AN: So...I really didn't expect the Tony Awards Party to be as massive as it's ended up being. Here's Part One of, what I hope will only be a two-part series, though I've only got them through the opening number, so I don't know what's going to happen next. No Christine again this time (poor girl, she'll feature again soon), but we meet most of the crew from Memorial Repertory who will figure into the story later. I've had to up the rating for explicit drug use in this chapter (hey, like I said, pulling in from as many Phantom sources as I can, and we all know that Kay's Erik is an incorrigible lover of opiates...), but I think it's really very tame. Thanks for sticking with the story and please don't hesitate to review to tell me what you like/don't like about it, I'm open to suggestions! I hope this chapter is easy to follow for people who didn't see the show, but I'm sure the opening number is on YouTube or something, it was pretty spectacular. Check it out, if you haven't already!

Disclaimer: None of the characters from any incarnation of Phantom of the Opera belong to me. Nor am I in charge of the Tony Awards. Any musicals, plays, movies, people or places referenced by me are the property of their respective owners. I am making no money off the utilization of anything with a copyright.


It's a bit like being angry,
It's a bit like being scared
Confused and all mixed up and mad as hell.
It's like when you've been crying
And you're empty and you're full
I don't know what it is, it's hard to tell.
It's like that there's a music playing in your ear
But the music is impossible, impossible to hear
But then I feel it move me
Like a burning deep inside.
Something bursting me wide open impossible to hide
And suddenly I'm flying, flying like a bird
Like electricity, electricity.

-Billy Elliot: The Musical

Many medical professionals had informed Erik, upon entering his teen years, that under no circumstances was he to give in to overly indulgent consumption of alcohol. Actually, they specified that under no circumstances was he to drink alcohol, otherwise the consequences to his liver and dermal structures would be severe. Punk kid though he might be, Erik really didn't want his liver falling out so he obeyed the strictures of his doctors (and his therapist) and abstained, graciously. Of course, he was a teenager – a teenager dealing with greater than usual stress levels who often found himself in the company of people he suspected of being highly functional alcoholics. Well, when everyone else around you was three sheets to the wind and dancing barefoot on coffee tables or set pieces at cast parties that you were required to attend once every few months, a guy could feel left out when he wasn't under the influence of some kind of controlled substance. Individual though he may be, nothing sucked more than being the sole sober person at a party.

Honestly, he wouldn't have been drinking all that much even if he was permitted to do so medically, since he was only eighteen years of age and not in a fabulously progressive European country with a low drinking age. Tim and Chester tended to throw pretty wild parties and while it was always hilarious to watch a forty year old man dressed in a pair of cut-offs and a poncho (they threw a Hobo Party when the economy officially went down the shitter earlier in the year) explaining to the police that, yes officer, they would keep it down, it was overkill for them to be arrested for serving alcohol to minors. So, Erik and the other kids who often frequented Tim and Chester's theme nights satisfied themselves with another kind of intoxication: they got high. Really, really high.

Freddy Richard was the first one of them to try marijuana, when they were all sophomores in high school, and he didn't have much to say about the experience. He just shrugged and said, "I don't know, nothing happened. Was something supposed to happen? I thought I would see colors." Ahmed rolled his eyes and quickly informed him that pot was really just a glorified muscle relaxer and if he wanted to have some kind of mystical experience, he'd be better off with LSD, only not really since that could really fuck you up. That produced a few seconds of stunned silence before Ahmed explained that his dad used some hardcore drugs in the 70s (since he wasn't allowed to drink as per religious regulations, but the Qur'an said absolutely nothing about dropping acid like it was going out of style). It actually explained a lot of things about Professor Yani and they dropped the subject of Ahmed's dad's drug habits, but the issue of pot came up a few more times thereafter. Apparently, the effects of pot-smoking became more potent the longer one smoked it and so, though a variety of odd circumstances that had surprisingly little to do with peer pressure, the majority of the members of Memorial Rep's junior company became avid users, with Erik, Freddy and Ahmed at the top of the pack. Meg was probably the only person who hadn't done any sort of illicit drugs in the group of them since, as she accurate phrased it, her mother would kill her if she even inhaled deeply while the others were smoking.

