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monaboyd May. 29th, 2008 08:18 pm)
v-angelique.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd May. 29th, 2008 08:18 pm)Title: Corps de Ballet
Author: Viktoria Angelique (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
v_angelique)
Pairing: BB/DM
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: AU, which is generally a pretty good indication of non-truth.
Summary: Billy is a reporter for the Times and Dom's a dancer in an up-and-coming company. Just some fun pre-slash that's been sitting around my harddrive.
"Are you hot on the fucking ballerina again?" Andy smirked as he sipped at the complimentary champagne.
"He's not a ballerina," Billy hissed, though it was fairly clear from Andy's raised eyebrow and knowing look that he had objected to the wrong thing. Accepting defeat, he grabbed a glass for himself from a passing waiter and took a healthy gulp.
Though Andy and Billy worked for competing papers – Andy for the Guardian and Billy for the Times – both were on the art and culture beat in London, and so they tended to run into each other from time to time and had become friends. Though Andy's real passion was for the visual arts, and Billy's for music, beggars couldn't be choosers, and so they were both covering the much-anticipated debut performance for a new ballet company, directed by a former lead dancer for the Bolshoi.
Many of the dancers in the company were Russian expatriates, including all the principals but one German female and many of the soloists, so some Londoners were a little uppity about the foreign competition for theatre space and audiences. Nonetheless, the "ballerina" Andy was referring to was not one of the tall-dark-and-handsome leads but a blonde English dancer from the corps.
Dominic Monaghan was, even Andy would admit if pressed, an exceptional dancer. It was obvious why he was in the corps, as well, for at his stature it was lucky he was dancing at all. However, his upper body definition was superb, and despite his height he frequently lifted dancers taller than himself in the choreography. Billy, no hulking giant himself, was pleased that the director had recognized talent for what it was and brought Monaghan into the company. And yes, the truth was that he had noticed the dancer at each of the rehearsals the press had been invited to, and maybe his eyes had lingered longer than was strictly professionally necessary, drawing Andy's attention and ridicule.
At the moment while Andy and Billy stood back, waiting for a few words from the director or one of his underlings, Monaghan was standing among a small circle of other dancers from the corps, chatting about the evening's performance. His laughter was unchecked, loud enough to carry over the relatively even hum of conversation in the theatre's expansive lobby, and his posture was casual. He stood with his back to a large column, champagne held between graceful fingers, and wore all black – long sleeved shirt, company t-shirt over top, sweats and trainers. Where the principals and soloists had all changed into evening wear, ready to meet their adoring public, the corps stood out in street clothes, obviously not expecting to be needed for a photo op or any schmoozing. And this would have been an accurate assumption, had Billy not suddenly knocked back the contents of his glass and grown a pair, leaving Andy to stand behind and stare in admiring shock.
"Excuse me," Billy said gently, his tone and lilting brogue clearly one reason he wasn't pushing his way to the front-page sensational journalism ranks. "I'm William Boyd, with the Times. I was wondering if I might have a word?"
"Oh!" a young blonde girl exclaimed, immediately turning a hundred-watt smile on Billy. "I'd love to speak with you."
Billy turned his gaze reluctantly to her, his quiet self-confidence draining away as Monaghan looked on in amusement, still leaning casually back against the column and waiting for Billy's reaction.
"Erm… Miss Watt, is it?"
"Yes, but please, call me Sophia," she corrected, already turning her hips away from the group and expecting him to follow.
"Right, then, Sophia, I'd love to talk with you another time but actually I was asking Mr. Monaghan…"
"Oh," she exclaimed, her face falling, as the young man Billy couldn't keep his eyes off of smiled and extended a hand.
"It's just Dom, mate. And sure, I'll come and have a chat with you, if you don't mind getting out of here. There's a breakfast place open all night down the road," he suggested, eyes meeting Billy's in challenge. He nodded quickly and they left the building together, leaving the pack of dancers and Andy to stare at their retreating backs.
"You broke poor Sophia's heart," Dom commented, not sounding all too concerned, as they walked away from the theatre and towards the restaurant.
"Oh. I didn't mean to," Billy said with a frown, and Dom laughed out loud.
