A/N: I am going to see a production of Hamlet starting the amazing Ruth Negga soon, and I couldn't be more excited. So please forgive me this small indulgence.
Riza wades through shrapnel of colourful fabrics and loose props, talking into her headset as she rubs her template. This damn play is going to be the death of her, she's sure of it.
"Fuery, give me some good news."
Fuery's voice crackles with a background of white noise. "The broken light's been replaced, just rigging it up to the board now. Sound-check went well. Looks like everything's in place up here."
"Great job. Anything else?"
"Door open in five minutes. Reception is packed, ushers are ready."
"Excellent, thank y—shouldn't you be dressed?" Riza says loudly to cut through the din of scurrying actors.
Havoc turns around at her voice and grins, opening his arms to show off his bare chest. "We're taking a new direction with the costumes," he teases. She rolls her eyes and shoos him away.
"Go get ready, Guildenstern. Doors open in five."
"Okay but Rosencrantz has been looking for you. He's having some lady problems," Havoc winks, smirking at his own joke before returning to the men's changing room.
Riza finishes giving instructions to Fuery as she tries to find Breda, eventually spotting him beside the buffet, fiddling with his cravat.
Heymans Breda is the best director she knows. Not just for his "vision," though he'd flinch in embarrassment if she ever called it that to his face. Breda is living proof that madness and genius don't have to go hand-in-hand. Riza recalls her own father, and his passion for his vision (a term he proudly used) that made him almost impossible to work with. His productions were flawless, but very few actors would work with him twice.
Breda is strict when he needs to be, and he certainly doesn't lack passion. But he is approachable and flexible and when things go wrong, he doesn't throw things like her father would have. He is able to adapt—when their original Rosencrantz fell ill and was unable to finish the production, Breda stepped in. And it worked out great. He and Havoc have the perfect rapport for the two slightly-bumbling friends.
"There you are," he says, relieved. Evidently, the stress is getting to him too. "How did the press conference go?"
"Fine. What do you need?"
"Gertrude's in her dressing room and she won't let me in. I figure you'd have more luck." He sighs. "I don't need to know what's wrong, I just need to know she'll be ready." He fiddles again with his cravat uncomfortably. "You'd think that after twelve weeks, we'd have it down, but apparently everyone is losing their damn minds."
She huffs a small laugh. "It's closing night, they just want it to go as well as possible." The two most hectic nights are opening and closing. Opening night is flooded with critics and journalists trying to get their reviews in early, so the success of the production hinges on that first performance. But closing night has the promise of potential patrons, who will meet the cast at the wrap party and wag chins until they decide whether or not to take out their cheque books. Riza's theatre has a good reputation but every cent counts. And the Sunlight Theatre Company has made their home here, nobody wants to see them underfunded.
Breda rubs the bridge of his nose. "Closing night is always such a fucking ordeal. Still…" he looks up at Riza and smiles softly. "It was nice to have the whole team back together."
Riza swallows uncomfortably, knowing what he is referring to. "It was a good idea to get a mainstream name."
"Star quality sells. But that's not why he's here." Once again, Breda tugs awkwardly at his cravat. Riza changes the subject by slapping his hand away from the collar.
"Doors in five. I'll talk to Gertrude." Breda nods.
"Thank you. I gotta go talk Claudius out of a nervous breakdown. Don't know why he's so panicked. Not like he'll forget his lines," Breda scoffs. Riza chuckles as well at the expense of their actor with an eidetic memory. Falman has done a wonderful job as Claudius so far, but closing night jitters get to the best of them. Breda waves her off and walks towards the men's changing rooms, Riza walking the opposite direction to Getrude's dressing room.
She knocks twice before a low, strong voice tells her to enter. Olivier's hair has already been done up in braids, and her regal dress hangs beautifully on her frame. The crown sits on her dressing room table as she double-checks her makeup, but she doesn't need it to look like a queen.
"Doors open any minute now. Everything alright?"
Olivier scowls, but Riza knows the anger isn't directed at her.
"Can you tell our star that there's no movie magic to save his performance here?" Riza suppresses a sigh. They've had similar conversations more than once during this production. "He didn't take the matinee seriously at all. I felt bad for the people who paid to come see him."
This time Riza doesn't hide her sigh. He broke character once this afternoon, smiling at an audience member who gasped too loudly, like they were at a pantomime. Still, Olivier is a pro, and Riza can understand her frustration. It's always hard on the thespians when a film star comes along to take a starring role. It feels as if they've bypassed all the criteria and landed the gig by virtue of their name. But Riza didn't have the time to argue that that wasn't the case here, and she doubted Olivier would listen.
