Note: I'm really, really sorry about this. It just happened. And will probably keep happening for a few chapters, because I am weak and cannot write about Serious Things. Also, yes, they're performing Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance mainly because I think that would be funny and also it means there are muskets and swords and swashbuckling! I do not have the time or inclination to explain the plot in this story, however, so here's a wikipedia link if you're curious: wiki/The_Pirates_of_Penzance
Treville is attempting to be reasonable.
"All I'm asking," he repeats, massaging his temples, "is that you wait until we open to tell him. It's just a month. A blip. It won't even register for your company. You're still in the middle of doing Chicago, for god's sake, you're not telling me you have to have him now."
He sounds so eminently sensible, thinks Athos. It's such an obvious solution to everyone's problems. Louis has no particular loyalty to anyone except those who flatter him and those who pay him. He will be out of their dinky little community group as soon as he gets a better offer. But everyone knows the Garrison Theatre needs him a whole hell of lot more than some big-money traveling company with a dozen other tenors just like him. Unfortunately, the Cardinal Company couldn't give any less of a shit what the Garrison Theatre needs.
Richelieu and Milady exchange a loaded glance.
"We really couldn't be more apologetic, Treville," Milady says silkily, and Athos feels like cracking her over the head with his official Stage Manager clipboard. Her blood-red lipstick matches her nails, like it always does, a look that would overwhelm a woman of lesser features. Milady, however, manages to look like one's wildest absinthe-fueled fantasy come to life and smelling of wildflowers. It is intensely distracting, and Athos takes another slug of sour coffee, silently reminding himself what a sick, sick man he is.
"But Louis is such a promising talent," she continues, her tone switching to brusque. "We do feel the need to snatch him up before anyone else gets to him, you understand?"
Milady shoots them all a brittle smile.
"It's just business, Treville," Richelieu adds. He strokes his steely-gray goatee, like the fucking Shakespearean villain he is.
"The theatre is a marketplace like any other. Your little… community… simply needs to become more competitive if you want to keep assets like our Louis. That's all there is to it."
At this, Treville loses his patience.
"Go and shove it up someone else's arse, Richelieu," he barks, pushing away from the table with a snarl on his face. "Athos, we're leaving."
Athos peels himself out of his chair, clutching his coffee and clipboard. Milady leans forward to watch them go, probably intentionally pulling her shirt that tight against her chest.
"Best of luck to you, darling," she purrs to Athos. Damn her. He moves his clipboard lower on his person, manages a noncommittal growl and slouches after Treville.
"A month," the director mutters to him. "We have a month to find and employ and ultimately rehearse with a replacement Frederic or the Garrison will close because Pirates of Penzance is our last fucking chance, Athos. This was their plan all along!"
Treville kicks open the backstage door to vent his feelings. It pops off its hinges and crashes to the floor, swirling up a storm of dust and cracked paint chips. Athos sighs.
"Louis' understudy – "
"Aramis can't hit the damn high notes, you know he can't. Besides, then I'd be out a Pirate King and he doesn't have an understudy, unless you count Sarge, which I don't, because if I put him on stage for any longer than I already have to he's going to stroke out. The man's eighty if he's a day. No. We have to replace Frederic and it has to be someone," Treville glances at the collapsed stage door, "who doesn't care how much we pay him."
"You don't even have to pay me." The kid on stage is about four seconds from literally getting on his knees at Athos' feet. Having spent the last several nights calling every casting agent in town, putting up notices in every local bar and coffee shop, and posting to a hundred different social media sites about the Garrison's dilemma, as well as drinking his entire store of brandy, Athos is exhausted, hungover as hell, and seriously not in the mood for this wannabe-actor I-will-shave-my-head-for-this-part nonsense.
"We just need someone older," he says. "Our Mabel's got about a decade on you."
"Not technically," Louis' understudy, the Pirate King, and the best friend Athos never wanted, Aramis, leans comfortably against the back wall, as disgustingly handsome and utterly unhelpful as ever. If there's anything that comforts Athos, it's that he can blame all this wasted time on Aramis anyway, seeing as the kid – Darren? Dagmar? D-something – was his idea.
"Anne's twenty-eight, and D'Artagnan's twenty-one. It's only seven years."
"Seven," Athos repeats drily. "Right. Look, D'Artagnan – " Aramis crosses the stage to clap Athos on the shoulder, and sneak a look at his clipboard.
"Athos, my friend," he interrupts, giving him one of his patented persuasive smiles. This particular incarnation has a twinkle of mischief behind the eyes. "You don't even have any other names on your list. The least you can do is let the kid sing." Athos drops his arms to cover the clipboard.
"I have prospects," he says defensively. Then he sighs.
"Fine," and the kid perks up instantly, "God help me, I'll give you one shot. We'll have you do a read-through with Anne and sing your song and if I don't like you then Treville definitely won't so you'll be done. Even if you do get the part, you've just kindly offered to waive your salary so don't expect us to pay you. Understood?"
"Understood," D'Artagnan grins broadly, and Athos has to admit, he has the youthful naiveté and idealism of Frederic in spades. Louis, whatever his talents, always made innocence look a touch too close to stupidity.
"CONSTANCE!" Athos bellows. Aramis shakes his head.
"She hates it when you do that."
"I FUCKING HATE IT WHEN YOU DO THAT!" a voice roars from backstage. Their young, overworked costume designer emerges from the wings, brandishing an enormous pair of cloth scissors. Her auburn hair is pulled into haphazard topknot, there are bags under her pretty blue eyes, and she looks murderous. "For the last time, Athos, I am the costume designer, not your errand girl!"
"Where's Anne?" Athos asks sweetly. Constance scowls.
"Not here," she replies furiously. "Unlike the rest of us, Anne has a life outside this godforsaken theatre and she wasn't called today, seeing as we no longer have a Frederic for her to do ALL of her scenes with." Aramis walks quickly over to Constance, taking the scissors, and ushering her towards center stage, where D'Artagnan is still waiting. He has not stopped staring at Constance since she came in. Athos thinks he might be drooling a little.
"You'll have to do it then, sweetheart,"Aramis tells her, swiping two scripts from Athos' desk. He pushes one into Constance's puzzled hands and the other into D'Artagnan's.
"Don't you ever call me- do what?! Wait – oh!" Constance looks down at the script quickly, over to Aramis, and then up into D'Artagnan's eyes. Here she stops. "Oh," she says again, curiously. D'Artagnan clears his throat self-consciously.
"D'Artagnan," he says, taking a reluctant step back to hold out his hand to her. She takes it.
"Constance." They hold to each other's hands on a second too long, and Athos thinks again about the myriad of ways in which he plans to murder Aramis.
"If everyone's done," he says pointedly, and D'Artagnan and Constance break apart at once, blushing. "Could we try taking it from the top of the scene?"
Aramis lives a charmed life, and so Athos should have expected D'Artagnan was going to be good. He is good. He's really good. Sure, his high notes aren't as pure as Louis' were, but he's got an edge to his voice that makes Frederic sound less like a choirboy and more like a kid who actually was raised by pirates. And if his chemistry with Anne is anywhere near the heat he and Constance were giving off, the audience will feel it in the back row.
Grudgingly, cursing himself, Athos must also admit to liking the kid. He's so eager, so thoroughly happy to be there- he really loves the theatre. It reminds Athos of himself, in his younger and less jaded years, pre-Milady, pre-Garrison, pre- all of this. It makes him feel something he hasn't since before Rent left Broadway – hope.