Fic: Let The Light In (The Eagle, AU), Chapter 1
Title: Let The Light In, Chapter 1
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Rating: NC-17
Length: 4k
Warnings:
Summary: Esca's an acrobat, and he has an idea when he meets someone who used to dance in the show.
A/N: For awarrington's birthday, along with lots of hugs/squishes.
It was right on a knife's edge, hovering on a hair between bliss and agony, and Esca allowed himself to relax fully into the stretch with a grunt before a vertebrae between his shoulder blades made a worrying pop.
“Ah, Christ, that's enough, Noz. You need to lay off the Del Taco.”
“Always whining like a bitch.”
At least the weight shifted off Esca's shoulders a touch, allowing his nose to rise up from where it'd been flattened against the floorboards.
“Lower back?”
“Yeah, ta.”
Two hands on his hips, fingers spread into the small of his back, and Esca shifted the stretch through the lower half of his torso, hams straining as his pelvis shifted into a more extreme angle.
“You've become too lazy.”
“Go fuck yourself.” It was hard to breathe, let alone snipe back as thoroughly as he wanted to, bent as he was fully in half. “Am not.”
“Two weeks left, still.”
“No fucking kidding. I'm here, aren't I?”
Esca felt Noz's sigh slither across his shoulders as he sat back up, feet flexed upwards, upper torso floppy as a doll as he passively allowed Noz to wrap arms around him in a wrestling hold to stretch his shoulders back, working out his anteriors.
“First time in a month.”
“So long as you don't count three nights a week then weekends.”
An impressively Persian snort tickled his ear. “I don't. It's unprofessional. Rehearsal time is -”
“I'm here! Lay off. Jesus. Legs.”
If he was totally honest, that slight slip on Thursday had been his fault. Besides, he'd supposed he could start trying to impress someone, anyone, with how his heart was still in it all, considering the two scant weeks left on their contract. Maybe an afternoon spent in a sweltering studio with Noz, on his day off, no less, might be a start.
“Chairs?”
“Probably should do.”
Even Esca's most thorough lone warm-ups never worked him out as much as Noz's comprehensive routine did. He was balanced in a full split, heels bruising on two balance chairs as Noz pushed down on Esca's shoulders till Esca thought his balls would be brushing the floor any moment. Tendons he'd forgotten he had were screaming at him, but it felt good, an itch he hadn't scratched in way too long.
“Bit more.”
“You're sure?”
“Go crazy. Oof, maybe not.”
The door opening distracted them both, Noz pushing Esca down way too heavily for a second.
“Ow. It's polite to warn whoever's hips you're planning to destroy.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Nattie? Are you okay?”
Most the straight guys seemed to worship Nattie like she was some sort of fragile, ephemeral thing, which, in Esca's experience, performers seldom were. He picked himself up from where Noz had dropped him, aware any bitching would fall on deaf, occupied ears.
“Aw shit. Sorry, guys. Thought this room was empty.”
“Regretfully, it usually is.” Snidey bugger. Noz was really amping it up, stomach flexed, bicep casually bulging as Noz leaned on the wall next to the door, gazing down at Nattie with a gentleness Esca had never seen so much of a wisp of directed at him. “You're upset. Hey, don't cry. Esca, some water.”
“Uh, yeah. Course.”
If only he could cry so prettily. Her eyes weren't puffy, heavy eyelids punctuated with lashes spiked with tears, skin as clear and creamy as it always was, not blotched and made angry by the teardrops slipping over the shaky hands she was brushing them away with.
“No, no water, thanks. I just needed a second . . .”
Noz had managed to insinuate an arm around her, her head barely coming up to his chin.
“Hush, now.”
“What's wrong?” Esca touched her arm, her fingers icy as they clutched at his. Even after an hour's class, she was barely sweating, a small, fragrant cloud clinging to her like some forcefield protecting her from the studio's usual stank. “Was Thierry being a cunt again?”
“No, nothing like that. It was Marcus, he called, it's the worst news . . .”
She dissolved into another delicate flood of tears, Esca and Noz exchanging blank looks over her head.
“Marcus? I don't think we know him.”
“You wouldn't. You know Doyle?”
“Sure.”
“He replaced Marcus, like, I don't know, eight months back.”
“Oh. Right.” Noz shrugged at Esca, neither of them any wiser as to who, exactly, Marcus might be, other than Doyle's predecessor. “What was the call? Would you like me to drive you home?”
“Noz! Quit being such an opportunist.”
“No, it's okay.” She wiped her nose with the bottom of her t-shirt. Typical dancer. “And thanks, Noz, but I'll be fine. Better finish class, y'know?”
“You're sure you're good? We could go for a coffee or something.”
“We're training, Esca.” The stern genie was back again, gentleness gone, arms folded across his chest, heavy brows drawn down. “No excuses.”
“Me? You were ready to drive her home a second ago.”
“Guys, don't fight. I'll go, I'm fine, really. But, there'll probably be leaving drinks or something for Marcus, so you should both come along, yeah? Because, I mean,” her huge indigo eyes filled again, her voice wavering with emotion, breath coming in shuddery gasps. “You're gone, too, soon. Right? It's like everyone's going. Man, this sucks, and God, poor Marcus. I hate this.”
