Disclaimer: Not mine. I was not in 'The Room Where It Happen(ed)" therefore, the characters don't belong to me.

Author's Note: Full disclosure: This isn't completed, so it'll be awhile between postings. And I'm open to ideas. I don't live in Hollywood; nor do I know anything about writing a movie. That's why I write fanfic :). Also, it's not a great title. That's gonna change.


PROLOGUE:

Dolby Theater
Los Angeles, California

God, he couldn't wait to go home.

His five tablemates were enjoyable company. It wasn't them. Over the past year they had been his closest friends. He'd seen them more than he'd seen the inside of his apartment. He'd spoken to them more than he had his own mother back in New York City. He was proud of the bonds they'd forged.

It wasn't the host. He was actually pretty funny, trying his best to keep the energy up through a five hour broadcast. Since midshow 'gifts' were all the rage now, their host this year had actually blared "Everybody Dance Now" by C+C Music Factory and challenged all the Best Picture tables to a dance off. Nobody at their table was really a dancer, so it wasn't a surprise that they were out first. The winning table, the all-female team from Rhythm and Blues, ended up with an edible arrangement each and a bottle of Dom. He could see them from his chair- the strawberries were gone off the arrangements, along with the Dom.

It wasn't award show season fatigue. If anything, he was still on the adrenaline rush of having his second nomination for Best Original Screenplay in two years. He'd pulled up stakes from New York City five years ago, moved to California on a whim. Found an apartment in Long Beach where he holed up for almost six months hammering out the first script he'd written that hadn't been for film class. He did his homework, researching indie studios that made the kinds of movies he wanted to write, found one in Gaslight Entertainment, and walked it in their front door. Timing was everything, and obviously, someone had been looking out for him, because they'd optioned it right away.

Last year around this same time, he'd been accepting the statue for Best Original Screenplay for Roulez, and now, here he was again.

No, in all honesty...Alexander Hamilton just wanted to get out of the tuxedo he was wearing.

He wished George Eacker, the lead of the show, hadn't dared them all to wear tuxes if they got Oscar nominations. And then Code Duello had to go and get five noms and they were all big ones, so it wasn't like they could just stay for one and then leave, oh no! He tugged on his bowtie, trying to give his adam's apple room to move. Last year he'd worn jeans, sneakers, and a gray button down shirt under a purple jacket. Much more his style. Plus the bonus publicity- "Did you see what Alex Hamilton wore on the red carpet?!"

He glanced over at Maria Reynolds. The film's female lead was laughing at something the host had said, pointing over at their director, Hercules Mulligan and mouthing, "That's so you!" Maybe she was saying it out loud; it was hard to hear. It was hour three of the telecast. Alex was four glasses of chardonnay and a whiskey sour in. Anything was funny at this point, which was maybe why the laughter was a little louder, more fake sounding. Maria looked radiant in a white form-fitting ladies' tuxedo jacket and white skirt (George Eacker was nothing if not equal opportunity, and Maria was a great sport), her hair down for the evening. Must have been a nice change from the bun it had had to be in for the year of filming. Letting your hair down, indeed, he thought. She caught him looking and grinned at him. Alex smiled back- her good humor was infectious. She'd been the ray of sunshine on their set.

Off his left shoulder, the show's composer and musical director Charles Lee tried to surreptitiously sit back down before the cameras caught him coming back from the bathroom. He threw one long leg over the other and leaned back like he'd been there the whole time. Lee poked him and he shook his head. "Haven't announced it yet. After Foreign Film," he told him. Lee was up for Best Original Score for their movie- his first nomination in a fifteen year career.

Foreign Film came and went. He was surprised at the winner. The presenters came out for Original Score, and he was caught up in the polite applause and clips from the six nominees. When a pivotal and well-scored scene from Code Duello, the movie they were all here representing, filled the big screen, he heard Charles suck in a breath. Mulligan leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder to keep Charles on the ground.

Alex couldn't help but laugh. He remembered his own first nomination, last year, and how he'd felt, too. Like anytime the movie's name was mentioned, or his name was mentioned, that he might pass out. Charles might be a little over dramatic, but he understood the sentiment.

