Author's Notes: This. This is the chapter of nightmares. Sure, it wrote easy enough, so what's the problem? Well, when it came down to polishing up the chapter, I couldn't stop. For two months, there were always things that needed fixing, sentences that needed to be trimmed or added on to, and editseditsedits. Oh man, the edits. Plus, the last few months have been all hectic and busy so I couldn't just sit down and work everything out at once. So I'm sorry for the delay.

The good news is that updates should be faster now, 'cause pretty much the whole fic is written up, thanks to NaNoWriMo and a month of tearing my hair out and writing like mad.

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it.

In this chapter: Plenty of giant lizards, a few too many coincidences and a lovely trip down memory lane. Mark makes some Important Decisions on a few Stupid Whims. The love triangle continues its tangled ways. A distinct drop in the number of little wyvern costumes.

---

The Musical Project

Chapter Three

By Amethyst Bubble

---

Heath slowly closed the door to his boss' office. He stood there, half leaning against the door, just making sure he was still alive. After a moment, he pushed himself away from the wall and found his way to one of the large wyvern cages. He pressed his hand against the reinforced glass, feeling a bit better as he watched Hyperion, his favorite of the wyverns, amble by.

The talk with his boss had gone, to put it simply, horribly. It had taken a half hour of arguing to reach a tentative agreement and the whole thing had left Heath with a certainty that this thing, this musical Legault had somehow gotten him involved in was going to be a fiasco. Beyond fiasco, even. The thing was going to be a disaster of cataclysmic proportions. It was going to be the kind of mess that made one want to head for the nearest hill.

Every fiber of his being blamed Legault. And then, his cell phone rang.

"Speak of the devil…" he muttered darkly, not even bothering to look at the number that flashed across the screen. He knew who it was. He fumbled with the buttons for a moment and then held it to his ear.

"I hate you," he said in greeting. "It's done and I hate you."

"Then I suppose I won't be seeing you for dinner?" Legault asked from across the line, his tone light and sly.

Heath paused a moment before banging his head against the glass wall before him. A passing wyvern glared at him and thrashed his tail in the direction of the Do Not Tap on Glass sign. Heath stopped and instead settled for muttering "IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim" under his breath.

"I didn't say that," he finally grumbled. "I said I hate you. Hating you doesn't necessarily go hand in hand with never seeing you again. If it did, you would have been out of luck a long time ago." He paused and took a deep breath, "I got you the wyverns, okay? But this Mark guy, he's going to have to work out the details himself. I'm done with this, alright?"

"Thank you," Legault replied smoothly. Heath scowled and tried very hard not to find him the least bit charming. Not even an itty bitty little bit. "I'll see you at seven?"

"Make it eight," Heath replied bluntly and promptly hung up.

He looked up to find the wyvern giving him one of those very knowing looks. He briefly thought that it was probably a bad sign when dragons were doing that to you.

"Stop it," he said, pointing at the beast, "or I'm skimping on your dinner."

The wyvern promptly averted its gaze.

"Thank you."

---

Mark hadn't thought that anything bad could possibly result from meeting with the owner of the renowned Raider's Wyvern Preservation. Oh, no, Mark ventured into the whole deal innocent of mind, naïve of soul. On the way there, he speculated on what the owner would be like and decided that an elderly gentleman in a safari suit seemed only fitting.

Mark hadn't been expecting one Miss Vaida Raiders.

"You want wyverns," she said, observing him sharply from across her large desk, "for a play."

"It's a musical," he said timidly, hoping desperately that she was a fan.

She was not.

He squirmed in his seat and added meekly, "It's a historical one."

She glared and he had the urge to check and see if he was on fire. He glanced at his arm, just in case and he was only a little bit comforted when he found his sleeve flame-free.

"I have already agreed to lend you wyverns-- two, to be exact-- for your little play," she stated. He breathed a sigh of relief and she pointed an index finger at him. "However, we have some guidelines to go over."

Mark nodded enthusiastically, hoping to placate her. "I like guidelines! Me and guidelines, like two peas in a pod!" he smiled widely and hoped she didn't know just how nervous he was.

Vaida, obviously not impressed with his love for rules and order, gave him a look that clearly said "shut up". Mark shut up.

"First and foremost, without proper training, neither you nor any member of your crew will be allowed to handle the wyverns at any time. Unless you have a death wish," Vaida added the last part as if she really couldn't care less.

