Roman tossed his car keys to the valet, straightened his shirt collar and headed up the limestone stairs that led to the Royal Opera House. The building was a megastructure of Victorian architecture and glass-vaulted ceilings that spanned nearly an entire city block, lit up to illuminate it against the night sky.
The dancer tucked his hands into his pockets as he moved through the bustling crowd in the theatre's foyer, nodding politely as he caught the attention of a few patrons. Dressed in a simple white button-down shirt he looked fairly unassuming to most people. But to the ballet critics and seasoned arts patrons, he was a familiar face.
The theatre was busy that evening. The in-house restaurants were packed out, champagne bars littered with people and foyer filled with theatregoers. Amongst the crowd he spotted business moguls, celebrities, movie stars, old money, and even royalty. It was opening night, after all, and London's elite was there to flaunt their money and network.
Bastian had asked him that afternoon to attend the performance, which he'd agreed to despite his better judgement insisting he needed a decent night's sleep far more than being hounded by the British press. As far as they were concerned he was recovering from a back injury, which had been nothing but a crafty lie to try and buy him some peace for six months.
During that time he'd managed to avoid the media for the most part, but knew that stepping out in London, in a theatre of all places, just days after the news about his resignation from the Bolshoi aired, was going to attract attention. The mere thought of having a camera shoved in his face had a faint headache thrumming behind his eyes, but he knew the press was going to hunt him down eventually. It might as well be on his terms.
Murmuring a silent prayer that no one would stop him, he lowered his eyes as he wove through the crowd and bound up the marble stairs that led to the auditorium. The ushers nodded knowingly in his direction as he entered the grand theatre and headed to the private seating boxes near the side of the stage.
'Glad you made it.' Bastian greeted, shaking his hand as he sat down beside him.
Roman nodded to the artistic director and a few of the board members, but didn't offer up any conversation. They knew who he was, and he'd never been one for making small-talk, least of all when he was sleep-deprived.
The auditorium was filling up with audience members making their way to their seats, some glancing eagerly to the Royal Box on the second floor to see if they could spot any of the British aristocracy. His gaze drifted to the stage, where behind the heavy red curtain dancers would be warming up and checking their costumes, eager to get on stage and open the ballet.
Being back in the theatre, although on the wrong side of the curtain, made him realise how much he missed performing.
Dancing was part of who he was, of who he'd been since he was three. To him it was air, as natural as breathing was to anyone else. He longed to be on stage again, pined for the rush of adrenalin-infused energy in his veins and craved the rumble of applause in his chest.
But he didn't miss doing lines of cocaine off his dressing-table, being so riled up he wanted to vomit and feeling like the cage they'd put him in was shrinking with every passing second. The shows were intoxicating, of-course they were, but they always ended with him collapsing in fits of exhaustion and anxiety as the withdrawals kicked in and he prepared himself to do it all again the next morning.
Over the last six months he'd thrown around the idea of returning to the stage a few times. He'd been a child prodigy and trained professionally in one of the world's most ruthless ballet schools since he was eight. He lived the better part of his existence in the eye of the media, and as disgusted as he was to admit it, he craved the attention he knew so well.
But he also knew how badly he needed a break, between the hardcore drugs and endless performing he wasn't going to make it to his twenty-fifth birthday without some sort of overdose. He'd come to a decisive conclusion that he needed to seek out a fresh start in London and leave behind his scandal-tainted career in Russia. He knew the English ballet was different from the Russian ballet, but also knew his prodigious name would follow him anywhere.
That, and his reputation.
The lights in the auditorium dimmed as the heavy curtain opened and Tchaikovsky's symphony drifted out of the orchestra pit. Act I started with a footman welcoming guests to Princess Aurora's christening, finally bringing on the dancer he'd been unable to get out of his thoughts since that afternoon.
The Lilac Fairy emerged from the wings in a flutter of dainty pointework, coming to a graceful halt centre-stage. The rhinestone detailing on her tutu glimmered underneath the stage lights, mimicking her movements like only a classical costume could.
She started her variation, the steps tumbling out of her body with breathtaking grace and precision. She was made of starlight and jewel-tones, her coltish movements mesmerising to watch.
Ballet was made up of strict rules, there was a right and wrong, and no in-between when it came to technique. But she found the layers in her character, maintaining the technical poise of the Lilac Fairy while her spontaneous movements fed an aura of mystery that made her utterly magnetic. Seductive, even.
