Duende

by E. E. Ottoman

  *~*~*

  The practice room that the Count de Fézensac had built for Aimé was small, with tall windows, but a domed ceiling. It was designed by the great architect and duelist Madam Béatrice de Valois, specifically to Aimé's tastes. There was nowhere else like it in the empire.

  Aimé let his voice fade away into nothing at the end of the aria and sighed. Sunlight poured through the windows, warming his face, casting the room in brilliant light.

  Rubbing one hand across the back of his neck, Aimé gazed out the windows. In front of him was a music stand with the sheet music and notations for the pieces he was practicing, and over to one side was a small table laid out with the remains of breakfast. He had a few hours to practice, here in this small room attached to his patron's city estate. Then stage rehearsal for one performance, and finally, he would be performing that evening.

  Aimé sat on one of the chairs next to the little breakfast table and straightened a cuff, gaze going once more to the window.

  His day was booked solid and he needed to focus. Instead, his mind kept straying back to the awkward and stilted meeting between himself and Badri Mukherjee. Aimé had promised himself it would be enough just to meet Badri in person and exchange a few words. Now that he'd done it, though, it wasn't enough; not really.

  Aimé's mind flashed to the way Badri looked on stage, the power in his legs and body as he moved. He thought of the way Badri had been afterwards, tired but exhilarated, thought of the way he himself felt standing upon a stage in front of a packed house.

  I want to put on a performance with you both on and off stage: give the court something real to talk about.

  Aimé felt himself flush even as arousal curled low in his belly.

  There was absolutely no doubt he wanted Badri, but Badri captivated him with his abilities as an artist as well. His skill and beauty on stage was undeniable, the grace with which he moved, the way he drew the audience into the stories with the arch of his body, the expressiveness of his face. Aimé knew much of the storytelling in opera came from the emotions the singer projected through their voices and their own movements on stage. There were also words as well, though that they would sing to guide the audience. In the ballet, there were only the dancers and the music. That took Aimé's breath away every time.

  Aimé wondered what it would be like to sit and have breakfast with Badri before practice in the morning, to talk about music and performance. It would be interesting to know what Badri thought about the lights his brother had designed, since as far as Aimé could tell, they existed to roast performers alive on stage. He had never spoken with a dancer in detail about anything before, and it was a craft he was less familiar with than his own.

  Still, when Aimé watched Badri dance, the way he reacted to the music, lived into it with his whole body, it felt familiar to Aimé. Aimé wanted to know if that sense of familiarity was shared.

  Badri had said he'd seen Aimé perform. When he watched Aimé, did he feel the same?

  Standing with another sigh, Aimé walked back over to the music stand. For a moment, he was very still, and he then closed his eyes, trying to block out everything but the music. He would worry about a certain beautiful dancer later—for now, he wanted to concentrate on tonight's opera.

  *~*~*

  One of the good parts of being able to support himself on his own family's money was that Badri did not have to go to parties just because some noble acting as his patron said so. While Badri enjoyed balls, he was not so keen on the smaller, more private, events. Sushil had begged him to come to Count de Fézensac's latest soiree, though. Badri knew that Sushil hated crowds of people he did not know, especially nobles, and hated the attention his looks and position invariably attracted. So Badri had said yes, which was how he'd ended up leaning against the wall in one of Count de Fézensac's sitting rooms, arms folded over his chest, a glass of wine in his hand, trying not to make eye contact with anyone lest they take it as a come-on.

  Someone sidled up beside him, and Badri turned his head enough to see Lord Fabien de la Falaise. Lord Fabien was tall, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. He had a finely-sculpted face, full lips, and blond waves that fell almost to his shoulders. His eyes were blue, and although his skin was pale, it was just dark enough to show he got sun, probably due to the hours he spent on horseback. The la Falaise were known for their thoroughbred horses.

  "Lovely party." Fabien sipped his own wine. "If a little dull." He turned to give Badri a smile. "That's why I was so glad when I spotted you. Loved your performance earlier this week, by the way—such perfect form. You would be exquisite on a horse." He moved slightly closer to Badri as he spoke, hand straying to Badri's arm. "I must see you on horseback sometime." Dark gold eyelashes lowered. "I am sure you ride very well."

