City of Stars
Summary: Modern AU. Roy, an aspiring actor, and Riza, an independent songwriter, connect under the most peculiar circumstance. Then comes Berthold, a middle-aged husband on the brink of a divorce. (Rated T, 8 Chapters Planned)
"Here's to the ones who dream...
Here's to the hearts that ache,
Here's to the mess we make."
Audition (The Fools Who Dream)
A/N: Thanks Damien Chazelle and Justin Hurwitz, because La La Land was thoroughly inspiring. Also Crazy, Stupid, Love and Begin Again. A tumblr prompt Summer Camp AU/Locked in a Room requested by A Passing Housewife (flourchildwrites) that was blown out of proportion.
Riza's song lyric is an original and was composed by a talented musician friend. Thank you :)
chapter 1: a little chance encounter
Los Angeles, June 2014
This was the second time someone told her that she needed to change her image.
She merely smiled in response.
In her peg trousers and slouchy jumper, an acoustic guitar on her lap, Riza Hawkeye could still strum an impactful riff. Then with a distending diaphragm, she would croon a rambunctious room into hushed reverence.
Oh dear little lady
Remember the time that we first met
Her voice wasn't powerful like Beyonce or Adele. Far from it. But it carried a sweet, sedative quality that matched the folk-alternative kind of music she preferred to play. The kind she hoped would unearth the intended sentiment and raw emotions preserved in each chord.
Seventeen year-old notions and the eyes to match
Took me through the doors to a place that we called home
There was her music, composed with every beat of her heart and each measure of her breath.
So would why would she need to change her image?
Placed besides your eraser
The warm smell of apple mint I tasted
In a time we never failed to say goodnight
Against the modern concrete wall perched a grand piano. Beside it, an electronic drum kit and a built-in partition that held an impressive set of guitars - classical, steel strings, electric. Below them were framed cover albums of the artists they had signed.
These displays were flaunted to rouse excitement, Riza surmised. Or simply to make everything seem grander than the reality of its world.
In the loft-like confinement across, guarded by a clear, rectangular glass, were the sound-mix equipments. Inside, the engineers and producers - people who might become the authority over her music - sat with brows pleated and chins tucked against their chests.
It's funny how we think of yesterday
Stuck in the moment
Your movement and mine
Though they shared the same space, Riza felt out of place, small and underdressed.
"Alright, good demo. But how about if you change the part here to say this instead-" one of the men in a black suit interrupted. "And I think this part here would sound better if we changed the beat. Add drums and percussions. Can we do that?"
As she had fearfully predicted, they wished to tweak a part of her arrangements. This, she would never agree to. This would be a firm refusal.
She shook her head. "No. I don't think so. It would change the song completely."
An older man in a blue executive suit appraised her appearance, from the crown of her head to the tip of her shoe, without a sense of boundary as though she was a display mannequin. "You know, you should wear a dress. Or something more appealing than a pair of baggy pants and sweater to show off your figure. And why not let your long hair flow down to your shoulder? Your light brown eyes would pop out more. You have a nice face; you should show it off. Why not?"
The sudden pain beneath her ribcage felt real, twisting. Constricting. Riza replied, blunt and sardonic, "So people would actually pay attention to my music rather than to my face."
Entering the contemporary Santa Monica recording studio, Riza should have known that she was setting herself up for another disappointment. She thought the smaller, independent label had been different. They had signed artists similar to herself.
Some of the men vacated their chairs and queued at the door. With a lukewarm disposition, the producer - the one man who stayed behind - preached about talent, opportunity, and making a dream come true. Then came the typical sermon about financial importance and target audience and… a single-song agreement.
It meant that they liked her song, but wanted no attachment to her.
When Riza marched out of the glaringly bright studio, she was strongly tempted to say something more. Something clever. Craft a string of discourse that would thaw their rigid mindset for the next unfortunate soul who held her similar belief: that the true meaning of a song must remain intact.