"No death wishes," Mark confirmed quickly.

"An employee and I will be supervising when the wyverns are on stage. There will be no feeding of the wyverns. I have the right to veto any wyvern-related stunts if I see fit. Finally," she lowered her voice and glared down at him. "There will be no little wyvern costumes involved. Ever."

"No costumes," Mark squeaked, feeling tiny and afraid. His imagination took over for a moment and he saw himself as a mouse being toyed with by the ferocious Vaida-Lion, waiting for her to decide whether he was worth the time to eat or not.

"So long as we're clear," she said, scrutinizing him with sharp eyes. Mark wondered if the earth had enough pity to swallow him up right there and then.

"So, uh," he began, never having before encountered a problem that couldn't be solved by small talk. "How do you, err, know Legault?"

"I don't." she said shortly, looking extremely unimpressed.

Mark paused for a moment. "Oh," he finally mumbled. There went the small talk option. He wasn't sure he knew any other way to make this less awkward. "Um."

Vaida gave him an exasperated look.

---

"To work with wyverns," Vaida said nearly an hour later, unlocking one of the many enclosures, "you cannot be afraid of them."

Mark eyed the impressive wingspan of the nearest beast. Easier said than done, he thoughtHe glanced over his shoulder at Legault, who had been lurking by the door when Mark had stumbled blearily out of Vaida's office. Mark, out of concern for his battered sanity, hadn't asked what he'd been doing. Not like he had to, anyway, it was plain to see that Legault was only interested in a certain employee of Vaida's.

"Are you paying any attention?" Vaida snapped and Mark looked back at her. He tried to stand as straight as possible, worried that slouching might offend her further. She gave him a brief nod, though her scowl stayed in place, fierce as ever.

Behind Mark's back, Heath shoved Legault and mouthed a threat, motioning towards Vaida.

"I hope you don't think I'll be handling any giant lizards," Legault whispered, one eyebrow arched.

"In case I ever get frustrated enough to lock you in with them, I wouldn't necessarily mind if you survived," Heath replied, giving Legault a little shove. He fixed his gaze on Vaida with a determination not to look back at the tall man by his side.

With a slight shrug, Legault also directed his attention over to Vaida, watching as the woman brought one of the smaller dragons forward. She stopped in front of Mark, who instinctively took a step back. Legault, having been subject to many of Heath's ramblings on his work, recognized this wyvern as the young new addition to the preservation, the so-called baby of the group. Still, the beast towered over Mark and lashed her tail from side to side nervously, not used to being around more than one or two people at a time.

Mark looked the wyvern in the eye for a second and gulped. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing instead on the rather interesting rock by his feet. He decided idly to name him Mr. Rocky. An excellent name for a rock, he thought to himself.

"Eyes back up!" Vaida commanded. "Eye contact is important when communicating with wyverns!"

Hesitantly, Mark looked back up at the wyvern, allowing his eyes to linger on sharp claws and scaly neck before finally meeting the creature's golden gaze.

Heath clucked his tongue and abandoned Legault's side with no warning but a quick grin. He walked up behind Mark and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"No need to be nervous," he told the shorter man and with smooth, slow movements, walked him forward until he was right next to the wyvern. "She's a good girl, she doesn't bite."

With a snort, Vaida gave her employee a withering look. "If it has teeth, Heath, it bites," she said. Mark shuddered and tried to forget the tall woman had said that.

"She won't, though," Heath said. Mark found the confidence in his voice reassuring. Heath smiled at the wyvern and asked her, "Will you, girl?"

Certain that Heath was better at this than Vaida, Mark silently swore to listen to everything he had to say. He regretted his decision as soon as Heath spoke again.

"You can pet her, you know," Heath said, reaching out to touch the great beast's scaly neck. Mark definitely did not want to do that. He eyed the wyvern, who had lowered her head and was now nudging against Heath's forearm. The creature was generally acting a bit like a gigantic cat, but the sheer size of the thing (and the claws and the teeth and the huge spiked tail) made him more than a little nervous about actually touching it.

Looking at his face, Heath laughed a bit. "It's easy," he said. "Anyone can do it." Then, to illustrate his point, he looked over his shoulder and called, "Legault!"

