That was enough.
*~*~*
"Guess who was in my audience tonight?" Badri said as soon as he entered the sitting room. Sushil blinked up from the blueprints and charts of spells he had spread out across the table.
"I have no idea." It wasn't like Badri actually expected him to guess; he just wanted an excuse to talk. In fact, Sushil probably didn't even need to listen, long years of life together had taught him that Badri would ramble on happily to himself about dancing or parties while Sushil got on with the paper he was writing or designing his latest prototype.
"Aimé De Verley. He came to my dressing room after the performance. He brought me these." Badri held up a rather bedraggled bouquet of wild roses. "He said he admired me, and had for a long time. And of course, the entire hall was full of court vultures just waiting for something juicy to swoop down on, so I was unbearably polite, and it all ended up being terribly awkward, and then he left like he could not wait to get away."
Sushil needed to contact Gregory about how to sustain a power spell once it was laid on the interworks of a steam engine. Steam could power the engine in its own right, of course, but magic most certainly would enhance it. Didn't this kind of technology exist in China already? He remembered reading an article about it. Maybe they should send someone – possibly Marcel, since he was their resident traveling scholar – to investigate. With effort, Sushil pulled his attention back to Badri and his court-related woes. "I am assuming that was not how you imagined it going."
Badri stared at him and then snorted. "This is Aimé De Verley we are talking about. The only castrato to sing at the Royal Opera House in his entire generation. He can bring an audience to its knees with an aria. I had hoped when we did meet we would talk about something more—" Badri waved one hand. "Meaningful." He paused for a moment. "Of course, in my fantasies, I'd just imagined fucking him on the nearest flat surface."
Sushil rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm sorry it did not go according to plan." But really, his brother's sexual passions were the last thing he wanted to hear anything about, especially when he had spells he needed to diagram.
"I have to go to one of his operas, see if I can talk to him again." Badri disappeared back out of the sitting room and returned a few moments later, carrying a cut-glass vase, into which he put the roses and fussed with them.
"Don't you usually have a ballet or practice that late in the evening?"
"I do." Badri turned away from the still-limp flowers and threw himself down on one of the settees. "But he meant it, Sushil. He looked me in the eye and said my performance—my dancing—touched him, and he meant it. I've never had a lover who
knew
, who understood before, what it is like to create art with your body and nothing else."
That caught Sushil’s attention, finally. Badri might project himself as nothing but graceful limbs and effervescent smiles, but Sushil knew that Badri often felt deeply isolated, surrounded by people who did not truly understand commitment and passion when it came to his art. It was the reason Sushil believed Badri had never had a serious lover before. If Badri truly believed Aimé De Verley would be able to connect with him in this way so few could… Sushil was quiet, watching him for a long time. "So then, make time," he said at last, "and go see an opera."
*~*~*
They had come to this country so that Sushil could study.
Badri stretched to warm up, letting himself fall into a series of splits in a slow slide as he remembered it.
Sushil had loved studying, because Sushil always loved books and learning, taking things apart and putting them back together, but Badri had been lost. Too far from home, too far from Mother, he had cried himself to sleep every night.
They lived in their father's great house, but did not take their father's name. Their father would house and feed them, but never bring them to court or properly introduce them into society. He would never admit to having sons with dark skin. Sushil hadn’t much cared, but Badri had hated the social isolation, especially then, and hated the idea that his own father was ashamed of his existence. He'd needed something – anything – to distract himself with, but it had seemed then like there was nothing for him in the capital.
In the here and now, Badri lifted his leg high, holding himself precisely, and executed a series of spins across the polished wooden floor of his practice room.
He'd been adrift back then, staying in the city only so he could be close to Sushil. Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that he could not survive without his brother. As always, dancing had been a comfort. He'd been dancing since he could walk, but what place that had in this new world, he had no idea. No one here understood his dance. He could not make anyone understand, could not make them feel the way that he felt when he moved across a room or a stage.
Then, he'd seen the ballet. To say he fell in love was almost too simple: he had been captivated by the beauty of it and intrigued by the discipline. Perhaps he had thought this would be a way to bring something that he loved into this new world he lived in, some way to make others understand him. He wanted to dance with passion and strength, grief and joy, and have others
understand
. He wanted those who watched him dance to feel that passion in their hearts as he felt it in his bones.
Aimé De Verley was like that, Badri thought. He sang like that, like he was trying to make people understand through the music alone.
He leapt and landed, precise and perfect, careful to keep his feet positioned correctly for form and safety in the landing.
For too long, Badri had watched Aimé De Verley from the sidelines, unsure about how to approach him or what to say. But Aimé had approached him, told Badri that he admired him. So now, what excuse did Badri have? He needed to find Aimé: they needed to speak together, away from the prying eyes of the court. Badri needed to tell Aimé how he felt.
*~*~*
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."