“This is enough. No more tears. Esca, you stay, and you finish your stretching. I will take Nattie outside for some fresh air.”
“Fresh air? In Vegas?” The door swung shut behind them, Noz's arm back in place around Nattie's shoulders as they left. “Send up a flare if you find any.”
Two weeks. That was it. It was slipping away faster than he'd imagined it would. Esca put his water bottle back down by his bag, then flopped over, arching his back, allowing gravity to lengthen his spine, once more resolutely not thinking about what the fuck he was going to do once those two weeks were up.
-
The options for a decent night out drinking in Vegas were limited, from a resident's point of view. The lounges downtown were getting crowded with tourists looking for a non-tourist experience, which was definitely not what anyone would get anywhere near the strip. The sports bars in Laughlin were too crowded out, full of frustrated resort workers getting drunk and playing grab-ass with fingers made greasy with buffalo wings. Both Westside and Southeast were okay for coffee or tapas but weren't exactly a scintillating night out, Anthem was too expensive considering you'd be lucky to get through a bowl of stale nachos and couple of beers on forty dollars, and anything involving an actual club would have a floor crammed with professional dancers making excruciating over-formal attempts at bumping and grinding. Generally, on the few nights he'd get desperate for a break from a night in front of the TV, Esca would stick close to the slots on Fremont, making friends with a cocktail waitress via twenty dollars then mainlining free margaritas as fast as humanly possible.
This place was . . . well, it wasn't entirely horrible. Spring Valley was never that great, and it was too crowded, but that was a given for a Saturday night after the shows were finished. It was close enough to the strip clubs for that slightly seedy vibe to be creeping in, no horrible cocktails, the vodka was cheap, the football game showing in the corner had the sound turned down or off, Esca couldn't tell which, and nobody had over-designed the place to within an inch of its life. Half of Lumière were there. They'd taken over the dance floor, so far as Esca could see from where he was hugging the bar. Two shows on Saturdays always killed his back after a night off, and it was usually the last night of the week he'd choose to go out, bearing in mind he had another two performances to go tomorrow. No dancing. One more drink. He could gracefully bow out after that, then crawl home to sit with his obliques against the one jet still working in his whirlpool tub.
“Which one is Marcus?”
“No clue, don't care, and please remove your pit hair from my general vicinity.”
Noz paused in reaching across Esca to the peanut bowl long enough to smush his naked armpit that little bit more into Esca's forehead. “Admit that you cannot get enough of the stink of a real man.”
“If the stink of a real man is Axe body spray, then, yes, actually, I can.”
“You think Esca remembers what men smell like? How long's it been? Did it drop off from lack of use yet?”
One of Noz's cousins and the leader of their troop, Caspar, took his turn to reach across Esca, slopping his beer over Esca's arm as he took a handful of pretzels.
“You shouldn't be so bitter, Cas. Just 'cause I turned you down that one time . . .”
It was his secret weapon. One particular thing about Iranian men was that they reacted to accusations of faggery more predictably than any of the other, varied ethnicities Esca had known. Cas's face reddened as he frowned and backed off, taking the bowl of pretzels with him to his side of the bar. “One day you'll say that, and someone will believe you, and I'll have to kick your ass.”
“Might be an improvement to Noz dropping me on it.” He finally got the bartender's attention, throwing a few bills down to cover his tab. “Vodka soda, double, thanks.”
There was a definite atmosphere developing towards his right, a small thundercloud of gloom gathering next to his shoulder, and Esca turned on his stool to see Noz bristling like a dog, eyes fixed on a distant mark over by the dance floor, Cas slapping his cousin on one beefy arm as he handed over a fresh beer.
“Let it go, brah. Here.”
“It's not decent.”
“This is Vegas. There's nothing in the way of decent anywhere before the state line.”
The not-decent thing was, even in Esca's admittedly less conservative estimate, pretty indecent. Nattie was dancing with some guy, her arse hiking up and down against his crotch as he held onto her hips to grind into them forcefully. And now she was bouncing back onto him like they were actually fucking, her hair a cascade of browns lit blue and green with the floor's lights as she threw back her head and laughed, mouth open wide, her whole face glowing with too many daiquiris as she feigned taking a thorough shafting with what looked like a happy giggle. It wasn't dancing. It barely qualified as foreplay.
“She's certainly cheered up. Who's the guy?”
“Him? Marcus something, dunno. Heard he used to be a dancer.” Cas reached past Esca's nose for what had to be the fiftieth time in the hour, dropping a shot glass into Noz's beer. “I told you, you gotta leave her alone, man. Mom'd pitch a fuckin' fit if she knew she knew she'd flown you into the US only to get mixed up with dancer sluts.”
“She is not a slut. She's a very sweet girl.”
“Oh, yes.” Esca watched Nattie and her partner go into a series of full body rolls against each other, hardly any spare inch of torso on them each left un-rubbed as she flicked her hair around and he shoved his face into her neck like a pig at a full trough. “Looks that way. Practically virginal. No, Nattie's a love, but Cas is right. Well out of your league, mate.”