With a grumble and an eye roll that seemed a little forced, the lavender-haired man walked forward. The look in his eyes held a calm sort of amusement as he came to a stop by Heath, who grabbed him by the wrist and placed his hand on the wyvern's neck. The corners of Legault's mouth twitched upwards.

Vaida looked thoroughly disgusted with the whole thing.

"See?" Heath said to Mark. "Like I said, it's easy."

However, Mark's attention was no longer focused on the wyvern, but rather on the three other people gathered around her. He slowly looked from Vaida, to Legault, to Heath. And suddenly, something clicked.

Slowly, a grin formed on his face and he looked up at them with a glint in his eyes. "How would the three of you like roles?"

---

Hours later, Mark arrived home exhausted, intimidated and fearing for his life. In the back of his mind, he kept a list of the most frightening experiences of his life, from the time his house had nearly been flooded to the Great Wyvern Versus Pegasus Incident of years past, to his very first script (now shredded, torn, burned, stamped on and scattered to the winds). He mentally penciled in "Meeting with Vaida Raiders" right after the house thing.

Still, he had found people to play the three roles that had been giving him the most trouble. If that wasn't a lucky streak, what was? And to think that they would all be in the same place, too. Mark had the feeling that things were finally starting to go his way.

His cat greeted him with a scornful look, perched on top of his list of actors. He removed her carefully, avoiding pointy claws, and picked his list up.

For the most part, he was happy with it. There were a few roles he wasn't sure of, but hey, nothing was ever perfect. Besides, he was thrilled to have found such perfect matches with the majority of the cast. The names, the looks… they fit perfectly. It was almost as if these people had been made for the play.

It was like some sort of sign. Mark wasn't entirely sure he believed in signs (he hadn't before), but it was just too large, too grand to be a coincidence. It was fate. It was destiny. It was really, really cool.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he reached over and grabbed his red pen. It was time to make some final decisions.

---

Regardless of the fact that the Lycian Latte™ was back and better than ever (extra whipped cream, lo-fat, cinnamon available if asked for), the coffee shop was nearly empty. The girl behind the counter twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. Out of boredom and with just a dash of spite, she glared at the young man seated at one of the back tables.

Over at that very table, Guy shivered and tried to pretend that he wasn't being given the evil eye. Matthew's gaze lingered on him before traveling over to the glowering employee for a moment. Leila stirred her coffee a few times before, finally, she spoke.

"I'm not saying that he picked us solely on our names," she began, looking skeptical. "But… it's just a bit too much to be a coincidence." The two men didn't ask for any clarification.

"I like my character," Matthew said, leaning back in his chair. "A charming, roguish spy—it's a perfect fit."

"You're n-not charming," Guy rolled his eyes. "And the only resemblance is that he picks on my character!" he accused, pointing a finger squarely at Matthew's chest.

"It's not "picking"," Matthew argued, reaching over and flicking at Guy's forehead. "It's a kind of guidance, really. The fun kind. Your character owes mine favors, so it's perfectly fair."

"Favors that he only g-got because he held a piece of meat under a starving man's nose--!"

Leila leaned in between them and snapped her fingers twice. "Getting a little off topic here, boys?" she said, raising an eyebrow. Guy fidgeted, and stared at the wall with determination. Matthew's grin stayed as wide as ever, but he didn't say anything else. Leila waited a second before sitting back.

"Before we start arguing about the motives of our respective characters, can we backtrack for a second? I mean… he couldn't have picked us based on our first names, could he?" she tapped her fingers against the table, agitated.

Matthew's expression sobered a bit and he shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I've heard of odder things happening."

"Maybe it's a coincidence?" Guy said uncertainly.

"If it was only one of us, I'd write it off as that, but all three?" Leila looked skeptical.

"It is pretty weird," Guy admitted, playing absentmindedly with the end of his braid. Matthew watched with something that resembled fascination. Leila kicked him under the table.

"It could be a joke," Matthew said with a tiny frown at Leila. Under the table, he rubbed his shin.

Leila raised an eyebrow as Guy squirmed. "Odd joke," she said, but didn't dismiss the idea all together.

"Look," Guy said, watching the clock on the wall. He only had five minutes until his break was over and he didn't want to go back to work with a cloud of doubt hovering over him. "We should all just be happy we got roles, right? I know I didn't expect to get one."

"You're right," Leila agreed, a small smile gracing her features. "I guess I'm just being a little suspicious."

