Fic: Let The Light In (The Eagle, AU), Chapter 2
Title: Let The Light In, Chapter 2
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5k
Warnings:
Summary: Esca's an acrobat, and he has an idea when he meets someone who used to dance in the show.
That walk must've been something before the accident. Esca put down his frappe, worried sucking on his straw would become too unconsciously suggestive while he was watching Marcus walk towards him. He had his shades to hide behind, so his eyeline could happily roam where it wanted. He let it.
The loose t-shirt Marcus was wearing did nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders. A scouring desert wind was whipping it around him, the thin fabric clinging to pecs and a small amount of belly fat an inch above Marcus's belt line. The baggy jeans were a crying shame, but the same wind was doing Esca all kinds of favours, now and then cupping the denim around Marcus's moving crotch in a manner that allowed Esca to decide that Marcus was definitely a briefs sort of guy. Mirrored sunglasses emphasised the cheekbones, the harsh sun bringing out gold tones in the groomed hair. But it was the cant of the walk that was the star, almost a prowl to it, limbs loose, forearms strong with hands curled lazily beneath, swinging to and fro. Even with the slight limp, a hesitation on every other step close to unnoticeable today, it was the walk of someone who occupied that body in entirety. A man with that walk would know how to skillfully work that body in whatever occupation. Marcus walked like an apex predator, one that had recently eaten its fill.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” Esca half-stood and took the hand that was offered, giving it a quick shake. Dry skin, slightly rough, good, big, strong hands on the man. He'd need them, all going well. “Thanks for coming.”
“Sure. I'm going to . . .” Marcus tilted his head indoors towards the coffee counter. “You want anything?”
“No. I'm good, thanks.”
He'd barely settled back into his chair with his frappe before Marcus's head appeared back around the door. “There's tables available inside.”
“I know. I like it out here.”
A small ruffling of Marcus's brow above the sunglasses subtly suggested Esca was totally batshit for wanting to sit out in ninety-five degree heat, and then he was gone again without offering any actual comment. The scent of steaming coffee accompanied him back outdoors again a few minutes later, a big takeout cup of something strong and non-froufrou, no syrups or whipped cream, held in one hand.
“You good? Let's get started.” Esca took another noisy slurp, and watched Marcus settling into his chair. “Nattie told you I have a proposal.”
“She did. Didn't say what.”
“Possible job.”
“You remember about my leg?”
“I do.”
“Okay.” Ohh, those lips looked good all pouted up to take a sip out of the cover's spout. Plump and chubby and soft like they'd feel fantastic wrapped around - “What's the job?”
“Uh. So, uh, we know you can't dance, which, as I've said, major bummer. How about standing fairly still? Perhaps with a support or similar?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
He wished Marcus would take the shades off. He struck Esca as a peculiarly inexpressive person, facially at least. Perhaps if Esca could see his eyes, he'd have some idea of what kind of reaction he was going to get from all this. It was like the blindest of blind dates.
“How long, how often my balance is shifting, whether or not any twisting action's involved . . .” A shrug lifted the heavy shoulders, Marcus's forearm tan and beautifully built as he lifted his cup to his mouth again, pausing to speak. “Mostly it's good, but I try to stay within my limitations. It's difficult to say.”
“You ever heard of acrobalance?”
The brow ruffled again. “I don't think I'm familiar with it.”
“Yeah, there's none of it in Anima. Lumière's featured it before, though. It's two people, one base, one flier. I'm your flier.” Why was he so nervous? Esca sat back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table, forcing his body to relax. “You'd be my base. The base lifts and supports the flier in various poses, like with dancing, only sometimes I'd be balancing on one or both my hands. Sometimes held in yours, sometimes on your shoulders, thighs, whatever we'd decide to include.”
“Sure, yeah, I think I've seen that.” Finally, Marcus pulled off his sunglasses, placing them down on the table. Even in the shade where they were, on the terrace beneath a wide parasol, the unexpected, smudgy green-gold of Marcus's eyes was enough to halt Esca's train of thought to the point he almost missed what Marcus asked him next. “Isn't it usually a guy and a girl?”
“What? Oh. Um, yes, usually. Not always.”
“I haven't seen it with two guys. Not that I'm an expert.”
“It's not unheard of. I am an expert, it's actually my specialty. Or, it used to be.”
“And you think I could be your base?” Marcus's tone gave no hint as to what he was thinking.
“Potentially. One sec, I've got it in here somewhere . . .”
Maybe baggy jeans weren't so tragic, as leaning back and patting the pockets of his skinnies wasn't helping Esca find the folded printout, and he finally had to get up to search through each one.
“Okay, here.” He unfolded it, handing it to Marcus. “I got this, what, a month and a half back. It's an invitation to audition for Lumière's new show. A personal invite, and they're like gold dust. I've confirmed an audition, but I haven't been able to find a suitable base and I'm going to have to cancel if we, you and I, can't come up with something in the next three weeks.”
“Huh.” Marcus was reading it through, frowning slightly, mouth pursed. “Three weeks?”
“I know, it's nothing. But this is an audition for featured artist. The money's triple what you made as a corps member. I figured you've got experience of adagio -”
“Of what?”
“Adagio. Hefting people making pretty poses above your head.”
Another nod, a crease between Marcus's eyebrows, and a deepening of the moue. That was it. God knows Marcus would look gorgeous enough on-stage, but Esca certainly wouldn't be able to rely on him to emote. There was a long pause, silence except for one car and a throbbing Harley passing in the road beyond, and Esca allowed Marcus a few seconds more to read it over again. Then the email was placed down beside the sunglasses on the table, and Marcus looked directly at Esca for the first time since he'd unveiled his eyes.
“Why me? I'm no acrobat.”
“Desperation.”
“Mine?”
“No, mine. My Anima contract was only ever temporary. Cas's brother's finishes school next week, and is flying out to take over. And Anima got me my work visa, which I'll lose, so I need to find something soon.”
“Didn't you look for a trained base?”
It wasn't as if Marcus was directly implying Esca was stupid, but Esca bristled and inferred it anyhow. “No, I can't say that occurred to me. 'Course I fucking did. Had two sessions with different guys, but the chemistry was off.”