"No worries, mate. She's a stuck up bitch," he said matter-of-factly, with no real malice in it. Billy glanced to the side curiously, waiting for the rest. "The ego of a prima ballerina and stuck in the corps, really, it's a shame. Lucky you didn't talk to her though, she'd be over you like bees to honey. And I don't gather that's your thing," he added, shooting Billy a look that was obviously, unmistakeably flirtatious.
"No," Billy agreed quietly, not elaborating because they were here and his hand was already on the door.
The place was styled like a small American diner, and there were a few steps up to get to the level of the restaurant from the street once you were inside. A bored fifteen-year-old, chewing gum, occupied the hostess' stand, and she showed them to a table quickly, throwing down slightly sticky menus without so much as a smile and then walking away.
"So what did you want to ask me?" Dom asked, scanning the menu. "You're paying, right? Not to be rude or anything, but I really haven't got money for more than a piece of toast."
Billy nodded. "Have anything you like."
"Right. I recommend the pancakes, by the way. Anywho. What do you want to know?"
Everything.
"How quickly did you decide you wanted to accept the offer to join the company?"
"Immediately," Dom replied, his eyes still on the menu. "Sasha told me I could join and I joined. Really, Mr. Boyd, the offers weren't coming in."
"Billy," he corrected without thinking first. Dom looked up and grinned.
"Billy," he repeated, slowly, Billy's eyes drawn unintentionally to his lips.
"Erm… right… well…" Billy had never been flustered before with an interview. Sometimes he spoke slowly, gathering his thoughts, but Billy didn't get starstruck or even overwhelmed by someone's talent, even when he probably should have been. He was calm and cool and an excellent journalist, but right now he had no idea what he should be asking. "When did you decide to become a dancer?" he ventured, deciding to stick to questions to which he really wanted to know the answer. Unlikely the Times was going to care what this bloke had to say, anyway.
"I am a dancer, Billy," Dom said calmly, but firmly, obviously a distinction he'd had to make before. "Since I had control of my own movements, my hands have felt most natural like this," he explained, effortlessly assuming the ballet dancer's curved hand shape, fingers relaxed and the index fingers slightly further apart than the rest. "When I walked as a kid, mum said I looked more like I was gliding. I used to try to hop from rock to rock in the stream where we'd go camping without landing in the water, and I never fell down. When I hear music, I can't not dance."
"Where are you from?" Billy asked, mesmerized by the sound of Dom's voice.
"Manchester. And you?"
"Glasgow. What's your favourite music?"
Dom smiled. "I like Morrisey. The Beatles, the Stone Roses, the Streets. There's a record store nearby that's open all night, if you'd like to go have a look after breakfast," he suggested, the way his mouth formed the words "after breakfast" making Billy wish he was actually sharing breakfast with Dom after an entire night together, not just at this unpredictable time.
"Stack of three pancakes, love, fresh strawberries, but no syrup," Dom ordered when a waitress appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe Billy was simply having trouble paying attention to anything else. "And a glass of grapefruit juice."
"Erm," Billy stuttered. "Bacon, please. And sausage. And toast."
The waitress raised her eyebrows. "Eggs?"
"Erm, sure. Over easy. And a cup of coffee."
Dom smiled and leaned back in his seat, his arm extending gracefully along the length of the booth. "Hungry?"
Billy shrugged. "Sometimes I feel a little naughty eating a big meal late at night. I like it, though."
Dom grinned. "Not a night person?"
"It depends on whether I have to work in the morning."
"And do you?" Dom asked, raising his eyebrow, the implication again perfectly clear. Unless, of course, Billy was just dreaming, which was entirely possible.
"No."
"Excellent." Dom grinned. "You don't have a pad and paper, Billy."
"Oh, erm…"
"You were paying absolutely no attention to the principals during rehearsals, and that article you wrote about the opening coming up was based entirely on what Sasha told you and what had already been printed up."
"I…"
Dom grinned. "I'm flattered."
"Oh. Are you…?"
"Homosexual? One hundred percent, William. Honestly," he added sarcastically. "I'm a ballerina."
Billy snorted and shook his head. "You should meet Andy."
Dom grinned, nudged his foot under the head, and met Billy's eyes. "Right now, actually, I'm perfectly happy with you."
