The red-headed man sat on the table against the wall on the other side of the makeup mirror, studying his youthful features with one leg dangling off the table, the other folded under him.
A whirlwind of a man came through the doorway, not noticing the room's occupant. The man's hair was a bit disheveled, which the red-headed man assumed was alright as he observed the head holding the wig that the other man had donned many times in the last few months, it matched his raven hair that had been cut short since the last time they'd been in this particular venue.
A corner of the ginger's mouth quirked as he noticed the whirlwind's cravat hanging loosely about his neck, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows shirt undone, vest unbuttoned and skewed, suspenders hanging loosely at the side of his breeches. Rather than the stockings he used to wear beneath his boots, he wore thick socks that seemed to have impressionist renditions of puppies on them, feet sliding across the floor rather than stepping.
The raven-haired man had his head dipped down in thought quietly mumbling to himself before he scraped the makeup stool legs across the floor, sat on the edge and scribbled in the worse-for-wear notebook that rested there.
The red-haired man grinned outright. One of the reasons they got on so well. He was always stringing the next series of words together, swirling the next series of notes into sequence. He must have found a piano on his way to the dressing room. The ginger was well aware that the raven-haired man did his best writing mumbling to himself in front of any piano. Or just mumbling to himself in general. Much like himself in any quiet room with a chair and a smooth wooden surface.
But the ginger grew tired of the raven-haired man's unintentional obliviousness and the temptation too forthright.
"'Running out of time' for writing again, Miranda?"
"SANTA MIERDA."
The raven-haired man sitting perched on the edge of the stool jumped in shock, knocked over the stool and hit the floor with a soft thunk.
Laughter bubbled up from the ginger as his cinnamon-shaded friend looked up at him through the makeup mirror with a strange mix of frustration, annoyance and mirth.
"A 'Hey, what's up' when I came through the door would have been nice."
The ginger smiled, "I would have hoped that my presence in a small dressing room would have been more easily noticed. It was also not my expectation, contrary to what should have been my expectation, that you would find a piano to compose more of your next lyrical symphony in the short distance from the stage and your dressing room." He glanced at the clock on the wall, "You have ten minutes to get back to the stage, Mr. Miranda, and I don't think you're in the state for it."
The raven-haired man pulled himself up, "Luckily, I have gotten in and out of this costume at least a million times."
"As you are well aware, I am nearly painfully well informed of the number of times you have donned this moniker. My moniker."
The raven-haired man smiled and took a small bow, "It's a poetic and dramatic moniker to borrow."
"As you have made abundantly clear with your somewhat fanciful production, Sir."
"...Poetic license."
The ginger's eyes narrowed.
"Because you never thought I would see it."
"It wasn't something that I would have called likely, no. Besides, you still haven't really 'seen' it."
The look of innocence and purity from the brown eyes bore into the ginger's. A rust eyebrow cocked in defiance, eyes narrowing, ready for a joust. He stood at his full height, only slightly shorter than the other man.
"Would you ask Caesar to watch Brutus betray him on the stage? Day in, day out?"
"...Probably. If I thought it would help."
Blue eyes stared sharply, but faltered at the kind look that looked back at him.
"'Never do today what you can do tomorrow... You regret your premature action..." the ginger muttered to himself, studying the floor. He looked back up, steeled, "When the time is right, Miranda."
The raven-haired man's face fell, brows knitted together, "What ever you say." And his hands set to work buttoning, stretching, pulling and tying.
There was a beat of silence between the two men when the ginger reorganized his thoughts and retreated quickly from his aggressive stance, trying on a appreciative look.
"I heard the rehearsal, Miranda... Quite pleasant."
A quixotic look was shot in the ginger's direction.
". . . Thanks."
"What I mean to say is..."
"No. Not again."
A frigid draft flowed through the dressing room.
"... It doesn't work, remember?" He gestured at his costume, "Layers. Also, I have two kids. If temper tantrums don't work for them, they're definitely not going for you." He smirked at himself, "Or in your case, 'temperature' tantrums."
"Miranda, it's a celebration of my achievements, my city, and what you've done for me."
". . . I know what it's about. I wrote the song."
The ginger's blue eyes rolled.
"Every night I've lolled in that theatre, watching what you've done for me. You put my name on people's lips again. Ignited the revolution in their hearts once more, they refuse to be complacent in what those in power have given them. You've memorialized my story, Betsey's story, The General's story... immortalized them all. Give me this one chance to speak to them once again. To thank them for listening to the narrative."
". . . I could barely move my hand for a week."
The ginger winced.
"I haven't been able to write my thoughts down for 215 years, Miranda. That's an extensive amount of time to be trapped with your own thoughts with no way to allow them to escape into the world. Can you blame me for my... eagerness?"
"... You said twenty minutes."
"I... did say that."
"Which became twenty hours."
"I..."
"You wrote. Using my hand. For twenty hours. Straight. I NEEDED my hand for things."
The wig flew through the air and settled askew on his head.
"Also, I had to try to explain why it looked like a book binding factory exploded in my living room. Without blaming it on Sebastian."
The ginger made a guttural sound of frustration then clenched his teeth.
"Miranda, I apologize. Formally. I would make you a written apology if I had the capability." The tension and frustration melted from his shoulders and they slumped in defeat. His bright blue eyes turned a stormy grey. "But please. Please allow me this one moment. Let me borrow your words, your voice. Just for this. Please."
Without blinking or a beat, the other man made up his mind.
"See the second act." He said, deep brown eyes sparkling.
"Miranda..."
"Only if swear on your honor to see the second act."
Silence was his answer.
He held to the table with all his strength.
Only for the song. Remember you said ONLY for the song.
He breathed air deep into his lungs.
Well, the lungs he had in his possession.
"I... recall it, yes..." he replied breathlessly.
He stood himself up straight slowly taking in another breath. He studied the face in the mirror and couldn't help the wry grin that appeared.