Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Geoffrey Tennant had not always hated Darren Nichols. It was perhaps more accurate to say that Geoffrey and Darren had not always hated each other, but, given the ambient good-natured hatred Darren held for everything that seemed to be important in his life, Geoffrey wasn’t sure he could say that with total certainty. Regardless, there had been a time when, at the very least, the two of them had managed to have something not entirely unlike a friendship.

It started in March, or close enough, of 1980, during their first year of university. Geoffrey had known who Darren was since the start of the year, of course. Their program was fairly small after all— barely forty people across the three years in performance, maybe half that again in the directing and technical focus— it would have been impossible not to be fairly familiar all the people in their class, but he hadn’t really given Darren much more thought than any of their other classmates. Geoffrey didn’t make friends easily, and in a line of fourteen excited drama kids he avoided outside of class time, Darren honestly didn’t stand out one way on the other. Of course, Darren in university had been a tamer, softer, more commonplace version of the bloviating, arrogant, and outlandishly dressed man he eventually became so that wasn’t as surprising a fact as it could have been. When Geoffrey cast his mind back— not that he was inclined to spend a lot of time remembering university— the best recollection he could muster of Darren from those early days was a vague impression of light, baggy jeans and large glasses under a mess of dark hair.

In the second semester of their first year they were staging Godspell, and after the first time they’d managed to get it up on its feet and more or less stumbled the whole way through, the class decided to hold an impromptu celebration. Sure, there had been a lot of stopping, the choreography needed a lot of work, and they didn’t have anything close to finalized blocking… but, they had made it all the way from start to end and that merited a drink. Or required a drink, really, in Geoffrey’s case. He was having difficulty mustering the same enthusiasm as the rest of the cast about this particular production, and he didn’t relish spending an extra few hours with people excited about musicals. But free drinks outweighed having to spend time at what was in practice, if not in name, a party, and so he’d gone with everyone else to someone’s small, dingy apartment.

Geoffrey wound up sitting in a corner, half-listening to a conversation about some band and considering just going home. He finished the dregs of his beer in a single gulp and got up, weaving his way through clumps of people to the drinks table. He’d stay for one more drink, then go home. If he managed to do it without having to talk to anybody, that would be a plus. Geoffrey opened a Carlsberg, and just as he slid onto and unoccupied chair, a voice cut through the background chatter.

“No, listen, there’s something about it that overcomes its mediocrity. I’m not saying it ought to be ranked among the greats, but it’s a play that’s undeservedly overlooked and by that token, Troilus and Cressida is underrated!”

Geoffrey swivelled his head to look where the voice had come from and saw Darren.

He was sitting in an over-stuffed armchair, one leg up on the seat so that he was turned almost entirely to the side, waving his hands as he spoke to two of their classmates sitting on a couch next to him who seemed to be only half as invested in the conversation.

Geoffrey was not the kind of person who talked to people out of the blue, he never had been. He didn’t start conversations with classmates who were barely more than acquaintances during parties he didn’t want to be at. But—

“Are you kidding me, it’s possibly the greatest thing I’ve ever read! I mean, it’s an absolute train wreck from a structural perspective, but it’s just so fun when it gets going that I can’t help liking it.”

“Exactly my point!” Darren told the people on the couch, gesturing emphatically at Geoffrey across the rickety coffee table and not missing a beat at the unexpected interjection. “I should absolutely despise it on the basis of pacing alone, and yet I don’t. It is a travesty of plotting and not at all an effective tragedy, but reading it brings me joy. Any play that can do that and does not receive proper recognition is underrated.”

“Well,” Geoffrey leaned forward, moving forward in his seat so he didn’t have to talk so loud to be heard, “I mean, the bits with Troilus and Cressida are lacklustre, it’s really just a watered down version of what he’d already done in R and J, but there are parts in the Grecian camp that are honestly some of my favourite in the whole canon. The insults, obviously, but the rhetoric and poetic language is better than people give it credit for.”

Darren turned in the armchair, swinging his leg down from the seat and looking at Geoffrey. “But even the Troilus and Cressida scenes are enjoyable, you just have to know how to play them. I saw a production that was masterful—”

“You’ve seen it?” Geoffery’s eyes widened and he nearly knocked over his beer leaning forward.

Darren beamed. “At the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, on a family trip when I was sixteen. John Barton directed, his third time staging it, apparently.”

“God, really? How was it?”

“Amazing, the costuming alone was revelatory.”

“I’ve wanted to see it for ages, ever since I first read it, but it’s performed so rarely! I mean, there was that one at New Burbage in ’72. It got terrible reviews and there’s no way I would have appreciated it, but I almost wish I could have gone.” Geoffrey swallowed a gulp of beer. “Not that my parents would have taken me, even if I had known about it. Or been old enough to care about the more obscure plays.”

“God, I know what you mean. I was just beginning my interest in theatre when I saw it, I don’t think I appreciated my good luck even if the play itself was fantastic.”

“Yeah,” Geoffrey laughed. “I got into Shakespeare young, when I was eleven, but just interest isn’t the same as critical insight. But, sorry— I interrupted you, you were saying something about the tone?”

“Yes!” Darren straightened up. “Barton’s production was amazing, but I’ve yet to hear of any staging that really leans into it the humour of the Troilus and Cressida scenes outside of Pandarus. You mentioned Romeo and Juliet. The play isn’t to my tastes, but at least you can take what they’re saying seriously because you believe their love. When things are funny— and it is a funny play despite being a tragedy—”

“Thank you! So many people miss that!”

“I know, it’s infuriating! They take one look at the word tragedy and can’t make room in their heads for the mere possibility of a joke.” Darren paused, gaze unfocused. “Where was I?”

Geoffrey took a sip of his beer, “Humour in R and J.”

“Right. When there’s humour in R and J, it adds to the tragedy later, and it is not at the expense of their truth of their feelings. Troilus and Cressida’s romance, however, is nearly impossible to take seriously. Their relationship should really be played as melodrama. I honestly believe that much of the weakness of the play can be overcome through reconsidering its classification.”

Geoffrey frowned at him. “How do you mean?”

Darren took a long sip out of the plastic cup in his hand. “Well, obviously Boas called it a problem play, and while not a structurally sound tragedy it does more or less fall into that categorization, but I think we should look beyond the traditional divisions that exist in terms of genre when considering the staging of the play. I have no interest in the author’s intentions when writing it, but as a reader it seems to me so clearly drenched in irony that one would be remiss not to play it as such.” Darren paused, cup half lifted. “Or at the very least, lean into the absurdity of the situations to some degree.”

Geoffrey shifted his position, resting his forearms on his knees. “Really? I mean, I agree with you that the tone of the play is a challenge, but I’ve always seen the storyline of the Greeks and Hector and whatever as more similar to R and J in that regard. There are funny parts, obviously, but that’s what makes the battle more poignant. The real tragic aspects are mostly from that story line, and it can be played fairly straight.”

“Achilles and Patroclus can be played straight?” Darren asked, smirking at Geoffrey over the rim of his drink.

Geoffrey blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. Smiling he said, “You know what I mean. Troilus and Cressida are a b-plot in a play that’s really about the parts adapted from The Iliad. Even if there’s some… mismatch in the way the two storylines are presented, the plot can be played without irony or melodrama.”

Darren leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I’d never considered it from that perspective. Obviously, the imbalance between the love scenes and the rest of the play is plain even at the most cursory examination, but the idea that Troilus and Cressida shouldn’t even be seen as the central story of the play named for them somehow eluded me.”

“Well it’s not surprising, considering. Of course Shakespeare’s going to be more interested in the Classics than in the medieval love story that just happens to be set in the Trojan War.”

Darren adjusted his glasses and snorted. “I don’t know, they’re certainly well entrenched in his stable of references.”

Geoffrey waved his hand dismissively. “Sure, but he obviously knew more about their surroundings and had more fun writing that.” He took a sip of his beer before adding, “Of course some of it would have been dictated by the actors he had, but the length of the speeches is enough to make that clear.”

“Yes… From a staging perspective though, the fact that it’s not really about Troilus and Cressida doesn’t really do much. I’d like to circle back to what you said about playing the story of the Grecian camp in fairly conventional way.”

“What about it?” Geoffrey got up, moving around the coffee table and dropping onto the couch, long since vacated by the people Darren had been talking to.

“Well,” Darren turned in his seat so he was still facing Geoffrey, taking a pull from his drink as he did, “you can’t possibly be arguing that the tragedy of that story is genuinely compelling.”

“No, I think it is,” Geoffrey said earnestly. “Or— I think we have to consider that it can be. These guys are fighting a war that’s gone on for years, and it’s lost its edge. It’s just the daily chore for them, they’ve grown complacent— and Ulysses calls them on it in act one. So you have a, a kind of… dark comedy with these petty arguments and concerns, and moments that make you forget where this is all going, and that— That can be completely entertaining without needing to bring in the melodrama that you mentioned.

“Like, you mentioned believing Romeo and Juliet, right?” Geoffrey took a swig of beer and continued, “I absolutely believe the conflict between the generals and Achilles, the scenes with Hector and Ajax, the actions of the other people in the camp— all of it. And when a huge fight breaks out on stage for the first time in this war play, the deaths hit home. Yes, it’s uproariously funny at times, yes the pacing’s still shit, and there is a wealth of amazingly outlandish insults being thrown around, but that doesn’t mean I take it as less genuine.”

“And then Troilus and Cressida show up to derail all of it.”

Geoffrey laughed. “Well, yeah, the play would be way better if it wasn't trying to be about them— or I guess, if they just had their own play and this story was allowed to be it’s own thing, but it’s like you said,” he shifted his positioning on the couch, “there’s something there railing against the play’s mediocrity.”

Darren frowned, nodding slowly as he considered what Geoffrey had said. Their initial frenzied back and forth had slowed into a more measured discussion. Geoffrey had pulled his feet up onto the couch so they were resting against the armrest closest to Darren and his back was resting against the other. Darren leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as he answered. “You bring up some good points, I suppose. I stand by my assertion that the chief problem is that this is a play which challenges efforts to place it in conventional genre category, but that is not a problem which has only a single solution.” Darren swallowed the last of his drink and added, “I think my main issue with treating it at all seriously is that Hector is far too underdeveloped to have his death truly mean anything to an audience uninvested in the whole of the Trojan War.”

Geoffrey drained his beer, tilting his head back to down the rest of the bottle. “True. And you’re right that playing up the absurdity of the whole mess is one way to make it entertaining.”

“Well, entertaining is better than nothing.” Darren stood up with a grunt. “I’m going to find another drink. Can I get you anything?”

“Er, I’m alright thanks.”

Geoffrey looked around while Darren walked towards the drink table. The apartment suddenly seemed much emptier than it had all evening. The music was quieter, and the people left were gathered in pairs or small clumps around the room. 

“God, what time is it?” Geoffrey muttered, craning his neck over the back of the couch to get a look at the clock on the wall. “I should probably be heading home.”

He pushed himself off the couch, adjusting his button down and glancing around himself as patted his pockets absently for his keys.

“Already?” Darren had re-joined him, sipping his newly refilled plastic cup.

“Yeah,” Geoffrey yawned. “I wasn’t even going to stay this long, but I got caught up talking…”

He started walking towards the door, Darren trailing behind him. He started digging through the closed for his coat, talking over his shoulder as he did, “Not that I regret it. Seriously, thank you for being the only enjoyable part of an otherwise unbearable day.”

“I take it you’re not enjoying working with Messers Tebelak and Schwartz?”

“Noooo,” Geoffrey laughed dryly. “No I am not.” He looked up from putting on his coat and added, “I, uh, I’m not really a fan of musicals.”

“Hmm.” Darren hummed, teetering on the border of agreeing and being noncommittal. “I can’t say they’re my first choice either, but they have their place. Besides, it’s better to just lean into at this point, don’t you think?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Maybe.” He sighed, and with one last look around the apartment he said, “Well, I should be heading out. But, I’ll uh, I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Yes. See you Monday.”

Geoffrey grinned. “Great. Talk to you then.”

They talked on Monday. They also talked every other day of class that week, and every day of the next. Often they’d start as the result of one or both of them having something to say on a topic they were covering in class and gradually turning what had been group discussions into conversations between the two of them, half-debates and half-brainstorming sessions that were volleyed across classrooms and studio spaces with increasing frequency and volume. Rarely did the content of the actual conversations stand out. It didn’t really matter, even as soon as they left the class, what the ideas were; it was the way that discussions with Darren formed, the way the act of arguing something with him made Geoffrey instantly more clear on the different sides of it, made ideas come more readily, made the whole rhythm of conversation smoother and easier to follow. Geoffrey never had to slow down when dealing with Darren. He never had to take the first ten minutes of any interaction to try to find the right words to express his ideas so that they wouldn’t be misunderstood, or to stop the conversation going in circles. Darren understood instantly, and they could cut straight to actually discussing the ideas at hand. It was immensely refreshing.

Sometimes they’d hit on a subject that one or the other actually had strong feelings on. Geoffrey’s thoughts on Hamlet. Darren’s violent distaste for anything that relied on physical comedy. They fell on opposite sides of Ibsen vs. Strindberg (though they could both admit the other’s work had some worth and no one else saw a point in picking a side), and the less time they spent discussing Taming of the Shrew the better for everyone around them. On those occasions, their debates would spill with them into the hallways, follow them to parties… More than once, Geoffrey phoned Darren in the middle of the night with one last retort or one a new insight he’d come up with. (Darren wouldn’t call. instead he’d show up to class the next morning with half an essay’s worth of midnight realizations and evidence for why he was right.) Their longer discussions stood out— the fights they kept coming back to, the shared staging ideas they always had new perspectives on— but for the most part the memories of different conversations blended together into the feel of what debating with Darren had been like, the shape their discussions took, the patterns that they followed. Eventually— not long at all, really, only about two weeks— it wasn’t just classes and rehearsals, it was while they were eating lunch, post-rehearsal drinks at the grimy pub on campus, and the all-hours phone calls that weren’t just the continuation of an idea but the start of a new one. It crept up on Geoffrey, but somehow talking to Darren became a constant. A mainstay of Geoffrey’s life. He could talk— really talk— to Darren Nichols. And that was everything.

By far the best part was that Geoffrey started to actually enjoy rehearsals. Well, no. “Enjoy” was still a bit of a stretch, but he could get through them without spending the whole of it doubting his choice of program now that he had someone to make sarcastic jokes with during breaks. One particularly gorgeous Saturday they’d been called in to fix up some problems with the first act. Spring had finally arrived, the end of the semester was rapidly approaching, and being stuck in a black box rehearsal space singing the same songs over and over felt like torture. While they were gathered on the floor for notes after lunch, Geoffrey leaned over to Darren.

“Five bucks says I can get Carlson to move us outside for the afternoon.”

Darren kept his attention on where their professor was standing, giving some comment to the guy playing Judas. “Don’t be ridiculous, he’d see through you in a second.”

“Who, Carlson? The guy loves me. I’m the only one who knew who Zola was without being told.”

Darren rolled his eyes. “Yes, and we’re all very proud of you, but you’ll never convince him.”

“If you’re so sure then why not take the bet? It’s five dollars, what’ve you got to lose? Besides, if you’re right you get to see me make an ass of myself disrupting a rehearsal.”

Geoffrey could see Darren debating himself internally, still keeping his eyes forward. After a second he said, “Ten.”

Smiling, Geoffrey clapped him on the shoulder before sitting up straighter and sticking his hand into the air.

“Er, so just try to remember that. Alright…” Their professor scanned his notes, checking that he’d gotten everything. Flipping his notebook shut he said, “I think that just about covers it, so— Yes, Geoffrey. Did you have something to add?”

“Yes, sir, I did. I was just wondering if we could try to get a bit of a…” he made circles with one hand, playing up thinking, “a change of scenery. Normally, of course, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting this,” he ignored a sarcastic scoff from Darren, “but considering the somewhat improvisational nature of the parables, and how little we want to limit ourselves, it might be good to change up our surroundings a bit. That way we can keep it fresh. Not get into too tight a pattern just because we’re somewhere familiar.”

A few of his classmates who seemed to have a slight idea of what Geoffrey was up to started muttering and turning to look at him. Their professor considered the suggestion, oblivious. “That’s not a bad idea. This room has become a bit of a cast member in its own right these past few weeks, hasn’t it? Might be good to see how we do without it before we’re forced to abandon it… But I don’t think any of the other studios are available to us right now, unfortunately.” 

“Well, what about outside? Just for the afternoon,” Geoffrey added, “to get our minds going.”

“Hmm… Rehearsing al fresco? Well, I suppose you have been getting a bit antsy, and really it would be a shame to waste the beautiful weather.” He considered, tapping his pen against his chin. Geoffrey ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, holding his breath. “Alright. Collect your things, no need to change again. In this particular case grass stains will just add character, hm?”

The class stood up quickly, chatting as they gathered props and bags. Geoffrey turned to Darren, expectant. “What did I tell you?”

Darren sighed, plucking the large stuffed fish Geoffrey was holding out of his hands and heading towards the exit. “Yes, once again you have managed to demonstrate that your skills extend to a deep well of bullshittery. No need to be too smug.”

“Come on,” Geoffrey followed him, grinning, “I got us a day outside!” He caught up to Darren and fell into step beside him. “That’s got to be worth ten dollars, hasn’t it?”

Darren rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. “Fine. I’m not tolerating anything from you about how much you hate musicals, though. You’ll restrain your comments to complaining about the costumes or discussing Shakespearean fools and that’s it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Geoffrey clapped his hand on Darren’s shoulder and sped up. Jogging slightly to catch up with their classmates’ retreating backs, he added, “I reread All’s Well last night, though, so I’ve got a lot to say on Lavatch.”

Surprisingly, being outside did actually seem to energize the group, at least at first. They got a few odd looks from the occasional passerby, but between the weather and the fact that it was Saturday, campus was nearly deserted and they could throw themselves into rehearsing without fear of being questioned or attracting gawkers. Their focussed energy waned rather quickly, but not in a way that Professor Carlson seemed to mind. As the four or five small groups he’d put them in slowly pulled away from the assigned task of running through the individual parables and devolved into conversations, he just circled mildly, giving pointers here and there whenever he passed a group that was at least half-heartedly running part of the show.

Geoffrey and Darren were with two other guys, in the dappled shade under a large pine tree at one end of the quad. They were all lounging on the grass expect Geoffrey, who was leaning against the trunk of the pine, lazily going over a theory he’d been developing while the other two talked about homework for some other class. Both conversations had fallen into a bit of a lull, and one of the other two— Adrian, as near as Geoffrey could remember, though he couldn’t be quite sure— pulled out a camera from his bag and started fiddling with it. Geoffrey looked around the quad at the rest of their class, idly taking in what they were doing.

“I keep coming back to Love’s Labour’s Lost, if I’m being honest.” Geoffrey commented, watching what appeared to be an impromptu performance of some song from A Chorus Line across the quad.

“Hmm?” Darren tilted his head, resting on the stuffed fish, to get a better view of Geoffrey. “What was that?”

“Love’s Labour’s Lost,” Geoffrey repeated.

Darren rolled over onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “For the love of god, why?”

Geoffrey adjusted his position against the tree, sitting up straighter. “I’m just not sure if it fits with what we’ve been trying to establish.”

“What? You don’t think that Moth’s jokes can be played as groan-inducing-ly bad? You still haven't properly convinced me that Lavatch’s consistently can, if I’m being honest.”

“Seriously? Every point that you made about Touchstone can be said of Lavatch, just… more openly sexual.”

“And that holds true, in his scenes with Helen. But his scenes with the Countess bear far more of a resemblance to Feste’s interactions with Olivia, and if we’ve established that he is the exception to the rule we’re trying to construct—”

“But the reason he’s the exception isn’t because his jokes should be played as genuinely funny for a modern audience to enjoy them, he’s the exception because he consistently uses his wit as a cover for genuinely insightful comments. His interactions with Olivia have an actual bearing on both the plot and an important aspect of her character. Lavatch is just… messing around and the Countess gets progressively more annoyed.”

Darren considered this, absently pulling at the grass. “That could be interesting to play with, actually. Their scenes are tedious and unnecessary as it is, the humour doesn’t really carry even if you understand the wordplay, not to mention that it’s excessively crass… But the idea of continually mounting frustration has potential.”

“Exactly. I know Touchstone started this whole thing, but honestly Lavatch is an even better contender.”

“Did he?”

“Who?”

“Touchstone,” Darren clarified. “Did he start this? I thought it started with you talking about Two Gents.”

“Did it?” Geoffrey frowned. “I could have sworn you brought up how Touchstone’s annoying and it went from there.”

Darren shrugged— an awkward gesture seeing as he was leaning on his elbows on a large stuffed animal. “Doesn’t matter now. What were you saying about Love’s Labour’s Lost?”

“Well,” Geoffrey took a deep breath, “it’s interesting that you went to Moth as the clown character. Most people would got to Costard first, wouldn’t they?”

“Well, perhaps. But, in the same way that Dogberry’s a clown. We’re not discussing the naturally buffoonish, we’re discussing the… Arlecchinos of Shakespeare’s canon.”

“Right,” Geoffrey agreed. “So Costard’s out. But Moth doesn’t really feel the same as Touchstone or Lavatch, does he? He’s not paid to be a clown, he’s a page. Don Armando uses him mostly for… running messages. Delivering letters.”

“So? I just mentioned Two Gents,” Darren rolled his eyes. “We included Speed didn’t we? He may not be literally a clown, but it’s the type of humour that we’re really using as a metric. Honestly, Geoffrey.”

Geoffrey snapped hid fingers, pointing at Darren. “Exactly. It’s the type of humour. And Love’s Labour’s Lost almost entirely relies on that type of quippy, quick-witted humour. Moth seems identifiable as they type of character we’ve been talking about— clowns, fools, Arlecchinos… whatever. He seems like that, because he’s similar to Speed, because he’s a clever servant, but you could easily make a case for the schoolmaster. Or Costard, even, in a very backwards way. I once found a quote calling his the smartest character in the play, for Christ’s sake. The premise of playing the clowns’ puns as something that annoys or frustrates other characters, rather than being genuinely funny to them, stands in general… I just don’t know how to make it work with this play.”

Darren looked at him and blinked very slowly. “I’m going to be honest with you Geoffrey, it’s been a very long time since I had any contact with the play, and even then it was an amateur production. I just don’t think—” He was cut off by a bright flash.

“Shit, sorry.” Adrian— Geoffrey was almost certain it had in fact been Adrian with them— said as both Geoffrey and Darren turned in his direction. “My finger slipped.”

“It’s fine,” Geoffrey told him. Turning back to Darren he said “What do you think about Lear, then? Because—”

Darren drowned him out with a loud groan. “Not right now, alright? By some miracle you’ve gotten us out of rehearsal, can we put the academics aside for now?”

“Okay, but just one quick thing—” Geoffrey leaned forward to make his point and promptly found himself smacked with a face full of plush fabric. “Hey!”

Darren had rolled over and he was lying his back, clutching the tail of the stuffed fish and laughing.

Geoffrey jumped to his feet, grabbing at the fish. “Give me that!”

“Hey!” Darren pulled it away from him, scrambling into a standing position himself. “Not so fast, you thief.”

“Thief? Me?” Geoffrey laughed. “It’s my prop, you’re the one who keeps stealing it.”

“Well, I don’t see you doing anything about it.”

Geoffrey looked around, casting his gaze over the ground for something he could use. His eyes fell on the spot where Darren had been lying and he lunged, scooping up a kaleidoscope that Darren carried in the show which had obviously fallen out of his pocket. Smiling, Geoffrey shifted his feet so he was in sword fighting stance, holding the cardboard tube as though it were a sword. Darren shook his head, laughing, but followed his lead, holding the fish out in front of him with both hands about halfway up it’s body. They stood like that for a second, the Geoffrey launched himself forward, kaleidoscope held high. Darren yelped and ran clumsily around the tree, swinging the fish in retaliation.

