Chapter Text
Light bled through the dark, like a glaring genesis to fire in his bones. He couldn’t see any faces in the crowd, the clusters of finely dressed and sweating people bustling with murmurs easing his name into the air in anticipation of the story he intended to tell with his now emerged body from the cool-toned spotlights. The Prince was sitting in the corner of the stage under a stiff wooden tree, posture relaxed, and flakes of strong-hold hair gel becoming less visible as the lights shifted from a brilliant white to a tame blue. Giyuu Tomioka drew in a deep breath, ignoring the shakiness that bounced off the lining of his lungs and the shiver that zigzagged up his spine. Where goosebumps sprouted from his skin, he was met with agonizing, itching pin feathers. Despite the waxy keratin sheaths that stabbed at his nerves and tensed his muscles, they bore an innocent ivory that only articulated to the audience a refined purity in his character. He hated this Prince, with his fixed smile, or signs of early aging trampled by cheap Botox and a prayer. The superficiality and performative elegance made Giyuu want to slice his throat, the blood dribbling down his chest in hot, sappy heaves as they danced this routine in front of a different audience every night. That could never be. The director placed him here for a reason– whether it was because he was actually talented or gave a good fuck behind closed doors was another conversation.
Giyuu’s muscles pushed and pulled into a narrative without words, bathing in the blue with delicate yet strong legs and a bare chest melting to the melody that had shifted beyond rehearsal tracks to ricocheting hums across the stage. The violins sang in their soprano-driven hubris. The flutes trudged along to the next measure. The horns bellowed in a competition with the bass to see who could shake the ground the most. If he were a normal person, Giyuu would have gotten lost in the dreamy whispers and rhapsodies of the pit…except he was far more important than the average person. He was no man, but a swan, a manifestation of guilty fantasies and desperate escapism. His naked chest, sculpted to that of a Greek hero, draped itself across the open air under the Prince’s watchful eye. Every motion, every glance, was a temptation for the audience to give in to the subjects of their yearning that would have to be stashed away in the back of their minds once the curtains closed. The things left unsaid. The things best left to the mind. Drawing out those thoughts, feeding on that allure, was far more influential to the audience through the Swan’s body than the helpless and rather stupid character anatomy of the Prince. It was a reminder that Giyuu was better than that ferret-looking son of a bitch watching him in mock amusement. Every pristine motion was a lesson not to fuck around and challenge him at auditions ever again. Giyuu looked the prettiest on the billboard, after all.
His angular face contorted into expressions soft like the feathers around his legs, eyes telling the story of a naive Swan who had fallen in love with what could never be. A moment that he had arguably lived and poured into the shifting tendons and stretching tissue. A grand jeté was no problem for him. He could do a pirouette without thinking twice, but then again, everybody else in the company could as well. They’d all had their fair share of times in merciless Russian dance academies or musty French workshops. Nobody in this company was an amateur, meaning every night had to be like the first. Rave reviews. Entranced critics. A very happy and enamored director. Giyuu couldn’t cease now. He worked too hard for this. He gave up too much for this to be restricted to a singular role in a myriad of seasons. He felt his neck elongate in his mind, the pin feathers from before growing more agonizing, yet the pain was pleasurable. He flapped his wings as the Prince ran to his side and joined him in his dance. Giyuu couldn’t help but feel the acidic bite of bile climb up his throat. That dickwad was trying to outshine him in a role much less important than his. He felt his jumps get a bit higher, his arms stretching just a bit further. He smiled through gritted teeth, the feathers sewn into his pants barely clinging on for dear life as he whirled about the stage, taking the Prince’s hand and pulling him close to his chest. Suddenly, the empty air behind him sagged over his shoulders in a melancholic epiphany. He missed being held like that. He missed him.
Breaking away from his sorrows, he lifted this Prince into the air. He could drop him right then and there, but he didn’t. No, the red would be unbecoming on his feathers. When their dance slowed, the Prince looked into the gaze of a murky blue puddle of misery. He leaned his face in a bit closer. They could feel each other’s breath, lungs heaving as they recovered from the serene and enamored number they’d just done. Their lips were so close together, yet it only made Giyuu more nauseous. No kiss would make him burst into life with blood pumping to even the smallest of his body’s crevices. No embrace would spark a fire in his chest that had fizzled into a weakened wick and smoky excess carrying the scent of what had once been. Intimacy could come in small bursts, perhaps drinks or the right arm around his waist, but it was just as superficial as the charade onstage. The Prince suddenly swooped in and planted a kiss on his cheek. Giyuu stiffened. That wasn’t in the production. The audience watched in anticipation, breaths frozen and gazes eager. He leaned forward, kissing the foolish Prince on the cheek before he began to glide backward, arms swirling around him in a whirlwind of fury and shock as he exited the stage to dimming lights. He could hear the roaring applause from the wings, and he began to smile. The shivering ceased, and he just stood behind the curtains, listening to every clap and whistle while he stretched, readying himself for his next appearance. If he slipped up just once, the slutty buffoon onstage would be the Swan. Giyuu couldn’t imagine what the idiot would look like, trying to outdo perfection. Giyuu’s sequence tonight would make that little bastard look like a cheap performance of the chicken dance. He chuckled at the thought. It’s what he deserves.
