Another table read.
Another fucking table read.
Every single one of them had objected to it. Every single last one of them, from Arthur himself to the lowliest intern (though Arthur's objections contained considerably more screaming and cursing). And yet here they are, back in Roderich's stupid giant expensive flat, this behemoth of a living space rented out for the sole purpose of housing him for the duration of the shoot, reading this stupid giant script for the thousandth time. Even though they had already begun filming.
In fact, Arthur had stomped over the day before to (loudly) voice his (profanity-laced) opinions. And Roderich had— he had scoffed at Arthur's outrage. He had scoffed kept playing Chopin. Arthur raged and Roderich played Nocturne No. 9.
And you don't yell when someone is playing Chopin. It's fundamentally wrong. So Arthur left, taking extra care to slam the door, and went home to look over his lines again, the music still ringing in his ears.
"I am not calling it because of you," Roderich had said, in a way that he probably thought was comforting but just came off as haughty. His thick, precise accent, honed to a point after a childhood in Vienna, makes him sound even more pretentious. If that were possible. "Not just you, anyway. None of you are playing your roles to satisfaction. We shall continue to read the script until you read it well enough."
The principle cast is no large group. There's Arthur, sprawled comfortably on an uncomfortable couch, with Francis sitting primly to his right, Antonio Carriedo next to him. And Elizaveta is across the room, next to Roderich, who is on the piano bench.
The screenwriter, a stoic man with blond hair cut unfashionably, is sitting a bit off from everyone else, in his own little bubble of strictly patrolled personal space (when they had first met, Arthur had tried to shake his hand and was almost flipped over the tiny man's shoulder). Vash doesn't talk much and tends to be the mediator in the cast members' (frequent) arguments.
Roderich and Vash have known each other for years upon years, and they hate each other with unbridled vehemence. Arthur doesn't really understand why Roderich decided to take on Vash's script if they despise each other, but it isn't his place to ask, as much as he wants to. The tension between the two reeks of history, a history that Arthur would prefer to avoid, for the sake of his health.
Antonio is pointedly ignoring Arthur. As laid back as he is, the damn Spaniard is one to hold a grudge, even for something that was a complete accident. And all the way back in college! It isn't like Arthur meant to sink Antonio's family yacht. Rum, fireworks, and temptation had been involved. Any man in Arthur's situation would have done the same thing (i.e., light fireworks below decks after breaking a few bottles of very strong alcohol against the wall for shits and giggles, while incredible amounts of said alcohol is pumping through your bloodstream and tampering with that vital thing in your brain called "good judgment").
Antonio still hates him for it. Francis and Antonio, though, are practically inseparable. Arthur can't help but be thankful that both of his enemies are on the same side; no one has ever won a three-front war, after all.
Roderich commences the reading with a clap of his white-gloved hands (who wears gloves anymore? Where would you even buy them?); he sits on his piano bench, perfectly poised next to the massive matte-black instrument he lugs everywhere. Yes, he's that rich; he can pay for penthouses just for movie shoots and overseas shipping for a hundred-year-old grand piano.
Then again, Roderich isn't that much wealthier than Arthur. It's just that Arthur doesn't flaunt it.
Much.
"What I expect from you all today," Roderich enunciates carefully, "is actual effort. Begin at your leisure."
"You make the absolute worst pep talks, Roddy," Antonio says cheerfully.
"If you call me 'Roddy' one more time,Antonio, I will not only pummel you, but I will fire you and personally destroy your already disreputable name."
"Disreputable? I'm wounded!" Antonio grabs at his chest dramatically, flailing his other arm and hitting Francis in the face. (Arthur feels strangely gratified.)
"Good," says Roderich. He opens the script on his lap daintily, pinky up (the bastard), and says, "Begin."
So they do.
The whole point of the film is that the main character, John, wants to be anyone else but himself. He retreats into his mind; elaborate, whirlwind fantasies make up most of the movie, where John imagines that he is a playwright, a king, a pirate.
When the script was sent to him, Arthur knew he was sold from the first word. He practically ripped the phone off of its cord when he called his agent to scream "Yes."
SCENE I
A darkened apartment in Boston, late evening. MADELEINE and JOHN have just had an argument, a bad one. Tables are overturned, a vase is broken and lying in a heap of shards on the floor, the soil within now splattered on the wall and ground into the carpet.