Étienne, the other guy they are supposed to be working with, whooped and started clapping. “Yeah! Go Tennant!”

“Get him, Darren!” Adrian called out, grinning.

Geoffrey managed to poke Darren in the ribs with the kaleidoscope, but getting that close meant that Darren could hit him in the face again, giving himself a chance to gain some ground while Geoffrey recovered. Geoffrey retaliated by darting around Darren from the side and grabbing his glasses, stuffing them awkwardly into his pocket while dodging Darren’s wild swings with the fish. He was vaguely aware, out of the corner of his eye, of Étienne pushing himself off the ground, but he was too busy trying to wrest the fish out of Darren’s grasp to pay much attention. There was a bright flash from Adrian’s camera to their right, and both of them turned to look, distracted. Darren seized the opportunity and plucked the kaleidoscope out of Geoffrey’s hand.

“Ha! Take that!” He stumbled backward, awkwardly swinging the fish to make sure he didn’t bump into anything.

“Oh, come on!” Geoffrey lunged forward, but Darren just managed to jump back. They both twisted around for a second, Geoffrey trying to grab one of the props and Darren breathlessly trying to evade him.

“Hey, Darren!” From out of nowhere, Étienne seemed to pop up beside them, snatching the fish and dancing backwards. “Think fast!” He tossed the fish at Geoffrey.

He and Darren both jumped for it, and tripped over each other, landing haphazardly on the ground and scrambling to be the first to get to it.

Geoffrey won, but just barely, kicking Darren off and stumbling to his feet. Adrian took another picture, but Geoffrey ignored it this time as Darren poked him in the stomach with the kaleidoscope. Geoffrey whipped around to face him. He was back in the mock-sword fighting position from before, kaleidoscope at the ready, beaming and panting heavily. Geoffrey’s own face hurt from smiling, and he struggled to catch his breath and look serious as he slowly assumed his own en garde. They sized each other up, tense and catching their breath.

“Give up?” Geoffrey asked, between pants.

“Hardly.”

Slowly, Geoffrey slid his eyes to his right, assessing the situation. Then, moving quickly, he flung the fish at Darren and leapt to the side. Darren started back, surprised, and caught it awkwardly, dropping the kaleidoscope into the grass. He turned to look for Geoffrey just as he’d managed to grab Adrian’s camera from him and start snapping pictures wildly.

Darren stumbled backwards, blinking from the quick succession of flashes, holding up the fish to shield his eyes. 

“Alright, alright, I surrender!” He gasped out, laughing. “You win.”

“Excellent.” Panting, Geoffrey lowered the camera, wiping his face. He bent over to pick of the kaleidoscope, straightening up with a sigh.

Darren lowered the fish, still holding it in front of him. He was grinning broadly, looking slightly unfocussed without his glasses. Geoffrey held up the camera with one hand. “Just one more. To document my victory.”

Darren rolled he eyes. “Fine. But then we’re done, alright? Truce for at least a week.” Geoffrey nodded his agreement and Darren lifted up the fish a bit, leaning his head onto as he grinned.

Geoffrey snapped the picture, then held out the kaleidoscope and Darren’s glasses to him. “Here. You’re gonna have to stop taking that thing, you know. As part of the truce.”

“Ugh, I suppose.” Darren took the glasses and kaleidoscope from Geoffrey and reluctantly handed back the stuffed fish. “And I owe you ten dollars, don’t I? This really hasn’t been my day.”

Geoffrey laughed, taking the fish and swinging it lightly over his shoulder. “Well on the bright side we got plenty of exercise.”

Adrian trotted up to join them. “Hey, I think we’re heading back in now.”

“Oh yeah, god, we were supposed to be rehearsing, weren’t we?” Geoffrey said. Darren burst out laughing, and Geoffrey let out a breathy chuckle as the absurdity of what he’d said sank in. They composed themselves, taking deep breaths, and started slowly walking back towards the building, gradually catching up to the rest of their class. Carlson seemed either oblivious or totally indifferent to how little had been accomplished, talking amiably to a student as he strolled back towards the double doors. 

When they were almost to the doors, Adrian asked, “Hey can I get my camera back?”

“Oh, sorry. Er…” Geoffrey rummaged around in his costume’s pockets, and pulled it out. “Here. Thanks, for that, by the way. I, uh, may have used up a lot of your film.”

“That’s cool,” Adrian shrugged. “If any of the pictures turn out well I’ll get you a copy.”

Geoffrey thanked him for the offer and then promptly forgot about it. The next few weeks were so busy with rehearsals and class that he barely had time for anything else. He didn’t remember about the photos until closing night of Godspell, when Adrian wove through the crowd backstage to find Geoffrey and Darren after the show.

“Guys! Hey! Geoffrey,” he called pushing through the energize, chattering crowd.

“Oh, hey!” Geoffrey turned to look at him. “How’s it going? Good show.”

Darren grinned at him over Geoffrey’s shoulder. “Great show!”

“Yeah, you too,” Adrian nodded. “Listen, I finally got that filmed developed.”

“What?” Geoffrey said, leaning closer.

“The film!” Adrian raised his voice to be heard over the rest of the cast. “From the other week. Most of the pictures were blurry as hell, but a couple turned out alright. Here.” He held out a small envelop and Darren took it. “I gotta go, my parents are out front I should go talk to them.”

“Yeah of course,” Geoffrey nodded. “Thanks, man.” He turned to Darren. “How d’they look?”

“Pretty good.” Darren leaned to the side and held the photos so they could both see as he flipped through.

There were only three, showing Darren Geoffrey at various points during their duel. At the back, there was the last photo that Geoffrey had taken of Darren.

“Hey, pretty nice.” Geoffrey grinned. “Look. I, uh, I gotta go get out of costume, my mom’s taking me to dinner. I’ll er, I’ll see you later though, yeah? When are you heading home for the summer?”

Darren laughed. “We do still have a few days of classes left, you realize.”

“Yeah, obviously, just, you know. We should… I don’t know, do something other than class before we’re both back home for four months. Whatever, we’ll work it out, alright, I gotta go.” He started pushing through the crowd, heading towards the dressing rooms.

“Wait!” Darren called out. Geoffrey turned. “Here. To commemorate your victory, wasn’t it?”

Geoffrey looked down at the picture Darren was holding out to him. Darren’s glasses-less face beamed up to him from the glossy paper.

“Thanks.” He took it, smiling. “I’ll hold on to it.”

Chapter Text

“Nichols household.”

“Er, hi. Uh, could I speak to Darren, please?”

“Of course, just a minute.”

There was a soft clunk as the woman on the other end— Geoffrey assumed she was Darren’s mother— set the phone down. Geoffrey shifted his weight, fiddling with the phone cord as he listened to the faint noises coming from the receiver. It was August 17th. Geoffrey was standing in his kitchen, leaning against the wall and watching two squirrels chase each other around the tree in his backyard.

Eventually, there was a slight shuffling noise, then Darren’s voice, slightly flattened and tinny through the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, Darren. It’s me— Er, it’s Geoffrey.”

“Geoffrey! How are you?”

“Uh, good. I’m good. I’m uh, I’m just calling to wish you a happy birthday?” Geoffrey winced at how awkward he sounded. He usually hated talking on the phone. He’d gotten used to it with Darren during the last month and a half of school, gotten used to the rhythm of talking to him even without any visual cues, but they hadn’t done a good job at keeping in touch over the summer and now it felt just as uncomfortable as any other call.

On the other end of the line, Darren laughed. “Thank you. I’m afraid it’s passing with disgustingly little fanfare. At least last year I could celebrate by taking advantage of my legal drinking status, and two years ago was voting… Nothing happens when you turn 20. Besides, there’s not really anyone here I’d want to see, and I don’t honestly enjoy going out that much, so…” Darren sighed, the air rushing past the phone in a crackly burst. “Anyway, how’s your summer been? I feel like we haven’t spoken since, what, May?”

“Yeah, that… uh, sounds about right. Er… What have I been… doing, I guess?” Geoffrey scratched at his ear. “I’ve been working as a, uh, bag boy. At the grocery store? Other than that I haven’t really been up to much.”

“Well, we went to New Burbage a few weeks back. Saw Comedy of Errors.”

“Yeah? How was that?”

Darren paused. Geoffrey could perfectly picture the expression on his face as he found the right words. “Well, it had its merits. Though I have to say I’m increasingly disinterested in vapid comedies, Shakespearean and otherwise, and that certainly isn’t one of the better ones.”

Geoffrey laughed, relaxing. He switched the phone to his other ear, sliding down the wall and settling cross-legged on the floor with his head leaning against the wall. “I can definitely say that it’s not your type your type of play.”

“Indeed.”

“So is that it?”

“More or less.” Darren sighed again. “Have you picked your classes yet?”

“Yeah. I mean, not that there’s much choice involved, you know? Mostly it’s predetermined by the program. You?”

“Actually…” Darren took a deep breath.

“What?” Geoffrey straightened up, lifting his head off the wall.

“Well,” Darren said on an exhale, “I’ve been considering switching to the production track. Moving my focus more into directing.”

Geoffrey let out a snort of laughter. “What? Seriously?”

“I’ve been thinking about it, that’s all. I’m not sure performing’s really my thing, per se. I don’t know, I’m just feeling a little bit… out of my element.”

“Come on, what are you talking about, you’re doing great. You’d be way more in the classroom with directing, anyway, you can’t expect me to believe you’d prefer that to studio work.”

“Maybe.” Darren said, followed by a rustling. “I just don’t know that I see myself performing for the majority of my career.”

“Okay, fine,” Geoffrey allowed, shifting his position on the floor. “Let’s say you get tired of acting after a couple years. Countless directors have made the switch from performing. Hell, basically all the artistic directors at the New Burbage festival have been guys who spent ages acting first. It’s so much harder to go into performing with your start in directing. And we’ve got a directing course third year, anyway, you won’t be getting nothing.”

“I suppose… I’ve got time before registration, though, I’d like to look into it some more, just see if it looks more interesting.”

“Okay,” Geoffrey relented, sighing. “The directing program better be worth it though, if you end up leaving me all alone.”

“Alright, fine,” Darren laughed. “Fine, you’ve convinced me. I’ll stick with performance.”

“Wonderful. My work here is done.”

Darren laughed again. “What, you’re leaving it at that?”

“Well, I hadn’t intended to, but now that I look,” Geoffrey craned his neck, juggling the phone as he checked the clock on the wall, “I might actually have to. Sorry. We should talk again soon. Uh, before school starts I mean.”

“Absolutely. How’s…” There was a pause, then the sound of flipping paper. “Thursday? Do you have work?”

“Not in the morning, at the very least. Beyond that I’d have to check.”

“The morning’s fine. I’ll call you then.”

“Great. Talk then. Have a good birthday, we’ll go out for a drink or something once the semester starts, yeah?”

“Sounds good. Until Thursday then.”

“Yeah, bye.”

Second year was much harder than the one preceding it. Their first year hadn’t been easy, by any stretch, but it had been pretty light on papers or other assignments, and most of their work was done in-class so it didn’t feel that stressful. This year, in addition to more rigorous work during their classes, they were piled high with homework: scripts to annotate, monologues or short scenes to memorize, exercises to do for their movement and voice classes that Geoffrey wasn’t entirely convinced weren’t just meant to test the bounds of what ridiculous things they would do before quitting. It took until nearly the end of September for Darren and Geoffrey to follow through on getting a drink— Darren complained, loudly and more than once before they finally found the time that they should have gone before classes started— and it wasn’t until nearly the Thanksgiving long weekend in October for Geoffrey to properly settle into managing his time even remotely well. Which unfortunately went out the window right after the break with an increased load in the lead up to reading week.

Somehow though, Geoffrey and Darren found snatches of time to dedicate themselves to their usual energetic conversations. During breaks in their classes, over lunch, on their rare free nights when they could get enough time to go to bars, even some evenings when Darren would turn up at Geoffrey’s door with enough beer and discussion points to last them far later into the night than was likely wise.

“Their rashness kills four people! Not counting them.”

“They’re forced to! They’re in love and no one around them— Hang on, that’s the bell.” Geoffrey broke off mid-argument, getting up with a sigh to answer the door. “Good god, it’s nearly 8:30 how are there still trick or treaters?” As he got close to the door, he called out, “We don’t have any candy!” Under his breath he added, “I don’t even have a pumpkin…”

“Just ignore them!” Darren shouted after him. “We’re supposed to be watching… What movie is this?”

“The fact that you have to ask demonstrates how little we’ve actually been watching,” Geoffrey responded over his shoulder before opening the door. “Hi! I’m so sorry, but we’re fresh out of candy and you’re all too young for hard cider. Have a lovely evening!”

Without giving the clump of kids on the porch a chance to answer, Geoffrey shut the door and turned back down the hallway. He collapsed onto the couch with a sigh, taking a long draught from his can of cider before asking. “I thought it was common knowledge that you don’t knock on doors without a jack-o-lantern. That’s like the fourth group we’ve gotten.”

“Yes, well, it might have something to do with the plastic skeleton and strings of orange lights your neighbours have hanging on the porch.” Darren took a sip of his own cider.

Geoffrey sighed. The rent on his half of the duplex was cheap enough for him to live alone— a blessing— but he’d have found somewhere else if he’d know how much of a pain it was to deal with the group of Ryerson students that lived in the other half.

“I told them to keep it to their side, not that they listen.” He let his head drop backward onto the back of the couch, rolling it to the right to look at Darren. “Anyway. Where were we?”

“You were making some sentimental point about love.”

Geoffrey immediately sat up straight, moving forward on the couch seat. “Right! Look, it is not a story about two teenagers making stupid decisions, it’s about the adults around them being so… blinded by their feud that these two children are forced to extreme actions because that seem like their only option instead of getting the chance for a genuine shot at love!”

Darren rolled his eyes dramatically. “Please. I will grant you the point that the feud is more to blame than they are, I will grant that they both have every faith in the veracity of their feelings. But the story fails to actual hold up as the bastion of romance people see it as.”

Geoffrey pushed his hands through his hair. “No, look.” Grabbing the remote, he switched off the  TV where the long-abandoned horror movie they were meant to be watching was still frozen on a scene about five minutes in. “One of the things people are fastest to point to ‘proving’ they’re not in love is their ages, right? But they’re about the same age as Ferdinand and Miranda, or Perditia and Florizel, or any number of young couples from any of the comedies. The mistake you’re making is that people see their story as more romantic because they die, or they’re doomed, or because it’s tragic. But that’s not what makes them romantic! It makes their story more resonant, maybe— that they don’t get the happy ending they deserve, but the romance is there already. By all rights, the should have gotten the same ending that Florizel and Perdita get, with their parents reconciled, or… or, Lysander and Hermia’s ending, with the prince overbearing their parents will. They could have had that. And the tragedy of it is that they don’t.” Geoffrey looked at Darren intently for a moment after he’d finished speaking. Darren raised his eyebrows, unfazed.

“Well. Geoffrey. Who would have guessed you were such a romantic.”

Geoffrey laughed. “Shut up, I’m serious.”

“So am I! I would never had thought you had such a soft spot for the star-crossed lovers.”

“Okay, fine. But did anything I said make sense?”

Darren leaned back, on the couch, considering. “They were well made points, I suppose… But you’re never going to convince me to actually like the play.”

“Alright, fine. I’m not going to stop trying though.” Geoffrey picked up the remote again. “Now, do you remember anything that was happening?

They ended up abandoning the movie and ignoring reruns of The Odd Couple while they played cards. Geoffrey had hazy memories of falling asleep on the couch while Darren dozed on the floor, but it was equally possible it had been the other way around, enough of their nights ended that way before one or both of them woke up and Darren would drag himself home. They’d planned to do something different for Halloween, if for no other reason than to make the most of their free time before the inevitable hell that November and early December would bring, but since they didn’t know anyone who was having a party and they were physically incapable of staying focused on any movie that wasn’t an adaptation of a play (or French and needlessly esoteric in Darren’s case), the usual would have to do.

“What in god’s name are you wearing!”

Darren was standing on the porch, wearing a striped blazer over a floral waistcoat with dark corduroy pants. The whole thing was topped off by a thin scarf wrapped around his neck.

“It’s a party, I thought I’d dress up.” Darren stepped around Geoffrey to enter the warm foyer. “Where’s Theresa? I brought rum.”

“Oh, uh, she’s in the kitchen, I think.” Geoffrey jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Darren kicked off his shoes and started walking down the hall. Geoffrey followed him. “You know there’s dressing up and then there’s upending a Sally Am bargain bin. I mean, where did you even find that vest?”

“It was a St. Vincent de Paul, actually,” Darren shot back, smiling despite himself. “And just because you have all of three variations on the same outfit doesn’t mean the rest of us limit ourselves.”

“Hey, this shirt is new.”

Darren spun around as he reached the doorway to the kitchen, giving Geoffrey’s shirt a once over. “And it looks exactly like your other grey button down.” He turned around and wove his way through the crowd to where Theresa was standing.

“Darren! Merry Christmas.”

“Joyeux Noël. Here,” he held out the bottle to her, “I come bearing rum. Thank you for hosting.”

“Yeah, no problem! I’m gonna go put this with the other drinks on the counter, help yourself to anything.”

Darren and Geoffrey took her up on the offer, grabbing beers and Christmas cookies before wending their way through the party. The semester had ended a few days ago, and what had started as a combined Christmas party and end of classes celebration for their class had expanded to include the theatre students in third year, friends from other programs, and an inexplicably large number of the students from the graphic design program (Geoffrey knew he’d been told which of his classmates they were all friends with but he could not for the life of him remember who it was). Geoffrey had shown up at the party early, and spend nearly half an hour drifting around awkwardly before Darren arrived and they could drift around awkwardly in a pair, trying to find someone they actually knew or a conversation to join. Eventually, they found three of their classmates, Adrian, Laura, and Nick, and the five of them settled down in a relatively quiet corner of the dining room to talk. After talking about their various plans for the break, the conversation circled around to speculating about which play they’d be putting on next semester.

“It’s absolutely going to be Shakespeare, hundred percent.” Adrian took a gulp of his drink. “The department is physically incapable of not including a Shakespeare play.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s going to be this year, though,” Laura told him. “There’s always next year. Especially since we’ll be doing two.”

“I agree with Adrian,” Darren said, “There’s no way they can hold themselves back much longer.”

“You’re all acting like doing Shakespeare would be a bad thing!” Geoffrey flung out his arms, narrowly missing Darren’s glasses.

Adrian pushed his own glasses up his nose. “I never said that, I’m sure Shakespeare would be a blast. I’m just pointing out that, statistically, that’s what we’ll be doing.”

“Yeah, okay, so we agree there,” Nick said, adjusting his position on the floor and leaning against the wall behind him, “but which play? My bets are on Julius Caesar, personally.”

“They’re doing that in New Burbage this year, though…” Laura idly ran her hand through her hair, pushing it over to one side.

“Are they?” Geoffrey asked. “Whose Caesar? Have they announced it yet?”

Laura shrugged. “Dunno. Just remember glancing over their season somewhere. I think they’re also doing Coriolanus?”

“Really? I’d watch that,” Darren commented. 

Geoffrey turned to him, interested. “Yeah?”

“Of course. It’s underrated and rarely performed.”

“We should go,” Geoffrey suggested. “I haven’t seen anything at New Burbage in ages.”

“We should all go,” Laura said. “The whole class I mean. We can probably get pretty decent tickets if we book early in the season. Probably get a group discount, too.”

Nick took a sip of his beer. “Yeah, that could be fun. It’d be a good way to unwind after the year ends.”

“I’d be up for that,” Adrian shrugged. “I think they’re also doing a Gilbert and Sullivan this year, it would be cool to see that.” He took a bite of a cookie, and speaking around it said, “If we’re betting on specific plays though, my money’s on Twelfth Night. Good ensemble play.”

“Hm. ‘I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.’” Geoffrey to took a swig of his drink and winced. “God, why am I drinking this? Eggnog is disgusting even with rum.”

“What?” Nick frowned at him.

“Eggnog. What did you think it was, heavy cream?”

“No,” Nick said, “the… improbable fiction thing, or whatever.”

“Oh, er, that’s one of Fabian’s lines. Shakespeare lampshading how uh… outlandish the plot is.”

“Which is ridiculous,” Darren interjected. “It’s no more improbable than any of the other comedies, you hardly need to go pointing out.”

Adrian rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah but that’s kinda the point of the joke isn’t it? Or like, meta jokes in general. It’s not just making a point about the individual work, it’s the genre or medium or whatever at large. Twelfth Night combines a lot of elements of Shakespearean comedies, so it also contains a joke making fun of how much they rely on coincidences.”

“I just find it unnecessary,” Darren sighed. “Metatheatre I’m all for. It provokes thought. Tries to say something beyond self-deprecation. But jokes like that one don’t go anywhere beyond… momentary entertainment.”

“They’re funny though. Not everything needs to be ‘saying something.’” Laura did air quotes on the last two words, accompanied by a surprisingly accurate impression of Darren.

Geoffrey tilted his head to one side, running his tongue behind his lower lip and looking at Darren as he thought. “Who’s to say they don’t?”

“Don’t what?” Darren raised one eyebrow, turning to face him with an expression that said he was getting ready for a debate.

“Who’s to say that lines like Fabian’s—meta humour or, or… whatever— who’s to say that they don’t  say something? Or that they can’t be used to say something?” He turned himself in the wobbly wooden chair he was using so that he faced Darren head on. “Humour serves a purpose, just because a play does something through a joke doesn’t mean that it’s not making a point.”

“Fair enough, but you can’t possibly argue that Fabian’s line is doing that.”

“No, that’s just…” Geoffrey waved his hand trying to come up with the right phrasing. “Covering your ass. Getting one in before the critics. At least, it feels that way to me, I’m sure there’s someone out there who’d try to extrapolate something about the willing suspension of disbelief involved in any of the comedies in order to enjoy it and how calling them unrealistic is disingenuous to what we want from our escapism, but—”

“And frankly, I’m surprised you’re not the person doing that.” Darren smirked.

“Shut up,” Geoffrey told him, laughing. 

Darren shrugged. “I’m just saying, you had that ready far too quickly.”

“But,” Geoffrey pressed on, swatting at Darren with a napkin. “Just because sometimes the jokes aren’t to the service of some larger point, doesn’t mean the whole type of humour can’t be used to say something.”

“Maybe. But the vast majority of an audience isn’t going to interrogate why they’re laughing at something, they’ll laugh at it an move on. You can’t expect—”

“But it’s not just the result of interrogating why they’re laughing. It’s what they laugh at, it’s making a point right beside a joke so that it sticks better—“

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean that will work for meta humour in particular. Even if I were to grant your point about the efficacy of that tactic, I still maintain that it’s not one that really does anything in the context of meta humour. Breaking the fourth wall is something that can be incredibly powerful and, if done right, possibly even unsettling. A joke assuages and dispels any of that, it reduces the power of an acknowledgement that you are engaging in collaborative disavowal— an acknowledgement which is transgression of the implicit agreement of theatre— into a momentary aside that can be laughed off, literally, and forgotten the next moment.”

“Oh come on.” Geoffrey rolled his eyes. “You don’t believe that! Obviously that, that… willing suspension of disbelief is hugely important, it’s the foundation theatre rests on, it’s why plays that push that boundary or address their fictional status feel the way they do. But— and this is a very important exception— humour is meant to push norms. In ways other methods of addressing things can’t. And that absolutely includes meta humour!”

Darren took a deep breath, readying himself for his next rejoinder and Nick sighed. “This is gonna be the whole night now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, probably,” Laura agreed, downing the contents of her glass. “Wanna take bets on who wins?”