Author: Viktoria Angelique (
v_angelique)Pairing: BB/DM
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: AU, which is generally a pretty good indication of non-truth.
Summary: Billy is a reporter for the Times and Dom's a dancer in an up-and-coming company. Just some fun pre-slash that's been sitting around my harddrive.
"Are you hot on the fucking ballerina again?" Andy smirked as he sipped at the complimentary champagne.
"He's not a ballerina," Billy hissed, though it was fairly clear from Andy's raised eyebrow and knowing look that he had objected to the wrong thing. Accepting defeat, he grabbed a glass for himself from a passing waiter and took a healthy gulp.
Though Andy and Billy worked for competing papers – Andy for the Guardian and Billy for the Times – both were on the art and culture beat in London, and so they tended to run into each other from time to time and had become friends. Though Andy's real passion was for the visual arts, and Billy's for music, beggars couldn't be choosers, and so they were both covering the much-anticipated debut performance for a new ballet company, directed by a former lead dancer for the Bolshoi.
Many of the dancers in the company were Russian expatriates, including all the principals but one German female and many of the soloists, so some Londoners were a little uppity about the foreign competition for theatre space and audiences. Nonetheless, the "ballerina" Andy was referring to was not one of the tall-dark-and-handsome leads but a blonde English dancer from the corps.
Dominic Monaghan was, even Andy would admit if pressed, an exceptional dancer. It was obvious why he was in the corps, as well, for at his stature it was lucky he was dancing at all. However, his upper body definition was superb, and despite his height he frequently lifted dancers taller than himself in the choreography. Billy, no hulking giant himself, was pleased that the director had recognized talent for what it was and brought Monaghan into the company. And yes, the truth was that he had noticed the dancer at each of the rehearsals the press had been invited to, and maybe his eyes had lingered longer than was strictly professionally necessary, drawing Andy's attention and ridicule.
At the moment while Andy and Billy stood back, waiting for a few words from the director or one of his underlings, Monaghan was standing among a small circle of other dancers from the corps, chatting about the evening's performance. His laughter was unchecked, loud enough to carry over the relatively even hum of conversation in the theatre's expansive lobby, and his posture was casual. He stood with his back to a large column, champagne held between graceful fingers, and wore all black – long sleeved shirt, company t-shirt over top, sweats and trainers. Where the principals and soloists had all changed into evening wear, ready to meet their adoring public, the corps stood out in street clothes, obviously not expecting to be needed for a photo op or any schmoozing. And this would have been an accurate assumption, had Billy not suddenly knocked back the contents of his glass and grown a pair, leaving Andy to stand behind and stare in admiring shock.
"Excuse me," Billy said gently, his tone and lilting brogue clearly one reason he wasn't pushing his way to the front-page sensational journalism ranks. "I'm William Boyd, with the Times. I was wondering if I might have a word?"
"Oh!" a young blonde girl exclaimed, immediately turning a hundred-watt smile on Billy. "I'd love to speak with you."
Billy turned his gaze reluctantly to her, his quiet self-confidence draining away as Monaghan looked on in amusement, still leaning casually back against the column and waiting for Billy's reaction.
"Erm… Miss Watt, is it?"
"Yes, but please, call me Sophia," she corrected, already turning her hips away from the group and expecting him to follow.
"Right, then, Sophia, I'd love to talk with you another time but actually I was asking Mr. Monaghan…"
"Oh," she exclaimed, her face falling, as the young man Billy couldn't keep his eyes off of smiled and extended a hand.
"It's just Dom, mate. And sure, I'll come and have a chat with you, if you don't mind getting out of here. There's a breakfast place open all night down the road," he suggested, eyes meeting Billy's in challenge. He nodded quickly and they left the building together, leaving the pack of dancers and Andy to stare at their retreating backs.
"You broke poor Sophia's heart," Dom commented, not sounding all too concerned, as they walked away from the theatre and towards the restaurant.
"Oh. I didn't mean to," Billy said with a frown, and Dom laughed out loud.
"No worries, mate. She's a stuck up bitch," he said matter-of-factly, with no real malice in it. Billy glanced to the side curiously, waiting for the rest. "The ego of a prima ballerina and stuck in the corps, really, it's a shame. Lucky you didn't talk to her though, she'd be over you like bees to honey. And I don't gather that's your thing," he added, shooting Billy a look that was obviously, unmistakeably flirtatious.