The three of them continued to watch the dance, much as Esca suspected half the bar's patrons had to be doing. It was a good show, although, as the guy pulled his shirt off over his head revealing a white vest almost transparent with sweat, Esca was beginning to feel like he was short a few folded dollar bills to fully demonstrate his appreciation. They were well matched, the guy as fluid and assured a dancer as Nattie was, each move choreographed as if by nature, in sync with one another in that way that only happens with people who've spent at least some time together naked. Esca found himself laughing as Nattie turned the tables on her partner, pushing him over to slap the arse that the baggy jeans barely disguised. The guy, to his credit, took it in his stride, popping his arse and pushing it upward like an invitation. They were hot, having fun, talented and looked like the only two people in the room at that moment. There couldn't be anyone not watching, and they didn't care, if they even realised.
“That's the Marcus who's leaving?”
“Yeah. His knee's fucked, or whatever.”
“Looks fine from where I'm sitting.” Absolutely fine. Extremely so.
“No, see?” Cas leaned closer in towards Esca to be heard, his breath beer-scented. There was something about Cas, no matter how much of a macho shithead he was. “Show's over. Damn. I hoped her shirt'd be next.”
The guy, Marcus, was looking down at Nattie, shaking his head and casually tossing an arm across her shoulders as he began to limp off the dance floor, the gathered Cirque cast whooping and stamping their feet for an encore.
“Maybe I should ask her to dance.” Noz had thrown back his spiked beer, and was looking more confident from the additional buzz. “Might be my last chance.”
“You have zero chance. Bao likes you, ask her.”
“No. You be my wing-man. Come and talk to Marcus, and I will dance with Nattie.”
Cas sighed, casting a long-suffering look at Esca before pushing himself up from the bar. “You're truly tragic, cuz. Alright, come on. You coming to witness my cousin's complete humiliation?”
Esca had already hopped down from his stool. “Always.”
Marcus was finer up close. Well, as close as they could get, the dancers clumped together and draped all over each other like a family of cats, as they always were at cast events. Cas seldom let other people get in his way, though, and a determined Noz helped push their way towards the booth where Marcus and Nattie were sitting, king and queen surrounded by their courtiers. Marcus didn't look like the typical sort of technical dancer Esca had met, nothing fine-boned or classically poised about him. He was kind of meaty-looking, with handsome, blunted features that belonged more on an underwear model than a professional ballerina handler. He was tanned, clean-cut and wholesome looking, not many smiles but definitely fuckable sitting there in the vest, which was soaked to his skin with a whole heap of muscular things happening beneath. Yet another straight guy to add to the spank bank. Esca's night suddenly didn't seem like quite so much of a bust.
“Nattie? Thought we'd come hang.” Cas had parted the seas of lounging dancers, and Esca followed in his footsteps, a row boat caught in the wake left behind by an oil tanker. “I'm Caspar. Springboard acrobatics, leader. That's Nozar, primary base, and this is Esca, our flier. You're Marcus, right? And, Nattie, please, do a guy a solid and go dance with Noz before he embarrasses us all by begging.”
“You wanna dance, Noz?” Nattie was such a duck sometimes, jumping up and out of the booth to grab the front of Noz's muscle shirt. “Sure thing, sweetie. Marcus was just warming me up, and now I'm going to ruffle all those feathers.”
“I'm not wearing feathers . . .”
Watching a bemused, beaming Noz getting towed towards the dance floor, Esca missed that Cas was pushing him into the booth first, and he suddenly found himself pressed up against the side of a guy he'd never met and who he'd been planning to think about while having a lovely bath-time wank later. “Oh. Hullo.”
“Hi.” Not so much as a hint of a smile. “Esca, and Caspar?”
“Cas. You used to be Anima cast?”
“Yeah. You're the current springboards?”
“Live and direct, man. S'up with your leg?”
Esca coughed on an inhale of his vodka soda. “Jesus, Cas. Manners of a goatherd.”
“Racist, brah, and what? I'm only asking.”
“It's okay. No biggie.” It was a nice voice. Not too deep, not too smooth. As relaxed and easy going as Marcus didn't appear to be. “Took a fall in the second act. Twisted the patella off, detached the ligaments and sheared a bunch of other crap.”
“Ooh, dude, nasty. Dislocated my shoulder a coupla years ago, so, y'know, totally sympathise.”
“Yeah?” The booth was pretty dark, but there was enough light for Esca to sit up and take notice when Marcus took a drink from his beer bottle. Good mouth. Seriously great mouth. The throat moving when he swallowed wasn't too bad, either, nor the tongue licking over the bottom lip once he was done. “Sorry to hear that. How's it been?”
“Smarts a little with fat ass here landing on it sixty four times a week.”
“It's true. I am indeed elephantine.” Esca felt hemmed in, the solid bulk of the two of them either side of him bearing down. Marcus's thigh thick and immovable against his. “Nattie mentioned you're going out of town. New job?”
It prompted a reaction from Marcus, who frowned, lifted his head, staring off, watching Noz dancing badly with an oblivious Nattie. “No. My last surgery didn't work out, and the doc's signed me off. The joint's permanently unstable.”
“Bummer.”
Esca hadn't meant to say it aloud, or hadn't thought about whether he was saying it or not, but out it came and, somehow over the insistent pounding of the music, Marcus caught it.
“Pretty much.”
