A/N
This does not even come close to qualifying as the nerdiest thing I've ever written, but it might just have made the top ten list. So, basically we have an AU in which all the Hetalia characters are part of a theatre company which specialises in performing Shakespeare plays. Essentially, it's a situation of 'what if everyone in Hetalia was human, living in England, professional actors and obsessed with the Bard? I know, I know, but what if?'
This does not mean I've abandoned L'Incorruptible – far from it, seeing as the next chapter will be out soon. This is just me being nerdy and self indulgent on the side, but hopefully it's the sort of self indulgence which other people will enjoy reading. Such is the nature of fanfic!
Pairings: Eh, most likely Arthur/Alfred will crop up, with maybe a bit of Francis/Arthur subtext and probably Antonio/Lovino. Plus whatever I decide to throw in later on a whim.
Warnings: SHAKESPEARE. ... That's pretty much it.
Disclaimer: If I did own them, they would, of course, all be performing Hamlet right now.
'If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.' - Twelfth Night
"Hey."
"Uh, hey."
"You here for the audition?"
"Yep."
"What'cha reading? 'The Merchant of Venice'... what, you haven't learned your lines yet?"
"Of course I have! I'm just going over them. It's something to do, anyway."
"Tch. How studious. I'm Gilbert, by the way."
"Alfred. Nice to meet you. Are you auditioning too?"
"Me? Heh, no way. I'm a member of the company. I just came down here to terrify all you noobs – well, all you wannabe noobs, anyway."
"I'm not scared."
"What – you don't even have a bit of stage fright?"
"I don't do stage fright!"
"I'd wait till you meet Arthur before saying that."
"Arthur? That's Arthur Kirkland, right? The manager?"
"Yep. Well, technically he's joint manager along with Elizaveta Héderváry and Francis Bonnefoy. But he's the scary one. Actually, all three are scary for – various reasons. Arthur does most of the casting, though, 'cause he's the director; the other two are actors. So he's sort of the de facto boss. He's also a bit – well, frankly, a lot of a slave driver."
"So all three will be there for the audition?"
"Uh-huh. Two star actors and one expert director/producer. Who's a slave driver. Nervous now?"
"No! That just means more people to impress, right?"
"Well, you're definitely confident; I'll give you that."
"How long do you think I'll have to wait here? It's been ages."
"Oh, probably three more ages at least. This waiting stuff is like the first ordeal. Tell you what, I'll stay and keep you company. Stop you from dying of boredom."
"You have to be kidding, Al. Hamlet could take Beatrice any day of the week, and more! He'd throw skulls at her! He'd kill her dad and brother! And then he'd think about it in a soliloquy lasting over five minutes !"
"No, Beatrice would just destroy his ego by mocking him in as witty and cutting a way as possible. Then he'd commit suicide out of shame."
"OK, fine, I'll give you that. How about Kate against Beatrice?"
"Beatrice'd still win."
"Kate would be much better in a fight."
"Yeah, but... mockery!"
"Tch, Kate would kick Beatrice's ass from here to Messina."
"All right then, Petruchio against Kate."
"That's cheating! No characters from the same play."
"Crap. Bassanio against Kate."
"Bassanio wouldn't stand a chance against Ophelia, let alone Kate."
"Prospero against Kate. Come on, Gilbert, he'd win hands down - magical powers, anyone?"
"... All right, Iago against Prospero."
"And again I say magical powers."
"Yeah, but Iago would just manipulate him into not using them. Then he'd persuade him to wreck his whole life systematically."
"Richard III against Iago."
"Hmm. Tough one. I'm gonna say Richard III, if he's still king at the time, but Iago if not. More money and resources means more effective manipulation."
"All right... Lady Macbeth against Richard III."
"Richard would win."
"Like hell he would! He'd waste time trying to talk his way out of it; Lady Macbeth would just ignore everything he says and kill him straight away!"
"Viola against Lady Macbeth."
"... Viola."
"Yeah, Viola."
"Alfred Jones?"
"Huh?"
"That sounded like Liz's voice. Looks like you're finally being called for that audition."
"Oh yeah, right! Well, uh, thanks – it's been great."
"Break a leg, kid."
"I can only hope you don't mean that literally."
Arthur watches the next actor saunter in, with the utmost nonchalance. After six hours spent judging young hopefuls who would challenge Hermione for the status of 'absolutely petrified', it makes for a pleasant change. He is about to say something to this effect for Francis' benefit, but decides against it; there is something in this – this Alfred's demeanour which seems to demand his full attention.
Alfred quietly passes Elizaveta his CV. The silence is awkward and the atmosphere oppressive, as it is meant to be. No visible trembling, which is another count in his favour as far as Arthur is concerned. Thus far, Arthur is not unimpressed. Francis would scoff, but first impressions form the basis of most of Arthur's casting decisions and – a few minor miscalculations notwithstanding – thus far, this has proven effective. As far as this particular first impression goes, Arthur decides it is... not unsatisfying.