Matthew stole her coffee and took a sip before pointing out, "And like I said, I like my character. Very good match. The director must be a genius."

"If you pull my hair on stage, I will hurt you," Guy said in a low, threatening tone. Matthew smiled politely until Guy's back was turned, and then he yanked. Twice.

Leila took this as her opportunity to get her coffee back.

---

"Erk!" Louise called up the stairs, "Phone call for you!"

Erk set his pen down, stood up from his desk and took a deep breath. He had a pretty clear idea who it would be. He took his time going down the steps, steadying himself for the conversation ahead. He vowed not to roll his eyes, no matter how ridiculous things got, as he accepted the phone from Louise.

"Hello?" he said into the phone, balancing it on his shoulder.

From the other end, there was a long, forlorn sigh. Erk was pretty sure he heard the melancholy strains of some classical piece playing in the background. He resigned himself to the very long conversation that was sure to follow.

"It's terrible, Erk," Serra moaned, and Erk could picture her very clearly. She would be sitting on her fluffy, four-poster bed, the pink and white curtains drawn around her in, as she'd put it, an artistic expression of shutting out the world. She clasped the phone tightly in one hand while she pressed the other to her forehead, perpetually on the verge of swooning.

His promise not to roll his eyes already compromised, Erk strengthened his resolve. He reminded himself that she was his friend, she was in pain, it would be cruel--

"Terrible," she repeated forcefully and tacked a sad little sigh onto the end.

He rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said automatically. Distantly, he wondered whether he was sorry about her distress or sorry about the eye-rolling. The eye-rolling, he decided. It was a little bit hard to feel sorry for her when she was being so… melodramatic.

"I mean, I was good, wasn't I?" she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I thought I was good. Was I good, Erk?"

"I'm so sorry," he said again, knowing that whatever his answer to her question was, it wouldn't be good enough.

"Where did I go wrong?" she sighed again, sounding genuinely lost.

"I'm really sorry," he said. Then, feeling a little bit stupid for saying pretty much the same thing three times in two minutes, he added, "You didn't get the part."

There was a moment of silence.

Then, indignant, she screeched, "What?!"

Erk paused and wondered what he did wrong. "I, err, I… what?" At the sound of his confusion, Louise poked her head from behind the corner and gave him a questioning look. He blinked at her and shrugged.

"Of course I got a part!" she shouted loud enough to make his ears ring. He jolted, his attention instantly and fully devoted to their conversation. "How could you even think that I wouldn't, Erk?"

Erk wondered why he didn't have normal friends. Normal friends would be nice. Normal friends wouldn't make him deal with this stuff. Normal friends wouldn't cause him to go deaf at the age of twenty. "But… the sighing! Why are you doing that if nothing's wrong?" he asked, though he already knew he wouldn't understand the answer. He was too deep in Serra Land, where nothing made the faintest bit of sense to him.

"Because something is wrong! Seriously, Erk, do you not understand women at all?" she demanded and he could practically feel the glower, the raised eyebrows, the pointy lavender nails drumming against her arm.

"No," Erk said flatly, deciding that, at this point, lying would get him nowhere. Of course, the truth wouldn't get him very far either, but it might stop him from sinking deeper into the Pit of Pink Pigtailed Confusion. "You got a part, Serra, so what's wrong?"

"A part, Erk, a part," she said, her tone of voice clearly conveying her opinion that he was a moron. "Really. I think I was picked solely for my name, and, beautiful name though it is, I have other attributes that should be taken into consideration."

"Solely for your name? You got the part of Serra?" Erk's mind strayed back to his history lessons about the war in question. "A loquacious cleric who came from Ostia, escorted by a young, somewhat frazzled mage, she met the Lady Lyndis on her quest to meet her grandfather…"

"I know, I know," Serra interrupted, sounding huffy. Then her voice rose to a whine. "But she's nothing like me!"

---

"Mark," Ninian said imploringly, clasping her hands in front of her. She wore her sweetest, most sensitive look as she gazed at her best friend. "Mark, I know you've said that you're set on this, but please, if you could just consider…"

"Ninian, you're playing Ninian. Give it up," Mark muttered around the pen cap held between his teeth. He scrawled something on a scrap of paper, mumbling under his breath. Ninian caught a few slurred words here and there, but didn't try to figure out what squirrels, teacups and little wyvern costumes had to do with each other.