“But you could get a resort job. No reason to run home. Get behind a bar, you'd be dripping in cooch every night.” Cas's grin was queasily intimate. “Don't think I haven't thought about it.”
“Thanks, but, no, I can't do anything that involves me being on my feet too long. Resorts, like, what . . . bellhop?” Marcus shrugged, his shoulders bulky and perfectly sculpted, the warm odour of clean sweat coming off him making Esca inhale as deeply as he could surreptitiously manage. “On my feet. Bartending, waiting tables, the casinos, retail . . . every job in this town involves too much leg work. A few hours in a knee brace is okay. Anything more is impossible.”
“Major bummer.”
This time it earned him a smile, which Esca was sure would've been boner-inducing if it wasn't so fucking dark. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“So, what, you go home and train to be a plumber or mechanic or something? Plenty of cooch in that. You'll do fine, man.”
“Anytime you want to stop saying cooch is good with me, Cas.”
“Eat a bag of dicks, fuck face. Oh, no, wait. You'd be into that.”
Cas looked so delighted with himself, it was almost irresistible. Marcus, however, was looking at them both one by one, a crease between his eyebrows, like he didn't know what to make of either of them. “Okay. Well, it's been good, uh, meeting you, but I think I need to rescue Nattie. If you'll let me out.”
“Sure. 'Bye.”
“Take it easy, brah.” Cas held out a fist, which Marcus obediently knuckled on his way out.
“Yeah, you, too.”
Esca watched him limping off towards Nattie and Noz, who'd relaxed into the dance and who was starting to threaten the safety of those nearby with increasingly wild pointy fingers. It was incredible how Marcus's awkward limp seemed to melt the closer he got to the dance floor, his broad body starting to move like liquid, heavy shoulders lifting and falling in perfect time with the music. A born dancer. Bit of a shame, really.
Nattie's face lit up soon as she noticed him, her arms thrown around his neck, his hand going to her hip immediately as she nuzzled into the side of his face. Poor Noz's shoulders drooped until Nattie, in another of her more angelic moments, noticed and reached out to him, including him in a dance that even Marcus started to echo, a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Clueless Noz, a lame dancer, and a girl who looked very much like someone in love. It was the kind of mess that Esca found he didn't want to watch any more, no matter how fuckable Marcus's lips looked whenever one of the lights found them.
-
The tub hadn't worked its usual magic. The wank hadn't been as lovely as Esca had hoped it would be, the nagging pain in his back making each stroke uncomfortable enough to throw him off his most efficient rhythm. He'd taken so long the bath had turned tepid, so he'd had to finish off on the bed, sheets sticking all clammy to his back where he hadn't bothered to towel off properly in case he'd lost his hard. Once he was finally done, the cold pack he strapped to the sprain made getting to sleep problematic, a lengthy process involving different combinations of pillow adjustment and position across the mattress, and now, two hours into a fitful sleep, the fucking air had clicked on and woken him up.
It wasn't possible. The idea he'd woken up with was beyond achievable, but it stopped him getting back to sleep, creeping around the corners of his mind as he punched his pillows back into position and swore at the ceiling. Fuck Vegas, fuck air conditioning. Fuck Cas's younger brother. Most of all, fuck this stupid fucking idea, which would never work out and which was giving him enough of a spark of false hope to keep him awake.
Marcus was big enough, that much was certain, and as a dancer in Anima, given the routines involved, would've had the training and experience enough. Lying dormant, probably, after eight months' out of work. The leg was a problem, but, honestly, how much toll could a seven minute act take on a knee? There were ways around it. Things that would work with the new show.
Fuck. No. It wouldn't work out, just like every other avenue he'd pursued. Why waste more time?
“Bugger it.”
He threw back the sheet, giving up on sleep, already starting to automatically warm up as he rose up out of bed, flexing his feet and fingers as he tugged on his pants, pulling each arm around behind his neck, his back, twisting and stretching to work out his torso before leaning down and letting the blood start to pool in his hands. It had been awhile since he'd last let himself think about this, let alone work on it. But it called to him stronger than ever now as he laid his hands flat against the floor tile, arms braced, fingers bent.
Up into a controlled stand first, raising his legs up slow, tighter control into a side split, back curved until he got the feel for it again. But it was easy, a walk in the park, the zen of it overtaking him as immediately as it always had. Straight back now, legs together now, toes, legs, arse and back held in a rigid line. He could feel how perfect it was, slotting back into it, holding his stomach and shoulders firm as he lowered his feet into his eye-line before bending his knees and stretching back up into a stag split.
Slowly, stupidly as he shouldn't try this for the first time in months over a tiled floor, Esca shifted his balance onto the heels of his hands, then bit by bit, straightening his legs again while he began to lean over his right arm, shifting, tilting, the shape of it there already waiting for him to slot into. One hand, now, lifting his left away, slowly, probably stupidly, until he could lay the palm of his hand flat against his hip bone.
“Nailed it. Get in, MacCunoval. Not fucking bad, first time out.”
He dusted off his hands, a mix of grit and stray hairs, probably pubes. Hadn't swiffered in here since God knows. A grin was starting, then spreading, and he stood there in his pants in the dark, grinning to himself over a stupid handstand, of all things. Hell, maybe it was worth a go, even if it would never work. Not in a million.
