Post by Kit on Jan 30, 2010 20:55:21 GMT 10
On the Floor of a Stage of Bihan
(Limits)
Summary: A young, pre-Dedicate Lark infuriates her friend.
A/N: Originally part of a dancing dove gift exchange--this was for Vix--I've been wanting to re-write snatches of it for ages. I've finally done so. The original, if you're interesed, is still up in the pit of voles.
If Bihan’s Great Stage had a consciousness, as the spaces of crowded places so often seemed to do, then it considered itself aptly named. It was famous. Famous not for those who performed upon it, but for the wood itself, bought for an exorbitant sum in Aliput and laid down by terrified craftsman, board by board.
This wood, everyone knew, was special. At first glance a deep, dark burgundy, it picked up glints from every imaginable source: golds and rose; copper and honey; even pale yellows. There was depth and light. There were angles; curves in a perfectly flat space. Waves. The grain was a woman’s hair: great, luxurious swathes of it, held prisoner under lacquer. Many who crossed it wondered why they hadn’t just fallen down and into it, breaking through the fragile solidity like new ice.
As it rippled and shifted in soft dawn light—besides the shadow of a pair of guards leaning on the other side of a small door, long understood in this place--two young performers had it to themselves.
They were a pattern made up of reaching hands and arched necks; of bodies in tight dancers’ blacks. The tall one, golden tones in her skin finding counterparts in the floor beneath her, effortlessly reaching horizontal in a split and gripping her partner firmly by the ankles as she—paler, smaller, slighter—used her shoulders and narrow back for support. She strained to hold a bridge shape, head and hands pressed hard on the ground as she stretched to her fullest extent.
They were both sweating, the smaller one more so. A droplet rolled on her upside-down face, from the tip of her nose to her hennaed hairline.
“It’s—not—fair,” she whined, lips pulled back from her teeth, clenched in a grimace. “You’ve got—longer—legs than me.”
The long, lean girl—her parents had called her Paraskeve, though it had never suited her well—smiled. “Yazmìn,” she said.
“—What, Paras? What—‘Yazmìn’?”
Paras’s voice was warm and quiet. “Nothing.”
Yazmìn groaned, blowing a stringy damp reddish curl from off her face. “You’re laughing at me.”
The smile widened. “Never.” Hands unyielding and gentle, Paras strengthened her pull on Yazmìn’s legs, adding to the stretch.
“Always.”
With a small grunt, Yazmìn managed to jerk out of the other girl’s clasp, flipping back and up into a handstand. “Hah.”
Sighing, Paras let her body fall forward until her long, straight nose touched the boards. “I’m the acrobat,” she said mildly, eyes closed.
Yazmìn grinned, feet pointed gracefully in the air. “You’re—slacking. That’s—what you’re doing.”
Hands slipping to her own ankles, Paras brought her legs together. She said nothing.
A pout from Yazmìn, who righted herself and then flopped down, lying on her back and swinging her leg up so that her knee would brush her nose, hamstrings straining visibly against her leggings. “Don’t be like that, Paras,” she moaned. “Has that cough of yours gotten any better?”
It was startling, how quickly Paras leant over the smaller girl, pressing down heavily with chest and hands on her leg. Her face glistened, her mouth was firm. Their foreheads almost touched.
“If you stopped—talking, you’d—get a better—stretch,” she murmured, eyes steady; breathing hard as she felt disobedient muscles full of adrenaline spasm against her breasts.
Yazmìn whimpered, her neck arching up; lips almost brushing Paras’s, her leg flattening into a proper horizontal line; wide-set eyes dark and confused.
Paras lent back, lifting the pressure. “Lovely,” she said, sudden and breathless sweetness. “It’s like…” her expression, Yazmìn saw as she shakily sat upright, was meditative, even while the blood flickered, madly and visibly, in the pulse point at her throat. “It’s like you’re a thread.” Paras flashed a quick, soft grin. “Get yourself taken apart and combed out, and then re-spun, and you get stronger.”
This brought out an inelegant snort. “You and your thread symbolism,” Yazmìn sniffed, the edges of her thoughts cut her, stuck in her stomach and heart and skin. “So.”
Paras’ eyes were shut again, eyelashes dark against her flushed, sharp cheeks. “So?”
“So.” Yazmìn managed only to half-snap, carefully plucked eyebrows drawing together. “We didn’t just come in here to stretch, you know. You have to measure me!”
“I’m not in costumes, dear heart.” Paras got to her feet, black curls bobbing as she shook her head.
Yazmìn clutched at her hand. “But everyone knows you’re the best.” Smirking, she brought two fingers to lips in a silencing motion, biting then quickly before touching them to Paras’s cheek. “If you want to go all modest, I can just say I bought the thing. Oh, please?”