Her sweet look melting away, she crossed her arms and stared at her feet. "I'm not an actress!" she said, hoping it would get through his thick skull. "I'm a complete amateur. I won't be any good!"

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Mark replied absentmindedly. He seemed to freeze for a moment, before leaning forward and squinting at the paper pressed against his drawn up knees. He coughed. "Hey, uh, your brother--"

"No," she said before she could stop herself. She threw her hands up in the air and stood in one fluid movement, her long skirt swishing as she marched around the coffee table. "Nils is not going to play that Nils! Absolutely not, Mark, just no."

Mark looked up at her at last, an odd gleam in his eye. "I was going to ask if he borrowed my book on dragons…" he removed the pen cap from his mouth and simply grinned.

Ninian paled.

"But now that you mention it…" his tone was full of excitement and the gleam in his eye was more than a little manic. He slowly stretched himself out, arms behind his head and feet propped up on the coffee table. The piece of paper slid, forgotten, off his lap and onto the floor. "I'm sure my old pal Nils won't mind doing me a little favor," he hummed to himself.

Ninian fervently hoped her brother would forgive her.

---

"He wants me to play… myself?" Nils raised an eyebrow as Ninian explained the situation over dinner. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing, nodding to himself. "That's pretty cool, actually. How many people get the opportunity to do that?"

Ninian wondered if the whole world was conspiring against her. "You don't really want to, though, do you?" she asked him, her stare wide and pleading. "I mean, there's no way he can force us if we're together on this issue, united, strong…"

"Oh, no," Nils said, giving his sister a grin. Ninian thought she saw fangs. "I think it'll be fun, don't you, sister dearest?"

"I wish we were in mortal danger," Ninian muttered under her breath. "You were never like this when we were in mortal danger." Silently, she gave into the nagging pangs of guilt she felt and assured herself that she didn't really wish for danger. Not really. Still, he really hadn't been this cheeky back then and wasn't that worth something?

"Oh, how the times have changed," Nils replied, giving the lamp a meaningful look and sighing deeply. "Why, I remember, back in the day…"

"You can stop that now." Ninian said flatly, stabbing a lettuce leaf viciously.

Nils shook his head and pressed a hand to his chest. "I can do no such thing!" he declared forcefully. "I must practice my acting, for I am soon bound for the stage! Ah, the lights, the audience-- is there any joy greater than this? Oh, anticipation, so sweet, like grapes on the vine."

"Please, please stop," Ninian muttered. She continued to take out her frustration on her salad.

---

"Someone has to go in there eventually," Limstella said, eyeing the door to Nergal's office. For the past half hour, she and Ephidel had been camped out there, trying to decide whether their father had barricaded himself in there in joy or anger. Whatever the reason, the elderly man had seemed especially… eccentric as of late.

"You're the favorite," Ephidel reasoned, rubbing his forehead. He really had to get out of this house.

"And I'd like it to stay that way," Limstella replied, completely calm. Ephidel tried to count the number of times he'd seen her act emotional and realized he could do it on half a hand.

"Go," she said, halfway between encouragement and an order. "He probably won't kill you."

"What a reassuring person you are," Ephidel replied snappishly, reaching for the office door. Limstella stepped back into the shadows, her golden eyes glinting eerily as she watched his every move. He turned the knob slowly and opened the door just a crack, peering inside.

All the lights were off except for a single lamp on the desk. Nergal was seated in his favorite chair, head in his hands, muttering to himself with his thinking turban settled neatly upon his head. The stack of note cards that had previously been there was gone, an empty square on the otherwise cluttered desk.

Certain now that disturbing him would be a bad idea, Ephidel moved to close the door when someone gave him a sharp push from behind. He leaned on the door to catch himself and it swung open, causing him to fall, headfirst, into the room. Turning around, the last thing he saw was a little smirk on Limstella's face before the door slammed shut.

Well. At least that was one more for the list of Limstella's facial expressions.

As the sound of the slammed door echoed throughout the small room, Nergal's head snapped up and for a second, Ephidel was sure he could see fire in the eye uncovered by the turban. Then, as suddenly as it had been there, it was gone, replaced with sheer exasperation.