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Rating: NC-17
Length: 4k
Warnings:
Summary: Esca's an acrobat, and he has an idea when he meets someone who used to dance in the show.
A/N: For awarrington's birthday, along with lots of hugs/squishes.
It was right on a knife's edge, hovering on a hair between bliss and agony, and Esca allowed himself to relax fully into the stretch with a grunt before a vertebrae between his shoulder blades made a worrying pop.
“Ah, Christ, that's enough, Noz. You need to lay off the Del Taco.”
“Always whining like a bitch.”
At least the weight shifted off Esca's shoulders a touch, allowing his nose to rise up from where it'd been flattened against the floorboards.
“Lower back?”
“Yeah, ta.”
Two hands on his hips, fingers spread into the small of his back, and Esca shifted the stretch through the lower half of his torso, hams straining as his pelvis shifted into a more extreme angle.
“You've become too lazy.”
“Go fuck yourself.” It was hard to breathe, let alone snipe back as thoroughly as he wanted to, bent as he was fully in half. “Am not.”
“Two weeks left, still.”
“No fucking kidding. I'm here, aren't I?”
Esca felt Noz's sigh slither across his shoulders as he sat back up, feet flexed upwards, upper torso floppy as a doll as he passively allowed Noz to wrap arms around him in a wrestling hold to stretch his shoulders back, working out his anteriors.
“First time in a month.”
“So long as you don't count three nights a week then weekends.”
An impressively Persian snort tickled his ear. “I don't. It's unprofessional. Rehearsal time is -”
“I'm here! Lay off. Jesus. Legs.”
If he was totally honest, that slight slip on Thursday had been his fault. Besides, he'd supposed he could start trying to impress someone, anyone, with how his heart was still in it all, considering the two scant weeks left on their contract. Maybe an afternoon spent in a sweltering studio with Noz, on his day off, no less, might be a start.
“Chairs?”
“Probably should do.”
Even Esca's most thorough lone warm-ups never worked him out as much as Noz's comprehensive routine did. He was balanced in a full split, heels bruising on two balance chairs as Noz pushed down on Esca's shoulders till Esca thought his balls would be brushing the floor any moment. Tendons he'd forgotten he had were screaming at him, but it felt good, an itch he hadn't scratched in way too long.
“Bit more.”
“You're sure?”
“Go crazy. Oof, maybe not.”
The door opening distracted them both, Noz pushing Esca down way too heavily for a second.
“Ow. It's polite to warn whoever's hips you're planning to destroy.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Nattie? Are you okay?”
Most the straight guys seemed to worship Nattie like she was some sort of fragile, ephemeral thing, which, in Esca's experience, performers seldom were. He picked himself up from where Noz had dropped him, aware any bitching would fall on deaf, occupied ears.
“Aw shit. Sorry, guys. Thought this room was empty.”
“Regretfully, it usually is.” Snidey bugger. Noz was really amping it up, stomach flexed, bicep casually bulging as Noz leaned on the wall next to the door, gazing down at Nattie with a gentleness Esca had never seen so much of a wisp of directed at him. “You're upset. Hey, don't cry. Esca, some water.”
“Uh, yeah. Course.”
If only he could cry so prettily. Her eyes weren't puffy, heavy eyelids punctuated with lashes spiked with tears, skin as clear and creamy as it always was, not blotched and made angry by the teardrops slipping over the shaky hands she was brushing them away with.
“No, no water, thanks. I just needed a second . . .”
Noz had managed to insinuate an arm around her, her head barely coming up to his chin.
“Hush, now.”
“What's wrong?” Esca touched her arm, her fingers icy as they clutched at his. Even after an hour's class, she was barely sweating, a small, fragrant cloud clinging to her like some forcefield protecting her from the studio's usual stank. “Was Thierry being a cunt again?”
“No, nothing like that. It was Marcus, he called, it's the worst news . . .”
She dissolved into another delicate flood of tears, Esca and Noz exchanging blank looks over her head.
“Marcus? I don't think we know him.”
“You wouldn't. You know Doyle?”
“Sure.”
“He replaced Marcus, like, I don't know, eight months back.”
“Oh. Right.” Noz shrugged at Esca, neither of them any wiser as to who, exactly, Marcus might be, other than Doyle's predecessor. “What was the call? Would you like me to drive you home?”
“Noz! Quit being such an opportunist.”
“No, it's okay.” She wiped her nose with the bottom of her t-shirt. Typical dancer. “And thanks, Noz, but I'll be fine. Better finish class, y'know?”
“You're sure you're good? We could go for a coffee or something.”
“We're training, Esca.” The stern genie was back again, gentleness gone, arms folded across his chest, heavy brows drawn down. “No excuses.”
“Me? You were ready to drive her home a second ago.”
“Guys, don't fight. I'll go, I'm fine, really. But, there'll probably be leaving drinks or something for Marcus, so you should both come along, yeah? Because, I mean,” her huge indigo eyes filled again, her voice wavering with emotion, breath coming in shuddery gasps. “You're gone, too, soon. Right? It's like everyone's going. Man, this sucks, and God, poor Marcus. I hate this.”