"No," Billy agreed quietly, not elaborating because they were here and his hand was already on the door.
The place was styled like a small American diner, and there were a few steps up to get to the level of the restaurant from the street once you were inside. A bored fifteen-year-old, chewing gum, occupied the hostess' stand, and she showed them to a table quickly, throwing down slightly sticky menus without so much as a smile and then walking away.
"So what did you want to ask me?" Dom asked, scanning the menu. "You're paying, right? Not to be rude or anything, but I really haven't got money for more than a piece of toast."
Billy nodded. "Have anything you like."
"Right. I recommend the pancakes, by the way. Anywho. What do you want to know?"
Everything.
"How quickly did you decide you wanted to accept the offer to join the company?"
"Immediately," Dom replied, his eyes still on the menu. "Sasha told me I could join and I joined. Really, Mr. Boyd, the offers weren't coming in."
"Billy," he corrected without thinking first. Dom looked up and grinned.
"Billy," he repeated, slowly, Billy's eyes drawn unintentionally to his lips.
"Erm… right… well…" Billy had never been flustered before with an interview. Sometimes he spoke slowly, gathering his thoughts, but Billy didn't get starstruck or even overwhelmed by someone's talent, even when he probably should have been. He was calm and cool and an excellent journalist, but right now he had no idea what he should be asking. "When did you decide to become a dancer?" he ventured, deciding to stick to questions to which he really wanted to know the answer. Unlikely the Times was going to care what this bloke had to say, anyway.
"I am a dancer, Billy," Dom said calmly, but firmly, obviously a distinction he'd had to make before. "Since I had control of my own movements, my hands have felt most natural like this," he explained, effortlessly assuming the ballet dancer's curved hand shape, fingers relaxed and the index fingers slightly further apart than the rest. "When I walked as a kid, mum said I looked more like I was gliding. I used to try to hop from rock to rock in the stream where we'd go camping without landing in the water, and I never fell down. When I hear music, I can't not dance."
"Where are you from?" Billy asked, mesmerized by the sound of Dom's voice.
"Manchester. And you?"
"Glasgow. What's your favourite music?"
Dom smiled. "I like Morrisey. The Beatles, the Stone Roses, the Streets. There's a record store nearby that's open all night, if you'd like to go have a look after breakfast," he suggested, the way his mouth formed the words "after breakfast" making Billy wish he was actually sharing breakfast with Dom after an entire night together, not just at this unpredictable time.
"Stack of three pancakes, love, fresh strawberries, but no syrup," Dom ordered when a waitress appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe Billy was simply having trouble paying attention to anything else. "And a glass of grapefruit juice."
"Erm," Billy stuttered. "Bacon, please. And sausage. And toast."
The waitress raised her eyebrows. "Eggs?"
"Erm, sure. Over easy. And a cup of coffee."
Dom smiled and leaned back in his seat, his arm extending gracefully along the length of the booth. "Hungry?"
Billy shrugged. "Sometimes I feel a little naughty eating a big meal late at night. I like it, though."
Dom grinned. "Not a night person?"
"It depends on whether I have to work in the morning."
"And do you?" Dom asked, raising his eyebrow, the implication again perfectly clear. Unless, of course, Billy was just dreaming, which was entirely possible.
"No."
"Excellent." Dom grinned. "You don't have a pad and paper, Billy."
"Oh, erm…"
"You were paying absolutely no attention to the principals during rehearsals, and that article you wrote about the opening coming up was based entirely on what Sasha told you and what had already been printed up."
"I…"
Dom grinned. "I'm flattered."
"Oh. Are you…?"
"Homosexual? One hundred percent, William. Honestly," he added sarcastically. "I'm a ballerina."
Billy snorted and shook his head. "You should meet Andy."
Dom grinned, nudged his foot under the head, and met Billy's eyes. "Right now, actually, I'm perfectly happy with you."
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I really love the way you have written Billy in particular.
Just one little point...think you made a typo with Morrissey.
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*hugs Billy*
So sweet! These two can do anything, and I like the way you write their dialogue. Thanks chicken!
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