CREATURE

・chapter 2・

Roman tossed his car keys to the valet, straightened his shirt collar and headed up the limestone stairs that led to the Royal Opera House. The building was a megastructure of Victorian architecture and glass-vaulted ceilings that spanned nearly an entire city block, lit up to illuminate it against the night sky.

The dancer tucked his hands into his pockets as he moved through the bustling crowd in the theatre's foyer, nodding politely as he caught the attention of a few patrons. Dressed in a simple white button-down shirt he looked fairly unassuming to most people. But to the ballet critics and seasoned arts patrons, he was a familiar face.

The theatre was busy that evening. The in-house restaurants were packed out, champagne bars littered with people and foyer filled with theatregoers. Amongst the crowd he spotted business moguls, celebrities, movie stars, old money, and even royalty. It was opening night, after all, and London's elite was there to flaunt their money and network.

Bastian had asked him that afternoon to attend the performance, which he'd agreed to despite his better judgement insisting he needed a decent night's sleep far more than being hounded by the British press. As far as they were concerned he was recovering from a back injury, which had been nothing but a crafty lie to try and buy him some peace for six months.

During that time he'd managed to avoid the media for the most part, but knew that stepping out in London, in a theatre of all places, just days after the news about his resignation from the Bolshoi aired, was going to attract attention. The mere thought of having a camera shoved in his face had a faint headache thrumming behind his eyes, but he knew the press was going to hunt him down eventually. It might as well be on his terms.

Murmuring a silent prayer that no one would stop him, he lowered his eyes as he wove through the crowd and bound up the marble stairs that led to the auditorium. The ushers nodded knowingly in his direction as he entered the grand theatre and headed to the private seating boxes near the side of the stage.

'Glad you made it.' Bastian greeted, shaking his hand as he sat down beside him.

Roman nodded to the artistic director and a few of the board members, but didn't offer up any conversation. They knew who he was, and he'd never been one for making small-talk, least of all when he was sleep-deprived.

The auditorium was filling up with audience members making their way to their seats, some glancing eagerly to the Royal Box on the second floor to see if they could spot any of the British aristocracy. His gaze drifted to the stage, where behind the heavy red curtain dancers would be warming up and checking their costumes, eager to get on stage and open the ballet.

Being back in the theatre, although on the wrong side of the curtain, made him realise how much he missed performing.

Dancing was part of who he was, of who he'd been since he was three. To him it was air, as natural as breathing was to anyone else. He longed to be on stage again, pined for the rush of adrenalin-infused energy in his veins and craved the rumble of applause in his chest.

But he didn't miss doing lines of cocaine off his dressing-table, being so riled up he wanted to vomit and feeling like the cage they'd put him in was shrinking with every passing second. The shows were intoxicating, of-course they were, but they always ended with him collapsing in fits of exhaustion and anxiety as the withdrawals kicked in and he prepared himself to do it all again the next morning.

Over the last six months he'd thrown around the idea of returning to the stage a few times. He'd been a child prodigy and trained professionally in one of the world's most ruthless ballet schools since he was eight. He lived the better part of his existence in the eye of the media, and as disgusted as he was to admit it, he craved the attention he knew so well.