watchfob

When Warwick is six his father takes him to the ballet. 

He sits in the box next to the duke and stretches to see over the banister. A manservant quietly hands him a cushion to sit on, and Wick hops up on top of it, on his knees, and watches.

He’s not really sure what the story is -- the performers don’t speak much, and when they do, it seems to be in a different language -- but he’s entranced all the same. The line of dancers moving in sync is mesmerizing and he follows every dip, every twirl, every lift. The music speeds up, slows down, brightens and sharpens and grows. 

He fidgets in his seat. With the crash of a cymbal at the height of a crescendo, he flies out of it. 

“Warwick, sit down,” his father hisses. Warwick doesn't hear him.

He grips the side of the box, standing on tip-toe and leaning forward. He opens his eyes wider as if it’ll impress the images on stage into them. He mouths along to the wordless melody. He listens.
 

On the carriage ride back home, he twitches his feet in time to a silent beat, thoughts bouncing through his mind in a steady 4/4.