Olivier continues applying blush. She always insists she do her own make-up, a pre-stage ritual. "It's bad enough I'm apparently old enough to play the man's mother," she mutters.
"You're good enough to play a queen," Riza corrects. "I'll talk to him. Will you be ready for curtain?"
Olivier meets her eye in the mirror, a mildly affronted look an her mostly made-up face. "Of course."
"Great. Just like rehearsals yesterday," Riza encourages, turning to leave. As an afterthought, she adds: "Though maybe without the slap this time."
Olivier smiles devilishly. "I thought it was inspired. Livened the scene, no?"
"Maybe, but I don't want the soliloquy mumbled through a busted lip."
Olivier laughs and Riza takes her leave, hoping that her advice will be taken. It's the last night and she doesn't need the headache.
Passing Ophelia's dressing room, she knocks. "Doors any minute," she calls, and Maria acknowledges her with an enthusiastic "uh-huh." Maria has been excellent, as someone to work with and as an actress. No melt-downs, except for the scripted ones.
Riza has always loved the character of Ophelia, loves the scene where she sings nonsensical songs in her grief. Ophelia; surrounded by influential and powerful men for her whole life, until her father dies and the man she loves leaves.
It resonates.
Riza collaborates with the ushers through the headset and gives them the go-ahead to open the doors. She is briefly accosted by a stage-hand looking for the poisoned sword prop, and by the time she has helped him find it, she spots a little girl listening excitedly as Rebecca shows her and her mother her selection of make-up brushes.
There is a strict no-family-backstage rule, but nobody can ever say no to Gracia and Elicia.
Riza waves at them as she passes, before knocking on the door of the star's dressing room. She takes a deep breath as she hears a cheery "come in!" on the other side.
Hughes and Roy are sitting on the couch in full costume. When Riza enters, Roy stands up and outstretches his arms.
"Soft you now! The fair Ophelia!" he exclaims, his voice deep and booming. He takes a few lively steps until he is standing directly in front of her. "Nymph, in thy orisons," he cups her face with both hands, arms extended. Then, quieter, he finishes the soliloquy with a wide smile. "Be all my sins remembered."
She rolls her eyes. Actors.
Lifting her chin to dislodge from his grasp, she speaks over his shoulder.
"Horatio, your family is distracting my make-up artist."
Hughes, already smiling at his co-star's antics, smiles wider and stands up. "Can't have that. You know, married life is a great thing." He approaches the two of them, clapping Roy's shoulder amicably. "Don't you think the play would be much better if Hamlet just married Ophelia and ignored his ghost dad?"
"Wouldn't make for a great tragedy," Riza responded dryly.
"Maybe not. See you onstage, Roy. Break a leg."
Hughes leaves, shutting out the chaos and panic on the other side of the door. Just like that, they're alone.
Roy gestures toward the couch. "Have a seat."
"I'm not here to chat."
"No? Then to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks, steering her to the couch and pushing her shoulders down regardless.
She slumps onto the cushions, now looking up at him as he stands over her. His black period-appropriate clothes and black hair make him look every bit the mourning son he is ready to play, but his smile gives him away.
"Stop giving Olivier a hard time," she says.
He scoffs. "I've barely done anything. Honestly, Riza, I don't know how you work with that woman all the time."
"She's one of the best."
Roy opens his mouth as if to say something, but pauses. "She's very good," he half-concedes.
"And she wants to make sure she's working with the best," Riza continues.
Roy barks out a laugh. "Riza, I'm hurt that you doubt my abilities."
She doesn't. She's known him since she was sixteen. He was born for the stage.
"It's a very important night," she offers. She knows not to give actors a big ego. More importantly, she knows not to give him a big ego.
Still looking down at her, he crooks an eyebrow.
"Better make it count then. Run lines with me? Can't have me choking on-stage."
"I doubt that's necessary."
"Indulge me," he drawls playfully. "Act 3, Scene 2." He gestures toward the script on the coffee table, but she shakes her head. She knows every line to the play, and she's sure he does too.
Roy clears his throat to begin the scene. He bends at the waist, his face hovering just above hers, and smirks menacingly.
"Lady, shall I lie in your lap?"
"No, my Lord."
"I mean, my head upon your lap."
"Ay, my Lord."
Roy lowers himself to his knees and rests his chin on her thighs, staring up at her through half-lidded eyes.
"Did you think I meant country matters?" The teasing lilt to his voice belies more than just being in-character.
"You're supposed to be facing the other way," she reminds him dryly.
"That's a fair thought, to lie between maids' legs," he continues, as if she had delivered her line. He tilts his head so his cheek is resting on her lap.