  Such a blatant invitation from such a pretty man.

  Badri reached down to grip Fabien's wrist and removed his arm before taking a step back. "Lord Fabien," he said. "Let me speak frankly. I do not bed men who have been known to refer to my brother as 'that bastard from the Orient' and my good friend Lord Marquis de la Marche as ‘that bitch woman who insists on calling herself a man.'" Fabien just stared at Badri with his mouth slightly open, and Badri's smile was more a baring of teeth. "If you speak to me or touch me ever again, I will hit you, most likely multiple times."

  Lord Fabien had gone white, eyes wide and he opened his mouth, probably to angrily remind Badri of his place, but Badri didn't wait to hear it.

  The room was suddenly too hot and too enclosed. He needed air, needed to go outside. Storming through the sitting room, he pulled open the first pair of glass French doors he came to and stepped out into the cool night air.

  He'd stepped out on to a balcony. Badri walked to the stone railing at the far end and set his wine glass down on it, leaning both elbows on top and resting his face in his hands.

  He should have just punched Fabien and been done with it.

  Alternatively, he should find Sushil, so they could leave. He had to be up early tomorrow, and Sushil was probably just as ready to get away as he was.

  "What are you doing out here?"

  Badri turned to see Aimé De Verley standing by the glass doors, dressed in dark plum, with amethyst drops hanging from each ear.

  "I just needed some air."

  "I hate these parties." Aimé came to lean against the balcony railing beside him. "I'm only here because Count de Fézensac is my patron."

  "I don't mind parties." Badri turned his head, his gaze meeting Aimé's. "I hate how everyone shows off, and how title and money is everything. That and the dancing."

  Aimé laughed: a light, high sound. "The dancing? Don't tell me you don't like to dance!"

  "Not that stiff, awful party dancing. There is no sensuality, no life or art to it."

  "I've never thought about that," Aimé said, still seeming amused, but more thoughtful now, as if really considering Badri's words. "It's the only kind of dancing I'm good at."

  Badri smiled at that, both at the idea of Aimé De Verley being shy of his ability do anything, and at how Aimé had chosen to linger and speak with him even over such a trivial matter as Badri's distastes for court dancing "I should teach you to really dance. The way I used to dance when I was a boy, the way my mother taught me to dance."

  "Oh no, I could never." Aimé pressed one small hand against his chest, looking adorably self-conscious. "I'm really not very good at dancing."

  "And I am really not very good at singing." Badri offered him with a wide smile that he hoped came off with the right amount of easy flirtation. He did not want to seem over-eager, but at the same time, he was not going to let this opportunity pass, either.

  Aimé laughed again, smiling up at Badri with a sweet, familiar edge Badri hoped he was reading correctly. "Well, I won't hold it against you, if you don't hold the fact that I only dance dances that have no sensuality against me."

  Badri bit his tongue on the comment that Aimé did almost everything sensu
ally. That would indeed be too eager. He reached for his wine instead.

  "I like your jacket." Aimé seemed suddenly unsure again, not meeting Badri's eyes. "That color looks good on you."

  Badri glanced down at the rust-colored jacket with gold embroidery he was wearing. "Thank you, and you look beautiful as well."

  Aimé's eyes drew wide for a moment and Badri wanted to smack himself in the face.

  "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

  "No." Aimé shook his head. He didn't seem upset. If anything, he seemed pleased, if still a little shy. "I'm glad… I'm glad you like the way I look today."

  Time to take the bull by the horns, then. "Aimé De Verley." Badri turned to face him fully now, watching for his reaction. "I always like the way you look."

  Aimé was staring at him, expression stunned. "Thank you." Badri watched the muscles in Aimé's throat work as he swallowed. "I've always found you a very attractive man."

  Badri leaned forward as Aimé tipped his face up. He had no real, fully-formed plan, aside from admiring how soft and full his lips were. Aimé pressed close as well, hands rising to grasp at Badri's coat.

