A/N: It's been a while since I last posted something. I honestly thought I was going to just stop, but this idea grabbed me, and I couldn't let it go, so I guess I'm stuck here. In other news, I will be updating my chapter stories when I get a chance to— I definitely haven't forgotten them. Also, I got a tumblr, where the majority of my posts are related to Glee and Doctor Who, so. The username is sonickedsnitch if anyone is interested. You can talk to me there. I want frequent friends. :)
I don't own anything here, other than the Herezig and the teammates. So, not much.
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A flash of silver.
That's all he sees as he brushes past a hallway of mirrors and into the wings of the high platform he calls home.
His makeup is perfect (and yes, he is wearing makeup— can you blame him? The atmosphere is hot and tense and bright and the last thing Jesse St. James wants is for the audience to be unable to see his show face).
He's perfected it so often, you see, worked so very hard. That's why he ignores the mirror in the first place.
Nobody wants to see through a show face, after all.
So he proceeds elegantly, his pace just perfect so as to avoid any wrinkles or blemishes. And as he draws nearer to his almost permanent residence, that stage with the thousand adoring faces and the thousand watt spotlights, his heart does not begin to beat faster and faster and faster and faster and faster. It stays exactly the same, like his expression, his makeup, his costume, his soul.
His team.
Vocal Adrenaline.
Instantly, his mind supplies him with images of pain, of dancing until his bloodstains were scattered on the wood like stars in the sky, of singing until his throat was raw and his head was numb, of never sleeping, getting bags under his eyes. The baggage under his eyes is okay— a little makeup will fix it all, a little makeup and a smile, a great big show face.
But the baggage in his heart pulls at the strings of his fond memories, sometimes grasping one around the waist and tugging it down so that he may examine it.
These memories are not of pain. These are of an old stage with peeling paint, of three spotlights that are dimmer than the lamp in his bedroom, and messy hair and messy clothes and messy smiles. Of a best friend that was once forgotten, that is now renewed, given a makeover.
A best friend that has been forgotten once again.
No, not forgotten.
Used.
Used like he is, forgotten like he is, like they all have been, because suddenly they aren't made up of Jesse, who could argue all day with himself as to the benefits of Streisand versus Lupone; Daniella ,who had too many shoes to be considered sane; Timothy, who could explain rocket science to you in five minutes flat; Lianne, who could lie to your face so that you believed she could explain rocket science to you in two minutes; Paris, who had an unhealthy addiction to coffee; Joanne, who knew how to take apart an essay and put it back together in an hour; and Mariah, who was unhealthily addicted to video games and Broadway.
Suddenly, they're this machine filled with new nameless faces, all with lost personalities.
A machine that can't do funk.
And that is perhaps the most unsettling of all, the fact that a style that once came so easy to them all is now unattainable, unreachable, forbidden.
He steps onto the stage as he considers this, and as he takes measured breaths, he remembers.
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He had been a tiny thing— Jesse's hair was too big for him; curly, and thick, and he was too short to handle it. His face was smooth, and his knowledge of Broadway seminal classics was meager, if not nonexistent. But theater was his dream— the passion, the life, the voice, the talent. He wanted it all. He wanted a family like him. Best friends.
And as he had wandered front and center that day (much like he was now) his heart had pounded like it would beat out of his chest, and a smile spread across his face as if the sun and moon and stars had conspired to make it impossible to not be so.
.
Today his smile is pasted on as he strides purposefully to claim the spotlight. His heartbeat is still slow, regular, calm. His mind is elsewhere as he opens his mouth.
The rush of adrenaline that should accompany his rush of breath is nowhere to be found, and it is not missed in its absence.
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I'll spread my wings and I'll learn how to fly,
I'll do what it takes till I touch the sky.
His lungs burn, his body aches, but he continues, the sparkle in his eye even brighter than before. Tears are shining in his eyes with the weight of the words he sings, with the emotion he feels as he and his friends, his family, take this stage, a stage in New York. He never wants to leave.
At the end, the audience claps, standing to full height as they cheer for the misfits on stage.
Jesse beams, tugging them all closer, closer with his magnetic personality and contagious excitement. The group hugs on stage, groups cheer offstage, and they leave the room in high spirits at what they have achieved and hope to achieve.