But her perfect composure and polite demeanor triumphed. She lugged her guitar and walked in silent anger, her fist clenched by her side. Teased into a loose, messy bun, Riza weighed her rolled flaxen hair against her palm. The updo was more practical than chic, and now, she, too, felt a little self-conscious.
Frosted glass doors rimmed the long corridor of the newly erected building where the studio leased a sizable space. Riza could still smell the construction dust and the unpleasant stink of paint as she meandered the hallway that would lead her out to the streets. But right below the green-lit exit sign, she clipped her gait mid-step when she heard a muted phrase echo from one of the rooms: "Hey there! Stella, Baby!"
It was a line she recognized, from one of her favorite plays.
Tiptoeing, she peeked through the transparent upper half of the door and saw short rows of folding seats. The downhill slope led to a high school auditorium-sized theater. In the center stood two men and a woman who were gallivanting about the stage.
Living in Los Angeles for the last ten years, Riza had learned that three o'clock was the start of rush hour, where every driver turned into a street racer, bustling through traffic with the recklessness of a drunk. She had some time to spare, she thought, and with a decisive mind she pressed her sticky skin on the door handle.
Her intention to be as stealthy as possible as she entered the classroom was a foible. A male student roosting on one of the red seats pierced her a peeved gaze. The slant of his brows wrinkled into disdain. He lifted an index finger and brought it to his lips, giving her an obligated hush.
Riza nodded her head in apology before sweeping a curious vision through the dimmed space. She regarded the large, advertising banner above the stage. It said, "California Actor Workshop Summer Camp". Flattening her spine against the back wall, she admitted herself in, her mind fascinated and her gaze expectant.
The actor under the spotlight, an attractive, dark-haired man who Riza concluded as the one in the role of Stanley Kowalski, approached the leading protagonist and delivered his line, "Haven't fallen in, have you?" The actor curled a provocative smile. Silent. Then he countered with a smirk, "I'm afraid I'll strike you as being the unrefined type. Stella's spoke of you a good deal. You were married once, weren't you?"
"Yes. When I was quite young."
"What happened?"
Immersed in the play, Riza barely registered the coarse heat traveling through her calves. She grabbed the seat closest to the door and quietly sat on the edge, the seconds taking off and gliding through the air.
"No, Stanley, I haven't heard of the Napoleonic code, if I have, I don't see what it-"
"Let me enlighten you on a point or two, baby. In the state of Louisiana we have the Napoleonic code according to which, what belongs to the wife belongs to the husband and vice versa. For instance if I had a piece of property, or you had a piece of property-"
The actor playing him was brilliant. In her eyes, he was Stanley Kowalski. Just as Marlon Brando was Stanley Kowalski. With a rich and deep timbre he commanded the room, delivering each line like he had lived his life. And his expression. The wayward look that oscillated between inviting and precarious, and the subtlety of his folly that hinted at the menace to come. Riza could hardly lift her gaze off of him. She felt as though he had dominated her full attention and still demanded more.
Scene Two was over before she realized, and an older gentleman - the director of the play - who lingered by the front row called for a fifteen-minute break.
The students filed into a boisterous line and gathered into a swarm of ants, extracting idle chats to fill the passing time. "Stanley Kowalski" jumped off the edge of the polygonal platform and strutted past the riot of squeaking seats and babbling conversations.
He motioned towards the exit. Towards her.
Compelled to spill a series of compliments for him, Riza sprang up from her seat and began to speak, "I just want to say that your performance was wonderful, and I thi-"
Rather than heeding her earnest praise, the actor, who had fierce, dusky eyes to complement the rest of his handsome features, ignored her with a curt brush against her shoulder and shoved the door with a force, swinging it relentlessly. He did not give her the courtesy of a glance, let alone a cordial nod in her direction.
Scoffing in disbelief, Riza muttered her annoyance in a shallow breath, "Arrogant jerk."
