A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Here's another short chapter, sorry. I'm still trying to decide where this plot is going. I'm just trying to set up subplots at this point, and maybe possible turning points later.
In addition, I've just had my computer reset to factory settings, so I'm trying to gather my bearings and figure this new layout out.
Translations for this chapter: débile- dumb, stupid
Chapter Six
Joseph Buquet had been known as many things in his life. As a child upon the streets, he was a cur. To his fellow stagehands, he was known as a débile. From the ballet rats, he was a commodity. Yet personally, he thought himself rather the successful philanderer.
He'd toiled for his role as chief "provider" among the ballet corp, had even received rapturous praise from Madira, perhaps the most prolific and well-versed lover among her fellow ballerinas.
He had not, however, been able to surmount the one conquest scratching and biting in his mind for the past few months.
Christine Daae.
What an enigma. He'd watched her for years from above, seen the gawkish girl turn to beauty before his wanting eyes. And then, once she'd revealed herself during Hannibal, singing with such a voice, he could not deny what he felt: it was a primal need, a desire, he held far greater than what he'd felt for her before. But she'd always had that constant presence of something looming and unstoppable behind her, something dark and valiant and possessive. Buquet had only been able to catch mere glimpses of her personal, defensive force: a black cape hem there, a flash of white there. But he'd seen it. He just couldn't put his finger upon it.
It was as if something—nay, someone!—beyond Earth was protecting Christine Daae.
He stooped to collect a wayward bottle of rum and, stumbling, made his way down the corridor behind the stage. He took a generous swig of the liquid. It seared along his throat, igniting his brain. He broke away from the bottle lip like a woman's wanton kiss. With hooded eyes beneath a beetle brow, he observed the whirling world around him. The hubbub of the opera's glimmering triumph had come to a close, and he moved through a world of gray haze and torn costumes. He coughed as he caught the passing stench of a stagehand sucking upon a cigar. An offhand urge overcame Buquet then, and recklessly he spirited the smoldering pipe from the other man's mouth and wrapped his own lips about the sweet stump. The other man began to protest; his cries fell short, however, as he noted the thief's identity, and promptly fell into trembling silence.
Nodding to himself, Buquet strolled down the way, scratching himself as he did. He passed by a huddle of extras, sighed, and continued on his way at a stumbling gait. He rounded a corner. He took in the cocktail of sights littered upon the floor: crushed petals, confetti, a bit of spilled drink. Setting his bottle down with a dull thud, Buquet bent low and picked up a fallen blossom between his grimy fingers. He inhaled the saccharine scent of it, a scent he'd sampled before when that guarded, beautiful girl had strode by him during the past on her way to this practice or that rehearsal. From behind the pink gauze of the flower, he could discern the towering silhouette of Christine Daae's dressing room door.
It was a space that once belonged to La Carlotta, the infamous primadonna who strutted about as if she were a dissolute male peacock, spreading wide her arms (and her croaking voice) for those to gawk. La Carlotta. Now that was a woman he'd have no desire to bed, even if they were the last two souls alive.
He chuckled. A dark stream of phlegm spattered across his beard, and he wiped haphazardly at the sticky mess that clogged his face. With a snort, he stubbed out the cigar and retreated into the cushion of a shadow.
From his left, a shadow flickered and swelled. He made out the svelte shape of a girl, who moved swiftly and gracefully toward him. He burrowed deeper into the shadow, till only the off-whites of his eyes were visible and gleaming in the darkness. Meg Giry whisked by, oblivious. He watched as she slowed to a halt near the door, her flaxen hair swaying. For a moment, he could envision his fingers raking through those long blond locks, could feel the quiver of her throat's pulse beneath his mouth.
Meg's hand crept toward the handle. Attached to her hand was a skeleton key, a fact which brought a bolt of surprise to strike him through. The girl paused, the key levitating above the handle. Then, with a small sound of purpose, she jangled the key through the handle and stepped inside the threshold. The shadow's door swallowed her whole.
Buquet crushed the flower beneath his fingers, cursing himself for not taking the opportunity to strike upon the Giry girl. There were such scant opportunities for him to encounter the ballerina alone, as she was always beneath the dark wing of her irksome mother. He'd had an open window!
With an irate flick, he let the flower fall where it may and strode deeper into the dark.
A/N: Reviews are always appreciated. :)