"Oh, it's you. Can't you open a door the right way?" Nergal redirected his attention to a piece of paper on his desk. He examined it for a moment, his pen hovering in midair, before he ferociously scratched something out. Seemingly satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and observed Ephidel. "Well?"

Ephidel straightened up and brushed some dust from his shoulder, feeling severely annoyed. "We wanted to make sure you were alright, father," he said, and didn't dare voice the part of him that whispered, and not plotting some bizarre murder-suicide deal. "You've been in here nearly all day."

"Have I?" Nergal stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose I've been too engrossed in my writings to notice the time passing."

"The novel again?" Ephidel asked, again puzzled by the lack of note cards. They were Nergal's constant companion when it came to writing; no note went unscribbled, no frustration unscrawled, no distracting doodle undrawn.

"Oh, no," Nergal replied, the tone of his voice dulled by distraction as he wrote something down, pausing to consider it. "No, no, of course not. There are other matters at hand before that can be accomplished. I must have my muse, if you understand my meaning."

Ephidel did not understand. He did not understand one bit. "Your muse?"

"Ah, your mother was fantastic at it," Nergal said. Ephidel very nearly turned tail and ran when he realized that his father sounded nostalgic, of all things.

"Of course," Nergal continued, pushing his chair back and folding his hands together. "Back then, it was for acting, not for writing. Still, whenever there was a hurdle I simply thought I could not jump, a challenge in my way that I thought too great…"

Deep down, Ephidel thought this was almost heartwarming. He rarely heard his father speak like this. He listened intently, hanging on his father's every word.

"Ah, then she would throw a plate at me and tell me that I would never get anything done like that. Wonderful aim, your mother." Nergal's pleasant smile sent chills down the young man's spine.

Ephidel made a mental note to go and give his therapist a call.

---

She had gotten the part. Her return to the theatre, to the stage, was near. Her former glory would be restored and fame and fortune would wrap themselves around her like a silk sheet. She could practically feel the bright lights, hear the audience applaud… Ah, those were the days.

Hannah settled back into her chair and smirked. Of course, it was also an opportunity to pursue the man of her dreams, as well. She would not let this opportunity slip through her fingers. She had checked as soon as she had arrived home and the stars did indeed confirm that love was on the horizon for her.

She cackled, folding her fingers together and tilting her head.

Things were coming up roses for Hannah and, if she had her way, they'd certainly continue to do so. After all, it was about time for her to make a triumphant comeback. And maybe, after this, a nice little vacation with her newfound love of her life. His treat, of course.

---

Athos examined his beard in the mirror, poking and prodding at it in a critical manner. He was due for a trim, certainly. Until then… he searched through the drawer and pulled out a bottle of cologne. Spraying a bit onto his beard, he wondered if the ladies still went for white hair. Maybe he should consider dying it? A nice red, perhaps, or a sleek black?

"Do blondes really have more fun?" he asked himself the age old question. He took a moment to imagine himself with shining gold locks. "Like a lion, you handsome beast. Like a lion," he grinned, winking at his reflection.

Hearing heavy, dragging footsteps in the hall, he opened his door to investigate. There, he encountered Erk, one hand on the railing, slumped over and looking most puzzled. His other hand was knotted in his purple hair and he was muttering something about being killed in the night.

"Is something wrong?" Athos asked, bushy eyebrows shooting up. Erk looked up blearily and blinked a few times.

"I don't understand women," he replied, dragging his hand out of his hair with unsteady, jagged movements.

"Oh?" Athos raised an eyebrow. Well, he supposed it that it was about time. Erk was getting to be that age, after all. Athos resisted the urge to sigh nostalgically. Ah, youth… such a time of blissful stupidity.

Erk sighed, long and low. "It's… well, it's ridiculous! I just spent two hours on the phone with Serra--"

"Your girlfriend?" Athos interrupted, allowing just the faintest hint of amusement to slip into his voice.

Erk frowned. "She is not my girlfriend," he said flatly. In afterthought, he added, "I don't have a girlfriend."

"Really? What happened to that nice girl-- what was her name? Patty, Patricia…" Athos trailed off, brow furrowed in an effort to remember.

"Priscilla," Erk supplied with a look of suffering. "And can we please, please not talk about this?"

"Alright, alright," Athos waved the subject off in a grandfatherly manner. "So, what's the problem?"

