawled out opposite her. He was stretched out on his back with his calves just barely brushing her ankles, rubbing some black marker off his fingers.
They'd spent the better part of the past three hours sorting out the remaining boxes in the dining area before hauling them to different rooms to unpack. She would come to find that even Roman Zharnov of all people owned things like adapter plugs and coat hangers, which was a pretty unsettling notion once she thought about it.
But in and amongst the utterly mundane, she also came across a plethora of dusty bubble-wrapped trophies, ribbons, and medals. It was a collection that would put most Olympic athletes to shame, and yet when asked about it, he announced he was tossing the lot in a back-alley dumpster. She did manage to talk him down from that rather drastic course of action by promising she'd pick out the really iconic ones and let him get rid of the rest.
She wasn't sure why she offered to sort his awards, given that all that talent would end up going to waste in cocaine scandal, but decided not to read too much into it. It was simply her discomfort at seeing precious pieces of ballet history lost to rats and trash.
She'd planted herself on the living room floor and dug through piles upon piles of gold, platinum, white, blue, and red, and found that he'd won a lot of the same competitions she did in his youth. Like her, he'd all but dominated the international competition circuit for the bulk of his adolescence. He even took home the famed Moscow Grand Prix at a tender fifteen, the youngest in his age division by far, and she was fairly certain that record still stood nine years later. Needless to say, sorting the trophies, ribbons, and medals into piles of keep, toss and donate was another noteworthy addition to her growing list of bizarre experiences.
Once they'd finished they both ended up on the couch, cleaning off sticky tape and permanent marker while she quizzed him about some of his competition wins. It was probably the most normal conversation they'd ever had, easy-flowing and devoid of any sarcastic exchanges, and despite her best efforts to argue otherwise, he was somewhat... Interesting to listen to.
The past few days must have done some truly questionable things to her subconscious.
'Nureyev or Baryshnikov?' she asked.
'Nureyev.' he replied. 'You?'
'Neither.' she said with a small smile. 'Nijinsky.'
He raised his eyebrows suggestively, to which she shrugged and added, 'Come on, he was practically a virtuosic god. You can say what you like about Baryshnikov and Nureyev, they did nothing but dance to the tune Nijinsky set.'
He threw his hands up in mock surrender, letting out a dramatic sigh. She flashed him a smug look and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up legs, resting her chin on her kneecaps. It was a shame, she thought, that he would turn out the way he did. Not just because of the hit to his reputation, but because in normal conversation he seemed almost nice, almost normal. It was a side of himself she was almost certain he never showed at work or to the media, where he definitely preferred his lethally calm, somewhat insensitive and cold persona. She hoped the ballet gods would forgive her for wanting to take advantage of this side of him one last time before she went back to making good decisions.
'Why Nureyev?' she asked.
'Personal taste, I guess.' he replied. 'I used to watch him on videotape at the Academy, and I mean, talk about stage presence, the world went quiet when Nureyev danced.'
His expression softened a little, his eyes growing distant as he seemed to dig into his memory. 'They used to say he was like a panther on stage, like an animal let out of its cage. I never knew if that was meant to be derogatory or flattering, but I definitely think it was true. His dancing had these rough edges, this sort of deep internal conflict and fierceness that he could never quite get rid of. The working theory was that he got it from growing up starving and poor, having to fight every inch of the way so much so that it spilled into his technique. But he owned it, you know. He sent every balletic idea of effortlessness and making it look easy to absolute shit. Nureyev wanted his audiences to feel the danger in what he did and watch as he overcame it. Beauty and mastery are admirable, of-course. But anger, pain, and struggle, that's what captivates people.'
She blinked wordlessly at him, feeling a grapefruit-sized lump wedging itself in her windpipe. It was beautiful, the way he spoke about his artform. Not like it was merely a physical feat or a torturous chore, but like he... Like he too could spend hours and hours explaining what made it absolutely incomparable to anything else in the world.
'But don't get me wrong, Baryshnikov was a brilliant performer. He understood the physics of this job like no one else, I think.' he continued. 'And both of them quite literally wiped out an entire generation of male dancers with their talent. Next to them everyone else sort of looked stupid, you know. I liked Baryshnikov's stunts and tricks as much as the next person, but Nureyev... His dancing was a language far deeper than words, maybe even deeper than movement.'
