It's only me under the mask
Beat liked performances.
Okay, so that wasn't quite true; plays penned by some crusty ol' poet didn't interest him. But he loved watching dance troupes leap across a stage just as much as he loved hearing his skateboard's wheels grind against a metal handrail. There was just something very straightforward and just plain physical about dance, something truthful about the way the body moves. It's not so different from skateboarding, but different enough for Beat to be rubbish at it -- he'd tried it out when no one was looking; men's men ain't s'posed to like dancin'!
He's protested when Rhyme wanted him to come see a show with her, and only relented when his parents pointed out she wouldn't be safe going alone. He gave into them only after the second plead from Rhyme, rather than the fifth. Rhyme gave a happy whoop. And it was with great complaining -- which turned into resigned sighs when Rhyme made it clear his complaints were making her unhappy because he was unhappy -- that he entered the theatre room, Rhyme dragging him along.
Beat didn't know what the performance was supposed to be about; Rhyme had the program clutched in her hands. But he didn't need to know, because their movements said it all even when all the performers' faces were covered by masks. Every movement was a display of love for the art, even when the dancers' feet purposefully dragged, body and posture hunched, an expression of the characters' weariness. Every carefully choreographed chaos on stage, an expression of ideas and emotions.
It's always at the end, when the performers line up on stage and take off their masks and bow, that makes Beat crane his neck to get a closer look -- sometimes even climbing onto seats -- so he can see the people whose performance he'd felt.
Joshua smiled, and bowed with the rest of the performers.
And then Beat understood.
Okay, so that wasn't quite true; plays penned by some crusty ol' poet didn't interest him. But he loved watching dance troupes leap across a stage just as much as he loved hearing his skateboard's wheels grind against a metal handrail. There was just something very straightforward and just plain physical about dance, something truthful about the way the body moves. It's not so different from skateboarding, but different enough for Beat to be rubbish at it -- he'd tried it out when no one was looking; men's men ain't s'posed to like dancin'!
He's protested when Rhyme wanted him to come see a show with her, and only relented when his parents pointed out she wouldn't be safe going alone. He gave into them only after the second plead from Rhyme, rather than the fifth. Rhyme gave a happy whoop. And it was with great complaining -- which turned into resigned sighs when Rhyme made it clear his complaints were making her unhappy because he was unhappy -- that he entered the theatre room, Rhyme dragging him along.
Beat didn't know what the performance was supposed to be about; Rhyme had the program clutched in her hands. But he didn't need to know, because their movements said it all even when all the performers' faces were covered by masks. Every movement was a display of love for the art, even when the dancers' feet purposefully dragged, body and posture hunched, an expression of the characters' weariness. Every carefully choreographed chaos on stage, an expression of ideas and emotions.
It's always at the end, when the performers line up on stage and take off their masks and bow, that makes Beat crane his neck to get a closer look -- sometimes even climbing onto seats -- so he can see the people whose performance he'd felt.
Joshua smiled, and bowed with the rest of the performers.
And then Beat understood.