She could still smell the faint whiff of his sandalwood. It was an alluring scent, and it irked her all the more, drifting through her senses like a feverish breeze. She slung the strap of her guitar case over her shoulder. Garishly, she quit the classroom with a careless elbow at the door and sank her loud steps into the dense carpet as if it could soak her exasperating afternoon.
The Chateau Marmont was everything he thought it would be.
Haughty. Elitist. Snobbish.
Beautiful.
Hollywood's golden age glamour, left by those who had walked its steps.
An attractive redhead winked at him from across the bar. Her fetching skirt was hiked up high, revealing a pair of long, smooth legs. But Roy Mustang was not in an entertaining mood, and he pretended as if he hadn't caught her signal.
He briefly glimpsed the glittering terrace, where elegantly dressed patrons could be found mingling under the faint stars of Tuesday night. If only his spirit had matched the glowing city, warm and amiable.
The hotel sat on a magnificent hill overlooking the City of Angels. Built on the brink of the Great Depression, it had survived the tumultuous era because of its associations with the rich and the powerful - people who wanted to treat it as an escape from the doldrums of recession. Now, almost ninety years later, its sophisticated past had effectively weaved itself into the chateau's history. And no one had forgotten.
For an aspiring actor such as himself, he had heard of celebrities and talent agents flocking to the Chateau Marmont. Roy must be desperate enough to follow the advice of his best friends, Maes Hughes and Jean Havoc, who had turned tonight's chance for discovery into a reckless bet: who would be able to pick up the most women in one hour?
Sulking, Roy dismissed their antics and ushered himself to the half-packed bar in the hopes of a reflective evening. This morning's disappointing audition had coated a bitter a taste on his tongue. One more crossed out from his calendar, and another week with nothing to look forward to. Hailing the bartender, Roy lowered his hand upon the man's approach and whispered an order of Old Fashioned.
"That would be twenty-five dollars, sir," the bartender said, his hands busy with a wine glass and a dish rag.
Roy looked up at the man. His brown hair was stylishly tousled to one side, his chin angled upward to give an aura of dignity. Then Roy stole a glance at a middle-aged man who perched two seats away, sailing a scrutinizing sight to the quarter-filled drink in his hand. "That tiny thing is twenty-five dollars? Where are we, in the Bahamas?"
The bartender nodded. "Yes."
Whistling floutingly, Roy reached into the depth of his pocket and pilfered his wallet. He snatched his credit card and dropped it on the counter. The bartender plucked it and left immediately. Then Roy reminded himself to never listen to Maes and Jean again.
The same redhead from earlier shot him an approving look as she strutted past. Her heels clicked beside him. "Hey. What's your name?"
Dismissively, Roy turned his head and confronted the wooden cabinetry that held the bar's wine collection. "Sorry, I'm here with my girlfriend. She's outside somewhere." If he hadn't been in such a foul frame of mind, he might have played Jean's silly little game. Perhaps he would have emerged the victor.
With jet black hair and a set of dark eyes against pale complexion, Roy wielded an enigmatic smile that could easily turn heads. Paired with a well-shaped nose and an athletic frame, one might think any talent agents would overlook his very average height of five-nine to readily cast him in a leading role of a romantic comedy or a coming-of-age drama.
But Hollywood had proven now and again that luck and connection trumped all others. There were, after all, many good-looking people roaming around the city with a web of network that was broader and more intricate than Roy's own delicate one.
When the drink arrived, Roy swirled the glass twice and downed everything in one large gulp. He scoffed. It was twenty-five dollars that could have gone to gas, or rent money. Now all he could do was wait for his friends to settle their bet once and for all. Then he could leave the hotel, make a call to his agent, and chase after another promising opportunity.
"Look, just give me another drink, alright? Then I won't have to talk to your manager-"
"But sir, you're dr-"
The middle-aged man he had observed earlier wobbled an index finger at the bartender, beckoning him to come. He whispered a slur of words that Roy could barely make out, pointing to the woman next to him. The man was clearly drunk. Or on the verge of it. Surreptitiously, Roy stole another glance. Only now he noticed that the man was wearing a casual button down, plain and creased, starkly juxtaposed against the upscale, glitzy backdrop.