This was why, on the eve of the 63rd Annual Antoinette Perry Awards for Excellence in Theatre, Erik, Ahmed and Freddy arrived (Erik having not returned home in the interim, so how he procured a three-piece suit in his size was anyone's guess) at Chester and Tim's expansive (and expensive) East Side home, dressed to the nines and high as a trio of kites in a summer breeze. Only those who knew them intimately would be aware, of course; it wasn't like they were giggling at potted plants or staring off into space for long stretches of the time, they were just...in really, really good moods and Erik even gave his mother a kiss on the cheek when she approached him cautiously, evidently a little embarrassed about how the previous evening's dinner had gone. Of course, the three of the reeked of the herb, but Maddy was actually just relieved that Erik was guaranteed to be in a good mood for the majority of the evening. Bad parenting? Probably, but it was only pot. If he started injecting heroin into his eyeballs, then they'd sit down and have an intervention.

Of course, there wasn't much time for chatting and well-wishing or for Chester to order a strip-search to ensure the boys hadn't brought illegal crap into his home. "If the cops come, they're going to think the black guy gave it to you!" he fairly screeched the first time they had arrived at his house in such a state. "But then the Jew in you can plead total innocence!" Erik explained in what he thought was a completely logical manner. Chester wasn't entirely convinced that his dual-heritage was enough to save him from the long arm of the law, but he didn't kick them out either and so Erik and friends took it as assurance that he really didn't mind their turning his house into a coffee shop, a la Amsterdam.

It was quite a successful turn-out, nearly everyone from Memorial Rep had come, along with their kids who were mingling successfully with the adults, surprisingly, not sitting in a corner bitching to each other about how lame their parents were. Freddy immediately left Erik and Ahmed to go chat up Armand Moncharmin. They had been eyeing each other prospectively since the two of them entered puberty, but as far as everyone was aware, that was as far as the relationship had progressed. Charlotte tried her damnedest to get them to go to senior prom together at the end of the year, but that plan failed rather spectacularly and Armand still wasn't quite on speaking terms with her yet. Freddy hadn't really cared, he was definitely more flamboyant and carefree than Armand, who was by all accounts a somewhat serious boy who had trouble with PDAs and still wasn't out to his father. Nevertheless, his eyes lit up when he saw Freddy, though he steadfastly avoided looking at Charlotte as she edged around him to say hi to Erik and Ahmed.

The rules of Tony Night were fairly simple: if you wanted the viewing experience to be the bitchy gabfest it was meant to be, you hang out in the living room with everyone who was guaranteed to run at the mouth during the entirety of the broadcast. If you wanted to sit in silence and drink wine and eat cheese and generally be classy about it, you went downstairs into the rec room and watched it in silence. Erik never knew why, but most party-goers opted to watch the show without a running commentary, so the basement was full to bursting with about forty to fifty people scrambling for seats before the show, probably breaking a few fire codes. It wasn't unusual to have standing room only down there, while upstairs, the worst that happened would be that a few people would wind up sitting on the floor. Erik, being the tallest person at the house had been required to sit on the floor, regardless of seating availability, since he was about fifteen. He was in good company; Tim, Chester and Madeline had the couch, while Charlie and Ann Giry took the armchairs. Ahmed snagged a chair from the kitchen and dragged it in about five seconds before the beginning of the opening number, while Charlotte, Meg, Freddy and Armand pulled up a spot of carpet for themselves (Charlotte and Armand on opposite sides of the room, of course).

"Ooh, shitty sound," Charlie said with a grimace, the first derogatory comment to kick off the 63rd Annual Tony Awards. "I really hope this isn't a running theme for the night." On the one hand, he felt bad for the sound engineers since it must be a nightmare for the mics to cut out on Tony Awards Night, but seriously, they didn't check for problems beforehand? Maybe they should have spent less time trying to get Billy Elliot airborne and spent a little more time running sound checks.

And speaking of... "Okay, this is officially the gayest thing I have ever seen in my entire life," Freddy said, utterly mesmerized by the sight of three pre-pubescent boys frollicking merrily around the stage.

"Their form is impeccable," Ann said, giving Freddy a pointed look. "Pay attention."