  "Badri?"

  They both started, and turned to see Sushil standing by the glass doors. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting." Sushil glanced between the two of them. "I was just leaving, and I thought Badri might like to share the carriage with me… but he doesn't have to." He looked over at Badri now. "If you don't want to, or have other plans."

  "It's fine." Aimé reached for his glass of wine, a small smile playing across his lips. "I need to say my farewells as well and make my excuses. I have an early morning tomorrow."

  Sushil gave Badri a final questioning look and headed back inside.

  "Wait," Badri called as Aimé moved to follow Sushil back to the party

  Aimé turned back to face him, one hand on the handle of the glass doors.

  "I …" Badri rubbed one hand across the back of his head. He was good at the hot press of bodies in a carriage, alley, his dressing room, or bed, but not this. He'd never done this. "I would like it if you joined me for dinner, if you would allow it."

  Aimé cocked his head to the side. "People will talk."

  "Let them." Badri grinned, picking up his own wine glass in a toast, and after a moment, Aimé smiled back.

  "All right. Sunday evening. I'll be free then."

  *~*~*

  "You're nervous."

  Collette watched Aimé fuss with his cravat in the mirror from where she stood in the doorway to his bedroom.

  "Of course I'm nervous." Aimé pulled off his plain white cravat and reached for one of the colored silk ones instead. "It's Badri Mukherjee."

  "And he asked you out," Collette said as Aimé went to change his jacket to one of a different color. "Which is a good sign. What are you hoping for from all this, anyway? Some bed fun, an affair, something more?"

  Aimé could feel his pulse speed up at the thought of having Badri in his bed, but he shook his head. "Right now, I'm happy to have dinner with another artist." He settled on the dark blue jacket and pulled it on. "I don't need anything more."

  "Don't need or don't want?" Collette asked. "Because if you want it, then I say take it. Maybe he wants that, too."

  "Don't you have a poker game?" Aimé settled on his onyx earrings.

  Leaning against the doorframe, Collette grinned. "Oh yes, although Miriam will win. She always does. Don't wait up for me."

  "I never do. Especially when you go out drinking and gambling with the crown's best prosecutor."

  Collette just chuckled, low and deep, and headed for her own room. "Enjoy your dinner," she called over her shoulder.

  Adding color to his lips, Aimé regarded himself critically in the mirror for a moment. The papers routinely ran article criticizing him for wearing makeup both on and off the stage, and Aimé knew most people saw it as just another way that he was more of a woman than a man, but he'd always liked himself best with a little color on his lips or around his eyes. Hesitating for a moment, he wondered if Badri would find it strange or off-putting. Perhaps he should not wear it and leave his face bare tonight. One hand reached out to pick up the small cloth that he used to remove his makeup, then he curled it into a fist. Raising his chin, he gave himself one last look in the mirror. He liked himself with the dark red across his lips, that was what had always mattered most, and he wasn't going to change now. Without giving himself time to second guess that decision, he headed out of his apartment to the waiting carriage.

  Badri and Sushil Mukherjee lived in a tall, stone city house. Badri opened the door himself when Aimé tugged on the chain to ring the bell.

  "Come in." He held open the door and Aimé moved into the hall.

  "Our chef tells me dinner is nearly ready." Badri led the way into a small sitting room with walls done up in a soft yellow cream. "Drink?"

  "I would love one." If nothing else, it would help steady his nerves. He could feel his palms sweating a little bit and risked a glance at Badri, who looked both relaxed and elegant in eveningwear, his hair pulled back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck with a ribbon. Badri turned towards the sideboard where a decanter of wine and two glasses sat and Aimé watched that long plait of hair move against his back. His fingers itched to reach out and touch, to find out if Badri's hair felt as soft and silken as it looked.