Arthur sighs, feels himself slip into that murky space between himself and who he isn't. He's no method actor; Francis says it's because he likes himself too much to give himself up, and that's probably true. So he relies on his ability to not be Arthur Kirkland for only short periods of time.
He straightens up a little, drags his right arm from the back of the couch to his script. He doesn't need it anymore, but he likes to have it open anyway, just in case revisions need to be made. (Or, God forbid, he forgets a line. He would hate to be such a disgrace.)
Elizaveta reads.
MADELEINE
John?
JOHN does not hear her, or he does not want to listen. MADELEINE does not know to differentiate, and if she did, she would not care to.
Elizaveta's— Madeleine's— faces goes sour, and if this were filming she would stalk off.
MADELEINE
I'm going out.
She leaves, behind her a cold, angry wake. JOHN rouses at the sound of the door slamming, sees that she is gone, and buries his face in his hands.
"I wasn't always like this," Arthur finally says, in an American accent that he hates but must do anyway, closing his eyes and his script; he likes the way he can hear his voice but doesn't feel attached to it. His next breath rattles into his lungs so satisfyingly in the vacuum of silence, that when he opens his mouth to say the next line he's finally settling into John—
"Stop, stop," huffs an exasperated Roderich, and Arthur snaps back to himself. The first thing he feels is anger. Not a pleasant welcome back to his body.
"Why?" he hisses.
Roderich ignores him and turns to Vash. "I don't like the pacing here."
Tensing, the writer spits, "Since when? We've read this scene a thousand times!"
"If you are going to lash out, at least be accurate," he says, straightening his square frames with a huff. "It has been thirty-eight times. Now, I wish that instead of contesting me, you would offer a solution. You are the writer, after all. It is your job, or am I mistaken?"
Elizaveta says sourly, before Vash can retort, "Please, Roderich, have some restraint."
"Dear, if I did not have restraint, my fist would currently be connecting at great speed to Mr. Zwingli's face."
Francis rolls his eyes and mutters something to the tune of "this is getting tiresome," and in a rare show of agreement, Arthur nods.
Francis turns to him, lowering his voice so he won't be heard (Roderich, Vash, and Elizaveta are loud enough that he probably doesn't need to) and murmurs, "Will our film ever be completed, or are we destined to argue at table reads forever?"
"I hope for the former but expect the latter," Arthur grumbles.
"Always so eloquent, even when angry."
"Not always, but thank you. Besides, I'm more tired than angry." He rubs his eyes to demonstrate the point.
"Oh? Did Mr. Jones keep you long?"
"Mr. Jo— oh. No. Only an hour or so." Fuck. He'd forgotten about that.
Francis raises an eyebrow; something smashes in the general area of Roderich and Vash, and they ignore it. Antonio is laughing like a madman and Arthur would prefer not to see why. Getting involved in whatever is going on with the director, the actress, and the writer is a guaranteed voucher for One Free Migraine.
"And how did it go?" Francis asks.
"You are altogether too interested in this," Arthur points out with a grumble.
"It is an interesting situation you find yourself in!" he insists. And Francis pastes on that infuriating little smile he gets when he's going to dangle a piece of information of Arthur's nose, and won't tell him what he has until he's got Arthur begging. They have known each other for a very long time, and Arthur knows that look all too well.
He wishes he didn't.
"It went perfectly fine, Francis."
"Really? And what did you do?"
What is this, an interrogation? "He took pictures." Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, chanting various heinous swear words in his head, all maliciously directed at his costar.
"No, did he?" Francis gasps, clutching his heart. "I never would have expected! What a turn of events! A photographer, taking pictures? I cannot contain my amazement!"
"How did you even get through acting school? You can't even be believably surprised."
Francis says dryly, "Unless I am most horribly mistaken, the point of sarcasm is to exaggerate, Arthur."
"Whatever."
Francis gives up. Turning to the growing mess that is Elizaveta, Vash, and Roderich, he rather hurriedly stands to intercede. There is a terrible discordant clang from the piano when Roderich falls back to avoid a swing from Elizaveta, who is holding what appears to be the frying pan she had threatened him with two days before.
That woman, Arthur thinks, impressed, keeps her promises.
"Stop this!" Francis cries. Vash stands off to the side, watching the proceedings sulkily and doing absolutely nothing to intercede.