"Why is there a chair? Is the chair significant?" Meg asked, looking around, clearly hoping for guidance. When your mother was Ann Giry, grande dame of Memorial Rep and one of the most sought-after choreographers in New England to boot, it led to feelings of gross inadequacy in her offspring. Ann should have really considered that before running off to the sperm bank.

"I think the chair is there as a calming, masculine object," Erik decided, throwing poor, confused Meg a bone. Then, of course, he decided to go off on a tangent and all bets were off. "Note the hard lines, the solid craftsmanship. It has to be there to center these young boys, otherwise the aura of their own gay combined with Elton John in the background singing his little heart out would be enough to whisk them all off on a magical, rainbow-scented cloud straight to the Castro."

Chester had been silent throughout the first two minutes of the opening number, but finally he just shook his head. "Yeah, this is ridiculously gay – what the fuck is that?" The Billies had just come together for some odd lifts and now one of the little guys was attached to a harness and being thrown roughly around by another dancer in some pattern that was probably supposed to be symbolic, but just looked really, really...weird. And slightly sexual.

"They fly, you didn't know they flew? Hence the need for the man-chair so this show doesn't immediately become all of Elton John's most horrifying fantasies made manifest."

Chester stared open-mouthed at the spectacle before him and shook his head again, "They cannot win. I can't...this is so stupid. So stupid. Can you imagine what sort of sick little fag must have designed this? Mary must have creamed himself every night watching this, it's just...wrong. So wrong. Give me ballet, give me tap-dancing, give me Fosse for fuck's sake, but please, please god, do NOT give me a little gay boy's wet dream and cap it all off with a scene from Peter Pan. Bitch, please. What, is Kathy Rigby going to come in and...I don't know, choke a bitch for stealing her shtick? Because she could take all those little fags. Oh yes she could."

Tim reached across and gave Chester's knee a reassuring squeeze. "It's over now, dear," he intoned in his most soothing I-work-with-insane-people-every-day-I'll-be-damned-if-I-can't-get-this-crazy-queen-to-stop-her-bitching voice. "Look, West Side Story."

Chester relaxed immediately, "See, now, those are some manly queens."

"And Guys and Dolls!" Meg chirruped encouragingly, then her face fell a bit as she watched the performance. "Wow, they look so bored."

Ann nodded grimly, "I know, I saw the show when it opened – the costumes a great – but honestly, it was like the cast was asleep with their eyes open. I mean, where's the joy? They were going for something gritty, but gritty doesn't have to be boring. Good dancing, good sets, good costumes...no soul. And it's just not worth watching something like that."

"Maria is the whitest looking Puerto Rican girl I've ever seen," Charlotte said, from her position of the floor. "I mean, seriously, Natalie Wood looked more Hispanic than her and she was Russian."

"Poor Natalie Wood," Meg sighed raised an eyebrow, "Did Tony not get the memo to come in costume?"

"Oh, dude, he totally forgot the Tonys were tonight," Ahmed said with a knowing grin. "You know he was sleeping and then Bernardo or someone calls him and is all, 'Dude! The opening number is starting in TEN MINUTES' and he just ran over in whatever he was wearing."

A gentleman in a cowboy hat and an obscene amount of eye make up then appeared on stage. Erik's eyes bulged out of his head to a painful looking degree and Freddy voiced what everyone was thinking, "What the fuck is this crap?"

"Rock of Ages," Tim said grimly, taking a long drink of his white wine and looking as though he wished he grabbed something harder before he settled in on the couch. "We're not talking about it. As a matter of fact, we're going to pretend it doesn't even exist." And so everyone did, looking everywhere except at the television, as Brett Michaels and his aging, drug-abusing cronies slurred and stumbled over the boards inexpertly. They were all content to let the embarrassment to American theatre pass without comment – until Poison's lead singer walked directly into the fly that was rapidly descending over the stage. Then everyone burst into uncontrollable laughter that did not entirely abate until Stockard Channing was half-way through her number.

"That's what you get!" Erik exclaimed, jumping up from the floor and pointing somewhat wildly at the television. "That's what you fucking get, you stupid fuck for daring to call yourself a musician!"