The winter break simultaneously dragged its feet and soared by, and after three weeks of killing time in the mind-numbing boredom of his hometown, Geoffrey was back at school and freezing in a poorly heated rehearsal studio. Their play for the semester was A Midsummer Night’s Dream— which was almost laughable given the sub-zero temperatures outside— and it was their first time doing anything more complicated than a read through. They’d been given a short break before they went back to work, act III scene ii in the case of the lovers, Puck, and Oberon; Pyramus and Thisbe in the case of Darren, Geoffrey, and the rest of their classmates playing the mechanicals. Anyone not doing either would be left to their own devices.

Geoffrey and Darren were leaning against the far wall, covertly violating the studio’s no food rule with a bag of Maltesers when from across the room they heard, “You know, ninety percent of the problems of this play could be avoided if they’d just stayed awake. It’s like the polar opposite of Macbeth.”

The last word rang through their rehearsal space and everyone froze. All eyes turned towards where two of their classmates were talking. Margot, their Helena and the offending party, winced. Next to her, Tricia (Hermia) buried her head in her hands.

“Crap. I’m sor—” Margot started.

“Sh!” Their professor stopped her, holding up one hand and looking daggers. “Out, and don’t come back until you’ve run around this building three times.” 

“Aw come on, really—”

“Out!”

Reluctantly, Margot trudged to the door and pushed it open calling out, “Sorry!” Behind her as she headed down the hallway towards the main door. Slowly, everyone settled back into what they were doing and conversation cautiously returned.

Darren scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

Geoffrey leaned over to grab a Malteser from the bag in Darren’s hand. “I know, I thought everyone more or less agreed it was acceptable to just spin around a couple times before asking to come back in.” He checked that no one was looking at him before popping the candy into his mouth. Then he noticed that Darren had pulled back, giving him a look.

“What?” he asked, talking around the dissolving malt ball.

“Oh, Geoffrey. Not you too.”

“What?” Geoffrey repeated.

Darren tilted his head down, giving Geoffrey a look over his glasses. “You believe in the Curse,” he said flatly.

“Wha— No,” Geoffrey swallowed, adjusting his position. “No, I don’t believe in it I just… respect it. As a tradition.”

“Alright then, say it.”

“Say what?”

“Macbeth,” Darren whispered. He grinned wickedly when Geoffrey winced. 

Geoffrey batted at the air between them, looking around fervently. “Shhh!”

Darren laughed. “Oh shut up, no one’s going to hear me.”

“Well they might, I’m just trying to save you running laps. Do you want that? Look, Margot’s not even back yet.”

Darren rolled his eyes. “You’re trying to change the subject. Just admit that you believe in the Curse. It’s fine, most people do.”

“I don’t!” Geoffrey protested. Darren stared at him. “Alright fine,” he relented, “maybe I don’t fully believe in it, but I’ll admit to harbouring some… misgivings,” he sighed, “about saying the name of… the Scottish Play.”

“See, was that so hard?”

“But only in theatres,” Geoffrey insisted. “Anywhere else is fair game, but theatres? No. I’d rather play it safe.”

“Yes. However, we’re not in a theatre now—”

“Performances happen in this building. And you know very well that rehearsal spaces count.”

Darren laughed. “Come on, say it. Once. Here and now, not later when we’re at the pub or the second we leave the building, now.” He paused, expectantly.

Geoffrey just gave him a look.

“Hmm?” Darren raised his eyebrows. “I’m waiting. You said you don’t believe in the Curse, what’s going to happen?”

“Darren, come on, it’s not about actually believing in it, it’s about respecting—”

Darren started making quiet clucking noises under his breath.

“Respecting,” Geoffrey said, a little louder, “the shared space and the other members of the company— Oh for fuck’s sake Darren that’s just childish!”

Darren kept clucking, leaning closer to Geoffrey and steadily increasing in volume. Geoffrey rolled his eyes. “That’s not going to— This isn’t cowardice, it’s just— Goddammit, fine!” Geoffrey sighed, tugging his coat more tightly around him as he sat up a little straighter. “Just shut up, will you? Christ, you’re practically twelve.”

Darren stopped clucking and sat back, smiling smugly. “Well? I’m still waiting.”

“Okay, fine.” Geoffrey looked sideways, checking that no one was paying attention to them. He hesitated for a second then, as quickly as he could, muttered, “Macbeth.”

“That’s the spirit!” Darren said loudly, punching him in the shoulder. “And see? No falling lights or anything.”

“You’re a prick.”

“Nothing happened!”

The door to the studio opened and Margot poked her head in, red-faced and panting. “Can I come back now?”

“Yes, welcome back, in fact…” Their professor looked at her watch. “We’ll come back to work in two minutes! So if you need to put anything away or go to the bathroom, do it now.”

“Well, back to it.” Darren sighed, stretching out his legs. “You know, I might actually get you to see my side of things. Eventually.”

“I don’t think so.” Geoffrey grabbed the Malteser bag from Darren and jumped up. “These are mine now, by the way. Retribution for the mental anguish.”

“I’m not giving up.”

Geoffrey dropped the bag into his coat pocket and started walking towards the rest of the group. “You should!”

“I will get you on my side on this!”

“Trust me Darren,” Geoffrey said, turning around so he was walking backwards, “I will never stop respecting the Curse.”

“Timon of Athens but it’s Looney Tunes.”

“Like it’s the Looney Tunes characters doing it? How would that work onstage?”

“No, just in that general style or whatever. Or maybe just if Looney Tunes adapted it, I don’t know, I feel like it would work.”

Geoffrey liberally doused his fries in vinegar and popped one into his mouth. Swallowing, he said, “Julius Caesar where Caesar’s a muppet.” He picked up another fry. “Alternately, everyone except Caesar’s a muppet.”

Laura threw a peanut shell at him. “They’re not supposed to actually be good.”

“Come on,” Adrian protested, “that’s at least as silly as my Looney Tunes thing.”

Their entire class was in a pub near campus, during the greyest and most unbearably slush-ridden part of spring. Between them, they were hogging three booths in the back and eating their weight in fried appetizers. They’d started at the bar, but when it became clear that thirteen people (they’d lost two of their original cohort between first and second year) could not in fact hold a conversation all spread out in a line, they’d resigned themselves to splitting into three groups. Geoffrey had found himself at a different table than Darren, talking about the weirdest Shakespeare stagings they could come up with.

“Oh!” Zach snapped his fingers. “One person Comedy of Errors.”

“What?” Laura squinted at him. “But so much of that play relies on characters just… beating each other up.”

“Exactly.”

Darren came careening over then, swinging around the corner of the booth and nearly crushing Geoffrey as he half stumbled, half slid onto the banquette. “Everyone else is talking about hockey and I refuse to engage,” he announced. “What’s happening over here?”

“Shakespeare stagings,” Geoffrey replied, moving over to make room and tugging his coat out from under Darren’s leg. “Trying to see who can come up with the strangest ones.”

“Ah. Has anyone suggested dressing Tybalt as an actual cat?”

Geoffrey laughed. “No, but that’s exactly the kind of thing we’re going for.”

“Excellent,” Darren crossed one leg over the other. “Count me in then.”

Adrian reached across the table to pull the basket of vinegar-free fries a little closer to him. “What about Two Gents?” He dipped a couple fries in ketchup, then paused, frowning, and said, “Wait, never mind.”

“No, come on, what?” Zach asked.

“No, it’s just I remembered that a not insignificant amount of time is dedicated to recounting how, in order to stop his dog from being beaten, a guy tried to claim he pissed on someone in public so, uh… Yeah. I’m gonna go with Henry V, but all the weapons are rubber chickens. The kind that make noise.”

“Mmph!” Laura swallowed the mouthful of mozzarella stick she’d been chewing. “Going off that, Merry Wives of Windsor done with Falstaff exclusively speaking through a kazoo.”

“In what world,” Darren asked, laughing, “is kazoo Falstaff going off chicken swords?”

“In every world!” Laura leaned her elbows on the table, counting on her fingers. “Both part of the Henriad and related works. Both make weird, bordering on obnoxious, sounds.”

“Both could theoretically be used to make a point, but are more likely to look silly and make the audience hate your production,” Geoffrey suggested.

“Exactly.” Laura leaned back in her seat, nodding to Geoffrey appreciatively. “My thought process made total sense.”

Darren rolled his eyes. “Fine, I stand corrected.”

“Thank you.” Laura said, nodding.

Zach laughed, reaching for the napkin holder. “He’s only agreeing because Tennant’s on your side.”

“Are you serious?” Geoffrey asked. “It takes about an hour to get Darren to agree with me on anything.”

“Yeah, maybe in class or when you two are just killing time or whatever,” Zach said, “but as soon as either of you is talking to someone else you drop everything to back each other up.” He finished wiping his hands and balled up the napkin, taking a swig of beer.

“Like with the Hamlet thing in class last week,” Adrian pointed out. “Darren doesn’t give a shit about Hamlet, but he was shouting just as loud as you were when Nick said he didn’t get Ophelia even though everyone knows Darren thinks she’s boring.”

“No,” Geoffrey corrected him, leaning forward, “no, we took very different positions on that—” 

“As You Like It in space!” Darren announced loudly.

Geoffrey turned to him, Adrian and Zach’s prodding instantly forgotten, “What?”

“As You Like It. In space.” He stole one of Geoffrey’s fries and raised his eyebrows at him. “Or are we not still playing.”

Geoffrey stared at him. “No, we definitely are, I’m just trying to figure out how the hell you’d put a pastoral comedy like As You Like It in space.”

“Yeah… I’m a little lost on that too,” Laura agreed. “Is… Is the forest of Arden just outer space? Are they on a space ship?”

“Yes, precisely.”

Zach and Adrian were staring at Darren now, too. “But…” Adrian started. “Are they all on the same space ship for the forest scenes? Are they all on different ones and they just keep running into each other?”

“No, I know,” Zach said. “It could be a bit like Forbidden Planet. They could start on like a space station, right? And then when Celia and Rosalind run away, they take a space ship and the forest of Arden could be like, another planet—”

“No,” Darren interrupted him. “You’re making it far too reasonable. Each group has their own spaceship, they’re all travelling through the vastness of space for the entirety of the time they’re in Arden, boarding each other’s ships only when strictly necessary for the plot.”

“But… a huge part of that play is the setting?” Laura said, squinting at him. “And you lose practically all of that with this, not to mention that about… ninety percent of what happens stops making any sense whatsoever?”

“Yes.”

Geoffrey groaned, supporting his head in his hands and letting out a strained laugh. “I want you to know that you are are physically paining me with this sheer… atrocity of this concept.”

“Wonderful, then I’m clearly doing this right.”

“Yeah. You are,” Geoffrey said tightly, speaking into the table. “But should you?”

Zach’s brow was creased and he tilted his head to the side. “Yeah, the more I think about it the more I just want to find a way to make it work and it really, really doesn’t.”

Geoffrey sat up, sucking in air through his nose. “Alright. What about this then, murder mystery Lear. Or, no, that’s not the right word, but like. Framing Lear as an investigation into what happened? I don’t know if it has a name but do you know what I mean?”

“No, I get it,” Darren said. “Like those sitcom episodes where it’s a character talking to the police and then you watch the story played out as they tell it.”

“Exactly. With Edgar and Albany, and I guess arguably Kent depending if we’re going pre- or post-implied suicide… You’d have all of them as, uh, as witnesses or whatever, and have the play done as a flashback.”

“Theoretically it could work for any tragedy, though not quite as well,” Darren mused.

“I mean, Hamlet already is, basically.” Geoffrey said, taking a fry. “I mean, no, Fortinbras isn’t investigating or uh, or questioning Horatio, but he is the only authority left and Horatio is explaining what’s happened.”

“True, but you could have some real stylistic fun with specifically the police investigation approach, maybe even cut up the script, rearrange it in within that as a framing narrative.”

“You know,” Adrian said, adjusting his glasses. “I know these are supposed to be bad and everything, but I’d totally watch a production of King Lear done that way.”

“Yeah, same here.” Laura covered her mouth as she spoke around a mozzarella stick. “It honestly sound very cool.”

“Are you kidding me?” Darren replied incredulously. “I’d direct a Lear production done that way.”

“Seriously?” Geoffrey asked, taking a sip of his beer. “I mean, I know I suggested it but I honestly don’t know that it enhances Lear’s themes that much? Also in general I don’t know how I’d feel putting on a more complicated production like that. They can be entertaining or enjoyable to watch,I guess… Hell, if you score the jackpot they can bring out new meaning, I’m just more interesting in exploring what’s solely there in the text.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.” Zach nodded. “If you’re focussed on the trappings you can risk losing what’s already there.”

Laura leaned one elbow on the table, supporting her chin in hand. “I see what you mean… But you can just as easily enhance it. Like, As You Like It in space. Yes, obviously Darren’s version was terrible,” she said hurriedly, seeing the looks on the others’ faces, “but, it’s one of those plays that glorifies nature and the countryside, and you could totally do something with that idea, just changing why that’s glorified. Play up the contrast between, let’s say, a highly advanced spaceship as the court and an unspoiled planet, or hell a long-abandoned Earth even, and enhance some of the play’s message.” She grabbed a couple onion rings and paused with them in font of her mouth. “I’m just talking out of my ass though, there’s a lot of better As You Like It stagings, I’d absolutely rather see it done set in, like, the industrial revolution before I’d see it in space.”

“Okay, fair,” Geoffrey conceded. “But is changing the setting really the same thing? It’s still the same story, it’s not a reimagining in the same way.”

“Come on, it totally falls into the same category that we’ve been talking about,” Adrian said. “half our ideas at the start were just weird costuming stuff or bad takes on setting.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about now,” Geoffrey clarified, shifting his weight forward on the banquette. “What I’m specifically not interested in is weird reimaginings like the Lear investigation thing where it requires some kind of fundamental change to the story, or the whole… space deal, where it’s more about the bells and whistles than the actual text.” He ran his hand over the back of his hair, scratching behind his ear. “Like, Laura setting As You Like It in the industrial revolution, it’s still the same story, you’re just highlighting the differences between developed, industrialized cities and lush unspoiled nature which was more or less there in the original. Minus the whole industrialized bit.”

“Right,” Darren said, nodding. “It’s the difference between setting Coriolanus in World War I to make a point about how soldiers are treated and how long it’s been that way without really changing the story, and presenting it as a sensationalized found footage story for the sake of nothing but ambience.”

“Yes! Exactly,” Geoffrey agreed, gesturing enthusiastically. “That’s a great Coriolanus idea, by the way, the World War I thing.”

“That said…” Darren mused. “I’m not sure I agree with you about the relative merits of concept-heavy shows. I see what you’re saying, obviously, but I think there is something to be said for those bells and whistles. No, they may not elevate the text of the play, but the play can be used as a tool to comment on the setting or as a vehicle for a message convoyed through aesthetics. For example, I’ve been toying with the idea of The Tempest set during World War II, likely in Germany though potentially France—”

Geoffrey let out an involuntary bark of laughter, cutting Darren off. “Sorry, it’s just. You can’t possibly be serious.”

“Well, it’s not fully fleshed out…”

“But it’s unimaginably misguided!”

Darren sighed. “I’m not saying I’d stage it, I was thinking aloud, that’s all. Trying to explore the—”

“The what?” Geoffrey stared at him, wide-eyed. “What could you possibly hope of exploring with Antonio and Sebastian as Nazis. Or am I assuming incorrectly. Is Alonso also joining the third reich?”

Darren held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, fine. You’ve made yourself very clear.”

“Have I?” Geoffrey asked. “Because I feel like that’s also what you said when you asked my opinion on your ever-growing vest collection.”

“And it’s what you said when I explained to you that not every conversation about theatre has to come back to Shakespeare, and yet here we are.”

“Well this conversation started on Shakespeare, but fine. Point taken.” Geoffrey sighed.

“Good.” Darren sat back, putting one arm along the back of the booth, and smoothing the front of his shirt, unaccompanied by a vest today. “You know, sometime I’ll convince you to wear something other than the same three t-shirts and you’ll come around.” He reached for some of Geoffrey’s fries and Geoffrey rolled his eyes, swatting at his hand.

“It’s not a matter of ‘coming around.’ I’m all for vests, in theory— they have a time and place. You just choose the worst possible ones.”

“That is categorically false.”

“Ha! I’ve been shopping with you. I swear, you make bee line for whatever has the loudest pattern.”

Zach looked over to Laura. “Okay, I know they’ve gone off on a weird tangent, but before they absolutely proved my point from earlier, right?”

“About them taking the other’s side when other people are involved?” Laura took a sip of her drink. “Oh, absolutely.”

“What?” Geoffrey frowned at them. “We’re not agreeing right now.”

“Nor are any of you involved in the conversation currently,” Darren added.

Adrian drained his glass. “Only because we don’t give a shit about what you wear.” He slid out of the booth, picking up his glass as he stood. “I’m gonna get another round, any one else want some?”

“Er, yeah…” Geoffrey rooted around in his pockets. “One sec, I should have some cash…”

“I’ve got it,” Darren said, handing over a folded bill. “Now,” he turned back to Zach, “to what could you possibly be referring?”

“Your whole…” Zach flapped his hand at the two of them, “thing. With, uh, with the Coriolanus point you made supporting what Geoffrey was saying. Then the next second you turn around and start arguing the other side.”

“That’s just… point/counterpoint. That had nothing,” Geoffrey said on a strained, uncomfortable laugh, “to do with the fact that I was making it.”

Laura lifted an eyebrow at them. “Didn’t it?”

Darren and Geoffrey looked at each other. Geoffrey opened his mouth, frowning, then shut it.

“Ah. No… Of— of course not.” Darren said slowly. He turned his head towards the rest of the table, tearing his gaze off Geoffrey. “Does it really matter?”

“Yeah, honestly who cares,” Laura said. “So they’re on each other’s side, big deal. I’m gonna catch up to Adrian and get some more snacks, then when I get back I’m pitching a mash up of Cats and Maccers that will make Darren’s As You Space It look like visionary genius.” She looked at Zach. “Coming?"

“Yeah sure,” Zach sighed and scooted out of the booth. As they walked away he muttered to Laura, “I’m absolutely right, though.”

“Oh, yeah, unquestionably.”

Geoffrey squinted after them, running his tongue along his teeth. Once they were out of earshot he turned ninety degrees on the banquette so he was facing Darren. “He’s not right, is he? I mean that would be ludicrous, we have… debates, discussions, whatever, all the time. It’s not like we have a problem challenging each other.”

“No, of course not.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

Geoffrey didn’t really spend much thought on the fact that he and Darren had gone from distant classmates in their first year of university to talking daily now. What he did spend an aggravating time thinking about was the gradual shift in how their classmates talked about them. He had no idea how long it had gone on, but it must have been a while because it was as though suddenly he’d turned around and every other joke was about him and Darren. They varied from the relatively benign— calling them out for monopolizing class time, mock surprise when they showed up at different times— to the downright irritating. The latter included a running “assumption" that they lived together which no one ever dropped the façade of believing, snide comments about old married couples when they bickered, and the ever increasing condensation of their two names into a single, compressed unit. Voluntarily or not, they had become a matched set.

Under it all was the feeling that the jokes were about more than just that he and Darren backed each other up, how much they had to say in class, their constant debates, or even just that they were constantly arguing. That, in some way, the joke wasn’t how their friendship presented itself but rather that they were friends at all. Or rather, that they were friends beyond the ambient level of companionship that permeated their class at large. Despite the light and teasing tone in which they were delivered, every time one of the jokes came up it made Geoffrey’s skin crawl. He didn’t know how to broach the subject with Darren without first addressing that they were, in fact, close. And he couldn’t even begin to figure out how to say that without sounding like he was saying something he wasn’t.

So instead, Geoffrey ignored it. He watched as Darren rolled his eyes at the jokes and shrugged them off, and he started to laugh along. He got used to answering to GeoffreyandDarren, slurred together so it almost lost all meaning, he learned to nod along with every offhand remark about going everywhere together, he stopped trying to disprove assertions that they’d always take the other’s side. In short, he went along with it and Geoffrey and Darren, matched set, continued.

Chapter Text

“Darren, we are two weeks away from opening, now is not the time.”

“Oh come on, I’ve finally got you to admit there’s nothing to all the stories, which means there’s also nothing to the ludicrous taboo, the least you can do is agree to saying it once.”

“I’ve said it plenty of times! I said it last week when we were in the bar, I said it lots while were watching the Welles ’48 movie version, not to mention,” he pointed the felt donkey ear he was repairing at Darren across the table, “the first time you brought this up, when I literally said it in a rehearsal.”

“And yet you’re afraid to say it backstage, two weeks before opening.”

“No, I just won’t have this discussion with you two weeks before opening, not in the least because you’re the only nonbeliever in the class and I don’t want to cause anymore upset than we already have.” He raised his eyebrows, giving the damaged donkey head on the table a significant look.

Darren adjusted his seat and muttered, “Yes, and whose fault is that?”

“Yours! You know I don’t have full visibility in this, you’re supposed to make sure all the props are out of my way when you scatter.”

“The stool is Starveling’s responsibility, for the last time, and I could have sworn Zach grabbed it. I’m helping you fix this, aren’t I?”

“Theoretically.” Geoffrey returned his attention to his work, slowly squeezing out some hot glue onto the base of the ear and pressing it in place. “Anyway, I’m not saying Mac— The Scottish Play.”

Darren raised one eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Geoffrey said quickly. “What were you saying to Theresa earlier? About the cuts?”

“Oh, that.” Darren made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Just talking about some of the changes at the end. Apparently she and Étienne were debating whether they made a real difference to the story or not.”

“What, like with Theseus and Hippolyta’s line cuts? Or giving Philostrate to Egeus? Because that’s pretty standard practice— especially considering it’s set in as Egeus in F1. And I know we could have technically kept them separate with our numbers, but given how casting shook out I honestly think that makes the most sense.”

“No, I agree with you completely on that, having Philostrate as a speaking character is fine, obviously, but with a cast size that requires some doubling he should be the first to condense into someone else. Keeping him separate gives far too much narrative weight to the court scenes and contemporary audience don’t give any thought to the potential questions raised by a man of Egeus' age acting in the role of what is essentially a page.” Darren brushed some dusty scuff marks off from the donkey’s brow. “No, what we were talking about was primarily the cuts, and redistributing a few of the heckling lines during P&T.”

“Right. What about it?”

“Well, apparently, Étienne’s of the opinion that rearranging who says what is taking it a step too far, and to be honest I’m not sure I agree.”

“Okay…” Geoffrey slowly released his grip on the ear, waiting to see if the glue held before turning the head ninety degrees to smooth out the nose. “I can see what he means in regards to characterization and sometimes even plot in surprisingly impactful ways. Like, I once saw a community theatre R and J that, due to double casting, couldn’t have Capulet or Montague onstage at the end, so instead of Montague saying his wife had died of grief it was Lady Capulet saying her husband had died. Which—” Geoffrey laughed. “I mean, from a character perspective it weakens everything we’ve seen between Capulet and his daughter, it undermines how awful he was to Juliet and risks even justifying his behaviour by virtue of how much her ‘death’ moved him, since with that line reshuffle, he’s now dying of grief over it.”

“Right, it’s a sliding scale of course, but moving who says which heckling line?”

“No, that’s ridiculous, it’s done all the time.”

The door to the dressing room they were using for their repairs swung open then, and Nick barged through, already wearing the shabby vest and patched pants that constituted his Flute costume. “Bottom, Quince! What’s up?” Without pausing for an answer he barrelled on, “We’ve been trying to actually, legitimately plan that whole New Burbage trip idea, so were you were serious about wanting to go, what shows do you wanna see, and what’s your availability like?” He planted his palms flat on the table between them and leaned forward, looking over them expectantly.

“Er, yeah, I guess,” Geoffrey answered. “Uh, to the first question,” he added. “Availability wise... I don’t know, when were you planning on going?”

“After classes are done, for sure,” Nick told him. “And exams or whatever, obviously.”