“And you think we'd have . . . chemistry?” Was that a twinkle, hidden at the very back in the depths of Marcus's eyes? Probably not.
“I have no idea.” Part of him hoped not. “You've got nothing to lose. Neither have I. It's got to be worth a try, right?”
-
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You're too rigid.”
“But -” Marcus cut himself off, instead sighing, letting go of Esca's ankles and holding up his hands to help Esca down. “Too rigid.”
“Yes.”
He was staring at Esca in the studio's mirrors now Esca had hopped down off his shoulders. He'd stared when he'd first walked in, stood there and stared at Esca and Esca's naked torso with such a total lack of fathomable expression that Esca had begun to feel self-conscious about wearing nothing but a jock and a pair of cut-off tights for the first time since he'd been fourteen. He'd stared, mute and passive, as Esca had explained the basics of acrobalance. True, his stare now had a hint of belligerence about it that hadn't been there before, but being told you were doing the same thing wrong repeatedly over half an hour would probably annoy most people.
“Try it again. Less rigid this time.” Esca grabbed his towel, attempting to soak up some of the sweat dripping off his hair before they started again.
“Could you be more specific? What's too rigid? My posture? My hold?”
“It's difficult to explain.”
Marcus's jaw shifted, jutting out a tiny bit more. “Try.”
“It's like . . .” Esca tried to throw his towel over to his bag, missing by a half metre. “Bugger. Well, it's, I don't know. It's your . . .”
“It's my what?”
“Your demeanor. Your deportment. I wasn't planning to say anything, but I googled you. Found some stuff online.”
“Youtube? Anima?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Marcus had been staring at him from out beneath those over-hanging brows, but now the head and shoulders went back, any remaining passivity gone. “And now you're going to tell me what you think you saw.”
“I wasn't going to. But it's the same thing. You're so . . . uptight on stage. Nothing like how you were dancing with Nattie.”
“That's different.”
“In what way is it different? It's dancing. At the bar, you were all . . .” Esca gave a full body wriggle that he'd probably remember later on for some middle of the night humiliation. “Loose, relaxed. But on stage, it's like you've got a pole shoved so far up your arse you can't hardly swallow.”
“I take my work seriously. Or, I did.” A second's more hard staring, then Marcus blinked, and moved, limping across the studio and sitting down in the chair next to his gym bag. “We're done here.”
“'Done'?”
“Yes. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You're quitting?” The violent ripping sound from the velcro when Marcus tore off his leg brace made Esca wince.
“I already told you, I'm no acrobat. And I don't need dance criticism from,” Marcus's eyes flicked up and down, taking all of Esca in from his red, sweaty face to his exercise slippers. “Someone who does handstands for a living.”
“You think it's that simple?”
The chair's legs scraped across the wooden floor as Marcus stood, then dropped over into a messy handstand, arms bent, fingers splayed flat against the floor. His voice was husky when he spoke, his airway constricted by his crappy carriage. His t-shirt slipped downwards, revealing his smooth stomach and chest, his face obstructed by the hanging fabric. “Yeah. I can see this is rocket science.”
“Straighten your arms. They should be braced. Fingers arched.”
Marcus complied, his balance wobbling, legs flailing to hold his position. “Wouldn't want to be too rigid.”
“Your back's bowed. Tighten it up, pelvis in line with your shoulders. Toes pointed.”
Every point was ignored. In the ugliest move Esca had seen in years, Marcus managed to walk a few steps on his hands, grunting with the effort, feet kicking to help him move. Then his balance failed, but he landed it neatly enough, standing back upright with an insouciance that tried to suggest he'd meant to finish it there.
“That was terrible.”
“Try a few fouettés en tournant in succession, and I'll give you notes on your technique.”
Marcus snagged his bag from the floor, his back upright and resolute as he started to make for the door. But then he turned, presumably to pay Esca the meaningless courtesy of saying goodbye, and Esca watched upside down as Marcus's lips parting an inch as he took in Esca's perfectly posed handstand, full side split, raising his legs up into a precise point before he executed a few turns, fast spins on his hands into walking half the length of the studio like it was a stroll in the park.
“Here's your fucking rocket science.”
Pal. Pausing a beat, flicking into a round off, two back handsprings and a whip, Esca slamming his feet down, waiting a second to focus, then into a back tuck from standing, sticking it as well as he ever had. Then two cartwheels, an aerial and a punch front, all back towards the door until Esca was left, heaving for breath, standing a couple of feet in front of a stunned-looking Marcus.
“Gymnastics, since I was six years old. I had a slight curvature of the spine and that was the proposed cure. It worked. So, I know what I'm talking about and, unless you want to leave Vegas and go back to Bumfuck to retrain in sodding I.T. or something, you'll listen to me. You'll take my corrections, you'll improve, and we'll knock their fucking socks off at the audition. Otherwise, yes, absolutely, piss off and stop wasting my time.”
He'd never met anyone before so able to make unmoving eye contact like Marcus, who was staring directly into his eyes again without any sign of discomfort, his expression somber, whatever suggestion that he'd been impressed with Esca's tumbling totally gone. They stood there like that, Esca wondering if he needed to say anything else, for what seemed close to a full minute before Marcus gave a single nod, his mouth set in a grim line.
“You'll need to be more specific with your feedback.”
“I'll try. You'll need to decompress, take the stick out your arse and loosen up. Acrobatic adagio's all about the flow of energy between two bodies. I can't do it by myself. I can't work with a brick wall.”
Marcus sighed, and Esca felt the stream of his breath fluff at his hair, the humidity of it adding to the oppressive heat of the studio. Then he reached down into his bag, taking out the knee brace and starting to strap it back in place. “Agreed. What now?”
“Back to the mats. Your leg's dealing with my weight?”
“So far.”
“Good. Shoulder stand.”
They'd moved together towards the crash mats, Marcus's hands automatically reaching to take Esca's, his legs bent at the knee to provide Esca with a step up.
-
He hadn't been expecting rapturous applause. Hoped for it, hadn't expected it. Hadn't been expecting total silence, though. “Well? What do you think?”