Antonio rolls his eyes. "We are on a sinking ship," he mutters to Arthur, realizes who he's talking to (and what about), twists his mouth into a frown, and shuts up.
Francis has a gift, and it is a wonderful one. He can quickly, and with ease, smooth out even the most awkward social situations with nothing more than comforting murmurings in French and the subtle calling in of old dues. Soon enough, Roderich, Vash, and Liz are all seated far away from each other, blushing and grudgingly apologizing, reminiscent of children.
"Are we ready to begin again?" Francis asks, the ever-patient Kindergarten teacher (that maybe he should have been, really, he is much too good at this). With embarrassed nods from his colleagues, he flashes a condescending smile and once more takes his seat between Arthur and Antonio.
Roderich clears his throat, too loudly for the thick quiet, and pretends that nothing ever happened. "Let us begin from where we left off," he says.
Arthur sighs and flips his script open; he's lost his place, and he reads until— ah, there.
It's easier, this time, to lose himself.
JOHN
I wasn't always like this.
The words fall off of his tongue slowly and deliberately, and he hopes the American accent doesn't sound too horrifically fake (it's always the one he has the most trouble with). This is the first big monologue, the first reveal into who John is. It is so, so important that Arthur should get this right.
JOHN
I wasn't always like this. It's been going on so long that I don't remember how I was before. Madeleine was around before, too, but I don't think she remembers either.
Deep breath. Thoughts slow, it's just the words now…
Nobody ever remembers. That's the problem. I remember things. It's easy, when you live in your head.
"You're being too sarcastic, Arthur," Roderich interrupts. "John isn't sarcastic. He is broken and beaten-down. You are aware that you are, in fact, playing a downtrodden American and not yourself?"
Arthur bristles. "I am extremely aware, Roderich."
"Then act like it. Continue."
Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Arthur fights the urge to grind his teeth. He can take criticism, but coming from Roderich it's so barbed, and it stabs you right where you want to be stabbed least. And in Arthur's case, it's his ego. And his acting ability. And—
Okay, so Arthur can't take criticism. He sulks and rages for days if a film of his gets a bad review.
Still, he doesn't deserve such abuse.
He continues anyway, with frequent intercessions of Roderich's or Vash's or whoever's, telling him what he's doing wrong (they couldn't have told him these things at the first ninety fucking table reads?) until the godforsaken first scene is over and they move on to the second, the first fantasy. A dream of John's, based off of a fight for a promotion between John and Antonio's character, Marc. In John's mind, the conflict morphs into combat: a British privateer versus a Spanish pirate, a battle to the death on high seas.
John doesn't get the promotion, and his British privateer-self is sunk. Because what kind of tragedy would it be without that first fall?
(Thank God Arthur gets to stop the American accent for this scene. It is fucking difficult to keep up, and he's sure he's going to have a sore throat from all these weird vowels in the morning.)
At least everything is going smoothly now, thinks Arthur.
They're on scene three when everything goes to hell.
"Arthur," Roderich hisses for the millionth time, but at this point it is filled with much more venom. "Have you even been listening, or—"
"Of course I have!" Arthur has long since abandoned his script in favor of gripping the arm of the expensive couch, teeth clenched. Francis eyes him with bemused concern; Liz is staring, furrow-browed at him, from her seat by the window.
"Then why haven't you improved?" demands Roderich. "Really, Arthur, we cast you in this role for a reason, and if you would like to completely ignore me then you have no reason to be here."
"Roderich," Francis cautions in his strangely parental I am losing my patience voice.
Roderich doesn't even recognize that Francis spoke. "Really! I would have thought you, Arthur, of all people, would be able to take criticism. I heard such good things about you! From Francis, from Elizaveta—"
It's Liz this time who warns, "Roderich—"
"If you are not going to listen, then you might as well leave, Arthur."
Oh.
Oh.
I am listening, thank you very much, Arthur thinks childishly (but does not say). He does not say that he is trying to improve but really he thinks he's doing a damn fine job because Roderich is the only one who seems to have any complaints.
And Arthur knows he shouldn't be getting so angry, because he hates being the diva, stiff upper lip and all that, but something flies out of his mouth that sounds something like "Then I will."
And he leaves.
He regrets it immediately, but he can't go back in. Not with his pride on the line.