“Well,” Geoffrey rubbed the back of his neck, “sooner’s probably better for me, just cause I’ll have to work this summer and I don’t know what my schedule will be like once that starts up.”

“Great. Darren?”

Darren looked caught off guard at being asked. He blinked at Nick, looking towards Geoffrey as he answered, “Oh, uh, ditto what Geoffrey said, I suppose.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Of course. Anyways… Show-wise most people want to see the Julius Caesar, and probably Coriolanus since it’s the other Shakespeare that’ll be on in that time frame…”

“Huh, no shit,” Geoffrey said with mild surprise.

Darren looked at Geoffrey skeptically over the top of his glasses. “You of all people haven’t looked up their season.”

“I didn’t bother. Assumed I wouldn’t be able to go.” Geoffrey didn’t look up, squinting instead into the donkey’s mouth.

“Well, we’re going in a group and we can get student rates, so it won’t bankrupt us. Hopefully, at least.” Nick pushed off the table and clapped his hands together. “But, to the matter at hand. We’ll definitely be seeing those two, but it would be cool to see more if enough of us can agree on which ones. I think they’re doing something by Sheridan, maybe? One of those 19th century guys who wrote kinda interesting plays that didn’t quite stick. But anyways… yeah. Take a look at their season and the dates or whatever, I think there are some brochures in the department lounge, and if not, uh... Carlson. Carlson has the info on how to order them. We’re gonna sort out carpool stuff once we have a departure date, but based on what people have been saying so far it’s looking like it’ll be end of April, right after school ends.” Nick flicked one of the ears of the donkey head and started to leave, but stopped himself, spinning on his heal just before he reached the door. “Oh! Hunt wants to run act I scene ii in ten, so you should get ready.”

With that, he left, door swinging shut behind him. Geoffrey and Darren stood in unison and started cleaning away the repair materials and getting together their assorted props and costume pieces.

“I always forget you haven’t actually been to New Burbage that often,” Darren commented, causally picking up his hat and fitting it snugly on his head. “You seem like the type to be a lifelong subscriber, if anything.”

“Ha,” Geoffrey said darkly, “Not even close, I’ve been twice. Once to see—”

“I know, once to see Henry IV part 1, and once with your grandparents for your middle school graduation…”

“To see Twelfth Night, yes. But, look.” Geoffrey sighed. “It’s not a big deal, it’s just not an easy trip to make so I never got much of chance.”

“Right,” Darren picked up his armful of scrolls and checked himself in the mirror, “I tend to overlook that benefit to living in the city. Easy travel routes.”

“Yeah, that and being able to live at home during the school year, freeloader.” Geoffrey grinned, elbowing Darren as he picked up the head off the table. “C’mon, let’s get moving.”

It turned out that coordinating a gaggle of university students in between the final weeks of rehearsal was far more trouble than Geoffrey could have possibly anticipated. Ten of their thirteen class members were going, all of whom had different schedules, and despite how much they all saw of each other, it suddenly seemed as though it was next to impossible to get them all in the same place to nail down a plan. First they couldn’t agree on what to see, then it they went back and forth on if they’d be driving or getting taking the bus, not to mention the ongoing hassle that was determining where exactly they’d be staying and who would be rooming with whom. There was also the matter of cost: finding a cheap B&B, making sure they’d be able to get either a group or student discount, figuring out if they could manage to score both, doing he math on who was paying how much for gas… Geoffrey realized early on in the planning process that he wouldn’t be able to afford going on the trip without totally overhauling his budget for the next school year, so he decided to turn it into his birthday gift— he’d be turning 21 while they were there, after all— and was able to get his mother and grandparents to chip in for most of it.

Somehow (and Geoffrey was under no illusions that he had been much help in the process), they got it all sorted out. They’d be taking two cars, and leaving from Toronto so they didn’t have to worry about coordinating everyone once they were scattered back home. Their schedule in New Burbage included H.M.S. Pinafore, Coriolanus, The Rivals by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and Julius Caesar. Starting with the Pinafore, which Geoffrey was dreading.

“What if we just skipped it?” Darren asked after listening to Geoffrey’s umpteenth session of moaning about listening to people sing for an hour and a half.

“Skip what?”

“The Gilbert and Sullivan. We don’t have to take the carpool with everyone, there’s all sorts of other ways we could get there, we’d just leave a day later.”

“Well yeah, but— I mean wouldn’t we—“ Geoffrey stopped. “Yeah. We could just skip it.”
And so, Geoffrey found himself on a late and mostly empty bus to New Burbage on the 26th, accompanied by a bored Darren and a handful of other passengers. Geoffrey had won their coin toss for the window seat, and he stared at the empty, dark landscape outside the window, occasionally punctuated by the headlights of a car going the other direction or a solitary farmhouse or barn. The bus was filled with the faint rumble of their movement, and nothing else. Darren and Geoffrey both hadn’t spoken since when they’d left the city, over an hour ago. Geoffrey wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, he just let himself sink into the near-darkness around him and watched the fields pass.

He couldn’t say how long he’d spent staring blankly out the window when Darren sighed heavily, looking over at him. When Geoffrey didn’t react, Darren sighed again, more pointedly. Geoffrey kept staring out the window.

Darren elbowed him. Geoffrey ignored it.

“Come on, Geoffrey I know you’re awake.” Darren poked him. “Geoffrey. Don’t ignore me.”

Geoffrey stirred, reluctantly, and turned to face him. “What?”

“How much longer is this trip?”

“How should I know, I don’t have a watch. Probably like an hour? Maybe a bit more.”

“Oh god.”

Geoffrey sighed. “Yeah, I know. But look on the bright side, it was do this or watch a musical.”

“Operetta, technically,” Darren corrected him. “Although for all intents and purposes they may as well be the same.”

“It’s just two different names for theatre that makes me want to blow my brains out.” Geoffrey slid down in his seat, pulling his legs up and bracing his feet against the seat back in front of him. “Why are you complaining, anyway, I thought you’d be used to the drive.”

“Firstly, it’s longer by bus because of the stops. Secondly, usually there’s something to look at or someone to talk to or just… something to stop me from being unspeakably bored.”

“Hey!” Geoffrey protested. “I’m someone to talk to.”

Darren raised one eyebrow. “Yes. And you’ve been such a sparkling conversationalist up to this point.”

“Alright, fine, fair enough.” Geoffrey leaned his head back against the seat with a sigh, then let it fall to the right so he was looking at Darren. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

“I don’t know, the plays, the trip, your plans for the summer… the weather. Anything.”

“Well, the weather’s certainly been particularly weather-some.”

“Geoffrey.”

“What, you don’t have a sense of humour, now? God, remind me never to go on a long drive with you again.”

“You know what I mean, we can’t talk about the weather for an hour, can we?”

“Well, I dunno, what are you doing the rest of the summer, then?”

Darren sighed. “Nothing much, if I’m being honest. I think we’re going to visit some family in August— they’re out east. We’ll probably see something at New Burbage, we generally do, though considering this trip I don’t know if I’ll go. Obviously, if we’re seeing one of the shows that doesn’t start until later in the season, or if one of these is worth rewatching I’ll tag along, but…” He shrugged. “As it is now my plans are not concrete. Oh, and I’ll have to get a job.”

“You didn’t have one last summer, right?”

“No. I, er, tried to find one, but no one seemed interested in hiring me and eventually I gave up. What about you, going back to bagging groceries?”

“Maybe. If I’m lucky I’ll find somewhere a bit less mind numbing but there’s not much else to find.”

“Hmm…” Darren nodded, looking down at his lap. After a moment he asked, “Anything else? You’ve got to have something more than working on the horizon for the next four months.”

“Not really.” Geoffrey shrugged. “I’ll probably go to see my dad, maybe even spend a week or two with him if he’s not too busy ridiculing my life choices.”

“He’s in, what, London isn’t it?”

“Paris. The one here, not France.”

“I assumed.”

“Well you never know, I once told someone where he lived and it took about another half hour for them to realize which Paris I’d meant, even though I talked about taking a bus there.”

“Ha,” Darren said, without much real amusement. They both watched the darkness outside the window for a while before Darren shifted in his seat and said, “You’ve never told me about him. I mean, you’ve alluded, obviously, and I know that he doesn’t like that you’re studying theatre, but you’ve never really said why…” he trailed off.

Geoffrey laughed humourlessly. “You mean besides the low chance of employment and next no money? No, ah…” he licked his lips, looking at his folded hands and rubbing one thumb over the other. “He… he hates the theatre.” Geoffrey looked up, smiling bitterly. “He thinks,” he took a breath, “that it is a dead art form that’s elitist and talks down to ‘everyday people’ with ‘real jobs’ and he’s more or less waiting for me to sober up and get one of those aforementioned ‘real’ jobs myself. So.”

“Well.” Darren took a deep breath in, lifting his eyebrows. “He certainly sounds…”

“Like an asshole?”

Darren laughed. “I was going to say unpleasant, but yes. He also sounds like an asshole.”

“Well, to be fair he’s not always that awful. He was worse when I was in grade 13 and starting to talk seriously about, you know, going to school for theatre. Now that I’ve actually made it through two years he’s settled down a bit.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah….” Geoffrey looked out the window, watching the passing trees through his own faint reflection. After a moment, he thought of something and laughed. “You know, the ironic part of all of it is that he’s the reason I got into theatre at all.”

“What? I thought you attributed that particular feat to Charles Kingman.”

“Well, yes, Charles Kingman gets most of the credit— and his Hal I supposed though I regrettably do not have his name on hand. No, uh, my father, uh, took me to see that production. We’d, well, we’d seen I think an abridged Midsummer or something that came to my school— er, before he and my mom split up— and I apparently wouldn’t shut up about Shakespeare and so somehow we ended up going to see it in New Burbage. I feel like we must have gotten the tickets from someone who couldn’t use them last minute… God, I’ve forgotten now.” Geoffrey cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. He took me to see it. And that’s when I decided I wanted to be an actor, so, joke’s on him. I guess.” He stared out the window again, avoiding Darren’s eyes.

Darren didn’t say anything. He just pushed himself back in his seat and nodded.

Geoffrey took a deep breath. “Er, anyway.” He exhaled slowly.

“What about your mother?” Darren asked. “What’s her take on your chosen career?”

“Oh, uh....” Geoffrey ran his hand through his hair. “She’s alright. Doesn’t mind it, doesn’t really get it, admittedly... She’s never cared much about theatre or whatever. But at least she’s supportive, more or less.”

Darren laughed. “Sounds like my parents. Well, they’re fairly enthusiastic about theatre so not entirely the same. But I don’t think they fully grasp the reasoning behind my decision.”

“Well, to be fair, we’re both probably a little insane.”

“Everyone in the arts is, aren’t they? And we do spend most of the day playing make believe.”

Geoffrey grinned. “With just the worst people, too.”

“Hm. Indeed.”

They fell into silence again. Geoffrey drummed his hands on his knees, Darren scuffed at the bus’s floor with the toe of one shoe. The motion of the bus was soothing, the faint rumble in the seat, the slight sway of it. Geoffrey dropped his feet back to the floor of the bus again. He leaned his head back against his seat and closed his eyes. He felt, more the heard, Darren’s soft movements as he leaned back in his own seat, shifting slightly until he was comfortable. Darren’s breath slowed into an easy rhythm, just a hair’s breadth off from that of Geoffrey’s own. He sank into the silence around them and let himself drift off.

The next thing Geoffrey was aware of was Darren shaking him awake. “Geoffrey. Geoffrey!”

“Gnth?” He opened his eyes, looking around blearily. “Are we there?”

“Nearly. We’ll probably get to the bus stop in a minute or two.”

“Hmph.” Geoffrey yawned, stretching, and scratched the back of his head. He settled back into his seat, shaking himself a little more awake. “Did you get any sleep?”

“A bit, I think. It was inconsistent if I did.” Darren leaned forward to look out the window. “I don’t really know how far the B&B is from the bus stop, do you?”

“Why would I? I haven’t been here in years.”

“You might have looked at a map, I don’t know.” Darren picked up his coat from behind him on the seat and shrugged it on.

Geoffrey looked out the window too, taking in the rows of shops and restaurants. “It can’t be that hard to find, right? We know the address, we can just ask someone for directions. Or find a map. This whole town is basically designed for tourists, there’s no way they won’t have one.”

“Yes, but can we find one this late? I don’t know if you’ve realized, but most of the establishments we’re passing seem to have shut up shop for the evening.”

“Well, we’ll just have to ask someone. We’ve got to be smart enough to follow directions without getting lost.”

They got lost three separate times. The guy getting off the bus with them who’d given them directions had made it sound easy, but either he’d been wrong or Geoffrey and Darren had no idea what they were doing because they kept going in circles. After the third time they got off track, they ended up stopping in at a Chinese place along the main drag that stayed open late to ask for fresh directions and, since they were there, to buy a beer each. When they finally reach the darkened B&B and find their room (left unlocked, thankfully, by the rest of their class), both of them were warm from the beers and the walk and slightly breathless from the long flight of creaking stairs. They stumbled in through the doorway, tripping over themselves in the dark, and Geoffrey collapsed onto one of the beds, letting out a relieved huff of laughter.

“We did it!” He said, grinning. “We survived the horrible beast of an unfamiliar small town.”

“No thanks to you,” Darren said, struggling with his shoes before finally managing to kick them off. He switched on a lamp sitting on the shared end table before flopping face down onto the other bed, lying sideways across it. “You were supposed to be good at navigating backwater hamlets.” His voice was muffled by the mattress.

“Ha! You know that building a town isn't just… plunking down a pre-made model, right?” Geoffrey lifted his head off the bed. “Being from one ‘backwater hamlet’ as you put it doesn’t mean I know about them all. Also,” he added, propping himself up on one elbow and shifting to his side, “I’m not the one who’s been here a dozen times!”

Darren sighed, rolling onto his back, and mumbled, “This is why I don’t leave the city.”

“Hmm,” Geoffrey hummed noncommittally, dropping himself onto his back again. “Maybe you’ll change your mind while we’re here. Or you’ll come visit me back home sometime… I could actually be able to show you the— admittedly slight— positives small towns can hold. You know, instead of being in the position where I have to act as the world’s least prepared navigator.” Geoffrey could feel himself sinking into the bed, just starting to approach drifting off.

Darren made a vaguely affirmative noise. He reached one arm out to the side, floundering around on the mattress to try and get a hold on the pillow.

Geoffrey rolled his head to the side to watch Darren’s efforts for a moment then sighed, rolling over and reaching across the gap between their beds. He had to push his torso half off the bed and reach as far as he could to grab the edge of the pillowcase between his finger tips, but he still managed to get it before Darren’s wild, haphazard flailing.

“Here,” Geoffrey said as he swung the pillow over Darren’s fumbling arm so it landed on his chest. He heaved himself back onto his own bed, fumbling for the switch on the lamp and kicking off his unlaced boots. “Take your glasses off before you go to sleep.”

They woke up late the next morning. Geoffrey wasn’t sure they would have gotten up until well into the afternoon if it hadn’t been for their classmates banging on the door (and okay, yes, at one point coming into the room to drag them out of bed and downstairs for the last of the breakfast buffet), and even then they only barely squeezed into what would technically be considered morning. The group more or less went straight from the meagre last pickings of breakfast to lunch at the same Chinese restaurant Geoffrey and Darren had stopped at last night, and then killed a few hours wandering around before moving on to the theatre. It was a lot harder to get lost in the daylight. The first play on their agenda— well first for Geoffrey and Darren at least— was Coriolanus, then Sheridan’s The Rivals the next day, followed by a day off before they saw Julius Caesar on the 30th, with their plan being to head back to the city on the first of May.

The group as a whole did surprisingly little on their theatre-free day, despite having talked at great length about the potential of going for a hike or even driving around the surrounding area to see what they could find. Instead they mostly sat around in the room Alecia, Laura, and Tricia were sharing, talking and trying to pick up anything other than static on the TV. Late in the afternoon, Geoffrey tagged along with a group as they went to explore the park by the river, briefly considering renting a swan boat to venture out onto the water before deciding against it. They went to Yong’s— the Chinese place— again for dinner, since it was basically the only restaurant in town and it was pretty cheap, before finding their way back to the B&B and spending a surprisingly calm evening talking about what they’d seen so far.

Coriolanus was the more enjoyable of the two, at least from Geoffrey’s perspective, though Darren disagreed. Not that he thought The Rivals was necessarily a better play than Coriolanus— Geoffrey and Darren were on the same page about Coriolanus’ merits and the weaknesses in terms of pacing— no, Darren’s preference was purely on stylistic grounds. He was more engaged by the heightened melodrama and the deliberate jumble of time periods used for The Rivals than the serious, grim take on Coriolanus. Geoffrey found The Rivals entertaining enough, but as far as he was concerned the poignancy and gravity of Coriolanus far outstripped it. On their way out of the theatre Adrian had mentioned disappointed by the production’s take on the dynamic between Aufidius and Coriolanus. Geoffrey had found that it certainly wasn’t as compelling as it maybe should have been to fully sell Coriolanus’ actions, and he hoped to get a chance to to talk to Adrian about it. However, when they were all talking he got caught up in trying to sway Darren to his side, and missed his chance to explore exactly why Adrian was less than happy with it. Which didn’t really bother him… it just felt typical. Besides, he convinced Darren to change his mind, at least a little. So, all in all, it was a pretty good day.

“Geoffrey…”

“Hey. Hey, Geoffrey!”

Geoffrey rolled over, pulling the blankets over his head, attempting to block out the voice cutting through the blissful abyss of sleep.

“Geoffrey!” This time the voice was accompanied by a hard poke to his shoulder and he flung his arm out, twisting sharply to bat the hand away. As soon as he moved, a pillow landed smack dead in the middle of his chest, the impact forcing him to open his eyes and wake up fully. He was greeted by the sight of Darren, leaning over him from next to the bed, head tilted to one side, grinning broadly.

Geoffrey squinted up at him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m learning to tap dance.” Darren rolled his eyes. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Alright, yes. You’re waking me up at an ungodly hour.” Geoffrey pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Why?”

“First of all, it’s 8 am, that’s hardy ‘ungodly’. Second—”

“It is during the summer,” Geoffrey grumbled, rolling over and pulling his blankets over his head. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Second…” Darren said more firmly, tugging sharply on Geoffrey’s blankets. He pulled a poorly-wrapped bundle from behind his back. “Happy birthday!”

“What— I…” Geoffrey took the gift, sitting up. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Oh don’t worry, I wasn’t going to.” Darren sat on the edge of his own bed, pulling one leg under him. “I just saw this and thought I might as well invest in the only souvenir they actually have.”

“Still,” Geoffrey said, starting to unwrap it, “now I have to get you something for your birthday. And mail it to Toronto.”

“Or you could just give it to me when schools starts, it’s not that long to wait.”

Geoffrey finished unwrapping and held up Darren’s gift. It was a blue t-shirt, with the festival logo and the year on the front. They’d been selling them on a table in the theatre lobby. Geoffrey looked it over, it was probably about a size too big.

“They didn’t have the best selection. But on the plus side, I give you complete permission to half-ass my gift.”

“No, it’s great.” Geoffrey smiled, starting to fold it up again. “Have you got one?”

“From two summers ago. They change up the colour every year, though, so mine’s an absolutely lurid shade of orange.”

Geoffrey laughed. “Hey, give it a couple years and you might be into wearing lurid oranges.”

Darren snorted. “In t-shirt form, Geoffrey? Please. My taste may be experimental but I do still have some standards.”

The upside to waking up at eight was that they actually made it down to breakfast while there was still a good amount of food left. Most of their other classmates weren’t up yet, and after they finished their scrambled eggs and bacon, Darren and Geoffrey decided to go for a walk, returning to the B&B early in the afternoon. Geoffrey was surprised when he saw how long they’d been out, actually. Following the main street out of town and turning around didn’t felt like it had taken several hours. When Geoffrey and Darren got back, they were greeted by a volley of birthday wishes jumbled up in mocking remarks about disappearing for the whole morning.

They got lunch as a group (Yong’s again) and everyone collectively insisted that Geoffrey get a dessert so they could sing happy birthday (loudly and surprisingly off-key for how many of them were interested in doing musical theatre). Before he knew it, it was time to head to the Swan for Julius Caesar. They got there early, found their seats, and while his classmates’ chatter joined the ambient pre-show hubbub, Geoffrey just stared silently at the stage, sitting on the edge of his seat, fidgeting with his program, and trying to remember to breathe.

This play was the whole reason he’d wanted to come. Yes, seeing the other productions had been enjoyable, going on the trip with the others and spending time with them, going as a group; all of it was great and something he’d been looking forward to, but this play… This play own its own was motivator enough to draw him here at the slightest suggestion. Partially it was the play itself— Julius Caesar wasn’t his favourite maybe, but it certainly ranked high on his list— but mostly it was the cast. All of them were New Burbage veterans, the program was littered with names Geoffrey had heard for years, not to mention Caesar himself. Oliver Welles.

Geoffrey questioned, as more timed passed and they racked up memories together, whether seeing Oliver the first time had really been as momentous in the moment as it felt later. He was a good actor, of course, but acting had never been Oliver’s real strength, and it would be easy for what followed in later years to colour Geoffrey’s memories of the performance… but he was inclined to trust his recollection. Oliver came out on stage with an instantly commanding presence, not just commanding but approachable, an unfathomable blend of the two that made you want to follow him to be the ends of the Earth and become his best friend on the way there. He spoke so naturally. So much so that Geoffrey forgot for a split second that these were words from a play he knew backwards and forwards, not something being said for the first time right in front of him. In short… he was Caesar.

Geoffrey was insufferable afterwards. The others suggested getting a drink, to celebrate both the end of their trip and Geoffrey’s birthday, and the whole way there Geoffrey talked the ear off anyone who would listen about his thoughts, the impact of the staging choices, the performances, the play at large, everything. The rest of the group was so fed up by the time they found a bar that they were practically shoving peanuts and beer at him to make him stop talking. Eventually he calmed down (realizing they were practically surrounded by actors from the company helped shut him up), and stopped monopolizing the conversation. He was about halfway into his second Carlsberg when the conversation turned to their respective dream projects.

“I mean, probably Marion from The Music Man?” Theresa said, leaning back in her seat. “I guess? Oh, or Nora from A Doll’s House, when I’m older.”

“So… period pieces?” Adrian smiled, taking a sip from his beer.

“Shut up, they’re good shows.”

Étienne laughed. “What’s yours, then? because I know half of your enjoyment of any show is costumes.”

“Well… I think I’d like to be in Afore Night Come,” Adrian said, “which, uh, which is a play by this guy David Rudkin, but it’s kinda hard to stage, so I don’t know how likely that is.”

Geoffrey took a sip of his beer. “Is it a period piece, though?”

Adrian sighed. “Okay, yes. But that’s not the point—” He was interrupted by Étienne laughing loudly.

“Well, we all know what you’d want do,” Adrian said to Geoffrey. “No need to ask there.”

“What? When have I ever said what my dream role is?”

Darren rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”

“Come on, there’s no way—“

He was immediately met with a chorus of exasperation.

“No, we all know—”

“— not subtle—”

“— talk about it like, ten times a day.”

“Every other class you bring it up as an example…”

Darren smiled smugly. “None of us have even said the word Hamlet and we all knew what we were talking about.”

“Okay!” Geoffrey held up his hands in surrender. “I want to play Hamlet. Fine. I’ve admitted my deepest, most blatantly obvious desire, apparently. Can we move on? You haven’t said anything about what you’d want to do yet.”

Darren sighed. “I suppose.” He took a sip of his drink, sitting up a little straighter. “Honestly I think I’d like to direct Einstein on the Beach. It’s a very… experimental opera, and I’d need to either learn a lot more about music or rely on someone’s assistance for parts of it, but I think it would be fun to try.”

“An opera?” Geoffrey asked. “Seriously? We came late just to skip an operetta.”