They all shuffled in their seats. Nattie was smiling uncertainly, like she was worried she'd missed the punchline of a joke. Noz, Niad and Cas were all frowning, Cas's mouth covered with the fingers of both hands, his elbows propped on his knees. Frosh the Hot French Clown was making a sneery face as if he was half-impressed, half-bored out of his mind, Jenna was nodding like how people do at poetry readings when they don't understand a thing being said, and Mads was thumbing through something on his phone. Marcus looked at Esca, a droplet of sweat falling from the end of his nose when he hung his head, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand.
“I didn't think we were that bad.” Esca's arms felt rubbery, knees weak, his muscles completely shut down. “Anyone? Nattie? You look like you enjoyed it. Sort of.”
“It was, I don't know, it was great. I can't believe how much Markie's learned, it's totally fucking amazing. You did great. Good job, babe.”
Yeah. Nattie wasn't one of life's natural critics. Esca put his hands on his hips and leaned his head back, opening out his shoulders and chest, temporarily trying to increase his oxygen intake. This didn't seem good. A disaster? All that work . . .
“Cas? Tell us the truth. How bad is it?”
“Not so bad. Nattie's right - two weeks, brah? You got some skills.” It was directed at Marcus, and that didn't help Esca's mood, which was dropping by the second. “Holds are good, shapes are great, transitions are solid. It's a tight enough routine. Not perfect. Pretty incredible for two weeks.”
“But?”
“But - ”
“This is for the new show?”
Esca looked over at Frosh, who'd sat forward, unbuttoned shirt gaping nearly to his navel. Esca customarily operated a No Clowns policy, as they were generally a bunch of drunken, lazy, egotistical, talentless bastards who got paid a million times more than everyone else in the show, but Frosh was sexy enough to have earned his own loophole.
“Yes. Audition's next week.”
“Ah. I have already completed mine.”
Seriously. Fuck clowns. “Good for you. What's your point?”
“It's adult themes, yes? Passionate. Sensual. Erotic.”
“It's what?” Marcus's head popped up at that, and he directed that intense stare first at Frosh, then at Esca. “You didn't say a word to me about this needing to be erotic.”
“Alright, Markie, unknot your arsehole. I'd only heard rumours. Nothing in the email about it.”
“That's not the issue.”
Two weeks of work. Two weeks of bullying a mostly-silent Marcus into repeating the same moves over and over till even Esca'd been sick to his stomach of them. Two weeks of muscles complaining, of Marcus's bullish, sullen silences or sudden flashes of irritation, two weeks of worry that the leg brace would fail and send them both smashing to the floor, and two fucking weeks of a griping gut that suggested to Esca he was in danger of developing an ulcer. Too much coffee, not enough recovery time between sessions, and to top it all off, his last whirlpool jet had given up and his landlord was refusing to fix it, saying that functional jets hadn't been part of the rental agreement. If Marcus was about to throw a hissy fit over the possibility of having to fake a sensual desire towards Esca like gay cooties were an actual thing, Esca might have to punch him right in the fucking face and waste every part of the last two hellish weeks. Struggling to keep a level head, Esca took a long breath in and out before speaking.
“May I suggest you tell me what is?”
“You knew? All you've said, this whole time, is that trust is the primary thing. Without trust, you can't settle in position. Without trust, we'll fight each other to control the balance. Without trust, yadda fucking yadda, I swear you had me repeating it in my sleep . . .”
“It was only a rumour! I didn't know, not exactly, and didn't want to say in case I was wrong. It's a real thing, Frosh? The erotic bit? I thought they'd already done that, few years back.”
Frosh gave a deeply Gallic shrug, his floppy hair hanging over one eye till he flicked it back. “It's Vegas. Tourists like titties.”
Esca looked down at his chest in automatic response. “I don't have titties.”
Another shrug. “Marcus does.”
It seemed to wake their small audience up a bit, Jenna and Nattie laughing into their knuckles and swaying against each other, Cas and a smirking Frosh high-fiving while Marcus's frown deepened until his eyes almost disappeared behind his brow line. “Fuck you, guy I don't know.”
“Trust isn't the issue. It's there, that's obvious from your adagio. Physically, you're trusting each other already.” Mads finally looked up from his phone, and everybody always listened to what Mads had to say. He never said that much, or often, but when he did, it was always either total incomprehensible bollocks or cut to the heart of it. “There's no intimacy there. It's too clinical. You touch each other like you met three weeks ago.”
“We did only meet three weeks ago.”
Mads gave Esca a flat, heavy-lidded glare. “No shit.”
“Y'know, guys, I think Mads nailed it.”
“Yeah, I agree with Jenna. And Mads.” Nattie's eyes were huge with sudden concern, denim blue irises ringed with a navy so dark it was almost black, none of her perfect teeth smudged with her coral lipgloss although she'd started chewing at her bottom lip between sentences. “He's right. The routine's great, but you guys, I don't know, there's something missing . . .”
“Chemistry?”
Dammit. Esca felt like he could cry. Nattie sympathetically scrunched up her face at Marcus, nodding in confirmation. “I'm so sorry, sweetie, but yeah. I know how hard you worked, and you've done so well, and I'm so proud of you for trying. But, no, you're not connecting. Not like us when we danced in the show. You remember how it used to be, every time you lifted me?”
Christ. Now Nattie looked like she was going to cry. Marcus left Esca behind on the mats, limping over to Nattie, his knee brace keeping his leg unnaturally rigid, her arms going around his naked waist as he nuzzled his nose into the top of her head.
“I remember. Hey, it's okay. We'll fix this.”
“We will?”
Marcus looked up and at Esca over the top of Nattie's dark curls, his expression blanker than ever. “Yeah. It's got to be worth a shot. Right?”
-
“You have got to be fucking kidding. Here?”
“Here.”
Esca had been right - Marcus's smile was devastating, now Esca could actually see it properly. Hard to miss it, lit up as it was by the vast golden neon sign above the strip club Marcus was taking him to.
“'The Centurion's Helmet'?”
“You've never heard of it?” The grin widened. “Place is a Vegas legend, it's been here since Caesar's was built.”
“Yes, 'course I've heard of it. Certainly didn't realise it was your idea of a fun night out.”
“I've got friends here, they'll waive the cover charge. You in?”
Esca wrinkled his nose, looking up at the sign, which was significantly less dazzling than Marcus's smile. “Strippers aren't really my thing.”