"God! You're making me look bad in front of this beautiful lady! So bad!" the man grumbled to himself, his expression evidently irritable.
Within a couple of minutes, the bartender returned with another serving. He slipped the mixture in front of the man, who quickly brought the rim of the glass to his lips and took a sip of the amber liquor. Then he swiveled to the woman beside him and said, "I'm not- This doesn't usually happen. You want another drink of that grey looking thing with olive? What is that? Or do you- Do you want to try this drink? It's quite tasty."
Grabbing her purse, the woman swiftly vacated her stool and said, "I'm leaving."
In a rather loud voice, the man tilted his face up from his drink. "Fine, leave! You women are only made to break our hearts anyway!"
All would have been tolerable if the man hadn't seemed so miserable. So pitiable. Roy rose from his seat and strolled to his side, resting his back against the counter. "So, what's your story?"
"Why do you care?" the man said, his gaze fully concentrated on the half-drunk cocktail. His long, blond fringe was plastered on his perspiring forehead, falling over a pair of heavy eyes. He slurred every word to match his gaunt countenance, and Roy immediately thought the man could use at least ten years of sleep. The man lifted the glass and took another sip.
Hurriedly, Roy took the glass from the man's hand. The cloying stench of alcohol hung unpleasantly when the man breathed, like a poison fume. "I think you've had enough of that."
The man protested by raising his voice, shouting over the soft ambient music, "Hey! Don't you know who I am?"
"No, I don't know who you are," Roy began, crossing one foot over the other. His arms followed suit, tangled below his chest. "But I know you're drunk and you just pissed off your lady."
"Oh, give me a break," the man said. "Don't you have something better to do? I saw how those- those flighty women look at you. And the redhead one even approached you with googly eyes. Shouldn't you be taking her home rather than talk to me?"
But Roy lingered. "What's your name?" He shot the man a look of dogged determination, angling his torso towards him so the man could perceive his uncompromising stance.
Dispiritedly, he sighed, "My name is Berthold."
Extending his hand, Roy said, "Nice to meet you, Berthold. I'm Roy."
Berthold combed through Roy's expression with a suspicion befitting a man whose money had just been cheated out of him. But he eventually captured Roy's proffered hand and shook it with a weak grip. Berthold's palm was drenched with sweat. Roy wasn't sure if it was from the less than desirable temperature in the room or if the woman had left him anxious.
Roy hoisted himself up on the bar seat next to him and twirled to face the man. "Do you want to tell me what's been bothering you? Clearly you're trying to drink your sorrow away."
"I'm not usually this chatty to strangers. Or to anyone, really. But what the hell, tonight can't possibly get any worse," Berthold snorted. "Let's start with my daughter. I haven't seen nor talked to her for months. I'm- Well, I'm pretty sure she's been ignoring my calls. And when I came home from work today, my wife had a duffle bag full of clothes, all packed and ready to go. I asked her where she was going and she said she's been cheating on me with her boss. Her ugly. Ass. Boss. She's probably at his apartment now."
"Oh," Roy said, his brows rising, "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, me too," Berthold said. He angled his nose towards the ceiling, looking thoroughly dejected. "She said I'm married to my work. She said I don't pay enough attention to her. She said she hadn't gotten laid in… oh, I don't know, a year? She also said I'm a terrible father and a shit of a husband who cared about nothing else but his work. Work, work, work."
"And is it true?"
Berthold scoffed, "I guess she's not wrong."
"What do you do?" Roy asked. His hand reached for Berthold's drink, dragging it towards himself. Perhaps a drink was necessary for such a weighty conversation. "Are you a secret agent? Are you a politician? What's so important at work that prevented you from doing all of those things your wife asked you?"
"I work at a law firm," he said, "and that demanded a lot of attention. Have you ever heard of Trisha Elric? The actress from that period drama series?"
