Chapter Text
London, 1932.
In one of the theaters in London’s respected West End on an evening creeping closer to autumn, a show was nearing its end to thunderous applause.
On the stage, against the backdrop of painted stage pieces and beneath dimming lights is a lone figure.
He’s dressed for an evening out among high society, wearing a sharp tuxedo whose swallow-tail coat twirls with each elegant step that accompanies his rich baritone and the jaunty brass and strings playing from the orchestra pit, a fresh musical number from one of the popular songwriters of the day. The click and snap of his heels punctuates his words; his walking stick twirling with the graceful movements of his body as he tap dances. Miraculously, he manages to keep the tall top hat from falling off his head; it gleams, stiff black felt and silk, atop shining blond hair that’s neatly parted, slicked back.
All of a sudden, the jazz music quiets; a line of men donning the same attire as the star of the show emerge from both sides of the stage, crowding into an orderly line between two prop lampposts towards the back of the stage, looking out into the crowds hidden under cover of darkness. There is hushed awe, but the star of the show only stands to the side, shifting with the beat from one leg to another, baiting the audience until the tension crests, becomes unbearable and with a bright smile, blue eyes sparkling he bursts into a rigorous routine that is as lyrically graceful as it is powerful. As he completes his last lines, he raises his walking stick, aims it at any one of them, mimes shooting and with each shot there is the explosive sound of the metal piece in the heel of his shoe cracking against the floor with impeccable timing, yet it comes off just as spontaneous.
One by one they drop like flies and at the artful descent of the last of them the lights are brought back to full brightness, the orchestra ends with a flourish and the draw of the show arranges an elegant bow as the clapping and shouting become a cacophony of noise. The curtain drops. As expected, there are two encores- he never does more than the two- before the show has come to an end for tonight. When the curtain falls to a close the third time, Erwin can still cackling from one of the upper boxes closer to the stage, even behind the thick red fabric.
He takes the steps descending from the stage, moves through the narrow corridor that leads to the dressing room. Along the way members of the technical crew, a few of the Men’s Chorus from before and some wandering instrumentalists from the orchestra wave their hellos, pass on warm congratulations in passing and he returns it all, trying to adjust for the level of enthusiasm. Because though Erwin is English by blood and country, his time in the States has nurtured in him an effusive and most boundless energy that comes as a culture shock across the pond, a manner he has become too comfortable mimicking such that it’s now grown on him.
When he reaches the door of his dressing room, he hears a loud bang come from within. With that reflexive intake of breath, he turns the doorknob, pushes the door open.
Erwin’s made good use of insurance premiums before, and he suspects he’ll need their services before the night is over.
It comes as a pleasant surprise then, when he sees that nothing is amiss, broken or blown up. ‘Hange,’ he greets, removing his top hat to hang it on the hat stand near the door before he slips into his dressing chair, which creaks under his bulk.
Hange Zoë tips their hand up in a wave, their lanky form sprawled across the leather lounge chaise against one wall, their own evening wear be damned. At the inebriated smile on their face Erwin’s intuition senses something amiss; to be sure he casts a long stare around the room. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, suspiciously so. He pulls off his tailcoat, draping it over an empty chair. Before he can get a word out-
‘Erwin Smith!’ Hange catapults themselves from the chaise, ambling with long strides to where Erwin is, now facing the mirror as he removes the now-unbound white tie from the collar at his throat. The scratchy starch of his dress shirt makes him itch, the buttoned-up collar more so and Erwin would like nothing better that to unbutton it. It presses against his neck uncomfortably for an instant when Hange, his manager and show producer extraordinaire, gives a none-too-gentle slap on the back.
He finds it easier to face the mirror, speaking to their reflection rather than twist his neck back, a painful endeavor he has no wish to endure. They go to sit on the chair where his coat is hung over its back. Erwin opts to let that slide for now.
‘Hange,’ he acknowledges a second time. ‘What did you think of the show tonight?’
They don’t mince words. ‘It was fabulous,’ they gush, in that clipped upper-crust accent which should sound imposing but instead has comical flair when they use it. Hange tugs at the buttons of their own tailcoat, nearly ripping one off in the process as they bounce their feet against the floor in a disjointed staccato. ‘Erwin, you were magnificent, just wonderful! The music, your routine…’ Their eyes are wide, bright behind glasses. ‘How is it possible, to be able to dance as you do?’ They grin at him. ‘You’re singing was splendid too,’ they add.