But in the end, the list is posted, and as they pile in front of it and realize that they are nowhere to be found, shoulders hunch, smiles droop, silence falls, and Jesse takes his arm from around his friends and stares glassily.
The plane ride back is more difficult than the plane ride there.
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His body bends and twists as he sings soulfully, but it is all a lie, all a sham, because it's gone; the soul has departed from his words and they are empty.
His feet have no more rhythm as he beats them against the floor, and he feels nothingnothingnothing, wants nothingnothingnothing. He doesn't want to win, not really, truthfully, because it means that this is okay, that taking the heart out of music is acceptable, ideal.
But he says he wants to win, and he acts like he wants to win, because again, he is a soulless shell. A beautifully painted box that glints in the spotlight but is cool and empty to the touch. A promise that means nothing, and after all, wasn't that what his dream turned out to be? This was his dream, and it was emptyemptyempty and it made him emptyemptyempty, so much so that he wants to throw up, but he can't because there is nothing to throw up. And so in his gut is this raw pain, a hole that feels tangible, and he wonders idly as his team lifts him into the air for his three tier twirl if he would find one if he removed his shirt, if he could feel one through his suit.
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The air is thick when Giles Herezig enters stage left.
"Be concise, be clear, be closed," he says. "There is no time otherwise. You want to win? You do this my way."
It's all business, no play. No modern music except to perform.
What you eat, what you drink, where you go, what you do, who you see, who sees you.
All of that is turned over to him.
No one is very surprised when bones are broken, vocal chords shot, muscles ripped.
It's a price they must pay.
This is what they wanted, after all.
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They are lithe, quick, and share one mind. Everything looks planned to the most subtle shake of the fingers; the constant swaying as they move is coordinated.
They are all tiny waists and shiny hair. Their actions speak money where their personalities would not, would never.
Practice is every day; every minute, every second, there are musical notes floating through their heads, and today their minds are set on one playlist as dictated by the speakers. Their voices flow effortlessly. They harmonize as if they have been doing so their whole life.
(Not really, though. Just for the past five hundred and four hours straight. Three weeks of no respite, no friends, no food.)
Just an occupational hazard.
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Herezig leaves.
It doesn't matter.
The damage is done.
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The closing beat ends and he stands on center stage, the spotlights burning his eyes like the tears do not, cannot, will not.
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Once upon a time, a very long time ago, he remembers watching musicals for whimsy.
Once upon a time, a long but slightly shorter time ago, he remembers watching for self-improvement.
His new eyes are jaded, though.
Be concise, be clear, be closed.
The emotion behind the actor's words are never convincing, never necessary to him. Once, they were essential; now they are useless.
Be concise, be clear, be closed.
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Show faces. They hide so much.
Jesse has nothing to hide.
Nothing left to hide.
Nothing left at all.
This thought is crippling.
His show face cracks.
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"I can't do this anymore," Paris whispers, her breath caressing his face in its minty cool manner. "I don't think you can, either."
"This is what we wanted." His voice is a harsh hiss, and she recoils, her face reflecting her shock. "Shit, Paris—"
But she turns, trembling, her head held high like she was taught to, her legs toned as they carry her away, away from Jesse, and he feels like he's losing a sister, a best friend, and the door is shutting—
But that's over now. Nothing matters. This is theater. His dream. Their dream. Life goes on.
The show goes on.
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The audience was on its feet that day, tears sparkling as they cheered.
He wished for that reaction, longed for that reaction. Cheers. Standing ovations. Tears.
Whatever it took.
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He does not watch as the audience stands, clapping loudly for his machine-like motions. They have no reason to do so.
He does not watch as his teammates pat each other on the back. They don't remember quality, can't remember quality.
He turns around.
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"This is the business," Herezig had said, pacing down the stage. "Take it or leave it. There is no soul— not really."
Lies, Jesse thinks, but he needs results like he needs air.
The applause, he thinks. That's all that matters.
I can figure the rest out for myself on my own, he thinks. For all of us.
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One step.
Another.
Another.
Another.
And the curtain closes behind him.
None of it matters.
He turned his back on the theater a long time ago.
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A/N: If that was confusing to read, you have no idea how confusing it was to write. I just let my fingers type, so. Sorry for any incoherence.
The song lyrics, if anyone didn't know, were from "Breakaway," which I believe is by Kelly Clarkson.
So, review, and then come talk to me on tumblr. :D