"Thanks for giving me the chance to audition. I'm Alfred F. Jones and I'm going to be performing Gratiano's speech from Act 1, Scene 1." Voice: bold and expressive, perhaps bordering on brash, but this is not an insurmountable problem in relation to the stage. Accent: American, but hardly a transgression given that the company (despite Arthur's best efforts to put his strict Shakespeare orthodoxy into practice) boasts what is probably the world's most multi-cultural cast. Posture: slouched, but confidently so – forgivable.
"Your thoughts?" Francis murmurs in Arthur's ear. Arthur shushes him with an almost imperceptible wave of the hand, never moving his eyes away from the actor standing assertively at the centre of the room. Francis rolls his eyes irritably at Elizaveta, who answers with the shadow of a half smile.
Arthur's thoughts are, on the whole, favourable. Alfred's originality is surprising; upon being instructed to select a speech from The Merchant of Venice, most of the prospective actors – bar a few notable exceptions – opted for the obvious: either one of Shylock's more recognisable speeches, or (depending on the gender) one of Portia's. No one else chose Gratiano. Originality is not always a bonus, Arthur knows, but in this case it reflects well on Alfred. Plus, he said he would be performing rather than reading the speech, which at least indicates the appropriate attitude. His only drawback thus far is perhaps his arrogance, but again, as far as acting is concerned, this is hardly a flaw of the fatal variety.
In answer to Francis' question, Arthur (still facing forward) scrawls a reply on a scrap of paper and passes it surreptitiously along. Francis, insufferable git that he is, peers at it, making a great show of being unable to read the handwriting.
The missive in question reads: not half bad.
Thus judged, Alfred begins his performance.
"Let me play the fool:
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,
And let my liver rather heat with wine
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans."
And so on. Arthur is surprised to find that he does not think the accent cloying in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact. Alfred Jones' manner is warm, mischievous and vibrant. Arthur watches, transfixed, as he travels through the speech, dominating the hollow, echoing room by sheer force of personality alone. He is filled with... charisma is the wrong word, as he is altogether too young and excitable – panache is a better term. Although irritatingly French. Actually, scratch that; charisma works fine.
... Overall, he is. Well. Fairly good. Good-ish.
"Your. Thoughts." Francis mutters to Arthur through gritted teeth. Arthur is notorious for making speedy decisions without consulting the cast – Francis seems to believe that the method to overcoming this problem is to consult Arthur every minute or so. Some people are simply neurotic, Arthur reasons.
(Francis maintains that some people are simply unprofessional.)
By way of response, Arthur tosses another note in his direction. Fairly -ish. Now piss off, I want to listen.
Truth be told, he does not need to. True to form, he has already made his characteristically speedy decision.
"Hey, kid. How'd it go?"
"It went well, I think. Really well, actually."
"Glad to hear it."
"Hey – hey, Gilbert?"
"Yeah?"
"... Arthur Kirkland is the one with the eyebrows, right?"
"Ha! Yeah, he's the one with the eyebrows."
"Right. Well, he didn't seem all that scary to me. I think I impressed him."
"I doubt that. But good luck, anyway."
"Don't you mean 'break a leg'?"
"So," says Arthur, after waiting for the sound of Alfred's footsteps down the corridor to recede. He turns to Elizaveta and Francis. "Your thoughts?"
A pause. "He's good," Elizaveta ventures. "He has potential. Enthusiasm. All of that."
"Certainly he was better than any of the others," says Francis.
"That's a given," says Arthur, dismissively. "Listen, can we cancel the rest of the auditions? I've made up my mind."
Elizaveta and Francis' respective 'What?'s echo in perfect unison. It is, Arthur thinks, almost comical. Their faces fall, also simultaneously, when they realise that Arthur is almost certainly about to screw them over again, and there is very little they can do to prevent him from getting his way. Besides yelling about it, that is.
"Cretin!" Francis yells at him.
"Hulye!" Elizaveta concurs.
"Stupide!"
"Ostoba!"
"Typique!" Francis appeals to her, despairingly.
"Jellegzetes!" Elizaveta agrees.
"What is the matter with you two?" says Arthur, irritated.
"You are the matter!" Elizaveta declares exasperatedly. "You, with your idiotic, devil-may-care attitude towards running a theatre company! We are willing to put up with your ideas on how to perform Shakespeare, no matter how archaic other people think they are. That's not a problem! But when you come up with ideas like this – that is what we resent. You are not our boss, Arthur. We founded this company together and, like it or not, we will not pander to your whims!" Her words smoulder with rage. Arthur is almost taken aback.
"Particularly not this one," Francis adds, calmly. "What do you expect us to do with the applicants who haven't auditioned yet, pray tell? Phone them up and tell them 'we are dreadfully sorry, but our casting director has decided to hire one Alfred F. Jones, without the consent of his colleagues, irrespective of the number of people who may be more suited to a place in the company'?"
"Yes, if you must," shrugs Arthur. "I really don't mind what you tell them."
"You are the most unprofessional director-cum-joint-manager ever to – to –" With an incoherent noise of frustration, Francis collapses into a chair, words evidently having failed him.