"The problem is that I don't know what the problem is!" Erk threw his hands up in frustration. "She kept going on about how she got a part but it's not the part and-- I just don't get it!"

"Erk," Athos said, adopting his patented wise tone. He decided it was time for some to give the boy some advice, a few words from a seasoned elder to a naïve youngster. A gentle shove down the right path. He cleared his throat, "As you grow up, you will meet many women. I'm sure they'll all be charming people, but a word of advice: none of them will make a speck of sense. Not one. I can guarantee that."

"Is this supposed to be incentive to lock myself up in a room forever and ever with nothing but books for company?" Erk asked dryly, eyebrows raised and arms crossed.

"Hardly, my dear boy!" Athos chuckled, giving Erk a reassuring slap on the back. "Women are fascinating creatures! Why, I remember, back in my day…" he enthusiastically launched into a lengthy tale of his exploits and adventures, a certain gleam in his eye. He stroked his nicely perfumed beard as he spun the tale of a particular flaxen-haired maiden he had attempted to woo back in the day.

Erk resisted the urge to slap a hand to his forehead and solemnly reminded himself that today was not a good day for conversations. Not a good day at all.

---

Guy wasn't sure how he felt about quitting. He knew he shouldn't be sad about it-- he hated his job-- but he just couldn't help it. It felt a bit like leaving a part of himself behind. He felt almost… empty.

Guy paused to wonder if he was being a tad, well, dramatic about the whole thing. He was pretty sure that sane people didn't treat quitting their (loathed) jobs the same as characters in bad romance novels reacted to leaving lovers. He wiped down a glossy countertop and wondered if there was a bad romance novel out there where the main character left their lover, a coffee shop.

("You can't do this to me! You need me!" the Coffee Shoppe exclaimed, and the milk steamer looked indignant, clouds of rage-filled perspiration fogging its stainless steal surface. I found myself turning away, turning my back on that which I once had loved with my very being.

"I'm sorry, but this has to end," I said as if I was explaining this to a very small child. At this moment, that was what the Coffee Shoppe was to me; but a child, stubborn and selfish in its disbelief that this was best. Yes, this was best-- for both of us.

"You'll regret it!" the Coffee Shoppe shouted and, taking one last look over my shoulder, I thought I saw a few tears, precious like dark cocoa beans filled to the brim with their caffeinated emotion, slide down the polished wood counter…)

"I really have to get out of here," Guy muttered to himself. He cast a suspicious look at the milk steamer-- the last thing he needed was it putting the moves on him.

Suddenly, he realized he was finished with the task at hand. He was done cleaning up, he was done counting the money, he was done with everything that closing entailed. There was nothing left to do now but lock up and leave. A strange hesitation crept over him. He leaned against the table and contemplated his situation.

He was in the middle of a coffee shop. Alone. After dark. And he didn't want to leave.

Quite clearly, Matthew had finally succeeded in driving him out of his mind. He straightened up and adjusted his headband, making sure his bangs stayed out of his eyes. It was time to get out of here, no matter what inexplicable attachment he was currently feeling towards the place.

With a sigh and one last look at the blackboard where the specials were listed, Guy left the shop, locking the door behind him. He turned around and stopped short.

He had not been expecting to come face to face with Matthew. "What are y-you doing?" he asked, staring up incredulously at the blond man.

"I was waiting for you. Quietly. Outside. While you stared dreamily at coffee machines," Matthew said, hands in his pockets and eyebrows raised. "Something I should know about?"

"I think it was giving me looks," Guy said, the words slipping past before he realized how crazy he sounded. He sincerely hoped this was one of those times when Matthew wasn't really listening to him.

"Natural perverts, coffee-related appliances," Matthew said wisely, grinning down at Guy.

Nope, Guy thought to himself. Definitely a listening moment.

"It was a joke! A joke!" Guy tried valiantly to preserve whatever fragments of dignity he had left. He was sure his slightly shaky voice betrayed the fact that his thoughtless statement of before was not, in fact, an attempt at being funny. "A-anyway," he said, changing the subject. "Why were you waiting for me?"

"I can't wait for you now?" Matthew asked innocently, as if he did indeed wait outside the coffee shop, quietly and without obvious cause, every time Guy closed up. "You wound me so."

"No, I don't," Guy scoffed, suspicion creeping into his expression. "C'mon, Matthew, what're you doing, well… here?" he finished lamely.