His brain desperately repeats and repeats, What have you done, what have you done, what have you done, you bastard?
Another part of his brain answers, Something really thickheaded.
He needs a drink. And a smoke. Goddamn, he hasn't wanted a smoke in five fucking years, why is it now that the cravings come back to haunt him? It doesn't make sense. Then again, what does any more? A simple country boy rocketing to stardom and fame and riches— now look how it's all changed him.
Not for the better, that's for bloody sure.
Maybe he's just not suited to the life. Maybe punk teenagers from England aren't meant to join their school's Drama Club when their well-meaning mothers force them to. Maybe that idiot kid should never have realized that he wants to live and breathe that stage for the rest of his life.
It was his worst decision, wasn't it?
Sure, it got him money and girls but it also got him a dependence on alcohol the size of— of something big. His mind isn't working at full capacity right now. Nothing tends to when you're running away from your director and costars (like the little coward you are, he can't help but think) through the streets of Boston, heading to the one place they would never, ever look for you.
He's dragging himself out of one fiery Hell pit and jumping headfirst into an even hotter one.
When he hails a cab rather desperately outside of a museum (one of the art ones that Francis tells him he just has to see), he is very thankful that the cabbie doesn't seem to recognize him; if he does, he says nothing.
Arthur chokes out an address, one he would really prefer not to resort to. But when the shit hits the fan, well, it's like his old dad said: run away where they'll never, ever look for you.
x.
Alfred has never been more scared in his entire life.
"Oh my God, Matt, make it stop," he whimpers.
"I can't," he hisses back.
The horrible scraping sound at the door continues. They continue to cower behind the couch like little girls.
A voice, chill and smooth and like iron, rings out from the hallway. "The rent," it breathes. "The rent."
"N-Natalia, w-we'll— we'll have it by Monday—"
Matthew is cut off by the sound of a key in the door. "The rent."
Alfred fights an urge to crumple into the fetal position and fails. "Since when does she have a key?"
"She's the landlord, fuckass! Of course she has a key!"
"I believe the correct term is landlady, Matthew." He may be scared for his life, but there is no time when it is unfit to torture his brother.
Mattie, predictably, doesn't agree. "Now is not the time, Alfred."
The door swings open, and they stop breathing. Everything is quiet, like ice, cold and very, very breakable.
It doesn't break, though. It melts, it melts as Natalia sweeps forward, her dress rustling and her soft shoes slipping across the floor, the very silence a threat against their existence.
Very quietly, and very gracefully, she lifts her skirts (she wears the same thing every day, that goddamn blue dress) and squats down to be at eye level with Alfred. Right at eye level, and damn him if he admits it but it's terrifying.
"The rent," she says softly, and she tilts her head a little like one of those weird kids in horror movies, the possessed ones with the wide eyes and the perfect hair. Doll-children. Natalia is a doll, a horrible overgrown doll in her blue dress and apron, headband and long, meticulously smooth white-blond hair.
Alfred finds that he has suddenly lost the ability to speak English. Is he suddenly remembering French from those classes in grade school or something? Whatever it is, the stuff coming out of his mouth doesn't make any sense.
Matt doesn't seem to be much better. "Yes, yes, Natalia, we're— I'm— I'm getting, um, um, paid! Yes, paid today, you see and oh god."
Natalia swings around to press her emotionless face close to Matthew's— their noses are almost touching, Jesus Christ. Alfred can almost imagine the horror, and he's glad that it's his brother who's enduring it and not himself. Selfish? Yes. But Alfred's always been good at self-preservation.
"You will give me the rent by Friday," Natalia breathes, "yes?"
Matthew can only nod.
The monster shaped like a woman nods back, looking sated. She stands and Matthew slumps over, breathing hard like he'd just run a mile.
"Natalia! Nat!"
Feet pound up the stairs, and Alfred and Matt jump pitifully at the noise. The voice keeps crying the landlady's name. "Nat! Come on, don't be too harsh on them. Nat—"
Natalia is looking up expectantly now. Alfred can hear someone bound in, but, well, his legs are still trembling a little and he doubts that he can stand up and have a look to see who the latest guest is.