She was trying to form thoughts, a response or even just a nod to confirm she still had control over her body, but she was momentarily frozen. Because granted, as beautiful as his phrasing was, the person saying it was even more unnerving. She was sitting across from Roman Zharnov, who many a critic had argued to be the so-called 'holy trinity' of male dancers. The physical prowess of Baryshnikov, virtuosity of Nijinsky, and immaculate classical technique of Nureyev. A culmination of three generations of legendary Russian men in one terrifyingly gifted body.
And as the critics also liked to point out, so far each of his predecessors had their faults. Baryshnikov was significantly shorter than most male dancers, Nijinsky went insane before his career fully matured, and even Nureyev had been criticized for being built more like a powerlifter than a dancer.
Roman, on the other hand, won the genetic lottery in every way that counted. He had his towering height, gorgeously long limbs, supple joints, and slender frame, which the Bolshoi had filled out to absolute perfection with some of the finest training in the world. Maybe next generations would pick out Roman's faults too, but for this century... He was about as groundbreaking as it came.
And the way he spoke, goddammit the way he spoke. With fondness, admiration, humility, and fascination, like he could feel his antecedents breathing down his neck with expectations. In moments like those, it felt uncanny even for her, because as much as she talked shit about him there was no denying who and what he was, and god only knows what he had yet to do.
When she finally regained control of her vocal chords she cleared her throat and, 'You sound like you have Nureyev memorised.'
'With the number of tapes I watched as a child, I better have.' he snorted.
The irony of his Nureyev preference wasn't wasted on her. Because like Nureyev, Roman had little regard for rules, formality or hierarchy, and like Nureyev, an air of scandal almost always trailed in his wake. Or that, like Nureyev, Roman had ditched the Russian ballet and found his way to London.
As if he could read her thoughts, he flicked his gaze to her and said, 'If you're wondering what I think of Fonteyn and Nureyev, I, along with everyone else, am still wondering if they were sleeping together.'
She let out a low laugh at the mention of the famed English prima ballerina. 'I think it's probably less about the did they or didn't they debate and more about that gripping stage dynamic that made everyone want to know.'
'Fair enough.' he relented.
She let her gaze rest on his outstretched frame, thinking back on the day they'd met. An odd comment he'd made popped into her mind.
On whether I find what I'm looking for.
At the time it had been easy to assume he meant a fresh start, away from his troubled history. But now, with everything she'd found out since, she couldn't help but wonder if Roman had come to the Royal Opera House to follow in the footsteps of his childhood icon, and find his Fonteyn. Everyone knew that Margot Fonteyn had been to Rudolph Nureyev what the moon was to the stars.
They'd been two icons in their own right and many had said that they were drawn together by the sheer brilliance of their dancing. What followed was a blazing clash of queenly elegance and fierce bravado that left the world utterly speechless. Their partnership was simply bewitching, equal parts inspiring and challenging to one another, grounded by sincere, mutual respect. And of-course, it was their reverential on-stage chemistry that started the rumors that they were secret lovers.
The industry's most established choreographers and directors would go on to say that they had been made for each other, were born to dance together. Nureyev himself had famously stated that they had one body, one soul, and that he would follow her to the ends of the earth. They'd danced together for seventeen years and turned into the closest of friends, inseparable at the best of times.
The Nureyev-Fonteyn partnership had been so profoundly rare and consuming that even now, decades after both of them had passed away, people were still debating the incredibly deep and complex nature of their relationship. They'd been a wrinkle in the fabric of history, a partnership without comparison or equal.
Whether or not Roman was trying to pay his dues to Nureyev, he had a snowball's chance in hell of imitating the Nureyev-Fonteyn dynamic. That was an untouchable piece of history, although she supposed he did deserve credit for wanting to try, if that was indeed what was behind his London move.
'Fonteyn's old apartment is like two blocks from here.' she said. 'I'll show you if you want.'
'If you can stomach being seen in public with me,' he sassed, 'then sure.'
She narrowed her eyes at him. 'Keep it up and I'll make you wear a disguise, Zharnov.'