The envelope was opened and he found himself cheering the loudest as Charles took home their first award of the night. Mulligan went up with him, joking in the mic that someone had to keep him from falling over. Lee thanked his husband and daughter, the cast and crew, and then had to be turned around when he started walking offstage the wrong way.

The next award was the one he'd been on the edge of his seat for the entire night. Some late-night talk show comedian was the presenter.

"I'm not sure why they asked me to present the award for Best Original Screenplay. I've got writers that write all my stuff for me. They even wrote this." He pretended to squint and look at the teleprompter. "Blahblahblah, I'm a-" He mock gasped and put a hand over his heart. "You guys! I'm not reading that!" Chuckles murmured through the audience. "Anyway, here are the nominees for Best Original Screenplay." The movie logos flashed on the screen behind him. Six nominees and their writers. The Light in the Tower. Rhythm and Blues. Static. He leaned forward, just a little, in his seat. FDR. One Night in Istanbul. And then, Code Duello. The camera cut to his face and he gave it a wink. That was his trademark. Nerves? Awkwardness? Hide it under a false layer of confidence.

He drummed his fingers on the table. Someone reached over and covered his hand- Maria. God she was a sweetheart.

"The winner for Best Original Screenplay goes to…" The envelope was opened. A card was pulled. The presenter grinned, and turned it to the cameras. "Code Duello! Written by Alexander Hamilton!"

Cheers erupted from their table. Maria was screaming. Mulligan had returned to his seat-when had he gotten back?- and was pushing Alex forward. The momentous applause carried Alex out of his seat and up to the stage. He took the stairs two at a time and slid in front of the mic as the presenter stepped back. One of the trophy holders, a young man in a black suit, handed him the golden statue and Alex grinned at him.

He looked out on the packed room. "I…wow. I, you know, I had a whole ten-point speech prepared for if we won, you know, in keeping with the movie, but I was told by our director-oh, see, he's tapping his watch already-" He pointed at Mulligan and the cameras panned in on him. He made a dramatic 'hurry up' motion with his hands. "Can't stop directing, even though it's over," Alex teased. "Look, seriously, I just wanna thank our amazing cast and crew for bringing it to life for me. The greatest thing as a writer is when the words you write come to life, and Maria and George and Mulligan, they just made them jump off the page, so…" He gestured to them with an open palm. "Thank you." He nodded, waved, and followed the presenter offstage, putting up with the man's overly-aggressive compliments and claps on the back.

He posed for a couple of pictures backstage with his award, answered the press questions with some cookie-cutter answers, and then the instant he was finished, tugged off his bowtie and shoved it in his pocket.

George would just have to deal with him being tie-less if they all won Best Picture.


The after party ran far longer than Alexander would've liked. George and Charles were three sheets to the wind before the party and the nervous drinking before Best Picture went home in Mulligan's hands. Alex called an Uber for the ride home. He watched for the black Toyota with the sticker in the window outside on the sidewalk, cleverly hidden among a throng of fans trying to see the winner for Best Actor come out with his supposed new girlfriend. They were watching the door. Nobody was watching him. The car pulled up and Alex slipped into the backseat, closing the door behind him.

"You famous?" the driver asked him as Alex gave him his address, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

Alex snorted. "Nah. Waiter workin' the party," he said. He glanced at the guy in the rearview. "Are you?"

The guy guffawed. "Shit, no!" he said as he pulled into traffic. He pointed back at the party. "All them fake people in there….no thank you."

Alex leaned against the window, watching traffic roll past, thinking of the statue he'd be getting FedExed just a few days after they engraved it. "Yeah," he said quietly. "No thanks."


Alex was thankful for the Code Duello paycheck, as a good chunk of it went to his ride home in Long Beach. He tipped the guy and went up the stairs into his apartment, shedding his jacket on one of his barstools. He had barely ditched his pants and shoes before falling facefirst onto the bed. The last thought he had before sleep took him was: What next?