Paras walked silently over to a corner of the room, back perfectly straight and her movements easy. Yazmin was left feeling clammy and inept, wondering how clothes always dropped and hung perfectly on her friend, when they should have been all bunched up and soaked through, like her own.
“Please. Oh, please, please--”
“--Please, stop that now,” said Paras, bending over a small pack and withdrawing a dark blue cord. When she faced Yazmin again, her smile was slight but affectionate. “I never said no, did I?”
Yazmin whooped and leapt into a cartwheel, landing prettily about half a pace away before stretching out her arms and legs in the shape of a star. “I’m yours.”
Chuckling, Paras moved behind her friend, quickly slipping the cord about her waist; enjoying the way it felt in her fingers and the warmth of the feverish body close by.
Shivering a little, Yazmìn looked at the famous, shimmering floorboards. They were darkened a touch in places by their combined sweat, creating new and peculiar colours in the wood. Their shadows had blurred into one. The girl, half unseeing already, felt her eyes closing as Paras knelt, hands and cord moving down to her hips.
“You’ve lost weight,” she said, voice level, finders pinching briefly before moving around to the front, hip barely bumping hip.
I hate it when you go all dual on me! Yazmìn’s overworked, exhausted mind jittered. Her body just shuddered more.
“Lift your left leg?”
She obeyed, keeping it straight out at a right angle to her body as she watched Paras’s hands reach up and fasten the cord around her thigh, then calf, from underneath, fingers almost teasing.
“Right leg?”
I don’t understand you.
“That’s good. Excellent.”
Are you flirting with me or not, Paraskeve?
Paras got up off her knees and was behind Yazmìn yet again, slowly and, with small, shaken hesitantly, positioning the cord over and around her breasts.
Milla preserve us!
Yazmìn wasn’t used to hesitance. Not from Paras. As she moved, she felt the other girl’s clothes rasp against her palms.
They were perfect, and dry.
How can she be dry?
Growling, Yazmìn pulled away, tugging the sopping shirt over her head and across the room, and her breastband with it.
Paras stared; flushing, stunned. Yazmìn was small breasted, like most dancers, but they were there, and just that moment they were thrust forward; defiantly, in her face. Tinged pink, nipples hard, tiny and dark; sweat dripping between them and down onto a stomach that was almost concave. There was a mole there, to match the one on her cheek, and Paras still stared.
Slowly, her blush increasing, she managed to choke out, voice still incredibly regular: “What?”
Before she kissed her that day, Yazmìn had to laugh. Long, loud and hard, until it died away into breathy squeaks.
“You make me tired.”
(Limits)
Summary: A young, pre-Dedicate Lark infuriates her friend.
A/N: Originally part of a dancing dove gift exchange--this was for Vix--I've been wanting to re-write snatches of it for ages. I've finally done so. The original, if you're interesed, is still up in the pit of voles.
If Bihan’s Great Stage had a consciousness, as the spaces of crowded places so often seemed to do, then it considered itself aptly named. It was famous. Famous not for those who performed upon it, but for the wood itself, bought for an exorbitant sum in Aliput and laid down by terrified craftsman, board by board.
This wood, everyone knew, was special. At first glance a deep, dark burgundy, it picked up glints from every imaginable source: golds and rose; copper and honey; even pale yellows. There was depth and light. There were angles; curves in a perfectly flat space. Waves. The grain was a woman’s hair: great, luxurious swathes of it, held prisoner under lacquer. Many who crossed it wondered why they hadn’t just fallen down and into it, breaking through the fragile solidity like new ice.
As it rippled and shifted in soft dawn light—besides the shadow of a pair of guards leaning on the other side of a small door, long understood in this place--two young performers had it to themselves.
They were a pattern made up of reaching hands and arched necks; of bodies in tight dancers’ blacks. The tall one, golden tones in her skin finding counterparts in the floor beneath her, effortlessly reaching horizontal in a split and gripping her partner firmly by the ankles as she—paler, smaller, slighter—used her shoulders and narrow back for support. She strained to hold a bridge shape, head and hands pressed hard on the ground as she stretched to her fullest extent.
They were both sweating, the smaller one more so. A droplet rolled on her upside-down face, from the tip of her nose to her hennaed hairline.
“It’s—not—fair,” she whined, lips pulled back from her teeth, clenched in a grimace. “You’ve got—longer—legs than me.”
The long, lean girl—her parents had called her Paraskeve, though it had never suited her well—smiled. “Yazmìn,” she said.
“—What, Paras? What—‘Yazmìn’?”
Paras’s voice was warm and quiet. “Nothing.”
Yazmìn groaned, blowing a stringy damp reddish curl from off her face. “You’re laughing at me.”
The smile widened. “Never.” Hands unyielding and gentle, Paras strengthened her pull on Yazmìn’s legs, adding to the stretch.
“Always.”
With a small grunt, Yazmìn managed to jerk out of the other girl’s clasp, flipping back and up into a handstand. “Hah.”