“This is enough. No more tears. Esca, you stay, and you finish your stretching. I will take Nattie outside for some fresh air.”
“Fresh air? In Vegas?” The door swung shut behind them, Noz's arm back in place around Nattie's shoulders as they left. “Send up a flare if you find any.”
Two weeks. That was it. It was slipping away faster than he'd imagined it would. Esca put his water bottle back down by his bag, then flopped over, arching his back, allowing gravity to lengthen his spine, once more resolutely not thinking about what the fuck he was going to do once those two weeks were up.
-
The options for a decent night out drinking in Vegas were limited, from a resident's point of view. The lounges downtown were getting crowded with tourists looking for a non-tourist experience, which was definitely not what anyone would get anywhere near the strip. The sports bars in Laughlin were too crowded out, full of frustrated resort workers getting drunk and playing grab-ass with fingers made greasy with buffalo wings. Both Westside and Southeast were okay for coffee or tapas but weren't exactly a scintillating night out, Anthem was too expensive considering you'd be lucky to get through a bowl of stale nachos and couple of beers on forty dollars, and anything involving an actual club would have a floor crammed with professional dancers making excruciating over-formal attempts at bumping and grinding. Generally, on the few nights he'd get desperate for a break from a night in front of the TV, Esca would stick close to the slots on Fremont, making friends with a cocktail waitress via twenty dollars then mainlining free margaritas as fast as humanly possible.
This place was . . . well, it wasn't entirely horrible. Spring Valley was never that great, and it was too crowded, but that was a given for a Saturday night after the shows were finished. It was close enough to the strip clubs for that slightly seedy vibe to be creeping in, no horrible cocktails, the vodka was cheap, the football game showing in the corner had the sound turned down or off, Esca couldn't tell which, and nobody had over-designed the place to within an inch of its life. Half of Lumière were there. They'd taken over the dance floor, so far as Esca could see from where he was hugging the bar. Two shows on Saturdays always killed his back after a night off, and it was usually the last night of the week he'd choose to go out, bearing in mind he had another two performances to go tomorrow. No dancing. One more drink. He could gracefully bow out after that, then crawl home to sit with his obliques against the one jet still working in his whirlpool tub.
“Which one is Marcus?”
“No clue, don't care, and please remove your pit hair from my general vicinity.”
Noz paused in reaching across Esca to the peanut bowl long enough to smush his naked armpit that little bit more into Esca's forehead. “Admit that you cannot get enough of the stink of a real man.”
“If the stink of a real man is Axe body spray, then, yes, actually, I can.”
“You think Esca remembers what men smell like? How long's it been? Did it drop off from lack of use yet?”
One of Noz's cousins and the leader of their troop, Caspar, took his turn to reach across Esca, slopping his beer over Esca's arm as he took a handful of pretzels.
“You shouldn't be so bitter, Cas. Just 'cause I turned you down that one time . . .”
It was his secret weapon. One particular thing about Iranian men was that they reacted to accusations of faggery more predictably than any of the other, varied ethnicities Esca had known. Cas's face reddened as he frowned and backed off, taking the bowl of pretzels with him to his side of the bar. “One day you'll say that, and someone will believe you, and I'll have to kick your ass.”
“Might be an improvement to Noz dropping me on it.” He finally got the bartender's attention, throwing a few bills down to cover his tab. “Vodka soda, double, thanks.”
There was a definite atmosphere developing towards his right, a small thundercloud of gloom gathering next to his shoulder, and Esca turned on his stool to see Noz bristling like a dog, eyes fixed on a distant mark over by the dance floor, Cas slapping his cousin on one beefy arm as he handed over a fresh beer.
“Let it go, brah. Here.”
“It's not decent.”
“This is Vegas. There's nothing in the way of decent anywhere before the state line.”
The not-decent thing was, even in Esca's admittedly less conservative estimate, pretty indecent. Nattie was dancing with some guy, her arse hiking up and down against his crotch as he held onto her hips to grind into them forcefully. And now she was bouncing back onto him like they were actually fucking, her hair a cascade of browns lit blue and green with the floor's lights as she threw back her head and laughed, mouth open wide, her whole face glowing with too many daiquiris as she feigned taking a thorough shafting with what looked like a happy giggle. It wasn't dancing. It barely qualified as foreplay.
“She's certainly cheered up. Who's the guy?”
“Him? Marcus something, dunno. Heard he used to be a dancer.” Cas reached past Esca's nose for what had to be the fiftieth time in the hour, dropping a shot glass into Noz's beer. “I told you, you gotta leave her alone, man. Mom'd pitch a fuckin' fit if she knew she knew she'd flown you into the US only to get mixed up with dancer sluts.”
“She is not a slut. She's a very sweet girl.”
“Oh, yes.” Esca watched Nattie and her partner go into a series of full body rolls against each other, hardly any spare inch of torso on them each left un-rubbed as she flicked her hair around and he shoved his face into her neck like a pig at a full trough. “Looks that way. Practically virginal. No, Nattie's a love, but Cas is right. Well out of your league, mate.”