“You do know it's a gay club.”
“Sure, but I've never had to pay to get guys to shake their stuff in my face, know what I mean?”
Marcus laughed. He honest to God laughed, head back. Wonders would never cease. “Whatever you say, man. C'mon. I'm buying. Gotta loosen you up.”
“Me?” Esca trailed after him, still trying to wrap his head around . . . whatever this was. “That's our agenda? You're the one with the stick up his bum.”
“Say that a little louder once we're inside. It might get us some drinks sent over.”
This was not a Marcus Esca had met before. He knew one of the door guys, doing that grabbing hands and bumping chests thing before they were waved inside and escorted to a VIP booth. Esca had never been a VIP anything. Okay, so this was a legendarily seedy strip joint located in an area of town that Esca wouldn't usually step foot in after sundown, but, hell, it was VIP, and Esca found himself relaxing into the curves of the velveteen VIP couch before he'd even been handed his complimentary glass of fizzy wine.
“Wow. This place is awful.”
“I know. Isn't it great?”
Marcus was smiling, his face softened, his posture relaxed as he sipped from his beer bottle and watched a bored-looking twenty year old in ripped jean booty shorts and construction boots rubbing his arse up and down a pole.
“Are you having some sort of aneurism? Do I need to call someone?”
“Let it go, Esca. We're here because we don't know each other.”
“I'll say.”
Marcus sat back, leaning his elbows up on the back of the couch, his shirt buttons straining across his chest. “Part of the problem is, we've been working so hard, we haven't made the time to hang out. You're freaking out because you didn't expect me to even know this place existed, am I correct?”
“You are. Although, I wouldn't say freaking out, exactly.” Marcus raised an eyebrow at him, that stare back in place, and Esca capitulated. “Yeah, okay. Freaked, yes. Freakage is occurring.”
“So how much, exactly, will you wig when I tell you I used to work here?”
All of a sudden , it felt like Esca's brain wasn't fitting in his skull right, and his ears were buzzing, and was that the floor tilting? “. . . You what?”
“I can't be the only corps dancer you've met who moonlighted in strip clubs.”
He was gaping, and had to make a conscious effort to stop. “. . . Um. No. But . . .”
“Gay clubs pay more, and the tips are better.” Marcus was watching the twenty year old again, his face back in its normal blank mask. “This place paid for an apartment, Cirque only paid enough for a car. A shitty one. So, that's something you didn't know about me. Tell me something about you.”
“Oh, no. No, no, we're still very much on this subject, ta.”
“Alright. What do you want to know?”
“Lap dances?”
“Sure.”
“Shit. Did you, uh, offer any extras?”
Marcus smiled against the neck of his beer. “I wondered how long it'd take you to ask.”
Fizzy wine was in no way wet enough for how dry Esca's throat had become. “ . . . And?”
“I already told you, Esca.” Marcus's face straightened and was more solemn than ever, more carved in stone. “I take my work very seriously.”
One thing Esca had learned about Marcus over the last weeks, one of the very few things before this, was that, no matter how inexpressive Marcus tended to be, there were occasional flickers of humanity there, if you looked for them. The jaw, which could clench or harden in effort or frustration. The eyebrows, which would lower in concentration or annoyance, or lift in relief, just by a bare millimetre. A hint of a smile, and now, a glimmer of light in those deep-set, narrowed eyes. Marcus was taking the piss.
“What does that even mean? In this context.”
“Whatever you want it to.” Marcus finished his beer, holding up his finger to one of the black g-string and bow-tied cocktail waiters for another. “Your turn. Tell me something about you that I won't expect.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to compete with all this?”
“It's not a competition.”
“Everything is.” Esca accepted another glass of the wine, tossing half of it back in one gulp then swallowing down a burp. “Well. Let me think. No, I can't think of a fucking thing.”
“Tell me about why you were looking for a base.”
Ahh. “Sounds to me like you already know.”
“I asked around, after you told me about the audition and asked me to work with you. Which is not the same as hearing it directly.”
“So that's why you brought me here. To get me pissed up and then to humiliate myself by pouring out my broken heart? Hah. Don't think so.”
Esca shook his head, and finished the other half of his wine, holding out his glass to a passing, thonged waiter and accepting another. Fuck it. Marcus had said he was paying. Might as well take advantage.
“Mental Trust. Emotional intimacy. It's what that guy, Mads, was talking about. I think. You need to be able to trust me enough to tell me about whatever. I'll do the same with you.”
“Yeah? Are you fucking Nattie?”
Marcus barely even blinked. “Not since the accident. She felt responsible for it. It's a mess. You?”
“No, I'm definitely not fucking Nattie.”
“Esca . . .”
The music wasn't as loud as here as it had been in the rest of the club as they'd walked over. Esca wanted it louder, something to distract him from this weirdness, a strange conversation that he didn't want to be having, no matter how important it might be. The twenty year old was done, booty shorts gone, the one string holding his thong in place stuffed with dollar bills. He strutted off, giving the next guy coming on, a muscled gym queen who was slightly too old to be stripping in clubs, a prolonged tongue kiss on his way out.
“We were only together a few years. The loss of the act's been more of a problem, if I'm honest. He was kind of a shit.”
They both watched the muscle queen starting to gyrate, nipple rings bouncing, and they drank, both of them silent. Then Marcus turned towards Esca, the smallest smile colouring the corners of his mouth.
“That's a start. Thanks for telling me.”
“I don't honestly understand why you thought you needed to bring me here to get that out of me. You could've just asked.”
“That's not why I brought you here.”
“No? Dare I ask why you did?”
“Okay. You need to give me a chance on this one.” Marcus had shifted forward, like he was preparing to do something, placing his bottle down on the low table in the centre of the circular booth. “We need to work on the act being more erotic.”
“According to Frosh, we do.”
Now Marcus was unbuttoning his shirt. This was perhaps very good, or very bad. Esca wasn't sure which.
“You've said, more than once or twice as far as I recall, that you're the fucking expert when it comes to acrobalance. We need to develop some sensuality in the act and, where that is concerned, I'm the rocket scientist.” Marcus stood and shrugged out of his shirt, leaving behind a white singlet, which he pulled out of where it was tucked into his low hanging jeans. “And you're here to get schooled. Ramon? You ready?”