“Yes, seriously. I think it offers a very interesting challenge to the audience and the non-traditional, very repetitive approach to the content demands a certain mindset of its viewer—”

“Okay,” Geoffrey interrupted him, “you’re just choosing this to be obscure and special. Just admit you want to direct Shakespearean comedies and be done with it.”

“I do not want to direct Shakespearean comedies,” Darren protested. “Well, I have been trying to workshop an idea for The Tempest,” he admitted, “but—“

“Oh god, not that same one set in Nazi Germany…”

Darren ignored him, “But that doesn’t meant that’s all I’m interested in doing. Not all of us feel limited to Shakespeare, you know.”

“Come on, I’m not limited to Shakespeare. Besides, Étienne said he wanted to play Romeo, and I’m sure when Laura gets back from the bathroom she’ll bring up Lady M in her list.”

Darren sighed. “Shockingly, the Bard is popular. Who would’ve guessed. That doesn’t mean I’m not sincere in wanting to direct other things.”

Before Geoffrey could follow up, Tricia asked, “Have any of you heard of Vortigern and Rowena?”

No one had.

Tricia drained her drink, setting it down heavily. “Well. It was a play written in 1796 by this guy, William Henry Ireland. But, the kicker is that he wrote it under the guise that it was a newly discovered Shakespeare play, as sort of the culmination of a bunch of other not-Shakespeare documents he forged.”

“What?” Geoffrey asked in delighted disbelieve. “How have I never heard of this?”

“Oh yeah, surprisingly few people have… Look for uh… The Great Shakespeare Forgery, if you wanna know more. It’s a book. But anyway,” Tricia continued, “the play’s shit, but I really want to stage it one day. Possibly with the whole company drunk or something, I don’t want it to be serious or anything.”

“That sounds awesome,” Zach said, “can you cast me if you ever do it?”

“Absolutely.”

Darren turned to Geoffrey. “That reminds me, how would you feel about Pericles?”

“Pericles?” Geoffrey raised one eyebrow. “I thought you hated that play.”

“Which is precisely why I’d like to eventually do an ironic production thereof. You’d star, obviously, and I’d hope for a rather minimal cast overall.”

Geoffrey laughed. “If it happens, sure. I don't think I can muster the same enthusiasm for irony, though. It may not be Shakespeare’s best, but I think it’s underrated. A bit meandering in some parts, maybe, but fun. It’s almost, I don’t know, fairytale like in some ways.”

“Well.” Darren said dubiously. “I don’t know about that. But, no matter. It’s a long way off,” he smiled, “I have time to change your mind.”

Geoffrey’s recollection of the rest of the night was fairly spotty. Each of his nine companions insisted on buying him something— not all of which were drinks, Geoffrey wasn’t interested in dying of alcohol poisoning before he’d even completed his degree— and they were all in such a good mood and they had no pressure to leave early the next morning and, well… all of that added up and Geoffrey was left with large swaths of blur during the night that followed. He was fairly sure that around drink number four he worked up the courage to talk to some apprentices, and ended up getting into a very involved conversation (not that he could remember about what), that lasted for a good long while until Darren physically dragged him back to their group. He never got around to confirming it later, but based on timing alone it was more than possible that one of the apprentices at that time would later play Mercurio to Geoffrey’s Romeo in his second turn at the role. Geoffrey also had a faint recollection of a laughter-filled and deeply unskilled round of darts featuring Zach and Laura versus Darren and Geoffrey.

What he did remember clearly, towards the end of the night, was finding himself alone at the bar with Darren. Either the rest of their group had gone back to the B&B or were elsewhere in the pub, Geoffrey wasn’t clear on that. He didn’t even remember how they started laughing— the fragment of memory started with them laughing— it really could have been anything, both of them were deep in their cups and even without that it was very low bar to clear for them to set the other off. He couldn’t remember how late in the evening it was or whether they were still drinking. But he did remember Darren, lapels askew, a scarf inexplicably tied around his head, laughing raucously and leaning forward, bracing himself on the bar.

“Sh, no— No, listen,” Geoffrey slurred a bit, trying to stifle his own laugher. “What I’m trying to say… I’m trying to say that we’re gonna come back here!”

“Well obviously, my parents go practically every year…” Darren straightened up, barely, wobbling a bit on his stool. “You’re welcome to come along, you know. They always offer for me  to bring a friend. I’ve never had any, but still…”

“Yeah, of course, but that’s not— Wait? What?”

“What?”

“The… The, uh, thing.” Geoffrey said, vaguely twirling his hand. “About friends.”

Darren blinked slowly. “Oh! Well my parents are always all ‘we can afford to bring someone else if you want’ and… and I’ve never taken them up on it, you know… But if you wanted to come sometime—” 

“No, no, the.. er… The… The part about not having friends.”

“Oh.” Darren shrugged. “I don’t get along with people well.”

“Well what about the others? The, uh, class or program or whatever.”

“I talk to them… But that’s more ‘heeey, we’re all doing a thing, come join’ most of the times. Like, in first year? I only found out about parties or whatever by… um. By accident. Not always, just, I dunno. Mostly.” Darren fiddled with the the edge of his coat sleeve. “Now it’s just ‘cause they invite you and I’m… there.”

“Okay, maybe.” Geoffrey frowned, trying to marshall his swimming thoughts. “But what about me?”

“Tha— That’s what I’m saying!” Darren say up straighter, gesturing broadly and narrowly missing Geoffrey’s head. “We’re friends!”

“Yeah!” Geoffrey slapped the bar. “And we’re gonna come back here. When we’re done school and we know what we’re doing or whatever, and it’s gonna be great. We’re gonna be… on that stage, and you’re gonna direct if you want, and… we’ll be here. We’ll— We’ll be the guys in, um, in those black and white photos, you know? The ones with important festival people on stage or it’s, uh, it’s their old headshot, or something? That’ll be us one day.”

“Wait, why can’t the photos be in colour?”

“I dunno, all the pictures are just in black and white.”

Darren laughed. “Yes, but they’re all older pictures.”

“So? You don’t want to change things up now, it’ll ruin the… uh, the… what’s the word?”

“What word?”

“For when things all look the same and you want to keep it that way.” Geoffrey frowned, trying to remember, then started laughing. “Fuck. I’ve had way too much to drink.”

Darren started laughing again, too. “You’re just realizing this now?”

“I don’t know, shut up.”

“Whatever you say, you are the future star of New Burbage, after all.”

Geoffrey laughed harder, holding onto the bar and leaning backwards on his stool. “It’s not— That’s—” He fell into laughing again. “I’m not trying to… trying to say that I’ll— I’m just saying this,” he gestured, encompassing the bar and the town at large, “is where we’re gonna end up. And we both know we’re the most talented in the class… I’m just saying, we’re gonna do great stuff here.”

Darren smiled. “I look forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Three people transferred to other programs over the summer. Darren and Geoffrey were accompanied by a mere eight other students as they entered into the third and final year of their program. Geoffrey had known that it was a challenging program going in— their group was actually slightly larger than the average third year class— but it was strange to realize that, as small as they’d started, a full third of their number was now gone. It was even stranger to realize that, all in all, their class still felt like the same cohesive whole. When he thought about it, Geoffrey couldn’t even say what exactly he expected to be different without the five they’d lost, or which people would have to leave the class now for the feel of the group and their interactions to substantially change.

Well, other than Darren.

The summer had dragged by in the moment, but now that it was done it seemed to have passed in an instant. Geoffrey had spoken to Darren a few times (neither of them could be relied upon to remember to call the other regularly), he worked at the grocery store (until he managed to get hired at a bookstore and quit), taken a bus to Toronto to see Darren for his birthday (and give him a copy of The Caucasian Chalk Circle he’d gotten for cheap at work), and before Geoffrey knew it, he was moving into a new apartment, registering for classes, and starting his final year at university. During his visit, Darren had told him about an adaptation of Troilus and Cressida that had been announced to air on the BBC some time in the fall. Of course they didn’t have a guaranteed way of watching it— their plans ranged from just getting together to watch it on Darren’s parents’ TV to writing to Darren’s cousins in England, convincing one of them to tape it, and getting them to mail the tapes over; their final course of action resting on whether it aired in Canada, when, and on which channels. They were also workshopping and idea for a show they wanted to try and produce in the summer, which would dovetail nicely with giving them something to do once they were out of school. Of course workshopping in this case mostly meant sitting down to talk about it and getting sidetracked within five minutes, but the idea was still there. All told, the year was shaping up to have some pretty good stuff to look forward to.

That list was only added to at the start of their third week of classes, when they got the news about the first of the two plays they’d be doing. For the first two years of the program, the play for the year was done in second semester, with smaller presentations and projects throughout the first. For their third and final year, they did one in each semester.

“I’m sure you’re all very eager to hear about what play we’ll be working on this semester,” the program coordinator, Patrick, announced, looking over the ten of them gathered in a vague clump at the start of class. “And not just because many of you have been asking the staff about it. I am happy to announce that we’ll be putting on Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, with performances in December and production starting next week.”

There was another swell of chatter and he paused to accommodate it.

“We’re all very excited about this, and I can’t wait to see how it turns out.” He started to leave, pausing just before the door. “Oh, and one last thing. As usual, please don’t harass your teachers about casting, we’ll decide amongst ourselves and let you know next week.”

Geoffrey watched the coordinator’s receding back, waiting until he was out of earshot before taking the pencil he was chewing out of his mouth and muttering to Darren, “Ten bucks says we’re the leads.”

“Like I’d bet against that.” Darren scoffed, rolling his eyes. Geoffrey looked at him expectantly and Darren sighed. “Make it five and you’re on.”

The cast was announced the next week, featuring Geoffrey and Darren playing Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, respectively. Geoffrey spent the five dollars on a second copy of Hamlet (used) so that he could annotate it in comparison. He also went to the library to read up on the performance history and reviews of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, and badger the librarians into tracking down any critical analysis that had been done on the play. He read the script twice, making copious notes on characterization and marking out noteworthy sections before even their first read through. He still did the homework unrelated to the play, but there was a definite downturn in his investment in anything that wasn’t Stoppard’s play. Darren’s preparation on the other hand, involved reading through the script once, and promptly brushing up on existential philosophy, the history of metatheatre, and a brief overview of semiotics because— as he said to Geoffrey during what started as a quick phone call to compare notes and hadn’t ended for another two hours — he ‘hadn’t read anything on it in a while and it’s an interesting subject’.

They both practiced flipping coins.

“I think we should emphasize the confusion of the main pair. They’re on a road that can seamlessly transition to the court, and once there it can encompass any number on locations inside the single building without our main characters ever leaving the stage. Exaggerate this, play into it, plenty of lighting effects, sound cues, diaphanous and ever-changing set design—”

“Everything you’re saying about setting is a reason to go with less over more! This is essentially happening backstage, they’re just… killing time waiting for their cue, we don’t need ‘ever-changing set design’— not to mention that we don’t have a way to do that…”

“The production students…”

“Are right here and looking at you like you’re nuts!”

It was the first of their classes fully dedicated to developing their production beyond the performance aspect and it wasn’t going well. Everyone around Geoffrey and Darren (which included both their class and the students in the third year of the production track) had long since given up on getting a word in edgewise, and even their professor had left the room at one point without comment, returning about ten minutes later with a donut and a steaming cup of coffee. The problem wasn’t even that Geoffrey and Darren necessarily disagreed, it was mostly that they both had a lot of disparate ideas and more than enough willpower to fill an entire class period discussing them.

“And anyway,” Geoffrey continued his point, “even if they weren’t, how the hell would we have the budget for that? Getting ludicrously conceptual just isn’t feasible for us.”

“Well we can’t just have a bare stage, we need some way to demarcate the setting of the boat for act three, and it’s jarring if there’s nothing on stage for the two preceding acts!”

Geoffrey grinned. “But, what if we leaned into the idea that this is in someway offstage? Accentuate the metatheatre, we have a backdrop or, no, uh, we have flats set up with their backs to the audience. And all we need for the ship is a couple barrels and the umbrella, right? We just take the flats offstage at the end of act two because that’s the break between waiting in the wings and going off to something which is much more in the realm of speculation and the fact that their deaths are approaching means it should be oblivion-like.”

Darren paused. “I suppose… But what about the Hamlet scenes? If we are, in your scenario, in a the metaphorical backstage space, are the on-scene interactions now backstage? Are our heroes, such as they are, coming on stage despite its backstage appearance?” He didn’t wait for Geoffrey’s answer before continuing, “I really think it works better on a more abstracted level, maybe not on the scale I mentioned… though I do think that we should do as much as possible to build a robust soundscape— especially for act three— to develop the tone that again, is really essential… But on a physical, aspect too, I think we should have a set that defies a specific or singular location.”

“But what does that mean?” Geoffrey asked, tugging at his hair in frustration. Darren opened his mouth, but Geoffrey raised his hand, one finger up. “On a physical, tangible level— not metaphorical or symbolic— what are you doing?”

“Alright, fine.” Darren sighed, looking down. Then, one of his eyebrows slowly lifted and he slid his gaze back up to Geoffrey. “The flats!”

“What about them?”

“We turn them around when the scenes from Hamlet drop in. Obviously sometimes is’t very sudden, so maybe instead we fly in a backdrop to replace them, or couple it with a change in lighting quality, but the point is, we use it to illustrate when Ros and Guil have made it to the narrative proper.”

Geoffrey beamed, leaning forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Amazing. I have no idea how it would work for the nunnery scene, but other that it’s more than plausible. I love it.”

Their teacher, Professor Robinson, cleared his throat then. “Now that you two settled on a final version of your idea to pitch to the class, do you think we could move on? I believe we left off with Zach.”

Geoffrey coughed sheepishly. He’d forgotten the whole thing had started as each person sharing a simple, not in-depth idea for the production’s overall aesthetic. “Right. Er. Sorry about that.”

“Excellent…” the professor glanced down at his notebook, picking up a pencil. “Zach?”

“Hang on,” Nick interrupted, half raising his hand. “They’re individual pitches, whose does that count as, Geoffrey or Darren’s?”

Several of their classmates groaned, Geoffrey distinctly heard someone mumble, “They’d finally stopped…”

“Oh, well,” Professor Robinson said, glancing down again. “Hm.” He looked over his notebook fro a moment. “Let’s just call this a joint pitch for ‘backstage setting’ and move on in the interest of time.”

“Rosencrantz!”

“What?”

“There! How was that?”

“Clever!”

“Natural?”

“Instinctive.”

“Got it in your head?”

“I take my hat off you.”

“Shake hands.”

“Now I'll try you— Guil— !”

“— Not yet— catch me unawares.”

“Right. Ready?”

“Don't be stupid.”

“Sorry.”

“Guildenstern!’

“What?”

“Consistency is all I ask!”

“Er…” Darren frowned, squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his head back before giving up and grabbing his book. “Give us this day our daily week…” He tossed the script back onto the table. “I don’t think I know the next bit, not until Hamlet and Polonius come on.”

Geoffrey stretched, stifling a yawn. “That’s alright. We could probably use a break anyway, we’ve been at this for,” he check his wrist, remembered he didn’t have a watch, then looked up at the clock on Darren’s bedroom wall for minute. “Well, I don’t actually know. I don’t remember when we started, but it’s been a while. We got through most of act one, more or less.” He sighed, leaning back in the desk chair he was occupying and fiddling aimlessly with a rubber band he’d found on Darren’s desk. “Break?”

Darren nodded, flipping absently through his script. “I’m getting hungry, we should grab something to eat, then maybe just read the rest of the act? Not worrying about being off book.”

Geoffrey swung his feet onto the ground and pushed himself up. “Sounds good to me. Are we going out or raiding your fridge?”

They decided to head to the corner store, after finding insufficient junk food in Darren’s parents’ kitchen. It was nearly evening and Geoffrey turned up his coat collar against the cold and shoved his hands into his pockets as they walked.

“You know,” Darren said, in the tone that indicated he’d been thinking about something and wanted Geoffrey’s input. “I’ve been trying to consider what differentiates Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

“Yeah?” Geoffrey asked, turning his head slightly to look at Darren. “What about it?”

“Well, clearly they have slightly different outlooks, Rosencrantz is more than happy to take the coin flips as nothing unusual, compared to Guildenstern’s concern about the unlikely run of heads, but that’s just paraphrasing the character notes in the opening stage directions and other than that… I’m unsure of exactly the best way to articulate their differences.”

“Aside from the fact that I’m Guildenstern and you’re Rosencrantz, you mean.”

“I mean on the page,” Darren said, rolling his eyes at Geoffrey’s joking smile. “Or with two entirely theoretical actors in the roles.”

Geoffrey looked at the sidewalk, considering. “Well. The way I think of it… Hang on.” He paused for a moment, trying to arrange his thoughts. “So, Guildenstern comes off as more of a leader, because he’s the driving force behind asking questions or trying to get things straight. But, really, he’s just as dependant on Rosencrantz. They’re on equal footing, since— honestly— Rosencrantz is better able to actually make things happen because he’s unperturbed by all the things that Guildenstern is worrying over. He just doesn’t want to do shit, and Guildenstern is too busy overthinking so they’re left spinning their wheels.”

They reached the corner store and went inside, nodding briefly to the older man behind the counter as they headed for the aisle with snack food. Darren surveyed the selection of chips and answered slowly, thinking aloud. “What if… No. I feel like there’s also the matter of their memories to consider. Because they don’t seem to have any personal recollection prior to the events of the play— obviously an element of the meta theatre— they didn’t exist before the play began and in Hamlet we learn precious little of them— but… Well, they’re defining themselves by what others say about them as a result, and the person who would be most helpful in that is just as lost as they are.”

Geoffrey chewed the edge of thumbnail, arms crossed, watching Darren. “What’s your point?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t think I’ve gotten to it yet. Something to consider though.” He'd grabbed a bag off the shelf. “All dressed?”

“Sure.”

Tricia’s crying was getting old fast. She was very good at it, there was that to be said, but running the same scene over and over got tiring even when it didn’t involve loud, prolonged wailing slowly fading into suppressed sobs. The nunnery scene. Ophelia and Hamlet interrupt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and the players, Hamlet leaves, Polonius and Claudius whisk Ophelia offstage. It was simple enough in theory, far simpler than it would have been in Hamlet where the scene could be played so many different ways and they could have spent the entire day debating which one they were going with. (Well, if Geoffrey was being honest he’d have largely been debating himself, perhaps saved the trouble if Darren took up one of his positions for him.) And Étienne was delivering the speech well and Tricia was a hellishly convincing crier— the first time she’d done it, Adrian (the Player) had nearly jumped out of his skin and Professor Robinson had asked if she was alright— but for whatever reason they just could not get the blocking down, not even once.

As the cast got ready to reset to their starting point, again, Adrian stopped the process to ask a question and Geoffrey took the opportunity to flop backwards on the stage, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “If we have to this one more time…”

“I know, I’m nearly getting a headache myself.” Darren sighed. “I admire her for the lung capacity if nothing else but good god, what I wouldn’t give for her to phone it in next time.”

Geoffrey laughed, exhausted and breathy. “Yeah… Maybe we could bribe her to fake a sore throat next week. Save us all the misery.”

Darren laughed too. “Maybe.” He looked over at where Adrain was still talking to their prof, and stood up, grunting. I’m going to make a quick run to refill my water bottle. Watch my coin purse, alright?” They weren’t using costumes yet, but the coin purses were some of the few necessary props in order to run the play.

“Yeah, sure thing,” Geoffrey answered without uncovering his eyes. He lay there, unmoving, until he heard footsteps— not Darren’s— approaching. Geoffrey shoved himself up on his elbows in time to see Margot (one of the players in this scene, as well as the soldier and the ambassador at other times) walking over.

“Hey,” she dropped down next to him. “We’ve been talking about having a Halloween party Saturday, around eight at Laura’s. You free?”

“Well, that depends on if costumes are mandatory.”

Margot smiled. “I think most people are just hoping for a good excuse to drink.”

“In that case, sure.”

“Great. It’s BYOB, but honestly you and Darren might want to stick to getting mixers because otherwise we’ll never get through it all.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Geoffrey pushed himself into a sitting position. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.” Margot shrugged, getting up to leave. “I’ll keep you posted. Or someone will.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

She walked away, carefully skirting around their prof from behind. Geoffrey rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his head slowly from side to side across his chest.

“What was that about?” Darren was suddenly next to him, without Geoffrey noticing him arrive.  

Geoffrey moved on to stretching his shoulders. “There’s a Halloween party. We’re supposed to bring mixers.”

“Oh god, really?”

“Come on, I know the plan was to watch the ’48 Macbeth, but we’ve seen at least a dozen times at this point. There’s only so many times we can make the same jokes about costuming and get annoyed about adding a totally new character.”

Darren sniffed. “I’ll have you know I was hoping to pay attention to the choices with the weird sisters and how the cuts were made this time.”

“Sure.” Geoffrey rolled his eyes. “Come on. You can act like a misanthrope all you want we both know you still enjoy parties.”

“It’s not acting misanthropic—”

“Shut up, yes it is. Anyway, if we hang out at my place or whatever it’ll just turn into… running lines. Or talking about the play. We could use a break.”

“Hmph,” Darren grunted. Geoffrey gave him a look and his shoulders sagged, relenting. “Fine. At least mixers are cheap.”

“Exactly. Besides—” Geoffrey started, but broke off as he noticed Adrian walking back to his starting position. He nudged Darren. “I think we’re starting again.”

“Oh joy.” They stood up, sighing in unison.

As Étienne and Tricia took their places, waiting to enter, Geoffrey leaned over and muttered under his breath. “Worst comes to worse we… bring the VHS and lock ourselves into Laura’s basement. Commandeer the TV.”

Professor Robinson cleared his throat. “Okay… Let’s take it from… ‘Right! We haven’t got much time’ and try to make it through.”

Adrian nodded, coughed to clear his throat, and they started again, everyone trying their best to give it the same energy as if they hadn’t done it a million times.

One of the biggest challenges with the play, and particularly with the the larger scenes, was their cast size. It was possible to do the play with ten people, but only barely, and the busier sections— such as the nunnery scene— necessitated essentially everyone being on stage at once. They’d been cast so that pretty much everyone was a Tragedian when necessary, even if they had other roles. The only one other than Darren and Geoffrey playing one character was Adrian as the Player. Which meant in scenes like this, one where people from the court were onstage and the Tragedians had to be convincingly rehearsing, they needed all hands on deck.

So, the problem wasn’t just that Étienne and Tricia were still trying to work out where to run, it was that the Player King and Queen did something different each time they had to go through the pantomime; that Polonius and Claudius were thrown off every time Tricia ended up somewhere different and they couldn’t figure out how to lead her off; that they still hadn’t technically settled on whether Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were sitting or standing to watch everything so Geoffrey and Darren were doing both at different times and messing up Adrian whenever the Player had to talk to them. Basically, it was a big mess.

And having more people wouldn’t really have changed how many bodies they needed to coordinate being onstage at once, but it definitely would have made it feel less like they were stretched thin, trying to make the most of what little time they had to work the biggest scenes and the persistent problem spots. If you stepped back and looked at it, then the play was actually coming along really well, but it felt far more hectic than anything else Geoffrey had done. Doing it all in the fall didn’t help, the earlier it got dark, the earlier it felt like they to ran out of time in a day, even if it wasn’t actually the case. By the time the 31st rolled around the whole class was overjoyed at an excuse to relax.

“Rosenstern and Guildencrantz!” Laura greeted them enthusiastically as she opened the door, a plastic cup in her hand.

Geoffrey stepped inside, shrugging off his coat. Darren shut the door behind them. “Was that intentional, or are you already drunk?”

“Shhhh.” She waved her hand at both of them, broadly. “I was making a joke, I’m not that out of control.” She took a sip from the cup. “People and drinks and, like, snacks and shit are all in the living room, come on.”