"The audience won't see you."
"Hmm," he agrees, finally breaking character. He closes his eyes contentedly and sinks more of his weight on her legs, his hands reaching up to rest on her knees.
She is torn between the urge to push him off her and the urge to stroke his hair. Instead, she stays still.
He rubs his thumbs back and forth across her knees. "I'm supposed to shoot a pilot next week."
"Oh?"
"Mmhm. For a show in New York."
"It'll be nice for you to go home. Will you miss Hollywood?"
He chuckles. "God no. Not as much as I've missed Columbus."
Riza swallows a lump in her throat. The conversation is getting too close to confessional territory. "There's not much here," she says.
He opens his eyes again and looks up at her. "There's enough."
She averts her eyes, choosing instead to look at the script on the coffee table. It's been a long time since she first met him, when he played Benvolio in her father's production of Romeo and Juliet. He was eighteen and lived New York, so he had stayed with them for the entire production. Six months of rehearsals kept him busy, but in the evenings, they would share the fireplace and the couch and their hopes and dreams for the future. He talked about his acting, how much he loved the stage, the fire of performance that ignited inside him. She confided that she never wanted to act, but she loved the theatre. She would do anything to keep the art alive.
They ran lines together, sometimes the ones scripted for him, but mostly they rehearsed the lead roles, playing at being the star-crossed lovers. They grew close, and he quickly became the first person she could call a friend. As an only child to a very single-minded parent, she spent most of her time around actors or alone.
When opening night arrived, she was in the audience, captivated. Afterwards, she went backstage to see her father. She met Breda and Hughes, both understudies at the time. When she had finished her polite congratulations, Roy took her hand and led her outside through the back. He was elated, laughing in glee, the adrenaline of the performance still running through his veins. He couldn't stay still, hopping from one foot to the other as he stood in front of her. She laughed with him, delighted to see him so happy.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her. It was her first kiss, and one of the happiest moments in her life.
Six weeks later, he was gone.
She knew it would end, but it still hurt. Since then, she's seen him a few times. A quick visit, a tour of "where his career began", her father's funeral. It had never been the same. She's spent years seeing him on TV, in films, on magazine covers. She has turned down more than one invitation to a premier. When Breda went behind her back and requested him for Hamlet, he had said yes, despite the fact that he probably had to turn down much more lucrative offers. And when she found out, she couldn't exactly retract the offer. His name would bring more money to the theatre than it had seen in years.
And she knows it couldn't have gone any other way. He has always had talent. He was always going to go places she couldn't follow. But she still can't help but feel hurt. Her best friend, her first kiss, left one day, and the next time she heard anything about him was a review in the papers.
Riza clears her throat and her thoughts. "What's the show about?"
Roy shrugs, and she feels the tugging of his movements on her legs. "Some cop procedural. Very boring. Nothing like this. I've missed the stage." He rubs his cheek against her, and she can almost hear the unspoken words as if he's said them out loud. I've missed you.
Ridiculous, really. That was a lifetime ago.
She hears a crackle in her ear before Fuery's voice lilts through the headset.
"Five minutes to places."
"Five minutes to places," she repeats aloud for Roy. He takes a slow breath before shifting to his feet, keeping his hands on her knees for as long as possible before he is fully upright.
"I'll see you at the wrap party, right?"
She nods as she stands. Part of her doesn't want to go, would like very much to just go home, take a bath and finally wash this entire production off of her. But she has obligations, and she's the person the cheques will be made out to by enthused patrons. And, if she's being honest, another part of her loves the comradery of a wrap party, when all the actors toast their good work and say their bittersweet farewells, either permanently or until next season.
And she wonders if maybe it will be the same again, if the adrenaline of performance will do its magic, and let two kindred spirits foolishly fall in love all over again.
Before they say goodbye all over again.
She walks past him, ready to alert all the actors of their approaching deadline. Before she has a chance to get a safe distance from him, he grabs her wrist gently.
"Riza…"
She turns back to face him, and it takes her a couple of seconds to work up the courage to meet his eyes.
When she does, they are soft and dark and too genuine to be a performance, even for an actor of his caliber.
He smiles a melancholy little smile at her. "You've done a wonderful job with this place."
The words affect her more than they should—she knows she's done a good job, but hearing it from him makes her feel warm all over, and she can't help but smile back.
"Thank you. Break a leg."
He snorts. "Y'know, they never wish me bodily harm in Hollywood."
"One of the many charms of Columbus," she deadpans, and he laughs.
He releases her wrist and she walks back into the chaos. People are still flitting about, only half-dressed, but she feels better equipped to handle it.