The three of them continued to watch the dance, much as Esca suspected half the bar's patrons had to be doing. It was a good show, although, as the guy pulled his shirt off over his head revealing a white vest almost transparent with sweat, Esca was beginning to feel like he was short a few folded dollar bills to fully demonstrate his appreciation. They were well matched, the guy as fluid and assured a dancer as Nattie was, each move choreographed as if by nature, in sync with one another in that way that only happens with people who've spent at least some time together naked. Esca found himself laughing as Nattie turned the tables on her partner, pushing him over to slap the arse that the baggy jeans barely disguised. The guy, to his credit, took it in his stride, popping his arse and pushing it upward like an invitation. They were hot, having fun, talented and looked like the only two people in the room at that moment. There couldn't be anyone not watching, and they didn't care, if they even realised.
“That's the Marcus who's leaving?”
“Yeah. His knee's fucked, or whatever.”
“Looks fine from where I'm sitting.” Absolutely fine. Extremely so.
“No, see?” Cas leaned closer in towards Esca to be heard, his breath beer-scented. There was something about Cas, no matter how much of a macho shithead he was. “Show's over. Damn. I hoped her shirt'd be next.”
The guy, Marcus, was looking down at Nattie, shaking his head and casually tossing an arm across her shoulders as he began to limp off the dance floor, the gathered Cirque cast whooping and stamping their feet for an encore.
“Maybe I should ask her to dance.” Noz had thrown back his spiked beer, and was looking more confident from the additional buzz. “Might be my last chance.”
“You have zero chance. Bao likes you, ask her.”
“No. You be my wing-man. Come and talk to Marcus, and I will dance with Nattie.”
Cas sighed, casting a long-suffering look at Esca before pushing himself up from the bar. “You're truly tragic, cuz. Alright, come on. You coming to witness my cousin's complete humiliation?”
Esca had already hopped down from his stool. “Always.”
Marcus was finer up close. Well, as close as they could get, the dancers clumped together and draped all over each other like a family of cats, as they always were at cast events. Cas seldom let other people get in his way, though, and a determined Noz helped push their way towards the booth where Marcus and Nattie were sitting, king and queen surrounded by their courtiers. Marcus didn't look like the typical sort of technical dancer Esca had met, nothing fine-boned or classically poised about him. He was kind of meaty-looking, with handsome, blunted features that belonged more on an underwear model than a professional ballerina handler. He was tanned, clean-cut and wholesome looking, not many smiles but definitely fuckable sitting there in the vest, which was soaked to his skin with a whole heap of muscular things happening beneath. Yet another straight guy to add to the spank bank. Esca's night suddenly didn't seem like quite so much of a bust.
“Nattie? Thought we'd come hang.” Cas had parted the seas of lounging dancers, and Esca followed in his footsteps, a row boat caught in the wake left behind by an oil tanker. “I'm Caspar. Springboard acrobatics, leader. That's Nozar, primary base, and this is Esca, our flier. You're Marcus, right? And, Nattie, please, do a guy a solid and go dance with Noz before he embarrasses us all by begging.”
“You wanna dance, Noz?” Nattie was such a duck sometimes, jumping up and out of the booth to grab the front of Noz's muscle shirt. “Sure thing, sweetie. Marcus was just warming me up, and now I'm going to ruffle all those feathers.”
“I'm not wearing feathers . . .”
Watching a bemused, beaming Noz getting towed towards the dance floor, Esca missed that Cas was pushing him into the booth first, and he suddenly found himself pressed up against the side of a guy he'd never met and who he'd been planning to think about while having a lovely bath-time wank later. “Oh. Hullo.”
“Hi.” Not so much as a hint of a smile. “Esca, and Caspar?”
“Cas. You used to be Anima cast?”
“Yeah. You're the current springboards?”
“Live and direct, man. S'up with your leg?”
Esca coughed on an inhale of his vodka soda. “Jesus, Cas. Manners of a goatherd.”
“Racist, brah, and what? I'm only asking.”
“It's okay. No biggie.” It was a nice voice. Not too deep, not too smooth. As relaxed and easy going as Marcus didn't appear to be. “Took a fall in the second act. Twisted the patella off, detached the ligaments and sheared a bunch of other crap.”
“Ooh, dude, nasty. Dislocated my shoulder a coupla years ago, so, y'know, totally sympathise.”
“Yeah?” The booth was pretty dark, but there was enough light for Esca to sit up and take notice when Marcus took a drink from his beer bottle. Good mouth. Seriously great mouth. The throat moving when he swallowed wasn't too bad, either, nor the tongue licking over the bottom lip once he was done. “Sorry to hear that. How's it been?”
“Smarts a little with fat ass here landing on it sixty four times a week.”
“It's true. I am indeed elephantine.” Esca felt hemmed in, the solid bulk of the two of them either side of him bearing down. Marcus's thigh thick and immovable against his. “Nattie mentioned you're going out of town. New job?”
It prompted a reaction from Marcus, who frowned, lifted his head, staring off, watching Noz dancing badly with an oblivious Nattie. “No. My last surgery didn't work out, and the doc's signed me off. The joint's permanently unstable.”
“Bummer.”
Esca hadn't meant to say it aloud, or hadn't thought about whether he was saying it or not, but out it came and, somehow over the insistent pounding of the music, Marcus caught it.
“Pretty much.”