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5k
Warnings:
Summary: Esca's an acrobat, and he has an idea when he meets someone who used to dance in the show.
That walk must've been something before the accident. Esca put down his frappe, worried sucking on his straw would become too unconsciously suggestive while he was watching Marcus walk towards him. He had his shades to hide behind, so his eyeline could happily roam where it wanted. He let it.
The loose t-shirt Marcus was wearing did nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders. A scouring desert wind was whipping it around him, the thin fabric clinging to pecs and a small amount of belly fat an inch above Marcus's belt line. The baggy jeans were a crying shame, but the same wind was doing Esca all kinds of favours, now and then cupping the denim around Marcus's moving crotch in a manner that allowed Esca to decide that Marcus was definitely a briefs sort of guy. Mirrored sunglasses emphasised the cheekbones, the harsh sun bringing out gold tones in the groomed hair. But it was the cant of the walk that was the star, almost a prowl to it, limbs loose, forearms strong with hands curled lazily beneath, swinging to and fro. Even with the slight limp, a hesitation on every other step close to unnoticeable today, it was the walk of someone who occupied that body in entirety. A man with that walk would know how to skillfully work that body in whatever occupation. Marcus walked like an apex predator, one that had recently eaten its fill.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” Esca half-stood and took the hand that was offered, giving it a quick shake. Dry skin, slightly rough, good, big, strong hands on the man. He'd need them, all going well. “Thanks for coming.”
“Sure. I'm going to . . .” Marcus tilted his head indoors towards the coffee counter. “You want anything?”
“No. I'm good, thanks.”
He'd barely settled back into his chair with his frappe before Marcus's head appeared back around the door. “There's tables available inside.”
“I know. I like it out here.”
A small ruffling of Marcus's brow above the sunglasses subtly suggested Esca was totally batshit for wanting to sit out in ninety-five degree heat, and then he was gone again without offering any actual comment. The scent of steaming coffee accompanied him back outdoors again a few minutes later, a big takeout cup of something strong and non-froufrou, no syrups or whipped cream, held in one hand.
“You good? Let's get started.” Esca took another noisy slurp, and watched Marcus settling into his chair. “Nattie told you I have a proposal.”
“She did. Didn't say what.”
“Possible job.”
“You remember about my leg?”
“I do.”
“Okay.” Ohh, those lips looked good all pouted up to take a sip out of the cover's spout. Plump and chubby and soft like they'd feel fantastic wrapped around - “What's the job?”
“Uh. So, uh, we know you can't dance, which, as I've said, major bummer. How about standing fairly still? Perhaps with a support or similar?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
He wished Marcus would take the shades off. He struck Esca as a peculiarly inexpressive person, facially at least. Perhaps if Esca could see his eyes, he'd have some idea of what kind of reaction he was going to get from all this. It was like the blindest of blind dates.
“How long, how often my balance is shifting, whether or not any twisting action's involved . . .” A shrug lifted the heavy shoulders, Marcus's forearm tan and beautifully built as he lifted his cup to his mouth again, pausing to speak. “Mostly it's good, but I try to stay within my limitations. It's difficult to say.”
“You ever heard of acrobalance?”
The brow ruffled again. “I don't think I'm familiar with it.”
“Yeah, there's none of it in Anima. Lumière's featured it before, though. It's two people, one base, one flier. I'm your flier.” Why was he so nervous? Esca sat back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table, forcing his body to relax. “You'd be my base. The base lifts and supports the flier in various poses, like with dancing, only sometimes I'd be balancing on one or both my hands. Sometimes held in yours, sometimes on your shoulders, thighs, whatever we'd decide to include.”
“Sure, yeah, I think I've seen that.” Finally, Marcus pulled off his sunglasses, placing them down on the table. Even in the shade where they were, on the terrace beneath a wide parasol, the unexpected, smudgy green-gold of Marcus's eyes was enough to halt Esca's train of thought to the point he almost missed what Marcus asked him next. “Isn't it usually a guy and a girl?”
“What? Oh. Um, yes, usually. Not always.”
“I haven't seen it with two guys. Not that I'm an expert.”
“It's not unheard of. I am an expert, it's actually my specialty. Or, it used to be.”
“And you think I could be your base?” Marcus's tone gave no hint as to what he was thinking.
“Potentially. One sec, I've got it in here somewhere . . .”
Maybe baggy jeans weren't so tragic, as leaning back and patting the pockets of his skinnies wasn't helping Esca find the folded printout, and he finally had to get up to search through each one.
“Okay, here.” He unfolded it, handing it to Marcus. “I got this, what, a month and a half back. It's an invitation to audition for Lumière's new show. A personal invite, and they're like gold dust. I've confirmed an audition, but I haven't been able to find a suitable base and I'm going to have to cancel if we, you and I, can't come up with something in the next three weeks.”
“Huh.” Marcus was reading it through, frowning slightly, mouth pursed. “Three weeks?”
“I know, it's nothing. But this is an audition for featured artist. The money's triple what you made as a corps member. I figured you've got experience of adagio -”
“Of what?”
“Adagio. Hefting people making pretty poses above your head.”
Another nod, a crease between Marcus's eyebrows, and a deepening of the moue. That was it. God knows Marcus would look gorgeous enough on-stage, but Esca certainly wouldn't be able to rely on him to emote. There was a long pause, silence except for one car and a throbbing Harley passing in the road beyond, and Esca allowed Marcus a few seconds more to read it over again. Then the email was placed down beside the sunglasses on the table, and Marcus looked directly at Esca for the first time since he'd unveiled his eyes.
“Why me? I'm no acrobat.”
“Desperation.”
“Mine?”
“No, mine. My Anima contract was only ever temporary. Cas's brother's finishes school next week, and is flying out to take over. And Anima got me my work visa, which I'll lose, so I need to find something soon.”
“Didn't you look for a trained base?”
It wasn't as if Marcus was directly implying Esca was stupid, but Esca bristled and inferred it anyhow. “No, I can't say that occurred to me. 'Course I fucking did. Had two sessions with different guys, but the chemistry was off.”
“And you think we'd have . . . chemistry?” Was that a twinkle, hidden at the very back in the depths of Marcus's eyes? Probably not.