He doesn't have to, though, because she runs over and grabs Natalia by the shoulders, now standing in full view. Matt is staring at her, entranced, and it takes Alfred a second to figure out why. She's pretty, with short hair the same color as Natalia's and a small, pretty face. She's all pale and porcelain like the landlady, but rounder and less… creepy? Cute, but none of those are reasons for Matt's jaw to be hanging open like that.
And then it hits him. The girl's wearing a tight T-shirt, and Alfred feels stupid for taking so long to realize it. It's the boobs. The boobs that probably have their own zip code, he thinks, amazed. Alfred's fascination is purely scientific, but if Matt looks like he's on the verge of a really awkward boner. He pinches Matt's arm to get him to stop staring.
"Nat, please," the newcomer sighs. "Be gentle!"
"I was," Natalia protests, ever-so-calm. "I didn't bring the knife this time."
The woman whips around to face Alfred and Matt, who are still curled up behind the couch, shaking. It doesn't faze her at all— maybe she's used to the effect Natalia has on people. They seem to have known each other for a long time, and now that Alfred thinks about it, they could be sisters or something.
Natalia tries to say "Kat," but is interrupted.
"She brings a knife?" the new girl, Kat, asks incredulously.
"Never to us," Alfred tries to clarify, but it ends in a squeak when Natalia claps her eyes on him again. She's not even that much older than him, but she seems like she's been alive forever. Like a mummy. Like that one mummy, in that one movie that Matt dared him to watch when they were thirteen and Alfred didn't (couldn't) sleep for six months afterwards. "But Gilbert downstairs hasn't. Ahem. Been so lucky," he finishes lamely.
Natalia's eyes narrow at him, and Alfred contemplates pulling his shirt over his head in an attempt to hide. (Matthew, on the other hand, is still mesmerized by Kat's chest and doesn't seem to mind Natalia's presence anymore.)
But Kat just sighs in that sitcom way that should be followed by a drawn out "Natalia-a-a-a-a-a." Thankfully, it isn't, since that would have been really weird.
"I'm sorry that my sister is so batshit," Kat apologizes. "I'm Katyusha, but you can call me Kat. I don't expect you to remember the full one, since nobody does."
She smiles and offers a hand to Al, and then Matt, and helps them to stand. It surprises Alfred that she's so small— she's the type of person who seems tall, even if she's not. Sturdy. Al likes her already.
Matt likes her, too, though for different reasons. The smile she gives him makes him melt like ice cream on a summer sidewalk.
"I'm Matthew," he manages to say, eventually, when he's gotten his breath back. "And you're… Katyusha. I'll, um, remember."
Alfred stifles a laugh. His brother is so nervous that his Canadian is showing.
Katyusha's smile grows even wider. "Sure." She grabs his hand and shakes it, even when he didn't offer. And she holds her grip longer than she needs to. "I always liked the name Matthew. My mother is from Ukraine, you know. She'd call you Matvey."
Matt throws her a crooked smile. "It's more interesting than plain old Matthew."
"I don't think it's plain!" she laughs.
Alfred wonders when the happy announcement will be.
Kat eventually releases Matt's hand, gives him her number (which he fumblingly saves to his phone), and drags her sister out. Natalia shouts threats at them as they go, leaving the brothers bewildered, flustered, and very slightly exhausted.
Too many emotions for nine AM.
Alfred is the one to speak first, using the worst impression of his brother he can muster. "I'll, uh, herpy derpy derp, remember, eh?" he squeaks, waving his arms.
Matt rewards him with a punch, but it's halfhearted, because he's also trying to hide the fact that he's blushing up a storm. "I don't say eh! I'm from Montreal!"
"Matvey, Matvey!"
"Shut up."
"You know what? You should've been honest with her. You should've been like, 'Kat, baby, your rack is out of this world.'"
Matthew scoffs. "This is why you're stuck with dicks instead of chicks."
"How would you even hug her?" Alfred asks incredulously. "The boobs would be, like, all squished between you. You'd be a boob sandwich."
"That's kinda the point."
"They are sacks of fat that spew milk."
Grimacing, Matthew says, "Well, they're not hot when you put it that way."
Al grins dazzlingly at his brother. "Come to the gay side, Matthew. We'll bake sparkly rainbow cookies for you."
"You can't cook for shit. I'll stick with the boobs, thanks." He grabs his keys off the floor (they had fallen out of his hoodie when they were cowering) and strides towards the still-open door. "Come on, Mom will be pissed if we're late."