"The Theatre Gods declare: DOOM ON YOU!" Freddy shouted, hopping up and down in front of the television until Armand grabbed him by the coattails and pulled him back to the floor. "Shh, Rizzo's singing," he said seriously. Then added, a moment later, "Um...is that Tony?" Because the young man who was apparently the object of Ms Channing's affection bore a very strong resemblance to the young Jet who had almost missed the opening number.

"Don't ask me," Chester shrugged carelessly. "All you skinny white boys look the same." Then he snorted, "Look at that little gay boy trying to be sexually attracted to a girl. She's so not buying it, honey, she's worked with John Travolta."

"And she totally saw through his heterosexual smoke screen," Armand declared sagely. He long ago admitted that Stockard Channing was the only woman he could see himself marrying when he was younger and actually passionately declared his intentions to his mother when he was around eight years old. It was at that moment that Mrs Moncharmin knew that she would never have a daughter-in-law to call her own.

When Shrek: The Musical came on in all its twisted, Disnified glory, everyone reacted about as well as they had to Bret Michaels' cowboy hat. "Oh my God, get off the fucking stage," Chester moaned piteously, cradling his head in his hands as Tim pet him gently on the back.

"I hate Sutton Foster," Madelines said crossly, folding her arms and glaring at the screen. "She tries so hard to be a brassy broad and, sorry honey, you don't pull that crap when you're following Stockard Channing – wow, that nose thing was phallic...are we sure this is a show for kids?"

No one replied, of course, because it is hard to respond to other people when wrapped in a cloud of righteous indignation over animated feature films taking over 42nd Street. "I think they're being presumptuous," Charlotte said, apparently equally disdainful of Sutton Foster's brassiness as Erik's mother. "I mean, seriously, Broadway's been letting its freak flag fly for a hundred years, it's not like theatre needs the Shrek seal of approval...and oh, shit what is this Les Mis crap they're pulling? If this wins anything, I am done, I am fucking – oh, yay, it's Dolly!"

And then the party was silent, except for a quick quip from Chester regarding how many sequins it was possible to fit on one dress – followed by an even quicker quip from Charlie regarding Dolly Parton's most famous assets allowing for a greater margin of sequins that could be sewn onto an average woman's powder-blue gown. Chester may have been about to reply in kind, who knew, because what ever he was going to say was abruptly halted by a shout rising from all assembled. A base, feral cry that all theatre folk make when they catch even a glimpse of the legend that grapevined on stage before them. The universal shout was so loud that the walls enclosing the living room trembled, very slightly at the force of it. Or perhaps, just perhaps, through the magic of the theatre, the very foundation of the house knew that enclosed within it was the image of a legend so great, that it only took one word to announce her:

"LIZA!"

All the indignity of Rock of Ages, the foolishness of Shrek: The Musical vanished as everyone stared, star-struck at the improbable offspring of two of the greatest movie musical minds ever to walk the face of the earth. Freddy prospected himself on the floor before her and Erik could have sworn that Chester's eyes were wet with admiration – the man himself did a mean Liza Minnelli impression, so the awe was definitely real. No jokes were made. Even Erik managed to keep his mouth shut regarding her vocal quality (and that was saying something since it was a not very well kept secret that he hated Liza's voice and thought that any comparisons between herself and Judy Garland were an insult to the very memory of Ms Francis Gumm).

The reverential silence lasted until Madeline folded her arms smugly in her chair and gazed in satisfaction at the hippies that now flooded the screen. "They're going to win. I am going to be so rich at the end of the night, you people have no idea."

"Bullshit," Tim said immediately, not at all phased by her confidence. "There's no way. West Side Story has the music, the dancing, the universal appeal and they actually have the Sharks singing in Spanish. Also the timeless love story. Please, Hair doesn't stand a chance. Look! They're attacking the audience! No one wants to see that."

"No one wants to see Shrek: The Musical either," Madeline shot back. "And they're nominated, aren't they?"

As the cast of Hair dragged eager, not entirely unsuspecting audience members from their chairs to dance about awkwardly with everyone else who could possibly have been involved in the opening number (with the exception of the sound designer who was probably dying of embarrassment in the booth), everyone sat back and let out a collective breath as Freddy voiced what everyone in the room was thinking:

"That was an emotional roller coaster. I'm exhausted."

"And it's only the opening number," Armand said wearily. "There are still more acts to go."