He can’t resist a small smile at that. They don’t need to cater to his feelings so much. Erwin is a dancer first and foremost; singing, unlike dancing is not second nature to him but it’s a necessary skill to complement the choreography, creating what has become his trademark style that has brought him recognition, success that meets his expectations, though most people would consider them dreams. While certainly passable, he is not a born singer. ‘We both know that’s far from true,’ he interjects. ‘I must say though, that idea of yours for the ending,’ he recalls men dropping like flies, the last one who stubbornly refused to drop after the first “shot”. ‘It’s quite ingenuous. The audience loved it.’
They grin, face warmed with joy. ‘They couldn’t get enough of it!’ He decides to omit mentioning the original ending they’d envisioned, the one both of them spent two nights arguing over before in a sulk Hange had given up, one that involved creating a ‘prop’ weapon involving a hollow walking stick that would fire a supposedly harmless potent chemical cocktail, rather than use a plain old walking stick as he did tonight. Because they were Erwin’s sole financial backer as well as producer of his current show, only Erwin had been courageous enough to enlighten them on the hazards- and potential lawsuits- associated with using an untested, likely illegal creation.
This back-and-forth between the two of them continues over the short time it takes for Erwin to change out of his costume into evening wear that’s tailored nicely to his frame. Hange continues their chattering as they emerge from the theater, pausing shortly for the few reporters waiting out on the street for him. Erwin smiles graciously for a few press photographs; his image preserved to satisfactory standards for tomorrow’s morning papers. He’s confident the critics from tonight’s performance will write up decent enough reviews; keeping good terms with the newspaper reporters can only mean good things for his three months in London and his determination to build on his career. He makes some small talk with each of them, shakes some hands, makes a few jokes of his own until Hange takes the opportunity to summon a taxi to the curb; they both climb in, Hange nearly poking his eye out with their walking stick.
For the time being Erwin’s booked a suite of rooms at the Ritz. Both because his finances allow for it and as it’s to be expected of him, a renowned musical theater star returning to home soil. For the sake of privacy he's made the reservation under Hange's name. Hange’s coat flies off the moment they step through the door, Erwin shutting it behind them. He goes over to the bar. ‘Scotch and soda?’ he asks.
‘Good man,’ they approve. They take a sip as Erwin settles onto the opposite chair, nursing a glass of his own. He’s generous with allowing himself a drink in this moment; for the rest of the night there’s no one apart from Hange to witness Erwin without the glossy show-business persona, and he’s much too exhausted to keep it up for the time being, refined and dashing though it is. The liquid burns down his throat pleasantly; he lets out an unfiltered sigh of contentment. Hange is dangerously close to getting comfortably drowsy, and Erwin knows that if they fall asleep now, their butler will have to call for a car, wrestle them into the taxi and return to the townhouse in the early hours of the night. As well, Erwin liked to flatter himself that his existence on earth brought some goodness into it. He hopes there isn't much left to say before they take their leave, can't recall any issues that would require his immediate attention.
‘You’re happier than usual tonight.’
He appreciates that Hange is not one to play games. Not convoluted ones that stretch out tortuously, at least. They sit up, slouching horribly and with such a lanky body it looks positively convoluted. Erwin wonders what it must be like, to be wealthy enough to wear such expensive clothes without a care for the cost of near-daily replacements. ‘Erwin, there’s something of tremendous importance I need to discuss with you,’ they say distractedly.
Hange stretches out a hand in a lunge that has Erwin almost jump up onto his feet in alarm, ready to call for a doctor if need be, but then they wipe their glasses with the fringe of the lace tablecloth and all is well again. Erwin reminds himself that he’s going to have to change it regularly, making note to speak to the staff about the matter sometime tomorrow, anticipating his manager’s needs though by nature of their professional relationship these duties should be directed the opposite way. The last thing he wants is his manager walking around the city with spotty glasses and tottering into broad streets full of automobiles and horse-drawn carriages or pitching into the lake in the nearby park.
He owns an apartment in London, but it needs dusting and he’s only been here three days. One more chore to attend to the following day. ‘So, what is this tremendous thing you want me to do?’ he asks.
Hange gives him a conspirator’s smile, delighted and a little mad. ‘Erwin,’ they declare, passionately so, adjusting the cuffs of their sleeves, ‘I’ve found exactly what you need!’
