I know. Bad grammar. Need. Beta.
If you've read my multi-chaptered fics before, you'll easily guess that I'm always writing one scene per chapter, hence making it very short. I don't know why I'd always do so though, but I think it's because I'd like to leave people with cliffhangers at every chapter's end? I'm not very good at writing, let alone doing multi-chapters. I guess 'story-teller' suits me better than 'writer'. Haha! *dolphin noises*
Oh, I wrote a song called 'Trafalgar Law'. It's not about Traffy, though. ( soundcloud (dooot) com (slash) busoshokuhaki (slash) songwriting-trafalgar-law )
Okay, I have journals to read so I hope you enjoy this chapter. *female seductive dolphin noises*
I was freaking out.
I didn't need to glance at my watch at all to know that it's seven thirty-eight in the evening, as I could hear the golden bell from a distance, followed by a few of my Shandian production team members excusing themselves for their prayers. Seven thirty-eight. Twenty-two minutes to the premiere of 'Ask Your Heart'. My palms are sweaty. I sunk into a plastic chair while Flam peeked at the auditorium, now half-full, to which I am grateful for.
"Aw, nervous?" Flam asked, toying with a green guitar pick in his hand, a pick that he once mentioned 'a good luck charm'.
I nodded, exhaling through my mouth every time, assuming it would keep me calm. "Very. You?"
"Super, but trying not to pee," he answered, fidgeting on his spot.
The half crumpled piece of paper in my hand, I straightened it out messily to reveal a series of checklists in black ink – a few of us had the same checklist too, but in their own handwriting – in which most of the items are already marked with a green tick. I went through it once more, there was only one thing left to do before the show starts. Twenty minutes is, hopefully, enough to get everyone settled in their positions – the actors, the musicians, the coordinators, the SE and lightings, the audio.
My job tonight, is to ensure everything goes on smoothly.
Ten minutes to the show, I was anxious as ever, and I felt the need to stick by Flam the whole time – being the closest to me in the production team, he was the only one who could ease my nervousness with his accidental humour. I ran around backstage for nearly three minutes in my black long skirt that I chose to style over a grey Bones N Roses t-short and my favourite emerald pashmina shawl around my shoulders, the very basic Nico Robin look.
I was being very noisy, calling up actors and actresses, and everyone else, in their costumes and clothes, for a quick gathering. Our producer, Bon Clay, presented his short motivational speech in much enthusiasm – and a little spin, literally, in his gay clothes – that I actually felt that our little musical show tonight meant the world to us all.
Flam held my hand for a minute, and complained that my palms were sweaty, but then again, everyone is nervous!
Five minutes to the show, everyone went back to their places, standby for the introduction. I, on the other hand, decided that it would be good to join the musicians at their place. There was definitely something so exciting about being surrounded by music instruments and the people who can play them. I had my thick manuscript in my hand, with loads of notes in green and purple ink scribbled on most pages, and the play's brochure stuck out from in between those pages. I picked it out and read it one last time to savour the realization of my little dream.
"Ask Your Heart. Producer: Bentham Bon Clay. Junior producer: Nico Robin." I smiled, though a nervous one.
"Dream come true?" Flam asked.
"Dream come true, definitely."
You could always see the musicians if you are attending the show, because the musicians are always far left, exposed, only one level lower from the wide stage where the play will take place. My co-composer, Cutty Flam, was also the lead guitarist for tonight, joined by Bellamy the rhythm guitarist, Brook the violinist, Bartholomeo the drummer and Usopp the bassist. Standing in their places, rubbing their hands either to keep warm or just to ease the nervousness, I was the only one there who wasn't with any instrument, at all. The tall stool beside the lead guitarist, however, was for me.
We watched audiences filled the auditorium seats, and five minutes to show time, it was nine tenth filled. We watched the audiences spoke amongst themselves, getting excited, fighting over drinks and popcorns with their partners. I scanned the auditorium for familiar faces.
And my heart dropped when I spotted one.
"It'll be fine," I heard Flam mutter in my ear, because our casual voices were drowned by the echoes from the crowd. But that wasn't it.
"Robin?" He called my name again, holding me lightly around my shoulder. "Robin, you okay?"
I snapped the minute he began calling for someone else. He must've thought I had a panic attach when I froze at my seat. I quickly grabbed his arm, and pulled him back. "I'm fine, Flam. There's no need to ask for help." I tucked my hand into the hidden pockets of my long skirt, and took out a transparent, sealable bag with colourful tablets inside it. Unsealing it, I popped one into my mouth. The raspberry-coffee flavour spread around the insides of my mouth, and thought it sounded too ridiculous, the bittersweet tasted slowed down my heartbeat. Sugar and caffeine combined sends calming signals to my brain like nothing else in my entire food history.
Flam recognized it straight away – those coffee Mentos he had often call my anti-depressants – and that made him even noisier, throwing endless questions at me. "Robin? What happened? You okay? You saw someone? You saw who?"
I opened my manuscript, the first page, pretending to read it. Heck, I don't even have to, not yet, but I couldn't just dart out to backstage right now, or else Flam would've come after me instead of getting ready for his job for the night's show.
"It's Zoro, right?" Either he was a good one in the guessing game, or that I was being obvious.
I looked up at him, while he scanned the audiences for 'Zoro' whom he had only once saw a photograph of, in my phone, last night while I told him the story after our dress rehearsal post mortem meeting, over a cup of hot coffee for me, and a can of Cola, for him. "Second row. Black and green flannel."
"Oh," was all he managed to say.
"I thought I was prepared. To see him again. I knew he'd come to watch. To watch Perona."
Flam places his hand on my back, almost a gentle pat. "Robin, you'll be fine if you go backstage. But don't go putting poison into Perona's drink. Cola, okay. But not poison. We worked hard for this super shit to ruin it with our 'Holly' constantly visiting the toilet. And with little experience, I doubt her understudy could pull off the role as super as her."
"I can promise you on that," I told him. I was, for a moment, lost. My mind went blank, and all of a sudden, it decided to ward of all thoughts of the play itself, I couldn't even tell how much time we have left to show time! My mind went blank, the manuscripts in my hand seemed like a piece of junk I could just abandon anytime, and to fill the empty spaced, my memory box is being such a devil, recalling all memories I've sworn to myself I never will remember since the last time I cried myself to sleep.
Zoro was a fine, young man, with tanned skin, moss green hair, two deep eyes which appear narrowed every time he smiled a crooked, but beautiful smile, if he'd ever smile without him realizing it. Zoro was a fine, young man, who took my hand and slow danced to my favourite jazzy song on my twentieth birthday. Zoro was a fine, young man, who taught me how to see the stars clearer in the night sky, although they were often hard to spot when you are in a bright, busy city.
Zoro was a fine, young man, who promised me the world, but left, leaving me with a damned thought to myself, that to him, I wasn't good enough for him to fight for.
My phone wasn't silent, but I couldn't hear the tri-tone over the noises from the audiences. Only soft vibrations from my pocket alerted me of an incoming text message. My manuscript dropped, as my heart dropped, when I slid my fingers, tapped the phone screen and read a message from a name I've half-expected to see in my phone messages inbox.
It read, "I didn't know you're the junior producer for Ask Your Heart. I saw your name on the brochure. Are you backstage?" and the sender's name was – ignoring that one period of time in my life where I was obsessed with giving people Japanese suffix in my phonebook – Zoro-kun.