"You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blueee-" A horrible rasping sound erupted from Combeferre's throat as he tried to push his voice to hit that particular note of 'Your Song' from Moulin Rouge, and it broke in a similar way to how it would have when he was thirteen years old.
"Stop. Stop!" Director Valjean called, cutting the backing track that supplied the music, "Combeferre, what the hell was that?"
One of Paris' most talked about independent theatres, the Théâtre du Musain, was putting on a stage adaptation of the popular Baz Luhrmann film Moulin Rouge. It was currently one week until the musical opened, so tension was running high and there was absolutely no room for mistakes. Sebastien Combeferre - a new-comer to the world of theatre - had been cast as the role of Christian, though as rehearsals progressed and the time left before the first show grew shorter and shorter, the director of the entire production, Jean Valjean, was beginning to wonder why he had cast the boy in the first place.
He was awkward and couldn't act, he had no chemistry with his Satine - played by rising star Éponine Thénardier - and nine times out of ten his singing was entirely flat. He was worlds away from the confident young man who had strode into the audition and blown Valjean away with his rendition of Nature Boy despite having not a single acting credential to his name. At first Valjean thought this was absurd, given his apparent talent - but now he could see exactly why nobody had thought to cast Sebastien Combeferre in the past.
"Look I don't have time for this," Valjean said tiredly, rubbing at his temples where a migraine was threatening to form, "Get off stage, I'll deal with you later."
Combeferre gave him a bewildered look, and reeled back like he had been punched, "But-"
"Can we run through The Show Must Go On, please!" Valjean called, ignoring Combeferre completely. The latter turned and stalked off stage, his face scarlet with mortification.
"What's going on? Aren't you supposed to be rehearsing with Éponine?" Enjolras jumped up and asked Combeferre when he reached the actors' green room, his heart pounding and his palms sweaty.
René Enjolras had been cast as the Duke of Monroth and - while not in costume - his blonde hair had been slicked back with a bucketload of pomade and the moustache he had been growing (that had taken weeks, for Enjolras was rather lacking in the facial hair department) had been waxed at the ends so it was suitably curly and villainous. In any other instance, Combeferre would have laughed at his co-star's over-the-top appearance, but right now he was fighting the urge to curl up into the foetal position and start rocking back and forth. Or worse, start crying.
"I think Valjean's going to replace me," Combeferre whispered, staring at the floor.
"What?" Came two outraged voices simultaneously. Charles Feuilly and Felix Courfeyrac - who played Toulouse and the Narcoleptic Argentinean respectively - jumped up from where they had been playing cards at a table and rushed up to Combeferre to bombard him with questions.
"What did Valjean say?"
"What happened?"
"Did you mess up your words again?"
"Did you forget a line?"
"Shut up, you two!" the stage designer Grantaire (nobody knew his first name) popped up from where he'd been repairing part of the set to slap Courfeyrac and Feuilly upside the head, "Leave the poor bloke alone."
"Cheers Grantaire," Combeferre sighed, sinking down heavily onto one of the armchairs in the room, covering his face with his hands, "My voice completely fucked up during Your Song and Valjean told me to get off stage."
"That's nothing! What are you worried about? Just bounce back!" Courfeyrac said, trying to be enthusiastic. He shoved Combeferre in the arm playfully, and the latter just looked up at him sardonically.
"This is hardly the first time though, is it? I don't think I've gotten through an entire rehearsal without fucking up in some way, have I?"
Courfeyrac thought for a second, and then winced. This confirmed Combeferre's suspicion.
"Maybe you should quit," Enjolras said in a low voice, "I mean this in the best way possible Combeferre… maybe theatre isn't for you?"
Feuilly gasped and Grantaire looked at Enjolras incredulously, "That moustache turns you into such an arsehole…"
Courfeyrac bit his lip, and then said hesitantly, "I-I love you Combeferre, you're one of my best friends but… but I think Enjolras might be right. I mean, you're good, really good, when you get it right but… You're not getting it right."
Combeferre stood up suddenly, a newly kindled fire lighting his grey eyes and a frown tugging at his mouth.
"Fuck you both," He said vehemently, "I can do this, I know I can do this. Valjean cast me, didn't he?"
"We're not saying you can't-"
"No, shut up Courf," Combeferre said, holding up his hand, "I'm going back out there. I'm trying again, I'm not fucking quitting."
99.9% of the time, Combeferre was the most calm and put-together of their entire cast. He was so laid-back, he was practically lying down. No one had seen him this worked up before, let alone heard him swear.
Combeferre strode out of the room with purpose, and it took his friends a second to work out what the fuck was going on before they could follow him.
Combeferre waited in the wings while they finished rehearsing the latest song, and when they were finished he strode out purposefully onto the stage.
"Valjean," Combeferre started, adrenaline coursing in his veins, "I know I've been really crappy during rehearsals and I know I've messed up more than everyone else combined, but please just let me show you that I can do it, because I can do it-"
"Go," Valjean said resignedly, "Sing Your Song with Éponine. Unless you blow me away like you did in your audition, I'm giving the role to your understudy."
The opening cords to Your Song began to play as Éponine assumed her position as Satine on stage. Combeferre turned away from her to allow himself to think for the split second he had before he was due to start singing.
There was no use in trying to force the performance, he had been trying to do that the entire time and clearly it didn't work. He had to pull up real emotions and convey that to the audience.
He thought of Éponine, about how the first time he saw her he was struck by her beauty and her incredible acting ability. He thought about how he wanted to wrap his hands in her silky dark brown hair, dip her low to the floor of the stage and kiss her senseless as crowds roared behind them, enamoured with their portrayal of Christian and Satine.
Combeferre turned around slowly and began to sing. His voice was strong and clear as his eyes bore into Éponine's. Christian's earnest and attraction is apparent on his face immediately, before it melts away to a playful grin as he begins to move around the stage and circle Éponine, who matches his actions with wonder and something akin to lust in her eyes. For a split second it feels real, it doesn't feel like acting - so he takes her hand and pulls her in close, twirling her around and dipping her down low. His voice rises and falls, belts as the song reaches it's crescendo and dies out to the final notes which he whispers softly.
He doesn't consciously decide to kiss Éponine, but at this point it just feels right. They are centre stage and in each other's arms, blood is pounding in Combeferre's ears and he can barely even tell if he's singing anymore. The performance has completely taken him over at this point, he is acting purely on emotion and not on rational thought…
…So he wraps his hands into her beautiful soft hair, and presses his lips to hers.
"That wasn't scripted," Courfeyrac hisses with a knowing smirk as he and the rest of the cast and crew fill the theatre with their cheers.
Even Valjean is pleased.