"- To poison the stage with his presence!" finishes Elizaveta, vehemently. Francis tilts his head to one side, considering the accuracy of this statement, and eventually nods in agreement. "What do you propose we do?" she implores Francis.
"Well," he says to her. "On the count of three, you fetch a frying pan and I'll make a grab for some duct tape. Your job is to knock him unconscious, whilst I gag him. We stuff him in the cupboard and keep him there for the rest of the year, occasionally supplying him with scraps of fish and chips, and copies of The Stage magazine. That way we are all happy, no?"
"Don't tempt me," Elizaveta warns. "I might decide to take you seriously." The majority of her fury seems spent, however.
Francis also looks less likely to disembowel him than before; thus, Arthur judges it is safe to speak. "Who says I am going to hire him, Francis?" he says, evenly.
"Don't you mean 'who says we are going to' -" Francis begins. Then, realisation hits. "– what did you say?" he splutters.
"I said – I indicated – that I, for one, do not intend to hire Alfred F. Jones for our production of The Merchant of Venice," says Arthur, ensuring that every word is trimmed with perfect – nay, some might say over perfect – enunciation.
Silence descends. The tension-filled kind.
"Explain," orders Elizaveta, warily.
"Last month, my sister left the company to go home to Ireland. Thus, we were left with a vacancy."
"We know," she says, through heavily gritted teeth. "Don't patronise us, Arthur."
"For our current performance, we do not require the extra member," Arthur continues, giving little consideration to the interruption. "True, we needed someone to play Antonio, but I think it was unwise to allot a major role to a new member anyway. Instead, let's double up some roles for this production, and then shuffle the casting around. We can even ask Toris or someone to lend a hand by acting some minor parts. We've done it before. We can make do." He rests his hands lightly on the desk, masterfully. "We do not need the extra cast member for this performance. There is no need to hire anyone."
Cue disgust and outrage – mostly at the futility of the whole venture- on the part of his colleagues. But that, Arthur recognises, is to be expected.
"So what exactly are we telling the applicants?" Elizaveta asks, agitated.
"Preferably something that does not result in an angry mob," suggests Francis.
"Leave it to me," says Arthur. "I'll deal with them all."
With that, he leaves the audition hall, so swiftly that he is not precisely sure whether the looks on their faces are of hope or of horror. He genuinely hopes for the former.
"Mattiemattiemattie! Matt! Are you there?"
"... Alfie, it's 3:00am. Why are you calling?"
"It took me a while to find your phone number. I think I keyed the wrong digits in my phone, so I had to phone up all your friends to find it, only they kept getting it wrong too, but eventually I found it on a scrap of paper on my desk when I was tidying it 'cause I couldn't sleep, 'cause – Matt, guess what? Guess what?"
"Ugh. Too tired to guess."
"Arthur Kirkland just hired me as an apprentice!"
"..."
"Matt?"
"Who. What."
"Arthur Kirkland! The director! He's going to train me to be an actor in his Shakespeare company!"
"..."
"Mattie, you still there?"
"... Congratulations. Um. Why do you need training?"
"He says I'm good – Mattie, he says I'm a good actor! Quite good, even! – but I'll need a lot of teaching because his company is really specific in the way they, you know, interpret and perform the plays and stuff. So he's going to teach me, and in a few months I might be a proper member of the company!"
"That's good. Really good, Al."
"Thanks! I knew you'd be pleased for me!"
"Al?"
"Yeah?"
"Go. To. Sleep. Now."
"'Kay!"
"You specifically told us, Anglais," says Francis, menacingly, "that you were not going to hire Alfred Jones!"
"I told you nothing of the sort. What I actually said was I did not intend to give him a part in The Merchant of Venice, which I do not. I do, however, wish to make him part of our theatre company." It is logical enough, thinks Arthur. Some people, however, are simply not... logical enough.
"You – you told us you would take care of the applicants, precisely so that you could phone him! Illicitly!" Really, Francis must be aware of how puffed up and foolish he sounds. Illicitly indeed!
"Oh, yes, about the applicants – you and Elizaveta are going to have to watch the rest of the auditions," Arthur informs them, calmly. "Regrettable, but unavoidable, I'm sorry to say. But don't worry – you don't need to choose anyone! Just sit and watch."
"What." Francis' voice is toneless, and therefore dangerous.
"Well, what was I supposed to do? Be reasonable, Francis," Arthur implores him, with no little dignity. "I could hardly phone them all up and tell them that –"
"Enough!" shouts Francis. He then proceeds to wax mournful. "Twenty more sessions of to bait fish withal, if it feed nothing it will feed my revenge... nodding encouragingly as they maul the script with their overacting and their under-acting and their - everything in between. I hate you," he adds, for good measure.
"And yet I have nothing but the deepest regard for you," smirks Arthur. Mocking? He? Perish the thought.
"Tch. Wait until Eliza hears about this. You are dead, Anglais. A dead man walking."
"Oh, I'm sure I am, Frog."