“I have no idea.” Part of him hoped not. “You've got nothing to lose. Neither have I. It's got to be worth a try, right?”
-
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You're too rigid.”
“But -” Marcus cut himself off, instead sighing, letting go of Esca's ankles and holding up his hands to help Esca down. “Too rigid.”
“Yes.”
He was staring at Esca in the studio's mirrors now Esca had hopped down off his shoulders. He'd stared when he'd first walked in, stood there and stared at Esca and Esca's naked torso with such a total lack of fathomable expression that Esca had begun to feel self-conscious about wearing nothing but a jock and a pair of cut-off tights for the first time since he'd been fourteen. He'd stared, mute and passive, as Esca had explained the basics of acrobalance. True, his stare now had a hint of belligerence about it that hadn't been there before, but being told you were doing the same thing wrong repeatedly over half an hour would probably annoy most people.
“Try it again. Less rigid this time.” Esca grabbed his towel, attempting to soak up some of the sweat dripping off his hair before they started again.
“Could you be more specific? What's too rigid? My posture? My hold?”
“It's difficult to explain.”
Marcus's jaw shifted, jutting out a tiny bit more. “Try.”
“It's like . . .” Esca tried to throw his towel over to his bag, missing by a half metre. “Bugger. Well, it's, I don't know. It's your . . .”
“It's my what?”
“Your demeanor. Your deportment. I wasn't planning to say anything, but I googled you. Found some stuff online.”
“Youtube? Anima?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Marcus had been staring at him from out beneath those over-hanging brows, but now the head and shoulders went back, any remaining passivity gone. “And now you're going to tell me what you think you saw.”
“I wasn't going to. But it's the same thing. You're so . . . uptight on stage. Nothing like how you were dancing with Nattie.”
“That's different.”
“In what way is it different? It's dancing. At the bar, you were all . . .” Esca gave a full body wriggle that he'd probably remember later on for some middle of the night humiliation. “Loose, relaxed. But on stage, it's like you've got a pole shoved so far up your arse you can't hardly swallow.”
“I take my work seriously. Or, I did.” A second's more hard staring, then Marcus blinked, and moved, limping across the studio and sitting down in the chair next to his gym bag. “We're done here.”
“'Done'?”
“Yes. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You're quitting?” The violent ripping sound from the velcro when Marcus tore off his leg brace made Esca wince.
“I already told you, I'm no acrobat. And I don't need dance criticism from,” Marcus's eyes flicked up and down, taking all of Esca in from his red, sweaty face to his exercise slippers. “Someone who does handstands for a living.”
“You think it's that simple?”
The chair's legs scraped across the wooden floor as Marcus stood, then dropped over into a messy handstand, arms bent, fingers splayed flat against the floor. His voice was husky when he spoke, his airway constricted by his crappy carriage. His t-shirt slipped downwards, revealing his smooth stomach and chest, his face obstructed by the hanging fabric. “Yeah. I can see this is rocket science.”
“Straighten your arms. They should be braced. Fingers arched.”
Marcus complied, his balance wobbling, legs flailing to hold his position. “Wouldn't want to be too rigid.”
“Your back's bowed. Tighten it up, pelvis in line with your shoulders. Toes pointed.”
Every point was ignored. In the ugliest move Esca had seen in years, Marcus managed to walk a few steps on his hands, grunting with the effort, feet kicking to help him move. Then his balance failed, but he landed it neatly enough, standing back upright with an insouciance that tried to suggest he'd meant to finish it there.
“That was terrible.”
“Try a few fouettés en tournant in succession, and I'll give you notes on your technique.”
Marcus snagged his bag from the floor, his back upright and resolute as he started to make for the door. But then he turned, presumably to pay Esca the meaningless courtesy of saying goodbye, and Esca watched upside down as Marcus's lips parting an inch as he took in Esca's perfectly posed handstand, full side split, raising his legs up into a precise point before he executed a few turns, fast spins on his hands into walking half the length of the studio like it was a stroll in the park.
“Here's your fucking rocket science.”
Pal. Pausing a beat, flicking into a round off, two back handsprings and a whip, Esca slamming his feet down, waiting a second to focus, then into a back tuck from standing, sticking it as well as he ever had. Then two cartwheels, an aerial and a punch front, all back towards the door until Esca was left, heaving for breath, standing a couple of feet in front of a stunned-looking Marcus.
“Gymnastics, since I was six years old. I had a slight curvature of the spine and that was the proposed cure. It worked. So, I know what I'm talking about and, unless you want to leave Vegas and go back to Bumfuck to retrain in sodding I.T. or something, you'll listen to me. You'll take my corrections, you'll improve, and we'll knock their fucking socks off at the audition. Otherwise, yes, absolutely, piss off and stop wasting my time.”
He'd never met anyone before so able to make unmoving eye contact like Marcus, who was staring directly into his eyes again without any sign of discomfort, his expression somber, whatever suggestion that he'd been impressed with Esca's tumbling totally gone. They stood there like that, Esca wondering if he needed to say anything else, for what seemed close to a full minute before Marcus gave a single nod, his mouth set in a grim line.
“You'll need to be more specific with your feedback.”
“I'll try. You'll need to decompress, take the stick out your arse and loosen up. Acrobatic adagio's all about the flow of energy between two bodies. I can't do it by myself. I can't work with a brick wall.”
Marcus sighed, and Esca felt the stream of his breath fluff at his hair, the humidity of it adding to the oppressive heat of the studio. Then he reached down into his bag, taking out the knee brace and starting to strap it back in place. “Agreed. What now?”
“Back to the mats. Your leg's dealing with my weight?”
“So far.”
“Good. Shoulder stand.”
They'd moved together towards the crash mats, Marcus's hands automatically reaching to take Esca's, his legs bent at the knee to provide Esca with a step up.
-
He hadn't been expecting rapturous applause. Hoped for it, hadn't expected it. Hadn't been expecting total silence, though. “Well? What do you think?”