He'd seen a near-infinite amount of ballet performances and danced in just as many. He thought himself pretty disillusioned with costuming and fairytales in general. Immune, at the very least. But there was something about her, she did something to the Lilac Fairy that gave the role something resembling sex-appeal, not that he thought that was possible for a fairytale character.
He saw the inexperience Bastian had referred to, likely a side-effect of her youth. Some limbs she had yet to fully grow into, a little artistic maturity that would come with time. But her spontaneity made her all-the-more fascinating to watch, and he couldn't deny that there was no outperforming her that night.
The Royal Ballet was once an arch-nemesis of his home theatre, the Bolshoi, and he'd never thought the English style particularly appealing. Not to mention he hadn't really enjoyed watching ballet in a long time, having perhaps been overstimulated in his youth. But that night, in her Lilac Fairy debut, she had his undivided attention.
・・・
Roman made polite conversation with a few of the board members as they exited the theatre. The late-night air stung his skin through the fabric of his shirt as they stepped out onto the street, and he immediately became aware of a few lenses being pointed in his direction. He ignored the press, hoping they'd get the message that he wasn't going to be giving statements.
'I will see you in class this week?' Bastian asked from beside him, eyeing the famous dancer with raised brows.
'Of-course.' he replied, taking his keys from the valet.
He didn't live far from the theatre, probably only a five-minute walk if he were to guess. He'd decided to drive that evening though, fearing another run-in with the press. As it turned out that fear wasn't entirely misplaced, and he decided to avoid the traffic at the theatre's entrance by heading around the back instead.
He was tired, and the three-hour London-Moscow time difference wasn't exactly helping. He truly intended to home and try to get some sleep before company class the next morning. But when he passed the glass stage door around the back of the theatre, he was hit with one of his impulsive ideas. His stupid, impulsive ideas.
In his defence though, having made two striking impressions in one day, she was hard to forget. And if he was lucky, she'd still be backstage.
He pulled over and stepped out onto the sidewalk, shoving his car keys into his pocket as he began weaving through the orchestra members that were heading home. He slipped inside the stage door, glancing from left to right to try and get his bearings. He'd obviously never been backstage at the Opera House but hoped he knew theatres well enough to find the dressing rooms.
He headed past the reception desk and up the stairs, finally stumbling across the enormous main stage where some of the technicians were cleaning up after the show.
'Hey,' a voice called from behind him, making him turn around. 'You're Roman Zharnov, aren't you?'
It was a stagehand who had recognized him, and he nodded curtly. 'I'm looking for someone. Do you know where I can find a Nastasia Radzevich?'
'Oh, you mean Asya?' the stagehand clarified, rolling up a cord over his elbow.
The Russian dancer shrugged. 'You know her?'
'Yeah, she's probably with the principals.' the stagehand said evenly, lowering his gaze. 'That way.'
Roman thanked the stagehand and set off into the wings. He headed up another stairwell and rounded a corner into a long corridor bustling with dancers and staff. The stagehand had said she'd be with the principals, but that was if she hadn't left the theatre yet.
He continued down the corridor, hearing his name being whispered around him. He kept looking, finally catching sight of a lilac tutu between the people.
It was her.
She'd pulled on some white legwarmers to ward off the evening chill, and had taken off her tiara. She was more relaxed, at ease, and clearly exhausted after dancing a three-hour classical ballet. She was standing against one of the walls talking to another dancer, a tall blond he recognized from the performance that evening.
Ridley, if he remembered correctly. One of the Royal Ballet's male principals, he'd danced the Prince that night. At first it seemed like they were just talking, as is to be expected amongst cast members after a riveting opening night. But there was something about Ridley's demeanour, the way he stood with his arm propped up on the wall above the ballerina's head and his gaze kept slipping over her half-bare body every few moments, that insinuated they were perhaps more than cast members to each other.
Ridley leaned in and whispered something to her, to which she nodded. She followed him into one of the principal dressing rooms at the end of the passage, and the door closed behind them.
Ignoring the gazes he caught from other dancers in the corridor, Roman came to an abrupt halt. He heard his name somewhere, probably someone else recognizing him.
But it wasn't their attention he wanted.
.
.
.
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