Of Gray Swans and Broken Dancers (pt.1)

Pairings: Chankai, KaiLay

Length: 6k

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Angst, mild language, mention of cheating

Summary: "Broken live on", or so the poet says. In which Jongin will have to find the strength to rise again, and understand that, if you try hard enough, there are mistakes you can fix... and others you can't. Ballet!AU, SwanLake!AU

Notes: Holy , it's been so long. 

Jongin watches the stage, a rueful, bitter, twisted smile on his slips. He can’t help but hate the man that occupies it, the man who turns and flexes and dances on it as if he owns it -worse, the man who dances on it because he actually owns it.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have come; coming here is just like having a dagger in his own chest, and twisting and turning it until he has no more blood to bleed. He knows he’ll find himself thinking about the danseur’s movements, trying to find his soft spot, trying to find that pirouette that wasn’t perfectly executed, that one arabesque that lacked grace, that rond de jambe en l’air that didn’t seem as effortless as it should have. He knows he’ll stay awake, trying to measure whose talent is bigger, whose legs are stronger, whose jumps are higher. He knows he’ll be unable not to compare himself to him, not to wonder whether it could have been him, owning the stage and compelling the audience. He knows he’ll go through the self-hate and despair and heartbreak again; yet he can’t look away.

“You hate him with every fibre of your being, don’t you? You loathe him, and yet you can’t help but feel admiration because he is on a stage you know first-hand how hard it is to own. You know his worth, and yet you’d do anything, anything to go back there, wouldn’t you? Because, deep inside, you still believe this stage is yours; you’ll always believe it. I’d know.”

Jongin doesn’t need to turn around to match the steady, calm voice to a face: he would recognize Zhang Yixing’s voice anywhere. Because Yixing hates him with the same passion he hates the man on the stage, Oh Sehun.

*

He doesn’t want to think that he’ll possibly never dance again.

The performance’s title is Shadow, a brand-new choreography and story line, created and directed by a rising choreographer, Lee Chang Sun, past premier danseur, the star long before Yixing. It’s crazy, he thinks bitterly, how the succession of dancers and artists is accepted as a fact, how quickly and unforgivingly they are pushed out of the stage, out of the spotlight, in the blink of an eye, from one season to the other. Jongin hates it; he hates it so much. He glances sideways at Yixing, whose face is open, earnest, calm; only his eyes, cold and calculating as he watches the danseur do betray that he’ll probably replay in his mind every moment of Oh’s later on, trying to measure himself up to him. Exactly like Jongin will.

He must have done it again, when it was Jongin replacing him, stealing his dream, a few seasons ago.

The corps de ballet always stays behind after practice, in order to watch the premiers dance, and Jongin is no exception to the rule. Quickly changing from his drenched in sweat tights and tank top to a comfy pair of harem pants and a white tee, he makes his way to the practice room, Studio 1, running, running to see Zhang Yixing dance.

Zhang Yixing is the one they all envy; he’s the one they all aspire to be; he’s the one whose level they all pray not to simply reach, but surpass. Seeing him perform on stage is a privilege –but watching him practice is a gift. For a simple member of the corps, no matter how talented, like himself, seeing the star of the company practice is a slap in the face: Zhang’s body twists and turns, legs and chest strong and straight but hands as soft, delicate, and graceful as can be, his muscles flexing with every single movement. Perfection.

There’s the bitter taste of envy in his mouth as he watches the premier danseur execute every move perfectly, making even the choreographer unable to tear his eyes off of him. Then Zhang asks the permission to do it all over again, from the top, because a pirouette fouettée didn’t turn out as smoothly as he would have wanted –and in Jongin’s eyes shines the light of acknowledgement and respect, because Zhang doesn’t settle, doesn’t accept anything less than greatness, chasing restlessly for what lies even beyond perfection. Jongin admires that, and he vows to become just as meticulous, just as an over-achiever as the brighter star in the company. And he prays that one day he actually manages to surpass even the brighter star, shining like only the sun can.

They continue watching the performance together, in silence; they would have little to say anyway. There’s nothing that ties Jongin and Zhang Yixing except their common passion, now transformed to bitterness and hate.

Shadow is a daring, pioneer and innovating choreography –Lee Chang Sun is a true master of his art, and Jongin is jealous, so jealous of Oh Sehun, currently occupying the stage with his precise, controlled, minimal movements.

“If it’s any comfort to you, I think the premiers are becoming less and less brilliant with each choice of the company” Zhang says at a point, never tearing his eyes off of the stage. Jongin looks at him, startled –not because of what he said, but because he choose to share his personal opinion with him.

“It doesn’t really, but thanks anyway.” Neither Jongin can turn his gaze away from the stage, where a completely covered figure dances blindly on stage. The work Lee has created is absolutely amazing: putting on stage twenty-two male dancers, he tells the story of a mysterious happening in a future society, where shadows leave the bodies they are attached to, in order to live their own lives. Oh Sehun is playing the shadow of the main protagonist, but his dancing proves that there is no other protagonist than him. Wearing a black flexible combi that stretches from his toes to the top of his head, covering his entire face, Sehun is giving what will perhaps be the performance of his life: in complete blindness he jumps and twirls fearlessly, his steps growing from the timid and minimal movements that have followed his detachment from the other body to audacious grand-jetés; he is an incredible sight, something unreachable and mysterious and oh so fascinating. And Jongin, completely bewitched, hates the man with a strength he never knew he had in him. So much resentment. So much anger. So much disappointment.