"Of course."
"Well we settled her messy divorce case in one month. One month," Berthold emphasized, as if Roy could understand what the length of time meant. "And I'm sure you've heard of Olivier Armstrong. Our firm was her defendant when she was accused of slander. We were awake for thirty-six hours working that case. Thirty-six! We won, of course."
The sweet beverage in his mouth went down it in one loud gulp. His mind was fleetingly dizzy beyond sentience, barren of judgment. It was the effect of the whiskey finally hitting him, Roy thought. Or perhaps it was Berthold's connection to the entertainment industry that jogged his heart rate. If Roy had been remorseful about being here tonight, then he was remorseful no longer.
"So you're a hot shot lawyer, that's great. And while it's too bad that your wife cheated on you, I'm inclined to agree. You are married to your job."
"Well thanks for pointing the obvious. I feel much shittier now," Berthold crowed. He rested a feeble grip on the backrest of his stool and dropped to the ground, his legs wobbling as they found purchase on the polished wood floor. "I'm going to leave, go home to my empty house, and sleep my-"
But Roy couldn't have this man leave now. Not when he was so close. Quickly, Roy placed a firm grasp on his arm, pacifying Berthold with a thread of irresistible words, "You want to know how to get her back? I can help you." It hadn't been Roy's intention to incite displeasure from the man. But it also hadn't been his intention to say what he had just said.
Stopping in his track, Berthold said, "Help me how?"
There was no backing out now.
Roy took out a tin of breath mints and slipped it inside Berthold's breast pocket. "Carry this with you at all times. And you might want to get a haircut so you look less like a homeless." Then with a smug smile, Roy affirmed, "You said earlier I was good with women. Well, I am good with women, and I know precisely what they want, including your wife." It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth either.
Berthold rested a hand over the tin, guarding it as though it were his lifeline. "Tell me."
"Question number one. What is your role in this scene? Who are you?"
Confused, Berthold quirked his mouth unpleasantly, "What role? Is this supposed to be an audition or something?"
"Are you the smooth talker who whispers sweet nothings in their ears? Are you a good listener who would let the woman do all the talking?"
With a contemplative rub of his chin, Berthold said, "I suppose... either one of those will work."
Roy shook his head, tutting his finger, "Wrong. You play up to your strength." Sizing Berthold up, Roy started to speak, "You are a uh… you know…" but he struggled to get the proper words out at the man's disheveled hair and unappealing habit. He spouted the first thing that came to his mind, "You are an employed and responsible adult. You are stable, dedicated, and you know what you want in life. Now that is your role."
If his Aunt Chris had heard every offending word, she would have slapped some senses into him. The older woman didn't raise him to disrespect women. But desperate times called for desperate measures. If Berthold could introduce him to Trisha Elric or Olivier Armstrong, or even their agency manager-
Berthold interrupted his musings, "Do you think there are women here who would actually talk to a… an employed and responsible adult?"
"Of course. There's always going to be a woman for every kind of man. You just need to sharpen the saw." Roy pointed to himself, "Take me for example. I'm mysterious and good looking. Women tend to do most of the talking when they're around me, and I play up to that."
"Okay, so what do I do now? Who is my target tonight then?" Berthold asked. Roy could detect an impatience about him, by the way his fingers fidgeted against the countertop and how his feet wouldn't stop drumming against the rail.
But Roy countered, "No. Tonight you go home and get some rest. No women would want to talk to a half inebriated man. You can't make them feel special if you can't even make yourself feel special." In the corner of his eyes, Roy could see his friend Maes crossing the floor, approaching him, slow from intoxication as evident from the streak of red all over his face. Tapping Berthold's shoulder lightly, Roy swiped his cellphone when he oriented his direction.
"How do I reach-?" Berthold stammered.
Tucking the phone back into his pocket, Roy said, "I'm way ahead of you, pal. I saved my number on there and we'll continue this when you're a little bit more sober." He gave Berthold a genial squeeze on the shoulder. "Until next time, Berthold."