Matthew rolled his eyes, a playful smile on his lips. "You never let me have any fun," he sighed, raising his hands in a what can you do? way. "C'mon, let's go celebrate."

"…This is incredibly suspicious," Guy pointed out, crossing his arms.

Matthew rolled his eyes again and tsked, "You have no faith."

"None at all," Guy confirmed quickly. "Celebrate what, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know," Matthew looked towards the dark sky as if searching for an ever elusive answer. "We could settle for both getting parts in a big play and you breaking out of the business of serving coffee while I subtly hang around and harass you."

"Now you get to harass me in a whole new environment," Guy scowled. He did not seem very impressed with the idea.

"Exactly!" In contrast, Matthew seemed positively thrilled. "C'mon," he said, catching a hold of Guy's elbow. "Leila's meeting us for a movie in an hour, so let's get something to eat before that."

"You're p-paying!" Guy stuttered out, following closely at Matthew's heels. After a moment, when Matthew's back was turned, he allowed himself a small grin.

---

"I thought you already had someone for the role of Legault," Ninian said as he told her the story that night. "What was his name again? I remember he was very handsome…"

"He wasn't that great," Mark said in the tone of a man who had just heard a female friend insinuate that anyone else besides him could possibly be good looking. "But, yeah, Rennac Rogue was his name, I think."

"What are you going to do about him?" Ninian asked, her tone of voice telling Mark that she thought him a little bit silly, making a split-moment decision like he had.

Mark hesitated, biting his lip. "But… but Legault's so perfect! And his name is Legault! And… and!"

Ninian sighed, brushing some of her hair back, "Not the name thing again, Mark. You can't keep picking these people based on that." She paused, then added, "Me, for example. I'd be a horrid Ninian. I really think you should reconsider. You could give my part to Rennac."

"Haha," Mark said dryly, folding his arms across his chest.

She sighed again and tried hard not to pout.

"And I'm not choosing them based solely on names," Mark continued, a touch of indignation in his voice. "They really do fit the parts perfectly! They even look like the sketches in the tactician's journal!"

"I know, I know," she said and tried to steer him back on topic. "But seriously, Mark, what are you going to do about this?"

Mark furrowed his brow in thought. It took a moment, but Ninian could have sworn she saw the proverbial light bulb appear over her friend's head. "I'll tell him there's been a mistake," he said with a big grin. "That he was supposed to be the understudy!"

"That's a little bit cruel, Mark," Ninian said, feeling bad for Rennac.

"Ninian, Ninian, Ninian," Mark said, shaking his head side to side in an exaggerated fashion. "This is show business."

Ninian supposed she couldn't really argue with that.

---

The next day, as they were feeding the wyverns, Heath turned to Vaida with a puzzled look on his face. "Can I ask you something?"

"Depends," she grunted. She threw a chunk of meat to her favorite of the bunch, a huge black wyvern named Umbriel. "Is it a stupid question?"

Heath decided not to answer that. "It's just… we're not actors," he said in that unsure tone of voice that stated that he wasn't sure how to put this. "I'm not even interested in the theatre and, unless I'm really mistaken, neither are you. So… why did we agree?"

Vaida paused, a piece of raw steak in hand. An unreadable look crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by one of annoyance. "Son of a bitch," she swore. The wyvern next in line to be fed looked rather impatient. Umbriel swooped in to steal the steak as Vaida stood there, distracted for a moment. He received a light smack on the snout.

"See?" Heath said, whistling to the wyvern whose meal Umbriel had stolen. "It doesn't make sense." He held out an extra large piece to the wronged dragon, patting her scaly neck.

"No," Vaida agreed, pursing her lips and looking fairly murderous. "It doesn't. After this I'm going to give that pipsqueak a call and tell him that it's off, and that if he even so much as objects, his insides are getting fed to the wyverns as spaghetti dinner! I am not going to be in that musical disaster of his."

"Same here," Heath said, frowning.

After the feeding was over, neither of them made the call.

---

To Be Continued

---

I hope a longer-than-usual chapter makes up for the wait? If not, the poking with twigs may now resume. Also, I'm planning to have a new (cracked out, pretty long) oneshot of a slashy fairy tale parody up on Wednesday, so keep your eyes peeled for it!

Hope everyone enjoyed the chapter and, as always, reviews are very appreciated!