Throwing a blustery sigh, Alfred whines, "Why do we care, again?"
Matt gives his brother a sympathetic glance as they pound down the stairs. "Because she's our mother."
"Yeah, well, our mother is a grade A bitch."
"True. But that makes you the son of a bitch."
"You twist my words, Williams."
"Doesn't take much effort to make you sound stupid, Jones."
They're already hopping into Matt's cab (hijacked for the day— Matt's boss, Mr. Karpusi, is back on Valium and snoozing away the world, making his taxis accessible for more personal sojourns) when Alfred remembers that he and Matt are twins, and that if he himself is a son of a bitch, that makes Matt a son of a bitch, too. But it's too late for the comeback now, so he just hops into the passenger seat with minimal grumbling. Matt looks rather triumphant as he buckles his own seatbelt, and is about to turn the key when—
The back passenger door opens. "Room for one more?"
"Sorry, man, not on duty, you have to—" Matt almost says.
It's Kirkland.
Of course it's Kirkland. Wouldn't it be, though? Wouldn't it fucking be? Alfred can't help but think. First, he almost gets murdered by a psycho landlady. Then his brother gets hit on by the psycho landlady's giant-boobed sister. And now the actor he's sort of not really technically blackmailing is climbing into the back of his brother's cab, his arrival totally unannounced, when they're about to leave for Connecticut.
"Where are you headed?" the actor asks, too cheerily and seemingly unfazed by the perplexed brothers in the front seat.
"Connecticut," Alfred says hopelessly.
"Wonderful! Let's go." He stretches out across the seat like, like he owns it, dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and snakeskin shoes catching the sun through the window. It's weird, seeing him dressed… fashionably. There's a weird disconnect now in Alfred's brain since he's seen what the guy really wears, and Kirkland seems more suited to a Who shirt or, like, a sweater vest.
Definitely not snakeskin shoes.
Alfred can't do anything but weakly protest. "You weren't even supposed to come by today, so…?"
"I'm running away from my director."
He is way too fucking calm about this.
Matthew pipes up now, taking over for (a very relieved) Alfred. "They won't look for you here?"
"Not in Connecticut, they won't!"
Oh God, he even takes out a nail file. He actually starts filing his nails. Right there on the backseat. While talking to them, concentrating on his cuticles instead of the people he's intruding on. Who does that? Who really does that, besides cheesy movie villains named something like Doctor Malevolence?
Unless he's occupying his hands in the hope that Alfred won't see them shaking.
Which Alfred does, of course.
"That's why it would be great, if you would, you know. Start driving." Arthur drags the file quickly and efficiently over the crest of a nail, a thin trail of dust forming along the ridge. By the look of it, he gets manicures, so he doesn't really need the file at all.
God, he even gets manicures.
He had seemed human yesterday. Behind Alfred's camera, Arthur Kirkland had seemed human.
Matt has to hold Alfred back from punching this presumptuous fucker in the balls.
"I don't even have my camera!" he finds himself growling. "You don't even like me! Why do you run away to me?"
Arthur looks up from his nails, and it's that stupid movie star face that says in that stupid movie star voice, "It's precisely because I don't like you. They won't look for me with you."
They look at each other for a long time. Their eyes have a conversation.
There's no chance of getting rid of you, is there?
Arthur blinks. No chance in hell.
Alfred feels sick and the car hasn't even rolled out. "Matt, start the car," he sighs. "I'm gonna go grab my camera."
He pretends not to see the look of triumph on Kirkland's face.
Kirkland's stupid face.
Kirkland's stupid ugly face.
Kirkland's stupid ugly butt face.
He consoles himself with third-grade insults all the way to Worcester.
A/N: I… I don't even.
I'm just going to scream and flail wildly about the feedback on this dumb little story, because it makes me happy to the point of incoherence. You guys are the absolute best. As always, I subsist upon feedback, and without it I will waste away into nothingness. (I won't. But reviews are still nice, good or bad.)
Eyebox: Matt left Montreal before he learned to drive. Plus, the chapter was from Al's perspective, so he wouldn't know about the traffic there. Sorry if that wasn't clear! In the next chapter, there will be some of that promised backstory, which will hopefully lift some of the fog.
(Damn, these author's notes keep getting longer and longer.)