They all shuffled in their seats. Nattie was smiling uncertainly, like she was worried she'd missed the punchline of a joke. Noz, Niad and Cas were all frowning, Cas's mouth covered with the fingers of both hands, his elbows propped on his knees. Frosh the Hot French Clown was making a sneery face as if he was half-impressed, half-bored out of his mind, Jenna was nodding like how people do at poetry readings when they don't understand a thing being said, and Mads was thumbing through something on his phone. Marcus looked at Esca, a droplet of sweat falling from the end of his nose when he hung his head, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand.
“I didn't think we were that bad.” Esca's arms felt rubbery, knees weak, his muscles completely shut down. “Anyone? Nattie? You look like you enjoyed it. Sort of.”
“It was, I don't know, it was great. I can't believe how much Markie's learned, it's totally fucking amazing. You did great. Good job, babe.”
Yeah. Nattie wasn't one of life's natural critics. Esca put his hands on his hips and leaned his head back, opening out his shoulders and chest, temporarily trying to increase his oxygen intake. This didn't seem good. A disaster? All that work . . .
“Cas? Tell us the truth. How bad is it?”
“Not so bad. Nattie's right - two weeks, brah? You got some skills.” It was directed at Marcus, and that didn't help Esca's mood, which was dropping by the second. “Holds are good, shapes are great, transitions are solid. It's a tight enough routine. Not perfect. Pretty incredible for two weeks.”
“But?”
“But - ”
“This is for the new show?”
Esca looked over at Frosh, who'd sat forward, unbuttoned shirt gaping nearly to his navel. Esca customarily operated a No Clowns policy, as they were generally a bunch of drunken, lazy, egotistical, talentless bastards who got paid a million times more than everyone else in the show, but Frosh was sexy enough to have earned his own loophole.
“Yes. Audition's next week.”
“Ah. I have already completed mine.”
Seriously. Fuck clowns. “Good for you. What's your point?”
“It's adult themes, yes? Passionate. Sensual. Erotic.”
“It's what?” Marcus's head popped up at that, and he directed that intense stare first at Frosh, then at Esca. “You didn't say a word to me about this needing to be erotic.”
“Alright, Markie, unknot your arsehole. I'd only heard rumours. Nothing in the email about it.”
“That's not the issue.”
Two weeks of work. Two weeks of bullying a mostly-silent Marcus into repeating the same moves over and over till even Esca'd been sick to his stomach of them. Two weeks of muscles complaining, of Marcus's bullish, sullen silences or sudden flashes of irritation, two weeks of worry that the leg brace would fail and send them both smashing to the floor, and two fucking weeks of a griping gut that suggested to Esca he was in danger of developing an ulcer. Too much coffee, not enough recovery time between sessions, and to top it all off, his last whirlpool jet had given up and his landlord was refusing to fix it, saying that functional jets hadn't been part of the rental agreement. If Marcus was about to throw a hissy fit over the possibility of having to fake a sensual desire towards Esca like gay cooties were an actual thing, Esca might have to punch him right in the fucking face and waste every part of the last two hellish weeks. Struggling to keep a level head, Esca took a long breath in and out before speaking.
“May I suggest you tell me what is?”
“You knew? All you've said, this whole time, is that trust is the primary thing. Without trust, you can't settle in position. Without trust, we'll fight each other to control the balance. Without trust, yadda fucking yadda, I swear you had me repeating it in my sleep . . .”
“It was only a rumour! I didn't know, not exactly, and didn't want to say in case I was wrong. It's a real thing, Frosh? The erotic bit? I thought they'd already done that, few years back.”
Frosh gave a deeply Gallic shrug, his floppy hair hanging over one eye till he flicked it back. “It's Vegas. Tourists like titties.”
Esca looked down at his chest in automatic response. “I don't have titties.”
Another shrug. “Marcus does.”
It seemed to wake their small audience up a bit, Jenna and Nattie laughing into their knuckles and swaying against each other, Cas and a smirking Frosh high-fiving while Marcus's frown deepened until his eyes almost disappeared behind his brow line. “Fuck you, guy I don't know.”
“Trust isn't the issue. It's there, that's obvious from your adagio. Physically, you're trusting each other already.” Mads finally looked up from his phone, and everybody always listened to what Mads had to say. He never said that much, or often, but when he did, it was always either total incomprehensible bollocks or cut to the heart of it. “There's no intimacy there. It's too clinical. You touch each other like you met three weeks ago.”
“We did only meet three weeks ago.”
Mads gave Esca a flat, heavy-lidded glare. “No shit.”
“Y'know, guys, I think Mads nailed it.”
“Yeah, I agree with Jenna. And Mads.” Nattie's eyes were huge with sudden concern, denim blue irises ringed with a navy so dark it was almost black, none of her perfect teeth smudged with her coral lipgloss although she'd started chewing at her bottom lip between sentences. “He's right. The routine's great, but you guys, I don't know, there's something missing . . .”
“Chemistry?”
Dammit. Esca felt like he could cry. Nattie sympathetically scrunched up her face at Marcus, nodding in confirmation. “I'm so sorry, sweetie, but yeah. I know how hard you worked, and you've done so well, and I'm so proud of you for trying. But, no, you're not connecting. Not like us when we danced in the show. You remember how it used to be, every time you lifted me?”
Christ. Now Nattie looked like she was going to cry. Marcus left Esca behind on the mats, limping over to Nattie, his knee brace keeping his leg unnaturally rigid, her arms going around his naked waist as he nuzzled his nose into the top of her head.
“I remember. Hey, it's okay. We'll fix this.”
“We will?”
Marcus looked up and at Esca over the top of Nattie's dark curls, his expression blanker than ever. “Yeah. It's got to be worth a shot. Right?”
-
“You have got to be fucking kidding. Here?”
“Here.”
Esca had been right - Marcus's smile was devastating, now Esca could actually see it properly. Hard to miss it, lit up as it was by the vast golden neon sign above the strip club Marcus was taking him to.
“'The Centurion's Helmet'?”
“You've never heard of it?” The grin widened. “Place is a Vegas legend, it's been here since Caesar's was built.”
“Yes, 'course I've heard of it. Certainly didn't realise it was your idea of a fun night out.”
“I've got friends here, they'll waive the cover charge. You in?”
Esca wrinkled his nose, looking up at the sign, which was significantly less dazzling than Marcus's smile. “Strippers aren't really my thing.”
“You do know it's a gay club.”