Laura lived with her parents in Scarborough (though they were out for the evening), and between delays on the subway and navigating an unfamiliar neighbourhood, it had taken Darren and Geoffrey longer than they’d expected to get there from downtown. As a result, everyone else was already there, crowding the living room and filling it with chatter over the faint sounds of the Monster Mash. Laura peeled off to talk to someone as soon as they got to the doorway, and Geoffrey and Darren headed over to the coffee table covered in drinks and snacks.

There was a surprising lack of beer, given everyone’s usual drinking preferences, and a startling amount of hard liquor. Geoffrey took one of the the remaining cans from the sole twelve pack of Coors, and watched as Darren mixed himself a baffling combination of the other booze on offer.

“How the hell do you drink that?”

“In moderation and with with plenty of food. Which reminds me, do you see any Coffee Crisp?”

Geoffrey looked at the bowl of fun sized candy bars. “Uh… no. Kit Kat?”

“Sure.”

Geoffrey grabbed a couple from the bowl, as well as two Oreos from a half empty box next two it, and they turned as one to face the rest of the room, looking for somewhere to sit. It wasn’t an easy task; Laura’s living room was smallish to begin with, and eight people took up more space than you’d expect. After a couple tries, they managed to grab pillows and find a spot on the floor where they wouldn’t be trampled.

“Oh, hey, when you’d get here?” Margot— dressed as a witch— leaned forward to talk past Étienne, next to her on the couch.

“Just now,” Geoffrey answered, handing Darren the candy so he could open his beer.

“Well, you missed Tricia doing all of Pyramus and Thisbe from memory.”

“She wasn’t even a mechanical.” Geoffrey frowned. “How the hell does she know it all?”

“Well she didn’t do all of it,” Étienne chimed in. “I did the heckling.”

“Yeah, but it’s still impressive,” Margot said. “I don’t even remember my lines from last year.

"Plus, she does a pretty good impression of you.”

“Which one?” Darren asked.

Margot blinked. “Oh, both. I thought we’d all agreed that we don’t need to differentiate, right?”

Étienne nodded. “Yeah, that’s been a thing for a while.”

“Oh fuck off,” Geoffrey rolled his eyes. He took a sip of his beer and set it down next to him.

Étienne laughed “Stop being attached at the hip and we’ll see.”

“Whatever,” Geoffrey sighed. Darren held out his hand with the candy and Geoffrey took an Oreo without looking. “How’d that start anyway?”

“Uh... you’re the same person?” Margot said, raising her eyebrow.

“No, the Pyramus and Thisbe,” Darren said, handing his drink to Geoffrey and putting the candy down next to him so he could unwrap a Kit Kat. “We’re, what, half an hour late?” He looked to Geoffrey for confirmation as he took his drink back. “How much have you been drinking?”

“Tricia doesn’t even drink,” Margot said. “She just said that she knew it and people started chanting and next thing I knew it was happening.”

“God, I hate this program,” Darren said, smiling. He added to Geoffrey, “Tell me I’m not this insufferable.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Fuck you, Geoffrey.” Darren took a sip of his drink wincing appreciatively. “I can say for certain you’re that bad, but at least you restrain yourself to drunken soliloquies in your unprompted performances.”

“Who’s doing a performance?” Laura plopped herself down in front of them, holding a handful of popcorn and wearing a set of fake fangs she hadn’t had when she answered the door.

“No one,” Geoffrey and Darren said in unison.

“We were just getting filled in on Tricia’s solo Pyramus and Thisbe,” Geoffrey added.

“Oh, right you missed that! We should get her to do the death scene again, it was exactly like yours.”

“Yeah, it was uncanny.” Margot nodded.

Darren laughed. “Now I might actually have to see this sometime.” He leaned back slightly to accommodate Geoffrey grabbing the second Oreo from the pile.

“Good luck,” Laura said. “She’s part of the poker game happening by the couch. I’m only here because I ran out of fun-sized Mars bars to bet with.”

The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. Unsurprisingly— at least to Geoffrey— he and Darren didn’t end up barricading themselves in Laura’s basement lounge to watch a movie. Instead, the VHS they’d brought sat neglected in Geoffrey’s coat pocket while they joined the poker game and enjoyed having actual, non-theatre based fun for an evening. Geoffrey was pretty sure that there had been a very loud and quite chaotic attempt to build a card house that included drinking any time it collapsed, and at one point he was fairly certain he and Darren tried to get out onto the roof for some fresh air (though why they chose that over the backyard he couldn’t begin to fathom). He did know that the night ended late, and that he woke up the next morning in his bed with a splitting headache and a deep desire to never see sunlight ever again. He walked as lightly as he could to his bathroom to get an Advil and some water— picking his way over where Darren was splayed on the bedroom floor, head haphazardly pillowed on a wadded up jacket— before shuffling his way back and falling back into bed, ready to sleep though all of Sunday with the knowledge that nights off were only going to be harder to find.

Chapter Text

“He murdered us.”

“He might have had the edge.”

“Twenty-seven - three, and you think he might have had the edge. He murdered us.”

“What about our evasions?”

“Oh, our evasions were lovely. ‘Were you sent for?’ he says. ‘My lord, we were sent for…' I didn't know where to put myself.”

“He had six rhetoricals—”

“It was question and answer, all right. Twenty-seven questions he got out in ten minutes, and answered three. I was waiting for you to delve. ‘When is he going to start delving?’ I asked myself.”

“—And two repetitions.”

“Hardly a leading question between us.”

“We got his symptoms, didn't we?”

“Half of what he said meant something else, and the other half didn't mean anything at all.”

“Thwarted ambition - a sense of grievance, that's my diagnosis.”

“Six rhetorical and two repetitions, leaving nineteen of which we answered fifteen. And what did we get in return? He's depressed. Denmark's a prison and he'd rather live in a nutshell; some shadow-play about the nature of ambition, which never got down to cases, and finally one direct question which might have led somewhere, and led in fact to his illuminating claim to tell a hawk from a handsaw.”

Geoffrey paused after Darren’s speech. “The thing is, they’re not his friends, are they?”

“How do you mean?” Darren asked.

“Ros and Guil— they’re not students at Wittenberg, they wouldn’t have sought out Hamlet if they weren’t sent for, he doesn’t trust them… He has good reason, of course, but still. In this scene they’re not even tuned in enough to decipher his clues post hoc.”

“What’s your point?”

“Just what I said,” Geoffrey said, pulling his knees into his chest and straightening up, “they’re not his friends. They just grew up together. Claudius and Gertrude— two people also out of touch with Hamlet’s current life, assume they’re his friends, but that just shows how little they know him themselves.”

“In the original, you mean,” Darren pointed out.

“Yes, in the original.”

“But here they’re not even sure themselves of that.”

“Of what? That Claudius and Gertrude think they’re his friends?”

“No, that they grew up together.”

“Ah.” Geoffrey paused, thinking it over. “What’s your point?”

“Well, considering their amnesia— or what you will— surrounding the time predating the play, they could be on fine terms with him. Close even.” 

“Or they could not.”

“Or they could not.” Darren shrugged, picking up his coat and tucking his script into its pocket before putting it down again. “Anything’s possible.”

They sat in silence for a moment. They were in the hall outside their rehearsal space before class, leaning against the wall with their bags and coats in small piles on either side of them. They’d been running their lines in an Italian, skipping the bits with other characters, while they waited for the rehearsal proper to start. They were both off book (if you didn’t count the fact that having to bow and say their lines always messed them up), and they’d made it to the top of act two in pretty good time before inevitably getting sidetracked.

“Okay,” Geoffrey sad eventually, “we don't know for sure that they aren’t close with Hamlet, but the lack of memories prior to the play does sort of render them not close to him now. Either way, they’re not his friends.”

“They’re friends with each other.” Darren wasn’t looking at Geoffrey, focused instead on rubbing at a mud stain on his bag.

Geoffrey pointed at him. “Exactly. They’re friends with each other. And though we don’t see any of it in this play, Hamlet’s actual friend is Horatio. With apologies to Zach, I just don’t think Horatio matters in this particular framing of the story. But it is undeniable that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are friends with each other.”

“They’re all the other has.”

“Right, they hardly exist without the other.”

Darren leaned his head against the wall. “It makes me wonder,” he mused, “whether you could play it with them both as facets of a single person, a kind of left-brain/right-brain idea. It would fail horribly, I think, but as a concept…”

Geoffrey frowned at him. “It defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? Of two people who can’t tell one from the other. It’s not saying much about having a partial, almost collaborative sense of self if there’s only one self to begin with.”

“Well, yes, that’s why it would fail.”

“Right.” Geoffrey paused. “I feel like I was saying something, what was it?”

“Apologies to Zach?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are friends.”

“That’s it! But it’s not just that they’re friends,” Geoffrey talked at the wall in front of them, gesturing with his hands, forearms rested on propped-up knees, “It’s that they’re only fully functional as a unit. If they break apart they’re… nothing. Lost. Metaphorically dead.”

“Well don’t jump ahead, we’ve only made it to act two.”

Geoffrey scowled at him. “Be serious.”

“I don’t want to die any sooner that I have to. Do you?”

“Of course not. But you do get what I’m saying, don’t you?”

Darren sighed. “Their dynamic demonstrates a lack of most of the traditional markers of friendship, such as sharing personal anecdotes or confiding, because any such activity would be pointless when the other person might as well be living the same life.”

“Exactly. All they do is argue about nothing and try to figure out what they hell they’re doing.”

“And?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does it mean that that’s what makes up their interactions?”

“Don’t you think they might be too much a part of the other?”

“What do you mean?”

“Repetition,” Geoffrey grinned. Darren shoved him and Geoffrey swatted at his head in response, righting himself before continuing. “I just don’t know what it means to be a singular, individual person if the person you spend all your time with might as well possess half your brain.”

“Well they spend the whole play together, do you really need to know what they’re like apart?”

“Maybe not. Maybe that uncertainty is the point. Maybe, the point is that if either of them could figure it out then other people could tell which is which. Maybe it’s working just fine for them so there’s no need to question it, maybe to not be with Rosencrantz is the same as not being at all.” Geoffrey paused, letting out the trapped air he’d been holding as he’d forced out the words. He took a big breath. “But it’s still got me thinking and it would be nice to figure it out.”

Darren was quite for a moment before answering. “Hm. Well if you don’t, at the very least it’s not something you have to worry too much about. Well. Maybe a little bit. At the end.”

Geoffrey laughed drily. “Yeah. At the end.”

Rehearsals were going well. Even thinking that felt like it would jinx it, but the show was just starting to come together and Geoffrey was actually managing to get a sense of what it would look like as a final product, and that meant that things were going well. Without overestimating his own talents, Geoffrey was fairly confident that the scenes with just Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were some of the tightest parts, but that had as much to do with the challenge their cast size presented to running group scenes as it did with any of his or Darren’s efforts. And even the group scenes weren’t near the mess they had been. Everyone had all been fairly confidently off book for a while, but they were finally reaching the point where they could play with it, have fun with what they were doing around the text, find new ways to tell the same story. Or sometimes just get hung up on tiny details.

“I’d like to make it clear I disagree with Rosencrantz.”

“About what? Filth onstage?”

They were sitting in the back of the theatre during a break from rehearsal. Geoffrey’s feet were up on the back of the seat in front of him, Darren was spread out over about three seats, mostly because of the numerous layers he kept taking off and putting back on in the fickle heating system of the theatre.

“Exactly. Ignoring for the moment that the Tragedians are heightened and comical— largely because the perspective of the play disagrees like them— there’s no actual reason that in order to be ‘art’ ” Darren made air quotes, loading the word with distain, “theatre needs to be a strictly linear narrative or the production of some kind of sanitized reflection of the real world.”

“That’s not what that scene is saying, though. Of course art doesn’t need to be neat and tidy and a sanitized… whatever, it should mimic life. It can’t approach it, reflect it back to us but it will still be just that, a mimic. This story, this play, is flailing against the inadequacies of art to fully replicate life, but that failure— the acknowledgement of that failure and… and deliberately ignoring it— that is the beauty of theatre to begin with.”

“Well, obviously, yes, that’s what the scene is saying. But, the point that Rosencrantz is making is the one I was arguing against,” Darren explained. “He is positing that art— more specifically theatre— shouldn’t have so-called filth on the grounds that it precludes telling a cohesive story. And with that, I take issue. On numerous points.” He unwound a scarf from his neck and dropped it into the seat between him and Geoffrey. “Although, while we’re on the subject I can’t say I agree with your position either.”

“I never said it was my position, it’s a reading of the scene.”

Darren looked at him over his glasses. He’d recently gotten a new pair, subtly different and less scratched up than his old ones. “You went well beyond just reading the scene, you don’t need to feign neutrality.”

“Alright fine,” Geoffrey acquiesced. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument—” he paused, raising his eyebrows at Darren pointedly, “—that’s how I see the matter. What about it makes you disagree?”

“You say that the beauty of theatre is, what, suspension of disbelief? Everyone in the room agreeing to pretend for a few hours that what’s happening onstage isn’t real. But said attempts to replicate the world around us while knowing it is doomed to fail is something theatre has been moving away from for decades. It’s childish to constantly disavow that these things are a fiction, and if everyone stayed within that framework we wouldn’t have metatheatre to begin with.”

“Yes, but what does that get you?” Geoffrey exploded, waving his hands tightly in front of him. “Purposefully detaching from the action onstage, seeing the characters as, what? Psychological subjects? Signifiers? Instead of people who can move you, reach you and get you out your seat. I’m not saying other approaches don’t have value, but I’d rather see a story that engages me emotionally and makes me think because of that, than one that expects some kind of… academic detachment from me.”

“Art is more that mere entertainment, though, isn’t it? Soap operas can elicit an emotional response. An academic perspective is part of a critical approach to any art, you can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not disavowing academia— have you seen my notes for this play? I’m just saying that it can’t be all a play gives you when you go see it. Isn’t there more that stories should be doing for us?”

Darren roles his eyes. “This is why you’re burdened with an over-dependence on naturalism from which I, thankfully, am free.”

Étienne came in through he doors behind them then, carrying a take out bag. “What’s the fight de jour this time?”

“Filth v. life,” Geoffrey told him, twisting in his seat. “Darren’s just called me dependant on naturalism, care to help out?”

Étienne sat down, pulling a sandwich out of the bag and unwrapping it. “This is about the players?”

Geoffrey looked side-eyed at Darren.

“Ostensibly...” Darren answered.

“See I always took that as G. saying that life has filth, ya know?” Étienne took a bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly. “Mur ‘ike— Mmph. Sorry,” he swallowed. “Or like, ‘I don’t mind filth because I want art to be realistic not gloss over it.’”

Geoffrey and Darren looked at him, then each other. 

“That’s...” Geoffrey started.

“A complete misinterpretation of the text.”

“Totally unfounded—“

“Not to mention disregarding all of Guildenstern’s characterization.”

“And the tragedians,” Geoffrey added. “Their characterization, obviously, but also—“

“— their framing. I mean their clearly intended to be the butt of the joke...”

“Both at this point and in much of the rest of the play.”

“Exactly,” Darren said, “they stand in contrast to Ros and Guil.”

Étienne sighed. “Right, of course, forget I said anything.” He peeled back a little more of his sandwich wrapper, muttering under his breath before he took a bite.

“What was that?” Geoffrey asked.

“Nothing,” Étienne said, sighing again. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I clearly heard something about us being the worst.” Darren leaned forward, adjusting his scarf.

Étienne put the sandwich down on his leg. “No, just— You aren’t exactly easy to talk to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Geoffrey asked.

Étienne was saved answering by the stage manager, shouting their five minute call from down by the stage.

“Shit.” Étienne bolted up, stumbling as the seat swung up behind him. “I knew I wouldn’t have enough time to make it back and eat.” He hurried off down the aisle, clumsily rewrapping his sandwich as he went.

Geoffrey got up more slowly, pausing when he got to the aisle and waiting as Darren gathered up his various outerwear. As Darren finished, Geoffrey turned to start walking, Darren falling easily into step beside him.

“Hey, have you heard back from your cousin, by the way?” Geoffrey asked.

“Hm? Oh, about getting Troilus and Cressida, you mean. I got a postcard from him this weekend.”

“And?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. It was broadcast on the seventh and he taped it, the only trouble is getting it here. He’s still got to pack them up, once he does it’ll probably take while to arrive. I wouldn’t expect it until after the holidays, maybe during if we’re lucky.

“Well that’s not too bad. It’s almost better, since we won’t be swamped with the play anymore.”

Darren hummed in agreement. “That’s what I thought.”

They reached the edge of the stage and Geoffrey pulled himself up onto it sideways, then rolled to his feet.

“Incidentally,” Darren added as he followed via a more convention route, walking up the steps at the side, “Thersites is apparently played by the same person who did Caliban in Jarman’s Tempest a few years back.”

“That was the one that was all indoors?”

“Yes.”

“Never saw it,” Geoffrey frowned. “How’d you find that out?”

“Oh, my cousin. He had to watch the miniseries to tape it, and he follows Jarman’s work because of the punk influence.”

Geoffrey let out an awkward half-laugh. “How big was this postcard?”

Darren shrugged. “He writes small.”

Winter arrived in the second last week of November. A blustery, wet, and inconsistent winter that was made up of icy conditions one day, and mild, rainy ones the next. Geoffrey found himself muttering bits of “the forgeries of jealousy” under his breath and talking Laura into waterproofing his boots for him. It had taken a while for Geoffrey to get used to Toronto winters. He was used to the deep snow, biting cold, and ungodly amounts of shovelling that he’d grown up with. What he didn’t know how to cope with was constant sleet and unreliable forecasts. Darren always made fun of Geoffrey’s complaints, saying he should appreciate the milder weather that came with living near a lake, not act like it was somehow worse than the rest of the country. Geoffrey maintained that certainty and predictability outweighed the benefits of mild weather any day of the week, often adding that he didn’t trust places where you didn’t need to practically tunnel your way from your door to the sidewalk after a snowfall. It was an old conversation, and one that they repeated out of mutual obligation rather than with genuine hopes of convincing the other of anything.

With the change in weather also came a notable uptick in the amount of work to do. They’d be going into tech runs and dress rehearsals starting on the 30th, and it was hard to believe that the current long hours of rehearsing to get ready for that were calm in comparison to what was coming. Everyone was stressed, tired, and fed up with spending every day with the same small group of people. Which probably explained the fight.

During one of their all-day rehearsals when he had the rare opportunity to be offstage for much of the morning (Zach had to leave early for a dentist appointment so they were running all of the court scenes in one go), Geoffrey had started going through the script side by side with Hamlet to try and figure out how well they matched up. Darren had been looking over his shoulder for most of it, and eventually Geoffrey set aside the plays and they just started talking about the plays (which was their first mistake, really), hewing more towards Hamlet than R and G, if only for the novelty it presented. Slowly, they stopped talking about the play and started talking about the characters, and about how Stoppard’s choice of which of Ros and Guil’s scenes to include changed matters. Which is where things really went downhill.

“Obviously they come across differently, this is a different play telling a different story within the confines of the same plot.” Darren was keeping his voice down, but it was clear that he wouldn’t be if it weren’t for the people rehearsing onstage. “We spend more time with characters who barely have an lines and are nearly always cut from the original. They’d be different even if there was the strictest possible adherence to the text.” 

Geoffrey listened, not looking at him, and chewed on his lip while he waited for Darren to finish. They were in the wings, both facing the stage and Darren kept his gaze towards it though not really focussed on the actors there.

“As things are,” Darren continued, “it’s a new interpretation, they might as well be totally different people and I think it serves us better to remember that.”

“First of all,” Geoffrey responded, “The two works share enough commonality of plot and character that they have every right to be compared. Both deal in façades or illusions so there’s that, at the very least. And anyway,” he twisted in his seat, facing Darren now, “I’m not saying they have to be exactly the same, I’m trying to see what we get from looking at the ways that the two plays are different, and we can learn something about the characters that way.”

Darren rolled his eyes, glancing at Geoffrey. “They’re different plays. If we were doing Hamlet you wouldn’t be annotating Amleth would you?”

“I might be,” Geoffrey retorted. He was being contrary more than anything else, but he wasn’t going to give in on this. “If there was something there. And this play is a hell of a lot closer to Hamlet than Hamlet is to Amleth. I mean Stoppard uses some of the original text, for christ’s sake.”

Darren exhaled with a slight hiss. “Of course you’d actually be interested in twelfth century folklore. We’re doing a play that’s actually from this decade, and one that has enough naval-gazing already—”

“Like you don’t lo-ove that,” Geoffrey muttered, rubbing his forehead.

“Enough naval-gazing already,” Darren persisted, “without you getting hung up on its source material. As if what we need is more slavish devotion to ancient texts before innovation. So what if Ros and Guil come across differently? So what if we lose a soliloquy here or there. It is not. The same. Story.” He adjusted his glasses and added as an afterthought, “The fact that this play doesn’t revolve around a verbose, sardonic and overly-dramatic whiner might be a clue.”

Geoffrey slowly lifted his face from his hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we were airing our grievances with characters we don’t connect with. Mind if I say a few things about the Player? Or did you want to throw in a simplistic take on Ophelia next?”

“It was a joke,” Darren said waspishly, turning his head to look at Geoffrey. “I forgot you can’t take criticism of the Dane.”

“This has nothing to do with ‘taking criticism’,” Geoffrey snapped, leaning in to stop himself from raising his voice. “I thought we were having a discussion about the differences between the plays, especially when this play is so obviously interested in narrative truth, but if that’s not what we’re doing, then I would have liked to been informed.”

“Oh fuck off. ‘Narrative truth’? Truth in art I’ll give you, but it’s a far stretch to connect that to anything concerning narrative. And in any case,” Darren crossed his arms and turned away from the stage to look at Geoffrey properly. “when you say the play is interested in so-called ‘narrative truth’, you’re not willing to interrogate what it’s actually saying, you just assume it’s on the side of emotionality, verisimilitude, and poetic faith— that is to say your side— rather than accounting for all it has to say about the failures of any of those things to actually present you with life.”

Adrian and Étienne came up the stairs that led from the dressing room to the wing as Darren spoke, faltering as they reached the top step and noticed the argument. Neither Darren nor Geoffrey acknowledged them.

“Just because they won’t doesn’t mean you have to throw out the hope of getting something real out with the bathwater and resort to detachment and— and, alienation,” Geoffrey said, gesturing in frustration. “And maybe the play isn’t saying exactly what I think, but I do think that it has some very clear things to say about theatre, and the very fact that the characters push back against the outlandish and the spectacle indicates that just maybe the guy pushing for style over substance is wrong.”

“But the one searching for compete certainty at the expense of everything else isn’t?”

“That’s not—”

“The one who, in the text, points out and laments the gulf between the performance of grief and the actual experience of it, only then to be far more motivated by and open about fictional emotions than he ever is about his own.”

“I thought they were two different plays,” Geoffrey said darkly.

“Don’t avoid my point.”

“But aren't the Player and Hamlet meant to parallel each other?” Adrian interjected. “I mean, Stoppard’s descriptions of them—” Étienne shushed Adrian, silencing him and looking warily at Darren and Geoffrey.

Geoffrey ignored them.

“Fine,” he said, looking at Darren darkly. “You want to talk about the contrast between the performance of emotion and actual experience? We know exactly what Hamlet is feeling, he tells us. It’s not that he can’t show it, it’s that he’s forced not to. Even if you ignore Hamlet as a separate text— which you can’t now that you’ve invoked it— but, regardless, it’s not about an unhealthy reverence for fiction or whatever you’re trying to imply, it’s about that difference. Approaching reality just enough to show us something about it. That difference still needs to be there, obviously, it’s not like you see ghosts walking around, but… but—” Geoffrey fumbled for the words. “You can have emotional truth without denying that.”

