Primadonna

At the ballet, you really feel like you're in the presence of something outside the rest of your life. Higher than the rest of your life. -- Robert Caro

There had been no reason for him to go.  It was something of a whim, upon seeing those catlike eyes staring boldly out of the newspaper.  He had never done something like this before, denying the norm upon which he was so dependent.  But all things must change at some time.

*****

Even this part of town made him uneasy.  The wind blew, a chill rippling down his spine.  He shivered slightly and pulled his overcoat closer, head bent against the wind.  Discarded papers and other detritus skittered past his feet, fluttering like lost souls tossed in the wind.  The air was rife with dust particles and misery, and few were on the streets.  He finally spotted the sign in a small alleyway, its dim light flickering in and out of existence.  He hesitated a mere second before grasping the tarnished handle and pushing the door open, flinching at the sharp whine it made.  Inside, loud music and guffaws could be heard, as drunken middle-aged men stumbled around, making quite a scene of their own.  

This wasn’t what he was here to see.

Eventually the lights dimmed and people began stumbling towards seats, finally quieting down.  He found himself sandwiched between a fat, very drunk man who was eyeing him strangely and a greasily muscled figure.  He grimaced slightly, but shifted to make himself as comfortable as he could in the cold, bare metal chair.  He concentrated only on the tightly shut curtain, attempting to tune out the rest of the world.  They finally shifted, slight dust clouds rising as they did so.  A lonesome, tinny tune started playing out of the ancient speakers, and people began hooting as the atmosphere warmed up.  Before long, a figure emerged from the back of the stage.

Everyone broke out in cheers and wolf-whistles at the person whom had appeared.  It was a male, though a very feminine one.  He was dressed in a traditional pink tutu, and had on ballet shoes as well.  He had his eyes closed, seemingly ignoring the ruckus.  And when he began to dance, Hankyung caught his breath.  There was something mystical about it, the way the man swayed to the nearly indiscernible music, slowly making small leaps and turns across the stage.  

Arabesque.  Grand jeté.  Chassé.  Balancé.  

The world seemed to come to a stop as the dancer executed a perfect pirouette, and this was met with many hollers and cat-calls.  Drunken men were beginning to surge towards the stage, trying to meet the eye of the gorgeous danseur.  However, his gaze skittered impassively across their heads and suddenly met Hankyung’s.  Miserable colombomic eyes gazed into his own brown ones, and there seemed to be a jolt of electricity that ran through his body.  The sight was torn away from him when the men began climbing on the stage, and the dancer scurried away to the back corner, seemingly yelling at someone backstage.

A peacock in the midst of crows.  A trapped bird in a cage, attacked by mirthful children.

The crowd had finally dispersed, but Hankyung was gone.  Arabesque.  Grand jeté.  Chassé.  Balancé.

*****

Over the course of the next week, Hankyung couldn’t remember how many times he’d trudged through that alley.  How many times he’d had to touch that grimy doorknob.  How many times he’d been stuck between undesirable A and B.  How many swift glances he’d exchanged with that shadowy dancer, whose name was apparently Kim Heechul.

Kim Heechul, plaything of the gods.  Sufferer of immoral affections.  Receiver of unwanted and unwarranted gifts.

And yet there was no telling what was in his mind, why he subjected himself to dancing in this filthy place.  And yet there was no telling why Hankyung had subjected himself to such a tortuous, arduous longing that filled his veins and destroyed his sanity.  

Arabesque.  Grand jeté.  Chassé.  Balancé.

The rhythm was always the same, but each time was always different.  And as the crowd surged this one time, as rowdy as ever, there was one more body writhing in the mass.  And, for some reason, the fragile peacock stayed put, haunted as ever.  And this time, there was one more voice among the many that clamored to be heard.

“My primadonna.”

~~~~~

I might write one from Heechul's perspective.  What do you all think?  

Also, Please Read and REVIEW! 8D