In a way, there is no one that can understand Jongin as Zhang Yixing can: they both face the same fate, they both stare at the chaos that is lurking behind every bright stage; they both dread the oblivion, now so close to them, the oblivion that comes with not dancing, with not being on stage. Zhang had a car accident, resulting in a fatal back injury, while Jongin was betrayed by his right knee during practice –so many similarities that bring them together, so many common points. In the end, premiers danseurs are as similar to each other as is the corps that dances dressed in the same way, doing the same thing –it hurts to think that after all these years, all these efforts to try to stand out, to be someone, he ended up being ordinary, mundane, his story and short career the same as any other’s premier danseur who got injured before his time. So much for making a difference, Jongin thinks bitterly.

No one can understand him like Zhang Yixing, not even the man that waits for him at home.

They met in London. Jongin had been selected over hundreds of dancers from all over the world to play the main part in a re-adaptation of Swan Lake, that had turned upside-down the ballet world during its first opening in 1995 by choosing to cast male dancers for the swans and putting on stage a male couple. It was the chance of a lifetime; and Jongin, twenty-three at the time, took it without hesitation.

He had never danced as perfectly as he did the night he met him: every movement was magical, transforming him into the Swan he was portraying, strong and proud and aggressive but with a touching vulnerability. Drunk with Tchaikovsky’s music, each jump an extension of the musical score, he danced, enthralling the audience and, unknowingly, him.

After the performance, Park Chanyeol had made his way backstage like a child that has suddenly been roused from bed; he had been working for The Guardian back then, before he gave up everything to follow Jongin back to his native country, and had requested an interview after the show. Jongin, usually not very fond of prodding journalists, had been won over as soon as he saw the young man’s face –Chanyeol had been crying during the performance, and Jongin felt a surge of gratitude for his red-rimmed eyes that widened when they saw him. Managing to move a complete stranger like that meant more than any praise his fellow dancers had given him.

The journalist had then stuttered unintelligibly, before managing to croak out: “That was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” Jongin had shaken his head, saying that there was nothing that could beat the original version, but he hadn’t been able to retain a satisfied, grateful smile. The conversation had quickly shifted to Korean, just as the official interview had shifted to a more personal, intimate conversation; when the rest of the company decided to go out for celebratory drinks, Jongin stayed behind. With smudges of white make-up still on his face after a quick careless wash, he had walked with Chanyeol in the streets of London, the conversation between them never ceasing, flowing as effortlessly as a pas de deux.

Like dancing a routine practiced a thousand times, they fell into a pattern: every other night he would dance, his movements becoming even more lyrical and powerful than before; every other night Chanyeol would watch, his eyes trailing behind every step of his as if bound by a spell, as if unable to do otherwise; and the rest of the night would be long, endless walks until the early morning, when Jongin went back to his hotel and rest before the next performance.

And then, during the fourth or fifth night, as effortlessly, as naturally as everything else had been, Jongin found his hand seeking the one of the man next to him, and soon after his tongue was dancing the most tender of ballets with Chanyeol’s.

So much has changed now.

Chanyeol says to him that he’s so much more than a retired dancer –he says that he’s a beautiful, wonderful human being, and that he loves him, premier danseur or not. Jongin thinks he’s so much less –he barely is a young kid whose dream has been snatched away. Chanyeol can’t understand. Even the deepest of loves can’t always lead to understanding.

Jongin had never thought that a day would come where Chanyeol’s love wouldn’t be enough.

*

“Are you taking rehabilitation classes, Jongin?” Yixing asks during the third act, where the male protagonist dances between the shadows in order to find the one that belongs to him, the one that dances in a way that mirrors his.

“No, I’m not.” Jongin’s voice is defensive, somewhat irritated. “What’s the point?”

This was a subject discussed many a time with Chanyeol, a discussion that usually led to arguments and fights. He had gone, once: he had tried, a couple of months or so after his injury, after that disastrous day at practice where, when asked to perform a complicated series of barrel turns, he had found himself landing improperly on his left foot, his quad muscle coming to push the kneecap out of its place. He had gone to a simple, beginner barre au sol class offered by the company, following the advice of his physician therapist that was treating his injury. It had been awful and oh so humiliating. Between old ladies and children, between people that loved dancing but had never practiced it before, there he was, executing all moves perfectly until it was time for the jumps and the relevés and the pliés and the pas balancés that would have once been effortless. Once they would have looked at him in awe; now they had all looked at him in pity. Jongin hadn’t gone back.

He had tried to practice on its own, at home, doing old beloved routines that his body seemed to remember even if his mind didn’t: without a pause he became the Swan, Prince Philippe, Romeo or simply Jongin, the Jongin he used to be. He had tried and pushed and pushed his not quite healed knee to support his weight during pirouettes and relevés-

Until the day Chanyeol had found him sprawled on the floor, half-unconscious from the pain, his kneecap out of place for the second time. He hadn’t danced ever since.

“I see” Yixing says, a light frown coming to rest on his features. “I can’t, you know? I really can’t dance anymore –not even a little.”

Jongin tries to mask the shock on his face, and Yixing gives a sad smile to his pathetic effort. They keep watching in silence, to people that have nothing in common except the yearning for a glorious past they can never have again.

On stage, the Man has finally found his Shadow; they engage in a pas de deux where, inevitably, one danseur mirrors the step of the other, showing that they are bonded in an inextricable way. As the Man tries to convince the Shadow to come back to him, it –the Shadow, Oh Sehun- in an amazing series of powerful grand jetés and other, complicated jumps, battles between his need for freedom and his love for the Man he’s attached to. And then, when the music, composed mostly by electric strings, arrives at its peak, he practically flies, during a series of perfectly executed barrel turns that make him sick, completely sick, because he recognizes this, he recognizes this part of the choreography.

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