・・・
For the second day in a row, Asya woke up in the guest bedroom of apartment number 29. This time, she had a slightly better idea of how she'd ended up there, vaguely recalling being picked up from the couch, seeing the now empty dining table from a much higher than usual angle, and being carried down the passage.
Again, she had a distinct suspicion that she'd slept in far later than she should have. She hauled herself out of bed, wincing sharply at the pain that shot through her limbs. She might have pushed herself a little hard the night before with her full two-hour workout, affirmed by an angry pop in her spine as she swivelled her back a few times. Hobbling over to the windows, she opened the curtains and found London coated by a thick, ominous-looking grey sky, some fresh-looking raindrops dotting the glass terrace door.
Bleak weather befitting the bleak day ahead of her. Gift wrapping, maybe a walk if the rain permitted, a long stretching session, another workout. Then dinner with Julian, and if she knew herself at all, she'd be back at 29 come midnight. Because along with her traitorous hips and mental health, it seemed her self-control was on a rapid decline too.
Scowling at her own impertinence, she made the bed and intended to slip out unnoticed like she'd done the day before. Except, once she opened the door she realised the apartment wasn't as quiet as she was expecting. There was noise in the kitchen, water boiling and the soft sizzle of a pan.
As she tiptoed down the passage she realised it was in fact a kettle and the stove making the noise, and she wasn't alone in the apartment. It's owner was propped up on the counter by his elbows, rubbing his eyes with his palms like he was trying to wake himself up. His hair was still a little ruffled, but had been half-heartedly swept out of his eyes.
'Morning.' she peeped, making him look up.
'Sit.' he ordered with a lazy yawn. 'I'm making breakfast.'
His tone, despite its decidedly sleepy slant, again indicated that eating breakfast wasn't up for debate. Besides, the kettle sounded promising and something smelled heavenly, although she honestly couldn't remember the last time she'd had solid food for breakfast.
'Aren't you supposed to be in class?' she asked, sitting herself down opposite him.
'I'm on leave.'
He dished something onto a plate and slid it to her, moving on to the kettle. It was pancakes that he'd made, thick and fluffy-looking pancakes topped with raspberries and syrup. A calorie bomb. Although for someone that allegedly had a busy schedule, he sure did like to fuss.
'Turns out I also need a semi-valid excuse to miss the company Christmas party tomorrow, so I'm getting out of the city for the weekend.'
She picked up her fork and swallowed thickly. Christmas. Her shopping had been done with Julian the day before, for which she'd all but had to chain him to lamppost outside while she picked out his presents, but she still had some wrapping left. The company Christmas party, however, that had completely slipped her mind.
She wasn't even entirely sure she wanted to go, being injured and all. The last thing she felt like doing was muttering 'No really, I'm fine' for two hours while everyone else laughs and jokes about Nutcracker cast drama. Dread welled up in her throat.
It was definitely going to be her shittiest Christmas in a good while, holed up in her apartment while she waited for Julian to finish his double shows. And, now she wouldn't even have her questionable distraction on the sixth floor to amuse herself with. God knows she never thought she'd miss Roman's presence in her place of residence, but on that particular weekend it would have been nice to be with someone who wasn't dancing either.
She ground on her teeth and stroked her collarbone while she nibbled on a pancake. Holy shit, he actually made really good-
'You can come with me if you want.' he said.
Her second forkful halted sharply mid-air. 'With you?'
'I'll bring you back on Monday,' he explained. 'And I promise that I'll take very good care of you.'
'That's not your job.' she replied. It wasn't, because despite two platonic nights in his apartment and him being the lesser of the evils she was using to cope, running away with him for a whole three days was a level of stupid she didn't have the words to describe.
'Maybe not.' he shrugged. 'But a dearly beloved pastime.'
The forkful of pancake stayed suspended in the air. Either her conflicted expression or damning silence must have given her away, because he started grinning like a cat with a bowl of cream.
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Hi everyone! I hope you're ready for some Christmas escapades in the Creatureverse, because there is quite a bit of tea on the menu🎄. I also just wanted to mention here that there is SO MUCH I couldn't include about the legendary dancers I referenced in this chapter, so if the mood ever strikes you, I promise they're worth a read. And of-course, here are some pancakes for you too🥞