“Emotional truth,” Darren said the words like they were the most childish thing he’d ever heard of. “Hamlet isn’t emotionally truthful, he’s just emotional. Full stop. Wearing you heart on your sleeve doesn’t make you any more honest than otherwise. And it certainly,” he gave Geoffrey a piercing look over his glasses, “doesn’t make for better theatre.”

Geoffrey almost laughed. “Well, it’s better than the alternative. It’s impossible to know that the Player feels anything at all, half the times he seems to in the play, it gets revealed to be pretence. He comes across as deliberately inauthentic!”

Adrian cleared his throat. “Well… that’s just in this one, isn’t it? In Hamlet he seems genuinely invested in his craft.”

“Exactly my point,” Darren gestured at Adrian, looking at Geoffrey as if that should settle matters. “They’re different plays.”

“You’ve been using both!” Geoffrey sputtered, then stopped. He took a breath through his nose. “Okay. For the sake of argument let’s take them as individual. Unrelated. The Player’s genuineness in Hamlet is a part of his appeal as an actor, it’s what moves Hamlet. In R and G—”

“It’s precisely what makes him frustrating,” Darren interrupted. “The parts that are more blatantly performative and spectacular— in the literal sense— aren’t the things that actively frustrate Ros and Guil, it’s his claim that things he’s acted are experience—”

Geoffrey did laugh then, bitter and harsh. “Now who’s seeing what they want to in the play? You just want it to confirm your own biases for unpleasant, experimental bullshit.”

Darren’s face clouded over. “Well. Enjoy chasing emotional truth.” He stood up sharply, whipping his coat off the back of his chair and shoving his way past Adrian and Étienne to clatter down the stairs behind them.

“Right,” Geoffrey jumped up, speaking through gritted teeth. “I’m taking a break.”

Geoffrey didn’t see Darren until the end of the half hour they got for lunch, when Darren sidled up to him awkwardly, looking at his shoes, as Geoffrey stood onstage waiting to start running the act three. Geoffrey hadn’t been sure he was going to show up, and he hadn’t seen where Darren came from. He was just there.

Geoffrey cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head. “Er,” he started, then stopped abruptly, coughing.

“Don’t bother,” Darren said quickly. “It’s not— Look, let’s just move on.”

Geoffrey let out a deep breath. “Yeah. I mean, not that I want to ignore it? I’m sorry, about the… uh, bullshit thing.”

“Same here.” Darren nodded brusquely. “About, you know. Emotionality. And about… Well. I think we both got carried away.”

Geoffrey laughed. “Yes. Yes, that would be a… fair assessment.”

Darren cleared his throat. “Besides, you may have had a point— on some topics.”

“Right.” Geoffrey nodded. “I won’t ask which ones.”

Darren just barely cracked a grin. “No, I think we should probably let the whole thing be for now. Maybe wait until after we aren’t trapped in a box together every day.”

Geoffrey laughed harder, more deeply. “Absolutely.” He sobered and looked at Darren seriously. “Friends?”

Darren sighed, rolling his eyes. “You are unbearably sincere sometimes. But yes…” he sighed again, smiling this time, “we’re friends. Now, come on, let’s get the barrels.”

Geoffrey and Darren each took one of the two barrels from the wings. They were essentially convex foam tubes large enough for a person to climb through and painted to look convincing.

As they rolled them into position Darren asked, “Do you want to watch a movie or something Saturday? It’s probably the last chance we’ll get before hell week starts.”

Geoffrey sighed. “I would, but my dad’s gonna be in town.” He stood his barrel up and adjusted the angle and position over the trap door. “He can’t make it to the actual show, of course, but two weeks before he’s all free.”

Darren didn’t say anything. Just hummed sympathetically as he double checked that the barrel lids were loose enough to be opened from inside.

“Anyway, I’m spending the day with him, apparently, and then he’s taking me to dinner.” Geoffrey sighed, sitting down heavily next to the barrels. “Who knows, we might even stay civil long enough to have dessert.”

Geoffrey was soaked through and cold as he stood on Darren’s porch. He pressed the doorbell again and stamped his feet, shivering as looking over his shoulder at the freezing rain coming down on the street behind him. Just as he was about to ring it again, the door swung open and Geoffrey breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ve been thinking about Claudius,” he said, all in a rush, brushing past Darren without waiting to be invited inside. He started taking off his dripping coat and unwrapping his scarf from his neck.

“Geoffrey?” Darren asked, slowly closing his front door and turning around. “But I thought—”

Geoffrey snorted, cutting Darren off and and crouched down to untie his boots. “It ended early,” he said into the ground. Standing up he added. “Do you mind if we go upstairs?”

Darren blinked at him. “Of course not, lead the way.”

“Thanks,” Geoffrey started climbing the worn stairs towards Darren’s room.

The inside of the house was almost completely dark aside from the front hall and it doesn’t seem like anyone else was home. Geoffrey dimly remembered Darren mentioning his parents had plans at some gallery, which made him feel a bit better about showing up without any warning.

When they got to Darren’s bedroom, Geoffrey dropped into his desk chair. Darren pushed his door most of the way closed and sat down on the bed.

Geoffrey sighed. “So, anyway, about Claudius. I’ve just… I’ve been thinking about him, you know?” He stood up again, pacing. “He’s generally overlooked when it comes to villains, but— I mean, just look at his actions in the play!”

“Regicide?” Darren asked. “Not-quite incest?”

“What?” Geoffrey paused, looking at him. “No, that’s irrelevant.”

Darren laughed. “Well, it’s the inciting incident for much—”

“Yes, fine, whatever, but that’s not my point right now.” Geoffrey stopped pacing, trying to find the right words. “Look, all Hamlet wants is to keep studying. He’s good at it, he’s got friends— well, friend, at least— it’s the only thing he asks for… And the first thing Claudius does in the play is deny him that! That tells us everything we need to know about him, really. He doesn’t understand Hamlet, they don’t get along, and he clearly doesn’t have a problem with school in general, so either he’s a massive hypocrite or it’s personal.”

“Right…” Darren said slowly. “I can’t say I know where you’re going with this.”

“That’s not to mention everything about him as a person,” Geoffrey continued, stopping his pacing to look at Darren, gesturing in frustration as he continued. “He’s just this side of alcoholic, he’s a terrible husband, his vague gestures at religious faith are completely hollow— I don’t even care if he doesn’t believe what he’s saying, it’s the pretending he does, and acting like it matters that’s annoying.”

Darren started to say something, but Geoffrey barrelled right through, “Why does he want Hamlet to spend time with him anyway? To what—” he laughed, the sound coming out tense and high. “Follow in his footsteps? That ship has more than sailed.” Geoffrey started to walk back to the chair but wheeled around suddenly. “They don’t get along!” He repeated, flinging his arms out wide. “They don’t understand each other at all, he’s a terrible father, and still, still he keeps on insisting that the two of them should try to spend time together.” Geoffrey exhaled heavily, letting himself collapse back into the desk chair again.

Darren looked at him, one eyebrow raised

“What.” It came out flat, his voice heavy. Drained.

“Uncle.”

Geoffrey frowned. “What?” It was an actual question this time.

“You said father,” Darren said carefully, looking at him with an unreadable expression. “Claudius is Hamlet’s uncle.”

“Right, of course, uncle.” Geoffrey sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I’m… I’m tired, it’s late. It was a long day and then I walked here…” He deliberately left out the fact that the restaurant he’d walked from was in downtown, over an hour from Darren’s house in Dufferin Grove by foot.

“Alright,” Darren said, simply. After a moment he added, as if they’d been doing nothing more unusual than running lines, “You want to crash here tonight?”

Geoffrey nodded without looking at him. “Do you mind? You don’t have to worry about setting anything up I can just take the couch.”

Darren made a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous, there’s a bed in the guest room.”

“Right. Thanks.” Geoffrey nodded, standing up and rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry for… barging in, I guess. Showing up without warning.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Darren said, standing up too. “I’ll grab you some blankets.”

“How much did he give you?”

“Who?”

“The king. He gave us some money.”

“How much did he give you?”

“I asked you first.”

“I got the same as you.”

“He wouldn't discriminate between us.”

“How much did you get?”

“The same.”

“How do you know?”

“You just told me— how do you know?”

“He wouldn't discriminate between us.”

“Even if he could.”

“Which he never could.”

“He couldn't even be sure of mixing us up.”

“Without mixing us up.”

The wings were quiet. The rush and frenzy of pre-show preparations had quieted, fight call had passed, and now they stood, waiting in a hushed and nervous huddle to go on. Geoffrey and Darren were standing next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, running lines in a barely audible murmur. Darren had his hands in pockets, standing perfectly still. Geoffrey’s arms were folded, and he chewed on his bottom lip around speaking. He’d started out pacing, until the others made his stop because he was stressing them out.

Geoffrey sighed, looking up at the bottom of the fly space. “Why don't you say something original. No wonder the whole thing is so stagnant. You don't take me up on anything— you just repeat it in a different order.”

“I can't think of anything original. I'm only good in support.”

Hell week had passed in what felt like no time at all, the last dress rehearsal was gone in a blink, and suddenly it was the first of their five shows. None of it had gone quickly in the moment (the tech run especially felt about ten times longer than it actually was), but standing at the end of it, Geoffrey could have sworn that last he checked it was still November.

He was more nervous about this show than he’d been for any of the others he’d done. They’d had a small audience at the open dress, just theatre students they'd invited from other years, and even with that he’d been an absolute wreck beforehand. The second he’d stepped onstage he’d been fine, like always, and rationally he knew it would be the same tonight, like always, but… Well, if it wasn’t for running lines with Darren he’d probably be doing a lot worse than puking.

Darren of course was so calm it made Geoffrey want to punch him. It was always like this, Geoffrey would be tearing his hair out or pacing or throwing up, and Darren would be completely relaxed. Geoffrey would probably yell at him over it except that Darren generally did his best to try to calm down, although he never said that was what he was doing. Running lines was an old stalwart, going all the way back to Godspell. They usually had to skip around, passing over other people’s lines, defaulting to the bits they knew the best. Tonight, they’d just started a flat run partway through act three and kept going, only skipping ahead when the Player showed up. They’d gotten further than Geoffrey had expected, the house was taking a while to fill up.

“Saved again.”

Geoffrey shifted. Uncrossed his arms and crossed them the other way. “Saved for what?

Darren sighed. “The sun's going down.” He was still standing completely still, staring straight ahead at the stage. “It'll be night soon. If that's west. Unless we’ve—”

“Shut up. I'm sick of it. Do you think conversation is going to help us now?”

“I— I bet you all the money I've got the year of my birth doubled is an odd number.”

“No.” Geoffrey turned away from Darren, walking a couple paces to the right.

“Your birth.”

Geoffrey turned back around, speaking even more softly. “We’ve travelled too far, and our momentum has taken over; we move idly towards eternity, without possibility of reprieve or hope of explanation.”

“Be happy— If you're not even happy what's so good about surviving?” Darren took one hand out of his pocket and scratched his nose. Putting his hand back in his pocket he continued, “We'll be all right. I suppose we just go on.”

“Go where?”

Darren took a deep breath. “To England.”

“England. That's a dead end. I never believed in it anyway.”

“It is hard to believe in.”

“What is?” Geoffrey put his own hands in his pockets, not looking at Darren.

Darren shrugged. “The end. You know all about it, you know when you’re going to get there but even when you’re facing it down… it doesn’t seem real.”

“Well… It’s not as close as all that.” Geoffrey sighed. “Just because it’s getting closer doesn’t mean we haven't got time before it arrives. If it arrives at all.”

Darren sighed too. “Do you think it’ll change things?”

“What? Going to England? Well. We’ll die, won’t we?”

“Graduating.”

Geoffrey looked at him sidelong. “Dropping the metaphor, are we?” He shrugged. “Same answer.”

“That’s unnecessarily melodramtic.”

“Metaphorical.”

Darren shrugged awkwardly, not moving his hands. “Still unnecessary.”

“Don’t worry,” Geoffrey took a deep breath in, “we’ll get up after. Still work together, still find ways to collaborate.”

“Of course.” Darren said, not sounding certain. He repeated it more firmly, “Of course.”

There was a long pause. The rest of the cast shuffled their feet, talked in whispers; from beyond the heavy curtain separating the stage from the audience there was the faintest murmur of conversation and rustling programs. Even with another semester to go this still felt like an end. After this they’d only have one more chance to put on a show with the safety net of school and teachers and the (comparatively) deep coffers of the university’s theatre department. They were sailing towards England, and they wouldn’t be coming back.

Darren exhaled heavily, then muttered, “That's it, then, is it?. The sun's going down. Or the earth's coming up, as the fashionable theory has it.” He paused, longer than he did when he was actually on stage. “Not that it makes any difference.”

The sounds of the audience started to quiet down, and as one the cast shifted themselves, held themselves ready. Geoffrey and Darren found themselves a few steps in front of the other eight. Darren took his hands out of his pockets, Geoffrey unfolded his arms. They waited, a small knot all with bated breath, for the stage manager to give them the go ahead.

Darren kept talking. “What was it all about? When did it begin? Couldn't we just stay put? I mean no one is going to come on and drag us off.... They’ll just have to wait. We're still young ... fit... we've got years…” The house lights were definitely off now, there was no more chatter. Darren looked over at Geoffrey. “We’ve nothing wrong. We didn't harm anyone. Did we?”

Geoffrey swallowed. “I can't remember.”

The stage manager— one of the production students— was there, suddenly, and held up two fingers. Geoffrey glanced over his shoulder at the rest of his class who all gave him encouraging grins he could barely see in the half-light of back stage. He took a deep, shaky breath and squared his shoulders, looking out at the vast expanse of nearly bare stage. He knew this play, he loved this play, he could do this.

Darren tugged at his costume, quickly making sure it was in order. “All right, then. I don't care. I've had enough. To tell you the truth, I'm relieved.”

Geoffrey took a deep breath. He could feel his legs trembling and hoped he wouldn’t collapse before he got out on stage.

He licked his lips. “Our names shouted in a certain dawn ... a message ... a summons... there must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said no. But somehow we missed it.” Geoffrey adjusted his cloak. Darren was already standing on the curtained stage. Geoffrey kept talking. “Rosen—? Guil—?” Geoffrey took a deep breath. Gathered himself. “Well, we'll know better next time. Now you see me, now you—”

Chapter Text

When it came time for the story to be told— first to the police, then their professors, and eventually the disbelieving and eager classmates who hadn’t been unlucky enough to see the event itself— Geoffrey felt that there had been regrettably little alcohol involved. If he’d been drunk then at least there’d have been be an excuse. Hell, if Darren had been drunk it would’ve at least given him an out by claiming to be in the same state. But no. And now everyone, Geoffrey included, knew exactly how little it took to send the both of them scrabbling for sharp objects.

The night had started well, they’d just finished their final performance of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, and the whole of the cast had tumbled into the cold December evening, raucous and riding high on the thrill of the performance. They’d lost people slowly… to bars, bed, or just wrong turns, and eventually a reduced group had found their way to an all-night diner, shoving thwo tables together and filling the place with excited, noisy chatter. After they ordered, Darren excused himself to go to the washroom. When he got back, Laura was just wrapping up a story.

“… Eventually I just had to lie about having a class I had to get to! He even tried to call me later, I couldn’t figure out what to say so I just told him he had the wrong number and hung up.”

“Good god, really?” Geoffrey asked, laughing. “That’s awful, I’m so sorry!”

Darren collapsed into his seat, slinging one arm across the back of Geoffrey’s chair. “What’s awful now?”

“Hm?” Geoffrey turned to him, “Oh, uh, this, uh, date Laura went on, they got about fifteen minutes in and then it turned out he’s an anti-Stratfordian.”

Darren laughed, “What, and it turned into an academic debate?”

Across the table, Laura grimaced. “Are you kidding me? I got out of there as soon as I could. It took forever though, he just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Her attention was pulled away by one of their other classmates then, but Geoffrey was still staring at Darren.

“I’m sorry, are you saying if you were on a date and the person turned out to be anti-Stratforian it wouldn’t be an immediate deal breaker?”

“Well, I’m not saying I’d see them again, but I’d at least see out the evening.” Darren shrugged. He added jokingly, “Really, Geoffrey, you’re a wonderful actor but your social graces do leave something to be desired.”

Geoffrey let out a short, breathy laugh, but didn’t respond to Darren’s teasing. “No, see, you used the phrase ‘academic debate’ just now? Which, typically speaking, tends to imply that both sides are approaching from more or less the same footing. Or at the very least that they both have valid points to make. So, when you call a discussion with a monarchy-worshiping conspiracy theorist a debate, you can maybe see why I might get a little bit concerned.”

Darren laughed. “Monarchy-worshipping conspiracy theorist! Good lord, and people think I’m the dramatic one between us.”

Geoffrey stared at him, disbelief growing on his face. “Wait, Darren… you don’t actually agree with them, do you?”

“Geoffrey, don’t be absurd.” Darren rolled his eyes and Geoffrey started to let out a sigh of relief. But then Darren kept going, “I just think that this vitriolic hatred of the position is a bit trite. People act like if you don’t wholeheartedly denounce it and spit at the very mention then you’ve somehow committed the most grievous sin possible in the theatre world. It’s all a bit immature, isn’t it? Letting them theorize doesn’t hurt anyone.”

There was a long pause while Geoffrey looked at him with a blank, frozen expression. “Oh my god,” he eventually mumbled. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I’m hearing this! And from you of all people!”

“Really, Geoffrey, the man’s been dead for nearly four hundred years, why are you so insistent on—”

“Because, Darren, these... these people who you’re treating like legitimate scholars are— are the literary equivalent of walking into a physics lecture and suggesting that Newton’s laws were written by someone else simply because you don’t like the fact that the man may have been gay!”

“Exactly!” Darren rebutted, slapping the table, “That is exactly my point. We have the plays, we’re still performing and reading these positively decrepit texts and finding worth in them, at this point any details about the person behind them might as well not matter. I would argue that they never mattered to begin with. Shakespeare is of course literally dead, but if we are to take Barthes view on the subject—”

“Have you even seen what these people believe, Darren? This has nothing to do with death of the author! It is the product of elitism and a willful ignorance about performance practices of the day, not to mention all in service of their pet theories about incest and continuing the Tudor line! These people don’t give a rat’s ass about Shakespeare, they’re just bitter that the greatest works of the English language—”

Darren let out a cold laugh. “Would you listen to yourself, ‘greatest works in the English language’, this is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I was speaking hyperbolically—”

Darren held up a hand, cutting him off. “Still, it is representative of the bloated space which his plays occupy. I may not enjoy Shaw’s work, but he was absolutely correct in his coining of the term Bardolatry. Everyone in theatre is lining up to suck Shakespeare’s cock and frankly I don’t see the appeal.”

“Ho, well, I’ll just let old Bill know next time I reach the head of line then, won’t I? Tell him— before I pop down there on my knees— that I’m so sorry, but Mr. Nichols won’t be joining us today. He’s too busy cozying up to his new buddies Sigmund Freud and J. Thomas Looney! I mean, for god’s sake, Darren, the man’s name is spelled looney.”

“And as you have just demonstrated, it’s pronounced lone-y. Don’t be childish Geoffrey, it doesn’t suit you.”

“The point still stands.”

Their food arrived, but both of them ignored it. Geoffrey had turned fully in his seat, one elbow resting on the table and the other on the back of his chair as he leaned forward in animated frustration. Darren had pushed his chair back, angled toward Geoffrey, and he sat with his arms crossed, a disdainful look growing on his face.

Darren sighed. “You really are impossible to talk to sometimes, you realize that? Just because you think human achievement peaked with a depressed teen with daddy issues whining his way through three hours of theatre doesn’t mean that the rest of us are still stuck in 1619.”

“And just because you can’t seem to care about a play on its own merits without dressing it up in a million extraneous trappings in an attempt to make some ill-conceived, flat out nonsensical point...”

Darren looked down at his lap, shaking his head. “The Tempest, again, really?” He asked, looking back up at Geoffrey. “I haven’t even staged it, I simply brought it up. I asked for your opinion on an idea, that doesn’t have to mean the idea is good.”

“Oh no?” Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. “You’re telling me if someone came to you right now and put you in charge of directing The Tempest, that’s not what you’d do?”

“Maybe it needs to be workshopped, but the idea has potential!” Darren snapped. “It’s making a commentary on the isolationist nature of fascist regimes and the ultimate fragility—“

“Commentary!” Geoffrey laughed, sounding almost manic. “You just want an excuse to cover the stage in swastikas!”

Darren scoffed. “And if it was up to you,” he said, leaning forward, “we’d throw out everything that wasn’t a sword or a chair and all future performances would consist of nothing but bare stage and unedited text. No wonder you worship the Bard.” 

“Well,” Geoffrey said darkly, his eyes hardening, “considering your production ideas are all a bunch of callous, incoherent drivel thrown together haphazardly for the sake of being shocking with an active disregard for historical context, I really shouldn’t be surprised that you find the anti-Stratfordians so palatable.”

A cold, stony silence hung in the air between them, and Geoffrey suddenly became very aware that at some point the rest of their group had stopped talking. He flicked his eyes quickly over their uncertain, expectant faces. Darren noticed too, he turned his head slowly, taking the frozen scene under the fluorescent lighting of the diner before settling his gaze back on Geoffrey.

“Well.” He sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “What do you propose we do now? Duel to the death?” His tone sounded light, joking, but it lacked any of the warmth that it usually held and his eyes were hard.

Geoffrey ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, holding Darren’s gaze. “First blood.”

Darren raised one eyebrow. Geoffrey could see him calculating just how serious the response was, just how far to take this. “No seconds,” he said at last. “And we’re using rapiers. Buttons off.”

Geoffrey gave him an icy smile. “Naturally.”

“When?”

“Midnight,” Geoffrey answered quickly, his eyes flicking to the clock on the wall behind the diner’s counter. “Half an hour. Meet in the quadrangle, by the big pine.”

“Excellent,” Darren smirked humourlessly, the rim of his glasses catching the light as he did. “I’ll bring the swords.”

Maybe, Geoffrey thought later, after they were hauled apart by campus security and taken into the police station, as they explained what had happened all over every time someone new turned up—maybe if they’d been drunk it could have turned into a funny story. Explaining everything to the police, coming up with a good excuse for their professor as to how one rapier has ended up badly bent and covered in sap, facing their punishment... all of it could have been something to laugh over. He could have endured the masses of people asking about it in the halls over the last week of classes, and born it easily, made a show of how silly it all was. He might have walked away with nothing other than a funny story behind a new scar. They hadn’t been drunk, though, and there was no excuse to hide behind the next morning and no headache to dull the memory of their argument and the disastrous duel that followed.

And really, the scar was the worst part, the most embarrassing. It wasn’t even from Darren. Before they could get to the point of first blood security had shown up, called by one of their classmates or maybe a student studying late in a room that overlooked the quad. The cut had happened when one of the security guards tried to wrest Geoffrey’s sword out of his hand and he’d accidentally nicked his own chin. If he was going to lose his closest friend over the whole debacle he felt at least he was owed a scar with a proper story behind it.

A pall hung over the break. Being back home in a small town felt stifling, and the lack of the anyone to talk to gave Geoffrey way too much time to think. And he really didn’t want to be thinking. The fight hadn’t been any worse than the one in rehearsal, they hadn’t said anything that couldn’t theoretically be smoothed over, but something about it felt… more, and Geoffrey couldn’t stop trying to figure out why. Maybe it was that they had never really dealt with their argument in rehearsal. Or that they muddled personal stuff in with the academic. Or maybe it was because it got just a little too public and they couldn’t ignore it later; maybe it was Geoffrey’s cut chin or Darren’s ripped jacket; maybe it was that they were forced to retread the events so many times in the same night, grinding salt in the wounds each time. Or maybe it was nothing. They only had so many fights in them and this was the last straw.