Briskly, Roy met Maes halfway, taking him by the elbow and directing his inebriated footfalls towards the terrace. Outside. Anywhere but here. He wanted to leave as little trail as possible as to what had transpired within the four corners of the bar. Only now did Roy realize that his racing heart was the byproduct of his audacious scheming rather than the overpriced alcohol, which did absolutely nothing to dampen his nervousness.
"How was the bar?" Maes asked.
"Fine. Just fine."
The terrace stretched wider and deeper than Roy had originally thought. Miniature palm trees and rose bushes walked the path towards an intimate section, where a group of fashionable patrons lingered for frivolity. Above, a neat row of soft yellow string lights danced with the one-two bowl-shaped chandelier across the elongated, coastal style cabanas.
When Roy saw a bed of disheveled blond hair and a broad back that quivered delightfully as the man laughed, he suspected that Jean had successfully procured a dalliance for tonight. Beside him, a wavy brunette leaned suggestively with a glass of martini. She was laughing, gobbling up ever word Jean spit out of his mouth.
Maes occupied the spot beside her and asked, "Where's Gracia?"
The brunette whirled her head left and right, as if searching, and paused midway. The hand that held the drink stuck out a pinkie finger. "There! There she is."
The woman named Gracia squeezed through the crowd of people with two glasses of cocktails in her hands. Her short, sandy strands framed a dainty appearance, her movements supple and refined. Just the kind that would seize and hold his world, eclipsing Maes's sun and moon.
Gracia raised her drink, signaling to Maes that she had seen him. Then she caught a glimpse of Roy and her eyes widened. Her tall boots cutting through the brick pavement, Gracia spun to a blonde woman behind her, whispering a curious statement that ended in the two women chuckling.
"Hi Maes," Gracia greeted with a sheepish smile, rolling a meaningful gaze towards him. Maes rubbed the back of his head, returning her gesture with equal timidity. He took the glass from her hand, and Roy felt strangely intrusive, as if he were disturbing a private moment.
But the feeling quickly dissipated as Roy swayed his eyes to the young woman beside her. Furtively, he hauled a heavy gaze from the hem of her knee-length, amethyst dress to the wine of her lips and then to the fray of her golden fringe. Gracia's friend captured his glazing vision and wouldn't let it go, and Roy sensed an awkward urgency to cast his stare elsewhere. At the chandelier, at the palm trees, or even the ground. At anything and anyone else but her. But the longer he dawdled, the more familiar she became.
Had he met her somewhere?
As though he could read Roy's mind, Maes said, "Well, I hope you're done sulking for the night, Roy, because I want to introduce you to these wonderful ladies." One by one, Maes spelled out their names, loud and clear, pointing to each one with a palm up. The short haired woman was Gracia, and the brunette Rebecca, her carved waist clasped beneath Jean's possessive grip. Gracia smiled and waved a free hand, and Rebecca nodded in turn.
Lastly, Maes harrumphed and flitted a sly wink at Roy, as if he had known Roy's particular type and scored every checkbox on that list, "Roy, this is Riza. Riza, this is Roy."
Roy attended to a careful appreciation of her, contouring her pretty face on a slender sketch. There was modesty in the way she carried herself, in her reserved stance and placid expression, and he could have sworn he had seen her before.
Yet, his brain was intent on dismissing the notion just as furiously as the rapid pulse on his neck, the drum pounding faster and louder to the nocturnal rhythm of summer nights.
Stealthily, Roy slid a moist palm against the back of his trouser. He extended his hand to shake hers. "Nice to meet you, Riza."
Riza smiled a little too endearingly, and in the span of a heartbeat Roy felt his breath abruptly vacating his lungs. Colors ran from his face.
He had seen her before.
All doubts turned into dust when she took his hand and sneered, derision on her tongue, "Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Stanley Kowalski."
A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Comments are greatly appreciated :)