“Sure, but I've never had to pay to get guys to shake their stuff in my face, know what I mean?”
Marcus laughed. He honest to God laughed, head back. Wonders would never cease. “Whatever you say, man. C'mon. I'm buying. Gotta loosen you up.”
“Me?” Esca trailed after him, still trying to wrap his head around . . . whatever this was. “That's our agenda? You're the one with the stick up his bum.”
“Say that a little louder once we're inside. It might get us some drinks sent over.”
This was not a Marcus Esca had met before. He knew one of the door guys, doing that grabbing hands and bumping chests thing before they were waved inside and escorted to a VIP booth. Esca had never been a VIP anything. Okay, so this was a legendarily seedy strip joint located in an area of town that Esca wouldn't usually step foot in after sundown, but, hell, it was VIP, and Esca found himself relaxing into the curves of the velveteen VIP couch before he'd even been handed his complimentary glass of fizzy wine.
“Wow. This place is awful.”
“I know. Isn't it great?”
Marcus was smiling, his face softened, his posture relaxed as he sipped from his beer bottle and watched a bored-looking twenty year old in ripped jean booty shorts and construction boots rubbing his arse up and down a pole.
“Are you having some sort of aneurism? Do I need to call someone?”
“Let it go, Esca. We're here because we don't know each other.”
“I'll say.”
Marcus sat back, leaning his elbows up on the back of the couch, his shirt buttons straining across his chest. “Part of the problem is, we've been working so hard, we haven't made the time to hang out. You're freaking out because you didn't expect me to even know this place existed, am I correct?”
“You are. Although, I wouldn't say freaking out, exactly.” Marcus raised an eyebrow at him, that stare back in place, and Esca capitulated. “Yeah, okay. Freaked, yes. Freakage is occurring.”
“So how much, exactly, will you wig when I tell you I used to work here?”
All of a sudden , it felt like Esca's brain wasn't fitting in his skull right, and his ears were buzzing, and was that the floor tilting? “. . . You what?”
“I can't be the only corps dancer you've met who moonlighted in strip clubs.”
He was gaping, and had to make a conscious effort to stop. “. . . Um. No. But . . .”
“Gay clubs pay more, and the tips are better.” Marcus was watching the twenty year old again, his face back in its normal blank mask. “This place paid for an apartment, Cirque only paid enough for a car. A shitty one. So, that's something you didn't know about me. Tell me something about you.”
“Oh, no. No, no, we're still very much on this subject, ta.”
“Alright. What do you want to know?”
“Lap dances?”
“Sure.”
“Shit. Did you, uh, offer any extras?”
Marcus smiled against the neck of his beer. “I wondered how long it'd take you to ask.”
Fizzy wine was in no way wet enough for how dry Esca's throat had become. “ . . . And?”
“I already told you, Esca.” Marcus's face straightened and was more solemn than ever, more carved in stone. “I take my work very seriously.”
One thing Esca had learned about Marcus over the last weeks, one of the very few things before this, was that, no matter how inexpressive Marcus tended to be, there were occasional flickers of humanity there, if you looked for them. The jaw, which could clench or harden in effort or frustration. The eyebrows, which would lower in concentration or annoyance, or lift in relief, just by a bare millimetre. A hint of a smile, and now, a glimmer of light in those deep-set, narrowed eyes. Marcus was taking the piss.
“What does that even mean? In this context.”
“Whatever you want it to.” Marcus finished his beer, holding up his finger to one of the black g-string and bow-tied cocktail waiters for another. “Your turn. Tell me something about you that I won't expect.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to compete with all this?”
“It's not a competition.”
“Everything is.” Esca accepted another glass of the wine, tossing half of it back in one gulp then swallowing down a burp. “Well. Let me think. No, I can't think of a fucking thing.”
“Tell me about why you were looking for a base.”
Ahh. “Sounds to me like you already know.”
“I asked around, after you told me about the audition and asked me to work with you. Which is not the same as hearing it directly.”
“So that's why you brought me here. To get me pissed up and then to humiliate myself by pouring out my broken heart? Hah. Don't think so.”
Esca shook his head, and finished the other half of his wine, holding out his glass to a passing, thonged waiter and accepting another. Fuck it. Marcus had said he was paying. Might as well take advantage.
“Mental Trust. Emotional intimacy. It's what that guy, Mads, was talking about. I think. You need to be able to trust me enough to tell me about whatever. I'll do the same with you.”
“Yeah? Are you fucking Nattie?”
Marcus barely even blinked. “Not since the accident. She felt responsible for it. It's a mess. You?”
“No, I'm definitely not fucking Nattie.”
“Esca . . .”
The music wasn't as loud as here as it had been in the rest of the club as they'd walked over. Esca wanted it louder, something to distract him from this weirdness, a strange conversation that he didn't want to be having, no matter how important it might be. The twenty year old was done, booty shorts gone, the one string holding his thong in place stuffed with dollar bills. He strutted off, giving the next guy coming on, a muscled gym queen who was slightly too old to be stripping in clubs, a prolonged tongue kiss on his way out.
“We were only together a few years. The loss of the act's been more of a problem, if I'm honest. He was kind of a shit.”
They both watched the muscle queen starting to gyrate, nipple rings bouncing, and they drank, both of them silent. Then Marcus turned towards Esca, the smallest smile colouring the corners of his mouth.
“That's a start. Thanks for telling me.”
“I don't honestly understand why you thought you needed to bring me here to get that out of me. You could've just asked.”
“That's not why I brought you here.”
“No? Dare I ask why you did?”
“Okay. You need to give me a chance on this one.” Marcus had shifted forward, like he was preparing to do something, placing his bottle down on the low table in the centre of the circular booth. “We need to work on the act being more erotic.”
“According to Frosh, we do.”
Now Marcus was unbuttoning his shirt. This was perhaps very good, or very bad. Esca wasn't sure which.
“You've said, more than once or twice as far as I recall, that you're the fucking expert when it comes to acrobalance. We need to develop some sensuality in the act and, where that is concerned, I'm the rocket scientist.” Marcus stood and shrugged out of his shirt, leaving behind a white singlet, which he pulled out of where it was tucked into his low hanging jeans. “And you're here to get schooled. Ramon? You ready?”