Sighing, Paras let her body fall forward until her long, straight nose touched the boards. “I’m the acrobat,” she said mildly, eyes closed.
Yazmìn grinned, feet pointed gracefully in the air. “You’re—slacking. That’s—what you’re doing.”
Hands slipping to her own ankles, Paras brought her legs together. She said nothing.
A pout from Yazmìn, who righted herself and then flopped down, lying on her back and swinging her leg up so that her knee would brush her nose, hamstrings straining visibly against her leggings. “Don’t be like that, Paras,” she moaned. “Has that cough of yours gotten any better?”
It was startling, how quickly Paras leant over the smaller girl, pressing down heavily with chest and hands on her leg. Her face glistened, her mouth was firm. Their foreheads almost touched.
“If you stopped—talking, you’d—get a better—stretch,” she murmured, eyes steady; breathing hard as she felt disobedient muscles full of adrenaline spasm against her breasts.
Yazmìn whimpered, her neck arching up; lips almost brushing Paras’s, her leg flattening into a proper horizontal line; wide-set eyes dark and confused.
Paras lent back, lifting the pressure. “Lovely,” she said, sudden and breathless sweetness. “It’s like…” her expression, Yazmìn saw as she shakily sat upright, was meditative, even while the blood flickered, madly and visibly, in the pulse point at her throat. “It’s like you’re a thread.” Paras flashed a quick, soft grin. “Get yourself taken apart and combed out, and then re-spun, and you get stronger.”
This brought out an inelegant snort. “You and your thread symbolism,” Yazmìn sniffed, the edges of her thoughts cut her, stuck in her stomach and heart and skin. “So.”
Paras’ eyes were shut again, eyelashes dark against her flushed, sharp cheeks. “So?”
“So.” Yazmìn managed only to half-snap, carefully plucked eyebrows drawing together. “We didn’t just come in here to stretch, you know. You have to measure me!”
“I’m not in costumes, dear heart.” Paras got to her feet, black curls bobbing as she shook her head.
Yazmìn clutched at her hand. “But everyone knows you’re the best.” Smirking, she brought two fingers to lips in a silencing motion, biting then quickly before touching them to Paras’s cheek. “If you want to go all modest, I can just say I bought the thing. Oh, please?”
Paras walked silently over to a corner of the room, back perfectly straight and her movements easy. Yazmin was left feeling clammy and inept, wondering how clothes always dropped and hung perfectly on her friend, when they should have been all bunched up and soaked through, like her own.
“Please. Oh, please, please--”
“--Please, stop that now,” said Paras, bending over a small pack and withdrawing a dark blue cord. When she faced Yazmin again, her smile was slight but affectionate. “I never said no, did I?”
Yazmin whooped and leapt into a cartwheel, landing prettily about half a pace away before stretching out her arms and legs in the shape of a star. “I’m yours.”
Chuckling, Paras moved behind her friend, quickly slipping the cord about her waist; enjoying the way it felt in her fingers and the warmth of the feverish body close by.
Shivering a little, Yazmìn looked at the famous, shimmering floorboards. They were darkened a touch in places by their combined sweat, creating new and peculiar colours in the wood. Their shadows had blurred into one. The girl, half unseeing already, felt her eyes closing as Paras knelt, hands and cord moving down to her hips.
“You’ve lost weight,” she said, voice level, finders pinching briefly before moving around to the front, hip barely bumping hip.
I hate it when you go all dual on me! Yazmìn’s overworked, exhausted mind jittered. Her body just shuddered more.
“Lift your left leg?”
She obeyed, keeping it straight out at a right angle to her body as she watched Paras’s hands reach up and fasten the cord around her thigh, then calf, from underneath, fingers almost teasing.
“Right leg?”
I don’t understand you.
“That’s good. Excellent.”
Are you flirting with me or not, Paraskeve?
Paras got up off her knees and was behind Yazmìn yet again, slowly and, with small, shaken hesitantly, positioning the cord over and around her breasts.
Milla preserve us!
Yazmìn wasn’t used to hesitance. Not from Paras. As she moved, she felt the other girl’s clothes rasp against her palms.
They were perfect, and dry.
How can she be dry?
Growling, Yazmìn pulled away, tugging the sopping shirt over her head and across the room, and her breastband with it.
Paras stared; flushing, stunned. Yazmìn was small breasted, like most dancers, but they were there, and just that moment they were thrust forward; defiantly, in her face. Tinged pink, nipples hard, tiny and dark; sweat dripping between them and down onto a stomach that was almost concave. There was a mole there, to match the one on her cheek, and Paras still stared.
Slowly, her blush increasing, she managed to choke out, voice still incredibly regular: “What?”
Before she kissed her that day, Yazmìn had to laugh. Long, loud and hard, until it died away into breathy squeaks.
“You make me tired.”