Whatever it was, when classes resumed in January they both ignored the other. It wasn’t like Geoffrey had had planned to. Or maybe he had, he wasn’t sure. And maybe— he sometimes thought, still trapped in trying to reason the whole thing out— maybe, it could have gone differently. If instead of being questioned by security and police and professors and classmates Geoffrey and Darren had gotten a chance to talk or apologize or… something, they’d have been able to salvage something approaching cordiality at the very least.  But being left to stew for three weeks just made Geoffrey more annoyed and frustrated, and not being able to figure out what made it so bad just made him angrier at Darren for it. And once they were face to face again, the safest thing seemed just not to say anything.

It wasn’t easy, certainly, to avoid each other in a group so small, but no one else seemed inclined to bring up how suddenly distant they were, so all it really meant was that class discussions were quieter and Geoffrey got a lot more reading done. Actually, without Darren to talk to, Geoffrey found that he barely spoke in class at all. When he did, Darren would roll his eyes at whatever he had said, or make some snide-sounding comment under his breath to no one in particular, which only made Geoffrey more inclined to keep his head down and his mouth shut. On the rare occasion that Darren spoke up, Geoffrey found himself snorting derisively (in retaliation? He couldn’t be sure). Darren’s ideas were bad, they were garish, they were shocking for the sake of being socking, they were all bombast without any substance. He couldn’t believe he’d ever bothered engaging with them. That he’d ever saw any kind of potential there. He hated them, and he didn’t care if Darren knew it.

A week and a half into the winter semester Darren was gone. No ceremony, no event to prompt it, he’d just vanished. His seat was empty in all their lecture style classes, and the profs didn’t even ask where he was in the studio ones. Geoffrey found out a week later— when they were getting started on their final production, A Toast to Melba— that Darren had transferred to the production track, with a focus on directing. Geoffrey didn’t even find out by asking anyone, either, he was to much of a coward to actually face the possibility of someone bringing up their fight— fights? He wasn’t sure if he should count each of the tiny jabs and snide comments that had happened since. There’d been more than a few that crossed the line from artistic into… personal. No, Geoffrey didn’t ask about Darren, instead he just stayed quiet about his conspicuous absence. And when he finally found out the details it was because he happened to overhear Adrian and Étienne talking about it in the hallway while they were on a break during their script analysis class.

“Yeah, apparently he just went in one day and was able to get it taken care of, like, super fast or something, normally it takes a while to transfer the credits and everything but I guess even the advisor didn’t want to have more than one conversation with Darren.”

“Hey, come on,” Adrian gave him a look. “That’s not fair.”

They’d come out of the classroom a minute or two after Geoffrey, and it seemed like they hadn’t noticed him sitting on the floor on the other side of a water cooler.

“What?” Étienne said, leaning against the wall. “I like the guy, seriously, but you gotta admit he’s been getting to be… a lot in the past couple months.”

Adrian sighed. “Yeah, I guess… Still, it kinda sucks, you know. Is he gonna graduate late, do you know?”

“I mean probably,” Étienne said. “Just logically, right? I haven’t actually talked to him about it, I just heard from Isabelle about his transfer, so I don’t really know how much later it’ll be.”

Geoffrey looked at the two of them out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge if they’d notice that he was slumped against the wall. Isabelle had been their SM on R and G, she was nice as far as Geoffrey remembered, but he hadn’t talked to her or any of the production students much beyond what he needed to for the show. He didn’t realize any of the others had either. 

Adrian nodded. “Yeah… makes sense. Hey, at least we’ll get to work with him, maybe. Well. Depending on how schedules work out, I guess.”

“I think Is said he was working with the second years,” Étienne told him. He took a swig of water and asked, “You talked to Tennant about it?”

Geoffrey froze. He wondered how silently he could get away without them noticing.

“No… Did you see the duel?”

“I’d already headed home by then. I heard it was bad, though.”

He’d probably have to crawl… But if he could make it around the corner he could come back and pretend he’d been in the bathroom.

“Yeah,” Adrian grimaced. “Made that fight backstage look like nothing. Not even because of anything they said, just… the way they went at each other. If you’d asked me before I’d say that something like that would have made them get along better, gotten out all the aggression so they could just talk like normal people. But…”

“Apparently not?”

“No,” Adrian said emphatically. “To say they’re not on speaking terms anymore would be an understatement.”

“That sucks.” Étienne screwed the lid back onto his water bottle and sighed. “Though I can’t say I’ll miss being in a room with the two of them.”

“Yeah,” Adrian raised his eyebrows, “I agree with you there…”

Geoffrey stared blankly at the page of the book he’s ostensibly been reading. It was all accurate, wasn’t it? He and Darren hadn’t spoken, not really, since the end of the previous semester. That made them not on speaking terms. He definitely wasn’t friends with Darren anymore, and if anyone had asked, he would have said so. It just felt a lot more final to hear someone else say it.

He made a decision. Adrian and Étienne were still talking, the conversation had moved on to homework. Quietly, trying to stay unnoticed, Geoffrey scooted along the wall until he reached the corner. There, he stood up, stuck the book in his pocket and briskly walked a couple paces down the hall before turning around and going back the way he’d come.

“Hey guys, what’s up?”

Étienne half turned around to see him. “Oh, hey. You know, same as usual.”

“Have you started the uniting assignment thing yet?” Adrian asked. Neither of them gave any sign they’d been talking about him moments before.

“Uh, no,” Geoffrey admitted. “I was putting that off until the weekend probably.”

Étienne laughed. “Yeah, same here. I think Laura and Nick are also procrastinating, we were gonna talk to them about working on it together Saturday, you want to join?”

“Sure,” Geoffrey said, realizing the second after he said it that he couldn’t remember doing homework with any of his classmates aside from Darren before.

“Great,” Adrian said. “It’ll probably be at my place, I’ll get back to you when we talk to the others.”

And it was as easy as that, apparently, to navigate the program without Darren. Apparently Geoffrey could slot into the larger group dynamic just as easily now that he was an individual as he could when he was one half as a unit. More easily, in some ways, since he and Darren would usually just go off on their own, oblivious to the social landscape rest of the class. And it wasn’t the same, obviously, but it turned out that Darren’s absence wasn’t enough to leave things unrecognizable. Enough of the class was still intact that things didn’t actually feel markedly different. And most surprisingly, that was just fine.

The robe Geoffrey had been given to wear was itchy, and the hat was at a size too small for his head. The room where he was lined up (about a third of the way into the T section) was poorly ventilated at best. But he’d done it. He was actually graduating, successfully. On time. Without failing or retaking any classes, without having a mental breakdown, without changing his mind on whether this was the path for him, without… without Darren beside him. Figuratively, at least. Literally, he would have always been a fair way ahead of Geoffrey in the line. He wasn’t anywhere in the line now, though. Unsurprisingly, switching his focus did mean it would take Darren a little longer to get his degree. Geoffrey wasn’t sure how he’d learned it, exactly, but somehow it had trickled down to him that it would be the following spring, if everything went smoothly.

Standing there was the first time in a while Geoffrey had thought about Darren. Intentionally, at least. At first it had happened all the time, he’d think of an idea and wonder reflexively what Darren would say to it, or remember that he wouldn’t have the chance to watch the BBC Troilus and Cressida, or walk past the big pine in the quad and get mad all over again. But eventually, he got good at avoiding Darren in his head. Geoffrey had found himself wondering— begrudgingly— whether Darren would be in the audience of any of their performances. Wondering If Darren cared enough about… their cohort to at least see how the final show had turned out, or if he was too resentful of not being a part of it to watch. Of course Geoffrey had been backstage wracked with nerves at the time, breathing slowly and pacing to try to stop himself throwing up so where his thoughts went wasn’t really in his control. He never got an answer, anyway, and it wasn’t on his mind after opening night. None of his classmates ever brought it up. It didn’t seem like it was on their minds, either.

But now, graduating. Geoffrey was excited, obviously, and a little scared, but he’d always more or less expected to feel those things. He hadn’t expected the shadow of melancholy that hung over the day. Or, not quite melancholy, but a melancholic sort of nostalgia that made him wish…

The line moved forward, the people in front of Geoffrey slowly shuffling along in a ripple. Geoffrey took a few steps forward when it reached him, leaning against the wall again once he had. The waiting was getting annoying. He could just barely hear them announcing each person as they went up, they were almost through S. Not long now. Geoffrey sighed, trying to release some of the annoying tension nagging at him, to no avail. It wasn’t at all the same as his nerves before going onstage, that was a world worse, but at least it was interesting— no, this was just a nagging, infuriating unease and dwelling on someone Geoffrey was determined to leave behind him.

Eventually, they got through the end of the S’s and through the T’s until Geoffrey’s name was called. He took his place in the audience with everyone else, and after everyone had walked, the speeches were given, and they’d all switched the tassels on their caps from one side to the other, it was over. He was done. School was behind him and the future lay ahead. Huge, and exhilarating, and solitary.

Geoffrey’s first season as an apprentice at the New Burbage Theatre Festival was invigorating. His lodging house was draughty, his roommates were annoyingly loud, and it wasn’t like he’d be getting to say a line anytime soon, but Geoffrey didn’t care. He loved it. He’d gone to the auditions at the end of September thinking he had an outside shot at best of getting in, and that at the very least it would be a good way of getting some auditioning practice. Instead, he got offered an apprenticeship for the upcoming season on the spot. Well, he got offered an apprenticeship after everyone in the small group had been seen and the panel auditioning them called him back in, but considering that the audition period would be running for at least another week, it still felt pretty good.

Oliver hadn’t been a part of the auditioning panel, but Geoffrey met him when the apprenticeship started. Geoffrey was understudying Sebastian in Twelfth Night (and playing a non-speaking member of Orsino’s court), and Oliver was directing. Rehearsals wouldn’t start until February, but in January new apprentices got shown around the Swan and its rehearsal space and given a chance to meet some of the people they’d be working with. In their first conversation Geoffrey learned that Oliver was apparently old friends with the coordinator of Geoffrey’s program and had been to see their show in December. Geoffrey had spent the rest of the day trying very hard not to ask him a million questions about what he thought of it. Regardless of Geoffrey’s poorly suppressed hero-worship, Oliver seemed to like him. He was a bit prickly and sometimes hard to read, but his general demeanour was warmer around Geoffrey that the other apprentices and he seemed actually interested in his opinions. Slowly, over the course of the rehearsal process, Geoffrey’s excitement around Oliver managed to diminish into a more reasonable, grounded kind of respect.

And then there was Ellen. She was playing one of Olivia’s gentlewomen (like Geoffrey she didn’t have any lines) and understudying Olivia, but as far as Geoffrey was concerned she was good enough to play the part herself. It was her second year at the Festival, and— aside from showing up only barely on time most days— she already acted like a seasoned expert. Not in a self aggrandizing way, either, just in an effortless familiarity with the process and through a talent that practically shone out of her. Geoffrey found himself making excuses to run lines with her as often as he could.

There was a vibrancy and excitement to the whole process that felt like nothing Geoffrey had ever been a part of. The scale was so much bigger than anything he’d done, and it seemed like everyone was the top of their field. It made his head swim. Oliver’s directing was fresh and insightful and inspiring. Geoffrey had no idea how much of his reverence and exuberance for the festival at the time was inherent to what it had been in and of itself, or how much was that he had yet to garner the disillusionment and cynicism that came with time and age. It seemed that there had been a sincerity to the festival back then, though, when he look back on it. It seemed as though something in it, some spark of life. One that wasn’t there once it became commercialized and artistically gutted for the sake of profits.

Around late March, when they were ramping up for previews, Oliver found Geoffrey while he was going over some fight choreography on his own during a lunch break.

“Er, Geoffrey, if you’ve got a moment I’d—” Oliver glanced up from the leather portfolio full of notes he was holding, and interrupted himself, “Watch your footing on that lunge, if you do have to go on we don’t want you slipping and skewering Benjamin.”

Geoffrey glanced at his feet, pausing mid sweep. “Oh, thanks.” he straightened up, setting the prop sword he’d been practicing with aside. “What did you want ask?”

“What? Oh, I was wondering if you had any plans the weekend of the tenth. Of April, obviously.”

“Well, I’ll be onstage…”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Yes, I was planning on whisking you away during a two-show Saturday the week after we open.” He glanced down at the portfolio again, flipping though the pages. “We’d leave Sunday, obviously, and be back Monday with plenary of time for you to be here for the show.”

“Back from where?” Geoffrey asked.

Oliver looked up at him again. “Oh, right. Patrick’s invited me to come see the show that the graduating class is doing, and considering you’re an alum, I thought I’d see if you wanted to come along.”

“Really?” Geoffrey asked rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’d love to, but I’m not sure I have the money for a hotel or anything, and I wouldn’t want to—”

Oliver waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. The Festival usually comps a portion of my trip if I claim it’s for… keeping an eye on emerging artists, scouting new talent that sort of thing… I don’t mind covering you.”

“Wow, that’s— I mean, thank you, obviously, that would be great.”

“Don’t mention it. We’d take the train, I thought. It means getting up a bit earlier to get a cab to the station but I don’t have a car and I can’t abide the bus— do you mind?”

Geoffrey shook his head, a little dumbfounded that this conversation was happening, and that Oliver seemed so casual. “Er, no. Of course not, whatever works for you.”

“Excellent.” Oliver looked back down at his notes. “We’ll sort out the details closer to the day.” He started walking away.

“What is it?” Geoffrey blurted, making Oliver stop and look up. “The show, I mean, which play are they doing.”

“Oh. Ah, The Tempest, I think. Should be fun.” He flashed a smile at Geoffrey and turned away again. “Talk soon.”

“Yeah,” Geoffrey agreed, staring at Oliver’s retreating back as he was left standing in a bit of a daze.

It had been years since Geoffrey had been on a train, and his immediate impression that it was by far the superior travel option. Well, he didn’t mind driving, but the train definitely won out over the bus. More leg room, for one, and cleaner. He leaned his elbow on the armrest and put his chin in his hand, staring out the window at the bland farmland dotted with trees just staring to put out new leaves. Oliver was in the seat across from Geoffrey, getting some work done. His portfolio was open on his lap, and he was dividing his attention between that and a script he was held in his left hand. His contract for Twelfth Night had ended with opening, and Oliver had handed the show over to the stage manager and moved on to preparing for Death of a Salesman, going up at the end of the season.

About an hour and a half into their journey, Geoffrey turned away from the window and it’s near-identical fields, readjusting his position in his seat and yawning. Oliver was still engrossed in his note-taking, but he glanced up at the sound.

“Tired?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Not really, just… it’s easy to zone out watching the view, I guess.”

Oliver looked out the window, assessing it briefly. “Yes, the frail attempt at spring this area puts on will do that.”

“Yeah.” Geoffrey grinned. He straightened up a little and nodded at Oliver’s portfolio. “How’s work going?”

“Oh, you know…” Oliver took off the reading glasses he’d been wearing, tucking them into the neck of his sweater. “I’ve hit a bit of a wall on design, if I’m being honest, I’m trying to work around it but there’s only so much I can do before it starts getting in the way again.” Oliver sighed, putting his script into his portfolio and clapping it shut. “Do yourself a favour, Geoffrey. If you ever get into directing, start small. Don’t jump into it at the scale on which the Festival works.”

Geoffrey laughed. “Thanks, I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.” He ran his hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head. “Do you think you’ll do anything next season? Directing wise, I mean.”

Oliver sighed again. “Maybe. It’s not up to me in the end, but I’ve got a few things I’d like to do. R and J, for one— especially now that the Festival’s got you— and Ellen, of course, they’d be fools not to sign you both as full company members next season. God, I can’t wait to find a way to cast the two of you opposite each other…”

Geoffrey stayed quiet. Oliver had been mentioning casting Geoffrey and Ellen together since he’d walked in on them running lines (for the parts they were understudying in Othello, not even Twelfth Night) in the green room once. Geoffrey hadn’t said anything then either, nothing specific. He would love a chance to play across from Ellen, wanted it more than he wanted to be a full member of the company, and he was afraid that if he said it outlaid it wouldn’t happen.

“R and J might have to wait a year or two, though,” Oliver said, picking up his portfolio again. “At least until you’ve proven your mettle a bit more, I can’t really justify proposing a production on the backs of two apprentices.” He flipped through his notes, finding his place. “Besides, I’ve already been talking to Arthur about directing him in Cymbeline, and come to think of it next season might be the right time for that… Well. We’ll see, won’t we?”

Oliver put his glasses back on, returning to his work. Geoffrey looked around their car for a minute, then turned back to the window. A lot of his conversations with Oliver were like that. Oliver would say something hugely flattering or allude to wanting to work with Geoffrey further, then the next second make it clear they were done talking. He knew that Oliver respected him, thought he was talented, but Geoffrey had a hard time figuring out if Oliver actually liked him as a person. He probably did, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken Geoffrey along, but Geoffrey still couldn’t quite be sure. He was still trying to figure out how to read Oliver well enough to actually… talk to him. And there was a steep learning curve learning how to talk to Oliver Welles.

They got to Toronto in the early afternoon, and checked into a small hotel. Oliver was meeting some friend or other in the Annex, so he left Geoffrey alone with a plan to meet back at the hotel before the show that evening. Geoffrey spent the afternoon wandering around the city. He’d thought about going to some of his old haunts or visiting friends who were still in town, but the only person he’d stayed in touch with who hadn’t left was Adrian, and he had rehearsal that afternoon for a show he was in at Buddies in Bad Times. Geoffrey was still in touch with Laura, too, but she working at a children’s theatre in Guelph. As for visiting old haunts, there weren’t really that many. Most of his time had been spent at school, his apartment, the occasional bar, or— Well, the point was there wasn’t really anywhere he could easily visit to reminisce unless he wanted to be the guy going to a bar the second it opened. So instead, he just went for a walk, letting his feet carry him where they would until he had to be back at the hotel to meet Oliver and they left for Hart House Theatre.

Sitting in the audience wasn’t strange, exactly. Geoffrey had spent a lot of time there during rehearsals, and he’d gone to see the shows put on by the other years in the program. But it was strange to sit there surrounded by strangers, rather than empty seats or his classmates. He sat there, fiddling awkwardly with the program he’d been given, looking around at the deeply familiar space and feeling out of place and awkward.

“See anyone you know?” Oliver asked, looking over his own program casually.

“In the audience?”

“That too, but I meant to program,” Oliver said, holding it up a bit.

“Oh,” Geoffrey looked down at the paper he’d been twisting in his hands. “Right.”

He opened it up from the back, his gaze idly skimming the column of names he half remembered hearing during his last two years at school. He turned the page over and froze, suddenly feeling like his stomach had dropped away into a pit of ice-cold water. Slowly, gingerly, moving as if it might burst into flames at any second, he turned the program over with a mounting sense of dread and actually looked at the design on the front. He knew exactly what he’d see but, actually seeing it made the sinking feeling still only grew worse.

Oliver must’ve noticed something was wrong— that Geoffrey was sitting too still, maybe, or perhaps something of the dread he was feeling was showing on his face— because he looked at him frowning

“What?” He asked, then his gaze followed Geoffrey’s down to the front of the program. “Oh, the design. It is in rather poor taste, and I doubt they’ll be able to convincingly use it to say… well, anything, but that’s what you get with student productions. It’s a crap shoot on concept, at the best of times.”

Geoffrey took a moment to find his voice. “Yeah,” he said weakly, sinking down in his seat and suddenly wishing he hadn’t come.

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about Darren. Well, no. He hadn’t forgotten about Darren, he’d just gotten so good at avoiding the thought of him in his mind that he’d completely failed to take into account the fact that of course, of course he’d have a hand in whatever play was being put on. It was just bad luck that he seemed to have been awarded near-on complete creative control.

The show opened on a plane, instead of a boat. The time period seemed muddled at best, since Sebastian was clearly intended as a young Mussolini and Alonso the preceding Italian president. But Antonio was unambiguously Hitler, and had clearly held power for some time. Aside from time period, the production’s own internal logic didn’t even hold up. Despite implying Prospero as one of Hitler’s enemies, maybe even his predecessor as chancellor, it didn’t seem to have positioned him opposing the Nazi regime in any way. Geoffrey clenched his jaw more and more tightly with every passing second. When Prospero and Miranda came on for the second scene— complete with swastikas draped over everything and Miranda costumed as member of the Hitler youth— he started shredding his program in an effort to restrain himself.  When it was time for Caliban’s entrance and he emerged from a trap door wearing an actual fucking yellow star on his jacket, it was the last straw. Geoffrey started to his feet.

The next thing he knew, he was jumping up onto the stage, coat flapping, no clear idea of how he’d gotten through the audience. Geoffrey stormed past the actors until he was standing dead centre, tearing down the nearest swastika banners as he did. The lights were hot on his face as he spun around, eyes raking over the darkness where he knew the booth was. 

“Darren Nichols!" He shouted. “Darren, I know you’re there, get out here!”

Geoffrey could hear blood rushing in his ears, couldn’t see anything except the glare of the lights and the impenetrable darkness beyond. One of the actors started to come towards him from the side, saying something, but he shoved them away.

“Come on, you coward…” he said again into the darkness, turing slowly to scan it from left to right. “You historically irresponsible, artistically hollow, emotionally stunted cow—” Something hard connected with the left side of his face, and Geoffrey stumbled backwards.

Looking up he saw Darren wearing a black leather blazer and red scarf, and breathing hard. His fists were clenched at his sides and his face was screwed up in a furious expression.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Geoffrey!” Darren spat out, seething. Geoffrey grinned around his gritted teeth and lunged.

It sent them both sprawling, knocking over one of the standards. The actors onstage gassed, jumping backwards away from the kicking, angry pair. There was a collective gasp from the audience that Geoffrey hardly registered as his fist glanced off the edge of Darren’s jaw. Darren flailed back at him, his limbs connecting with Geoffrey’s arms and shoulders as he struggled to get far enough away to regain his feet and knocking over more set in the process.

And then Oliver was dragging Geoffrey away, off Darren, shoving him to his feet and muttering something in his ear that Geoffrey didn’t register. Someone else— Carson, maybe, or another professor— had done the same for Darren. The two stared at each other, both catching their breath for what felt like an eternity. Darren’s glasses were askew, his face was red, and he was holding his right hand tenderly. Geoffrey could feel his cheek starting to throb where Darren had hit him, and he didn’t want to think about how hard that would be to cover up during shows. Darren’s eyes bored into him, dark and unreadable.

It seemed to go on forever. Staring at each other, surrounded by the shambles of Darren’s terrible production and the ghosts of their past selves. Those young and hopeful people who had acted opposite each other and thought that it could all last forever. The Darren Nichols across from Geoffrey now was hardly recognizable as the same person he’d talked to at that party over three years ago, there were hardly any traces of the enthusiastic, slightly goofy guy he’d been when their friendship began. Geoffrey wondered when the change had happened, how little he’d noticed the shift over the years. He wondered how much he’d changed himself.

The next second, it was over. Darren shrugged off the teacher and whipped around, walking decisively and rapidly into the still darkness of backstage. Geoffrey watched him go, breathing heavily and feeling like something in him had broken. Some small, imperceptible thread, the last remnant of some part of himself he hadn’t even realized was there had snapped. And snapped permanently.

He didn’t remember the rest of the night. He blocked it out, he supposed. Out of embarrassment, maybe, or just the result of coming down off of a surge of adrenaline. Oliver was incredibly decent about the whole thing, he didn’t ask any questions or even mention it the next day. Geoffrey ended up telling him a truncated version of his history with Darren on the train anyway. It was surprisingly easy. Easier than talking about Darren had been for a long time. Thinking about Darren was easier too. Or, more accurately, not thinking about him was easier. Geoffrey didn’t need to avoid it, to do mental gymnastics to skirt around a big open pit of unpleasantness. Thinking about him wasn’t nice when it did happen— it was mostly an annoyance — but the pit, so to speak, was covered over. Geoffrey Tennant had not always hated Darren Nichols, but now he certainly did.

And that was fine.