Upon the show’s conclusion, he had appeared once more while this Prince lay in the giant prop bed, diagnosed with madness. Careful hands caressed his face, a silent reminder from Giyuu that he was holding back a swift punch to the face from his earlier stunt. The other swans surrounded them, bodies thrashing about in animalistic attacks upon the delirious Prince. Giyuu’s response only came in the form of a graceful set of motions to drive them away. With each crescendo, he soared. His body eased itself into the pit’s ritardando with soft, passionate breaths. For a moment, he could only remember how his cries would break the dusty morning air as Helios trudged His chariot across the sky. Those years of bleeding feet, hopeless auditions, and frail support systems meant nothing now as he was forced onto the bed by the other swans, the Prince’s desperate arms outstretched to him as the swans plucked at his feathered pants and skin. Once he was carried offstage, he took a moment to breathe and stretch as the Prince’s understudy ran behind him, and they hid underneath a prop window. The Prince onstage was most likely relaxed in false stiffness as the Queen rushed to her now deceased son’s side amidst dimming lights. Of course, in this version of the story, she never loved him and only grieved his absence when he was gone.
“Are you ready, Tomioka?” The understudy was brimming with an energy Giyuu yearned to have even a smidge of at this point in his career. Looking into the boy’s naive and painfully optimistic eyes, his stomach sank in pity. Mustering a nod, he picked the boy up bridal style.
“Ready as I’ll ever be. Make sure to look extra dead, got it?” He got a nod as they appeared in the window, the boy’s arms draped around his shoulder, head lolled to the side, with Giyuu looking directly at the audience in a ghostly vision. The Prince and swan have reunited, even in death, and the stage went black.
The applause was deafening, but Giyuu embraced his ringing eardrums and grinning lips as he was welcomed back onstage with a standing ovation. The shouting and cheers put to bed every insecurity, glassy eyes, and the disappointment when previous cast lists reserved him for the ensemble. He kissed his hand and gestured to the crowd before he bowed, clapping and laughing along with them. Giyuu’s jaw clenched as he watched the Prince take his own bows, hoping his claps masked his disdain. After the remainder of the cast’s bows, they gestured to the technicians hiding in the wings and the pit, who were focused on playing the curtain call vamp. When the red velvet curtains fell, everyone began to hug each other, clapping and cheering. Nobody was sure how Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake would be taken in Japan, but, with the sold-out shows, they had been successful. Some danseurs were already debating nearby bars to celebrate with drinks, though Giyuu gently turned down the flurry of invitations sent his way. His muscles ached in dull pulses, and his stomach grumbled, the Prince trailing behind him as he made his way to his dressing room.
“You seem hungry, Tomioka. Would you wanna go out to eat?” Giyuu refused the urge to slap his hand away as it snaked its way around his waist, carrying the promise of something more than just a meal. Giyuu knew that there was more underneath that sentence than what was let on. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone out to eat with a cast member and ended up with sore hips, messy hair, and an agonizing hangover in their bed by dawn.
“I’m fine.” The Prince only chuckled, ducking under moving stage props and weaving his way through the sea of dancers who were still jumping up and down in celebration.
“Are you sure? You seem mighty lonely.”
“I’m not lonely.” His voice trembled a bit, but he did his best to remain poised as he messed with the knob of his dressing room door. The Prince placed his hand on top of Giyuu’s, their eyes meeting. His breathing hitched, his throat going dry as the Prince leaned in closer, his smile not fading, it was almost eerie.
“That’s right, my bad. Your husband is probably waiting outside in the stage door for you with the biggest bouquet of roses you’ve ever seen! Is he taking you out somewhere?” The man had stabbed him repeatedly in the chest and now was rubbing salt in his wounds. He never spoke about what happened. He couldn’t bring himself to. It had suddenly dawned on him that he hadn’t peered into the audience, looking for clapping hands adorned in pink lightning bolts, or the proud shouting of his name with a praise he’d been addicted to not that long ago. This glory shouldn’t have been just his. The two of them should be shimmering like gold in the aurora borealis of city lights. Instead, Tomioka Giyuu was alone. His grip tightened on the doorknob and twisted it, pushing the Prince away from him.
“I’m divorced.” Before any response could be formulated, Giyuu shut the door and slid down onto the floor, taking in a deep breath. His dressing room, once home to post-it notes boasting good luck messages or surprise gifts way out of their budget, was now vacant. He looked into the mirror, grimacing at his hollow cheeks. If it weren't for his makeup, the red rims of his teary eyes would be exposed, and those damned dark circles would stand out more. Perhaps it was foolish of him to search his dressers for an unexpected note or delivery. Every time he attended a show, Sanemi would signify his presence with flowers. Now, there were scattered makeup supplies and a flickering lightbulb unattended by theatre facilities. Hot tears massacred his makeup, and his heart filled with an agony that could not be put into words. There was no other option, right? He had no other choice. Giyuu took his miscellar water and began to remove the remnants of his tears and illusory prowess. He had to believe that. He wasn’t sure if he could survive the possibility of there being another way for them.