“But you could get a resort job. No reason to run home. Get behind a bar, you'd be dripping in cooch every night.” Cas's grin was queasily intimate. “Don't think I haven't thought about it.”
“Thanks, but, no, I can't do anything that involves me being on my feet too long. Resorts, like, what . . . bellhop?” Marcus shrugged, his shoulders bulky and perfectly sculpted, the warm odour of clean sweat coming off him making Esca inhale as deeply as he could surreptitiously manage. “On my feet. Bartending, waiting tables, the casinos, retail . . . every job in this town involves too much leg work. A few hours in a knee brace is okay. Anything more is impossible.”
“Major bummer.”
This time it earned him a smile, which Esca was sure would've been boner-inducing if it wasn't so fucking dark. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“So, what, you go home and train to be a plumber or mechanic or something? Plenty of cooch in that. You'll do fine, man.”
“Anytime you want to stop saying cooch is good with me, Cas.”
“Eat a bag of dicks, fuck face. Oh, no, wait. You'd be into that.”
Cas looked so delighted with himself, it was almost irresistible. Marcus, however, was looking at them both one by one, a crease between his eyebrows, like he didn't know what to make of either of them. “Okay. Well, it's been good, uh, meeting you, but I think I need to rescue Nattie. If you'll let me out.”
“Sure. 'Bye.”
“Take it easy, brah.” Cas held out a fist, which Marcus obediently knuckled on his way out.
“Yeah, you, too.”
Esca watched him limping off towards Nattie and Noz, who'd relaxed into the dance and who was starting to threaten the safety of those nearby with increasingly wild pointy fingers. It was incredible how Marcus's awkward limp seemed to melt the closer he got to the dance floor, his broad body starting to move like liquid, heavy shoulders lifting and falling in perfect time with the music. A born dancer. Bit of a shame, really.
Nattie's face lit up soon as she noticed him, her arms thrown around his neck, his hand going to her hip immediately as she nuzzled into the side of his face. Poor Noz's shoulders drooped until Nattie, in another of her more angelic moments, noticed and reached out to him, including him in a dance that even Marcus started to echo, a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Clueless Noz, a lame dancer, and a girl who looked very much like someone in love. It was the kind of mess that Esca found he didn't want to watch any more, no matter how fuckable Marcus's lips looked whenever one of the lights found them.
-
The tub hadn't worked its usual magic. The wank hadn't been as lovely as Esca had hoped it would be, the nagging pain in his back making each stroke uncomfortable enough to throw him off his most efficient rhythm. He'd taken so long the bath had turned tepid, so he'd had to finish off on the bed, sheets sticking all clammy to his back where he hadn't bothered to towel off properly in case he'd lost his hard. Once he was finally done, the cold pack he strapped to the sprain made getting to sleep problematic, a lengthy process involving different combinations of pillow adjustment and position across the mattress, and now, two hours into a fitful sleep, the fucking air had clicked on and woken him up.
It wasn't possible. The idea he'd woken up with was beyond achievable, but it stopped him getting back to sleep, creeping around the corners of his mind as he punched his pillows back into position and swore at the ceiling. Fuck Vegas, fuck air conditioning. Fuck Cas's younger brother. Most of all, fuck this stupid fucking idea, which would never work out and which was giving him enough of a spark of false hope to keep him awake.
Marcus was big enough, that much was certain, and as a dancer in Anima, given the routines involved, would've had the training and experience enough. Lying dormant, probably, after eight months' out of work. The leg was a problem, but, honestly, how much toll could a seven minute act take on a knee? There were ways around it. Things that would work with the new show.
Fuck. No. It wouldn't work out, just like every other avenue he'd pursued. Why waste more time?
“Bugger it.”
He threw back the sheet, giving up on sleep, already starting to automatically warm up as he rose up out of bed, flexing his feet and fingers as he tugged on his pants, pulling each arm around behind his neck, his back, twisting and stretching to work out his torso before leaning down and letting the blood start to pool in his hands. It had been awhile since he'd last let himself think about this, let alone work on it. But it called to him stronger than ever now as he laid his hands flat against the floor tile, arms braced, fingers bent.
Up into a controlled stand first, raising his legs up slow, tighter control into a side split, back curved until he got the feel for it again. But it was easy, a walk in the park, the zen of it overtaking him as immediately as it always had. Straight back now, legs together now, toes, legs, arse and back held in a rigid line. He could feel how perfect it was, slotting back into it, holding his stomach and shoulders firm as he lowered his feet into his eye-line before bending his knees and stretching back up into a stag split.
Slowly, stupidly as he shouldn't try this for the first time in months over a tiled floor, Esca shifted his balance onto the heels of his hands, then bit by bit, straightening his legs again while he began to lean over his right arm, shifting, tilting, the shape of it there already waiting for him to slot into. One hand, now, lifting his left away, slowly, probably stupidly, until he could lay the palm of his hand flat against his hip bone.
“Nailed it. Get in, MacCunoval. Not fucking bad, first time out.”
He dusted off his hands, a mix of grit and stray hairs, probably pubes. Hadn't swiffered in here since God knows. A grin was starting, then spreading, and he stood there in his pants in the dark, grinning to himself over a stupid handstand, of all things. Hell, maybe it was worth a go, even if it would never work. Not in a million.