Needless to say, Erwin is flummoxed at their words. His mind works at a furious pace, trying to determine not what he truly needed, but what Hange had taken upon themselves to believe he lacked sorely in his life. It’s a fruitless task, and he quickly gives up out of exhaustion from earlier this evening. He lets out a sad sigh. It’s less a delicate exhale of air and more a weighty, drawn-out gust of wind like the billowing of sails. He owes this to both his sheer size and the physical demands of a career dancer. ‘Yes, and what would that be?’
They lean forward, knocking both knees loudly against the coffee table. ‘Petra has extended you an invitation for a weekend getaway.’
‘I see.’ Erwin has yet to meet Hange’s wife, the lovely Petra Ral, a born and bred society lady. ‘Don’t we have rehearsals for the show over the weekend?’
Hange nods vigorously. ‘Of course, of course. But Petra has been very insistent that you join us. She wants you to come along very, very much. She feels very strongly for it, Erwin.’
‘That’s very kind of her,’ Erwin begins cautiously, ‘but rehearsals are still scheduled…’
‘You can survive a four-day break. Three days- we can bring you back sooner. To hell with the schedule! And before you make noise about it,’ they warn, ‘this is for your own good.’
Erwin didn’t see how, and he says just as much.
There is a confiding tone to Hange’s voice; they’ve surreptitiously leaned in closer. ‘Any ideas?’
Erwin didn’t have the energy for this. ‘No, and I don’t understand why Petra would take such a sudden interest in me.’
‘Petra has some chums she’d like for you to meet.’
Erwin wonders whether Hange is referring to friends of the business variety, or otherwise. ‘Is this for business or pleasure?’ he asks finally.
‘Pleasure, of course! Petra isn’t one for boring old business.’
‘I see.’ He does not. ‘And where would we be going?’
‘Somewhere in Italy. I can’t remember, but she did mention bringing goggles. And that there would be gondolas.’
‘That’s very likely to be Venice, then,’ Erwin guesses. He then frowns. ‘So, you’re alluding to Petra’s desire to have me make friends.’
Hange lets out booming, raucous laughter. Erwin is reminded of the cackling from earlier in the evening. ‘Erwin, Erwin,’ they chide, ‘do you not know how wives are?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Well, they’re always up for a good scheme. And Petra seems to be in the mood for a spot of matchmaking. With you in her sights and that very hefty address book in her hands, the stars are aligned.’
‘You must mean that for Petra.’
Erwin isn’t seeking romance. He wasn’t searching for somebody special in New York, and London is no different. He considers his life, the constant traveling, days spent rehearsing and nights performing, the public and press observing his career and personal life. He’s worked hard to achieve these ends, devoted his life to making a name out of himself, a reputation in the world of musical theater and more than that, he enjoys his work, thrives on every triumph- every successful production, all the opportunities to be able to perform on a stage in front of so many people. With how busy and satisfying his life is, he simply can’t see how there would be room for someone significant, much less how he’d have the enthusiasm and desire to take on the responsibilities that came with such an attachment. It’s something he’s made do without, though it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice he’s made.
‘I’m very happy with my life, Hange,’ he says to them. ‘I’m free of obligation to others, I’m not tied down to responsibilities and duties. I spend my life pursuing what I’ve always wanted and’ -he winces before the words- ‘I’ve been lucky enough to achieve my dreams. As awful as that expression is.’ Hange laughs, and Erwin stands up, pleasantly buzzed with the tingle of mild intoxication. He kicks his chair back, moves to the open space on the parquet floor between the entertaining area and the door. Taps his feet once, twice experimenting with the beat until he finds a rhythm and then he dances.
Erwin strings along some words, borrowing from a melody he’s heard in meetings with the songwriter, a song that’s yet to be released. Something about being fancy free and free of anything fancy- he can’t remember the exact wordplay, but Hange is guffawing gratifyingly loudly as they lay witness to him making himself out to be the best kind of idiot- an optimistic one- courtesy of the alcohol. He improvises a song-and-dance routine and the world spins in brilliant color, full of the joy of life and need to make something of it that Erwin has always had. The parquet floor magnifies every stomp of his heels- Hange is equally earsplitting- but as he sings he fails to register the deafening noise.
Unlike Erwin and Hange, the person occupying the suite just below them- asleep in bed mere minutes ago- does.