  Badri poured them both small glasses of wine, and turned to hand one to Aimé. Swallowing dryly, Aimé accepted, trying to shake such thoughts from his mind. They were there to have dinner, and not necessarily anything beyond that. Although if the evening continued the way it had been, Aimé feared he was going to have a hard time keeping his intentions pure. He took a sip of wine to steady himself, eyebrows rising as he did. The wine was good. Very good, in fact.

  "Do you like it?" Aimé looked up to see Badri watching him, his expression caught between strangely anxious and resigned.

  "Yes." He took another sip. "It is extremely good."

  "It is." Badri took a small sip from his own glass, seeming almost unwilling to agree, although he must have known the wine’s quality before he offered it. "It is from my father's vineyard. My father's fortune is in wine, and he has hundreds of acres of vineyard. This is one of his fall wines; very expensive if you buy it."

  "Will the vineyards be yours one day?" Aimé took another sip, trying to imagine it. His own mother had been a seamstress, and his father a soldier-turned-schoolmaster.

  "Sushil might inherit them, since he is technically the eldest." Badri's expression was one of distaste. "But who knows? My father is very strange when it comes to the two of us. Paternal about some things, cold and distant about others."

  "I'm sorry." There was obviously very little love lost between Badri and his father, and perhaps those complicated feelings had spilled over to color Badri's own feeling about the wine his father's family made. At least Aimé had always been on good terms with his own parents, even if he was not terribly close with them these days.

  Badri shrugged. "My father never quite reconciled himself to the fact that the only children to carry his blood have dark skin. But I've grown used to that."

  "My father is from the southernmost reaches of the empire," Aimé said. He rarely spoke about his parents and his life before coming to the capital. The fact that Badri had confided in him about his own past, though, made Aimé more willing to share such details as well. "He joined the army young and served for many years before he was injured and had to retire. Once that happened, he moved north, hoping that if he settled close to the capital, he would find work. Then he met my mother, who was born and bred in a little farming town several hours' ride from here. They fell in love, got married, and had me." He trailed one finger around the edge of the glass. "I never thought it was odd that his skin was darker then hers or that mine was, until I began performing professionally and people began to comment on it, on how 'exotic' I was." He made a face of his own and took another sip of wine.

  "Oh,
yes, people tell me that as well." Badri's expression was sympathetic, but in the way of someone who understood well what Aimé was speaking of, and not merely pretending to do so.

  Someone cleared their throat behind them, and they both turned to see a servant standing in the doorway. "Gentlemen, dinner is served." The serving man bowed and then left again, and Badri reached for Aimé's arm.

  "Come. It's going to be exquisite, I promise."

  Aimé enjoyed the warmth of Badri so close to his side; the weight of Badri's arm entwined with his as Badri led the way down the hall the dining room.

  The long mahogany table seemed almost ridiculously big for just the two of them, even though Badri sat at one end and settled Aimé right by his side.

  "Will your brother be joining us?" Aimé asked, hoping it would just be the two of them, but not necessarily expecting it. This was Sushil's house as well, after all.

  Badri shook his head. "He's dining with the Marquis de la Marche this evening. Besides, I thought it might be nice to have some time to speak together, just the two of us."

  "I'm sure it will." Aimé smiled at him warmly.

  The soup was brought in, and Aimé found when he picked up his spoon and took a tentative sip that Badri had not been exaggerating about the skill of his chef.

  "This is delicious." Aimé polished off his bowl faster than what was probably polite. "If I had your chef, I would weigh considerably more than I do."

  Badri laughed. "It is a struggle sometimes not to overindulge. Most of the time, though, I stick to a very strict diet."

  Aimé's mind flashed to a memory of Badri dancing, his costume clinging to every line, curve, and swell. He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, luckily for me, I have no such restrictions." Since there was no more soup in his bowl, he set aside his spoon. "So what do you enjoy doing when you are not dancing? For pleasure, I mean." Aimé just managed not to wince at his poor choice of word and then thought his heart might stop at the momentary flash of heat in Badri's eyes.

  "I enjoy horseback riding." Badri set aside his spoon as well, and a servant came to take their empty bowls. "I do not hunt for sport, since I find that cruel, but I have always enjoyed riding."